The Miracle of Drum Birth
Barring some Junior-type situation, I am unlikely to experience the pain and joy of childbirth. Drum birthing, on the other hand, I can now explain with some familiarity.
The goat skull cannot be recalled. Photo courtesy of Melonie Syrett
From my bunker on England's east coast, I battled through drizzle towards a postwar new town and current shitpile, Harlow, immortalized by both Genesis and 'The Only Way Is Essex'. There, in a prefab building in the car park of a dreary provincial sports centre, is Melonie: the Drum Woman. Blue-haired, colorful, and bursting with enthusiasm, she let me in before rotating on the spot, rhythmically drumming in order to find a sense of the space, perhaps asking something of the earth. I hoped she received it.
We first met during my visit to North London's legendary Electrowerkz. On a Sunday when rubber-masked revelers weren't present to torture and/or fuck each other in cages (this happens fairly regularly), they held a Christmas market. Albeit one offering the good word of Satan; punk records; tattoos; Toxic Avenger trading cards; human bones - but a Christmas market nonetheless. Among 150 stalls, one was selling drums - beautifully decorated, handcrafted, shamanic drums, wrapped in stunning, sometimes painted, animal hides. Left of the stall, on Melonie's right, a chalkboard advertised a "drum-birthing" workshop with limited availability.
Reader, I had to.
The stag meets the birch. Photo courtesy of Melonie Syrett
Perhaps, with three months between meetings, I'd constructed a more grandiose vision than reality would bestow - emails requesting offerings for the altar, crystals, and "drum journeys"… I did not necessarily expect to find myself in the kind of building usually inhabited by highway maintenance crews. I was also caught off-guard when, instead of the group of goths, Satanists, freaks, punks, and other miscreants I expected from the market, four middle-aged women with varying interests in spirituality joined instead, along with a young, literally tree-hugging, hippy.
Presuppositions needed adjusting. However, as the man who sold me a crystal the day before suggested, clearly sensing a rationalist in his custom, "go with an open mind." Of course, finding myself in a shop selling crystals rather than records or books, my mind was already en route. That Saturday, not only would the building be far more comfortable than my past experiences in these "demountables" would ever suggest, it would be filled with warmth and an impeccable selection of gongs. The women, while far from being fellow weirdos, would each bring experience, stories, humor, trauma, and beauty to one of the most profound and rewarding experiences of my life. Heroines, the bloody lot.
My crystal was named Que Sera Sera. £3.
A rug lay central, topped with burning sage, surrounded by wooden hoops. Upon this humble altar, offerings of crystals and gemstones were placed. I laid down a house brick that will, one day, hold my ashes, forming part of a pyramid. (Remind me to tell you this story another time.) As a metaphor for the spiritual spaces from which we had ventured, this felt a bit on the nose. I also placed a stick, collected at Christmas from Thailand's Phraya Nakhon Cave, soon to become my drum beater.
We sat in a circle, eyes closed. Buds blossomed vibrant flowers across our bodies. My physical body slumped. Roots sprouted, taking hold in the earth, passing through soil, rocks, and lava, ultimately resting upon a circle of white stones. In this meditation, we became grounded to the earth. We were safe. Somebody left to run through the rain to use the sports centre's toilet.
The stitching of skin. Photo courtesy of Melonie Syrett
"Whatever will be will be."
From here, everything became heightened. My rational mind became redundant, irrelevant. Though the day blurred incomprehensibly, recollections linger. The 16-inch ring of birch begging for my attention, screaming my name, demanding to be cradled, absorbed by my torso like James Woods absorbs videotapes. That's one. So was being quietly asked by the spirit of a Highland stag for the chance at immortality, as my fingertips ran over its lightly tanned hide - textured, scarred, perfect as both membrane and binding for this drum. My knuckles hold memories of blisters forming as my hands reshaped the stag; forearms recall the strength and delicacy of pulling taut as my drum took shape.
"My drum?" Not nearly ethereal nor profound enough. I was creating an extension of myself. I don't have kids and probably never will. Five years working in childcare, and three living next to the incessantly screaming 10-year-old spawn of Beelzebub, convinced me otherwise. But now, when parents expound the joys of childbirth and pride in their offspring, finally, I understand. Naturally, when they begin whinging about teething and catchment areas, I will resume my blissful, ignorant indifference.
I remember reaching the end of the hide, having cut it to a thread, wrapping it around the frame to form handles, Que Sera Sera bound at its center. After a small procedure, Melonie invited me to grasp a pair of pliers. With a tight grip, and a firm tug, the thread tucked itself beneath the handle, and the loose end was cut.
Reader, I became the proud mother of a beautiful baby drum.
(Actually, I had to do the pliers thing twice because I bollocksed up, and the thread slipped out. Even in a heightened spiritual state, I remained enough of a clumsy halfwit to necessitate giving birth twice. At least I got my money's worth.)
The moment of birth. Photo courtesy of Melonie Syrett
My Thai stick, combined with alpaca wool and twine, became my beater. But, like a mother distraught knowing their baby must rest in an incubator, my drum could not be struck for five days, lest the still damp hide become deformed. Instead, we laid drums upon chests to embark upon a "drum journey." (Anticipating outdoor walking, I brought a kagool. Alas, my rational, nay, autistic mind cannot allow total immersion or stop me looking the complete prat.) Following meditation and instruction, Melonie commenced drumming. Over twenty minutes, having allowed my mind to cross a long bridge over to fresh, green pastures, I undertook a quest to meet… my drum spirit.
Honestly, this first column will likely disappoint the publishers of In Spite. They probably wanted a concert or album review or something. They'll get one, eventually. Thing is, they are not currently in a position to pay me sufficiently to fully divulge this journey's bounteous epiphanies. However, if you, dear reader, are ever kind enough to pour some cocktails down my throat, perhaps then, I shall spill. For free, though, know this - one fellow mother held court with a crow.
New parents often describe their newborn's cooing as the most beautiful, perfect sound they could ever hear. A week post-Harlow, roots withdrawn from the earth, flowers returned to bud, drum in one hand, beater in the other, I finally banged my drum. At that moment, I knew exactly how those parents felt.
Unlike those parents, though, I'll never have to worry about my drum shitting itself.
10/10. Would recommend.
The cradle of Que Sera Sera. Photo courtesy of Melonie Syrett
The mother and child. Photo courtesy of Melonie Syrett
