Rituals and Ceremonies

Most creative activities in my life are accompanied by some sort of ritual or ceremony. This isn’t always because I’m interested in matters of the spirit. Rituals help me to focus on the task at hand and achieve it with minimal fuss. I’ve been told that ritual is a feature of behaviours on the Autistic Spectrum. But I’m not entirely convinced that psychologists would agree with my definition of ritual.
For example- It takes me between two and three months to build one of my meditation drums and every step of the way I have to perform little ceremonies as part of the process. I start a batch of drums by gathering the various components- the essential ingredients for the magical transformation. First I find cow and calf skin that still has hair on the outer skin.
The skin is one of a trio of main parts that makes up the finished instrument. The skin is the vocal chords of the drum’s spirit. It is the organ which produces the drum’s voice. And the nature of the drum’s voice is very important. I make my drums for calling in spirits so the voice must be deep, reassuring, mellow, and repetitive tones that make the very air vibrate.
There’s no sense in trying to drum up spirits if you’re drum has a tone that’s too high pitched, too dull, too rattling or too weak. A slack drum-skin is almost always the cause of these problems. As it’s impossible to keep a drum-skin taut throughout the life of the instrument, I found it’s best to retighten the skin every two to three months for the first year. I recommend this whether the skin needs it or not. After that the tightening should be done about once a year.
I lay the skins aside when I first receive them while I’m gathering shaved goat-skin parchment. I use this skin for the resonating surface of the drum. In other words the smooth side is rarely, if ever, struck with a mallet. It’s there to vibrate from force of the other skin being struck. The size, thickness and overall quality of the goatskin determines what diameter and depth of drum I can make without compromising a good solid voice.
The skins have a special place they reside in the shed while they’re waiting to be transformed. I speak to them whenever I pass them by and at least once a week I’ll visit the skins to thank them for allowing me to work with them. I explain what a drum is. I show them the best drum I’ve ever made. I play it for them so they know what to expect.
Once I have the skins I start looking for drum shells. My favourites are shipping containers made from industrial cardboard. They come in a variety of sizes and they’re very strong. I tune my drum shells to D harmonic.
In other words I painstakingly tap each shell with a drumstick to hear what note it makes. Then I’ll shave away cardboard until the shell sounds a D below middle C. This can take a long while. Sometimes it takes days to get right. But I have perfect pitch so I suppose it’s not such a daunting task for me.
The tuning of the shell helps produce the deep resonant hum that builds up after a few minutes of playing and for which my drums are famous. I don’t know many instrument makers who bother these days with all that tuning but in the nineteenth century it was the mark of a master-craftsman and common practice.
When I’m happy with the tuning the cardboard has to be treated with a special lacquer made from shellac. Shellac is the accumulated secretions of a south-east Asian bug. It was used extensively in earlier times for French Polishing. I have a recipe that soaks the first five or six layers of shellac into the cardboard which stabilises it. Then I apply another series of layers of shellac until the cardboard is as solid and strong as wood.
Cardboard is made up mostly of woodchips so the transition back to wood isn’t too difficult. With every layer of shellac I explain to the drum shell that it will be made into a drum. I detail the whole process. The drum shells are tuned and retuned throughout this part f the process. When I’m happy with the strength and note of the shell I introduce the drum-shells to the drum-skins and leave them alone in the shed between coats of shellac.
Ropes are the third main item on my list. Goods rope are very, very difficult to find and almost always expensive no matter where you source them. Cotton ropes are all I can get hold of at the moment. I’m sorry about that because I’d much rather have hemp ropes. Hemp doesn’t stretch like cotton and it doesn’t need the intensive irrigation, fertiliser and pesticide protection that cotton demands. But hemp rope is simply too rare these days and too expensive. I won’t even consider synthetic ropes as they are always toxic by-products of the petrochemical industry.
I keep the ropes apart from the skins and shells until the hours before the drum-skin are stretched over the shells. When the application of shellac is all finished I mark out the circle of the drum-head leaving enough room around the edge for a reinforcing stitch along the edge.
Then I prepare to cut my skins using a special knife. I always use this same knife and I always speak to the skin as I’m performing the task. I also sing a very personal song in which I explain to the skin that it is being separated into several skins to make several drums. The cutting of the skin is not only a crucial moment in the creation of a drum, it’s also the most dramatic moment. One mistake; one momentary lapse in concentration, one slip of the razor-sharp blade will leave a skin ruined and useless.
When the skins have been cut I burn sage and lavender smoke to bless them. I don’t know why I do this. It just seems right. I offer my thanks to the skins and I wish them an untroubled transition. Then they’re soaked in water and certain essential oils overnight.
Next day I stitch the edges of all the goat-skins as these often tear under stress from the ropes and need to be reinforced. Each skin takes about an hour to stitch. During that process I may watch a documentary on television but I’m always talking to the skin to reassure it all is well. I burn incense to sweeten the air. Let me tell you- a waterlogged calf-skin at this stage of the process is a bit on the nose.
Once the skins have been stitched holes have to be punched in them to take the drum ropes. This is another task that must be performed with precision or the results will be disastrous. I talk the skins through this process and judge every hole-punch by eye. I rarely make a mistake here unless I’m interrupted.
The skins are then returned to the water to soak overnight again. In the morning I place the skins on either end of the shell and introduce the ropes to the other two parts. Once I’ve told them what to expect I can begin the process of threading the ropes through the punched holes. This can take anything up to an hour to get right. I can’t be interrupted during this process. If I am I must unthread the drum and start again. I don’t tighten the skins too much at this point because they can so easily rip when they’re wet.
I’ll set the whole drum aside and let it settle in for a day. I always explain what is happening to the component parts and then I play my best drum for the new instrument. When the skins are nearly dry I’ll begin tightening them and tuning. This doesn’t usually take more than a few minutes. When the tuning is right I’ll burn more incense; usually lavender, and blow the smoke over the drum.
I wait until night and play the drum for the first time in utter darkness. This helps me focus my senses on the vibrations, aroma, sound and texture of the drum. I may spend a week playing each drum; finding the nuances of the harmonics and testing each one out to it’s limit of volume and intensity.
I don’t build my drums with dance performance in mind. They’re for meditation. I personally meditate with each drum and call in the spirits if I have time or find a special relationship developing with the drum.
The mallets are made individually for each instrument and there’s a whole process involved in getting each mallet right. I won’t go into that now. Enough to say the making of the mallets is as steeped in ritual as the drum-making.
Usually I make a batch of five or six drums and they’re sold almost immediately. There’s always someone waiting to get their hands on one of these instruments. Helen makes sure they don’t sit around for too long. We have a regular stall at Mind, Body, Spirit Festival in Sydney where I usually sell out of my current stock.
I don’t make my drums for the money. That’s got nothing to do with it for me. We only sell them very reluctantly and if we didn’t the house would be overrun with them. I make my drums because I love creating things of beauty that bring joy to people. I love the spiritual aspects of drum-making. Like writing- drum-making has become a spiritual practice for me.
And like most subjects I become obsessed with- one day I’ll stop making drums and never make another one. All it will take is the loss of one of my ritual tools. I may burn out my interest in drums. My favourite skin-knife or hole punch may go astray and I’ll give up drums for good.
There’s a lot of work in a drum but I can’t put a high price on them. I prefer to keep them within the budget of most people. I know I’m working for a small return in monetary terms but I will not compromise my craftsmanship. It’s worth it to see someone walking away with one of my drums. They’re always smiling. And I love the thought that most of my drums are used to facilitate sound healings and spiritual quests.