Howdy folks, Glen Blamstead here. Somewhere around 1981 I played the triangle in a reggae band. It was a one-ting. I know, I know. You didn't come to a pole barn website to read that. And yet here we are, and here I am, and there was a triangle. So let's get into it.
The band was called Northern Roots Something Something. I forget the last word. It might have been Vibes. It might have been Vibrations. My cousin Wayne named it, and Wayne wasn't what you'd call a details guy. Wayne was the kind of guy who'd show up to a wedding wearing one dress shoe and one snow boot and act insulted if you noticed. We were four Minnesotans playing reggae music in central Minnesota in the early eighties, which for the record was not a strong local scene. We had one gig at a VFW in Isanti and one afternoon show at a lake resort in Chisago County. The afternoon show was cut short because someone caught a walleye off the dock and everyone left the tent to look at it. Fair enough. It was a nice walleye.
The Triangle Was Not My First Choice
I wanted to play bass. My cousin Wayne wanted to play bass. Our friend Randy already owned a bass. Randy got the bass. That's how it works. First come, first bass.
I moved to rhythm guitar. Wayne got mad about rhythm guitar. Wayne got the rhythm guitar. I moved to the shaker. Randy's little sister showed up and wanted the shaker. She was eleven and she cried, and Randy said give her the shaker, so I gave her the shaker.
I moved to the triangle. Nobody wanted the triangle. The triangle was mine. I was the triangle guy in Northern Roots Something Something.
The Instrument Itself
Now here's the thing about a triangle. It has one job. You hit it. It makes a nice bright ting. Then you wait. Then you hit it again. That is the entire artistic range of the instrument. There is no such thing as a triangle solo. There is no bad triangle player. There is only the guy who forgets when to hit it, and the guy who remembers when to hit it. I was mostly the second guy.
Some nights I got in the pocket. Ting. Ting. Ting. Reggae has a lovely off-beat, and if you land the triangle on the up you can genuinely feel like you're doing something. Some nights I overplayed. I'd get to feeling important and I'd hit the triangle on every eighth note like I was Neil Peart, and Wayne would turn around from his rhythm guitar and give me a look that said Glen, you are one ting. Not two ting. Not three ting. One. Ting.
A Life Lesson From A Small Metal Rod
I've thought about this a lot over the years, especially when a customer walks into the shop in Mora and starts describing what he wants in a pole barn. Fella wants a 40 by 60 with a shop bay, three big overhead doors, a mother-in-law suite off the back, a wraparound porch, and "maybe a widow's walk on the roof, I saw one on the internet." That's a lot of triangle.
Sometimes the best thing you can do on a project is play one clean note at the right time. Get the posts right. Get the trusses right. Get the vapor barrier right. Ting. Ting. Ting. If you try to make every square foot a solo, you end up with a building that costs three times as much and has thirty-eight problems, and none of them are the parts that actually keep the roof up. Denny will absolutely tell you the same thing, only shorter and with more staring.
What Happened To The Band
We broke up in 1982 over what I can only describe as creative differences. Wayne wanted to write a song called "Winter Reggae" that was reggae music about snow. Randy said reggae was already about the sun and beaches, and you couldn't just move it. Randy's little sister said the shaker was hurting her wrist. I said nothing, because I was the triangle guy, and the triangle guy stays out of it.
I still have the triangle. It lives in a drawer in the office at Sherman, next to a spool of mason line, a very old pack of jelly beans, and about fourteen carpenter pencils I keep meaning to sharpen. Once in a great while, when a customer meeting has gone especially long and I need a minute, I go into the office, pick up the triangle, and hit it once. Ting. Then I put it back.
It's a one-ting.
If you're up around Mora and want to talk about a pole barn — or a barndominium, or a shouse, or just what a good honest post-frame building looks like without all the widow's walks — stop by Sherman or holler at us. We'll leave the triangle in the drawer.
Glen out. Play the one note. Play it well.
