Making Magic: An Ode to Musicians

I am listening to an album entitled “Dhramasala 2008”. I copied it from a man I met only briefly and yet was so intrigued by that I wished I could have met him for longer. But this man didn't want to be met by me. He just wanted to practice his yoga and to play his music. He was a peaceful man, who believed in the energy and life-force of all nature's beings. He lived in Israel near the border of Gaza. He rocked backwards and forwards while he played his guitar and sang of 'Shanti'. He was with a woman from Turkey. A beautiful woman with a voice so mesmorising it would be impossible to talk or even to think while she shared it. She rocked forwards and backwards as she sang. They fitted perfectly together. I told them so. They agreed, but said it would be for a short time – only – incredibly.

Next to them sat a dark man with a red shawl – like a wolf under a thick bright cloak. His hair was shaggy, his face lined, his voice deep and his fingers manipulating locally crafted bamboo flutes. Flutes which he brought to life, producing a sound so smooth that they dragged you towards their sound, taking you with them, towards a place neither of you knew. He was from Australia although described himself as a man of this world, but living parallel to society. He had once tried to escape from this 'society' and managed to do so for many years, but decided there were certain aspects he needed to continue to grow and to learn. So he is picking and choosing – in a limbo between a life within himself and within the wild world, and a life shared, urbanised and globalised. In replies to the songs of 'Shanti' he would bellow of 'Passion and Romance' and words which make no sense but are full of meaning.

Then there was a man of few words but of so so many sounds. A man from Argentina. He played the tabla, he played the table, he played the plates and the glasses, the spoons and the floor. He stood on the small wall and played the stone pillar. He played everything and anything. His rhythms seeped inside your own fingers, and made them want to join. There was another man who also tapped the same personalised unified beat from a different tabla. A quiet Indian Man who expertly and loudly banged his drum. Most presumed he was from Israel. Maybe because he was always with Israeli girls or maybe because he just looked 'different'; with long shiny straight hair, never speaking, always smoking.

Then there was a German man. He played the Hang. Like an upside down steel drum, or a shiny wok. It made the most incredible sounds. It is one of my most favourite instruments, and yet strangely I have no desire to try to learn to play it. Perhaps because it is too Magical. Not from this world. Echoing within itself, reverberating all around. It is one of the most fulfilling instruments I have ever heard. Fulfilling – until it stops, and then it leaves a new space, which was not there before it was played, but which lingers for some time after. It is a space which can only be filled by its own creation. The creation of something which cannot be felt, or touched, which cannot be smelt or tasted, which cannot be bought or sold, which is invisible to everything but our ears. Around these magical musical people sat a collection of their wares. Some small rounded maracas, which could be shaken and thrown, banged and tapped. A solid brass bowl, borrowed from the Buddhist monks and producing golden rings of sounds, deep to high, softly steady.

These are a few of the musicians who met by accident in a small simple restaurant in Bhagsu. Who did not know the name of those they played along side. Who joined rhythms which they could not resist and which left their dinner growing cold, forgotten in front of them. Who made introductions after deciding scales, if at all. Who began romances knowing the day they would end. These are a few of the musicians who are of different nationalities, of different cultures, of different beliefs, of different languages, of different lives, of different occupations. They played the same music – deep and true, pure and addictive. From within. Poured out. Beautiful to hear. To be shared. To enjoy. Impossible to explain. Impossible to remove from the moment. The healing, peaceful energy giving power of the invisible audible language of what we call “Music”.

To you talented instinctive passionate performing people, who came together for only a few nights: Thank you for your gift which you created from nothing, and which you gave so freely. Thank you for 'the vibrations running through my body that they multiple, that feel so right.' Thank you for those few nights of blissful sounds, where my head could not stay still, but where my mind was freed..

Keep Travelling - Keep Playing – Keep Sharing.

If you would like to here some spoon tapping, table banging, impromptu singing and moving beats, I have a recording of 'Dhramasala 2008' – although as one of the performers reminded me – Magic cannot be recorded....