Breath is the Birth of Song
It was a typical hot and brutal Arizona summer. The concrete and asphalt radiated the sun’s ferocity into the atmosphere until the sky shimmered. Drought, despair, and misery oh my. You know you are in the middle of an Arizona summer when you leave your half-finished coffee sitting in the cupholder of your automobile, run some errands, come back after some length of time and your coffee is hotter than when you bought it.
Some friends gathered at the Cushing Street Bar, on the edge of the old barrio, in the heart of Tucson. A band was jamming some spicy salsa music and even though this was a tight group of musicians laying down one bumping cumbia groove after another, not a single dancer ventured onto the floor. It was simply too hot. Everybody drank whatever they were drinking. We were thirsty and we drank a lot. Except for the lively music the patio was filled with silence. Our throats were too parched to bother with conversation. When we did speak it was in a whisper as if we were afraid of too much moisture escaping our open mouths. We all cowered, trying to sink inside our own shadows, hiding from the oppressive heat of the sun.
Then it happened.
A gentle breeze drifted across the patio.
People sighed, grateful for the tender relief. A small dark cloud no one had noticed, floated in front of the sun. The wind gusted a little harder. A few more clouds drifted across the sky, picking up speed as the wind gusted, growing darker as they clustered together. Small clouds bunched together, clustering up to form giant thunderheads in the sky. The wind gusted again, napkins fluttering across the patio like paper butterflies. The band could sense the feeling of electricity in the air and rocked a little harder. People sat up in their chairs, leaning forward, sensing a sudden change. Somewhere in the distance thunder boomed. The people on the patio cheered. The band celebrated with a raucous joyful noise. A few brave souls rose and moved cautiously, awkwardly, towards the dance floor.
KA-BOOM!
Lightning struck, so close that the flash of light was blinding. The thunder boomed. The earth shook. The lightning must have hit some sort of power source because all the lights on the patio flickered and fell into darkness. It must have been a major transformer because all the businesses up and down the street went dark. The band ground to a halt as the amplifiers faded. The whole band stopped playing and just stood there.
Except for this one tenor saxophone player who wanted everyone in the audience to realize what he had always known — Breath is the Birth of Song. That tenor saxophone player did not need any electricity or amplification. He only needed the air in his lungs. That saxophone kept playing, fingers working the gold keys and levers like clockwork. The drummer smiled and resumed beating the skins. Two trumpets jumped back in and when the tuba started to lay down the beat everybody was tapping their feet. While the musician playing electrical instruments stood there disconsolate, the wind instruments and percussionists rocked on with enthusiasm.
Toes were tapping, fingers snapping, and people rose, moving towards the dance floor. The wind gusted one more time, lightning cracked the sky again and the heavens opened with good, sweet rain.
The temperature must have dropped 20 degrees in an instant. Rain fell from the sky in buckets and people flooded the dance floor. Arms, flailed, butts wiggled, tits jiggled, and people wailed, crying out in gratitude for their salvation. The worst of the brutal summer had ended. The monsoons had arrived. We danced in the rain and dance and danced and danced some more until we were all soaking wet.
By the time the power came back on, we were exhausted. My arms and legs were tired, it felt as if I had been swimming for hours. When the lights came back on and the guitars could plug back in, everybody went home. I remember walking along those old barrio streets, the street still slick and shiny from the rain. The smell of wet creosote hung in the air — healing everything.
Gary Every 2021
