Zoot, Buddy Rich and the Connecticut Woodlands

Now that it’s spring, again, for the third time in 18 months, last week I spent some time reclining in a lounge chair on the patio of my parents’ house, looking out at the mountains and basking in some glorious sunshine and warm weather. Some moments like those lead to deep thinking, contemplation of life and the universe, etc. Yesterday I considered The Muppet Show. Bear with me and I’ll explain.

I think it’s safe to assume that any American in my demographic group learned a lot about the cultural icons of our country and the world from The Muppet Show. [Sidebar: Anyone is free to consider how many people comprise my demographic group. It consists of 30-something, liberal, Jewish, occasional attorneys and full-time, year-round ski professionals with New England liberal arts educations. We’re having a meeting next week.] Beverly Sills, Dizzy Gillespie, Isaac Stern, Elton John, and an incredibly long list of similar luminaries from the performing arts cavorted with Miss Piggy, jammed with Zoot, and caught abuse from Stadler and Waldorf in the balcony seats. It’s really pretty amazing when you think about it. Anyway, yesterday, of all people, I was remembering the great jazz drummer Buddy Rich and his appearance with the Muppets, playing alongside that other great jazz drummer, Animal (pronounced “Ahh-neee-malll”).

Having grown up in a house flooded with classic mid-20th century jazz run by two parents who were very serious about it, Buddy Rich did not really make the short-list of artists our family would trek to New York City to see and hear. Keith Jarret, Sonny Rollins, yes. Buddy Rich, no. I distinctly remember seeing Rich on The Muppet Show and wondering why that was. Why did this incredible showman, this dazzling talent, not rate? I was probably 8 years old at the time, and the performance that transfixed me, that left such an indelible mark on my childhood mind, was his ‘playing the theatre’ act. The band would start up on stage (or in the pit of the Muppet Theatre) with an empty drum set in the middle of the stage. Out struts Buddy Rich, holding two garden variety drumsticks, and hammering out complex rhythms by playing everything in sight except the drums. The stage, the walls, the lights, the Muppets themselves, everything was fair game. It was awesome, and he did it all with a huge grin on his face, obviously having a ball.

What I remember best about the sounds that Rich rendered from the Muppet Theatre itself was the way each surface that met with his sticks seemed to sound as though it had been meant to be played. They all sounded quite different from each other, but in his hands they literally made for sweet music in a way wholly unanticipated by my childhood ears. Yes, I do have a point I’m making here and no, it’s not about puppets, showmanship, or the human condition. It’s about the woods.

The patio at my parents’ house where I was reclining last week sits at the edge of their gardens, a large meadow, and some dense woods. There’s a large variety of trees in the woods – they are bordered by enormous and legitimately ancient oaks and also contain birch, maple, beech, spruce, some cedar and several other varieties. Most importantly at this time of year, the woodpeckers have returned and are doing their best Buddy Rich imitation. They hammer out rhythms on the trees of various sizes and species, each with a unique percussive sound. Especially in the mornings, there can be as many as eight or more woodpeckers all pounding their heads into the tree trunks but, amazingly, never at the same time. They never seem to play over each other. So, the different sounds, different tones of each tree and the always similar and often identical patterns and tempo of pecking really is unlike any auditory experience I’m aware of, and it’s unique to the Eastern woodlands of the United States.

The clip below includes audio, so turn up the volume and you’ll hear what I mean. If Buddy Rich had stepped out into the woods and listened, he’d have been proud. The background noise is Washinee Creek filled with spring runoff from the mountains and, if you listen carefully, you also will also hear the sound of hungry young red-tailed hawks.