The Gift of Fire (17 page)
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.
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.
A
T
L
OYOLA
,
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 great 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.”
I
N TIME
,
J
OHNNY
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.
