Ego in the arts: Wisdom of [heavy chord] The Rhythm Master

Ego in the arts: Wisdom of [heavy chord] The Rhythm Master

Posted on November 9th, 2010 by Chris Matarazzo

Some people want to be the proverbial bull in the proverbial china shop that is the artistic world. They want to put down the works of others; they want to convince people there is only one way to see things or they want to throw out the rules. Many want, above all, to show as many people as possible that they can do everything better than anyone else. Like many, I hate that, but I do get it. And I feel the tug, from time to time.

Some understanding might help us stomach this behavior, at least. Truth is, it is hard to be confident in your own artistic work without being egotistical, because, for most artists, there is no concrete proof they are good at what they do and even what seems to be concrete proof is debatable: Ever watch an award-winning movie you thought was garbage? — read a Pulitzer prize-winning novel you thought had simplistic characters? — hear a gazillion-selling pop song that your underwear could have written?

We artists do not get the sure-fire affirmation of athletes. If you keep hitting more homeruns than everyone on the team, you will be the cleanup hitter. There is no debating whether you belong there. But after we artists consider subjectivity, all that is left for us is to either say, “Here is my work, world. Like it or hate it, it is the best I could do,” or “I’m Shakespeare and if you can’t see it, thou art an ass.” Option one is the one I prefer, but, then, there are people like [heavy chord]: The Rhythm Master. He’s a guy I once met who pretty much sums up artistic ego, for me, but this little true tale shows that everyone, including yours truly, is subject to a little tinge of it:

Some time in the early to mid nineties, the band I was in had weekly residence at a small club in South Jersey. Every Thursday night, I would sit behind the drums on a stage surrounded by a bar, squinting through the cigarette smoke at a bunch of ethanol-enhanced, happy people who were dancing and singing along to good, old-fashioned party and rock-and-roll music. It wasn’t the ideal musical situation for me by a long shot, but it was a well-paying gig in a band with a bunch of really nice guys and it, along with three other gigs per week, helped me pay for my books, rent and food during grad school by making music.

Each Thursday night, [heavy chord] The Rhythm Master would come out. He would wear a Zildjian shirt, presumably to keep it crystal clear that he was a drummer. He would stand next to the stage — arms folded well below the Zildjian insignia — and he’d watch me like . . . something that watches something else really closely for a long time. (Hey, the similes don’t always come.)

Each night, before the first set, I’d give him the polite, tight-lipped smile/head-nod. He’d return my greeting with the slightly-cooler upward chin-lift nod. He wouldn’t drink or sit or talk to anyone. He just watched my hands, song to song, set to set.

Sensing he wanted to engage me in a drumming conversation — which, I admit, I don’t enjoy, as dedicated as I was and still am to the instrument — I would leave the stage from the opposite side and disappear into the crowd to talk to our regular followers. But, one night, he cut me off on my way back up for the third set.

“Listen, man,” he said. “I have been watching your sticks.” (I felt a little more violated than I already had. I mean, who was he to ogle my 5Bs like that? Still, I politely listened as the rest of the band took the stage.) “Your sticking is all wrong,” he said. “I could give you lessons if you want.” He held out his card. On it was the ubiquitous black-and-white picture of a snare drum with two ghost-held sticks over it, mid-paradiddle.

Instead of taking the card, I handed him the same cymbal-chipped sticks he had seemed to lust over for so many weeks. (Paging Dr. Freud.) I’d had just about enough, gal dernit. “Go ahead,” I said. “Teach me a lesson now.” And I walked away from the stage to take a seat in the back of the room next to our sound guy, who did the most perfect cartoon double-take I have ever seen.

As I said, the band were a bunch of nice guys, but turning around and seeing [heavy chord] The Rhythm Master (pale as a sail) on the drum-throne gave them pause. They looked over the crowd until they found me. I gave them the high sign: “Let him play a few,” I yelled, sitting, fingers clasped behind my head, feet up on a table. The singer handed him a set list. He perused it. They agreed on something. He counted off faster than he played when the band came in and the train-wreck commenced. The song was a rock standard, but not by the time [heavy chord] The Rhythm Master got done with it. In fact, it turned from a “shuffle” into some mutant form of a Bollywood track. I’m sure his sticking was pristine, but his basic sense of rhythm left something to be desired, as was evidenced by the audience, whose drunken, jovial presence on the dance floor, third set, was a given — usually. One by one, they walked off the floor.

Selfishly ignoring the pleading looks of the band to come back up, I let [heavy chord] The Rhythm Master crucify a few more common-knowledge rock songs. When I took the stage, the dance floor was empty. Half way into the first song I played, it was full. Proof enough? Maybe, maybe not. There are variables to explain this dance floor shift, I am sure, but it looked like “popular opinion” to me. Regardless, it might just be that the primal, drunken connection to rhythm is as honest and accurate of a kind of feedback as a drummer can ever get.

Yeah, I know. I had a feeling the guy would stink on ice and I set him up to show I was better than he was. But, in my opinion, he had it coming. He started it, after all.

The band was cool with it in the end, if only because [heavy chord] The Rhythm Master had been underfoot for weeks.

He never came back.

Chris Matarazzo’s ARTISTIC UNKNOWNS appears every Tuesday.

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Chris Matarazzo

Chris Matarazzo is a writer, composer, musician and teacher of literature and writing on the college and high school levels. His music can be heard on his recent release, Hats and Rabbits, which is currently available. Chris is also the composer of the score to the off-beat independent film Surrender Dorothy and he performs in the Philadelphia area with the King Richard Band. He's also a relatively prolific novelist, even if no one seems to care yet. His blog, also called Hats and Rabbits, is nice, too, if you get a chance...