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Volume CXXXII, Number 13 |
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Trashy rhythms
HANNAH DEAN
STAFF WRITER
The glorification of four, long-armed, apes banging on junk? Perhaps. A handful of drummers who have discovered that if they work out, make a lot of noise, and look cute, they can draw quite a crowd? Maybe. In any case, Brunswick, Maine rarely sees that much testosterone on one stage. Who knew that a bunch of drummers could be so attractive?
Jokes aside, the group Recycled Percussion put on quite a show for the Bowdoin College audience. Combining beats from a smattering of cultures and genres, the four youths lit up the stage with their dynamic rhythms. The sparks flew, quite literally, when the group used two band-saws during one performance number.
Yet how does one describe a rhythm that vibrates in the very bones of an audience member? How does one speak of four men who have the ability to apply their drumsticks to the core of a man, or a woman, pushing the steady lub-dub of the heart into the madness of a beat unfolding on stage? Putting words to the group's artistic clout would be sacrilege. Trying to describe the dynamic of the sound created on stage would be like trying to play the violin without a bow-plucky at best.
Sitting in the audience, self-possession was out of the question. Everything was in sync; even the walls were part of a metrical unity, prey to the encompassing beat. The crowd members sat, paralyzed by the tension of pure, unadulterated rhythm. The audience probably experienced a feeling equivalent to the milliseconds directly prior to reaching the peak of pleasure.
It was only after the reverberations were ringing in the air that the drummers on stage released the audience back into the humdrum of the everyday world. Drumsticks raised to the sky and, in one case, hurled to the back of the stage, the instruments disappeared. It was suddenly junk that sat upon the stage-sources of beauty transformed back into non-descript trash.
The sound that had bloomed in Smith Union wilted in the ears of the audience members. The silence was overwhelming. Ravaged by noise, debauched by the beat, deflowered by the primordial pounding-the experience had been, in a word, orgasmic. It's no wonder the group has opened for, among other artistic talents, L.L. Cool J.
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