by Dan Caro
Ariel and I spent the entire afternoon together discussing the music of the ’60s, life at SLU, what we wanted to accomplish in our lives, and a thousand other topics that young people who really like each other talk about just so they don’t have to say good-bye.
We became good friends, and pretty soon we were inseparable. Our romance blossomed, and it was everything I’d hoped my first relationship would be. I often thought about those long, lonely nights I’d spent in my room convinced that I’d never find anybody. It amazed me how a seemingly simple shift in attitude (from negative to positive, which I’d made with Wolf’s help) could make such a profound difference in a person’s life. As my parents would say, I was “over the moon in love,” and it was definitely worth the wait.
ARIEL AND I REGULARLY ENDED UP at the home of her best friend, Linda, whose family was fairly wealthy. What I learned during those visits was that money truly can’t buy happiness, nor does it make someone a good or decent person. These are all lessons I learned thanks to Linda’s dad.
On one particular afternoon, Ariel and I were chatting with Linda and her stepmom in their kitchen. The four of us were having a great conversation, but it was hard for us to hear each other over the loud voices and raucous laughter coming from the adjoining room. Linda said that her dad and one of his buddies were having a few drinks and settling in to watch a football game.
We all decided to head in and join them, and Linda’s stepmother introduced me to her husband and his pal. The two were holding Scotch glasses that were filled to the brim, and they were clearly feeling no pain. As soon as I was introduced, the friend leered at Ariel and then leaned over to Linda’s dad. In an obnoxiously loud voice, he blurted out: “Look at that dude. I can’t believe such a cute girl is hooked up with that! I wonder if he’s even got a dick!”
“Yeah,” the father agreed with a laugh. “He’s probably dickless! She could do a lot better than that!”
Everyone in the room heard what these two “gentlemen” had to say about me. Linda’s stepmom, who was a genuine lady, tried to change the subject and cover up her husband’s vulgar faux pas by acting overly sweet. She was clearly embarrassed and angry that a guest had been verbally assaulted in her home. Ariel took hold of my arm and squeezed it affectionately. Linda ushered us out of the room and out of the house, apologizing profusely for the rude behavior of her father and his friend. But I cut her short, telling her she had nothing to apologize for. She hadn’t been the shallow one, the intentionally stupid and tactless one.
The truly strange and wonderful thing about the entire incident was that I wasn’t even bothered by the horrible thing those two louts said about me in front of my girlfriend.
A few months earlier, I would have been devastated by such public humiliation and probably would have locked myself in the house and beaten my drums mercilessly for weeks. But ever since I’d met Wolf, and then Ariel, my entire outlook on life had changed. I was on a quest to be a better, more enlightened person, one who was more concerned with being happy than harboring grudges. When I told Linda not to worry about what happened because it didn’t matter, I meant it—it didn’t matter at all.
Ariel and I dated on and off for a few years. She really did bring out a side of me that I thought would never come to light, and I remain thankful to her for that. When we eventually broke up, it seemed like the right and natural thing to do. There was no fighting, no rancor, and no animosity. Rather, there was a mutual understanding that we needed to move apart. We remain friends, though, and are still there for each other to this day if one needs the other.
Sadly, Wolf died just before my 22nd birthday. He was very ill and drifted in and out of consciousness near the end, but I was fortunate enough to have been by his bedside and hold his hand not long before he passed over. He was a true friend and a wonderful teacher, and I greatly miss him and our talks. But I know that he’s rejoined the Great Spirit that surrounds us all—the Spirit that he introduced me to—and that his eternal journey toward the Divine continues. Wolf turned my own spirit toward infinity, and before he left this world, I’d already taken my first steps toward fulfilling my destiny.
Chapter Ten
Living the Dream
My friend and spiritual mentor, Wolf, had opened my eyes to the wonder of an all-connected universe and inspired me to begin a journey toward enlightenment. Although I’d once thrived at SLU, the school now felt too small for me. After two years, I felt that I’d learned everything I could there, so it was time to move onward and upward.
My new path began at the doors of Loyola University in New Orleans. The school was a perfect fit for me, as it had one of the best music programs in the entire country, if not the world. In addition to its excellent music department, Loyola is also renowned for its humanity courses, and I was hungry to learn as much as I could. In the end, I decided to major in music therapy—but I also signed up for electives in philosophy, psychology, Eastern religions, and political theory.
Things got off to a rocky start, however. I was determined to play in the school’s famed varsity jazz ensemble, one of the finest college bands in America, but I was absolutely stymied by their “blind audition” process. It’s called that because while the students could watch each other audition, the judges sat behind a temporary wall and could only hear the audition pieces, supposedly unaware of who was playing.
I thought that it wasn’t going to be very hard for the judges to figure out which student was playing at any given time, since we each had our own unique style. Also, I was the only left-handed drummer in the school, which meant that I had to change the position of the drum kit before I played. I just assumed this would tip the judges off to my identity.
My performance was one of the best I’ve ever given, and I was sure that it was better than what the other students had done. I was 100 percent certain I’d made the cut, but I didn’t. Instead, I was relegated to play with the junior jazz ensemble. At the time I thought nepotism was to blame, because the son of one of the judges was among the small group auditioning for the ensemble. I realize now that it was just my ego getting in the way—and, looking back, maybe I just wasn’t as great as I thought I was!
I was furious when I received the news that I hadn’t made the ensemble, once again feeling the bitter bite of discrimination. But at least instead of moping about it or filing an official complaint, I channeled my disappointment and frustration into something creative and positive. I was determined to be gracious about being passed over, whatever the reason had been. I’d now concentrate on doing what I loved best.
So that year I played my heart out for the junior jazz ensemble and was grateful for the experience. In the meantime, I spent every night and weekend preparing for my next audition for the varsity jazz ensemble, which would come the following year. And you guessed it— I nailed it! I was even chosen as one of the two principal drummers of the ensemble and invited to perform at universities and concert halls throughout the United States.
I never would have been given this incredible opportunity had I not made the decision to stay upbeat after my failed audition attempt. I was learning to be more positive in all kinds of so-called negative situations. My mind and heart were opening up to the universe, and it was responding in kind: the more open I was, the more good things came my way.
AT LOYOLA, I MET ALL SORTS OF INCREDIBLE PEOPLE. Perhaps the most incredible of them all was Johnny Vidacovich, known to his friends and fans in the Big Easy simply as “Johnny V.”
Johnny V is, without exaggeration, one of the greatest drummers in the world. He’s played with the best musicians on the planet, such as John Scofield; Professor Longhair; John Scofield, Stanton Moore; Charlie Hunter; Willy DeVille; George Porter, Jr.; and Dr. Jogn, to name a few. He’s a permanent fixture on the New Orleans jazz scene and a living legend in the music industry. He’s also eccentric, funny, insightful, amazingly well read, and brilliant. As you can probably tell, I like Johnny immensely and consider him one of my g
reat and true friends.
Although I’d known about Johnny for years through his music, I first met him at Loyola, where he was one of my drumming instructors. But he wasn’t just an instructor. Like Wolf, he was a teacher in the truest sense of the word, teaching me as much about life (if not more) as about playing drums.
Johnny had a house in Mid-City New Orleans, and he invited me there for my first one-on-one class. Within minutes of arriving at his place, I knew I wasn’t going to be in for a standard music lesson. I don’t even think he said hello to me before asking one of those deep, soul-searching questions about life that people usually spend years sitting on a Tibetan mountaintop trying to figure out how to answer.
The first thing he said to me was: “Who are you, Dan? Tell me who Dan Caro really is.” I had no idea what he was asking, or how I should answer. I just looked at the drumsticks I was carrying and then back at him.
“Okay, let’s start there,” he continued, following my gaze. “Can those sticks speak for you? Is who you are as a person obvious by the way you play your music? What I’m asking you is this: can you tell me your life story through your drums?”
“I have no idea,” I replied, taken aback by his offbeat teaching method.
“Well, the first thing we need to find out is who ‘Dan’ is, in order for you to move beyond where you are now. You might sound like Buddy Rich or some other superfamous drummer, but your music won’t mean a thing until you can tell people who you are with those drumsticks you’re holding.”
I don’t remember if a smile crossed my face, but I was sure smiling inside. I thought, Man, studying with this guy is going to be one hell of a trip!
And what a trip it was! Johnny was keenly interested in a drummer’s individuality, along with the landscape of a musician’s “inner life.” He had no intention of teaching me technique; he was going to teach the “philosophy” of drumming rather than the mechanics of it.
One day, Johnny decided that we should play together on two drum kits that were facing each other in the center of the room. He put on a CD of one of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos and told me to play without stopping. After I reminded my teacher that Bach hadn’t written music for a jazz drum, nor had there been any drum kits kicking around Europe in the 1700s, he told me to stop thinking and just play.
As I hit the skins, Johnny began shouting out suggestions: “Play it with a rock beat, but don’t play the rock pattern! Toss in the jazz beat … now go back and make it rock! Make it new rock ’n’ roll!” Suggestion after crazy suggestion flew at me, as my sticks danced across the drumheads and cymbals so quickly that my mind couldn’t keep up with what I was doing. I was playing as hard I could, and Johnny yelled, “Don’t play on the drum skins, man, play on the rims! Play on the drum stand!”
I shifted my focus and changed the amount of force I was using and the way I used my sticks. I didn’t know what this guy wanted, but I knew I was out of my comfort zone. It was like barreling headlong down the highway in a car doing 80 miles per hour and then suddenly being told to drive in reverse and pop a wheelie at the same time. My mind was awhirl and my sticks were flying.
“Good, good, don’t think! Be in the moment!” Johnny shouted over the banging. “Play the soul of the drums, the spirit of the drums!” I was aware of him playing on the kit opposite me, but I wasn’t paying attention to much else going on around me. I was feeling my environment instinctively, somehow just picking up on what he was playing.
A moment later, without talking about it, Johnny and I had synched up perfectly. I remember one instant when we played the exact same groove, in the exact same way, at the exact same time. And at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, it was beautiful. I felt as if I were floating above my body and time was standing still.
He and I continued to play, synching up with each other and then moving away, back and forth, back and forth—as if we were speaking to each other through our instruments. I was telling him the story of who I was with my drums, and he was responding. Neither of us stopped to discuss it; we just kept going until we couldn’t play anymore.
Even though I was exhausted, I couldn’t help but mention the perfect interaction we’d created playing together. Johnny told me that we’d tapped into the constant flow of energy that eternally passes through the universe, an energy that connects us all together, which we can tap into if we just open ourselves up to the Divine.
“You see, when you let go, magic happens,” my new teacher explained.
That did it for me. My mind started to tingle, and a million questions flooded my brain. I wanted to know everything Johnny knew, and I wanted to know it right away. I started asking him question after question about what he meant. Laughing, he held up his hand and said, “Danny, you have to relax. It will come to you when it comes to you. Until you’re ready to open up, you’ll never hear the answers. And all the answers come from within anyway, not from without.”
IN TIME, JOHNNY V BECAME my biggest spiritual influence. Just as I had with Wolf, I spent hours hanging out with Johnny discussing religion, philosophy, and spirituality. We talked about how to remain in touch with our creative spirit in everyday life, as well as how to remain open to the positive energies of the universe and channel them through our music and art—as he’d showed me during our Bach experience.
We also explored concepts I was learning about in my humanities courses at Loyola, such as what the ego was and what it could do. I was learning how it affected the way I communicated with other people, with myself, and with the universe.
Up until this point, I’d never once thought that I had an ego, which I’d assumed was a three-letter word for an excess of personal pride and arrogance. Now I understood that the ego is actually a blinded sense of self that can act like a spiritual anchor by fastening any of us to petty concerns and blocking our creative force.
Ironically, Johnny and I rarely discussed drumming itself! Instead, he introduced me to new rhythms of thoughts and ideas. He also loaned me some groundbreaking and thought-provoking books—including The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield, Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder, and Be Here Now by Ram Dass— which opened my mind. And by opening my mind, they opened up my drumming, too.
Johnny V taught me to allow inspiration to flow through me and out of my drumsticks. And when I just relaxed and let go, as he told me to do, the “magic” happened. Soon I was playing better than ever and getting gigs all over New Orleans, including at some of the oldest and most famous jazz clubs in the world.
With this new confidence surging through me, I decided to branch out musically with fellow Loyola student Brandon Tarricone, who was an excellent guitarist. Brandon and I began jamming together, and our sound was so good that we recruited a few other musicians to form a band. Calling ourselves the “Brotherhood of Groove,” we had a terrific, funky sound. Soon we had more bookings than we could handle, on campuses and in clubs around New Orleans. We were all still just students and were amazed by how quickly our band took off. In fact, our success was a bit of a “problem” when it came to school because our rigorous booking schedule conflicted with our classes and assignments. But we were loving it all so much that there was no way we were going to stop.
SIX MONTHS AFTER THE BAND WAS FORMED, we booked time at the best recording studio in New Orleans, hired some top-ranked session musicians to fill out our sound, and started working on our first CD. We spent a month laying down tracks and perfecting the mix for the final recording. It was a mind-blowing experience. Not only were we in a successful band, but we were in control of our musical careers as well.
I’d sure come a long way from that 12-year-old boy who struggled to figure out a way to hold on to a drumstick. Now in my early 20s, I was a professional musician earning a living from my music. In many ways, I’d made it—I was living the dream!
The first run for our CD was more than a thousand copies, and they sold like hotcakes. Since we didn’t have an agent, Brandon and I spent our “spare”
time lining up even more gigs and marketing the sound of the Brotherhood of Groove. I handled the promotion while Brandon booked the gigs. We managed to do a pretty good job; in fact, the band grew so successful that we had to take the next big step.
For so many years as a student, my schoolwork had suffered because my heart was in my music, and that’s where I’d put my time and dedication. So it made sense to me at this point to make a choice and go all the way with it. After my second year at Loyola, I left school to play full-time.
Before I knew it, the Brotherhood of Groove was moving beyond the Big Easy and taking our show on the road. We toured all over the country, which was a fantastic experience. I got to visit cities I’d only seen in movies, and play in clubs I’d only read about in trade magazines and newspapers. But touring also taught me that living this kind of dream routinely meant going with little or no sleep, spending weeks in cramped vans with cranky musicians, eating fast food three times day, and being so homesick it hurt. Like anything, the dream had its ups and downs, but we all went with the flow.
During one tour, the band ended up in Philadelphia, where we were booked to perform in a small place called “Dr. Watson’s Pub” (also known as just “Doc Watson’s”), an old club with a 1950s feel and decor. The gig was a disaster because the owner had double-booked us with another band, and he tossed us out on our ears without paying us a penny.
Yet one great thing happened on this trip: we drove past the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Although my bandmates were exhausted, they knew what a huge fan I was of Rocky Balboa. They were good enough to pull over to the curb and told me to go for it.
The numerous steps leading up to the museum are, of course, the ones that Rocky struggles with at the beginning of his training for the big fight. Later on, lean and pumped up, he runs up those same steps and does a victory dance at the top, arms and fists held high. The guys were right—I had to do it! So while they waited in the car, I went out into the cold Philadelphia night. I ran all the way to the top of the steps, which seemed symbolic of the obstacles I’d overcome, and pumped my own arms in victory.