The Beat of My Own Drum

by Sheila E.

  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 ma
ke 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.

  Ironically, I was a lot more socially comfortable among my classmates once I knew I was leaving. Being in a band meant that I was suddenly regarded as “cool.” I felt in control of my life for the first time, holding my own with professional musicians and being propelled into my future by a newfound sense of purpose. I halfheartedly finished the last of my assignments, which allowed me to pass from tenth to eleventh grade, then I left and I never went back.

  Many years later I was offered an honorary GED from Oakland High School. I thanked them for the thought but turned them down flat. I felt it would be a disservice to those who’d stayed, studied, and made the grade. I wanted to earn my GED authentically or not at all.

  I truly regret not graduating. I missed out on graduation from junior high school because I left Montera after the riot, and I didn’t graduate from high school, either. It wasn’t until much later when I saw my nephews and nieces graduating that I realized what I’d lost out on. I sincerely wish I’d stuck it out so that I could have earned my high school diploma and fully experienced the ceremony itself with its prom party—a significant rite of passage in any teenager’s life.

  Earning my GED is on my bucket list of things to do—and I’m going to do it, if only to make Moms and Pops proud of me. I might even throw a party and turn it into a real high school graduation ceremony. What was to eventually become my glamorous life may have given me a unique “real world” education, but I wish I’d realized at fifteen years old that the real world could have waited and that I’d forever regret denying myself a complete education.

  Thankfully, Pops finally accepted my decision, because he’d also quit school at fifteen to follow his musical heart. Once he’d seen me perform, he recognized the passion in me and he honored it because he’d felt the same way. True to his word, he allowed me to take Victor’s place in the band and go on tour with Azteca.

  I no longer had to dip my toe over the line of the stage.

  I was on it!

  When Azteca was booked to play some shows in Colombia, I thought I might faint from excitement. I’d never even left California before, and I couldn’t wait for my first chance to step over a very different kind of border.

  Flying to Bogotá proved to be one of the scariest experiences of my life, however. I’d never been on a plane before and wasn’t used to the terrifying sensations. When I went to the bathroom midflight, I didn’t think to lock the door behind me, and so I was embarrassed when a huge man walked in as I was sitting on the toilet. Then when the landing gear dropped, I thought something was wrong with the plane. I was scared out of my wits, but I didn’t want anyone to think I wasn’t a seasoned traveler, so I resisted the urge to cling to Pops, screaming “We’re all going to die!”

  Colombia was even more of a culture shock. From the moment we arrived, it felt like we were in the middle of Mardi Gras. It was an amazing experience for someone who hadn’t yet turned sixteen. Fortunately, I had plenty of people around me to keep me from harm. Apart from the musicians and crew in our own band, we must have had twenty others in our entourage—mostly for protection.

  Cocaine was on offer everywhere. As soon as we got to our hotel, we were mobbed by dealers selling giant rocks of coke—which would have cost a thousand dollars in America—for five and ten bucks. Needless to say, some of the guys were lining up.

  My mother hadn’t been overly worried about me going to such a place, but she should have been. Even the coffee had coke in it, and after a few sips I was wired. The night we arrived, the partying began. Pops took me into a room and locked the door. As I watched in amazement, he prepared two lines of cocaine and told me, “Have you ever had this before?”

  I shook my head.

  “I want you to try this right now in front of me. Everybody will be doing this, so I want you to be careful and tell me every time you do this, okay?”

  All my childhood in the sixties, I’d grown up around musicians who smoked pot and took other drugs pretty much every day. It was just part of the Californian musical scene. Alcohol was too. There was no way my parents could hide it from us children when our homes were makeshift studios, but they always tried to instill caution in us, along with a sense of moderation. It worked—for me, at least. I have never been one for drugs and am not that much of a drinker.

  Although I was surprised that Pops was complicit in my trying cocaine, I knew that he was doing it that way so that I wouldn’t be tempted to try it without his supervision.

  I did try blow a few times in Bogotá, but it was way too strong for me. I was running around the hallways bouncing off the walls. My eyelids felt like they were stuck open and my heart raced, which scared me. I needed to take something to calm me down.

  Instead, Pops bought a bottle of Hennessy cognac most nights and let me have a little, too, and it became our drink. He called it “spider leg.”

  We were in Colombia for nearly two weeks, and the promoters had made the mistake of promising to take care of food and incidentals. What they didn’t realize was that there would be so many of us or that people would take advantage. Cart after cart came rolling along the corridor until the bill got so high that on the second day the promoters stopped paying.

  “We’re cutting you off!” they said.

  I’d always taken it for granted that I could walk freely down the street, but in Colombia I couldn’t. Men carried machine guns, and the whole place felt extremely dangerous. Whenever we did venture outside, and always with bodyguards, a few people shouted, “Go home!” which I couldn’t fathom. Pops never let me out of his sight. We did manage to go shopping one day—to a place with the best platform shoes ever, complete with huge square heels. We emptied that store. I couldn’t wait to get home and show Moms.

  Our first gig was to be played in the middle of the Santamaría bullring—the largest in the country. The event was humongous. The stadium was built in the 1930s and could hold up to fifteen thousand people. Our stage was set up midfield, which meant we had to walk to it from the outer ring, stepping over pools of blood where they’d just slaughtered a bull. That place was nuts.

  The first night I was so excited that my butterflies were doing a tango. Ever since my crazy solo at the Civic Center they’d been fluttering inside for each performance, keeping me company as I prepared to do what I love most.

  My heart raced. My body felt electric. My breathing was shallow. I never felt more alive, wrapped inside the moment, than I did as I waited to play for a live audience. It was the purest form of self-expression I had, giving of myself through music. Since that warm Colombian night, I realized that the day the butterflies are gone is the day I’ll stop playing.

  The butterflies are what keep me alive.

  Feeling them pranc
ing in Bogotá, I checked myself out in a mirror once more and made sure I looked like a rock star. Then someone suddenly shouted, “Okay! Let’s go!” and we ran into that bullring to tumultuous applause.

  My school friends back home were sitting in one of those dreary portable classrooms studying algebra, and there I was in a bullring in Bogotá with my Afro, in a funky top and pants, ready to perform with some monster musicians for a massive Latino crowd.

  I could hardly believe what was happening.

  Geographically, I was more than nine thousand miles away from those portables. Psychologically, I was on another planet.

  Pops took his place behind the timbales and—on his cue—the band began to play. The crowd went ballistic. I couldn’t believe how much our music was appreciated by people who were willing to embrace whatever we played for them. That night I gained a newfound understanding of the power of music to bridge cultural divides.

  I sat waiting behind my instruments, my mouth dry with nerves. Then, after a few minutes, Pops gestured to me to go ahead.

  Okay, Sheila, I told myself. It’s time to fly to the moon . . .

  13. Roll

  A prolonged and reverberating sound

  Pride and the passion

  Laugh all night, cry all day

  If true love is old-fashioned

  Should we pass or should we play?

  “PRIDE AND THE PASSION”

  SHEILA E

  Visiting Colombia had been such an amazing experience that I was sorry when it was time to leave. That feeling quickly changed, though.

  While entering Colombia had been an almost seamless process, leaving was nothing short of traumatic. The customs officials there pulled all our bags at the airport and searched everyone for drugs. There was a frightening and aggressive energy to the guards, and I began to feel uneasy.