“There are those who dance to the rhythm that is played to them, those who only dance to their own rhythm, and those who don't dance at all.”
-Jose Bergamín-
I have a confession to make: R***** and I have been in a relationship for quite some time. It might even come across as an infidelity, or as one of those “open relationships” so popular nowadays; it is complicated—trust me. By exceeding my limits I could ruin everything in a matter of seconds.
Popular folklore has it that “It takes two to Tango,” and in this relationship with “her,” both of us are active participants. She constantly looks for me, and I—wrapped around her fingers—must satisfy her wants, as intangible as these might seem.
It started a long time ago when I first heard the marching band of a neighboring high school. I jumped over fences and scuttled to relish the powerful beat of their snare drums, and the synchronized grooves in their repertoire. There, I met her the first time.
Then, ever since—and it might sound like treason to you—she calls me all the time. I remember in my former job, for example, I heard her calling me so loud, I would countdown the hours and minutes just so I could enjoy her presence in abandon.
She also calls me when out of the blue, I hear her in my mind. Her calling increases intensity, and involuntarily, subdues me into a trance. While this is transpiring, it is impossible for me to complete a task, understand a reading, or much less, carry an intelligible conversation with anyone. Unfortunately, ignoring her summons is futile, to say the least.
Even at church out of all places! With no drummer in the choir, I hear the strong backbeats that she calls for—one that we both seem to need. In this manner she reveals to me, once again, her ubiquitous presence. And despite the sanctity of the place, I have no remorse in seeing her there. After all, R***** is an essential and divine component of the universe, and up there in the same category with water and air.
Sometimes late at night, I explore the different world beats that squat in the farthest reaches of my musical mind. In this manner we travel to the most exotic latitudes and to incredibly distant lands. Our wonder lust, however, seldom becomes satisfied, so we find ourselves embarking regularly on African Safaris, Caribbean Cruises, or Mississippi Delta tours—where Jazz and the Blues await discovery.
I have also gone to the limits in order to keep “her” within reach. Like an infatuated boyfriend who purchases expensive jewelry for his fiancée, I have spent thousands of dollars in percussive gear. In the past, I’ve splurged on drum sets, timbales, bongos, claves, and drumsticks—among other costly gems—just to savor her sensual dance, and eulogize her exoticness. Despite the high cost, I’d like you to know that have done this voluntarily—no guns to my head, no demands or threats.
If you are wondering about our future, it seems like we are in it for the long haul. If she keeps calling, I have no choice but to acknowledge. I always wonder with what pendant (gear) am I going to impress her next? Or perhaps, in which festival shall we see each other again? Or to make matters more practical, maybe I should just meet her tonight in the private confines of my practice room?
“It’s getting late,” shouts my better-half as she opens the door to the studio. “Perhaps you should go to bed soon since you have to work tomorrow.” I take my headphones off and reluctantly put my drumsticks down. Rhythm and I will have to see each other until tomorrow if I am lucky; behind closed doors, one-on-one, in this our favorite rendezvous spot!
