The Beat of My Own Drum (13 page)

By the time I started slapping my hands on the skin of a drum as a little girl in the 1960s, female drummers were few and far between. The ones who were around were often derided and struggled to be taken seriously, including the wholesome Karen Carpenter and a lady named Moe Tucker from the Velvet Underground, who played standing up.

In my family I’d never experienced any of the prejudices of being in a “man’s world” playing a “man’s instrument.” It was only when people started commenting that I realized there could even be a gender attached to any musical instrument. What makes drums more male than a piano or a guitar, for example? I didn’t understand the logic. In my house the instruments were for everyone to play—boys, girls, children, parents, great-grandparents, men, women. Nobody cared as long as you could keep time (or have a good time).

Once I discovered that I was considered unusual, though, I became even more committed to the instrument I’d chosen as a teenager. I’d never set out to be a pioneer, but the indomitable Gardere spirit kicked in the minute I realized I was doing something out of the ordinary.

I suffered such agonies over what to do about Grito, though. I dearly wanted to remain loyal to my band and was anxious that
they’d think badly of me if I abandoned them after they’d given me such a great start. I was also worried about what leaving might do to my relationship with Tam, whom I really cared for, but music was eclipsing the affection I had for him.

Deep down, I knew I had to honor my burning desire to go further, do better, and expand my horizons. My path to the future was set.

I didn’t fully understand it back then, but music was to become the one true love of my life.

11
. Shuffle

A rhythmic motif based on a shuffle dance step

If you feel it moving

Deep inside your soul

Don’t stop that rhythm

It’s gonna make you dance

“IT’S GONNA MAKE YOU DANCE”

THE E FAMILY

T
he opportunity to move on came far sooner than I expected. Azteca was doing very well and had been opening for Stevie Wonder, the Temptations, and Earth, Wind & Fire. The new lineup had also been signed by Columbia/CBS Records and was touring to promote its debut album,
Azteca
, which was released in 1972.

As part of that world tour, they were booked to perform at San Francisco’s Civic Center at a huge rally, but a few days before the gig Azteca’s conga player, Victor Pantoja, fell sick and had to drop out.

Pops was freaking out. Azteca had been the first band of its kind to blend different genres of music in an orchestral setting with a strong undertone of Latin music. In what became known as “brown sound,” it had some of the best Latin jazz, rock, and soul musicians from the Bay Area, including drummers, vocalists, guitarists, horn players, keyboard players, and percussionists. There was Paul Jackson on bass and Lenny White on drums, Uncle Coke, of course, and Santana guitarist Neal Schon, along with many other gifted musicians.

Even if Pops could have found a replacement player on such short notice, he wouldn’t know the music.

I, however, did.

I’d heard that band rehearse so often at home and had jammed with them almost every time. I knew every one of their songs by heart.

“Let me sit in for Victor.” I pleaded, but Pops laughed at me.

“This is a really important gig,” he told me, shaking his head. “Besides, you’re just a kid.”

“I’m fifteen!” I protested. (I look at my nieces and nephews now who are the same age and I think I must have been crazy).

Pops laughed again. “You’re fifteen years old and you don’t know anything!”

“I know all the songs!”

“There’ll be three thousand people in the audience.”

That made me even more determined.

“Great,” I said with a grin. “I can do it.”

No matter how much I begged, Pops insisted that I was too young and inexperienced. Realizing he wasn’t going to change his mind, I went to work on Moms. “You always taught me that I can do anything I want,” I reminded her. “Well, I really want this and you know I can do it. Please talk to Pops?”

I nagged and nagged until I wore her down. My father didn’t
stand a chance once Moms was on my side. She and I sat Pops down, and together we convinced him to give me a shot. Since he couldn’t see any other options, he allowed me to audition for him in our living room. He’d seen a few of my gigs, but none lately, so he wasn’t really aware of how much I had grown musically.

Whatever I played that day for my father must have done the trick. “Okay, okay,” he said, a little less testily. “You’ve got the gig.”

I’d always been nervous about playing, but that night I suddenly felt butterflies dancing around in my stomach for the first time since Sweet’s. It was almost a comfort, because butterflies had long been an important symbol to me. Whenever I saw one, I felt a little bit happier. They struck me as such extraordinary creatures, bringing otherworldly magic to the most ordinary of days.

Maybe it was their remarkable transformation that resonated so profoundly with me.

My butterflies would become a frequent, and welcome, part of my life.

Although I’d yearned to be on a big stage, I’d never imagined playing in front of three thousand people as part of a grown-up band that had just signed a major record deal. I desperately wanted to make Pops proud and show him that he’d made the right decision. Despite my crippling nerves, I was also exhilarated, because I somehow knew that things were about to change for me, forever.

The show started, and we were midway through the first song before I was finally comfortable enough to look out into the audience and soak up the experience. People liked us! They were swaying and dancing and clapping in time. The band sounded amazing live with speakers, and its brilliant musicianship elevated my conga playing exponentially, forcing me to stretch my talent and rise to the occasion.

I could hardly believe that I was sharing a stage again with my father and his band. My memories of being at Sweet’s when I was
five were foggy. At the Civic Center, in front of all those people, I was determined to remain fully present to the moment and take it all in.

Musically, I wanted not only to blend in but also to enhance what was already something wonderful. I remained in the pocket but added a lick here and there, which seemed to sound okay. It was all going great until Pops suddenly turned to me and yelled, “Take a solo!”

I froze.

What did he mean?

How long? How fast?

I wasn’t ready for all eyes to be on me.

I shot him a panicked look that said, “What, me? Now?”

He placed the palm of his hand on his chest as if to say, “Play from your heart.”

I understood then, and I nodded.

This was it.

I closed my eyes and began to rhythmically slap the congas with palms that were already glowing.

When you get behind a big band like that, the power of it takes over. I’d only ever played with seven or eight musicians before, but with Azteca there were almost twenty of us on the stage. In their talented company I was exposed to something truly creative that had never happened to me before. The power and musicianship of that band was overwhelming.

I took off playing and was quickly transported to a different zone. I played completely spontaneously as I felt the moment and the emotion and the spirituality connect deeply with the music in my heart.

In the next few minutes I had what I can only describe as an out-of-body experience. I felt like I was looking down on myself from about twenty feet up. When I finally opened my eyes toward
the end of my solo, I didn’t even know I was on a stage until I suddenly realized that thousands of eyes were watching my every move.

I’d been somewhere else entirely.

I looked out to the audience and saw them jumping in time to the beat. My hands were on fire, and I was playing in a way I’d never known I could. My hands were in charge, as if they were telling me what to do. They were moving so fast I couldn’t even follow them with my eyes.

I looked across at Pops and could see he was holding back tears. Mine started to prick the backs of my eyes. I remember thinking,
This is what heaven is supposed to feel like.

I wanted to feel like that every day of my life.

As I finished my solo, I looked around me in a daze, as if to say, “What just happened?”

The audience went wild. The sounds of their screams and stomps, cheers and whistles gave me the chills right down to my nail beds. From my head to my toes I was shaking. I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.

My father stood at his timbales equally stunned. He couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.

I don’t remember much of the rest of the concert, but by the time we eventually made it backstage, Pops was beaming with pride. For a while we were both without words, hugging and crying. Finally he said: “You have it, baby! I had no idea you had that in you!”

I laughed and cried at the same time. I didn’t know what to feel; there were so many emotions racing through me simultaneously.

The rest of the band congratulated me one by one. I was so happy and excited all at once. God had given me a glimpse of paradise, and I finally knew that this was to be my true calling—my gift.

I had wanted to be an astronaut ever since I watched a man walk on the moon, but now I’d found a different way to go into space.

The moon was mine for the taking.

No matter how many other dreams or goals I’d had before,
this
was what I was supposed to do.

12
. Paradiddle

Four even strokes played in order

Fly me to the moon

And let me play among the stars

Let me see what spring is like

On Jupiter and Mars

“FLY ME TO THE MOON”

BART HOWARD

I
couldn’t wait to share my life-changing decision with Moms and Pops. As soon as we got home after my first-ever concert, I blurted: “I’m quitting school to join Pops’s band!”

They both looked at me like I was crazy.

“You’re in the tenth grade—you have to graduate!” Moms cried.

Pops was distraught. I was never meant to be a percussionist like him. It was such a hard life and one he hadn’t wished on any of his children. He knew it would be even tougher for a girl.

“What can we do to keep you interested in school?” he asked hopefully. “Hey, you love to draw! I’ll buy you some new art supplies. We’ll pay for extra classes!”

I shook my head. My mind was made up, and a shiny set of colored pencils couldn’t change that.

I reminded them that the only job I’d ever held down was helping a friend fold clothes in her store at Christmas. “I’m not cut out for a regular job, and I’ve never been happy at school.”

I didn’t tell them that for most of my childhood, I’d never even wanted to be called on or asked questions I didn’t know the answers to. I was scared to be wrong, and the classroom setting made me feel like I was drowning in a pool of unknowns.

Reading aloud was also challenging for me because I was so insecure about my comprehension (something that lingered into my late twenties). I hid my report cards, hoping my parents would forget to ask about them.

Some subjects held my attention, but for the most part I didn’t feel confident in any academic setting. Aside from sports, art and fashion were the only subjects I cared about, and even they were directly related to my love of music. Moms and Pops always dressed up for gigs, and from an early age I’d noticed every detail of their clothing—the cut, the fabric, the pattern, the fit. They wore a lot of leather and suede and accessorized them with funky fabrics.

They dressed us up a lot, too—I had some pretty dresses for special occasions, and Moms thought it was cute to put Juan and Peter Michael in matching outfits when they were younger so that they looked like twins. It was probably the cheapest option.

In fifth grade, I snuck into my mother’s closet one morning and put on her black jumpsuit with elephant pants, pinning them up to fit me. I walked around school that day like a fashion model. But my moment on the “catwalk” ended abruptly when Moms caught me sneaking in after school and was none too pleased.

Music influenced my fashion choices, too. My brothers and I loved platform shoes and bell-bottoms and would take the bus to
Berkeley to find hip clothing. Even in the thrift stores I was always on the lookout for something that would make me look sexy from the waist up.

As a percussion player I couldn’t wear skirts or dresses, so I’d try to come up with a look that integrated the coolest pants or shorts. At one point I wore a special creation designed out of a pair of denims cut at the knees, with the hems tucked into my socks.

The academic side of my schooling didn’t interest me nearly as much. The lower my grades fell, the worse school became for me. Along with the other losers, I’d been relegated to the “portables”—pseudo-buildings at the far end of the campus for students who struggled academically.

I’d passed too many miserable hours in there to ever want to return.

Some of my teachers did take an interest and frequently reminded me I didn’t have long before graduation. They fought hard to keep me in, and—sensing my unease—they even gave me special assignments that let me write about the “real world.”

I went through the motions and, to please them (and at the insistence of my parents), I didn’t leave school immediately—even if mentally I was on my way out. My attendance was patchy, but I did go to art class, especially silk-screening, because it allowed me to design T-shirts. I even made a silk-screen print of Sammy Davis Jr., which was one of the only things I left school with that I was proud of.