July 4, 2011-
The essence of music is deep and free.
Like sprinkles of dust underneath blasted firecrackers and cherry bombs there is a distant salsa beat.
An old blue bicycle takes you to a group of men in Humboldt Park on the west side of Chicago. They are across the way from the 16-inch softball players with the sweeping uppercut swings and the pregnant woman with a light white smock snapping in a gentle breeze.
It sounds like the old bicycle needs oil.
The men are huddled under a tree that shades them from a bright blue sky. No barbecue, no beer; just their drums, congas and heart beats. No tip jars.
Just commitment, a promise to keep on playing.
You rewind 24 hours when the Iguanas got up at 6 a.m. in El Paso, Tx. to make a 11 p.m. gig at a Fourth of July festival in Berwyn, Ill. They played on and as did Jon Dee Graham who sang about freedom and Muhammad Ali in a green shirt drenched with sweat. These moments become your own, like a lyric in a song that always makes you cry.
The men under the tree could be playing something from Willie Colon.
Is it ‘Calle Luna Calle Sol” ?
No one is there to translate such things for you.
You guess “Silent Sun, Street Moon” That would be perfect.
The men have jerry rigged their speakers to the engine of a white low rider.
The music jumps starts your heart.
