The Beat of My Own Drum Read Free Page A

frying, stirring—sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
    The memory of living in that first home behind my grandparents is imprinted like a black-and-white photograph in my mind. It was calm, simple, and quiet. That was where I first came to know the beauty of silence and of being still.
    The quiet part stands out the most, because after that I can hardly remember any moments of peace in my childhood.
    I was a year old when my brother Juan was born in 1959; then Peter Michael came along two years later in 1961. My sister, Zina, followed in 1967, ten years after me. From the day I stopped being an only child, the soundtrack of my childhood was a cacophony of crying babies and screaming toddlers underscored by the rhythms, beats, and melodies of my father’s world.
    My memories are, for the most part, pretty loud.
    Life could not have been easy for my parents and their growing family, especially when a regular income was so hard to come by. Pops tried to get recording work in studios when he wasn’t at a gig, but he occasionally had to break the musicians’ rule and take a regular job. He worked in a gas station, a clothing store, at Kinney shoes, and the Del Monte cannery—all of which nearly broke his spirit.
    My mother found shift work in supermarkets and factories. For a long time she worked in the Carnation ice cream factory, from which she brought us home Popsicles as a treat. If Mama couldn’t watch me, then she and Pops would split the child care between them. They couldn’t afford babysitters, so they’d also enlist one of our cousins. If there was no other option, then Pops would take me along to rehearsals, jam sessions, and even his gigs. Sometimeshe’d play two in one night and have to dash across town on a bus carrying his timbales, cowbells, and me.
    I can only imagine how hard it was to waltz into a nightclub holding a baby and hoping to get away with it. Back then, Pops was still building a name for himself and didn’t have the kind of reputation he has now. Sometimes club owners gave him a hard time, since babies didn’t exactly fit their scene. He made it clear, though: “If you want me to play tonight, then my daughter stays.”
    So while Pops played, I’d be up onstage in a stroller, asleep behind the bar, or tucked into a leatherette booth. Dark, smoky music venues became my second home. Long before I could walk or talk (let alone slap a conga), I knew melodies, rhythms, and arrangements, because my father’s music was the very oxygen I breathed.
    At home, percussion was everywhere too. It was part of the furniture. Sometimes it was the furniture. With little of our own, we’d use a drum as a TV tray or footrest. And sometimes furniture became percussion—tables, chairs, pots, and pans have surprisingly good tone.
    There was plenty of real music, too, as Pops played congas, bongos, and timbales as part of his daily routine. He’d wake up, light his pipe, head to the front room, and put on one of his favorite records. Then he’d practice for hours on end, alone or with band members, anything to keep his chops—technical efficiency—up. Being a drummer requires whole body strength, and most drum and percussion players practice every day to maintain their fitness levels and keep on top of their chops. Our home was constantly filled with musicians: old friends, new friends, strangers, and relatives. That was the norm. The Escovedo pad was the place to be. Sometimes they were rehearsing for a show, and sometimes they just came to hang and jam. They were usually led by Pops, who played the music he was most influenced by—a heady mix of salsa, mambo, Latin jazz, Afro-Cuban, and jazz.
    For relaxation, he’d put on an old favorite like Frank Sinatra or Nat King Cole and sing along. (Later in life, he was proud to be known as the “Mexican Frank Sinatra.”)
    I didn’t care what the music was; I loved hearing anything with notes, although I especially tuned in whenever Pops was playing. When I was