THE TRIFECTIC ESSAYS (PART 1): A DIY Revolving Music Machine

Try, try again.

How many times, though? July 2010, I was up to 15 on the count for members quitting/leaving the band. We were two weeks away from our live debut. The latest hopeful drummer had just walked out the door on my request. Despite the fact that we had ended things on somewhat mutual, friendly terms, I felt downright hopeless. However, I had had creative surges bursting through my brain as of late. New written material was on the horizon.

The dream to be a four-piece or five-piece was going to be put on hold. I loved the remaining three guys. I thought we made a great team. I thought we could make something with just the three of us and still make the end result as big and as raucous as possible.

Wrought from the emotion of the neverending cycle of band members, I placed a notebook on my snare drum, sitting on the throne of my kit, looking heavy and burdened. Looking at all the empty lines of my notebook page. Starting over. How many times have these lines promised a result, only to fall short before a result could be given? How many times have we prepared a show, only to never actually get on a stage? The marks I put down in lyrics keep getting mocked by new empty lines sparked by another failure.

“All these lines mocking the marks of my life.”

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That night, after rushing home, not announcing my presence to anyone in the household, closing and locking the door to my room, I put all of my ideas down on paper.

I wrote and recorded scats to seven different songs. Six made up on the spot, one that had been floating around for the past two years (Whisper a Scream). The initial ideas of all the songs were put down that first night. "Preclusion" had a written outline as well.

I had a three-piece band. But I wanted to sound and do things that a four or five piece could do. Plus, I didn't want to give up the frontman role. I wanted to be up at a microphone as much as possible.

The songs that were written all had stage directions before there was any written music. For instance "FIRST SONG: 1. Start up front, sing. 2. Go back to drums, have instrumental build. 3. Come back to front, Paul on drums. Build. 4. Back to another instrumental build on drums."

From this point, the songs were written one by one in succession. From "Preclusion" to "The Private Collective", so that a flow could stay intact throughout the journey of the show.

In the end, the structure looked like this:

A. TRI
1. Preclusion
2. Acknowledgments

B. FEC
3. Whisper a Scream
4. Silent Cache
5. An Act of 3

C. TIC
6. Here Again
7. The Private Collective

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In terms of the subtle stage design and feel of the show, I was relying heavily on all of the instances from the past five years where I pined to be onstage, mainly while watching friends perform or watching that fated "jealous" band where you think they suck yet they've sold out the bar and you're thinking "Holy shit, they'd LOVE my stuff!!!" The lights, the changing of instruments, were all supposed to hint at a variety/burlesque show. This came out of all the experiences of going to my friends' burlesque outings, supporting them, but secretly stewing inside, "Patch would be great here. Hell, I'd just have a drum and a voice up there, just get me onstage!"

From these tumultuous support dipped in jealousy outings, ideas sprang to life. "Whisper a Scream", a simple drum and voice work song, came about because I could perform it easily with either one or five people. "Here Again", a crooning ballad, was a nod to all of the burlesque singers I wanted to replace onstage. "Silent Cache" had the feel of an old time prohibition dive bar burlesque show.

The main unorthodox practice for the show was the sideways drumset. I wanted to interact with the audience, face them while I sang, show them Paul or Greg when they played. I didn't want anyone to be hidden behind instruments. No barriers. It also gave easy access to the change-up between the main setup and our drum line songs.

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With these ideas, all brought into existence one night while in a fit of creativity and rage, I called Greg and Paul. "The project's changed, we're doing something called 'Trifectic'." Both were pretty accepting of the change from another, more prog-ish outing we were working on called "On Veins and Nothing" (now put on the shelf for a future endeavor). I said, "We'll start practices in a week."

We were still on course to perform at a scheduled live debut at Room Zero, a practice space in Northeast Minneapolis. Moving the date back two weeks, I set about making a schedule where we would learn seven new songs that weren't even written yet to be performed in less than a month's time.

And thus began one of the most nerve wracking prep periods for any Patch project, one that made us seriously close to the brink of losing our minds and our friendships . . .