Djembe
Palm Canyon Drive (California State Route 111) in Downtown Palm Springs, California.
I entered late. Stopped to carefully take in the sounds.
Breathe, meditate, then “leapt in.”
Listening is important, I reminded myself, as drums pounded.
To my disappointment, slow and heavy tonight. I needed a lift, wanted transported to a brighter realm.
This wasn’t going to do it, for me, but I knew the night was young.
Bass thubbed and thubbed, and little toms ventured in with a weak (or too mellow) heart.
(Laid back Southern California, after all, I thought. My culture shock from NYC street rhythms I left, in tectonic dust).
We stopped, as the leader sat questioning empty spaces between notes, it seemed.
I had to pick up the pace! Besides, I was a little nervous. On edge, in my new environment. Pace of Friday night traffic on Palm Canyon had culminated in a mad dash across for safety, across the street. A black Cadillac SUV car had swung at me, seemingly trying to knock me off so she could get to somewhere important. Around here, being late for tee time is an emergency, I thought, while she careened off, with contorted, angry expression on her drunken, overly painted, well-to-do face. Tires squealing.
Chill, I thought.
boom ta ta ta ka boom?
boom ta ta ta ka boom?
I asked, on my hand-carved from a tree trunk, djembe……
Was soon responded to in kind. Then, “discussion.”
I accompanied with “snare” notes, improvised flams, strains. (My background being in jazz and rock ).
All joined in. An Arabic guy beating a painted Indian tom-tom and the woman with a loud, insistent snake-rattle. A bunch of guys on smaller djembe drums and other exotic brightly painted percussion instruments. We’d never have spoken, in real life, of course.We’d disappear into the night afterwards, I knew.
Now I was playing support (bass tones) and lead, as the flow of the music suggested (dominating when intensity beckoned in my gut).
I closed my eyes, to try really listen, not be distracted by appearances, as a Native American flute player began improvising. Chanting started……
After we stopped, I looked for the flute, but there wasn’t one. I asked about it. The owner of Crystal Fantasy shrugged and apologized
“Sorry. The spirits can’t help themselves, sometimes.”
“Spirits? I asked, not believing, looking at him carefully to see if he was making fun of me.
He wasn’t laughing, he meant it. (CF is such a trippy place, anyway, I thought). He talked on about Indians that used to live in the area. Said this kind of thing also happens at drum circles a lot, everywhere.
Drums stopped beating around 8:30. So quiet. We chatted a bit, then dispersed into the Palm Springs luxurious night. Palm trees swayed in strong wind s while I walked to my car.
Drumbeats still energized my body. I listened to street music coming from an outdoor karaoke bar, and hummed a happy tune all the way home.
jakelonewolf 