A Few Thoughts on Motives and Methods…

I have been playing drums for forty years now, and I still practice almost every day. Does that strike you as being odd in any way? After four decades of what can only be considered rabid diligence, even I have to admit that it often seems my progress is nary worth the time and trouble I invest. When I was young, the technical growth of my musicianship was discernable month by month, or so it seemed to me. As the years piled on, I would regularly attain what I came to refer to as a "plateau", at intervals of every six months or thereabouts. These so-called "plateaus" were periods of time when I played with a level of technical proficiency that remained completely static, unchanged by even my most indefatigable efforts to move myself forward. I tried, and I failed. I tried harder, and I failed. Listening to the amazing technique of Ian Paice or the explosive intensity of Clive Bunker did little to relieve my immaculate frustration. I wasn't yet in my teens but that mattered not one bit to me. I could hear and often understand things in their playing that I simply could not bring to my own. My arms and legs were apparently made of wood, my mind was insufficient to the task at hand, and because I wanted to play drums more than anything else in the world, I was certain that my heart would burst. Throwing drumsticks that I could ill-afford to break at the floor, I fell to my knees, tears staining my face, shaking with anger and frustration, and hating myself for being so incapable. I had great passion and resolve, just not much ability. The temptation to surrender was strong and I considered it for a second or two on a hundred different occasions, but the music I so loved would not permit me. And so I returned to the rehearsal space salt mines. As I braced myself for my daily punishment, I immediately noticed a marked improvement in my playing. I had more dynamic control. I was cleaner and more precise, faster too. Everything I did seemed better in almost every way. It was simply a matter of perception of course. I hadn't gotten six months better in one day. It had been happening all along. What triggered my realization and recognition of it all remains unknown to me to this very day. I have spoken with many other musicians who have related stories of striking similarity to my own. The "plateau effect" still occurs, decades later. These days I'm fortunate to feel it every two or three years.

So I practice, relentlessly. I am compelled to do so. It defines me. And I can honestly say: I am Hal Darling / Musician.

I think that the music I write is constructed in such a way that it reflects the things I like to hear in music. A variety of emotion, tone color, dynamics, meter and tempo are virtually always present. I strive for expression and try to keep things interesting and organized, but not predictable. Humor and a sense of the perverse are always close at hand, as are energy and obvious enthusiasm. But perhaps most important of all is the ever elusive and always subjective pursuit of an original musical approach. A practical impossibility I think, when one considers the sheer magnitude of music that is already a part of the human experience. You can't just stop being a product of your influences. But you can edit your content and be your own producer. I've tried to teach myself how to recognize what is objectively best in my writing and playing. What is it that makes me - me? I've tried to let go of the very human propensity to assign a sense of preciousness to things simply because they are the objects of my own creation. Am I capable of composing a great stinking pile of non-musical shite? Of course I am. In fact I have, many times. Fortunately I can usually recognize it for what it is and respond appropriately.

My influences are drawn from many sources, some musical, some otherwise: thunderstorms, machines, fireworks (someday I'll get my kick drum to sound like an aerial bomb), birdsongs, even my interest in mathematics. During my high school years I worked as a roofer. I recall my fascination as I listened to multiple hammers move in and out of sync in random ways. It taught me to embrace chaos rather than fear it. It has had a direct and profound effect on my work. My music is almost always very complex and structured, but spontaneous improvisation is close to my musical heart. From time to time my objective as a composer is to create a piece that seems to be falling apart as it moves along, musically viable but uneasy, as if the wheels are about to come off. Reconciling these polarized ends of the spectrum is a daunting task, and therein lies what may be the very definition of my ultimate objective - control and chaos, structure and improvisation - can they find a common home?

In the near future it is my plan to record several examples of improvised drum performances. I will then "learn" the improvisations through repeated listening, adding tracks as I go, creating a structured composition based on the original improvised idea. I doubt that my first attempts will be met with much success, but I believe that the concept can be developed and refined into a workable methodology. Workable on a small scale alone perhaps, but hey - I'll take what I can get.