Cameron Tummel
Cameron Tummel is widely acclaimed as one of the world's
most charismatic drum teachers and rhythm circle facilitators.
Tummel facilitates rhythm events for more than 30,000 participants
annually, and has facilitated more than a quarter million
participants in his rhythm events nationwide and abroad. Previous
participants have included Bank of America, Google, The University
of Toyota, and The National Collegiate Athletics Association.
Known world wide as an inspirational speaker and specialist
in leadership, diversity training, and team building, Cameron
works with corporate clients, athletics organizations, colleges,
universities, community groups and school children of all
ages.
Tummel's facilitation training included a thirteen year apprenticeship
with master facilitator Arthur Hull, and a decade of employment
by Arthur's company, Village Music Circles. Cameron is one
of only two facilitators who ever worked as Arthur Hull's
associates at Village Music Circles, and were the only facilitators
which VMC entrusted with providing events for their most significant
corporate clients. Tummel is featured in Village Music's video,
"Drum Circle Facilitation," which showcased the many years
he was an integral part of VMC's Hawaii Facilitators Playshop
and other facilitator training sessions.
Cameron Tummel began studying hand drumming and hand percussion
in 1990 with teachers Babatunde Olatunji, Arthur Hull and
Don Davidson. He continued to study with dozens of drum teachers
from Senegal, Guinea, Nigeria, the Congo, Cuba, Jamaica, Brazil,
and the United States. To date, his studies have included
fifteen years of academic and musical focus on the rhythms
and cultures of West Africa.
Tummel's drum skills were honed during his nine year apprenticeship
with master djembe player Abdoulaye Diakite. Cameron has taken
three drum sabbaticals to Senegal, West Africa, to study the
rhythms and culture of the Bamana ethnic group, and now performs
with Baobob West African Drum Ensemble in Santa Barbara.
Cameron is sponsored by the Santa Barbara Bowl Foundation
to provide musical instruction and diversity training for
hundreds of local students, and to facilitate professional
development clinics for teachers and instructional assistants.
Cameron Tummel has recorded with Arthur Hull, Margie Heart,
Noah Churchill and Quarkspace, and has just produced an instructional
CD titled "Fundamental Djembe."
Cameron has performed with Babatunde Olatunji, Abdoulaye
Diakite, and Small Village, is a published author, builds
many of his own drums, and performs annually as a clinician
throughout his European tour and at the Seattle World Rhythm
Festival. Cameron flies home each week to teach drum classes
on Sunday afternoons, and to hike, write, compose, and surf
whenever possible.
Cameron's love of rhythmical music is obvious in his enthusiastic
presentations. His expertise with children, adults and community
oriented groups creates fun and inspiring experiences for
people of all ages. In any situation, and with any population,
Cameron delights in bringing people together to celebrate
the richness of our communities, and to create unity through
music.
Extensive references available upon request.
"Cameron Tummel is the best representation
of what a drum circle facilitator should be: fully trained,
community committed, well rounded, and globally experienced.
He is the example of what I am trying to teach others
to become; the epitome of the dream I had, even before
I knew I had it."
Sincerely,
Arthur Hull
- Author of Drum Circle Spirit and Drum Circle Facilitation,
Creator/Producer of instructional DVD Drum Circle
Facilitation,
"The Father of Modern Drum Circles."
|
Teachers
by Cameron Tummel
It is my pleasure to pay tribute to the people who have taught
me. In addition to my family, my friends, and my academic
instructors from high school and the University of California
at Santa Cruz, there have been a few particular individuals
who have had a profound influence on my growth as a musician
and my development as a human being. They have taught me how
to play, how to listen, how to be happy, and how to share
happiness with others. I offer this description of their influences
as a gesture of respect for all the gifts they have given
me. If you encounter these individuals, I implore you to spend
time with them, to listen to them, and perhaps you will learn
from them, as I have.
To my teachers one and all, from the bottom of my heart,
thank you very, very much.
 |
| Performance at the Seattle World Rhythm
Festival with my teachers and friends, Arthur Hull (left)
and Don Davidson (center). Seattle Center, Seattle, WA.
Photo courtesy of Rex Womack. |
In the beginning, there was Baba. By 1990, my friends (Tony,
Kito, Jonas, Greg and Ben) had influenced me to get a drum
and to try to play it, and at about the same time, the very
first series of drum classes I took were with Babatunde Olatunji,
at the Civic Center in Santa Cruz.
He played a set of West African ngomas, and taught us hand
drumming and songs from his Yoruban homeland. I spent four
days with Baba, absorbing the music, and his magic, and his
message of love. He opened the doorway, and pointed me towards
the path of the rhythm.
I spent time with Baba in other contexts over the following
ten years, and always enjoyed his incredible spirit and his
wonderful music. He taught legions of Americans to drum and
to sing in harmony, and with love, for more than fifty years.
If our entire nation owes the birth of its hand drumming culture
to a specific individual, I believe it is Babatunde Olatunji.
For his influence in my life and the lives of my fellow drummers,
I will always be grateful. Ase, ASE, ASE.
At the end of the workshop, I went to Baba to thank him.
I also asked him what he might suggest I do to keep learning,
since I wanted to keep playing as much as possible, and to
learn to play well. His answer is a phrase I will never forget.
In a scratchy voice and his Yoruban/New York accent he said,
“Have you ev-ah heard of Ah-rtur?”
“Arthur Hull?!” I asked excitedly, “Yeah!
I’ve signed up for his classes at the university; they
start next week!”
Baba smiled, and he said, “You gonna be fiiiiiiine.”
Perhaps if I had had any idea of just how much I would learn
from Arthur, and what a monumental influence he would become,
perhaps I would have been a bit more reverent. But in my moment
of joy at Baba’s endorsement of my teacher-to-be, I was
so thrilled to be able to follow the suggestion, I was beside
myself with anticipation, and pumped Baba’s hand like
a life-giving well, thanking him repeatedly for his time and
for his teachings.
Anyone who has ever been in the presence of Arthur Hull
is familiar with what a colorful, whacky, quick witted elf
he is. I have often described him as being “single-handedly
more entertaining than a three ring circus.” Although
his humor might not be the most substantial of all the things
he modeled for me, it was the first thing of which I was aware,
and it was, and is, the social spice which has made all of
my years with him so thoroughly enjoyable. I signed up for
his Village Drum class at UCSC, and began with tone, bass,
slap, Shiko, Fanga, the Stick Dance, the Shoe Toss, and all
of the other treasures in his seemingly endless assortment
of activities and lessons.
He taught us to play, to laugh at our mistakes, and also
to be amazed by his inspiring cosmology of acceptance and
inclusion. Arthur had already been playing for well over twenty
years (this was ’91) and his skills as a drummer were
extraordinary. His classes included a variety of traditional
rhythms from cultures all over the world, including West Africa,
the Congo, Cuba, Haiti, and Brazil. He provided a glorious
heap of drums and hand percussion for his students to use,
and taught us the techniques for employing all of the instruments
to the best of our ability. Oh, what fun! As the years went
by, that glorious heap became like a group of friends, so
familiar did we become with the ashikos, ngomas, shekeres,
cow bells, ago-gos, gonkogwes, djembes, talking drums, clave,
guiros, palitos, rattles, blocks, frame drums, jun-juns, and
other gifts he shared. He taught me to play a variety of rhythms,
and to play in a variety of styles, and to always, always
respect the cultures from which the music came.
As I spent more and more time with Arthur, I soon realized
that the raving lunatic with whom I was having so much fun,
was in truth, the very finest communicator I had ever encountered.
As the weeks went by, I realized he was downloading a tremendous
quantity of information to all of us, but doing it in such
an accessible and enjoyable way, that we had virtually no
idea we were diligently studying anything. His ability to
help a group of people play rhythmical music together was
nothing shy of brilliant. I soon realized Arthur Hull could
share the spirit of drumming with anyone, anywhere, regardless
of their previous experiences, with (or without) any type
of musical instruments, and have more fun and greater success
than anyone I had ever met. Hopelessly hooked on the fun of
drumming, I also began to study his methods of teaching, and
to try to absorb his wonderful ideology.
It was at this time that Arthur was “being discovered”
by the world outside of our beloved little Santa Cruz. As
he was called upon to facilitate rhythmical experiences for
people in other communities, other states, and then in other
countries, he began to be increasingly absent from his drum
classes at UCSC. Arthur needed to entrust the classes to a
teacher who could maintain the quality standard he had created;
someone with equally unique and powerful abilities; a true
player, and a teacher of incredible depth. So it was that
I met, and studied with, the indescribably talented Don Davidson.
Don Davidson first impressed me by being quite different
in nature than Arthur. Where Arthur was overtly demonstrative,
Don was thoughtful and articulate. If Arthur seemed to be
a vortex of constant activity, Don was Clark Kent, able to
be completely unobtrusive and patient, until unfurling the
cape, and bounding forth with superhuman abilities.
Don helped all of us in the village drum classes to learn
the rhythms and the techniques needed to play the music, and
he also modeled impeccable grace, and, on occasion, ethereal
fire. If you ever have the chance to play with or to witness
Don when he is deep into the groove, it is an opportunity
for amazement, and for transformation. When he teaches, do
not let the whisper soft voice escape your attention, for
he has the ability to verbalize the most poignant and the
most divine aspects of music, and of life itself. Don has
devoted many years to studying the traditional rhythms of
Haiti, and also to the study and practice of Neuro-Linguistic
Programming. Both of these disciplines are components of his
communication style, and his ability to communicate via drums
or words is incredible.
Perhaps I wax a little too poetic, but these are the images
of Don which have stayed with me. In addition to enjoying
his company and his wit, I am forever thankful for the lessons
he taught me about drumming, and about being a human being.
During the years since then, as I have continued to become
a more experienced player, I find myself reflecting on more
and more of the lessons and quotes which I heard from Don.
I return to his teachings, much the same way they say if you
re-read a good book, and learn more than you did the first
time you read it, its not because the book changed, its because
you were ready to understand more of it the second time around.
I look forward to further unraveling the haikus and the phrases
which Don has shared with me...and I hope he knows how grateful
I am to have had the opportunity to learn from him.
During these years there were several other influences which
were simultaneously causing drumming to take over more and
more of my life.
It was Santa Cruz, and it was the early nineties, and the
Grateful Dead were a prevalent force in the Bay area musical
universe. In addition to the concerts, and the recordings,
and the drum circles which spontaneously accompanied all of
the Dead’s events, the Grateful Dead’s performances
always included an extended drum jam called Drum Space, in
which their two percussionists would launch deep into a polyrhythmic
tempest of sounds and textures beyond imagination. I went
to a dozen Dead shows, had a stack of concert tapes, and bought
every single book and recording which Mickey Hart produced.
Drumming at the Edge of Magic influenced me more than
any other music related text, and I read and reread it many
times, soaking up the inspiring tale of a drummer’s path
writ large.
 |
| Performance with Abdoulaye
Diakite at the Rio Theater in Santa Cruz, CA. Photo courtesy
of Margie Heart. |
Other teachers came touring through Santa Cruz, offering
workshops and classes, and I attended many of these. Olatunji
would come through every year, and we were also instructed
annually by Poncho Sanchez, Mamady Keita, Chris Walker, Karamba
Diabate, Leon Mobley, local Senegalese teacher Ibou Ngom,
and a long list of other fantastic players. Each of their
styles and their lessons were inspiring and educational, and
the diversity of the cultures they represented opened my eyes
to a world which was very large and beautiful indeed. Studying
with a variety of teachers enabled me to discover the universal
patterns and sensibilities they advocated, and taught me to
appreciate the beauty of the music in all cultures.
Santa Cruz itself was a vibrant drum community, and there
were drum classes, dance classes, and/or drum circles just
about every day of the week. For a drummer on the path of
learning, it was Mecca. - Alxhumdulilahai!
Arthur and Don’s Village Drum classes at UCSC also
provided two other experiences which transpired to smite me
hopelessly in love with drumming and drum circles forever.
These were the Village Dance class, and the quarterly Celebration
Circles.
The Village Drum classes were arranged like a pyramid: there
were many beginning classes, a couple of intermediate classes,
and one advanced class. The players from the advanced class
were eligible to play for the Village Dance class, which was
also at UCSC, and offered the opportunity to really put one’s
rhythmical abilities to the true test: the ears and bodies
of the dancers. This was the apex of the Village Drumming
curriculum, and the proving ground on which I learned, and
humiliated myself, and learned some more.
At the conclusion of each quarter at the university, and
thus the conclusion of each series of drum classes, Arthur
and/or Don would host the Celebration Circle. This was an
opportunity for all of the students in all of the Village
Drum classes to get together, with any previous members of
the classes, plus all of the dancers from the dance class,
and everyone else who wanted to come, and have a huge, rip
roaring drum party at the beach. The Celebration Circles were
sometimes as large as one or two hundred players, thundering
along in harmonious exuberance, surrounded by hordes of dancers
and spectators. Since the vast majority of the participants
had all been in Arthur and Don’s classes, we shared a
tremendous body of information.
I have never attended any other gathering of that size in
which the facilitator could suggest a traditional rhythm (such
as Fanga, Zebola, etc.) and have the entire group of players
know what to play, without explanation. It was probably one
of the best educated, most experienced, and biggest group
of American drummers ever assembled. I am not trying to say
that our playing was always exquisite, for it certainly contained
moments of chaos and unexpected twists and turns in the grooves,
but the beauty of the spectacle and the overall enthusiasm
of it was gargantuan. The Celebration Circle would last for
at least a couple of hours, usually much longer, and for our
drum community it was a chance to celebrate our togetherness,
and to punctuate the year with seasonal gatherings of rhythmic
joy. The power and the beauty of those circles made an impression
on me which I will hold dear for my entire life.
Kudos, blessings, thanks, and love to all of the Santa Cruzeans
of which they were made.
Additional influences from the Santa Cruz years came in
other forms. Arthur taught me how to make Cuban style shekeres
(beaded gourds), which launched me into a frenzy of shekere
making. I made dozens of them, some of which were sold, or
given away, or just plain worn out.
In addition to shekeres, I was brought into the fold of West
Cliff Percussion, Arthur Hull and Rob Rasmussen’s drum
making shop, where I spent many years learning all of the
aspects of crafting drums. We made thousands of ashikos, jun-juns,
ngomas, and talking drums, as well as doing a large number
of head (skin) repairs. Eventually I became the production
manager of West Cliff Percussion, and was responsible for
overseeing the production of one to two hundred drums per
month.
West Cliff Percussion finally closed its doors when Arthur
and Diana Hull elected to sell their methods and designs to
the Remo drum company, and several of the best WCP designs
are still available in their new, vegan reincarnations. Visit
www.remo.com.
Another member of the WCP crew was Matt Hardwick, who went
on to become the founder of Drumskull Drums. At the time of
this writing, Drumskull Drums are some of the finest drums
available on planet earth, so far as I have have ever seen
or heard, anywhere. If you are seeking an excellent djembe,
doun-doun, or any other West African instruments, try www.drumskulldrums.com.
Matt and I were both working at West Cliff in ‘95 when
we learned about an African teacher who was hosting drum classes
in Santa Cruz. At the suggestion of Ben Harmon (previous WCP
production manager and knowledgeable drummer), Matt and I
went to study with the man who would become the single greatest
influence in all of my playing...
Abdoulaye Diakite is one of the only human beings I have
ever met who is utterly deserving of the title “master
drummer.” He is from the Bamana people of Senegal, West
Africa, and began playing djembe when he was only five years
old. Abdoulaye spent more than a decade of intensive study
with his master teachers Suncaru Jara, Dugufana Tarawele,
and Komi Sankare. In 1966 Abdoulaye was selected by the National
Ballet of Senegal, became the lead drummer for the troupe,
and went on to tour the world with the ballet for eighteen
years. As the lead drummer for the National Ballet du Senegal,
he was required to master not only the enormous quantity of
rhythms from his own ethnic group, but all of the rhythms
from all of the twenty-six other Senegalese ethnic groups
as well. His hands have the ability to play with the joyful
finesse of a dancing child, or the blinding speed of the most
blistering djembe solo you have ever heard. He is a dignified
cultural ambassador, a warm hearted instructor, and a sincerely
enjoyable human being.
 |
| This performance was a fund
raiser for the construction of Abdoulaye's music compound
in Senegal. Featured dancer: Majou Cone. Photo courtesy
of Margie Heart. |
I spent eight years studying with Abdoulaye, during which
I joined him for three different sabbaticals to Senegal. Each
time we went, he arranged for us to stay with his friends
and families, and to play drums nearly every single day, all
day long, for weeks and weeks at a time. We spent countless
hours in total absorption of the music, trying as best we
could to emulate the patterns and phrases Abdoulaye modeled
for us, and always trying to play “with an open heart,”
as he taught us. Those trips were the single most beneficial
learning experience of my life, and they helped broaden my
world view exponentially.
I remember how we would play at the same spot on the beach
in ‘97, in Parcelles, Dakar, for hours every day. Sometimes
we would be joined by observers, who would spectate, listening
to the classes, smiling, although it was all taught in a language
foreign to them (English). One day there was a middle-aged
man who came and sat and watched us for over three hours.
No water, no shade, close to one hundred degrees, and he sat
there for hour after hour, in rapt attention. His only movements
were occasional smiles and nods. Then when class ended, he
stood and shook hands with every one of us in the circle.
As I shook his hand and gazed into his beaming face, the feel
of his palm and fingers was like gripping a brick - his entire
hand was layered with calluses from a lifetime of playing
drums. To realize that a lifelong player would choose to come
and sit in the heat of the sun for hours just to watch Abdoulaye
teach was a crystal clear testament to the respect and appreciation
he held for the music, and for my teacher.
 |
| From left to right, Sidibe, Janko,
Abdoulaye, Cameron and BaDiallo. Photo taken at Abdoulaye's
compound in Tambacounda, Senegal. Photo courtesy of Erick
Thuss. |
Abdoulaye’s village is named Tambacounda,
which is also the name he uses for his American drum and dance
productions. He has offered many drum and dance camps in northern
California during the summer months, in which he enlists the
help of other masterful African players, dancers, and singers.
Abdoulaye has now also built a compound, a.k.a. music camp,
in his home village of Tambacounda, Senegal, which is (or
soon will be) open to students interested in learning West
African drumming, dancing, and singing.
At the time of this writing, Abdoulaye’s musical recordings
can be found at www.drumskulldrums.com.
You can also find more info about Abdoulaye’s activities,
recordings, camps, etc., at www.rootsyrecords.com.
More info available on the web - alternative spelling: “Abdouli
Diakite.”
Rewind...
Just before my studies with Abdoulaye began, there were other
developments in my apprenticeship with Arthur Hull. By the
time I had learned enough to join the advanced drum class
at the university, Arthur had decided to enlist the help of
some of his students to assist Don with teaching the classes
during Arthur’s increasing absences. He selected a group
of twelve students, and began to share with us the methods
and procedures which were the core of his personal style of
teaching. Looking back on it now, those nights spent in his
studio were the initiation of what has become his masterful
system of teaching people how to facilitate drum circles.
Point of clarification: the literal translation of “facilitate”
is “to make easy.” There is a significant difference
between facilitating and teaching. Essentially, when teaching
drumming, you are sharing information, and trying to help
the student learn to accurately play the pattern/s you are
showing them. When facilitating, the “student” has
much more freedom to create their own rhythms, and the task
of the facilitator is usually to assist, and to enhance the
playing, rather than to model specific patterns.
I remember walking out of Arthur’s studio on the very
first night he ever invited us over to begin to learn the
art of facilitating. I turned to Quentin and Todd, two of
my best friends, and told them I felt like I had been waiting
my entire life for the opportunity which Arthur was now presenting.
At the core of my being, I knew that I wanted to absorb his
teachings more than anything I had ever experienced.
So I did.
For many, many years...
I continued to help with the Village Drum classes at the
university, continued to make drums at West Cliff Percussion,
and began to collect my own little pile of instruments. I
volunteered to “work” at any school, youth group,
party, or wherever else I could find the opportunity to practice
my facilitation. As I gained experience and my ability to
teach and facilitate improved, Arthur continued to task me
with situations which would challenge me to improve further.
There were many years in which I would accompany Arthur during
his drum circles with various groups, working as the roadie
for his gigs, and we spent numerous conversations discussing
the activities and methods he had employed during the circles.
In retrospect, those discussions were priceless. To observe,
and then be able to ask questions immediately afterwards,
and then go out and try to emulate what I had observed and
discussed within my own circles, was a learning experience
far more valuable than any other. If you interested in learning
a skill, there is no substitute for apprenticing with a master.
Hundreds of circles later, I eventually become proficient
enough for Arthur to send me out to facilitate drum circles
for his company, Village Music Circles. He and Don had set
an incredibly high standard of quality for the VMC rhythm
events, and I had the responsibility of maintaining their
standard. As the premier drum circle company in the world,
Village Music serves various community and professional populations,
and has provided more drum circles for more people than any
other organization. As the third senior facilitator for VMC,
I have now “worked” with colleges, corporations,
schools, festivals, graduations, weddings, special needs groups,
and virtually any other population you can imagine, globally.
Taking on the responsibility of facilitating rhythm events
for VMC was the ultimate test of all the theories I had been
learning from Arthur, and I am thankful for being coerced
into those tests. (Anyone who assumes that doing high quality
drum circles for corporate clientele is easy, is severely
misinformed.) My rhythmical experiences in the ballrooms and
private estates of America taught me many things about our
nation’s top professionals, but more importantly, it
also continued my education in how similar we earthlings all
are, no matter how dandified our exteriors may seem.
Village Music Circles currently offers the finest facilitation
training available, in the form of Arthur’s Facilitation
Playshops, which are scheduled nationwide and internationally
each year. VMC’s premier facilitator training is their
annual Hawaii Facilitators Playshop, which takes place in
August, on Oahu. Beginning in 1995, Don and I were Arthur’s
assistant facilitators for the first eight years of the VMC
Hawaii Playshop, and helped him educate hundreds of people
from all over the world, who came to be introduced to the
art of facilitating drum circles. Arthur also included Don
and I in the making of his first book, Drum Circle Spirit,
and we were the primary players for the recording which accompanies
the book. When Arthur produced his instructional video, titled
“Drum Circle Facilitation,” he gave Don and I considerable
recognition for our work and for our contributions to the
development of the VMC facilitator techniques and trainings.
All of these opportunities and experiences have enabled me
to learn the arts of drumming, teaching, and facilitating
within a multitude of contexts, and with people of nearly
every walk of life. It is impossible for me to imagine learning
so much without the experiences I shared with Arthur, Don,
and Village Music Circles.
Perhaps it would be accurate to say I spent ten years learning
from Arthur Hull, and three years as his associate. In retrospect,
my thirteen years with Arthur in Santa Cruz were probably
the most valuable thing I could have done with my young adult
life. He has recently made references to “the student
now sometimes surpassing the teacher,” and although I
find that incredibly difficult to accept, I am honored to
think that I have been able to come up with some new ideas
and new applications for the things he taught me, and that
he has enjoyed learning some things from me in return. He
is, quite simply, a genius of communication, a fantastically
talented musician, and the finest drum circle facilitator
alive.
Information about all of Arthur Hull and/or Village Music
Circle’s instructional books, recordings, videos, Facilitator
Playshops and other events can be found at www.drumcircle.com.
In the last few years I have had several opportunities to
tour other countries (Germany, Switzerland, England, Austria
and Canada) as a rhythm circle facilitator. These trips have
taught me to appreciate the universal music we humans share,
and how much we all enjoy drummin’ and gettin’
funky, wherever we may live. Throughout my travels, I have
been most impressed by the similarities we all have in common;
not the differences.
I have also been exposed to an incredible array of playing
styles and drumming information through my annual participation
in the Seattle World Rhythm Festival. The SWRF is the greatest
drum event I am aware of anywhere in the world. It takes place
at the Seattle Center every spring, and draws an astounding
collection of over ten thousand teachers, players, learners,
and facilitators from around the world. Through the diligent
efforts of the Seattle World Percussion Society, the SWRF
is open to players of all levels of ability, and is completely
free of charge. For more info, and to help yourself have a
fantastic weekend improving your skills, visit www.swps.org.
In August of 2003 I moved out of Santa Cruz, which concluded
my incredible years of learning in that community. My lessons
and learnings will certainly continue, although I will miss
all of my Santa Cruz teachers very much indeed.
By moving, I concluded my years of studying with Abdoulaye.
I will forever be grateful for the knowledge and the philosophy
and the experiences he shared with me.
My move has also led to a reduction in my involvement with
Arthur and Don and the activities of Village Music Circles.
My gratitude for all of the music and the learning and the
education from our years together is simply inexpressible.
I will forever miss the community of drummers and dancers
which is such a vibrant part of the Santa Cruz culture, and
I will continue to share everything it taught me with the
new people I meet, wherever the path may lead me.
As mentioned in the beginning of this account, if you ever
have the opportunity to experience any of the teachers mentioned,
DO IT. Hopefully it may enhance your life, similarly to the
way these wonderful individuals have enriched mine.
I know no words with which to fully convey my appreciation
for my teachers, one and all. But if imitation is truly the
most sincere form of flattery, then whatever I may do which
pleases the players I teach or the participants in the circles
I facilitate, I would want them to know this: I learned it
all from the teachers described above.
|
Words
Dear Reader,
The following are a few experiences I'd like to share. A couple
of them are descriptions of previous rhythm events, and a
few are moments from my travels. If you want to make copies,
please ask permission first. Happy reading...
In rhythm and spirit,
Cameron
California State University Monterey
Bay
Pico Blanco scout camp, in Big Sur, CA
For several years I had the pleasure of being involved in the
new student orientation process at California State University
Monterey Bay, by hosting a drum circle for the two to three
hundred newly-arrived scholars. As with other orientation events
for colleges and universities, the main metaphors within the
presentation are about diversity, communication, and personal
involvement in one's community.
What makes the '98 program so memorable, was that in addition
to the enthusiasm of the students and the help of all the support
staff, our outdoor setting for the evening was an incredible
natural amphitheater, surrounded by towering redwood trees,
illuminated by two huge bonfires, and backlit by the warm glow
of the August full moon overhead. It was an awesome site for
our two hours of enthusiastic music-making.
Early in the evening, my role was to offer simple techniques
for playing the drums and other instruments, and to orchestrate
polyrhythmic arrangements for us to learn to play together.
As the students became more adept at playing the music, and
more in tune with their relationships with the players around
them, my role transitioned from that of instructor to that of
supporter, and the students were then responsible for creating
their own patterns and musical relationships. By the finale,
our two or three hundred percussionists had created a dynamic,
energized, self-actualized musical community, and I was free
to just play along.
Each year, long after the two hours of our official program
have passed, there are always groups of die-hards, still drumming
and dancing happily around the bonfires. That year, in '98,
I eventually had to ask the final two dozen people to put the
drums down and go to bed - we'd been playing for five hours!
Dear Reader,
The following entries are from my African journals. My trips
to west Africa were some of the most educational, enlightening,
rewarding, and in some ways, most difficult experiences of my
life. In addition to the musical experiences, there were many
other discoveries, and a couple of them are described below.
It seems odd that I have selected entries which do not specifically
describe my time with my teacher. The reason for the omission
is that those moments, and his presence, are so dear to me,
I hesitate to put my impressions in this public format. I guess
I fear my inadequacies as a writer might devalue them in some
way. Make no mistake - Abdoulaye was always the reason, the
inspiration, the catalyst, and means by which my trips happened.
They never would have taken place without his influence, nor
would my life have been so enriched without his teachings, both
musical and personal. At some point in the future I plan to
compile a manuscript of my travels, and to hopefully do a suitable
job of honoring and describing my time with him. For the moment,
here are a few of the other moments and experiences which made
their impressions upon me.
Hope you enjoy the reading...
[This is from my first trip to Senegal with Abdoulaye in
'97.]
The Most Unique Christmas I've Ever
Had
12-25-97
Dawn comes to Tambacounda. The dawn of Christmas Day. As usual,
the chickens are clucking and scurrying around the yard, the
roosters crow in the distance, Arabic chants were the first
sound I was conscious of, and again I delight in these few moments
of quiet time with my pen and my thoughts.
Good morning, and Merry Christmas to you.
The elder women of the house shuffle slowly between the various
tasks of their daily lives, tooth-cleaning sticks poking conspicuously
out of their mouths. There are one or two of the young and middle-aged
women are up and about, and the flock of children are loudly
gathered around their breakfast of bread and fruit and water.
They wave at me, smiling, as the first pale rays of sunlight
begin to finger their way across the yard. Its cool enough to
wear a sweatshirt and a sheet to cover myself from the mosquitoes,
but judging by the clarity of the morning air, I would expect
the temperature to climb another 25 or 30 degrees to its afternoon
peak of about 100 F.
So Christmas Day in Tamba is much like every other day of the
year. After all, presents and trees and lights cost too much
to be worth ravaging the food budget, and there's no need to
designate any particular day as "family day," since every day
in Senegal is family day.
I miss my family very much.
[The following are from my second trip to Senegal]
The First Day in Parcelles
November 5, '98
Good afternoon from atop the house of Raby and her family in
Parcelles, Dakar, Senegal. It's late afternoon, and as the sun
gently heads towards the horizon, life is loud and colorful
and very, very good indeed.
From here on the third floor I can hear quite a barrage of sounds
from the densely crowded neighborhood. In order of loudness,
a few of them are, the pounding and shoveling of the construction
going on across the street, the bark of Matt's djembe as he
plays it in the central courtyard of the house, the cry of a
seagull as it passes overhead, shouts and screams and laughter
from at least six different gangs of little kids in the nearby
blocks, a wall of sound in the distance which is primarily the
roaring and honking and shifting of heavy traffic, the singing
and chanting of the construction workers, and the shuffling
and folding of fabric as one of the young girls of the household
takes down the piles of laundry which have been hanging and
flapping and drying in the sunshine on this roof. There are
also an additional million-or-so sounds and noises, which collectively
amount to the ever changing soundtrack for life in the crowded
and vibrant streets of Parcelles.
Virtually every building within sight from this elevated vantage
point is constructed of rough, concrete blocks and rebar, with
a thin layer of concrete or plaster to give the outside surfaces
a smooth finish. Squared off and rectangular shapes dominate
the view, slightly softened by the arches of windows, balconies,
and doorways. No tile, no roofing, all concrete. Every surface
has been painted, and all the paint is peeling. Many buildings
have the spikes of untrimmed rebar, others point to heaven with
antennae resembling garden rakes and clothes drying racks. No
glass, since all windows serve the vital purpose of allowing
the sticky heat to pass through as freely as possible. Shutters
of wood, the security of steel bars, endlessly spreading as
far as the eye can see. Main thoroughfares are paved, but most
streets are just deep sand. Wild and loud and unpredictable
and simultaneously unchanging while never standing still. Perhaps
the most literal example of "concrete jungle" that I have ever
seen.
Y'know, it's been forty-five minutes of trying to ignore the
infinite numbers of unbelievably cute kids while I attempt to
write, but I give up. So I'm off to play Frisbee with a few
dozen new little friends. I'll get back to scribbling later...
[I wrote this during a sojourn to the Cassamance, which is
in southern Senegal.]
We're in the Jungle Now, Baby!
November 7
Lush tropical vegetation surrounds the house on all sides, dense
and vibrantly alive. The complexity and variety of sounds coming
from the trees and undergrowth staggers the imagination, and
completely defies my pen. Less than a mile from the coast, less
than fifteen degrees from the equator: we're in the jungle now,
baby.
This house and surrounding compound are cleared of ground growth,
and the sandy surface is being swept by the elderly woman of
the house as I write. Rising from the freshly swept ground are
a plethora of fruit trees, many of which are the productive
result of successful grafting and trimming and years of care.
One of the orange trees in the front yard bears five different
types of oranges - they showed me the grafts last night. There's
a deep, cylindrical well over in the corner, complete with crossbar,
pulley, rope, and bucket. At the edge of the cleared and swept
yard, the jungle stands, thick, alive, and waiting. Were the
people to relinquish their stand, no doubt that the jungle would
quickly consume this land once more. The border between jungle
and human habitat is a stout fence of branches, sticks, and
trunks, sunk into the ground, lashed to a few crosspieces, and
pointing sharply towards the hazy, blue sky. The sun is just
now casting its first rays of direct light across the yard,
illuminating the cracks and holes and peeled paint of the cinder
block walls of the house. Wooden slats for doors and windows,
corrugated metal atop a frame of rough hewn 2 x 4s for the roof.
No electricity, no running water. Life here happens by hand.
There are four youngsters talking and laughing and sucking on
oranges, and though they've seen quite a number of tubobs in
their coastal, tranquil village, by the looks in their eyes,
I think my combed and poofed out bouffant may be the wildest
hairdo they've ever seen sprouting from a man's head. They stared
at me, shyly, for the first few minutes after I sat and began
writing, but I guess they've grown used to the American anomaly,
and their attention is back to more important issues, like extracting
the succulent insides from their oranges. One of them is lying
in a hammock in the corner, beside the rusty wheelbarrow and
scrap metal sheeting. The other three are in the folding chairs
by the back door, where the cooking coals are being rekindled
from last night's midnight brewing of attaya.
I can hear a few sounds of the other nearby houses of the village,
though the vegetation is way too thick to see even the closest
neighbor. One or two of the sandy pathways are wide enough to
allow a car to pass through, but our taxi last night was the
only car I've seen or heard in the eighteen hours since we arrived.
All the members of this two thousand person village that I have
seen have passed by on foot, and regardless of my ridiculous
hair or relatively pale skin and unfamiliar face, every single
one of them has smiled and greeted me while walking by.
Papice has arisen and come out back for a round of greetings
and smiles, and now Vieux is up too, and heading for the bathroom.
"Bathroom," ha-ha. This particular washing and relieving area
is composed of a squarish fence of sticks, a ditch with a few
stout sticks across its contents of waste and water, no door,
and you fill the bucket and grab the coffee can and take them
with you whenever you need to do your business. No complaints
though, for, as I am continually experiencing, this trip is
all about discovering the multitude of sweet fruits amidst the
seemingly wild and relentless jungle.
Good morning from the village of Abene, in the coastal region
of the Cassamance, in southern Senegal.
[The following are from my third trip to Senegal, in '01
- '02.]
The Circus Comes to Tambacounda
Thursday, December 27th, '01
Dawn creeps ever so slowly across the morning sky, heralded
by a chorus of animal noises and the morning prayers of several
mosques. No doubt about it, the chanting here in Tamba has a
more beautiful melodic quality than anything I heard in Dakar.
And where the background of the city soundscape was a swirling
river of passing engines and horns, here in the savannah, it
is a rambunctious melange of roosters crowing and dogs barking
which punctuates the background of an uncountable quantity of
goats bleating. So begins the day. My four days of sleep deprivation
concluded last night, and, with the help of the mosquito netting
and a brand new foam pad, I slept like a baby for a very long
time. So today my spirit is newborn, soaking in the pregnant
moments of life in total amazement, as if for the very first
time. Good morning to you, my friend. Good morning from Tambacounda,
Senegal, West Africa.
At this moment, with barely a single mosquito's worth of discomfort,
it is challenging to accurately remember the quantity or the
intensity of the aches and pains we endured during the bus ride
here from Dakar. That cramped and crowded, swerving, jolting,
jarring, spinal torturing, teeth clenching, utterly loathsome
bus ride. Ah yes, its all coming back to me now...
Since our eleven o'clock departure that night was rescheduled
by the bus arriving forty-five minutes early, everything was
completely chaotic right from the start. Last minute rolling
and shoving and zipping and hefting of all belongings, which
were then tossed onto the unprotected roof rack, along with
a few prayers, before hurried "thank you's" and "bon voyages"
while scrambling aboard, and then the kinesthetic confirmation
that yes, the bus' benches really were as uncomfortable as inhumanly
possible.
To add a new layer to the usual mayhem, tonight was our introduction
to the group of people from Japan who will also be with us in
Tambacounda. I haven't heard any details about their visit,
except that they only have six or seven days to be in Senegal.
(Seems like an impossibly long way to travel to only be spending
a week at the destination, but that's their situation.) I believe
some of them may have studied with Abdoulaye during his visits
to Japan during the last few years, and there are also a few
elder members of their group, and two or three very young children,
so I presume their trip is as much of a cultural experience
as a musical opportunity. So, Cheikhou and his sisters and the
crew of drivers and porters and I went rattling across Dakar
to collect the group of Japanese people and their luggage from
the hotel.
When we arrived, language and social barriers made the introductions
difficult. Non existent, to be precise. So I busied myself with
the equally ludicrous tasks of helping the porters load the
gear amidst conflicting instructions, and trying to secure at
least a smidgen of personal real estate for the journey ahead.
Somewhere near midnight we disembarked, and off into the v-e-r-y
l-o-n-g night we went.
The only things I remember about the six or seven hours of travel
prior to daylight are various incarnations of pain. Upright,
downright, and in every which way I postured, the discomfort
was nearly perfect. It is amazing how much aches and cramps
can be enhanced by sleep deprivation, it really is...
Dawn brought a number of distractions. I remember my view from
the rear of the bus as we drove due east into the rising fireball:
the curtained, stickered, painted, photo adorned, regally decorated,
rusty bus, swaying to and fro, the twelve Africans, fourteen
Japanese, and I, swaying to and fro, and the whole ensemble
jostling in time to the various mablanx cassettes on the static,
er, I mean, the stereo. Africans wearing jeans and t-shirts
and ski jackets, bundled against the morning chill, the eight
year old Japanese child in front of me (who does not speak English)
wearing a jacket emblazoned with a "Santa World" logo, his parents
wearing Senegalese pants of brain boggling color combinations
and immaculate paper respiratory masks, Adama beside them, breast
feeding her baby, and me, the anomaly Californicus-freakus-maximus,
sporting flip flops, surf trunks, t-shirt, ear ring, shades,
ponytail, and a tie-dyed bandanna around my head. Needless to
say, our multinational circus drew the open mouthed stares of
every single Senegalese we passed.
My window pane's revelations kept me staring too, enraptured
by the surrealistic movie unfolding before my eyes... The city
had long since been left behind, as had the trappings of any
modernization, and instead the dusty Savannah spread eternally
in all directions, wearing the baked brown shades of shrubs
and grasses long since dried dead. The brutal sun seemed to
bleach the sky itself into a beaten and listless blue. Presiding
over the scene, were the towering forms of sagely baobab trees.
How truly odd looking they are... rather like stubby limbed
oaks, with curling tendrils of branches and exceptionally thick
trunks. Noticing how they seemed to be evenly spaced apart,
as if purposefully distributed, I mused that God must have been
in a humorous mood when we planted the Baobab, since he appears
to have planted them upside down.
Occasionally the road revealed human habitation, in the form
of the round, mud brick and thatched roof huts of the Fulani
people. Abdoulaye has told me the Fulani are nomadic, choosing
to relocate further into the bush whenever the creep of civilization
draws near. Women working amidst the huts, in the tightly syncopated
tasks of pounding food in their gouns or cranking bucket loads
of water up from life giving wells. Men guiding large herds
of long horned cattle, collecting loads of firewood, their daily
robes and sleeves crowned with turbans and sunglasses. Sunglasses
seem to be the locals' single concession to the masochistic
sun. The people seem impervious to its glare as they go about
their tasks, dozens of kilometers from anywhere, carrying neither
water nor food, the patches of their skin poking from sleeves
and pant legs appearing to be baked with a blue-black glaze.
Similarly iridescent are the occasional glimpses of birds, sometimes
oily green, other times shocking red, orange, or turquoise,
rarely ever in flight.
At one point in the journey my tranquil meditation on the scenery
was blasted into stomach clenching fear as our bus took a screeching
lurch around a pot hole the size of a bathtub. We were probably
doing forty or fifty m.p.h. when the driver spun the wheel.
Women screamed. Our bus, twenty something feet high with a roof
rack full of luggage, tilted up on two wheels, as shrubbery
scraped along the outer windows, before slamming back down with
a corrective screech or two. I guess the driver wasn't as alarmed
as the rest of us, since he continued on through the infinite
pot holes at the same speed.
("Pot holes" seems inappropriate terminology, given their size,
perhaps "kitchen holes" would be more accurate.)
Just about that time, I noticed that our transport had the name
"Challenger" emblazoned across its windshield, and pondered
the tragic conclusion of the space shuttle which had borne the
same name. Rusty skeletons of other, unsuccessful trucks along
the roadside didn't do much to help my imagination calm down.
As I day dreamt about what we would have done if the bus had
tipped over, right here in the middle of abso-freaking-lutely
nowhere, I caught sight of a pack of enormous warthogs scampering
away from the road; tusks gleaming. Then I prayed for a while.
When we stopped in Koungheul for breakfast, I pantomimed my
appreciation of the driver's quick reflexes, then offered to
treat he and the other two porters to breakfast. As we walked
half a block through the clusters of newly awakened Africans,
the kids stared at me, their mouths virtually hanging open.
Had we been in the city, perhaps my ear ring, ponytail, bandana
and dark shades would have seemed like a movie or a music video
come to life. Out here in the bush, I guess I looked like a
specimen from another planet. I tried to shrug it off as we
munched our bread and coffee, and shook hands with many of the
kids on the way back to the bus, much to their delighted surprise.
Breakfast for four men, with a tip for our hostess, was a dollar
twenty-five.
Two or three eternities later we finally pulled into Tambacounda.
Amidst the heat and the dust and the smoke and the innumerable
evidences of poverty, I clapped and shouted with glee. It felt
like coming home again. Girls clustered around the bus when
we stopped at the security checkpoint at the edge of town, selling
frozen bissap in plastic sandwich bags, condensation gleaming
in the sun. As I sucked on a frozen treat, I was grateful to
have finally arrived. The eleven hours of hell was over, and
we were finally among friends and family again. It then occurred
to me that during the entire ordeal, the African babies had
not cried... had not made even one single peep.
[Still on the same trip, several weeks later...]
The Spreading of Wings
February 1st, '02
Today, for the very first time, I watched one of the baby chickens
flap its fuzzy little wings and fly. For weeks the clumsy fledgling
and its siblings have been following the broody hens around,
learning to find sustenance amidst the dust and discards. Today
was first flight for one of them. From the ground, up, up, up,
up, up... all the way to the top of a wooden chair; a monumental
achievement, if there ever was one. Teetering and clutching,
the look on its face seemed to say, "Boy! Look at the view from
up here!!" Then down it fluttered, ker plop, into the dust,
and shook itself from stem to stern, cackling with glee. Oh,
what a day!
Yesterday afternoon I said farewell to Janko. He will be working
in his village for the next three days, and by the time he returns
to Tambacounda, I will have gone. I was very sad to say babenin
yon, since he has been such an influential role model during
my stay.
Janko's devotion to the study of djembe is awesome. He has been
playing since he was a very young child, and now, in his late
twenties, he has achieved a level of proficiency which seems
only surpassed by Abdoulaye and Sidibe. As we witnessed at the
Sogoninkun in Dar Salam, he has already become a truly great
player, and in time may very well attain the status of a bona
fide master. Growing up in the tiny village, he never had the
resources nor the opportunity to obtain a drum. Nor did he have
an actual teacher or mentor. Janko absorbed the majority of
his experience by playing the bottoms of discarded plastic containers
such as bottles and buckets, and he learned most of the rhythms
by gleaning all he could from the festivals, ceremonies and
other public drum displays he watched in the village. He didn't
have his own drum until he was nineteen years old.
During these weeks of instruction with Abdoulaye and Sidibe,
Janko has been present almost every single day. He spent an
uncountable number of hours sitting, waiting, silently observing,
while Abdoulaye spoke in a language Janko doesn't understand.
Unlike several of the other non-English-speaking observers,
Janko's attention never wavered, nor did he ever interrupt,
nor did he ever distract from the teachings. Some days he would
be an integral part of our learning, because Abdoulaye and Sidibe
would ask Janko to trade solos with them, and thus we would
hear three versions of how to speak to the spirit of each Rhythm,
but there were a great many days when Janko's only involvement
would be the continual repetition of an accompanying rhythm,
and on some days, just silent observation.
Every day he would arrive on his rickety old bicycle, a little
sweat on his forehead and a smile on his face. And every afternoon
or evening he would say adame, and climb atop the bicycle once
more. Janko rides his bicycle from Dar Salam to Tambacounda,
and back, every single day. Its fifteen kilometers each way,
by midmorning the sun is an average of eighty degrees, and heaven
only knows what sorts of carnivorous critters he might happen
upon during the long, dark ride home. Janko explained this to
me one evening just prior to another grueling pedal, and as
usual, he said it with a shrug and a grin. No big deal... right?
(As much as I love challenges and mountain biking, you couldn't
get me to ride that road at night for all the flippin' tea in
China!)
The following day I asked Abdoulaye what compensation Janko
was receiving for his monumental efforts and contributions.
"He comes to learn" was the reply. In other words, he does not
get paid. Janko rides thirty kilometers each day, through the
heat and hyenas and who knows what other hazards, in order to
spend most of his day listening to words he can't understand,
virtually babysitting us neophytes during our classes, in return
for a meal, a glass of bissap or attaya, and a few granules
of new information. In my opinion, Janko's devotion to djembe
is nothing short of heroic.
Yesterday evening I thanked Janko many times for all of his
gifts to us and for these weeks together. I gave him a coil
of top quality American rope which was long enough to lace a
drum, and a sizable chunk of cash. He graciously thanked me
many times, wadded the money into his pocket, tied the rope
to the bike, and headed for the door. As he exited the courtyard
in the fading twilight, I saw that his front tire was almost completely flat, and that he had bandaged it with a strip of
discarded cloth for the journey home. He smiled, waved, and
was gone.
Dear Reader,
This next entry is from my first trip to Germany in 2002.
My host was Michael Siefke, who made all the arrangements for
the tour, and was gracious enough to invite me stay in his home
with his wonderful family. I will always be grateful to Michael
for the opportunity to visit such a fantastic part of the world,
and to meet and play with such wonderful people.
Perhaps it is an even greater honor to have learned that this
tour, in the southern province of Baden - Wurttenberg, offered
the very first drum circles ever facilitated in that region!
On all accounts, the tour was a thundering success, and I enjoyed
my time with him in Germany enormously.
Michael is a teacher of many things, including several different
types of traditional drumming, drum circles, TaKeTiNa, and other
fascinating disciplines. He is an excellent communicator and
a sincerely warm hearted and wonderful human being.
THANK YOU MICHAEL!!!
You can contact Michael via email at: m.siefke@t-online.de
or via the web at: www.michael-siefke.de
Haus Auf Dem Winberg and Calw
July 25th, 2002
Michael and I and the instruments drove to the home for the
well elderly, Haus auf dem Wimberg, and began to set everything
up in the central room. Many of the participants were already
in the area, and watched our musical circus take shape. Suitcase
after suitcase of blocks, shakers, mallets, percussion tubes
and small drums were opened, and their contents spread in appealing
piles as the rest of the folks stiffly wheeled and shuffled
themselves into position. Getting the elderly folks in place
was as much of an effort as it was to set up all of the instruments.
At three o'clock we were ready, and Michael started the event
by humming the melody of a popular German waltz. By the third
refrain, most of the folks has joined him in the song, and the
music began to work its magic on their rickety old bodies and
sagely spirits. As we led the first rhythmical piece, stiff
joints began to loosen, and eyes began to shine.
By the time we handed out shakers and drums, years had seemingly
melted away, and their reactions and their laughter came quicker
and much more fluidly. We concluded the circle with another
singing of the waltz, and shook hands with may of the participants
and the staff. Most enjoyable of all, after the rhythm circle
had concluded, Michael and I took great delight in watching
the shocked faces of the attendants as they chased down several
of the previously wheelchair-bound old men and women who were
now walking down the halls completely unassisted. Refreshed
from the music making, the residents of the rest home came over
to thank us for the event, and left their strollers and canes
behind as they walked away... they simply didn't need them.
Don't ever let anyone tell you miracles don't happen - I saw
some today.
Calw (pronounced "Khalff") is a modest village of
less than 10,000 inhabitants, and after several sojourns through
its cobblestone streets and fachwerkhaus architecture and bakeries
and outdoor cafes and the central marketplace I have grown very
fond of it. It is small enough that although I have met merely
a couple dozen of its people, we always encounter familiar faces.
It would be an exaggeration to call sleepy little Calw exciting,
but it never ceases to be interesting. Yesterday's stroll included
an elegant lunch, a long browse among the massive blocks of
rose hued, locally quarried sandstone ruins of the fabled 900
year old Calw monastery, a brief meditation within the living
stone womb of a 1,000 year old Catholic church, and a latte
in a modern Italian coffeehouse in which the proprietor greeted
Michael by name. Today's stroll was even more eventful than
that... Michael led me into two music stores, where we tickled
our percussive fancies by sampling and selecting a variety of
instruments. We encountered Angelika during our shop, and she
suggested an outdoor chat over cappuccinos and ice cream. Amidst
several other tables of conversationalists we made the necessary
adjustments from sunglasses to sheltering umbrellas and back
again, as the moody afternoon weather tried to make up its mind.
During our talk, men and women of all nationalities strolled
about the shops, and I came to the boggling realization that
both the cargo van full of breads and cheeses and the impossibly
minuscule econo cars all around us were made by Mercedes Benz.
The steepled clock tower tolled four, as it probably has every
afternoon for several hundred years, while our dyed blonde waitress
scuttled between men wearing suits and girls wearing tattoos
and piercings. Then, out of nowhere, She walked up. In mid sentence
I was interrupted by the arrival of a twenty something, tight
skirted, confident looking, cigarette flicking woman as she
asked, "Are you a musician?" "Yes." "Uh-huh. You're invited
to come see my band tonight, at eight o'clock. We're a rock
band. I play guitar and I'm a singer. I'm getting married to
David Bowie. And to Iggy Pop - both at the same time. You're
invited to the wedding." "Um... really?" I asked, trying to
keep a straight face, and wondering which planet had just exported
this creature into our conversation. "Yeah. You're invited to
play too. I lived in Colorado for four years, that's why my
English is so good. Here, want a smoke..? David left these at
my house last night. Did you know that every David Bowie song
was written about me?" (The lyrics describing the exploits of
spaceman "Major Tom" came to mind... ) "Call David," she continued,
"and please tell him he forgot his smokes. Oh, and call Prince
too, and tell him he's invited to the wedding." After a skeptical
glance at Michael and Angelika, I turned back to Miss Missing
Marbles and asked, "Does he still have the same number?" She
answered yes, and went on to tell me an incredible quantity
of other flawless delusions, including giving me her number
after I declined it, giving me the pack of smokes after I said
I hated cigarettes, and asking me to ask her to dinner amidst
her description of her upcoming wedding to Mr. Bowie. Her unshakable
belief in all of the other ludicrous things she described was
commendable, if it were not for the impossibility of every single
utterance. After five or ten minutes of pleasantly dueling with
her insanity, I finally barked at her for her intrusion, and
she walked away, after giving me the pack of smokes and reminding
me not to forget about phoning David and Prince. The three well
dressed men at the nearest table had observed the entire exchange,
and as she walked away, I sarcastically pantomimed the opportunity
for one of them to be introduced to the talkative loon. He laughed,
and shook his head. In the remaining fifteen minutes of our
downtown experience, Angelika paid the bill, the breeze brought
faint snatches of the a cappella chorale being sung somewhere
farther up the hill, and I learned that the man I had invited
to meet Miss Megafreak was none other than the mayor of Calw.
(Sigh.) Never a dull moment here in Deutschland, believe you
me.
Dear Reader, The next three are from my time in Germany
with Michael in '05, after he and his family relocated to the
village of Bad Tienach...
Sunlight
April 21st
Sunlight casts flowers, trees, hillsides, steeples, and houses
in a cherubic tone of gold. For the first time in five days
the clouds and rain have retreated, and everything in Bad Teinach
seems to be unfurling; reaching to the light. I sit on a steeply
sloped hillside overlooking the village, listening to the waterfalls
cascading into the pond and to the twittering conversations
of all the nearby birds. The breeze still cuts like a cold knife
on my neck and ears, and through my clothes I can feel the icy
cold of the stone slab I am sitting upon, but there is warmth
as well, swirling in the afternoon air, and the golden light
promises that tomorrow may be even warmer. The days pass. The
clouds and rain and sun migrate across the sky, and my daily
rhythms are punctuated by the drum circles, discussions, meals,
laughter, musings and discoveries which become the potpourri
of my experiences in Europe. Seven more drum circles at two
different schools in two different villages during the last
two days. Three hundred and fifty more German kids who lit up
with smiles and music and the satisfaction of creating their
own rhythms. Teachers and shop owners who said, "Great to see
you again this year." Teenagers who acted as if my ponytail
and California attitude were the coolest things they've ever
seen, and the preteens who begged me for autographs and gave
me gleeful high fives as they exited the classrooms. I sit here
on this hillside, momentarily fascinated by a bug the size of
a pinhead which looks for all the world to be a strawberry with
eight bright red legs, and as the bug trudges across the breadth
of this one hand hewn stone step, I wonder if all my work is
as ephemeral as a breath of sunny wind, or whether my efforts
may actually enrich the hearts and minds of these kids. I would
love to believe that in some way the smiles and music within
these drum circles will linger in the lives of these people.
Perhaps there are memories being born which will be saved, or
even cherished.
Daily I pass through these villages which seem
nearly untouched by the cyberspeed pace of the outside world
and I pray for their preservation. I hope and pray that villages
like Bad Teinach may remain safe and clean and healthy for generations
to come. Perhaps I am only a freakish anomaly which temporarily
gets their attention because I teach the LOUDEST lesson they
have ever experienced in all their days at school, soon to be
rinsed from the fabric of their lives by the flow of time. Or,
perhaps my stories from America and Africa and other lands afar
actually ignite their wanderlust and other radical dreams. Perhaps
there may even be those whose newborn dreams may carry them
up and out of these villages and these lives of theirs, to spread
their wings and fly to mystical places like the ones they see
on T.V. or hear about in my stories. Perhaps. But if my stories
or my music or some other repercussion of my visit does sow
any seeds of change within these precious German lives, then
I wish with all my heart that they do someday return. Return
to love again the place from which they came. Return with new
ideas and greater understanding. I hope they will return with
eyes newly opened, and may they behold the beauty of all their
culture and communities with newfound love and appreciation.
And may they protect it, passionately, fervently, for now and
forever. The bell tower peals out the extended chiming which
indicates seven o'clock. The day concludes. Evening begins to
awaken. The bug has finally reached the other side. The breezes
have settled. Now there is only the creamy warmth of summer
sunlight, and the chorales of the local birds. All in Bad Teinach
is serene. My feet and I wander on. -Amen.
[ Later that same trip, with Mathias, after a couple days
in Switzerland with he and his family... ]
Impact
April 27th, '05
Table for one at an outdoor cafe in a cobblestone plaza, in
a village just barely on the Deutchland side of the Swiss-German
border. The adventure is in full swing once more, and I am again
exuberantly pleased with the events of my life. Mathias is visiting
his German dentist, so I have a few moments to describe today's
drum circles. Thanks for joining me.
After running almost three dozen circles in German schools recently,
the events have become virtually flawless. Not that I have
been anointed with inhuman perfection, ha-ha-ha, yeah right....
Since I have kept the daily activities very similar for
the sake of clear translation, I have dealt with every possible
variation or circumstance which could have arisen within my
curriculum. However, the school we went to today rendered all
of that useless.
Heil Paedagogish Schule in Doettingen is a facility for gradeschoolers
with moderate to severe learning challenges. Most of the kids
have a unique walk, or are in wheelchairs, or need to be assisted
with every single move they make. One look at those students
made it heartbreakingly obvious that the kids needed every ounce
of care available, and with their delayed reactions, slack faces,
tilted heads, and bodies often shaped in tragically grotesque
variations, their appearance made it crystal clear that none
of my typical activities or well rehearsed techniques would
be applicable.
Dear Lord, I asked myself, Can they even play at all..?
We prepared the most user friendly set of gear we had. No bells,
lots of soft mallets for the drums; stuff that couldn't get
broken and would not be too loud. We set up the circle of chairs
with a few empty spaces for the placement of the wheelchairs.
As the kids began to gather outside the door, I took a very
deep breath, and tried to prepare myself for whatever might,
or might not, be about to happen...
They gathered, and I did my very best to be warm and accommodating.
As their blatant stares of "Who's the new guy..?" slowly melted,
I got them to laugh at some of my clowning around. Eventually
I began my usual warm up of body percussion. I kept the rhythms
very slow, and the body movements as simple as possible. Although
it took a while for them catch on, the more capable members
of the group began to enjoy the game. Smiles and laughter began
to bubble up out of the group, and our event got under way.
It took a few minutes to get them into the circle, even with
the help of all their adult assistants. Out of a group of twenty-eight,
ten were adult teachers or aides.
I introduced the instruments, keeping the verbal instruction
as minimal as possible. By that point, all of my usual expectations
were long gone, and all I really wanted to achieve was some
sort of connection between the players and the rhythm. Everything
we played we did in total unison. No polyrhythms. As the first
rhythm repeated itself over and over, several of the more catatonic
youths began to move. As the adults got caught up in the playing,
and left the students to handle themselves, the magic began
to happen. Their bodies loosened up. There was an audible improvement
in their ability to play together. By the time we ended our
third or fourth rumble, the entire group came to a stop in perfect
unison. That shocked me - I hadn't thought it would be possible.
The game was on!
When it came time to switch instruments, I decided to have them
stay in their places, and Mathias and I repositioned all thirty
instruments as fast as we could. Exhausting, but effective.
We played again, and this time we were able to raise and lower
the volume while we played together. Their progress was remarkable.
In less than one hour many of them had gone from what seemed
to have been total non comprehension to almost perfect lucidity.
For the conclusion of the first circle, Mathias and I played
djembes while the students clapped and smiled and slowly shuffled
out of the room. It had been one of the toughest situations
I have encountered in years, but the joy in their eyes and the
dramatic accomplishments in their music making made it all well
worth it.
We dined with the students for lunch. I was amazed to see them
all using glassware and real plates and regular silverware.
Some of the most severely challenged needed to be held and assisted
with every bite, but other students were in charge of serving
the food to the people at their table, refilling water glasses,
and cleaning up all of the tableware and wiping everything down
afterwards. Many of the teachers complimented me for the first
drum circle, saying that they had never seen their kids so totally
engrossed in anything for over an hour.
So as we prepared for the second circle I felt much more prepared
to work with the kids and their special needs... Until I saw
the one who's torso was literally folded in half, so that his
head rested completely in his lap... and the one who's eyes
seemed permanently fixed on a point in space somewhere way over
his left shoulder, while he drooled. Again I felt as if my heart
would break with the awful realization that these weren't temporary
conditions; this was the life these kids were to live for a
long as they survived. As the group gathered I also noticed
a few who sat upon the floor, mouths agape, staring straight
ahead and yet seeming to see nothing at all.
Deep breaths Cameron... These kids need your help. Do not
let your personal issues prevent one speck of the happiness
you may be able to give them... Breathe man... there's work
to do...
The second group also had one of the same challenges I had in
the first circle: the group was not from one particular grade,
they were students in grades one through seven. Back at home
in California, I always insist that schools group their kids
by ages, so that my activities can be as developmentally appropriate
as possible, and I usually avoid working with the eldest and
youngest students simultaneously. But when Mathias and I had
made that request at this school, they gently explained that
separating the students by age would be useless, since some
of their thirteen year olds had about the same IQ levels as
their six year olds.
But for some reason, that second group was significantly more
capable than the morning group had been. As soon as I got started,
their laughter began, and it would not stop. I have never gotten
such enthusiastic reactions to my silly little jokes in my entire
life. By the time they were seated at the instruments, we were
having a ball. And every time we finished a rhythm and did a
huge rumble ("drum roll"), they howled with glee. Every one
of the faces which had seemed incapable of either thought or
emotion was now split into huge smiles or bellowing laughter,
and the longer we played, the more we laughed.
The music improved as quickly as the vibe in the room. Nearly
everyone was able to play in unison with the group. We executed
several perfectly unified stop cuts. They succeeded in playing
longer patterns. And lo and behold, by the end of class they
even succeeded in a two part polyrhythm! It was a simple one,
to be sure, but for those kids to maintain their own rhythm
while facing an opposing counter-rhythm on the other side of
the circle was an immense accomplishment.
As I reflect back on it now, I can clearly see and hear the
smiles and laughter of those precious children. I think of the
five year old who bounced up and down, clapping his hands with
belly laughs pouring out of his face every time we rumbled.
I think of the girl who couldn't contain herself during the
music, and would climb with stiff legs out of her chair to do
her duck walk dance right in the middle of the circle. And in
what might have been the single most miraculous moment of all,
I think of when I passed by one of the previously catatonic
wheelchair occupants, and his eyes rolled down to look straight
into mine. No doubt about it, he was fully lucid for at least
one moment in time.
Miracles happened at that school today.
Even if only for a few moments in time, those kids forgot all
of their frustrations and limitations, and we laughed together,
and they made musical accomplishments that none of us would
have ever imagined would be possible. For just one hour, they
were lifted up out of their wheelchairs and their traumas, and
they believed in themselves, and their abilities, and they succeeded.
Today was a day which made me feel that if I had to die tomorrow,
my entire life would have been well spent, because today we
were able to let the magic of music set those priceless spirits
free. Those kids weren't helpless wheelchair bound invalids
today. They were eagles.
"Do You Miss Your Home..?"
May 3rd
Nightfall comes to Bad Teinach. My bags are packed. All is done.
The day, and the tour, are virtually finished. I feel tired
from the inside out. Three different countries and forty-eight
drum circles in less than twenty-four days. The tour was totally
successful and absolutely beautiful, and my only regret is that
there really wasn't much time for relaxation, nor very much
time to just be present with these wonderful people. I am sad
to be leaving. But next year's plan's are well underway, so
I know my sadness is only temporary, and that as soon as I have
rested, I will once again begin to build my anticipatory excitement
for the return.
Today, when I finished my third and final circle at the RealSchule
in Althengstett, I told the students I was very proud of them,
and that their music making was the final event in my European
tour. I told them that in the months ahead, I would tell my
Californian students how well they had played (which is true).
One seventh grade girl came over to me after everyone else had
left the room, and in very stilted English, she asked me if
I missed my home while I was on tour. "I miss my girlfriend,"
I said, "but not really the building where I live." She seemed
to accept that, and smiled, and was gone.
How true that is. Although I adore my funky wooden home on a
Santa Barbara hillside overlooking the town and the ocean and
the Channel Islands, it is not what I miss. When I long for
home, in my mind's eye I see the smiling faces of my friends.
I hear their laughs or the tone of their voices; I remember
anew what it is to be familiar to those closest to me. The strong,
comforting handshakes, the particular way their bodies sway
when we drum together, the feeling of being held close by my
girlfriend, or the way mom's eyes sparkle when I visit. Life
is our relationships with the people around us. It is the loving
and caring we share with one another.
As I make ready to leave Europe, my eyes and ears drink in every
ounce of the local beauty they possibly can, knowing that it
will be more than a year before I can behold these things again.
But I know that when I am home safe and sound and back to my
routines, it will not be the buildings I will long for, nor
the cobblestone streets, nor even the cathedrals. I will miss
these European friends. These people with whom I have laughed
and lived and drummed for the past few weeks, and all that we
have shared.
May heaven please protect them and keep them safe and happy
until we are united once more.
-amen.
Dear Reader,
This one is from my European tour in '03, and describes a
particular morning in Switzerland. My host in Switzerland was
Mathias Schiesser, who let me stay in his home and with his
family, both of which were lovely. I found Mathias to be a talented,
perceptive, humorous, sincere person, whose efforts to coordinate
my tour and to have such a great trip were only outdone by his
wit and his music. The trip to Switzerland expanded my world
view and my empathy towards people from every imaginable walk
of life. For that, for the fun, the music, and for all his efforts,
I am eternally grateful.
THANK YOU MATHIAS!!!
Mathias Schiesser offers hand drumming classes, drum circles,
TaKeTiNa training, and other enjoyable activities.
You can contact Mathias Schiesser via email at: mschiesser@rhythmusik.ch
or by checking out his web site: www.rhythmusik.ch
5/17/03
Good morning to you from Sarmenstorf, Aargau, Switzerland.
I sit in the calm and quiet of Saturday morning, sipping at
my first cup of coffee. The upper level of Mathias and Josephine's
flat is an A-frame, the peak and angles supported by massive
laminated beams. Most of the surface up here is the ceiling,
which slopes to the floor on one edge, and to the wall, window,
and glass doors on the other side. Its rather like being in
a presidential tent. The ceiling and walls are whitewashed,
above the pale brown shades of wooden flooring, and all of the
door and window casings are also white, casting the entire space
in a symphony of air and light. Their three year old son's room
occupies one corner, the kitchen counters and appliances, also
white, wrap around another corner. The dining set is near the
kitchen area, and the bookshelf, lounge, and the couch I'm enjoying
are all in the other quadrant. Mathias and Josephine both have
an incredible eye for artistic decorating, and employ wood,
leather, stainless steel, plants, fabric, and incandescent lighting
brilliantly.
The lower level of their flat is composed of an entryway, two
bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, and two balconies, all of
it supremely textured, arranged, and coordinated. Each room,
like all of the house, is a symbiotic success of form and function.
The building itself was once a textile factory, and I estimate
its three floors might contain twenty-something multi level
dwellings like this one. There was a devastating fire ten years
ago, which ended the building's time as the Alpenit clothing
company, and made the space available for its current collective
of tenants to purchase it, custom decorate every space to their
liking, and move in. The overall structure seems fantastically
solid, all rooms have high ceilings, and it is now a very beautiful
collage of living spaces.
Here on the top floor, half of the light pouring into the interior
comes from the central patio, which was previously just a flat
roof, prior to the tile, plants, railings, lawn chair and children's
toys which now make it quite homey. Out the windows are rolling
green hills, speckled with dozens of traditional high peaked
rooftops and a few church spires and bell towers. Farther hills
are quilted with well manicured fields and patches of forests,
as well as a few weathered old farm houses and barns. There
are a number of newer, rectangular, stucco and steel business
buildings, but these are rather unremarkable by comparison.
Most impressive of all, of course, are the moments when the
southern mists and clouds roll away, revealing the splendor
and awe of the Swiss Alps in the distance. The first morning
I was here, coffee in hand, wiping the sleep from my eyes, when
I gazed out beyond the houses and fields and caught my first
glimpse of the Alps, I went mute, thunderstruck, scarcely able
to breathe. I was completely overwhelmed by the view. Wherever
I have traveled, the diversity of Mother Nature's creations
and moods has always surprised me, but the appearance of those
spikes, cones, pyramids and slices practically makes me tremble
when I consider the raging mood she must have been in when she
crafted such a violent assemblage of earth.
Here then, from sculptures to farmlands, from the pastoral to
the primordial, amidst interwoven aspects of ice and light and
greenery; the sublime textures of topography and aesthetics
are divinity incarnate.
Good morning to you.
Dear Reader, This one is from my visit to the Big
Apple in January '06. Once again, these words say nothing about
the drum circle I was there to facilitate, but it was one of
the most interesting days I've ever had... Hope ya like it...
Minute New York
1/19/06
Leather and taxis and cigarettes and everyone wearing black
and guiltless, continual, J-walking, exuding attitudes of chic
and worldly and insensitive, clad in black, head to toe, while
stepping around psychotic street people in their threadbare,
mismatched, outdated shades of black. The most hip and popular
throngs are adorned with the very latest and greatest shades
of black ever made, except, of course, for particular contours
of the human psyche, with which we all make instantaneous judgments
to determine whether or not we're willing to indulge in a blink's
worth of eye contact, or an actual greeting with anyone. Spoken,
if so, only by those wearing black to those also wearing black,
at the assumed exclusion of anyone wearing the wrong or financially
improper black. Emerging from the PATH train at Ground Zero,
bewildered by the solemnity of everyone's clothing, I am incredulous
that the train just took all of us beneath the Hudson river,
from Exchange Place, New Jersey, to the rubble and concrete
remains of the World Trade Center, New York. After long moments
of reverie and prayers, I turn away from the national grave
site, and begin walking. Out into the masses I go, hustling
along the strange streets, flaunting their cornucopia extraordinare.
My precautionary radar continually scans the crowd. Yet for
all the bustle and the blatant lack of tranquility, I feel surprisingly
calm, adrift within a benevolent, ebonic sea of fellow humans.
I am too cynical to actually feel safe within a beast as opulent
and preposterous as New York city, but I cannot deny a conspicuous
lack of concern.
Cross over Broadway and into China Town, and amidst the delicate
carvings and outrageously strange fruits, I buy a glass bracelet
for Jessica. I wander up into Little Italy, and the neighborhoods
become narrower, cozier, more full of people, yet less full
of congestion. Buildings seem less imposing, the streets smell
friendly. Christmas lights are still strung everywhere, adding
a cherubic glow to it all, yet always and everywhere, people,
fast moving, poker faces, everyone in black. Me in the middle,
buzzing on the rush of it all. The flush of exotic adventure
consumes me, and I find myself hurrying along, for no apparent
reason other than raw excitement. Can I see it all in one
night..?!
On a corner stands a young, friendly, Italian man with a warm
smile and a quick handshake. Apparently his job is to encourage
people to enter the restaurant he works for, and I let him do
his job. Soon I am seated inside Cafe Napoli, at the corner
of Mulberry and Hester, along one of the windows, resting, still
in total awe of the continual masses of people flowing along
the streets. My first bite of New York food is a delicious mouthful
of freshly baked Italian bread, sopped into the most amazing
melange of oil, garlic, and assorted herbs I have ever sampled.
My hurry dissolves, and I am present, here in the tantalizing
belly of NYC, happy to be alive.
New vocabulary word: a Kaipiryna ("kah-per-INN-ya") is the Brazilian
version of a mohito, made by pouring a glass of rum on the rocks,
with a squeeze of lime and two spoons of sugar, blended all
up, served in a margarita glass. Ooooh yeah. My bread,
oil and herbs are upstaged by the arrival of my lobster stuffed
raviolis, and the meal gets into full swing... Please excuse
me...
...What a meal. Stuffed and marinated, I now pine for the streets
again. They seem to compel my feet, insistently whispering to
my soul... Perhaps I begin to understand the attraction, the
buzz, the rush, the addiction; begin to realize why people choose
to call NYC their mistress. She is indeed a spellbinding, irresistible
elixir; a carnal delight of ubersensational proportions. Onward...
Hours later, I am freshly disgusted with everyone's neurotic
addiction to their cell farts/phones. Especially mine. Doesn't
anyone else in the modern world consider phone calls subordinate
to the ephemeral present moment..? Why do we carry these things,
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