When you watch live music -- like I did all the time in New Orleans -- sometimes you come upon those rare artists and rare moments when you can feel the "artistic purity" of the musician or singer shining through like pure moonlight skipping across the ocean's waves. I've seen it in other artists too, like painters, sculptors, poets, and dancers.
You see them connecting -- maybe it is their soul connected to God -- and losing themselves in their art, in their performance. It isn't rehearsed, not an act. You can't fake it.
Sometimes I have felt it in myself when I'm writing. It's what Tennessee Williams called, "purity of heart" which he said was about the only noble aim, in the end.
I witnessed this type of artistic purity last night when I was strolling along the boardwalk and observing the beach scene after dark. It turns Bohemian, especially on Sunday nights at Latitude 32, the cafe and hangout on the beachfront, next to another newer cafe, down the block from a pizza joint, and next to a new upscale lounge.
Javier Cabanillas was playing his set of bongos, madly, feverishly, in complete control. Sometimes the speed and precision of his hands became superhuman. He led the campy crowd through the grooves and beats, at times standing to clap and sing, bringing the crowd to its feet. Javier was so lost in his art he didn't notice me standing in the window, transfixed. I scanned the crowd and drank it in. A girl in skimpy shorts dancing awkwardly, couples rocking to and fro, people milling in and out, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Another man, shaved bald, arms bulging from his sleeveless shirt, stood and squeezed in and pulled a few bongos from behind the piano and sat and joined in. A younger man kept time with a cowbell and rimshots on a drum set, and a pretty young girl sat back on a sofa and chimed in with tambourine.
They built to a crescendo and then ended a tune perfectly together. There was applause, and laughter, and joy and Javier stood, wiped his brow and took a long pull off his water bottle. He looked over and I gave him the high sign and clapped directly at him, nodding. "Robert!" he cried, and we exchanged smiles. He sat back, and they started up another frenetic beat. I watched and grinned and slowly faded out of the window, cleansed and pleased, and continued my stroll on the moonlit boardwalk.
You see them connecting -- maybe it is their soul connected to God -- and losing themselves in their art, in their performance. It isn't rehearsed, not an act. You can't fake it.
Sometimes I have felt it in myself when I'm writing. It's what Tennessee Williams called, "purity of heart" which he said was about the only noble aim, in the end.
I witnessed this type of artistic purity last night when I was strolling along the boardwalk and observing the beach scene after dark. It turns Bohemian, especially on Sunday nights at Latitude 32, the cafe and hangout on the beachfront, next to another newer cafe, down the block from a pizza joint, and next to a new upscale lounge.
Javier Cabanillas was playing his set of bongos, madly, feverishly, in complete control. Sometimes the speed and precision of his hands became superhuman. He led the campy crowd through the grooves and beats, at times standing to clap and sing, bringing the crowd to its feet. Javier was so lost in his art he didn't notice me standing in the window, transfixed. I scanned the crowd and drank it in. A girl in skimpy shorts dancing awkwardly, couples rocking to and fro, people milling in and out, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Another man, shaved bald, arms bulging from his sleeveless shirt, stood and squeezed in and pulled a few bongos from behind the piano and sat and joined in. A younger man kept time with a cowbell and rimshots on a drum set, and a pretty young girl sat back on a sofa and chimed in with tambourine.
They built to a crescendo and then ended a tune perfectly together. There was applause, and laughter, and joy and Javier stood, wiped his brow and took a long pull off his water bottle. He looked over and I gave him the high sign and clapped directly at him, nodding. "Robert!" he cried, and we exchanged smiles. He sat back, and they started up another frenetic beat. I watched and grinned and slowly faded out of the window, cleansed and pleased, and continued my stroll on the moonlit boardwalk.
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