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Tad Britton: The Coolest Thing in the World

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In a recurring nightmare Dracula climbs a tree adjacent to Tad's bedroom window. Each moment in the dead of night brings the vampire closer until the boy, seized with terror, jumps out of bed, clutches his drumsticks, runs to the window and hurls his two wooden stakes at the Prince of Darkness.

Tad Britton's drumsticks saved him from Dracula, the Werewolf and the Mummy. They also succeeded in warding off the evils of growing up in Sturgis, South Dakota (pop. 5,000) in the early '60's. His drumsticks rescued him from the suffocating small town conformity that demanded he join the jocks or the nerds or suffer the consequences. Tad did neither. His drums became his identity; they sparked his confidence and gave him an all-access pass to school dances, country jamborees, and later, the roadhouses and honkytonks that littered western South Dakota's backwater towns—places like Sturgis, Deadwood, Spearfish, Rapid City. In the '80's Tad's drumsticks were his ticket to Oklahoma City and then to Seattle, where he's lived for the last 15 years. "I really like drums. I like collecting drums, talking about drums, playing drums, Britton admits while retracing his past for this interview in the basement of his north Seattle home. Drumsticks in hand, voice full of energy, eyes wild with excitement—one gets a sense of the 10-year-old boy peeking out his bedroom window.

"Before I got my set of drums, Britton says, "I think I was playing with butter knives on every surface in the house. So my parents finally figured out, well, maybe if we give him something to focus doing that on it would be better than having everything in the house chipped and nicked, so I got a practice pad kit at first, and then I had to join the concert band—we didn't have a jazz ensemble at that time—and learn basic things, snare drum basics. I kept after it and inevitably Christmas or birthdays would roll around and somebody would say, 'What do you want for your birthday?' or 'What do you want for Christmas?' and it always was the same answer. Inevitably I got the big surprise one Christmas [a set of blue sparkle Tempro drums] and, one way or the other, I've had a set of drums ever since then. I really liked them. It was a good paring. I don't know what I would have ended up beating on if I wasn't drumming. I'd probably be in jail or something.

Before receiving those blue sparkle drums, however, the center of Tad's musical universe was his older brother Mike's new stereo. In the Britton home and all across the country young people were identifying with music. Woodstock was happening. Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin records spun at all hours. Music represented the kids, united them, and drew Tad to the doorstep of the only boy in Sturgis with his own drum set: Darrel Story.

"Darrel was my first and biggest influence on the drums, Britton explains. "He was part of a band in town, the Darrel Story Band. He was a year older than me, graduated in 1977, and his whole family was like the Partridge Family. His dad played bass. His mom played percussion. He had three brothers: Chip played piano; Dave played organ; Dana played guitar; and they hired this girl, Anne Townsend, to be the singer. Anyway, they rehearsed the band over at the Story's house, and the drums were there. It was a beautiful set, a 1969 Ludwig Ruby Strata finish, beautiful sounding drums. Darrel and I were friends and he let me play those drums—and this was previous to me getting my own set; I must have been eight or nine years old—and you couldn't get rid of me. They couldn't get me off their doorstep and I think that's part of the reason I got a set of drums, because his parents made a little phone call to my parents, 'Hey, your kid is at our house again. He's driving us crazy.'

"That was the coolest thing in the world, continues Britton, "playing those drums. Darrel's band would play at high school functions or Sadie Hawkins dances or whatever it happened to be in Sturgis at the time. They had a couple blue lights maybe, a little strobe light, no sound man or lighting person. When it came time for the drum solo, the singer would go over and switch on the strobe light. Darrel would play "Wipe Out and the strobe light would go on and I thought that was the coolest thing.

Memory floods, makes the words come fast, in bursts like tom-tom fills. Around 14 Tad was hired for his first paying gig. A kid in high school named Dan Chapman asked him to play. Dan played bass and his dad, Coke Chapman, played guitar and sang country western. Coke was a farmer, a crop duster. He led a group with his son Dan and his daughter Donna: Coke Chapman and the Countrymen.

"Danny caught wind that I was playing drums okay by that time, Britton says, "I'd gotten a couple pretty straight beats together—and so I joined the band. I was playing my blue sparkle drums and we played at a thing called The Country Jamboree in Rapid City. I remember there were all kinds of bands, and guys named Dell and Farron, you know, real country cats who showed up in matching blue suits with embroidered collars. Man, it was a real scene for the country people, and I was there with Coke. I was one of the Countrymen. That was my first promo photo. They broadcast it on the radio and I got paid 50 bucks—not too bad for somebody who didn't have to pay rent or bills or food.

Soon Danny and Tad had started their own band. They were playing music, having fun, getting noticed by girls and earning a few bucks in the bargain. Life as a musician was looking up, that is until Tad crossed paths with Single Jim. Short, strong, mean and covered in tattoos, Single Jim was a likely ex-con and the spitting image of Charlie Manson. He was also a musician who sang country tunes. He had a country act. A parrot perched on his shoulder and at his feet sprawled Shepp the Wonder Dog, who sat up and shook hands on cue.

Something ain't right when a guy who calls himself Single Jim wants you to join his band. Yet, as cruel fate would have it, Tad and Danny agreed to back him at the Anchor Lounge in Rapid City. Crowded together on the bandstand, they got through the first few of songs without a hitch. Then Single Jim called "Spanish Eyes, probably the only non-country song in his repertoire. As far as Tad knew, all songs were country songs to be played the same way: boom-chick-boom-chick. A train wreck ensued, although it's unlikely that any of the barflies in the near-empty lounge noticed or cared. Single Jim called for a short break. A few minutes later, outside in the parking lot, Danny broke the bad news. Tad was fired. It was a first and it stung. "And, oh, by the way, can we use your drums so Single Jim could finish the gig? Danny asked. For some unknown reason, perhaps to save face, Tad agreed. Turns out the new drummer was a smoker and not very bright. He used Tad's floor tom for an ashtray, leaving a burn mark on the brand new drum head.

It takes around 20 minutes to drive from Sturgis to Black Hills State College in Spearfish, a trip Tad made often after graduating from high school. He joined a few bands made up of new college friends and a few older cats, holdovers from the Big Band era. They did mostly R&B and Yellowjackets-type stuff, working clubs in the area, like Durty Nelly's (located in the basement of the Franklin Hotel in Deadwood, S.D.) and, right up the street, at the Dakota Territories.

"The place [Dakota Territories] had chicken wire around the stage, Britton explains, "and there was a fight every Friday night or Saturday night or both, guaranteed. Sawdust covered the floors. My early gigs toughened me up just because they were the only ones around. I wanted to play.

And, just as desperately, Tad wanted to listen to what was happening. He became a regular at campus dorm room listening parties, tuning into records like Weather Report's Heavy Weather, George Benson's Breezin', Billy Cobham's Spectrum and Nat Adderley's The Lovers. The latter LP especially, with Jack DeJohnette on drums, helped bridge the gap to jazz.

"A lot of the stuff back then I couldn't understand, so I'd reject it, says Britton. "I'd hate it. I just wouldn't allow it to seep in. And then, later on, because of the fact that I initially started out hating it, I'd end up going back and asking 'Why did I hate it?' It's like for some reason when you were a little kid and you'd meet somebody and you'd wrestle and get them in a headlock because you hated each other. But, after you fight, you'd like each other and be best friends. That's kind of how some of those tunes were.

In 1983, tired of being a big fish in a mud puddle that was the South Dakota music scene, Tad packed his drums, clothes and cat into his VW Rabbit and drove to Oklahoma City. His brother Mike had found work there, and Tad did too, playing Wednesday nights at a club called Bianca's. Located on the third floor of a shopping mall downtown, Bianca's was run by the Gigliotti brothers—Charlie, Frank and Bernie—originally from New Jersey. The musician in the family, Charlie played piano. Players stopped in as they came through town. Some real heavies played at Bianca's—Dexter Gordon, Charlie Rouse, Betty Carter, Peter Erskine with Steps Ahead. For Tad it must have been like Birdland—an opportunity to learn from serious jazz musicians, including a lanky, soft-spoken bassist from New York by way of Minneapolis.

"One night here comes this guy walking in with an electric bass strapped on his back, Britton explains, "and it's Jeff Johnson. He'd been there a couple of years before I arrived so he knew the scene at Bianca's. He knew the people and he came in and sat in on a couple tunes and we just seemed to click right off. Jeff had gone through some major transitions at about that time, so he was looking for a fresh start, and I was this new guy, and Jeff was looking for some new people to work with. It was new for me; it was new for him; and that was a big part of hitting it off. We were both hungry to try something new.

Tired of the hyper-aggressive east coast scene, Jeff found refuge in Oklahoma City. It was a town off the big city radar, a place to hide out and work out ideas that had been rattling around in his mind's ear for a while. Tad was hearing similar things, and when they weren't on the bandstand at Bianca's, Tad and Jeff got together to listen to records and experiment with electric instruments, drum machines, synthesizers. They made some recordings, still unreleased. However, their recent disc titled Near Earth (on Origin Records, with Hans Teuber on sax) comes close to capturing the spirit of those early duo sessions.

Oklahoma City in the '80's was one strange place. With Reagan in the White House, the Bible belt was tighter than ever. On a lark some of Tad's friends in town founded the Church of the Sub Genius. Bob Dobbs, the image of a happy pipe smoking American consumer, was their savior. Tad got into the act and joined the church band, The Swinging Love Corpses. Every band member had a church name. There was Elvis Hemingway, Reverend Angry Larry, Inhibiting Factor and Pope Cecil X. Nixxon (who reportedly holds the record for being fired more times and by more people than any other Corpse in history). Tad was dubbed Mr. Him.

Enter 1990, a year of change. Tad's seven-year gig ended when the Gigliotti brothers sold their interest in Bianca's. Many of his musician friends moved to Texas. His girlfriend split and Tad was left to contemplate his next move.

"I didn't know what to do, Britton explains. "I didn't know where to go, or if I should go back to South Dakota or what, and then just by chance I was talking to Jeff on the phone—we kept in touch—and he said 'You ought to come out to Seattle. It's pretty cool out here. There might not be anything out here, but you know there's nothing there [in Oklahoma City].'

Jim Horrigan was a true jazz patron. When Tad arrived on the scene in the early '90's, Horrigan was willing to lose money to pay a jazz band to play at his Tacoma club, Prosito's. Sometimes they played for nobody—there would be no one in the club. But Jim would feed the band, take care of the musicians. Another true jazz patron is pianist Jon Alberts. Tad first met Jon at a gig in downtown Seattle. Later, when Alberts opened up a Thai restaurant in Fremont, he hired Tad to play, along with Jeff Johnson and Hans Teuber. The Noodle House gig ran weekly for six years, closed down for a minute, and started up again at the Fu Kun Wu lounge (5410 Ballard Avenue) where the band plays every Wednesday from 9 to 11p.m.

"Jon knows that having a jazz band playing each week may end up meaning less profit in some instances, says Britton, "but he also is a musician and loves to play music and he is able to have his cake, or possibly Phad Thai, and eat it too. So as a result, we all benefit and are enriched in some way. The formula has worked well so far.

Alberts' current venture is actually two big rooms—Thaiku, the restaurant, and Fu Kun Wu, the lounge. Decorated with pillbox cupboards, mysterious medicinal containers, bamboo birdcages and other remnants of an actual Thai apothecary, the Fu Kun Wu is straight out of an old school James Bond movie. A Buddha statue sits atop the grand piano next to the tip jar. A smoking room abuts the lounge, visible through a giant glass porthole. Tad's drums are tucked into the armpit of the piano. (His current pride and joy is a vintage '67 Ludwig Bebop Downbeat set with a red sparkle finish. The 18-inch bass drum is only 12 inches deep—supposedly Roy Haynes requested the reduced size—making room enough to fit the set in the back of a cab.) Jeff's bass kisses the high-hat and the high keys on the piano. Sometimes Hans shows, reuniting the original Noodle House quartet. Players stop by and sit in on occasion. When Jon needs a piano sub there's Dawn Clement, Ryan Burns or Marc Seales. If Jeff is busy you might hear Doug Miller, Michael Barnett or Jan Hamer. Tad's the constant, like the Buddha on the piano.

Britton's recording credits include the aforementioned Near Earth session with Johnson and Teuber, and a Brazilian date with guitarist Marco De Carvalho titled For the Moment (OA2 Records). Of course, his listening parties continue. Lately, he's hooked on a recording by [pianist] Marcin Wasilewski, [bassist] Slawomir Kurkiewicz and [drummer] Michal Miskiewicz' Polish piano trio, Thomas Stanko's current rhythm section. Trio (ECM, 2005) is the title. After our interview Tad plays a few tracks, noting with fascination the patience of the players, their willingness to leave vast amounts of space, how hard they listen.

In Seattle he's found a home with his wife Deanna, their cat Java ("or whatever the moment dictates! ) and a basement full of drums. But contentment hasn't come easily. He's paid his dues, acquiring along the way a sense of fraternity among veteran musicians. It's a feeling of mutual recognition, whether you're Jack DeJohnette in Paris, some cat hiding out in Oklahoma City, or the guy squinting through chicken wire in Deadwood, South Dakota.

"Recognition, explains Britton, "that regardless of what city you live in or what gig you've got or how famous you are, we're all in love with playing music. We're all doing it for that same basic reason. We've all had to struggle and endure some crazy shit to still be playing, especially jazz, for this long.


Selected Discography

Jeff Johnson, Near Earth (Origin, 2004)
Mark Quint, The Principle of Uncertainty (OA2, 2004)
Marco de Carvalho, For the Moment (OA2, 2003)
Sara Riviera, Tangerine Blue (Independent, 2001)

Photo Credit: Jason West

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