We were camping at Chaco Canyon New Mexico on a cold and rainy
night, having a comfortable dinner underneath a fortuitously overhanging wall. The sand was warm and dry next to our fire and
the lighting was exquisite as we listened to the subtle sounds of the dripping
desert. A car pulled into the exposed campsite
next to ours and sat there for a long time with the motor running. My indignant wife Tracey eventually told me
to go over and tell them to turn it off.
I stormed over and tapped on the window.
When they rolled down the window and I saw the confused faces inside, I changed
my attitude and I asked them if they would like to join us for cocktails under
our rock. The husband and wife pair was flabbergasted
and grabbed some whiskey and wine and quickly joined us in the sand.
They had just flown in from New York City, rented a car and
headed off into the wilderness. In the
rain and the dark they were a little discombobulated, making the transition
from the city to the country, and they were having a hard time getting their
bearings. They were designers and developers
of sonic playgrounds in NYC where the action and motion of the kids energized
tubs and drums buried underground creating a symphony of tympani and
percussion. They were great folks so we
shared our dinner and drink, shade and warmth.
It turned out that
they were drummers by trade and hobby and said they always travel with their
drums. We asked if they would break out
their drums and play for us, pa rum pum pum pum. They went back to their car and came back
with a big rug that they laid out next to our fire. Then they kept coming back with more and more
drums, elaborate drum sets for themselves and smaller drums for us. They pulled drums out of their rental car
like clowns popping out of a circus car.
They started playing
and we all started grooving haphazardly.
After the first cacophonous round they offered us the key to good
drumming, one hint. We are all responsible
for the best. They started again, laying
down a simple back-beat and we were encouraged to join in. We started tentatively but were soon riffing
and improvising, dropping related layers of rhythm on top and around each other,
never forgetting the original beat. It
sounded great, in our cozy little amphitheater, and we jammed harmonically late
into the night, talking and playing with our new found friends.
They left in the morning, after coffee and breakfast, with
their rug, drums and their rental car.
We exchanged hugs and contact information as they thanked us for our
hospitality and we thanked them for the drumming and the life lesson. We are all responsible for the beat.
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