Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Masta's Beat


Apr 21, 2009
I know I know - It's high time I posted the next installment of Manthropology and I do promise to get to it. It's of course positively no excuse, but a week full of truly painful work and weekend spent baking in the sun whilst seeking some personal clarity distracted me a bit from my analysis.

I do promise to continue my composition, but in the interim, I just need to spill a little about my Friday night. I was at this completely groovin jazz bar in Santa Monica where they play live music. Now this is actually quite a rare thing in Los Angeles because as I've been told by many a bar owner, live music just doesn't pay.

The music was unlike anything I've heard recently. Passionately playful, rhythmically irreverent, and painfully sensual, my mind raced. If you didn't have sex on the brain when you walked in, you did before you sat down. The walls echoed with the fervor created by the musicians and lead singer. Masta - a performer I had never seen before. He spun his voice like a talented dj bringing the crowd to the peak of emotion, pounding of feets, to a screeching halt with unexpected Italian opera.

Like many nights we've all had, there was something in the air. Love, Lust, Energy, something kinetic that connected everyone in that little bar for 3 hours. The two bartenders, both in their late 20s were madly in love. As I sat at the bar watching Masta's reflection in the mirror, I watched their private dance as they moved quickly past each other with subtle touch, serving drinks to their many adoring fans. Like the audience at large, these two young lovers were also spun into a web of passion, fervor, pinnacle, and baited breath by the artful singer, and one could not be surprised that colleagues would fall in love in such a place.

It was a delicious reminder that the circumstance of romance and the circumstance of love play as much a role in its balance as the actual people themselves. Any romance might be ignited, or reignited by the tendrils of a new voice. I looked at Masta's reflection, the young lovers twisting together behind the bar in their artful dance, and the throngs of impassioned masses who were bonded for a moment, an evening, a memory, and I too was grateful to be part of this rhythm.

 

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