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Timekeeping is everything: Rhythm and the

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Timekeeping is Everything:
Rhythm and the Construction
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Luis Botella
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FPCEE Blanquerna , Ramon Llull University ,
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To cite this article: Luis Botella (2008) Timekeeping is Everything: Rhythm and the
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TIMEKEEPING IS EVERYTHING1: RHYTHM AND THE

CONSTRUCTION OF MEANING

LUIS BOTELLA
FPCEE Blanquerna, Ramon Llull University, Barcelona, Spain

Rhythm and drumming have not been explored systematically from a construc-
tivist or a personal construct theoretical approach. This article is an exploration
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of the bridges between constructivism and drumming in terms of the interrelated

processes of listening outwardly, listening inwardly, and the actual motoric
action of playing. Listening outwardly is approached from the constructivist
notion of validation and/or invalidation of anticipations. Listening inwardly
is related to the bodily base of rhythm perception. Playing drums is discussed
particularly in relation to the emotional expressivity of drumming. The article
ends with some personal reflections.

Constructivism in general, and personal construct psychology

(PCP) in particular, have been extended to a growing range
of fields of human experience, many of them quite epistemo-
logically complex and symbolically mediated. Maybe because of
this general preference for complex human meaning-making
processes with a linguistic and abstract foundation, an experience
so fundamentally sensorimotor and nonverbal as drumming has
not received much attention so far. Even a cursory search at
the PsycINFO database yields no results combining “rhythm” or
“drumming” with “constructivism,” “constructionism,” or “per-
sonal construct,” and just a few when combining the latter three
terms with “music.” Thus, I welcomed Jörn Scheer and Viv Burr’s
invitation to contribute an article to this special section of the Jour-
nal of Constructivist Psychology as an opportunity to explore possible
bridges between two of my creative addictions—constructivism
and drumming.
I have used one of Flatischler’s (1992) notions to organize
the content of this article. According to Flatischler, playing drums

Received 29 December 2006; accepted 20 August 2007.

Address correspondence to Luis Botella, Ramon Llull University, FPCEE
Blanquerna, Cister 24, Barcelona 08022, Spain. E-mail: lluisbg@blanquerna.url.es

309
 310 L. Botella

is the result of a combination of (a) motoric movement and

(b) listening (outwardly and inwardly). Each of these realms of
experience faces us with its own challenges and rewards, and
when they come together, the result is a combination of accuracy
and flexibility in a drummer’s performance. I will first discuss
listening outwardly, then listening inwardly, and finally the actual
motoric action of playing —or “hitting things with other things,”
in drummer John Keeble’s humorous expression. I will end the
article with some personal reflections.

Time, Rhythm, and Anticipation: Get in Sync

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Michael Gondry’s music video for the Chemical Brothers’ “Star

Guitar” is structured as a sequence shot featuring a continuous
train journey seen from the perspective of a passenger looking
through the train’s window.2 The video has a special characteristic:
Even if the technical mastery of digital visual effects makes it
look like a perfectly ordinary and apparently irrelevant journey
through an industrial suburban area and a small-town railway
station, it becomes almost immediately noticeable that it has a
hypnotic effect. This is due to the fact that the natural tendency
of rhythmic movements to synchronize with each other when-
ever they co-occur is skillfully manipulated in the video. Gondry
synchronized every element of the landscape (watch the video
carefully and you will notice that even minor ones are synchro-
nized) with the theme’s rhythmic and melodic structure. Thus,
once you become familiar with the song’s beat and anticipate,
for example, a given drum fill between two musical phrases, the
landscape passing outside the window synchronizes with the fill as
if the world was perfectly predictable. Time is thus structured into
a series of rhythmic patterns that follow a predictable sequence.
Everything is in sync.
From the very beginning of his magnum opus, George Kelly
made time a cornerstone of the psychology of personal con-
structs by incorporating it to its philosophical roots—constructive
alternativism:

There are some parts of the universe which make a good deal of sense even
when they are not viewed in the perspective of time. But there are other
parts which make sense only when they are plotted along a time line. Life
 Timekeeping is Everything: Rhythm and the Construction of Meaning 311

is one of the latter. . . . Life has to be seen in the perspective of time if it is

to make any sense at all. (Kelly, 1955/1991, p. 6)

Time and life make little sense per se unless some regularities are
identified in them, unless one is more or less able to predict their
course. Kelly was explicit in this particular and, interestingly, he
used a musical metaphor to further clarify his use of the term
“replications” in PCP’s construction corollary:

Only when man attunes his ear to recurrent themes in the monotonous
flow does his universe begin to make sense to him. Like a musician, he
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must phrase his experience in order to make sense out of it. The phrases
are distinguished events. The separation of events is what man produces
for himself when he decides to chop up time into manageable lengths.
Within these limited segments, which are based on recurrent themes,
man begins to discover the bases for likeness and differences. (Kelly,
1955/1991, p. 37)

A good test of this particular Kellyan notion is the following: Turn

off the volume of the “Star Guitar” video before having heard the
music for the first time, and just watch the train journey. You will
probably notice some of the more obvious rhythmic regularities,
but miss most of them. In fact, the organizing function of rhythm
is one of the main reasons attributed to its universal appreciation:
We appreciate rhythm because it helps us organize the sound
(Grinde, 2000, p. 20). Regularity and recurrence are the basis
of human attempts to make sense of events by predicting and
organizing them, and they lie at the heart of the pulsation that
creates rhythmic patterns. Flatischler (1992) defined a pulsation
as “coming into being through the recurrence of similar events at
similar intervals” (p. 31). In the case of an audible pulsation, he
stated, the event is a sound.
Almost everyone is able to feel in the body the steady, under-
lying pulse of most musical pieces, even those never heard before
or belonging to an unfamiliar musical tradition. This is what leads
even small children to tap their feet or clap their hands—and to
dance—when listening to music. The subdivision of such a steady
pulse in smaller units such as upbeats, off beats, onbeats, backbeats,
and downbeats, plus the range of time signatures, tempi, dynam-
ics, rhythmic, and polyrhythmic patterns, create the possibility of
 312 L. Botella

using rhythm as an expressive and articulate language that evokes

embodied emotional responses.
In this respect, most musicologists agree that one of the
processes involved in the emotional arousal we experience when
listening to music is the fact that we bring certain anticipations
to our listening (e.g., Rosenfeld, 1985). These anticipations are
based on a mixture of cultural learning and personal experiences
based on previous listening. For example, the clave is the typical
rhythmic timeline of Afro-Cuban music, and it is usually played
on two cylindrical pieces of wood called claves—hence, its name.
It generates not only a particular pattern but a particular form of
listening to musical styles such as the son, salsa, rumba, and even
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Brazilian bossa nova.

Music (even within the same piece) can validate or invalidate
our anticipations. In the second case, tension arises (although
such a tension can also increase our interest); in the first, we
relax (although an extremely predictable music can be boring as
well). Pop, rock, country, and rhythm and blues beats are mostly based
on a predictable 4/4 time signature with straight-eighth notes on
the hi-hat, and a steady one and three on the bass drum and
two and four on the snare. However, the possibilities and creative
variations are so many, and the rhythmic pattern so appealing,
that these styles enjoy an immense commercial popularity all
over the world. At the same time, complicated and apparently
uncommercial approaches such as some jazz masterworks in odd
time signatures (e.g., Dave Brubeck’s Take Five in 5/4, or Blue
Rondo à la Turk in 9/8) have also achieved enormous success and
become classics in their own style.
Again, the applicability of PCP notions (i.e., anticipation,
validation, invalidation) is surprisingly obvious. The dynamics of
emotional reactions to validation/invalidation of our anticipa-
tions could explain the repeatedly found phenomenon that the
first hearing of a piece of music is not generally the preferred
one (Ockelford, 2006). After some further hearings, and as our
anticipations become more and more accurate, our valuation of
the same piece increases. However, as could also be predicted in
PCP terms, the relationship between favorability and familiarity
is shaped as an inverted “U” (Ockelford, 2006). When we have
heard a song hundreds of times and we know it by heart, it
ceases to be as attractive as it used to be. There is one exception,
 Timekeeping is Everything: Rhythm and the Construction of Meaning 313

however: The study of intense and overwhelming emotional thrills

(also referred to as “chills” or “shivers”) as a response to certain
musical passages suggests that many of these thrilling passages
evoke the same thrill every time we listen to them—no matter
how many times we have heard the same song (Grinde, 2000).
The possible extensions of this argument are relevant in many
other fields of human experience.
In my case, as I am sure in many others, music—and partic-
ularly its rhythmic element—has always been a recurrent theme
. . . another musical metaphor, by the way. Even if I have never
had a formal musical education beyond the usual introductory
lessons at school, most of my memories, and particularly the more
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emotionally relevant ones, are accompanied by what could be

called a personal soundtrack. Having been born in the 1960s, the
soundtrack of my childhood, adolescence, and youth is basically
an eclectic compilation of Spanish, American, and British pop and
rock music. Most of my memories of these years, and most of the
constructs generated by these experiences, would certainly lose a
lot of their meaning if they were separated from the music that
colors their background.

Listening Inwardly: What If the Inner Child Is a Drummer?

I will begin this section with another image: Ron Fricke and
Mark Magidson’s movie Baraka3 features a scene in which a
wandering Buddhist monk, dressed in traditional attire, walks
along a crowded Tokyo street. He is immersed in himself, follow-
ing the rhythm of his own mindful kin-hin walking meditation,
apparently alien to the rushing crowd of businessmen and -women
that surrounds him—the impressive images in high-quality Todd
A0–70-mm format highlight the feeling that the monk is literally
walking to the beat of a different drum.
The bodily foundations of rhythmic patterns have been re-
peatedly highlighted. Tagg (1999), for example, noted that “such
relationships between musical sound and the human body are
the basis of all music”—even if he also admitted that “the major-
ity of musical communication is nevertheless culturally specific”
(p. 17). Dogantan-Tak (2006, p. 460) summarized one of the
main proposals and conclusions reached in studies of expressive
performance as follows: “[T]here is a prototypical timing-intensity
 314 L. Botella

profile for the expressive performance of a rhythmic unit, the

origins of which reside in our experience of bodily movements
(including the kinesthetic experiences involved in respiration).”
I will say more about this point in the next section, but
in this one I would like to highlight that there is considerable
evidence that our response to musical tempo is patterned by our
body’s own rhythms (Rosenfeld, 1985). In fact, the universally
used musical term andante means literally “walking pace,” and
one of the more frequently mentioned “bioacoustic universals”
is the relationship between musical pulse and the pulse or speed
of bodily processes such as the heartbeat, walking, or breathing.
As Flatischler (1992, p. 95) highlighted, “[C]ombining a body
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movement with an inhalation or exhalation generates a flowing

movement, whereas a movement combined with the heartbeat
gives rise to a pulsating movement.”
The relation between heartbeat and rhythm appreciation
has been repeatedly acknowledged. We perceive musical tempi
according to the normal range of our heart rate: 70 to 80 beats per
minute (bpm) as moderate, below 70 bpm as slow, and beyond 80
bpm as fast. In many world drumming traditions, the connection
with the heart pulse is evident. I had the experience of attending
a Japanese Taiko drumming performance recently, and the huge
barrel drums reverberated so powerfully that I could actually feel
(and not only hear ) the sound, as if it was pounding in my chest.
Given the richness of the sound environment of the womb,
and the fact that the fetus begins to listen actively and responding
to sound by the 24th week of gestation, many authors (e.g.,
Grinde, 2000) propose that “we also appreciate rhythm because
it is a comforting feature due to a resemblance to the pulse of the
mother’s heart imprinted prenatally” (p. 9). Fetuses’ heart beats
accelerate if they are exposed to loud music, and maternal singing
is known to modulate infant arousal after birth (Sheinfield,
Trehub, & Nakata, 2003). In this respect, it has also been observed
that an immense majority of mothers cradle their babies in their
left arm (keeping them thus literally close to the mother’s heart),
independently of which is their dominant arm.
Thus, as could be predicted on the grounds of inter-
personal theories such as PCP and constructivism, when you
listen inwardly you hear the echoes of your interconnection
with others. In Justine Toms’ more poetic way of expressing it
 Timekeeping is Everything: Rhythm and the Construction of Meaning 315

(see her foreword to Flatischler’s 1992 volume): As you listen

with your inside ear, you don’t need to search outside yourself
for the safe and assuring rhythms of life; you know that they are
within you and always have been. So, maybe your inner child is a
drummer.
I became acutely aware of the pervasiveness of music and
rhythm in my own mental life when I first began practicing
zazen meditation. After a few years, I became relatively capable
of detaching myself from my thoughts and just letting them go,
as zazen practice teaches. However, this detachment made all the
more obvious to me that, when I stopped paying attention to
the voice of my thoughts, there was another sound that began
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emerging in my mind—music. It was almost impossible for me to

stop it when I was meditating; but in fact, it did not bother me at
all. Mostly, my inner music was made up of passages of songs I have
heard and liked, sometimes just rhythmic patterns. I talked about
this with a meditation teacher one day: She laughed and advised
me to enjoy the music and let it go without attaching myself to it.

From Listening to Playing: The Emotionality of Hitting Things

with Other Things

Intuitively most people would probably attribute a wider range of

emotional expressivity to a piano, a saxophone, or a violin than to
a drum kit—particularly if one is only familiar with the typically
loud, hard, and straightforward style of rock drumming. Melody
seems more touching than rhythm. However, controlled studies
on this topic (e.g., Laukka & Gabrielsson, 2000) demonstrate
that professional drummers are able to express feelings such as
sadness, happiness, anger, fear, tenderness, and solemnity (as was
probably already obvious to anyone who has enjoyed the great per-
formances of classic jazz master drummers such as Gene Krupa,
Joe Morello, and Buddy Rich). Laukka and Gabrielsson asked
two professional jazz/rock drummers to perform three simple
rhythm patterns (swing, beat, and waltz) so as to express the
aforementioned emotions. Then a sample of university students
listened to all performances and rated them with regard to these
emotions. Their results confirmed that listeners on the whole
perceived the intended expressions correctly.
 316 L. Botella

I find this study fascinating for a number of reasons. First,

the authors found also that “the communicative code used in
emotional expression with drums appears to be similar to that
used with other instruments investigated this far, which indicate
that the code is not instrument specific” (Laukka & Gabrielsson,
2000, p. 187). Besides, their results in terms of the patterns
drummers used to express the intended emotions showed striking
similarities with results obtained in the study of paralinguistic
expression of emotions in speech. Technically speaking, this level
of emotional expression in drumming is possible because of the
interaction of dynamics and tempo. For example, drummers in
the study expressed sadness by playing slower and softer ; happiness
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by playing faster ; anger by playing louder ; and fear by playing faster,

shifting the tempo, and deviating from the nominal values of the notes they
were playing . The resemblance to paralinguistic emotional expres-
sion is obvious—sadness also slows down our speech, happiness
makes it faster, and anger makes it louder to the point of actually
shouting.
From a PCP point of view, fear and sadness were especially
interesting in Laukka and Gabrielsson’s study. As I said, invali-
dation of our anticipations when listening to a piece of music
creates a feeling of tension, and in fact fear has been associated to
invalidation in PCP terms. The connection between invalidation
and fear could actually explain why in this study fearful versions
had by far the largest deviations from the note durations corre-
sponding to the nominal values as given in the notations. Fearful
drums sounded, thus, faster (like a heart racing with fear) but also
insecure and disconcerting, arrhythmic—as if missing a beat.
As far as sadness is concerned, the study of musical chills
suggests they are evoked far more often by sad music than by
happy music (Grinde, 2000). Neuroscientists such as Panksepp
(e.g., 1995) have proposed that chills are a consequence of the
direct connection of music to our brain’s primitive emotional
networks. Despite being accompanied by sensations typical of
painful sadness, such as a lump in the throat or weeping, thrills
are actively sought. From a constructivist point of view, the
preference for “such sweet sorrow” (typical not only of music
but also of cinema and literature) demonstrates again that life
cannot be explained simply as a process of maximizing pleasure
and avoiding pain. We enjoy being thrilled to tears by a dramatic
 Timekeeping is Everything: Rhythm and the Construction of Meaning 317

movie, a novel, or a particularly emotional passage of our favorite

music—no matter whether it is a Wagnerian overture or the latest
top-40 pop hit.
My personal experience when drumming has evolved from
feeling that I had to make an almost painful effort to keep the
tempo and to play the right grooves and fills in the right way,
to play more relaxed and almost become one with the groove.
This is surely (but not only) the product of practice and of
the slow development of more advanced technical skills. I once
talked to a student who had been practicing classical dance for
10 years and she described this process to me as going from
being “you and the dance” to “being the dance.” Driven to this
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point, as in the case with any other mindful practice, I realized

that drumming is one way to transcend one’s self. I am sure
this feeling of self-transcendence is shared with other forms of
human activity, like painting, literature, singing, dancing, and
sports. Drumming, however, has a distinctive advantage in terms
of connecting with the rhythms of the universe: It consists in
the rhythmic manipulation of sound in itself, and one of the
fundamental things we know about matter is that it is vibrating.

Closing Thoughts and Reflections

Learning to play drums has been for me a source of immense

pleasure and an unexpected form of mindfulness training. So
I would like to close this article by responding to the guest
editors’ invitation to reflect on our own activity—focusing on the
“psychological” side of what I have learned rather than on the
technical aspect of it, and particularly dealing with mind, body,
and relationships.
One of the first things I realized was actually prior to at-
tending my first drum lesson, holding a drumstick or hitting any
drum: I realized that I had prejudices about my own capacity
for learning a skill so alien to my everyday job as a psychologist,
psychotherapist, and professor at the age of 40. I was painfully
aware of my age the day I realized that the student who came
after me to take his drum lessons was 12 years old. This was
indeed a source of mindful insight for me, because I had to face
the fact that I trusted my students’ and clients’ change processes
more than my own. However, I came across a passage in a drum
 318 L. Botella

instructional book that had an almost immediate inspirational

effect: The author reminded people with the same prejudice that
Paul Gauguin began painting seriously when he was 40 years
old. What the book author forgot to mention is that Gauguin
abandoned his wife and five children when he decided to take
painting seriously . . . but that is the not-so-inspiring part of the
story.
Another important thing I learned (and this one is probably
obvious to anyone who practices any form of physical activity
requiring formal training) is that the intellect is of only limited
use sometimes. I had to face the fact that my arms and legs have
a muscular memory (and apparently a free will) of their own,
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and that sometimes they simply refused to play the drums, snare,
and cymbals in the order that my more abstract mind knew was
the right one—to my teacher’s great amusement. What’s more,
once I finally made it and got the new challenging groove in the
pocket, it kept interfering with the newer ones. I also realized,
however, that with the passage of weeks and months, this dynamic
dance of learning, unlearning, and relearning became a source
of flexibility. There came a point when learning a new groove or
rudiment actually increased my ability to play previous ones.
I also realized how important it is to trust someone who
guides you during the learning process and who is not only a
skilled technician but also capable of adapting to your learning
pace. This, of course, is not enough if you don’t practice, practice,
and practice.
All of these lessons have increased my sensitivity to my clients’
and students’ learning, change, and growth processes. I remind
myself of Gauguin’s example whenever I am faced again with
the self-limiting power of their (and my) deep-rooted beliefs. I
recognize and respect the difficulties of “unwiring” old rigid con-
nections and “rewiring” new ones, and how this sometimes-painful
process increases one’s adaptability and creative freedom in the
end. I am also acutely aware of how important our therapeutic or
educational relationship is, and to what extent my own capacity
to trust my clients’ and students’ processes can foster these very
processes—provided they have the willingness and courage to
change.
I guess I knew all this before embarking on the adventure
of learning to play drums; in fact, I am sure I knew it, especially
 Timekeeping is Everything: Rhythm and the Construction of Meaning 319

as a constructivist. However, rediscovering all these important

points by means of experiencing them bodily, sensomotorically,
and emotionally through drumming has made them all far more
experientially vivid for me. As I keep on grooving, and until my
drumming improves, however, I will follow the good old advice of
the musical scene: “Don’t leave your day job yet.”

Notes

1. The title of this article is a deliberate pun on jazz drummer

Peter Erskine’s instructional video “Everything Is Timekeep-
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ing” (Erskine, 2000).

2. “Star Guitar” was the second single from the Chemical Broth-
ers 2002 album Come With Us. According to the information
displayed on the Internet’s Wikipedia, “the video is based on
DV footage Gondry shot while on vacation in France. They shot
the train ride 10 different times during the day to get different
light gradients.” A streaming file of the video can be accessed
at http://www.thechemicalbrothers.com/disco/videos/star/
index.html.
3. Baraka is an award-winning, unconventional movie produced
in 1992. Instead of a narrative plot, it features a series of high-
quality images from locations around the world, with music by
Michael Stearns. All of the movie scenes are related to human
spirituality, human interconnection, nature, and our impact on
the planet.

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Laukka, P., & Gabrielsson, A. (2000). Emotional expression in drumming
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