For almost a year now, I have been teaching as an instructor in the Audio Production department of an undergraduate art/tech school. In theory and on (green) paper, the craft of, "using studio tools to sculpt raw audio into polished products of music/advertisement/etc." should be exercised to a common standard of excellence, and studied using a universal language of theory and style. In practice however, the students' collective capacity to take in knowledge seems less than the immense spaces that separate each individual's music education and idiosyncratic skill set.
When we learn different "recipes" for specific audio results, I have to grill my students on what THEY actually mean (and hear) when THEY describe things as "heavy," "boomy," "tight," "distorted", or other subjective terms. We spend considerable time listening to music just to make sure we're both hearing what we're trying to talk about.
When we study music samples for their sonic properties, I discourage them from using genre names. When they describe mixes as  "dance" or "rap" or  "pop," I scold them, saying, "Those genre terms are just mission statements or ingredients lists: dance music tries to make to make you dance, rap music contains rapping, Pop music wants to make you feel popularâŚso, don't tell me what's on the label, tell me what's in your ears!"
Within a recent class discussion, one student asked, "âŚso what does your band Wormrider sound like?" I was taken aback by having my personal doings called out in a place where I had thus far kept my cards hidden, and I didn't want to derail the days lesson into some forum where I could be personally outed and judged. So, I dodged the question as best as I could;Â
"We play very loud, usually very slow,âŚandâŚ" I was about to finish by saying "âŚwell, if you found out about my band by Google-ing my name, you could have heard (and seen) our work right on the website you found when you Google'd my name,"  but I was interrupted. Right after I'd said "loud and slow," the student cut me off and beamed, "Oh, I love doom!"
For some reason, I was puzzled by the incongruity of this sentence, but this was a bad time to pause, because just then another student piped up, "There's a style of music called 'doom' ?  Why?" I was absolutely stumped, In the moment, I truncated this line of questioning as quickly as I could. Something along the lines of, "I didn't plan on sharing my own music today, so let's just get back to what we were doing." Perhaps I disappointed my students. Or at least those that were listening, but that question kept eating away at me.
Putting aside the experience of feeling suddenly and unexpectedly audited by my pupils' tastes, I'm puzzled by implications of calling what we do with a word like "doom."
On paper, the Wikipedia definition for "Doom Metal" matches many of our band's characteristics quite well.
"Thick, distorted sounds?" Check.
"Growled or screamed vocals?"Â Â Check.
"Down-tuned guitars?" Technically not. Matt and Erik tune to standard E, and Dan's synth plays any tuning.
"Both the music and the lyrics intend to evoke a sense of despair, dread, and impending doom?"
Sure. Our lyric sheet alone contains abundant content of some cosmically-scaled bad times.
All of this makes sense, so I was comfortable describing our work with the genre-term "doom" for these utilitarian purposes. However, only when having the spotlight on me as a person did I stop sitting well with the the assumption that our music has an inherent "bummer." More specifically, I was puzzled with my student's phrasing, "I love doom."
If dance music should make you feel like dancing, should doom music really make you feel threatened? Not me. I don't think any emotive creature really enjoys the feelings of "sorrow, dread, or impending doom" for their own sake, but there is something really satisfying (to me) about painting with those shapes colors.Â
That's why I'm here. Playing this music does not make me feel despair or anger; it makes me feel refreshed.
For me, striking forcefully at slow intervals requires great mental focus, physical relaxationâŚeven breath control. It it, in practice, the closest thing I have to meditation.
When we rehearse or perform, I strive to get better. I reach to play slower, and smoother, until my rhythms do not "pulse" so much as "arrive," like ocean waves on a lightless beach. But when the anticipated touch comes, it makes me feel like a rose struck by lightning: a conduit for something much more powerful than my design.
"80 kilovolts through flower," (c) 2012, Barcroft.
In such practice, I don't think in terms of fear or anger. I think more in terms of movement techniques I learned in dance class. My thinking becomes my body, because my body must become the celebration of the music.
Yes, it seems incongruous. Even with gestures that are inherently lethargic and strained, I feel as if I'm accomplishing something viscerally pleasant, vibrationally pure, and violently powerful. No, I don't think violent FEELINGS are bad. I don't believe aggressive feelings should be feared or suppressed, because they CAN be disconnected from violent action, be it outward (against others) or inward (agains the self). Specifically, making this music provides a cathartic outlet with with to unload subconscious vibrations of despair, dread, and impending doom before they could solidify into actions that actualize these same things. It feels good to process anger without creating hate.
That's why I'm here. While it may be "doom" music in name, it is, in (my own) practice, a much more joyous and productive exercise.
A few weeks after being confronted in class, I had the pleasure of a having a (different) student attend one of our recent shows. I insisted he avoid any pretense of our class outside of class; I even specified, "Out here, I'm not Professor Richardson⌠just call me Patrick." After the show, I couldn't' help but ask him, "âŚso how did our set make you feel?" Â
The first word of his response was "Wow."Â Â
He had other ideas to describe the music he saw, many of which were more rich and thoughtful than we had yet to cover in class, and that made the teacher in me proud. However, his choice (or reflex) of first word was all that was needed to make the drummer in me proud. I did not mention my show or his attendance in my following classes, in the interest of professional discourse and productive lesson plans. It wasn't easy.There are times when this "doom" stuff is almost too delightful to hide.
So sure: I love doom too.
I just don't yet know an appropriate way to share that as a teacher.
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