Continued from Drum Circles – Part 2.
In our last episode, Drum Day, the day of the dreaded drum circle, had arrived, and our hero and his fairer self had decided to attend…
The party starts at seven. Lana and I leave at half past. She insists on carrying the djun djun, and I don’t argue. Since this morning, I no longer feel an attraction for the drum; a sense of repulsion has taken its place. My wife hugs it like it’s our only daughter. I ponder this on our way next door. Does each drum have only one owner, one collaborator in cacophony?
We ring the doorbell and Frank answers. “Hey, you two, glad you could make it.”
My eyes travel to an elaborate straw headpiece balanced on his head. It looks more like a giant anthill than a hat, and descends as far as his eyeline.
“Like my Fulani straw hat? It’s from Mali.” He doffs the cone and extends it my way. “Go ahead. I have another.”
How can I refuse? Apparently, he’s cornering the market on African roughage. “It’ll keep the starlight out of my eyes,” I say.
Frank gets a good laugh. “That’s right.” He looks at Lana holding the drum. “Lana, I can see the djun djun has found its true jaloo.” By the looks on our faces, he can see we require an explanation. “That means ‘musician’ in Mandinka.”
Our host speaks Mandinka? This is going to be a long night.
“Come on, Robert, let’s find you a djembe.”
I shiver at the thought. A low-key bop drones from the interior. Over his shoulder, I see a small wedge of the circle. Lana scoots across the threshold. I hesitate, but it’s too late to back out.
The living area is one big open space. Ten drummers make a circle to our right. To our left, Sue, Frank’s wife, lights a stick of incense on the kitchen counter. Under most circumstances, this would give my wife an instant headache. I’ve seen her swoon at the scent of sandalwood. Not this time. She closes her eyes and inhales. “So nice. What is it?”
“Tibetan chamomile,” says Sue. “All proceeds go to the Dalai Lama.”
My wife has never mentioned Tibet in all the years I’ve known her. “We need to unite to end human rights violations there,” she says.
Huh?
“Here you go, Robert.” Fred hands me something that probably has an exotic Mandinkan name, but I call a drum. “Join in, join in.” The circle parts as he escorts me over. I sit on the floor. Lana sits on the couch opposite.
At first, I’m awkward, unsure, my taps tentative, but I watch and I learn. I can make out the rhythm. Simple. I catch on, and my body sways with the beat. Time passes. My mind wanders. I imagine myself on a stage playing in front of a screaming audience. Scientists call this the drum circle effect: you think you’re making music, but you’re not.
Just like my dream, I find myself the nexus of the drum circle. I vary the beat just a dram and the group falls into sync. I’m having fun. I can drum! A hypnotized Lana faces me. Unaffected by incense, she follows along. What’s happening here?
I shake myself and stop. A few revelers look my way, but not one breaks stride. The jam continues. I mouth the word bathroom to Frank and he tosses his head back in the direction of the rear of the house. I make my move.
Placing my horse fodder chapeau on the kitchen counter, I turn down a dark hall. The bathroom’s on the right, but it’s the door opposite that grabs my attention. A dull red glow limns the frame. I catch a faint whiff of marijuana oozing from the edges.
I check the circle. Still rending rhythm with its Stone Age aesthetic. I know I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, but curiosity bests me. I open the door.
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