High Notes, Low Notes

I did the coolest thing last night. Every Monday night at the Konex Cultural Center in the Once neighborhood, there´s a drum show, and I kept hearing good things about it, so I decided that it was a necessity for my last week here.

And now I know where all the Argentinian hippies hang out!

The show started at 8, and there was a line wrapping down the street and around the corner to get in. I waited for maybe ten minutes, paid my 10 pesos for entry, and then followed the masses into this large enclosed outdoor area, bordered on all sides by buildings. There was a large orange stairway cutting up the center of things, and sitting on the lowest landing were 15 drummers!

Every now and then, since I have been here, I have these eek moments, where I get so excited I shriek to myself (or out loud), and I had a few of these last night. It was my kind of dance party (none of this Green Rock nonsense). Everyone there was dancing - it was impossible not to, even for those of us who need about 20 drinks in order to feel comfortable dancing.

I made my way through the masses of sweaty young people to get an enormous 10 peso cerveza, and then found myself a spot to watch the show. It was awesome. I don´t know anything about drums or drum circles, but it was fascinating to watch. There was a "conductor" of sorts, standing in front of the drummers, but I have no idea how he was signaling them or how they were following his signals. They must have several patterns of beats memorized, and then the conductor sort of leads them through a series of these patterns. Seemed it was definitely improv-ed to a point.

For one "song" a "poet" came out to (sing? shout?) with the drums. I couldn´t really understand what he was saying (that damned Español), but I imagine it was about, you know, sex, politics, something along those lines. I think maybe politics. Freedom. Hippies. I don´t know. I guess it was sort of like jam poetry? (I shouldn´t even try to talk about this because I have no idea what jam poetry is.) During another number, a trumpet player came out. Amazing.

I can´t describe it. I don´t have the words. Those amazing writers who write music reviews for the New Yorker and The Voice and The Times, they have the words. I don´t have them.

But I can say that the place was ALIVE. I felt more alive than I´ve felt in a while. It was hot, hot, the sun was going down, the pot smoke was lingering everywhere I turned, and everyone was just having a good time. Not a wild and crazy good time, just a genuinely good time.

The drums would get going on a certain beat, lulling everyone into a relaxed state, heads bobbing up and down, hips and shoulders obeying the rhythms, and then with hardly any transition, there was a subtle shift, and the beats would break out into an impromptu jam, (I feel unbelievably silly using the word jam. But that´s what it was.) and the audience responded. The whole mood would change - people jumping up and down and shouting and laughing and dancing. It was so much fun! And, what always makes music good, the musicians looked like they were having a blast. They must live for Monday nights.

The show lasted about two hours, by which time I was dripping with sweat, but it was great, uninhibited fun. I´m so glad I went.

When I got back to the house, I was in a terrific mood. Loving my life. I called my parents for the weekly check-in, though, and my mood was quickly brought down a few notches.

"We´ve had sort of an eventful weekend," my dad said. I don´t really like those words. Or I didn´t like them the way he said them. Makes me nervous. Makes everything awful that possibly could have happened, every person that I love, rush through my head at once, makes my stomach sick. And everything is fine, first of all. But on Saturday morning my grandmother started having trouble breathing, and when they took her to the hospital it appeared she had had heart failure. The short story is that she´s going to be on a respirator for basically the rest of her life (which, if you know her, you know she is hating that), but she is going to be fine.

It´s maddening to be so far away when something like this happens, and you don´t even get the information until days after because you can´t be reached. It makes me feel selfish for being here and not being there. For "needing" an adventure, when the people I care about need me. For not getting that stupid post-card in the mail when you wrote it two weeks ago. For procrastinating.

Anyway, I´m quite close to my grandmother Maggie, and I´m feeling a bit disrupted by all of this. Disrupted - that´s a terrible word. Disturbed? Confused? Sad. She´s 91, though, and that´s what happens. The body wears out on us eventually.

This is reality. Living in Argentina, on the other hand, I´m not so sure. It´s some version of reality, I guess. Mine, for the moment.