SEAN CLOUGH: Click Track Constraints On Musical Expression

Sean Clough laments the constraints which the click track has imposed upon musical expression

I'm 36. I started beating the soft furnishings with a pair of sticks when I was 13. It was 1977, my record collection included The Stranglers, Jethro Tull, The Sex Pistols, Frank Zappa, Ian Dury and David Bowie. Drummers back then were personalities, (John Bonham and Keith Moon are obvious examples) and the drummer was an important part of a band. A drummer had a style and usually a sound of his own that was recognisable. Drumming was an art, practised mostly by artisans and we all aspired to those dizzying heights of expression.

I was self taught and learnt my beats from the likes of Jet Black (The Stranglers) and Charlie Charles (Ian Dury) who alone provided a workshop in simple, yet interesting, beats. The drummer, in those days, was as much a musician as the rest of the band. I used to listen to how different drummers affected the music; the touches of colour, the subtle grace notes, the gigantic fill down all eight toms and onto the double‑bass drums. And all played in time, right? Well as it turned out, wrong!

I don't remember the first time that I heard a drum machine. At first they sounded tinny and unrealistic, were programmed by people with little feeling or understanding of drumming and were featured in new 'electronic music' like The Human League or Soft Cell, which seemed a good place for them. Even then, however, there was the belief that because they were machines they must be able to keep so‑called 'perfect time'...

What first set my alarm bells ringing was the Linn drum. Not the thing itself — its samples of real drums actually sounded pretty good. It was rather a quote from Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull, who'd just released a solo album using one. The quote went something like "...of course it keeps better time than a drummer, but it's not as much fun." Tull's drummer had been Barriemore Barlow, a fantastic musician with superb technique. He wasn't a 'swinger', like Keith Moon or Clive Bunker — he played it straight down the line. What did Anderson mean? If Barriemore Barlow couldn't keep time then who could? The definition of keeping time was changing from 'feels good to me' to 'follow the machine, it's infallible'. This was the process that led to (cue Homer Simpson‑like shuddering moan) the click track.

At first it was a challenge; you thought you were doing something good, but what was really happening was that you were denying what brought you to the instrument, and to music, in the first place. I'd grown up listening to music that was played and recorded without even the concept of a click track. Things sped up for the chorus, or dropped slightly for the middle eight, for example, and these subtle changes were an intuitive response to the music. If you overdid it they sounded amateurish, but if you got it right, it felt fantastic. The click track was like some miserable killjoy, leaning over your shoulder ready to pull you back just when you were really enjoying yourself. Or the opposite, the disorienting feeling of the track running in front of you when you knew where you wanted to be. Most gigs were done without an electronic straightjacket but it was always there, not least in the minds of the 'other musicians' (as those who play instruments other than drums or percussion like to call themselves).

The drum machine was what some people had been waiting for all their lives. At last the nirvana of perfect consistent tempo. Now anyone who practised long enough to a drum machine's rhythm would be able to keep 'perfect' time. Bollocks of course. When people play together the music is, in part, a dialogue between the players and tempo is part of that dialogue. It's natural for the tempo to vary a little and it will. When it did, thanks to the new philosophy, it became a bad thing. Something to watch out for (instead of enjoying the music). But how do you tell who is doing it? Is it you speeding up or the others slowing down? If you practised to a drum machine then the answer was always 'the others'.

The click track was a godsend in the studio — for producers and control freaks that is. Once everything was at an even tempo it was much easier, though not less time consuming, to 'spin in' the backing vocals/guitar riff/horns and so on. As much time as you liked could be spent having the drummer play until that 'perfect take' was achieved. For once the misery was shared throughout the band as one after another they took their turn. The advent of sequencing software was the icing on the cake.

I read an interview a few years ago with some sampling DJ‑type guy who'd been working on cutting up some James Brown material. He was amazed by the variation in the tempo of the song. "Why it varies by up to 5bpm!" That perhaps the funkiest, tightest, most pelvic band ever, varied their pace did not deter this guy from meticulously time‑stretching every section until they all fit to 120bpm. I was listening to Led Zeppelin the other day and in particular to John Bonham's playing. Everyone seems happy to proclaim him an 'all‑time great' and/or sample him like mad. But go back and listen to him. His playing is a pleasure but he simply couldn't play like that today in mainstream music. It's not allowed anymore.

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