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Interviews
Andrew Drury: The Cool Thing About Improvisation
“ Getting deep into improvisation has made me relax. Im more open to everything going on in the room and how I fit into that sonically. ”
A few months ago I went back to Suquamish Elementary. Located on the Port Madison Indian Reservation, I hadn't been back since I was a student there 30-plus years ago. Nixon was president then. His black and white portrait photo greeted students at the main entrance. I'd look up at his face and zero in on that Pinocchio nose. Some kid had thrown a glob of putty smack in the center of the photo, on the tip of Tricky Dick's schnoz. It stayed there for years. No one ever bothered to lance it off. Otherwise, my old elementary school, a one-story corridor of classrooms with a gym attached, looked the same, only smaller.
They had added some portable rooms on the blacktop where we used to play four-square and tetherball. As I walked toward one of the portables I could hear yelling and screaming and laughter above what sounded like a hailstorm. Then a bell rang, the pounding stopped and a stream of kids rushed out the door, followed by a guy with long, curly red hair.
"Andy, good to see you.
"Hey man, it's been a while.
Andrew Drury and I went to high school together. He was a year ahead of me. We weren't close friends or anything, but we'd both played drums. He could really play, where I just messed around. Andy's best friend at Bainbridge High was another hot drummer, Mike Sarin. Who knew then that Andy and Mike would move to New York to pursue careers playing jazz and free improvisation?
When class starts up again there are about 35 nine and ten year olds seated in a circle—a green plastic five-gallon bucket wedged between each pair of feet—palpable anticipation on their faces. Andy passes out pairs of sticks and soon the volume in the room resembles a jet engine before take off.
"Please don't hit anyone with your drumsticks, he cautions. "Watch me and do what I do!
Seated in the middle of the circle, he executes a quick single-stroke roll. The kids pound on their buckets. He stops. They stop. He plays the carpet, the chair, the inside of his bucket, the handle. The kids echo him, half a second behind. He beats out a three-stroke rhythm, then four strokes, five, developing patterns, adding rests. The kids follow as best they can. Then he picks a student to lead the group, then another, and another, out of a sea of waving hands. What to play? Play anything! A few get stuck, freeze up. A few come up with original ideas. All are ecstatic with the noise, freedom and energy of drumming. Andy ends the workshop with a solo. He chooses four buckets and begins to play fast, alternating speeds, rhythms, dynamics. Children watch with open mouths as if they can't believe their ears.
"Man, those kids were really getting into it, I confess after the final bell sounds.
"How did you get the idea to do that?
"I kind of fell into it. I graduated from college without any marketable skills. I didn't know what to do, so I looked in this Connecticut State Arts Commission book that had a list of 25 non-profits and I phoned up everyone of them and said 'This is what I do. What do you do? Give me a call.' Of course nobody called, except for one. They needed a music teacher at their summer camp for blind kids in Bridgeport, who could also drive a bus. I had no interest in kids, or teaching. I was much too up in the clouds. I had greater ambitions. Kids, forget it, you know. I was a terrible teacher at first, just because I didn't know what to do. I rehearsed with the kids and made a band. They didn't care how long we rehearsed—these kids were really eating it up—so we'd rehearse for four hours, and I'd get paid.
Outside, we circle round the playground to the parking lot. There at the bottom of a hill I ran full speed, caught grasshoppers in milk cartons, hung upside down on the monkey bars. The bars are still there. Gone are the see-saws.
"How about we take my car, I suggest, walking over to the driver's side. "You talk and I'll drive.
"Sounds good, he says with a nod.
I start the engine and pull out onto Park Ave. Then a left on Geneva Street under a canopy of fir tree branches.
"For a couple of years I was pretty bad in the classroom, Andy continues. "But after I got back from my travels and moved to Seattle, I started to figure out how a couple things could work. I really tried to be true to what I think is valuable as an artist, subverting the institution of the school with that artistic approach. I think I started to find a place for myself, where I was giving something that kids weren't getting elsewhere. I had this repertoire of exercises and stuff and I think teachers saw that it was cool.
