questlove’s story pt 1

Here's the first story. It takes place largely in a parking lot. When the Roots were first coming up, we had a strong interest in the Pharcyde, a Los Angeles-based hip-hop group that made some of the most interesting records of the early nineties. They just had sounds that weren't anywhere else. Their first album, Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde, included a track called "4 Better or 4 Worse." It had the coolest sound that any of us could imagine. We listened to it over and over again, trying to decipher the samples. Was that Lou Donaldson? Someone else thought they heard the Emotions. And that was definitely Fred Wesley and the New J.B.'s. One of the sounds that kept hitting our ears was the Fender Rhodes. Right then and there, we decided we needed to have one of those on our record. Rich knew this kid who used to hang out at his house, which he had turned into a kind of clubhouse/recording studio. The kid's name was Scott Storch, and he had Human Jukebox Syndrome: he could sit down at any keyboard and play any song we called out. It was an amazing party trick, but it was more than that—it let us bring our influences right into the room. (Scott went on to be a major producer, first with Dr. Dre and then with everyone from Beyoncé to 50 Cent to Snoop Dogg.) At that time, Scott was a conduit to our artistic inspirations, along with being an illustration of the first secret of influence: the first step in creating is often re-creating. Most people make things because they love the things they hear or see or read and want to have more of those in the world-and the easiest and most sensible way to do that is to try to make your own version of one of the things that already exists.

The Pharcyde kept inspiring us in strange ways. When the Roots released our second album, Do You Want More?!!!??!, we played a show at Irving Plaza, in New York, and lots of other hip-hop acts showed up in the audience. Members of the Wu-Tang Clan were there. Members of Brand Nubian were there. And members of the Pharcyde were there. Afterward, they came backstage and talked to us. By then, we were considered equals, or something close to it. They had their sound and we had ours, and the ways one group may have influenced the other had started to blur. This is a second fundamental point: once you are making things of your own, you're no longer completely in anyone's shadow. You can be derivative, or you can be trying too hard to distinguish yourself, or you can hope in your heart that the older artist recognizes the way you're paying homage, but the fact of the matter is that once you start making things, once you take that leap, you have the same status as any other artist. I'm not saying that you're as good. I'm not saying that you're as important. But all of a sudden it's a difference of degree rather than a difference of kind. The Roots and the Pharcyde, backstage at Irving Plaza, just two bands talking. There were some distinctions, still: there was a tour coming up, and we were opening for them. They were still slightly senior. But we were doing the same thing: again, degree, not kind.

During that conversation, I started asking them questions about the new album they were working on. I asked them if they were still working with J-Swift, who had produced Bizarre Ride. They said that they had broken off with him and were thinking of working with Q-Tip. This seemed like an amazing idea to me-A Tribe Called Quest and the Pharcyde collaborating? That was mentorship times ten. I said something honest about how excited I was to hear that. In the weeks after that, I heard that the project wasn't happening, at least not in that way. Q-Tip didn't have new music to share with the Pharcyde. Instead, he sent them to a young producer named Jay Dee. He was from Detroit, had a group there. I didn't know much more than that. He had been in the room that night at Irving Plaza, as it turned out, but he said nothing. He was the quietest person I had ever seen. (I've racked my brain to try to remember any conversation at all. I think I gave him a nod and he said, "What up, doe?" which is Detroitian for "Greetings and salutations.") And, to be honest, I wasn't that interested in anything he had to say, even if he had said something. Jay Dee was a few years younger than me and didn't qualify as anyone I should keep on my radar. It wasn't personal. He just wasn't in line to be an influence. Not everyone can be.

We take our ideas where we find them, and largely we find them in the works of other artists.

A few weeks after that, we were on the road opening for the Pharcyde. At one show, we finished our set and packed up our gear and I went out to the parking lot. A kid from the college radio station was coming to get me for an interview, and I needed my jacket (which was Triple 5 Soul). While I waited for my ride, I listened to the Pharcyde's set, or whatever version of it I could hear as it leaked through the walls of the club into the parking lot. The main thing I heard was this strange sideways beat. It was the kick drum, and it was wobbling crazily. It was like nothing I had heard. I went back to the club to add eyes to ears, and when I got there, I saw the band going through "Bullshit," the opening track from their new album. This unprecedented kick pattern came courtesy of Jay Dee, the Detroit kid I had dismissed as too young to be an influence.

What I did then was what I did whenever I encountered something radically new. I froze. I've learned that over the years, my response to a creative innovation that comes flying in from left field isn't to worship its achievement or admire it or even recognize it in any sober, analytical way.

More often, I am overcome by a kind of paralysis. That's what happened when I heard Dr. Dre's The Chronic, for example. It wasn't an album I necessarily liked or disliked. It was well beyond that. It was polishing P-Funk to a dangerous sheen, and it was advancing the gangster narrative, and... I didn't know more than that. I needed to absorb, process, repeat process until satisfied. Alert-third fundamental point on the way: If something makes you very uneasy, especially if it's something that's being done in a creative field where you have experience, pay attention. Your mind is telling you that there's more to process than just your surface reaction. Jay Dee, who I would come to know as J Dilla, was delivering a drum sound that stopped me in my tracks. A year later or so, he would release the first album from his Detroit band, Slum Village, which both concentrated and extended the brilliant innovations he had used on "Bullshit." And after that, he would go on to be one of my closest friends and collaborators. He was younger, and because of that he wasn't exactly a mentor and I wasn't exactly an apprentice. But he was certainly an influence. I studied him. I watched the things he did. I was amazed by the way his mind worked, and by the way it made my mind work. There's nothing quite like someone else's brilliance, especially if it's left-field brilliance that you don't immediately understand, to keep you both challenged and bewitched. That's fundamental point number four (the hits just keep on coming): Influence isn't primarily about comfort food. It's about challenging your expectations of yourself.

There will be more on Dilla later, much more.But my first encounters with his musical mind, in the form of that parking lot epiphany and my absorption of (and in) Slum Village, started me thinking toward a greater understanding of my own drumming. Early on in the Roots, I went to great pains to show that I was worthy of being there, in the hip-hop world. That led to the approach I staked out for our first few albums, in which I drummed as precisely as possible. That was the frame around my mind. At that point, I had a very well-developed anxiety of influence with regard to the difference between hip-hop drumming and soul drumming. I wanted people to wonder whether they were listening to a person or a machine. I permitted myself no errors, no imperfections. When I heard J Dilla's work on "Bullshit," it touched off a profound change, and one that would reverberate within me for years. It carried me into my musical relationship with D'Angelo (his "Me and Those Dreamin' Eyes of Mine," which I heard on an early copy of Brown Sugar in April 1995, had that same kick discrepancy, which taught me that it couldn't be an accident so much as an idea). That idea made me understand more about the drumming of musicians I love who aren't primarily considered drummers (most notably, Stevie Wonder and Prince). It opened my eyes to the musical equivalent of slouching on a couch with your hand on your belly. It's a hard thing to do, to be sloppy rather than flashy, and to do it just as well. But it's the way that you can let your art also show your humanity. This is a lesson I've never forgotten, and one that started in the parking lot behind a Pharcyde concert.

deepl译一下瞅瞅

这是第一个故事。故事主要发生在一个停车场。当 “根 ”乐队刚刚成立的时候，我们对 “Pharcyde ”乐队产生了浓厚的兴趣。“Pharcyde ”乐队是洛杉矶的一个嘻哈团体，他们制作了一些九十年代早期最有趣的唱片。他们的声音与众不同。他们的第一张专辑《Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde》收录了一首名为 “4 Better or 4 Worse ”的歌曲。那是我们能想象到的最酷的声音 我们听了一遍又一遍 试图破解其中的样本 那是卢-唐纳森的声音吗？还有人认为他们听到了 “情绪 ”乐队的声音。那肯定是弗雷德-韦斯利和新J.B.乐队。其中有一种声音一直在我们耳边回响，那就是 Fender Rhodes。就在那时，我们决定在我们的唱片里也要有这样的声音 里奇认识一个经常在他家玩的孩子，他把他家变成了一个会所/录音棚。这孩子名叫斯科特-斯托奇（Scott Storch），患有 “人类点唱机综合症”：他可以坐在任何一个键盘前，演奏我们叫出来的任何一首歌。斯科特后来成为了一名重要的制作人，先是与德雷博士合作，后来又与碧昂斯、50 美分、史努比-道格等人合作）。当时，斯科特是我们获得艺术灵感的渠道，同时也诠释了影响的第一秘诀：创造的第一步往往是再创造。大多数人之所以创作，是因为他们喜欢自己听到、看到或读到的事物，并希望世界上有更多这样的事物--而最简单、最明智的方法就是尝试制作自己版本的已有事物。

Pharcyde 一直在以奇怪的方式激励着我们。当 Roots 乐队发行第二张专辑《Do You Want More》时，我们在纽约欧文广场（Irving Plaza）举行了一场演出，观众席上出现了很多其他嘻哈乐队的成员。武当派成员也来了。努比亚品牌的成员也来了 还有 Pharcyde 乐队的成员。之后，他们来到后台与我们交谈。那时，我们被认为是平等的，或者接近平等。他们有他们的声音，我们有我们的声音，一个团体影响另一个团体的方式开始变得模糊。这是第二个基本点：一旦你开始制作自己的东西，你就不再完全处于任何人的阴影之下。你可以是衍生品，也可以过于努力地突出自己，还可以打心底里希望老艺术家认可你致敬的方式，但事实是，一旦你开始创作，一旦你实现了这一飞跃，你就拥有了与其他艺术家相同的地位。我不是说你有多好。我不是说你有多重要。但突然之间，这是程度上的差别，而不是种类上的差别。Roots 和 Pharcyde 在欧文广场的后台，只是两个乐队在聊天。他们之间还是有一些区别的：他们要进行巡演，而我们要为他们做开场表演。他们还稍显资深。但我们做的是同一件事：同样是程度，而不是种类。

在那次谈话中，我开始问他们关于正在制作的新专辑的问题。我问他们是否还在与制作过《奇异漂流》的 J-Swift 合作。他们说已经和他分手了，正在考虑和 Q-Tip 合作。对我来说，这似乎是个绝妙的主意--Tribe Called Quest 和 Pharcyde 合作？这简直就是十倍的导师合作。我诚实地说，听到这个消息我非常兴奋。在那之后的几周，我听说这个项目没有实现，至少没有以那种方式实现。Q-Tip 并没有新的音乐与 Pharcyde 分享。相反，他把他们交给了一位名叫 Jay Dee 的年轻制作人。他来自底特律，在那里有一个乐队。我对他了解不多。那天晚上在欧文广场，他也在房间里，但他什么都没说。他是我见过的最安静的人。(我绞尽脑汁也想不起他说过什么）。我想我向他点了点头，然后他说：“你好吗，雌鹿？”底特律语的意思是 “问候和致敬”）。老实说，即使他说了什么，我也没兴趣听。杰伊-迪比我小几岁，不值得我关注。这不是针对他个人。他只是没有资格影响我。不是每个人都能成为影响者。

我们从其他艺术家的作品中汲取灵感。

几周后，我们在路上为 Pharcyde 做开场表演。在一次演出中，我们结束了演出，收拾好装备，我来到停车场。一个大学广播站的孩子要来接我去采访，我需要我的夹克（那是 Triple 5 Soul）。在等车的时候，我听了 Pharcyde 的演出，或者说是我能听到的任何版本的演出，因为它从俱乐部的墙壁漏到了停车场。我听到的主要是一种奇怪的侧拍。那是踢踏鼓，疯狂地摇摆着。这是我从未听过的。我回到俱乐部，想用眼睛和耳朵去听，当我到达那里时，我看到乐队正在演奏他们新专辑的开场曲目 “Bullshit”。这种前所未有的踢踏模式来自杰-迪，这个底特律孩子曾被我认为太年轻，不会对他们产生影响。

我当时所做的，就像我每次遇到全新事物时所做的一样。我愣住了。多年来，我已经知道，我对突然出现的创造性创新的反应不是崇拜它的成就，也不是钦佩它，甚至不是以任何冷静、分析的方式来认识它。

更常见的情况是，我被一种麻痹感所征服。例如，当我听到德雷博士的《痼疾》（The Chronic）时，就出现了这种情况。这不是一张我喜欢或不喜欢的专辑。它远不止于此。它将 P-Funk 音乐打磨得光彩夺目，将黑帮叙事推向高潮...... 我不知道更多 我需要吸收、处理、重复处理 直到满意为止 警惕--路上的第三个基本点 如果某件事让你感到非常不安，尤其是在你有经验的创作领域，请注意。你的大脑在告诉你，你需要处理的不仅仅是表面的反应。Jay Dee，也就是我后来认识的 J Dilla，他的鼓声让我停住了脚步。一年左右后，他的底特律乐队 “贫民窟 ”发行了第一张专辑，这张专辑集中并延续了他在《Bullshit》中的出色创新。在那之后，他成为了我最亲密的朋友和合作者之一。他比我年轻，因此他不是我的导师，我也不是他的学徒。但他确实影响了我。我学习他。我观察他做的事情。我惊讶于他的思维方式，也惊讶于我的思维方式。没有什么比别人的聪明才智，尤其是你无法立刻理解的左道聪明才智，更能让你既接受挑战又被迷惑。这就是基本要点四（精彩不断）： 影响》的主要内容并不是舒适的食物。它是关于挑战你对自己的期望。

关于迪拉，以后会有更多，更多。但我与他的音乐思想的第一次接触，是在停车场的顿悟，以及我对《贫民窟村》（Slum Village）的吸收，让我开始思考如何更好地理解自己的鼓点。在 “根 ”乐队的早期，我费尽心机地证明自己在嘻哈世界中的存在价值。这也导致了我在前几张专辑中采用的方法，即尽可能精确地打鼓。这就是我心中的框架。当时，我对嘻哈鼓乐和灵魂乐鼓乐之间的区别有一种非常强烈的焦虑感。我想让人们知道他们在听的是人还是机器的声音。我不允许自己出错，不允许自己不完美。当我听到 J Dilla 在《Bullshit》中的作品时，我的内心发生了深刻的变化，这种变化将在我内心回荡多年。我与丹吉洛之间的音乐关系也是如此（1995 年 4 月，我在早期的《红糖》唱片中听到丹吉洛的《我和我那双梦幻般的眼睛》（Me and Those Dreamin' Eyes of Mine），这首歌也有同样的踢踏差异，这让我明白，这不是偶然，而是一种想法）。这个想法让我对我所喜爱的音乐家的鼓声有了更多的了解，而这些音乐家并不被认为是鼓手（其中最著名的是 Stevie Wonder 和 Prince）。它让我明白，在音乐中，手放在肚子上，就相当于懒洋洋地躺在沙发上。这是一件很难做到的事，邋遢而不华丽，而且还要做得很好。但是，这样才能让你的艺术展现出你的人性。这是我终身难忘的一课，而这一课就是从 Pharcyde 音乐会后面的停车场开始的。