Drummer language

When i talk with my sister about drumline and set and jazz or rock and punk, the topic of drummer language comes up. What is it excactly? Well, auhno. I guess it is a series of mouth noises, clicks, oots, hand movement and facial expressions. Like watching a person with tourettes do sign language. Sorry, hat was rude, unnecessary and totally called for. By combing all of these you get a imitation of a set or drumline that a good drummer can identify, then copy on a set. Its really quite interesting. So really, beat boxers are wanna-be drummers. It is a type of code i guess and each person has a slightly different style. Some use more hand motion (Italians), more mouth noises (Africans) and more facial expresstions(....). Ones race can almost be determined by the drum lingo they use. Alright, back on track. I then compared this to the way us teens communicate with not-so-teen people. To truly understand each other, a basis of communication must be established. So while two opposite languages are being spoken by two opposite people, the two can adapt their current language to the other. Example," Boom, kla, tish tish de boom," is easily translated to "funk." As well," to, tishtotish tish to, bla da do do do bshhhhhhhh ka do do ka do do ka dodo ka," is easily translated to "Killer Solo". So by applying this same method to "dude" being "friend" and "auhno" to "a state of confusion or discontent", generations apart can converse.

My favorite [drummer] quotes

"The I-Don't-Care-Meter is as far in the red zone as ever before"-Lars Ulrich

"You hear about the Duke Ellingtons, the Jimmie Luncefords, and the Fletcher Hendersons, but people sometimes forget that jazz was not only made in the minds of the greats, but on the backs of ordinary people"-Cad Calloway

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”
-David Thorean

"What did the drummer get on his SAT? Drool" -Some random non-drummer

"Playing the drums in rockband doesn't count." -Me

"Well, I suppose I could, uh, work in a shop of some kind, or... or do, uh, freelance, uh, selling of some sort of, uh, product. You know... " -Nigel Tunfeln's answer to what would he do with out music.

Drumline: In the Winter

Winterline is what it's better know as. A national motto or at least one in our school is, "Crap, we have to that today?" “The i-don't-care-meter is as far in the red zone as ever before.”-Lars Ulrich. (i edited out the profanity.)Really it is almost and inside joke in a way. No matter what you hear from anyone drummers are naturally lazy, period. Its almost a requirement. Rudiments and shortcuts make playing easier and easier, but it sounds harder and harder. Now I'm rambling, another foundation of drumming, ADD. Anyways, back to Winterline. It's what we do in off-season in a way. Like footballers who run track to stay in shape for the next season. It's probably the most competitive drumming anyone will ever observe. Even though our line is fledgling, we look toward the future of our competitions. The WGI finals is what we aim for. As Neil Peart once said, "“You don't get something for nothing, You can't have freedom for free, You won't get wise with the sleep still in your eyes, No matter what your dreams might be.” We might be a little small and little on the low end of the amazingness-meter but we still try a lot.

Rebels

The militia set their positions. Behind the trees, logs and bushes of the swamp, each man thought of his target. Each man visualised the shot. Each man watched his target fall to the ground.

They lay down their weapons in the tall grass and lay beside them. Each one listens to the approaching caravan. They gathered intelligence for months. Now they had grouped to execute.

The company ducked behind buildings and horse carriages. They slide under porches and dimmed the lights. Quietly, they waited for the patrol to stroll by. They each ready their muskets. Slowly, the patrol crept closer, not knowing of their inevitable deaths.

The men in the swamps crept out from behing their safe hiding places. They all took aim. A single shot cracked out, then twenty more. The red coats fell to the ground, the blood blending in to the uniforms. The of smoke enveloped the swamp, and the militia disappeared, never to been seen again. Like ghosts.

The men in the field waited until the caravan was surrounded. With a command from the lieutenant, all jumped up. The crossfire of bullets ended the lives of the suppliers. Horses whined and bolted. The men fell back on to the grounded and disappeared, like a disease.

The town was as still as night, the warm summer air was wet. The rebels waited. With three rasps on a door, the signaled men formed a wall. They opened fire, sending a swarm of bullets like angry wasps at the advanceing army. They dissipated into the alleys and roads. Like wolves.

Metaphors of Pesonalities

Every machine and system has a glorious begining. Paraded around, talked about, and glorified. But its slow and seemingly invisible decay starts at the very begging. Blemishes are spotted in the systems. Faults are found in the machine. Slowly but surly, every single system falls about, leaving the country to run rampid and anarchy to ensue. Evey machine fails, leaving the user helpless and stranded.

Every mountain has a story. A grand and amazing story. They start as nothing, but do indeed steal the stage with their impressive entrances, leaving the other actor to plot revenge. They seem tall and mighty, but like everything with a start, they end. The rock is worn down by the most inconceivable matter. Water, wind, dust. The combination of the three harmless items can wear the face of a mountain, and crumble it whence it came.

Every start that burns bright, every fire leaping about all are put out. The start burns itself out, like a greedy business man. The fire, consuming everything it can without second thought, starves itself, down the coals who hope for the slightest of wood. They turn grey. Grey and boring like the stormy clouds. Every star, as conceited as they are about their light, loose it all. They fall in a=on themselves, loosing any sign of life.

Every field was once barren, every oak a small sapling. The field was slowly won by perseverance. The oak grew slowly by courage and strength. They overtook their surroundings, they won their boring battles. They help other beings with shelter and food. They are the ones who never fall, they never fail

Insanity

If you give something a name do you truly understand it and its eternal significance. If i said piston, do i then know how it works our what it is? If i showed a computer to a native in South America, and he named it in his tongue, does he know how to make it function? If i told you i know where insanity is and how to get there, would you believe me if i didn't further explain ti you what it is? Too many times i hear people swear using my Lord's name, but do they know him like i do? So this raises another question. Are they lying to themselves? Can they ever understand that which they do not know?
The hood acts as a canister to harness the movement of wind. These metal rings hold down the skin. The vibrations make noise. What did i just say?The place where thoughts wonder aimlessly and nothing scientifically is allowed. Reason has no place and neither does logic. Can you tell where i am?
For the same an object ill named has no meaning to us, neither will a description, a definition if you will, have no meaning without a word.
Welcome to insanity, it gets worse here every day.

Strom the gates of Hell

Another cold night has past. Perseverance was all that kept me alive. I awaken to the stream of agony. I hear the howling wind of pain and the rain of fear pounds the earth. Twisted vines of lies choke the life out of great trees. Shadowy figures of souls in sorrow meander through the valley of despair. Crooked and hunched demons poke and prod at those in doubt. A senseless madness consumes the world in a blazing fire. Ominous clouds cover the horizon and blizzards of anger rip flesh from bone. Lighting cracks illuminating fearsome faces with horns and sharp dagger teeth. The bizarreness of the place gives one the chills. The frightening images scare a normal man, but who said I was normal? Fording rivers and trudging through mud I continue to move. I move through this life without a sense of anything. Without fear, without hate, without sorrow; i become the last warrior. A fighter of truth, a fighter for justice, the last hope for sanity. A purger of evil, a champion of the light. The pains of this earth won't harm me, the troubles of this world can't bother. The sweeping dark that has consumed so many is naught but a laughing matter. I bring truth and light. With enduring armor and a honed sword, I rescue the ones who can't help themselves. Storm the gates of hell