A TALE OF TWO
Once upon a time, not too long ago in a land not too far away, there sat a depleted village. A hollow shell of its former self. Malodorous disappointment struck the humid air as ash to the grave breathed solemn despair. The night people’s favorite soundtrack, “Deep House Music” seemed to be hushed in a tumultuous cloud of vicious politics. The village’s voice, once a music Mecca with an unparalleled nightlife had suffered a deadly curse. Gone were the late night decadent parties and dirty dancing that at best brought and united artists, athletes, rappers, singers, entertainers, and collegiate and party people from around the globe to experience the abundant debauchery. All went well until one Monday night the big party got out of hand and a life was silenced in an exclusive part of the village. Sadly, it was that tragic event that sealed the grievous fate of the village’s nightlife. So the village’s head; the evil witch and her city council minions whom by the way were more than eager to appease the village’s wealthy upper-class trolls in the exclusive section of the village sealed shut the nightlife’s treasured trunk. Instead of possessing a trademark magic broomstick the witch wore colorful flowery magic corsages. With a wave of her flowery lapel, virtually over night the city’s vibrancy became a cultural wasteland of “nothing to do’s” and ne’er-do-wells. The curse was so drastic the only produce eked out from the once fruitful land was corporate mind-dumbing hip-hop and bubblegum rap music. The politicos’ resulting proclamation across the land promulgated last call for alcohol at 2:30 am with a 3 am closing time for all nightlife. If merchants did not adhere to the new law a substantial fine would be heaped upon their heads. This was absurd, as the village was known for its outrageousness. Previously, establishments had been allowed to freely pour alcohol till 4 am while parties continued into the wee hours of daybreak.
Over the course of five dark and bleak horrible years, vacant high-rises and abandoned cranes littered the village’s failed attempts at gentrification- another curse from the evil politicos. Along the village’s main thoroughfare, night clubs were replaced by high-rise luxury condos and bars replaced by high-end retail shops. The night people felt trapped like incarcerated cockroaches. The people felt restricted in harness belts wrapped tight around the waist, straight jackets to prevent arm movement and ankle chains chopping off the flow of blood to the feet. How could the night people move about or dance around under such oppression? At best the night people were innocent victims. What had they so done to deserve such injustice? It was as if to take away their sport was legally justified. There was no probable cause for such haphazard reasoning. So boredom gave way to restlessness and restlessness to stagnation. The only hope was to pack the suitcases on a moving truck en route to somewhere over the rainbow.
On one dreary day one of the village’s many music chiefs received a revelation to have the drum visit a party. What a novel concept. With an open invitation the drum accepted and journeyed to the party. The drum was introduced to the village locals one night at a vegetarian restaurant on the east side of town. At first, the drum’s concept thumped so faintly that its heart racing pulse fell mostly on deaf ears. Arguably, the voyage of the drum travelled undetected from the lands of obscurity to the shores of largely ignored as it silently played into record bins categorized as “just another party.” Nothing stood out. No one took note except for the few snapshots captured that night at the organic eatery. Somewhere along the road of sacred rhythms between mile markers nine and ten the drum began to beat steadily louder. Refusing to give up, the drum’s momentum pulsated with intense vigor as to capture every heart within its path. As if possessed by hypnotic melodies birthed by the Motherland herself, the night people stood up and took note. They began to sing the drum’s praises. Not only did they sing to the beat but the night people danced to the beat of the drum until their hearts were made merry. The people gracefully danced as if blooming plum blossoms weaved back and forth in spring’s fresh breeze. Perhaps, to the night people this was their renaissance; a revival of new hope. So the people continued to dance to the drum’s coveted descant as the drum spoke back to them with a wink of approval. This was what the people had longed for; acceptance. As the journey of the drum began to spread like a wild wind throughout the village, it too spread around the globe. The drum took the world by storm. Not only had night people from near and far trekked to the village to partake of this virgin movement but so did several music makers. There were the maestros from the land of South Africa, the tribesters from London, the music maker from Canada and the music lover from Italy. There were the NYC legends, the Chicago soul crooner, the Baltimore beat maker, the Los Angeles Yoruba, the Trinidadian Deepster and Atlanta’s Godfather of House Music. Deep house purveyors came from Canada to the Carolinas, California to Costa Rica for the first time to hear what the noise was all about.
As would a heroic protagonist, the drum swooped fervently down from the sky with cool rhythmic rains to save the village from the antagonistic fires bent on destroying the villages, “right to freely assemble, to freely dance, to freely drink and to freely party.” The drum sketched a peace-loving experience that clashed against the stark violent debauchery that prompted such evil legislation in the first place. Through time the evil witch’s reign came and went and gave way to a new political regime. Although the new regime did not overturn the horrendous law the night people did not give up the good fight, for they believed one day change would come. It already had. Night people from every tongue, tribe and nation were brought into the drum’s loving embrace. And all felt the love within its pulsating heartbeat of life. This was it! This was the message the people had danced to all along. They danced to the beat that would one day set them free by the journey of the drum.
Happy TWO Year Anniversary Tambor!
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