Observational Essay: Congas, not Bongos

“How old are you? Twenty?” James asked. I nodded in agreement. “Yea, I’ve been playing for twice as long as you been alive. At least forty years.” He sat in front of six drums, which a sign written on cardboard in front of him stated were conga drums, not bongo drums. I had found James playing at the edge of a crosswalk on the Pearl Street Mall in Boulder, Colorado. Street performers and musicians have always interested me. They go out day after day and express their talents in front of a live audience hundreds of times, hardly earning enough money to live on. They do it for the sheer love of their craft, because they enjoy doing what they are doing. James is one of those people, and his love is music.

The late afternoon air made for a not quite comfortable, but not quite chilly Colorado day. The area is a pleasant one to sit and watch. The smell of the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory and the Boulder Café mingle in the air to create a pleasing aroma. The red brick walkway is dotted with trees and pieces of art. About 20 yards away a boulder garden is set in the middle of the path, with 5 or 6 kids exploring the peaks and valleys. The sun was setting but it had not yet become dark, still enough people walking the mall to earn a few bucks. The purpose of my being here was to find a street performance, and the deep bass of a drum beat was a promising sound. I saw the source of the sound just ahead, an older black man sitting on a corner of a crosswalk with six conga drums circling around him. Each drum was about two feet high, but not nearly as wide. They were worn and looked like they had been in use for quite some time. Some paint flecks still stuck to the sides of the drums, alluding to a brightly colored past. The man, who I would later find was named James, was rhythmically beating the drums with two equally worn drumsticks. He was wearing a somewhat dirty red parka, a black beanie, and had a content smile on his face. In front of the drums was a small cardboard box for collecting payment for his performances.

As he begins striking the drums, all eyes in the general vicinity turn to see where the noise is coming from. Some people simply give a fast glance and walk past, while others slow their pace and continue to watch. Most children continue to watch even as their parents are pulling them along by their outstretched arms. The sound is fast and deep, somewhat tribal sounding and almost entrancing. It would certainly seem that way for the much younger members of the crowds. One girl, who was maybe 3 years old, stopped in her tracks and stared with incredibly large eyes until her mother walked back and picked her up. Even as she was being carried away the young girl turned to see and hear the performance. One middle aged woman in a bright blue jacket walks over and slips a bill into the box, which warrants a smile, nod, and thank you from James right before he breaks into a faster beat. Their seems to be 3 groups of people; those who will walk by without turning their head even if James says something to them, those who might drop a dollar in the cardboard box and continue walk, and those who stay to enjoy the rhythmic sounds. Although somewhat fast the deep sound of the drums sets a mellow mood. It adds to the already relaxing and seemingly carefree environment.

It’s starting to get darker and there are less people along the path. James stops playing, but intermittently hits a few beats. He stands to stretch, picks up the cardboard box and deposits the money into his pocket. As he’s doing this another man dressed in army fatigues walks up and gives him a hug. He has a backpack with a few holes in it on his back along with a sleeping bag. He looks about the same age, if not a little older than James. They talk for a few minutes, but I’m just out of earshot, and am unable to hear anything they say. James sits back down and begins to play, while his friend begins to sing. His voice goes perfectly with the drums, adding a reggae sound to the newly formed duet. I’m unable to make out all the lyrics but something about Babylon is being repeated. The combination of drums and vocals seems to draw a few more people. One father and daughter couple in particular walks up and stands right in front of the two. The newest member of the band begins to sing directly to the daughter who in turn hides behind her daddy’s legs, peeking around to get a glimpse of what is going on. Before long her curiosity gets the best of her and she leaves her safe haven. James offers her the drumsticks and she delivers a few quick notes before returning to her dad’s leg. He drops a couple bills in the box, hands the drumsticks back and they are on their way.

“You gotta understand about the time I grew up in,” James says to me. “In the 40’s and 50’s you saw musicians playing for the love of the music, not for anything else except that simple purpose.” I walked over to talk as James took a break from playing. “I got my inspiration from them. That’s probably about when I first started playing. I been playing here for a long time though. Every once in a while a cop will come and say he’s never seen me around before. I tell him I’ve been playing here longer than he’s had his job.” I smile and thank James for the music and answering my questions. “Ah ya, come by anytime. We just enjoy playin down here. It’s not really bout the money we make, we just like to come down an’ play, if someone wants to throw a bill in the box that’s cool, or if someone wants to smoke a lil that’s cool too. If not whatever, ya know.” I thank him again and slip a twenty into the box before I leave.