It's the spring of 2013, on a Tuesday night sometime around 7:30, and I'm sitting behind the drum set in Joe Galeota's home studio in Arlington. Joe is sitting across from me playing the djembe. We're working on my soloing (still pretty shaky at 15 years old) by trading 4's in mid-tempo swing.
It's a funny point in time for me as a drummer because, big picture, I'm in a good spot musically. I'm taking it seriously, improving fast and gaining confidence. And I don't feel like I'm doing it out of obligation – I genuinely love playing drums.
But I still get super nervous performing; I constantly compare myself to my friends in band and orchestra and worry that I'm not at their level; and worst of all I still can't properly "solo" on the drums. Sure, I can put some nice rhythms together and stay in tempo, but at this stage I'm not able to express anything genuine through the music. My solos are just me self-consciously trying not to fuck up.
So Joe stops me, probably because he's tired of hearing me play the same corny triplet phrase five times in a row, and asks me to think about something: What if I tried to say something during my solo sections, instead of constantly worrying about what to play?
"Interlude 1": Take. Your. Time.
This is the 4th track on Sarah Jarosz' 2021 album "Blue Heron Suite." There are no vocals, no real "sections," and very few instruments. It's less of a fully-fledged song, more of a sketch on a canvas, with the electric guitar being the paint that brings the piece to life.
First we have this trance-like effect from the acoustic guitar pattern at the beginning. Then the electric comes in and plays, for the moment, as a complement to the acoustic. In fact, right around 0:45 the electric seems like it might be fading out.
But then it's back. A short, descending, space-filled line. A quick rest, then a variation. Lots of syncopation, plus a really cool dynamic change at 1:19. All of it fiercely intentional. Ms. Jarosz has laid out her canvas and started to add color – but she wants us to know that she's in absolutely no rush. After all, it's not just what you say, but also how you say it.
(Quick side note: Another member of the chooses-their-words-with-the-utmost-care club is Mr. Rogers. I encourage you to watch "Won't You Be My Neighbor" and revel like I did in how slowly and thoughtfully Mr. Rogers communicates with his guests and audience.)
The acoustic returns at 1:24, and at this point the electric starts to speak in earnest. It's more forceful and less modest than it was before. It feels like there's a point it wants to make – especially when it comes to the string of offbeats we hear at 1:44.
There's a duality to this short little section: It stands on its own and conveys a strong idea, but at the same time there's something I can't quite put my finger on which feels unfinished. And so it is (ideally) during a conversation. When it's your turn to speak, and you're feeling comfortable and confident in what you're going to say, you complete the arc of an idea while simultaneously building the momentum around a bigger picture.
The electric then bows out for another few bars – and notice that when it comes back, it doesn't immediately move onto a new melody. It repeats a phrase we heard earlier in the song, just briefly, making sure the bigger picture stays tied together.
Now, if you've stuck with me this far: First of all thank you, and second of all go ahead and just let the rest of the song play out. Listen to Sarah's phrasing, and the contrast between the soft instrumental canvass and the distorted tone of the electric painting on it. Listen to her playing get more frantic and passionate. Listen as the punctuation in between sentences starts to disappear (she's done taking her time; she's found her thesis and is now hurtling toward her conclusion). Listen as the waves crash ashore, and then recede back as quietly as they rolled in.
Most importantly, just listen, and wonder at the way Ms. Jarosz can speak without using any words at all.
"Across the Canyon (Reprise)": Everyone is calling out for help
We now jump to the 7th track on "Blue Heron Suite," where a few larger themes of the album and Sarah's style come into sharper focus. Namely, we're reminded how much the Blues is an integral element of Bluegrass music. The lyrics are simple, universal and agitated, as is the double bass groove underneath. The lead guitar is crystal clear, as are its intentions – from the very beginning of the track, as the guitar feverishly fills the space in between the lyrics and then impatiently jumps into a solo at 0:42 before the vocals have even finished, we can tell this instrument has something to say.
What really strikes me, though, is how rugged the solo feels, right from the get-go. Where the improvisation in "Interlude 1" was calm, calculated and unhurried, this track is the total opposite. For one thing, the frantic two-bar guitar riff between the first set of "everyone is calling out for help"s and the second speaks like it wants to jump right into a longer solo section, only to be beaten back by the now-harmonized vocals. And for another, when the guitar does finally get to say its piece, its solo feels anxious and unmoored. The eighth note runs starting at 1:19 seem directionless, almost rushed. It sort of reminds me of how sometimes (always) when I'm telling my friends an exciting story (that they didn't ask to hear), I'll find myself going off on a million different (completely avoidable) tangents before actually getting to the point.
Every time I listen to this section of the song, for the life of me I don't know where the phrase from 1:20 to 1:25 is going. But then out of absolutely nowhere it takes a (very welcome) breath at 1:26 before jumping back up the scale to start on another idea. And it's at this point that something clicks into place for me: Maybe the solo's restlessness is actually the point. You can hear the excitement in the guitar; it's that raw joy which comes with having a space where you can rant and ramble and not feel like everything you say has to be planned out.
We all need those kinds of spaces. Part of being human is having some brilliant epiphany, some shining moment of clarity, only to then realize that there are dozens more ideas zooming around in your head that you haven't even come close to being able to articulate yet. The more outlets we have to release that energy, the freer we are. In other words: Art!
Now, getting back to "Across the Canyon," it's not like Sarah is at all confused about how to use her voice. She knows her way around her instrument as good as anybody. And we can tell from how solid her sense of time and groove is that she's not second-guessing herself. The solo still wants to convey an idea – you can feel that in certain moments where a more coherent phrase breaks out from the eighth-note runs, like at 1:28, or at 1:42, and then shortly thereafter in the little wave-effect right before the vocals come back in.
But even more importantly, I think Sarah wants to convey how badly she wants to convey her ideas. That's why the lyric "everyone is calling out for help" is so appropriate. When we express things through art, often we're doing it because that's what we need to do. We're calling out – to whom I'm not sure, maybe the listener, or God, or ourselves – for help as we try to say something to the world that we don't even have words for. Combine that vulnerability with years and years of practice on an instrument, and you just might be able to create as exciting a moment as Ms. Jarosz has been able to capture in this song.
None of this was on my mind when Joe Galeota asked me if I had anything to say as we were practicing my improvisation. Nor was I able to fully wrap my head around it in the days and weeks after that lesson. But slowly, awkwardly, at times even painfully, over the months and years that followed I started finding ways to put a little more of myself into my drumming. I started identifying times when I was feeling particularly confident with a tune and could lay out a patient, dynamic, thoughtful solo. And I stopped panicking when I couldn't find that confidence. I trusted, I knew, that there was no shortage of things inside me that I wanted to express, and that I had no shortage of desire to express them. So if I couldn't perfectly plan out the exact words I wanted to say, so be it – if I keep practicing my craft, and keep seeking vulnerability rather than avoiding it, I can get something even more raw, even more pure, across to whoever may be listening.