Robin In The 'Hood?

Yesterday, J spent several hours intently researching bird songs on the internets. She had noticed an unusually clear and melodious tune coming from somewhere in the neighborhood, a voice that seemed familiar, but yet one that she couldn't place. Off she went to the computer, and for the next four hours bird calls peeped, squawked, chirred and pippled from the speakers. This one was clearly complaining, "People never know our song tunes."

We had to leave for a drumming gig, so I busied myself loading the car. It was a day of audible contrasts. We played on the sidewalk and at the curb on a very busy street, with big diesel buses stopping beside us to board and discharge passengers. The store (10,000 Villages) had arranged for the group to celebrate Fair Trade Day, dedicated to the principle that if we're going to buy from other countries we should not take advantage of them. I bought a bamboo pan flute and J purchased a clay ocarina.

Unusually for the drummers, the noise levels out on the street were almost enough to silence them. The pedestrians had no trouble, and many paused for a while to listen. Some danced a bit, and some of the kids took over a djembe or two for a few licks. 

The band flailed away valiantly for three hours despite the physical layout. The musicians at either end could not hear their opposite companions well enough to stay crisply on the beat at times.

At dinner, J announced that she had found the bird song. It belonged to a baltimore oriole, who clearly believed in being heard and not seen. The identification of a baltimore oriole is relatively straightforward if you can see the bright orange breast and black head, but the bird is very creative when singing.

At one point, a technology company offered an in-field pair of binaural bird identifiers, the Song Sleuth, a portable device with a built-in sound matching algorithm that could identify the likely source of whatever you focused it on. According to the site, it was too expensive to manufacture for the target market ($299), but they're working on a new model and looking for a manufacturer. 

I hope they succeed, because as everyone knows, spring is the best time for birding: the birds are calling, the leaves are not fully out on the trees, and in the clear air of a fine spring day, what can be more satisfying than to know that even if you haven't seen it, you can be sure of the bird you heard. Meanwhile, pass the mnemonics, please.

Oh my Gourd!

Our duties as djembists and balafonists took us to the Darke County Fairgrounds in Greenville, Ohio on Saturday. For someone who only occasionally eats pumpkin pies, this was a revelatory experience. There were thousands of gourds of every shape, size, configuration and color. So what is a gourd anyway?

Apart from the scientific definition which you can find on the internet, a gourd is a cello, a flute, a drum, a banjo, a whole orchestra, really, judging from the amazing ingenuity with which these instruments were constructed. It is a table lamp, a bowl, a spoon, a water fountain... in fact, it can be almost anything that time and talent can make it.

Part of the musical entertainment tied in with this theme at the annual Gourd Show was an Indian musical group whose featured instrument was a sitar. The leader pointed out that the resonating chamber of a sitar starts out as a gourd, and in fact many sitars have a second gourd at the top. The spiritual aspect of the sitar's gourds was explained by a charming story of the rescue of the god of music from drowning in a river when a higher god tossed him a gourd.

What I think makes the gourd so fascinating is that it is as individual as we are. All shapes and sizes, all thicknesses and weights, and all different color shades and hues populate the world of gourds. In the hands of someone who respects the gourd, a gourd can take on a beauty or radiate a sense of humor that reflect the crafts-person's own.

And as a balafon player, I can testify that the graduated gourds that resonate under the bars of the balafon make it possible to be heard even when the drummers are in full flight.

Anything but humdrum

We went up to Oxford to take up a position at the mouth of the Drum Barn driveway, early, early in the morning. It was the morning of the State-to-State Half Marathon, and by popular demand OGADE (or at least those of it who were awake) was to play as the runners and walkers progressed toward Indiana and back.

And play we did. It soon became clear that we could only occasionally match the actual footfalls of the runners, for some were serious marathoners who looked straight ahead, concentrating on their own internal rhythms and shutting out all other distractions, while others moved to a different beat.

The ones who won our hearts were the many who, upon coming within range of our drumming, smiled and grinned and waved and high-fived and yelled "Thank you" and "You're the best" and a few actually shifted their pace to match our relentless thumping. And then there were the ones who were serious enough about their running that you had to look carefully as they passed, but you could see the grin or the tiny uplifted hand motion, or the V-sign with the fingers.

These were throat-lumping moments. Momentarily we beat the drums a little harder, or threw in a little extra syncopation: you couldn't keep from doing it: energy became synergy and the runners and the drummers connected ever so briefly in a meeting of spirits. Then, as the runner or the group passed, we kept our own rhythmic marathon going, for we felt that if we stopped we would somehow break the bond of rhythm, even for those who were no longer within the sound of our drums, gourds, balafon and shakeres.

Special mention must go to Pete, our intrepid leader, whose skill at tuning and playing an array of empty coffee cans is near kin to the finest Caribbean steel drum craftsmanship.

Getting Centered.

Last evening J and I went to a local building on Main Street which serves as the center of Zen Buddhist activities in our city. On the first Friday night of every month, those who like to drum, play flutes or shakers or whatever foregather to exercise their creative muscles.

Symbolically perhaps, the tall old building has a very tall and steep staircase, with a landing half way up for those who may be wish to stop for a while and contemplate the possibilities. There are two: go up or down. To reverse directions would be to give in to the laws of aging and gravity. Onward and upward.

At the top, we entered a room with a sofa, desk and some people from our group. After unpacking J's djembe, I sat for a while thinking about stairlifts and catapults and oxygen masks and pitons while the group discussed its next gig. In the absence of either of the two instruments I usually play (the dundun or bass drum, and the balafon or xylophone) I decided to get up and poke around and discover the Center.

There were two back rooms: one a kitchen with a small cubicle containing an empty cabinet (appropriate) on which a small Buddha sat, a box of matches and some incense sticks. The kitchen proper had a refrigerator and microwave, a huge coffee urn and a poster about how to make donations. A doorway led to the HVAC system/cleaning closet.

Retracing my steps, I passed by the drummers into a very large, high-ceilinged room with large windows facing the street with blinds drawn. A rectangle of mats and beanbag cushions was laid out before the benign gaze of a second, larger Buddha on another cabinet.

No lights were on, but the setting sun provided enough to see a parchment divider screen to the left. Behind it lay a large supply of mats and beanbag cushions.

Like Goldilocks, I decided to try on a few for size. I soon discovered that proper placement of these devices induces a very deep state of meditation, one that some cultures call "sleep". Meanwhile, the drummers beat out a number of patterns, some classic and some improvised. When you lie on the floor like that, the bass beats become particularly pervasive and hypnotic.

Time passed, and we made our way slowly down the mountain.

And from The OaklandNews comes this bit of Zen wisdom: Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me, either. Just leave me the hell alone.

Drumming up support for the newlyweds

So let me share with you my impressions of a wedding we attended today.

This was the first time I can remember being the wedding band. And we were golden! The couple had requested that the OGADE group provide background music for the guests, although African drumming is not, by nature, a background type of activity. Far from it.

The day started out raining and dreary and progressed from there to dreary and raining. The location was at a farm and wilderness preserve some 20 km west of the city of Hamilton, Ohio. Although J and I were almost the first of the band to arrive, almost every available parking place was occupied, so I was directed to a space behind the drive shed.

After unloading Jo and her djembe as close as I could to the pavilion (a massive white plastic tent at the margins of a very large lawn), I drove around as instructed, but lost my nerve when I put the car into reverse and the wheels turned and spun in two ruts made for and by the occasion. Neona and I solved the problem by parking her behind another car on the lawn. No ruts for the wicked.

Entering the tent, we located our spot in the far corner, next to a very large white box with a vent on the bottom. The family had rented this massive electric heater to blow hot air into the tent. There was another one at the opposite end.

At least a hundred people were convening as the rest of our group rendezvoused and began to noodle on the various instruments. L had brought a melodious metal balafon which he had made at a workshop in Ghana. It has a beautiful sound and plays easily, enough to be heard over the thumping of the djembes and dunduns and bucking up the courage of the quavering flute.

One of our members lives up the road. He had the sense to drive his tractor, should any of the guests' vehicles require extrication from the muddiness. He is also a fine gourd and scraper player, never breaking the rhythm, which helps when you are striving for syncopation.

Our first number was a hot one indeed. The massive electric heater was working at full bore, and although the tempo stayed constant, the temperature shot up. However, this was only a temporary problem, since during the next piece, the heater failed, and only cold, moist air blasted us. Through it all, great artists that we were, we kept the beat.

Then, it came time for the ceremony. Everyone stood up throughout, which meant that nobody could see properly. Some knew how to use the sound system while others did not. The usual stuff, although I must say in retrospect that this was the first time I had heard someone read "Green Eggs and Ham" by Dr. Seuss as a wedding blessing or whatever it was. Other magic moments were applauded enthusiastically as well, and to our surprise and delight, one of the valedictorians read the lyrics of Leonard Cohen's "Dance me to the end of love". Then came the vows, accompanied by the ring falling in the mud (as I later learned), and the circle of life moved on.

At that point the thumping of J's lone djembe invited us to ramp up the celebration again. Quickly the Billyphon joined the fray, and soon all the drummers, shakers and scrapers were in the thick of it once again. Finally hunger prevailed and conversation resumed.

The reception food delighted everyone, the vegetarians in particular. Have you ever experienced a spinach salad with parmesan and strawberry slices?

I believe I inadvertently shared my hot dog with the family springer spaniel. I accidentally dropped the other half of it, and he, a member of a noted family of conservationists, determined that it not be wasted. The numerous bottles of free wine were not wasted either.

At the end of it all, packing up and heading home, we said our goodbyes. Our leader reminded us that Monday night we were due for one more rehearsal with the belly dancers. I'm so glad he didn't say, "Billydancers". I don't dance. Don't ask me.

Food for thought

On Friday the OGADE drum and gourd ensemble in which J and I participate assembled at a local church gymnasium just before supper. This was a free meal evening, a recurring feature of the social outreach of this particular congregation to any who find themselves in need of nourishment.

Perhaps 70-80 persons were in attendance, along with another 15 or so volunteers who circulated among the tables, bearing paper plates of a macaroni+spinach+mystery meat dish and a half slice of bread to whoever wanted them. There was coffee, tea, juice and water.

So, to the accompaniment of several djembes and assorted shakers, bells and balafon, the evening began. The leader, P, and members of the group who have mastered the various traditional rhythms and even know the various names took the lead as they always do, and soon people were beguiled by the unstoppable energy that cascaded from the stage and neutralized most conversation.

After several numbers were offered it was time for our supper, so we dispersed into the crowd and were served. The table where J and I sat had four interesting companions. One was a fellow who reminded me of Willie Nelson: dark clothes and black shoulder-length hair that came together via an elastic band at the back. He responded that he'd been called worse. Across from him sat a short, thin woman who claimed that she couldn't eat spinach: it would make her puke.

One tall gentleman moved from one end to the other end of the table when a buddy of his showed up. While the buddy chowed down at least four plates worth of the entree, this fellow talked about his job in a plastics extrusion-forming factory. It consisted of waiting 60 seconds and then opening a door to an oven-moulding machine, and retrieving a part that would be further finished into some component of an automobile. He was proud of his consistently-high performance. No, he didn't find it mind-numbingly boring: he was fascinated by the various products that he produced, because they were all done by custom moulds that were changed whenever a given job lot was completed.

-- As an aside, J and I watch a cable program from Canada called "How it's Made". We use it to go to sleep by: I doubt that we've ever seen more than two or three of these programs in its entirety. So much automation, and in many cases, it looks like workers are employed to do the jobs that robots refuse. --

After supper, P handed around a number of small gourds to the children in the hall, and led them around to one of our drum sequences. Such natural performers. Personally, I think he was on a recruitment drive for OGADE.

For the final couple of numbers we were joined by an older fellow who wanted to play his harmonica with us. Of course, lacking amplification, it was completely drowned out by the percussion, but he seemed immensely satisfied by his performance and asked to come back the next time.

Out in the parking lot, L suggested that we go for a coffee, but it's very difficult to find exotic coffee outlets within a reasonable driving distance. Various reasons and excuses were offered as the group melted away, each to their own Friday night activities. Mine, as it turned out, was to go get supper. I was not a huge aficionado of spinach, macaroni and mystery meat.

Later that evening, when we went to the local McDonald's, we were astounded to learn that one couple there had been waiting 20 minutes for their food order. There were only about three people on duty, and several drive-thru cars were waiting as well. J and I circled the local fast-food emporiums but nothing appealed to our jaded tastes, so we pulled into the local Subway outlet and brought home a couple of six-inch delights.

Even the moon was nearly full as we speculated on the nature of life and the injustice of it all. J pointed out that the money squandered by Bush and his pals so far in the Middle East (not to mention the lives lost) could have given every U.S. citizen a million dollars. That would pretty well put church basement charity suppers out of business.