I heard a tornado one afternoon. Then I saw it. The old adage of a tornado sounding like a freight train seemed accurate at the time, but one tends to think of a freight train in sudden, frantic energy. The tornado kinda crept up on me and kept getting louder and louder.
Well, tonight I saw Carlos Santana and he burst onto the stage with every bit of energy you’d expect from a freight train.
Five percussionists playing fifty drums. A real Hammond organ. A fiery horn section and Carlos Santana, seducing every sound ever made from that glistening quilted maple Paul Reed Smith.
We’ve all heard every note a thousand times but he brought them all back to life again. Huge Latin mountains of sound that turned four thousand overfed, middle aged honkeys back into fearless, beautiful nineteen-year-olds, dancing half naked on a hot beach, laughing and crying and kissing new lovers.
Every so often our culture delivers magic. Something that makes you realize there is good energy to be shared.
If there IS a God, she was there tonight.
She was swaying in the back of the balcony, barefoot in sheer skirts, her long fingers painting the air around her, her silken hair whipping up sparks. Her hips taken by the rhythm. She danced all night, fearless and open and free. When the lights came up, she turned to leave. She was tired, wiped out and ready to rest because Sunday was almost here. But just before she headed back to wherever it is she came from, she stopped to look back at the crowd and said to herself…
“Sometimes those idiots actually get it right…”