Markets are a surprising place to encounter music. Who would think, as you mill around stalls of strangely priced goods in a foreign land, that you might have an incredible musical experience? Who would think that a diversion to see something local would result in seeing something wonderfully foreign? When you’re on vacation and hungry for new sights and new sounds, an incredible music experience in a market moves to a new level.
The downtown public market in Mazatlan caters to both locals and some tourists. Fruits stacked in piles, pan dulce laid out in neat rows with wonderful shapes, and hand-embroidered clothing are all temptingly within reach. The smell of freshly cut meat fills the air. Crumbling staircases lead upstairs to mysterious places. Then a sound, an incredible sound. Drums? Yes. Many? Let’s go see.
Through the aisles and stalls you careen, looking for the source of the sound. Whizzing past shops with fragrant leather belts and wallets, shops with handsome men’s shirts, shops with oversize sombreros you go. Towards the sound, the incredible sound.
Around the corner you get a glimpse. Have you seen anything like it before? Do you even know what kind of music it is? Do the locals recognize it? Despite your questions you come closer -- as close as you can come without appearing conspicuously curious.
Before you stand five percussionists. Most with drums slung over their shoulders. One with a bell. And the rhythms are complex, multilayered and magically vibrant. As a tourist, you are not the only slack-jawed audience member. Locals are caught in the web of intrigue of this band. You stand there soaking in the brilliance of the rhythms, the loud and beautiful pounding, knowing that just by being in its presence you will be vitally recharged.
The musicians play in a semi-circle, and the audience stands in a semi-circle facing them, creating a loose ball of energy. The drummers do not seem to look at one another, but their playing is intricate, layered and precise. The are communicating through sound to one another. They are foisting a loud gift of sound on those curious and open people who face them, knowing full well that the more fascinating and intense the experience the more coins will be offered when the music ends.
It seems the musicians are not Mexican? Who are they? They are dark skinned and shirtless with soft matted dark curly hair. Their clothes are badly soiled, shorts with weeks, months of dirt on them. They seemed to be some sort of Latin American gypsies, drumming their way through life, seeking out a few coins to move on to their next location.
Then just as abruptly as they started, the music stops. One with a hat comes around and you willing take foreign coins from you pocket. You drop them in, careful to not look too fascinated, not too blown away.
After you return home, you continue to wonder, who were those luminous bits of light wielding drums? And then as you read about Brazilian music in your world music class, it all comes together. Perhaps a ragtag, wayward Samba-enredo ensemble? That is the best answer you can come up with. You will continue to search for the answer to this question because you will continue to remember the brush with the brilliant, hungry music that touched your heart and soul.
