Having attended two wedding receptions, I’ve decided my favorite part occurs at the beginning, or sort of beginning, after the guests have been waiting in the parking lot an hour or two for the wedding couple to arrive. Throughout town, a ten-piece brass band riding on the back of a pickup has blasted celebratory songs, leading a long train of cars. The wedding car, easily identified by an arrangement of roses and bows on the hood, parks at the entrance to the YMCA reception hall. The band now assemble themselves on the steps nearby, the bass and snare drums on one end, the trombones and trumpet on the other.
Unlike the police band of last week’s wedding, these musicians wear red satin shirts and black ties. They are a group much plumper than the police, and this band has energy. Before the trumpet player sounds the first note, he feels the beat in his body by swaying from side to side, closer to a bounce with loose hips. While he’s been swaying, his trumpet has been pressed to his lips and just at the right moment, music somersaults into the wedding air. The whole band now sways, loose hips and all, waiting for the right moment, instruments poised and ready. Their sounds tumble into the air, and I am giddy.
Now the women whoop, holler and form a line, dancing around the wedding car. The more sedate ones bounce from foot to foot, some add a bounce of the hip, and some put shoulders, hips, and shaking head into the rhythm.
I wish I could join them. For eight years, I studied piano. When I became proficient at breaking down measures into four beats, three beats, or some other variation, I couldn’t keep the same tempo. My teacher tapped the end of the piano with a pencil and counted out, “ONE AND TWO AND THREE AND FOUR AND.” In marching band, I listened for the bass drum’s downbeat, planting my right foot on a yard line in the football field in time with it. My feet learned how to make eight equal steps for every five yards, and I learned to listen for that bass drum.
At the wedding reception with hips and shoulders and dizzying music, I am bumping shoulders out of time with the woman next to me. I stop and watch. Clearly she feels the rhythm. I listen for the bass drum, the snare, and then each brass player. There’s not a downbeat to be found anywhere. All I can do is match my swaying visually to the trumpet player’s.
I remember a line from a book about the history of jazz that describes African rhythm, the seeds of jazz. In African drumming, syncopation layers upon syncopation. The intent is to mesmerize and disorient listeners, but not enough to alienate them. So, imagine a knot, and imagine that this knot is made up of six strands. Imagine that each of these strands has already formed a knot. Then imagine each of those knots has six strands that form a knot. Then imagine all of those knots have been looping around you. It’s impossible to follow them, yet you are the center of those knots.
Later at the wedding reception, I happily tapped my toe to popular recorded music with downbeats obvious and clear by Michael Jackson, Abba, and African artists I didn’t know. But this other music, this spell of silent downbeats that left me with the euphoria of having the bottom drop out, of floating with bouncing shoulders and swaying hips—that was intoxicating—sway, though I did, out of time.
Unlike the police band of last week’s wedding, these musicians wear red satin shirts and black ties. They are a group much plumper than the police, and this band has energy. Before the trumpet player sounds the first note, he feels the beat in his body by swaying from side to side, closer to a bounce with loose hips. While he’s been swaying, his trumpet has been pressed to his lips and just at the right moment, music somersaults into the wedding air. The whole band now sways, loose hips and all, waiting for the right moment, instruments poised and ready. Their sounds tumble into the air, and I am giddy.
Now the women whoop, holler and form a line, dancing around the wedding car. The more sedate ones bounce from foot to foot, some add a bounce of the hip, and some put shoulders, hips, and shaking head into the rhythm.
I wish I could join them. For eight years, I studied piano. When I became proficient at breaking down measures into four beats, three beats, or some other variation, I couldn’t keep the same tempo. My teacher tapped the end of the piano with a pencil and counted out, “ONE AND TWO AND THREE AND FOUR AND.” In marching band, I listened for the bass drum’s downbeat, planting my right foot on a yard line in the football field in time with it. My feet learned how to make eight equal steps for every five yards, and I learned to listen for that bass drum.
At the wedding reception with hips and shoulders and dizzying music, I am bumping shoulders out of time with the woman next to me. I stop and watch. Clearly she feels the rhythm. I listen for the bass drum, the snare, and then each brass player. There’s not a downbeat to be found anywhere. All I can do is match my swaying visually to the trumpet player’s.
I remember a line from a book about the history of jazz that describes African rhythm, the seeds of jazz. In African drumming, syncopation layers upon syncopation. The intent is to mesmerize and disorient listeners, but not enough to alienate them. So, imagine a knot, and imagine that this knot is made up of six strands. Imagine that each of these strands has already formed a knot. Then imagine each of those knots has six strands that form a knot. Then imagine all of those knots have been looping around you. It’s impossible to follow them, yet you are the center of those knots.
Later at the wedding reception, I happily tapped my toe to popular recorded music with downbeats obvious and clear by Michael Jackson, Abba, and African artists I didn’t know. But this other music, this spell of silent downbeats that left me with the euphoria of having the bottom drop out, of floating with bouncing shoulders and swaying hips—that was intoxicating—sway, though I did, out of time.
It seems dance is part of the music. Jazz must be comprehended by people sitting quietly on the riverfront in San Antonio, or driving home from work.
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