The Beat of My Own Drum

by Sheila E.

  Everybody did such a great job. Each time someone went out to perform, we all cheered them on as we watched them on a live monitor backstage. We were competing, but our time together had made us a solid team. I knew that any one of them winning would be something I could be proud of and happy for. I thought it would be between Taylor and Micky. Taylor is the singing queen diva, and I loved her song. It seemed like an instant hit. And Micky brought so much soul and spirit to his performance.

  When it was my turn, those butterflies of mine were swarming. I went out onstage, and before launching into the song I started to talk to the crowd a bit to orient them to the background of my song. But people weren’t paying any attention. They were drinking, talking, mingling. I couldn’t believe it. These are all country music fans. Don’t they realize they’re being filmed as part of a song competition for a reality show? You’d think they’d at the very least just pretend to pay attention to me. I was starting to get really frustrated, hurt, and then angry. I wasn’t going to endure this kind of disrespect for a second longer. So I did what I had to do to shut everyone down and get present to my message.

  “Does anyone out there have a five-year-old?” I asked. It got somewhat quieter. Some people slowly raised their hands and others looked around to see who had in fact raised their hands. And that’s when I got to the point. “When I was five years old, I was raped.”

  Silence.

  I shocked them, but I knew that I deserved to have my voice expressed and my song heard. I had something to say, and it was something worth listening to. I will be acknowledged. You will respect me. It was a long road to get to that point. But I got there. We’re all in this together is a lyric in “Glorious Train.” And I needed the audience to be in this with me.

  Once I had their attention, I cued the band to start. Next thing I know, I’m in my song. Papa told me there is beauty in the sky. And he told me there is glory in my eyes. The first line’s lyric, which conjured up Pops’s belief in me as a young girl, is part of what soothed me in that moment. I got present to it all: the music, the band, the audience, the lyrics. I was also present to my journey—my unexpected journey and all its lessons both on this TV show and my overall life journey thus far.

  I’ve got faith and hope deep down in my soul . . . I belted out the words with all my might. I took off my heels and ran about the stage. And when I got to my timbale solo, first regular time and then double time—faster and faster—my emotions were explosive. During the gospel-inspired ending, my hallelujahs came from deep down in my soul. I was thanking God for giving me this experience and so many other blessings. I was thanking Him for getting me, as the song says, “through the darkness to the light,” for allowing me to become who he’d created me to be.

  I ended with a scream from deep within me and kicked the cymbal stand over before falling to my knees. I could barely catch my breath. I hadn’t held anything back. When the song was over, I threw down the mic, took in the applause, and tried to come back down to earth. I walked back to where John Rich had been sitting in his beautiful white jacket. He was now standing and cheering me with a huge smile on his face as he embraced me. I had given my performance everything I had, and holding back the tears was not an option anymore.

  John then brought me back to the front of the stage, where we both raised our pointer fingers upward to God, acknowledging our blessings.

  When we’d all performed and were waiting for the results, I was taut with anticipation. I’m always so careful with my manicured nails, but the tension backstage almost made a nail biter out of me. I was thinking about each person’s incredible performance—how far each of them had stretched themselves. I truly believed that I wasn’t going to win. I knew I put myself out there 100 percent, and I knew the song was great, but I wasn’t sure how it sounded to the audience and the judges. I was still convinced Taylor would be the winner. Hands down. I kept thinking, She had the best song. I would have voted for it. It should be on the radio, like, yesterday.

  The audience cleared out, and the judges got the final say. By this time I’d come to terms with the understanding that I wasn’t going to win—something I don’t usually do. And I was okay with it, too. I’d had an unbelievable experience and had grown by leaps and bounds as a person. I’d stretched myself further than I knew I could. Aspects of my time spent there interacting with the rest of the cast were like group therapy. I expanded my capacity to trust and I overcame fears. I learned about being a real team player, how to navigate others’ personalities, and to surrender to the group rather than always having to be the leader, in control.

  Me without control is rarely comfortable, but this experience taught me how easy it really could be. While waiting for the winner to be announced, I could exhale into a deep sense of satisfaction with all I’d accomplished already.

  When I heard John Rich say something about my performance, I started sweating and my heart was beating out of my chest. For real. I’d never been evaluated like this—so publicly, and on television! Even after more than thirty years in the business, I felt like a newbie. And then I heard something in John’s voice, a tone he took that made me realize—Oh, my God—he was going to say I won.

  I think I won!

  When he finally announced me as the winner, I couldn’t believe it. I was overjoyed, but also humbled to my core. It meant so much to me—that I had taken so many risks and had dived into the unknown to be a part of this show. My winning felt like an absolute acknowledgment of that.

  Thank you, Jesus. In my heart, I shared my victory with my two incredible Nashville writers as well as every single person on the show. They challenged me to be a better me and created the environment for me to perform the song the way I did. I was humbled, to say the very least.

  Back home, I had to keep a serious poker face on. I watched the final episode with Moms, Pops, and Zina as John announced me as the winner. They went crazy—cheering and screaming. Juan claimed later that he had always known I’d won—something about a twinkle in my eye and an extra spring in my step over Christmas.

  I must admit, it was a wonderful secret to keep.

  The TV show then went to the video for “Glorious Train”—my official debut in the country music market—that I’d secretly filmed back in LA after leaving Nashville. Pops was moved by the shot in the video where I’m looking at an old photograph of the two of us from way back when we cut our first album together.

  Seeing his expression of pride and joy was enough of a prize all by itself.

  28. Diminuendo

  Decreasing tempo

  Sister’s very kind so it’s never quite a problem

  When it comes 2 love

  Everything’s so easy when we’re children

  One touch is 2 much

  “TOY BOX”

  SHEILA E

  Whenever I am asked what makes a good drummer or a good percussionist (and I am asked it a lot), I struggle to find the words to describe good music—especially something that comes from the soul. But here goes.

  The greatest difference between playing drums and playing percussion is that percussion is all about enhancement. It’s as if you’re adding a new dimension to something that is already beautiful. And you have to be selective with how much you add, or else you can ruin the purity of the original.

  As I already mentioned, I believe that a good drummer keeps good time and has the discipline to know when not to play. You have to have rhythm, of course, and you’ve got to have some swagger in your walk. It’s all about presenting yourself authentically on the drums. Not everyone can drum well in each genre of music. When you play funk, for instance, you have to approach it differently from how you play jazz. But there are many ways to make music. If you drum with a jazz style on a funk song, it changes the vibe on that song, if that’s the intention (and, by the way, I have done that). It’s like eating soul food with chopsticks. But if the drumbeat is supposed to be funky, then it should stay true to that style or it can sound corny.
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  I think a lot of it comes down to playing in the pocket—a slang expression that means playing solid but being musically mature; not rushing the beat, neither overplaying nor underplaying. When I play with really good drummers, I tell them, “You are playing the lint in my pocket.” That’s funky!

  A good drummer has to make the drums sing. Rather than always playing at the same level, she or he plays dynamically and is sensitive to the instrument and to what the song needs. If you’re always playing at level ten, then there’s nowhere to go and no room for movement. But if you’re sensitive to the instrument, you can explore the valleys and reach the sky. Knowing your place is equally important. Improvisation within a song can happen organically and effectively when each musician knows when to follow and when to lead. It’s a musical conversation, and your communication skills can make all the difference.

  You listen to a band member who makes a suggestion. You agree, you follow her/him, and then perhaps you make a suggestion about where to go. It’s a collaborative musical journey. And for me, this is the most fun and adventurous kind of journey there is.

  When I was first performing publicly with Pops, he and I would ask (or maybe just tell) Juan and Peter Michael to join us onstage and keep time while we did our solos. They’d beat on whatever made sense for that song—cowbells, bongos, drums, congas—while Pops and I did our thing on the quinto or timbales. Sometimes my brothers laugh about this—how in the beginning when we were all much younger and much less known, they’d be the timekeepers while Pops and I got the spotlight. It was the musical family’s version of hand-me-downs for younger siblings, I suppose (coupled with the fact that, as the big sister, I had them work as my unpaid roadies!).

  Ultimately, though, we all agree that this was actually one of the best kinds of training for a drummer or percussionist. Maybe it goes without saying, but some points need emphasizing: the drummer is driving the bus. Keeping time is an invaluable skill for any musician. If you can’t keep time, you’re not going to be asked to play with anyone. And if you’ve been offered a gig and you don’t do what is best for the situation and only for yourself, then you probably won’t be asked back.

  I do believe some are gifted with certain musical abilities, like excellent timing, but you can learn that skill, too. Everybody has the most basic beat: the heartbeat. It keeps you alive. Each person’s beat is different, though, for different reasons—literally and metaphorically. It’s fairly obvious that you have to have rhythm to be a good musician, but I’d say it is deeper than that. I think you have to understand rhythm to be a good musician. You have to understand what it is to keep time, and if that’s all you have, well, then you’ve got plenty. Keeping good time is one of your best assets, because you can’t beat consistency (pun intended). With consistency of rhythm, if you’re in a solo battle against a player with amazing chops and less than amazing timekeeping, in my opinion you’ll be the winner every time.

  I was a percussionist first, which I think benefited me as a drummer. Early on, I learned to feel the song out, find spaces, and splash some color here and there rather than throwing a jar of paint all over the place. Otherwise, you can clutter up the song.

  As a drummer, I’m setting the introduction to either the bridge, the chorus, the verse, or someone’s solo. So when I play percussion, I’m sensitive to those moments within a song. I’ve learned to listen to the drummer’s introductions and let the drummer lead me.

  When I’m expressing all of myself nonverbally, I dig deep down inside and give from my heart. I open myself up to God and let Him speak through me. I let Him let me be the musician He created me to be. And when I let go and let God do His thing, He then surprises me with expressions I could never do myself. This is what keeps me excited, grateful, and humbled to be able to share my gift just as I did when I was fifteen and taking my first solo onstage with Azteca.

  There are many successful and talented musicians who read music perfectly. And yet if you take their sheet music away, they haven’t a clue how to play. Personally, I like to make creative choices within the song, because then I am truly expressing myself. I prefer musicians who play from their hearts over those who play solely from the page.

  I don’t use the stage as a place to work out any problems I might have, either. I pray with the band or anyone else who might be around before I go on, and within that prayer I choose to leave everything in God’s hands so that when I go onstage I am free to be in the moment, free to let God use me to provide the audience with inspiration and joy.

  What makes a great musician has more to do with a positive attitude than playing ability. It’s important that everyone, band and crew, gets along, since the majority of the time spent together is offstage. I want to be able to have great conversations, break bread, and enjoy a level of fellowship. A good band member, in my opinion, also has a high degree of integrity. Being on time is especially important, since it’s disrespectful to make others wait for you. And, finally, a good band member will do his or her homework and be prepared and willing to give their all in rehearsals, not just onstage. For my bands, rehearsals are very important. The fun part comes when you go onstage to perform. That’s when you play and it’s easy and fun. But it’s not easy and fun onstage if you haven’t put in the hard work.

  My rehearsal schedules have been called Sheila E Boot Camp because they are twelve-hour days. Overall, I’d rather have a band member be kind, respectful, and prepared than be an amazing musician who comes onstage with a bunch of negative energy.

  And don’t be afraid of mistakes. After a show one night, a friend of mine (who’s an exceptional drummer) asked me my secret for getting such loud applause.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “You get loud applause. You’re amazing!”

  “But I don’t get the kind of enthusiasm from the crowd that you do,” she said.

  I told her that while I consider myself a musician first, over the years I’ve learned how to be an entertainer as well.

  During a show early on in my career, I threw my timbale stick up to catch it—a fun visual that the crowd loves. I always catch it on the first throw, but for some reason I dropped it, and then again a second time. I couldn’t believe it. What was going on with me? I had to try again. I threw it up and finally caught it. Third time’s the charm. What I hadn’t expected was the uproar from the crowd. They were cheering and whistling and standing on their feet. I’d never gotten applause like that from catching it on the first try.

  I realized that after I’d missed it once, the audience became invested in my success. And after I missed it again, they were really rooting for me. When I finally caught it, they felt like they’d won too. So I actually started to work this into the show—missing it on purpose a few times as a means of building excitement. It was my little gimmick. I’ve learned that it’s okay to make a mistake. Sometimes a mistake can lead you to something far more exciting than perfection.

  Even though mistakes can be cool, you should still be prepared before performing or recording. That’s what Pops taught me when I was young: be professional, in every sense of the word. When you’re about to record or play live or rehearse, arrive early. Know your stuff inside and out. You should be able to sing it, play it, or rap it with your eyes closed. This kind of preparation will give you confidence. But don’t forget to mix your confidence with humility. Knowing your craft doesn’t mean being arrogant. The preparation comes first, and then the confidence.

  It’s that unknown part, that X factor (or should I say E factor?), that you can’t always prepare for. So sometimes there’s unexpected feedback from the sound system that might throw you off, or a band member might step on another person’s solo, or I might try some rhythms that don’t quite blend. It’s those unknowns that keep the butterflies fluttering onstage. But that’s also what keeps me interested. I am a perfectionist when it comes to my music, but if I knew each show would be perfect, and I knew exactly how it would go, I’d be ready to retire now.
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  Live music is live for a reason. There’s excitement in the unknown and beauty in the mistakes.

  Whenever aspiring musicians ask me for advice, I ask them if they get the butterflies, since that feeling of nervous excitement and passion, that overwhelming drive to create music, is such a crucial component to what keeps me going in this industry. And so to a musician who is challenged by his or her career, who wonders if it’s the right one to continue with, I say, if the butterflies feeling goes away, or if it was never there to begin with, then don’t quit your day job.

  When I’m onstage, the butterflies I felt backstage are still there, but in a different way. I call it “stage flight.” It’s like they remain with me, but they’re not in me the whole time. The excitement is always there, and sometimes the excitement feels like nervousness, but that comes and goes. It might even come and go several times within one song. Every song, every show, and every situation is different. I guess it’s related to that good old fear of the unknown.

  I also tell struggling musicians that this industry is a lot about timing. No matter how talented you are, success or exposure is often about placement, and such placement is often random. If you happen to be in the right place at the right time, then you just may meet that one person or have that lucky break that will make all the difference. And it’s often about who you know—having the right connections or the right resources that can support you in the pursuit of your dream. It’s a shame that there are so many gifted and talented musicians, performers, vocalists, and songwriters out there whose work may never see the light of day. Then there are some who manage to make it, despite a lack of any natural talent, because of their drive, connections, or luck.

  Sometimes you have to reroute your path and face the music, as it were. Being a musician isn’t everyone’s calling. And being onstage isn’t everyone’s calling, either. Maybe you want to be in the spotlight but you’re really meant to be a songwriter—giving the singer the words with which he or she can reach millions. Maybe you want to be a recording artist but you’re really meant to run a recording studio—offering artists a supportive environment that allows them to fully express their creativity. The songwriters, engineers, and producers all provide an essential role because the artists can’t do it all themselves. Behind every great artist is a network of important people, without whom the artist would be lost.