The Beat of My Own Drum (35 page)

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.

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.

There’s no precise career formula for artists, not the way there
is for some professions. If you get through law school, you become a lawyer. If you get through medical school, you become a doctor. For artists, however, there’s no clear path, which you can view as a blessing or a curse. It can be so frustrating, because it’s natural to want to know when and how your career will play out. It would be so nice to have a guaranteed formula for success: if I can accomplish X, then I will get Y, and eventually I will be Z. And yet the very lack of an exact formula, the inherent unknown, is what makes the artist’s career so exciting. There’s a variety of options and opportunities for artists, which allows for an infinite number of ways one’s career can unfold.

The other thing I warn any wannabe stars out there is that there are millions of musicians and artists all wanting the same thing. If you’re not 100 percent committed or 100 percent passionate, I suggest you have a plan B.

I’ve always loved the quotation, credited to Mikhail Baryshnikov, who when asked what advice he would give a young dancer, reportedly said: “If you must.” His suggestion was that his was such a hard career that others should only pursue it if they have no other choice—if it is what they
must
do.

If you have a plan B or something else in mind that you know you might also enjoy or be good at, then music might not be the best career choice for you; you should probably be doing that instead.

Baryshnikov was also quoted as saying something else that resonates: “Working is living to me.” Making music is living to me as well. It not only gives me life, it
is
my life. For me, there was no other choice. There was never a plan B. There must be success stories out there about people who make it even though they lack passion, but I would discourage aspiring musicians from hanging their hats on that kind of exception.

Of course I was blessed to have a brilliant musician father who
eventually put me in his band. And having the loving support and encouragement of my mother made a huge difference. Where I was born and raised was another huge contributing factor to my becoming established in the industry, because the Bay Area music scene is so diverse and extensive. But I still needed the passion and verve to drive my musical career, despite those connections and such a supportive environment.

If you are really passionate about what you do and what you want, here’s my advice: continue to work hard at it. Practice, practice, practice. Play and perform any chance you get, with any kind of musical genre you can. While I believe playing from your heart and soul is most important, learning to read music will also help. I recently visited a school’s music department and overheard the teacher telling his students, “Practice makes progress.” I love this message. Becoming “perfect” shouldn’t be the goal. Just keep trying to do your best. Growth, in and of itself, is the real goal.

Oh, and one last word of advice, via Pete Escovedo: always be well dressed. Pops dresses clean and sharp. We tease him that he probably wears a suit to bed, or at least irons his silk pajamas before retiring for the night. He has instilled in me the belief that dressing up is a sign of respect for yourself and for those whom you’re performing with. Your appearance reflects how seriously you regard your job. Pops taught me to dress well even for a studio recording session.

I’m not saying you need to wear a tux or an evening gown in the sound booth. You can be comfortable, but do give consideration to your public appearance. It’s part of the ritual that reinforces your respect for your work and your respect for those who are paying you for it.

Being in the music industry probably has more challenges for women than for men, and for me it’s certainly been a fight. Before
I realized that the outside world had something to say about my gender, I saw myself as someone who just loved to make beats. Playing drums was simply part of everyday life. I thought it was the norm, just what all families did. I figured all little girls did what I did.

Over time, I realized something was a little different about me. Even when I was being bused to school in junior high I sat in the back and practiced drumbeats on the windows and on the back of the seat in front of me. All the kids around me would smile, clap, and tell me to keep going. They loved the James Brown funk beats the most.

“Come on! Join in!” I’d tell them, but they’d just stare at me.

“We don’t know how to do that,” they’d say.

I didn’t get how they didn’t know. All my life, the people around me had joined in. It was just what we did when we were bored or sitting at the dinner table, or . . . well . . . whenever!

Back then, the feedback wasn’t about the fact that I was a girl who knew how to drum. It was the fact that I even knew how to drum—period—that intrigued people. I didn’t really realize that there was a gender attached to playing drums until I became a professional musician. I’d walk into a studio session, rehearsal, or live show and the men would look at me as if to say, “How dare you encroach on my territory!” Or they’d be openly confused, asking, “
You
are here to play?
You’re
a percussionist?”

Thanks to the confidence instilled in me by Moms and Pops, the negative reception I got didn’t really bother me. When I heard things like “You’re not going to last in this business” or “You were only hired because you’re cute” or “If you sleep with me, I’ll get you a record contract,” I tried to brush it off.

Pops always told me, “They might be threatened by you. Just shake it off and don’t let them bring you down.” For the most part, I was able to dismiss their negativity and not take it personally.
I felt like I had some kind of invisible armor on. My love for drumming and percussion was my greatest protector: nobody and nothing could get to me.
You can’t hurt me with your comments or your eye rolling
, I thought
. I love playing and I’m here because I can play.

This profound love for playing kept me focused and strong, and my increasing professional experience gave me more and more belief in myself. Eventually, the fact that I was being hired by people like George Duke, Marvin Gaye, Herbie Hancock, and Billy Cobham added to my confidence. My armor was getting thicker. If they wanted to make a big deal about the fact that I was a woman, then that was their prerogative.

At first I did feel the pressure to prove that I was hired for the right reasons, but eventually my need to prove myself lessened. I wasn’t competing with men—I was competing with myself. I fought to do my best rather than fighting to be seen as good enough to hang with the guys. It was the love of the music that kept me fighting. And it still does.