The Beat Goes On

It was the early-80s. A couple hundred of us had gathered in the main ballroom of the old Lexington Hotel downtown. Crimson and gold carpets. Gilded chandeliers ornately graced the cathedral ceiling towering above. We had come to spend a long weekend together in a workshop with a renowned human potential leader. She and her husband had practically written the book on the subject. I had never heard of either of them.

I was there because my friend, coworker and mentor, John Williamson, was unable to attend and kindly offered me his ticket. I said yes, as was my default response in those days, my being young and adventurous and all. That is, I think, the proper attitude in our youth.

I learned all sorts of stuff that weekend, punctuated by two extraordinary experiences. This is one.

Saturday evening, two days into the three-day event, we were dismissed for a dinner break with the added instruction to return with musical instruments, sacred items and dressed in ceremonial regalia. Seems there was to be a celebration. What I had was chinos, penny loafers (sans pennies) a white button-down shirt and a navy-blue polo sweater to drape over my shoulders. Not exactly what you’d call “ceremonial regalia” unless you were a Preppy headed to a pep rally.

I went to dinner with a friend from work who also happened to be attending the event. After dinner we went back to her house so she could slip into her ceremonial garb. I stood by as she laid out a pearl white silk kimono she’d brought back from Japan and a crimson and gold embroidered kaftan from her travels in Morocco. She settled on the kimono, turned to me and suggested I should wear the kaftan.

Standing there in floor length crimson and gold with ox blood penny loafers, I was quite the sight. Cocking her head and squinting, she assessed the loafers just would NOT do. Digging in her closet she produced a pair of flip-flop sandals inviting me to try them on.

They fit.

Next thing I knew we were strolling through downtown on our way back to the Lex, me in my kaftan and flip-flops, she in her flowing pearl white kimono.

We entered the grand ballroom. Over two hundred exotically attired attendees were milling about toting various musical instruments and sundry sacred items. Another friend of ours rushed up to me saying, “Here! This is for you”, handing me a thirty by ten-inch diameter hollowed log, smooth wood exposed, with a long slit carved down the center accompanied by a hefty bare-wood stick.? She added, “This is a drum from the island of Tonga. It is used to communicate across great distances.”

Well, okay then. Seems I had been magically dressed and musically equipped for the festivities.

As attendees milled about, many were tuning their instruments, sounding exactly like the subtle cacophony of a symphony orchestra tuning up just prior to a performance. I casually plunked myself down in the center of room, slightly stage-left, and began to tap out a simple rhythm: bap, bahhh… bap, bap, bap, bahhh… bap, bahhh… bap, bap, bap, bahhh… bap, bahhh… bap, bap, bap, bahhh…. Just tapping out the simple rhythm, head down, lost in the beat. What I didn’t realize was that the drum, designed to be heard across distant South Pacific Islands, was more than loud enough to fill the room with that beat.

When I looked up, people had formed into a massive circle, musicians contributing melody and harmony to the beat. Two people were dancing in the center of the circle as though around a giant, imaginary bonfire. The beat went on filling the ballroom. The music swelled. Dancers swayed back and forth, round and round.

The beat had unified us organically, without instruction, without a word. Everyone just knew what to do, each contributing their special talent, their unique piece of the whole. There is a lyric from the Broadway musical, Sweet Charity, “The rhythm of life is a powerful beat…” It felt just like that then. It feels just like that now. It inspires me still. As another song suggested so long ago, “The beat goes on…”?

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