Tingles of jive turkeys swept across my skin. Antelopes roamed the fields peacefully, but inside; the air was cut thick with cannabis, sweat flung dripping from brow and flailing limbs, the sound of a new type of freedom was echoing through my dancing bones. The Budos Band is a race of beings unknown to us, misfits of hell, banned from the eternal realms to scorch the earth with its sinful desire of Latin soul funk. Some call it afro-soul, I call it… party time! Jared Tankel, baritone sax player and front man of this demonic posse walked on stage looking like Diego Delgado, eye’s blazed red from spooning bumps of cocaine with a scorpions deadly tail spike. His horn bellowed the whaaa of such loose sound waves I could almost see them as jelly fish moving through the smoke in the rafters, swimming to the nonexistent surface for air. The crowd became entranced, possessed, and danced crazed, except for one girl.
The magic was spinning like taking acid and watching the wheel of fourtune in the 60’s on a plasma TV, when I looked to my right and saw a human, a girl, motionless, expressionless, and still. My first reaction was to perform CPR and resuscitate this lifeless poor girl, but further examination proved her to still actually be conscious! Eyes open, breathing, what the hell is wrong with this girl? What the hell was she doing in this cavern of misfit toys carousing in universal vibrations with the rest of the awakened? The brassy horn called furiously as the band stopped 4 bars after Mr. Tankel raised a gritty fist.
The brief silence gave chance of change and I challenged this girl. “Saving your good moves for the end?” I asked with an air of confidence. She glanced down nervously smiling, than her eyes shot back at me. Politely, in a 1950’s type way, she said no through a deep shade of red lip stick. Now fiddling her fingers nervously, the music burst into the room again. I performed a few easy movements, perhaps this girl would notice and emulate. Perhaps she would begin traveling in the caravan of Budos believers, drinking twisted cocktails and potions, clothing in feathers, and dancing for the ancient spirits giving thanks for the world they have granted us with. No! She was frozen! Her soul was fresh and afraid of where this music could lead. If these evil vibration blowing bandits had a plan for all this energy being released?! She was scared and confused.
The bellow of Mr. Tankel’s horn began with a crisp closed high hat guiding the introductory rhythm of the next song. Still and calm on the right side of my peripheral vision, I find the energy reacting just dandy in my blue suede shoes. The magic and freedom that becomes dancing, beyond an expression, and into involuntary movement had been overtaking me for some time now. I have found nothing to make me happier than the pure ecstasy that this experience is. This lonely, tired, and beautiful girl I realized may never join the millions of souls who have and do experience this, and it made me sad. Will it be her choice or destiny to dance?
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Either way it will be her decision I thought as all reason flew out the window! Daniel Foder, pure yin and yang of all that is good and evil floats around the stage. He holds his bass guitar like he was a mad Vietnam solider violently firing his automatic rifle into oblivion obliterating all that surrounds. It definitely made all of us observing feel a little more bad ass. After drummer Brian Profilio led us through a vulgarly enthusiastic and motivating chant notifying the rest of the band in the best Brooklyn accent us Capitol Hill kids could emulate to “get the Fuck out here” (and play an encore), they did.
The band finished, the lights turned on, the doors opened, the smoke seeped out, and the motionless beautiful girl in the red lip stick was gone. The Budos Band had retired to a den of cocaine, sexy Latina women, and dim lighting. Stepping out into the streets the world came back to us. But now, the world seemed evil, still, and quite like this mysterious girl. The loud and boisterous music, the smoke and sweat, the uncontrollable control of dance possession makes me feel good! No, no, excuse me. It makes me feel… bad.
