A Lonster's Tale - The first 60 years. Part 1

I was born in 1955, just ten years and one week after the end of WWII. So it was that growing up, WWII became the reference point of many conversations. Things happened either “before the war,” “during the war,” or “just after the war.” It was sometime in one of these three time periods that my father had played guitar in a band with a number of his friends, most of whom he would remain in touch with until his death. One such man had a Music Room in his basement, where he kept a number of Musical instruments, a drumset included. On one of our visits, “Mr. L” took us down and showed us that room. I was immediately drawn to the Drums; a 4-piece kit in White Marine Pearl finish. (although I didn't know what the finish was called back then) At roughly the same time, a small group of students in our school had formed a band and played in our school gym for a “sock hop” every Friday at noon. Again, I was drawn to the drums, and eventually began asking many questions of the Drummer; “What's that for?” “What's that do?” “What do you call that?” “How did you DO that?” He was extremely patient and answered all my questions with his characteristic smile. That band even got to play on a TV show in the early 60s, and I felt special because I knew them!

A couple of years later, a neighbour of my cousin's returned from Germany where his father had been stationed in the Canadian Armed Forces. “W” had purchased a set of drums there, and I would often see him carrying them into or out of the house as he came and went to the various gigs he was playing in the area. I remember once his younger sister (who is my age) took me upstairs to the room where he kept his drums. I was in awe. Completely speechless!

It was during this time period The Beatles appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show and I saw Ringo Starr. Game over! A few of my friends can probably remember me before I got bitten by the Drum bug, but not many. To most of my friends, I have always been a drummer, or interested in drums.

My parents recognized my overwhelming desire to become a Drummer, but (as I can now understand) they were not in a financial position to make that happen. Besides, Dad had always dreamed of me following in his footsteps and learn to play guitar, but I was too undisciplined and the strings hurt my fingers. In 1967 they got me a toy drumset from the Sears catalogue.

I was grateful, but felt I was too old for them and a REAL set would have been more appropriate. Still, I played along with the radio every day after school and after I finished my homework in the evening. Once the fibre heads on those drums broke, I found various ways to patch them, and eventually replaced them with plastic Ice cream containers. (empty, of course)

Finally, on Christmas day, 1969, my first “real” drumset arrived. Again, from the Sears catalogue, it was a 3-piece set with the brand name “Saturn.” I was overwhelmed! The three pieces were a 14 X 20 Bass Drum, a 5 X 14 Snare Drum, and an 8 X 12 mounted Tom, all in blue sparkle. (still one of my favourite colours) There was a 12 inch Cymbal mounted on the Bass Drum, which although it didn't sound so great, it was functional.

I was a DRUMMER! The Lonster was born.

~Still Wandering...

Continuation

When I first began this blog, named "Wanderer," it was my intention to use the word "wandering" in some way in each title.  It became evident after a short time that it would not be entirely possible to do so, so I switched to a more relavent method of titling.

Recently, I posted on Facebook how I'd like to get back to writing by sharing the story of my lifetime at the drums. I say “back to” because for a while in 2009, I was employed as a writer/PR agent for a company in New Brunswick named Los Cabos Drumsticks. I may elaborate at a later date as to why I left the company, but for now let me just quote Gary Oldman as Dracula in the 1992 movie, “That relationship was not, entirely.... successful… ”

I received a great deal of encouragement from Facebook friends to pursue the idea, although one detail stands out as worrisome. I said I would not mention names, but soon realized there are some events, no matter whose names are withheld, that I just don't feel comfortable revealing. I have not always made the wisest of decisions and many things are embarrassing to not only myself but to those whom I may have offended or hurt along the way. I'm sure I have long since been forgiven or the offence has been forgotten, but it could re-open some old wounds (even for myself) to bring up certain past events.

Therefore, I have decided – for now at least – to present my tale as a series of short stories on my blogs. Yes, blogs, plural. I have been keeping this one for many years; it is reflective of my life in general, the non-drumming side of me. (although drumming comes into it many times as reference points) When I got my website, there was an option to add a blog to it, which I started doing earlier this year. It is supposed to be an account of my activities onstage or in the rehearsal halls etc. Sadly, there has been neither since the end of August, so short stories of my life of rhythm would be an ideal way to keep it active. I can see no reason why I can't have the same content in two places, provided it belongs in both.

Obviously, non-drumming related stories would not be published in my website blog, simply because I want to keep the website career-related.

So, follow the links in this post to get to my blog, and my website, and feel free to scroll through the current content. Let me know what you think; I'd love to hear from you!

~Still Wandering...

Get Over It!

“Suck it up!”

“Get over it.”

“Move on.”

Those of us who suffer with depression and anxiety/panic attacks have heard each of these, or some variation thereof, too many times to count. While it is demeaning to say such things to those of us who experience depression and anxiety, it is also as futile and insulting as saying the same thing to someone with cancer, heart disease, or even a broken leg! Whether a person suffers from a physical illness, disease or injury or a form of “mental illness” (I still don't like that term; there must be a kinder way of saying it) the fact still remains that the person in question is SUFFERING! And that suffering is very real.

However, I do think there comes a time when sucking it up, getting over it, and moving on might just be the right thing for us to do.

Now, I realize that statement will elicit cries of protest from some of my readers, but let me explain.

We all know at the subconscious level, and many of us have said aloud, “Nobody understands; it's like they sometimes don't care.” That's all true, in the same way I can't understand how skydiving feels. Like a skydiver, we offer to try to explain to all who would listen, but our words fall short.

Here is where the moving on must take place. No matter how compassionate and willing to listen our friends, family and loved ones are, they will never be able to feel what we feel. If we try too hard, we will drive them away. I have a very dear friend who afforded me great comfort during a time of profound loss and sadness. Throughout the years, we strengthened our friendship, and shared many good times and innumerable laughs. But there eventually came a time when my depression was weighing as much on her as it was on me. I was metaphorically a huge weight that was dragging her down and drowning her! She stopped calling to ask how I was doing; her e-mail responses grew short and curt, she was avoiding me...

I don't blame her in any way. She has always been very upbeat and optimistic, sharing her joi-de-vivre and optimism with those with whom she came in contact. Why should she spend her time trying to raise the spirits of one person, no matter how close the friendship had been?  It just gets to be too much to bear.

Friends come and go, and some will go quickly when our need for comfort exceeds their capacity to give it. This is a terrible loss for all involved, and for this reason, I got over it and moved on. I still experience depression and anxiety, but I no longer share each occurrence; it's too painful to lose friends. Instead, I put on a smile and act as though all is well in my world. Know what? All IS well in my world! By smiling and appearing happy, I have BECOME happy again, like I once was, so long ago. My periods of depression and anxiety don't last very long now either.

I know each of you reading this has the same potential as I have. I'm nothing exceptional, and to use a tired old (but very true) cliché, if I can do it, so can you!

Good luck and many Blessings to you!

~Still Wandering...

Violence In Our World.

Violence is the highest form of disrespect, and poverty is the highest form of violence.

I have been trying to write this for days. I have so many things running through my mind, and it's difficult to put it all together coherently, but I shall try to be as articulate and concise as possible.

On June 4, 2014 Justin Bourque, a 24-year-old from Moncton, New Brunswick killed 3 R.C.M.P. Officers, and attempted to kill 2 others in Moncton.

On October 20, 2014, Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent was killed when he was struck by a car while walking through a parking lot in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Que. The driver of the car, Martin Couture-Rouleau, was shot dead by police

Two days later, on October 22, Cpl. Nathan Cirillo was shot to death as he stood guard duty at Canada's War Memorial in our Nation's Capital. Cpl Cirillo's assailant, Michael Zehaf-Bibeau, was shot to death inside the Parliament Building by Sergeant-at-Arms Kevin Vickers.

Then, on Sunday, October 26, Jian Ghomeshi, a broadcast journalist and host of the popular CBC Radio program “Q,” was dismissed over allegations of sexual violence. (I admit, my already deep rooted trust issues have been greatly reinforced by this) While the deaths of Patrice Vincent and Nathan Cirillo have been attributed to Islamic Terrorists and Justin Bourque has been labelled mentally unstable, what can explain the actions of Jian Ghomeshi? While I cannot personally find BDSM ​erotic, there are many who do, and I suppose “to each her/his own” applies to a point. Or does it? According to the Canadian Supreme Court, the law clearly states a person cannot consent to an assault that causes bodily harm. If a sexual activity causes bodily harm, a person cannot consent to it. Ghomeshi's accusers, all have stated his behaviour had ranged from slapping, choking and suffocating, to punching and biting, clearly in contravention of Canadian law.

Unfortunately, there is a deeper issue involved here, and that is the violence itself.

From a very young age many of us have learned that violence gets results. The school bully has only to inflict a beating on one victim, (usually a smaller, weaker student) with witnesses, and the bully's authority is established. Once the fear is instilled, the bully need only to THREATEN violence and others run away in fear. As well, many school officials (certainly not all) such as teachers, either do not get involved, or tell the victims to stand up to the bully. Then, if that happens, the victim is punished by the teacher or principal for fighting. Clearly, the victim learns that they are the statue while everyone else, from the bully on up to the teachers, are the pigeons! (Again, this is not true in every case)

Children learn violence in their homes as well. This is not to say that they are beaten by their parents, most are not, but they are sometimes spanked, and most certainly they are reprimanded for misdeeds by parents with raised voices. Siblings and neighbours will resort to similar tactics in order to gain control. And there certainly ARE cases where children are beaten by a parent, or are witness to one parent beating the other.

As the child grows, she/he begins to become resentful of being victimized by others, often harbouring deep resentment, frustration, and anger for many years. Perhaps one day, as a teen, or young adult, this victim will lash out in retaliation, in an ill-conceived sense of “justice.” In some places, teens and pre-teens join gangs to give them an outlet for their anger.

By the time a victim of violence reaches adulthood, the patterns of violence are well established, and the cycle continues.

Let's now look at some other forms of violence besides the obvious physical contact.

Of course, verbal abuse is high on this list. Raising your voice in a debate or argument is an act of violence. Yes, we all do it, and it's generally accepted as standard practise, but deep down, it hurts and leaves resentment. It has reached the point where if I even HEAR someone raise their voice, I tighten up inside. Despite the nursery rhyme, words DO hurt. DEEPLY! Using words as labels can also be seen as violence. “Stupid,” “Retarded,” “Idiot...” are all labels of disrespect, and even when they go unheard by the people about whom they are spoken, (gossip) they can spread the belief that such words are harmless and acceptable.

Psychological violence is very prevalent in our society today. People who use veiled threats, criticism, intimidation, and/or manipulation to get their own way, or to control others, are behaving with violence. The child who cries in a department store because the desired toy has been refused is already learning this.

Gestures, such as a raised middle finger, are violent acts; not because they leave visible bruises, but because of the intended disrespect involved. Raising a clenched fist is clearly a precursor to violence.

Law enforcement and military personnel have often been accused of using excessive force, and there are plenty of You Tube videos and news reports as well as civil suits to verify this. Having friends and relatives who wear or have worn the uniforms however, I can say that not all can be painted with the same brush. Most are honest people doing a difficult and dangerous job. But those who are prone to violence can find purpose and an outlet for their violent nature in a uniform, especially the armed forces. Soldiers who are deployed to war zones are not often scrutinized for their behaviour as long as their aggression is not toward a superior or fellow soldier. Many people who grow up poor can find financial security in a military pension, and the “team” atmosphere is comforting for those who felt isolated in earlier life. The “terrorists” of the Taliban, Al Qaeda or ISIS are most often underprivileged, marginalized, and disenfranchised. As well, they are largely uneducated, and lack the necessary skills to question the truth of what they're told. (By this, I do not mean actually questioning their superiors, but rationally thinking about what they are told) They believe the rewards in the afterlife are worth their actions in this one!

But now for the reveal;

I too, am a man of violent nature.I have used aggressive language, gestures, and even my fists to express my anger and frustration. Am I proud of that? Did it make me feel better about myself? Did it make me feel superior to others? Not at all! Generally, I felt a great measure of guilt which added to the inner anger; an anger fuelled by violence I have experienced at the hands of others since my childhood. Not that there were a lot of fist fights, but certainly the usual childhood squabbles, name calling, and physical attacks from bullies. I thought when I started playing drums at age 14 that it would all change. I became angry when it didn't. Granted, I set myself up for failure by seeking ideals, but I believe the ideals of Peace and cooperation are well worth believing in.

Do I have all the answers? Certainly NOT! Do I have any of the answers? Perhaps, some... Is a world where we all get along and respect each other possible? Probably not, but it IS worth believing in and striving toward. In the past, I have vowed to change, and be less violent in speech and thought, but the truth is, breaking such habits can be very difficult! It's very easy to slip back into old ways of thought and action. I know there are some of you reading this who are thinking, “What a hypocrite!” and I understand that, but just because I don't behave in a Peaceful manner doesn't mean I don't want Peace. It simply means I am not experiencing Peace... yet!

Reading this back to myself, I realize I have not been as articulate as I would have liked. I cannot write an essay as thought-provokingly as Jian Ghomeshi would have. However, he cannot, it seems, control his violent tendencies as well as the rest of us can. Ultimately, I long for a world, where Mr. Ghomeshi feels no need to act out such fantasies, for such fantasies would not have taken root in his mind.

In conclusion, I wish to apologize to any and all who have been hurt, offended, or otherwise put off due to my words or deeds. I know I often react too quickly, respond too vehemently, and stir the pot that need not be stirred. I may not always succeed, but I will always try to do better.

~Still Wandering...

Sacred Places

The Indigenous peoples of North, Central, and South America, as well as “Earth-Based” societies around the world, share the notion of our planet being a living organism and a Sacred Being; Mother Earth. She is the perfect balance to a male, Sky-Based, God. In fact, there are references to “Father Sky, Mother Earth” among certain First Nations.

When I was very young, probably five or six years of age, many of the old covered bridges in New Brunswick were demolished after newer, more modern structures put in to replace them. Often, the new bridges were placed geographically higher if possible to avoid being damaged or washed out during spring floods. One such bridge was McLaggan bridge, about four miles from my home. I didn't give it much thought throughout the years. Occasionally, as I was crossing it by car, I'd glance over to the place where the old bridge had been, but there was never any desire to explore thee area.
In the early part of this century, I purchased a digital camera and while home visiting, I stopped at a place near one end of the new bridge where it is mostly rock and pavement. In the nearly sixty years since the old bridge was removed, there really hasn't been a lot of growth and there is room to park a car and get out. I decided to stop and get some pictures of the river. It was the first time in over forty years I had stood on that spot.

The last time I was home, a couple of weeks ago, I felt compelled to go there again. This time, there was a cool breeze blowing down the valley, and as I stood there shivering, I looked down at the ground. I had expected to see garbage, the usual cast-offs from weekend under-age drinking or teen-aged couples seeking some alone time. There were a couple of food wrappers yes, but aside from that, it seemed it had been pretty much vacant for some time. There were some Pine cones, and a few bits of trees; the ends of limbs probably snapped off in high winds, and some moss growing on the rocky surface, but not much evidence of human visitation.

As that image returned to my mind this evening, I began to feel sad for this rocky ledge, high above the river below. I saw it as a place where once life had thrived and humans were common. Now, it seems lonely and alone. Suddenly, this place which had held no meaning for me, which I had also ignored for many years, became special and, dare I say, SACRED to me. I can understand the first inhabitants of this region, saying there were some places where “Good Medicine” happened. Places such as this have “Power,” and provide opportunity to build a Sacred Fire to offer Ceremonies to honour the Spirits of the Ancestors, and to Mother Earth Herself.

You can be certain I will visit this spot with each successive visit I make to my homeland; the land of my birth.

~Still Wandering

Recent Activities

Once again, a lifetime has passed since my last post.

Recently, I returned to the land of my birth to play Music and have some much needed downtime.

The Harvest Jazz and Blues Festival was nothing short of SPECTACULAR! With the number of acts available, and the fact that I didn't arrive until the day before it ended, I missed a great deal of it, but what I DID manage to see was superb! Of course, I had to miss Aerosmith in the process. Big booooooo on that.

The reason I went of course, was to perform with Highway 125 at the Hoodoo House on Saturday night (Sept. 13) and I must say, it was an EXCELLENT way for us to cap off our summer season. I'd say if the room wasn't sold out, it was very close to being so. I'm very proud that my nephew Randy got to perform at the Galaxie Barracks tent. I hope this is the beginning of better things to come for him. Shortly after his show, Highway 125's Curtis Matheson took the Siemens Acoustic stage on the steps of 527 Queen St. Not what one would expect in a “stage” but it worked well and Curtis put on a tremendous solo show. I thoroughly enjoyed Ross Neilson's high energy performance with my buddy Karl Gans on drums. After our set I took a walk with two friends from school, Ellen-Anne Bubar, and Cyndy Hood.

Sunday saw me rehearsing for a reunion of a band I'd been a part of in the 1970s; Cozway. We hadn't performed together since 1977, so it was a real treat to have the opportunity to get together again and prepare for a show which took place on Saturday Sept 20. While the event was poorly attended due to lack of advertising and the fact that another event (a fundraiser for another former classmate who is dealing with some serious health issues) is coming up this weekend, it was a real blast to be on a stage again with the members of Cozway who have all continued to grow as Musicians.

The rest of the time I was on a much needed vacation. I took Mom out to dinner on her 91st birthday, after which we visited with my cousin Pat Dunphy. I was delighted to find that Pat's sister (and obviously also my cousin) Faye Noble and her husband Richard had arrived the previous day. After I dropped Mom back at her apartment, I managed to squeeze in an all-too-brief visit with my Cuzz, Roxi.

There were as well, the hours spent with special friends, new and old, but I spent most of my time revisiting those special places that have meant so much to me since I was a child. Of course, I didn't manage to get to them all, and the ones I did manage to get to held a strange sense of confusion for me. I found myself longing to linger for as long as possible; to hold onto the moment and savour the memories, while simultaneously feeling the need to rush to the next location and do the same.

The one moment that stood out as “defining” to me though, was when I participated in a Meditation for World Peace, led by my new friend, Coralee Cole. I've been meditating for years as a way to ground and centre myself, and I've done solo meditations on Peace, as well as group meditations on other subjects, but this was the first time I'd participated in a group meditation where I'd been born. Somehow, that location (Officer's Square in Fredericton) made it more meaningful. Thank you Coralee and the others for allowing me to share this special time with you.

~Still Wandering

Reflections as a New Year begins

A friend of mine recently posted on Facebook that she felt the winter Solstice made more sense to her as a time to reflect on the past year than January first. While I concur, I also see the validity in waiting a few days before looking back. It makes sense that we actually see the days begin lengthening, however infinitesimally, before engaging in reflection.

I often reflect beyond the last year. I frequently reflect upon and remember with fondness my earliest New Years traditions. I remember when I was a young boy, Mom would allow me to stay up until midnight with her as she watched Guy Lombardo's orchestra on Television. I can still hear that rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” before Mom said. “OK, now off to bed!”

When I became older, around eleven, the Youth Group (Young Peoples) from our church would meet at the home of one of the families whose children were very numerous and active in the Youth Group. The Minister and his wife would chaperone as we played records and danced, and there was always lots of food! Then at Midnight we would wish each other a Happy New Year and prepare to head home. Once again, the Minister took an active role, stuffing as many of us as humanly possible into his car and stopping at the various houses along the way to drop us off.

Once I became a teenager and began playing drums, my “tradition” changed and I spent my New Years Eves on stage, providing the music for others to dance and celebrate to. This tradition continued as I progressed through my teenage years and into my twenties. At various times I found myself between bands during the Holidays and found New Years to be frankly quite boring if not on stage. This pattern of playing for New Years eve parties became less exciting as I entered my thirties. By that time I had become a professional touring drummer and the musicians with whom I performed all valued time with their families. Oddly, I still felt out of place when not performing, but eventually began to enjoy time at home, reading, or watching television. Now into my fifties, I still enjoy performing, but am cautious of drunk drivers when making my way home. Fortunately, with the disassembling and packing of the drumset, I am generally late enough departing that the revellers are mostly off the streets by the time I am driving home.

I also reflect, if that can be said of a time before my own, on those who have come before me. My ancestors who came to Canada in previous centuries, bringing their traditions with them and celebrating them to the best of their abilities. There were certainly no wealthy barons in my family tree, so I am certain my forebears celebrated quietly, at home or possibly at church. Perhaps a visit to the nearest neighbour by sleigh for a cup of tea and some stories.

I think too of the first arrivals on these shores; meeting the First Nations peoples whose customs would have seemed so strange to the Europeans. These Natives of Turtle Island would have gathered in their Lodges and Longhouses to partake in their Traditional Ceremonies to mark the Solstice. They would have given thanks to the Great Spirit, the Creator, for the bountiful harvest and good hunting of the previous season, for the close bond of family and Clan, for the lengthening of the days, however imperceptible. Songs, prayers, perhaps a Sweat, and the telling of stories passed down from generation to generation for millennia...

And the ancestors of the Europeans, mostly from the British Isles, who were descended from the Druids, Celts, and Picts, whose Solstice Traditions were as strange to us today as were the First Nations peoples of North America to the early Europeans. Traditions so cloaked in mystery we can only speculate on the happenings. These people would gather at Mystical, Magical places such as Stonehenge, Glastonbury, and Carnac and bargain with their Deities for the return of the sun. Some speculate human sacrifice may have occurred; we can be certain beverages containing alcohol or mind altering drugs were present. There would have been music, dancing, probably for days on end. It's fun to speculate what else may have taken place there.

As I sit here on this night, writing this, I feel a duality within; the stir of the ancient Druid, intoxicated and drumming out rhythms for the dancers, (perhaps one in particular with long flowing red hair and emerald green eyes) and the peaceful quiet of a late night when the temperature outside makes silent reflection wrapped in a warm blanket most desirable.

Happy Solstice, and New Year everyone!