As a preface to this posting—and as an explanation for the following story—unlike most of the artists in the AiR series whom I met through arts festivals—I never would have met Blair in such a venue. And, as it turns out, this posting has little to do with Blair (a subject I will return to in future postings), but much to do with capturing and appreciating art when you least expect it.
My brother and I had taken our kids to the playground at nearby
The next Sunday found my son (Hyun, 4 at the time) and I back at the playground. And there was that sound again.
The more we listened, the more it seemed to have a pattern to it. But, it was one of those nagging things that seems to have a reason behind it, but the more you think on it, the less sense it makes. I decided to ignore it, but my son became mesmerized. He had to find out what that sound was. We began walking.
We had walked a good quarter mile when it became apparent that the reverberations did have reason and purpose and were coming from a rustic, WPA-era stone picnic shelter. Syncopated drum rhythms were bouncing off the underside of the roof and rolling out across the park and into the ears of anyone who had a brain wave.
There, inside the shelter, sat a circle of men facing each other, following the lead of a bent-over figure wearing traditional African dress; an ornate cane propped beside him. This was Tony West: the founder and patriarch of a locally famous traditional African dance company. Beside him, a tall, slim fellow with a bandana tied around his head: Blair.
The others represented a range of ages, racial, and ethnic backgrounds and motivations. The only common feature was an obvious devotion to drumming.
As I found out later, one fellow had bought his drum at T.J. Maxx, another had purchased “father and son” drums to inculcate their “Roots” heritage, a Latino man showed up regularly simply to enjoy the clash of cultures that his unique drumming style introduced. Someone else was beating on an empty 5 gallon paint bucket. Another was working on a cow bell. Blair had turned his drum to his on specifications—not a surprise.
Whatever the motivation, there was among this voluntary group an intensity, a common respect, and a spiritual element to what they were doing.
As the summer progressed (and my son insisted that we were at Whetstone every Sunday) West’s devotees would gather at about ten o’clock. This was the “fun time” with lots of telling of tales, playing around, and a general “warming up” period. It was about 11 that Tony would show up, hobble over to the shelter, and demand the full attention of the group.
Okay, “Gho-Gho-- Ghe—Gho--Gha-Gha-Gha. Gho-Gho- -Ghe--Gho--Gha-Gha-Gha”
The group would play in unison, until Tony would indicate that some members continue this rhythm.
Then he would introduce other members to a different “counter-point” to the first rhythm. This would continue until four or five different complementary drumming patterns had been established. All the time, Tony pointed at one man or another, encouraging them to “get with the program” demonstrating what they were missing.
Tony’s hand-waving would continue, indicating “ up the pace,” “play louder!”
The pace would quicken, the volume increase, until Tony found the simultaneous cacophony and synchronicity satisfactory and would go into a staccato machinegun series of beats which would lead suddenly to the whole ensemble coming to a resonant and instantaneous halt.
Upon that sudden silence, laughter and self-congratulations would erupt, with a lot of backslapping, and joking: a scene of heartfelt camaraderie.
Then would come a tirade from Tony at one member or another—struggling to get to his feet, balanced on the cane, and working his way over to the offender and getting in his face over one issue or another. “Didn’t I tell you to play “Gho-Gho-- Ghe—Gho--Gha-Gha-Gha. Gho-Gho- -Ghe--Gho--Gha-Gha-Gha”?
I guess you had to be there. Sorry if I couldn’t capture it for you,
Chris
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