DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

You have probably heard this ride pattern before. As has been pointed out to me by several readers, notably Brian M. and Jeremy A., it’s an African rhythm called bembe or hoeblade. I know I’ve heard Mike Portnoy play it, and I’d be interested to know other sources — send me an email if you can name a song or solo that incorporates it.

The basic kick/snare groove is a heavily ghosted shuffle, using a bounced ghost approach that I learned from Atma Anur. This is just one example of what can be played under the ride pattern, of course.

    /3\/3\/3\/3\ (shuffle feel)
    1  2  3  4  
RC  o o oo o o
SD   oo o O o oo
KD  o    o     o

Patronize these links, man:

• Virtual Drummer loop
• MIDI
• MP3

It is a tradition in my wife’s family to decorate the Christmas tree with candles. Well aware of the fire hazard, we all watched the tree closely, hyper-conscious of the status of each candle. Long before any candle burned down to its base, or any flame came near a branch, adjustments were made to ensure a disaster-free Christmas dinner.

So you can imagine our surprise when, in the midst of the meal and the ongoing tree maintenance, the Advent wreath caught fire.

A few days later, while recounting the story to friends in Köln, I made an unfortunate use of the possessive form. As our host blew out the short candles in her Advent wreath, noting that they were close to burning through, I said, “Stephanie’s parents’ caught on fire.” I pronounced the apostrophe as best I could, but I admit, it sounded like my in-laws (rather than their wreath) had combusted.

My German in-laws enjoy having family dinners at Chinese restaurants. This strikes me as funny somehow, as if German in-laws are only allowed to have family meals at the imbiss, over currywurst (sausage with curry sauce) and pommes rot-weis (french fries with ketchup and mayonaise). In fact, they probably have those too.

My wife is translating the menu to me. Her mother notices, and asks me whether she should request an English-language menu. “No, that’s not necessary,” I reply in halting German, “I don’t speak Chinese anyway.” This got big laughs. Fortunately my in-laws are easily amused.

Two points determine a line. Three points determine a plane. Four limbs determine a groove.

Start with an eighth-note ride pattern. Split it palindromatically across two sound sources, using two limbs, on two sides of the kit. Add a simple, funk-inspired kick and snare rhythm underneath, and — this is the hard part — try to play it. (It’s just eighth notes; how hard can it be?!) The result is surprisingly nonlinear; most beats are played in unison. It is the changing of limbs to play these combinations that requires some practice.

    1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 
RC  o   o     o   o 
SD        o     o   
KD  o o     o       
HH    x   x x   x   

Patronize these links, man:

• Virtual Drummer
• MIDI
• MP3

“I’m going to be up for a while,” she said. “And I’m going to be down for the count,” I think in reply. Even my mouth is tired. My wife had arrived four days ago, and had therefore acclimated to the time change. But I’ve only just flown in, and by 8pm am unable to sustain consciouness any longer.

My day began 27 hours ago. In that time I’ve eaten five meals and flown one-third of the way around the world. And I have slept not at all: I am a glassy-eyed zombie, a stumbling, regretfully vertical experiment in sleep deprivation.

Even on the best of days I have trouble sleeping on airplanes… but today was worse. I was pinched between one of those inconsiderate sorts who threw her seat all the way back shortly after takeoff, and a guy who spent much of the flight asleep with his head on the tray table behind me. Had I tipped my seat backwards I’d have crushed him.

The woman ahead of me was intent on using every angstrom of space available. Not only did she keep he seat all the way back when she was leaning forward to eat, she kept it all the way back when she left to walk around the cabin. And a half-dozen times during the flight, she arched her weight back onto her shoulders, briefly forcing her seat even further into my lap, as if she could achieve another degree of recline due to metal fatigue.

Certainly it is not her fault I’m a bit too tall to fit comfortably in a coach-class seat… from now on I’ll be requesting seats in the bulkhead row. But I would have appreciated a little consideration. At one point, when she wasn’t actually in her seat, I very politely asked her if she’d mind moving it forward. “So long as you are not actually sitting in it,” I said in what I hoped sounded beseeching rather than bitterly sarcastic. She looked to see how my knees were smashed up against her seat back. “Oh, you poor guy” she exclaimed. And then, three minutes later, she sat back down, and cranked her seat all the way back anyway.