A Living Legend, Just 5 Feet Away

I've been in the Bay Area for about 3 weeks now. That's it, and already this has been an amazing summer!

Evening was just beginning according to the clock, but the sun still shone brightly as I stood at the metal railing, two feet from the main stage. The show was scheduled to start at 6:30pm, but that didn't happen. The Harmony Festival closing ceremonies had gone on far longer than anyone not on stage desired. After the crowd finished exhaling to the east and "traveling down the planetary birth canal" (yes, that's a direct quote), the band could finally start setting up for the headlining act.

Check 1, 2. Boom, bang, bah boom. Check, check. A, A, Africa, A. Be dee dee dee, cha boom. The guitarist from Brazil rambled into the mike. The Ghanaian drummer pounded out beats on the bongos and congas. He pounded his fist on this big wooden ball attached to an amp, and the ground shook. Next to him a rock band style drum set waited for its Cameroonian percussionist.

Turning around, I discovered I could no longer see my friend relaxing on the grass a few yards behind me. People had returned to the area in front of the stage now that the festival founder (who bears a strange resemblance to one of my law school deans) and her cohorts had stopped entreating us to save the world through meditation.

Here I was, somewhere in California I hadn't heard of two weeks ago. Waiting in a field full of hippies, 5 and 65 alike dressed like fairies and lost in ecstasies of interpretive dance - the men and the women. I turned back to the stage, partly in excited anticipation, not wanting to miss the entrance, partly intrigued by the musicians and sound techs, and mostly to ignore the lunatics on every other side of me.

The clock on my phone now showed nearly half-past seven. The shadows had grown long, but dusk had not come yet. The scent of earthy herb wafted through the hot air. The announcer came back on stage in all her tree-hugging glory, clothing made of birch tree, feathers on her headband sticking straight up. But this time, I was glad to see her. She was there to introduce her, the one I came to see! A few blurbs about Grammy Awards, some gibberish about organic and then . . . .

There she was! One of the most amazing female singers out there, Angelique Kidjo! Older than I expected her to look, but still absolutely stunning. A burnt orange suit, multi-colored patterned shirt, and black boots with her dyed blonde hair setting it all off. Then, she opened her mouth and her looks, the outfit, everything, paled into comparison with her voice. If I had to rank, I'd put her only behind Maureen Lilanda in terms of vocal beauty. So talented, so gorgeous, and boy can she dance!

I have no idea how many songs she did. I didn't count, but I did recognize every one of them. I hadn't realized before that one of the songs was a Rolling Stones cover. She pointed that out. (I was wondering how the entire crowd knew the song.) Every person on that stage had a ton of energy. The conga drummer swung his dreads in circles; the guitar players seemed to put their soul into their playing; Angelique jumped around in circles. And then there was her dancer. In case anything else hadn't really reminded me of Africa yet. Shirt off, muscles gleaming in sweat. The towel tucked into the front of his jeans flapped as he snapped his hips forward. It reminded me of the dancing in Mr. Nice's First Lady video, or the dozens of men I'd seen in Zambia dancing with themselves in the mirror after too much chibuku, imitating the Congolese rumba dancers. It got quite a reaction out of the Americans who had never seen something like that (or at least acted like they hadn't.)

Later, Angelique invited the audience on stage. A young girl, maybe seven years old, joined the crowd and quickly took center stage, dancing like a miniature cross between Angelique's dancer and Shakira. Angelique at least feigned shock while the bongo drummer gave the girl a beat. After her, every feather and fairy-wing wearing weirdo had to have their chance to dance with the drummer. "Well, that's it, white people can't dance," I thought to myself. Then I corrected myself. "No, aging hippies can't dance." It got old real fast. At least the music was still great.

Angelique came back and did one last rousing song after clearing the stage. By the time she ended, the sun had set and the temperature had dropped sharply. An incredibly good show. Well worth the hour drive, the day in the sun, the ticket price, and yes, even worth spending an afternoon with the looney farm. I'm glad I went, because, as the feather lady reminded us, my being there meant one less person out on the streets with a gun that day. Yes, that's exactly what I would have done if I hadn't gone to Harmony Fest, shot people. More likely I'd want to do that after going to Harmony Fest. Oh well. Hooray for Angelique Kidjo! Mi Kwabo!

(Original Post)

Bedroom

Tired

Someone playing guitar upstairs