Workshop in Winter with a Currawong singing on the roof.

Matt Stonehouse shares his day as a drum maker in rural Victoria.

It’s early and I’m quietly getting dressed so as to not rouse our two Border Collies, Sunny and Tilli. This might just afford me an hour or two of uninterrupted work in the studio before their “sheep herding” skills are put to work against me.

I walk slowly from the house to my workshop thirty meters away, then stop to alert the kangaroo of my presence and watch it bounce off toward the creek, safely away from the road. If the rains have been generous I hear the creek flowing past our property and enjoy its soothing burble.

Lights go on. The morning’s music is curated. Birds and frogs alike are letting themselves be known.

Huon Pine and Blackwood drum shells await the hand plane

I’m considering five steam-bent shells placed neatly on the workbench; two made of Blackwood (Acacia Melanoxylon) and three of Huon Pine (Lagarostrobos Franklinii). Both timbers have an intoxicating scent of inspiration and possibility. I’m not yet certain of the types of frame drums these are destined to become, nor am I interested, rather I prefer handing over a sense of agency to the drums themselves.

Frame drums are amongst the oldest drums in the world, dating back over many millennia and thought to have come from the humble sieve. A simple length of timber— boiled or steamed to soften the timber’s lignin, then bent into a circular shape before applying an animal skin to one side. This ubiquitous drum has spent thousands of years time traveling, shape-shifting, music making, ritualising. A sophisticated musical instrument, or… the most potent ally in the Shaman’s toolbox.

Hand planes from the 19th and 20th centuries

I craft all my drums by hand and eye, locked steadily in my grandfather’s vice, shavings falling to the workshop floor after each satisfying pass of a hand-plane. The French-made shaping file comes out from the cupboard draw, as does the spokeshave gifted to me by a dear friend only days before taking his life. I consider the ease with which the Huon Pine works and my mind wonders to the gruff miller that provided the slab; the thundering stream behind his timber yard on the outskirts of a small west Tasmanian town; the two unnerving guard dogs not discouraging my determination to befriend said miller. He was on the verge of retirement and I’d dropped by at a good time, he said. The timber’s figure had a lovely swirl, not unlike the stripes of the now extinct Thylacine (Tasmanian Tiger). I stuck a postcard of the ‘Tassie Tiger’ on the slab and stared at it for months before deciding on what to craft.

Makers mark

Scarf joins are ‘feathered’ in, tuning rims glued then clamped and skins considered, even though I’m aware I’m getting ahead of myself. Excitement and anticipation are all parts of the creative process so I indulge myself and sort through the collection of goat hides, selecting with callipers, the thinest skins. I see the hides as paintings, with stories that link the animal’s personality to the nature of the musical instrument. Some display a straight spine, others adorned with spots— but occasionally one comes through conjuring images of a stormy sea and a hopeless ship with torn sails battling to stay off the reef. These are the skins I squirrel away.

Huon Pine ZilliTar frame drum with wool tablet woven banding

Before relocating to Launceston, Tasmania, my father gifted me a small box of miscellaneous-garage-goods featuring assorted cans of grease, acetone, wood stain and half-empty car polish. Hiding amongst all this was a sheet of one-millimetre brass which I thought could be transformed into something rhythmical. I went straight to work hand-hammering zills for future drums. “Zills” (Zil is Turkish for cymbal) are brass, bronze or silver jingles embedded into the drum’s shell to resonate. I hammered extra large zills, bigger than anything I’d previously seen in these styles of drums. I imagined the deafening clang of cymbals moving as a procession snaked through the streets of Chiang Mai and wanted access to those tones and dynamic range in my own instruments.

Huon Pine ZilliTar with goat skin

Over an early afternoon coffee I made the bold decision, or at least went with intuition, that it would be the three Huon Pine drums that would house the oversized zills. They would be hard to play and even harder to sell, but I didn’t see a choice in the matter. Lines were scribed and slots were cut with the router: an obnoxious power tool that is both necessary and an unwelcome racket. In between the drum hoop and the main shell, hidden from view, is where I sign my name and depending on mood, leave a note, or quote, for a future set of eyes to find. A final coat of Danish oil and the day is done. The Border Collies have lost all patience and demand balls be thrown.

Matt Stonehouse photo by Renan Goskin

About Matt Stonehouse

I am a musician and instrument maker based in St Andrews— a small town ‘out in the bush’ in Victoria, Australia. I live here with my wife, Jessie, and two Border Collies, Sunny and Tilly. I’ve spent many years researching percussion from the Middle East and specialise in playing and making traditional and contemporary handcrafted frame drums from that region. I also facilitate intensives and longer programs guiding students through the creative process of crafting their own drums. Visit www.steamandlumber.com and follow @SteamandLumber

All images by Matt Stonehouse unless otherwise stated

Tags

Castlemaine | musical instrument | sound | Victoria