THE POWER OF THE DJEMBE
Let me tell you a story: I was giving a performance in a primary school in Illinois and I began with the music of the djembe.

There was something special happening from the start. The acoustics of the room amplified every stroke with great clarity. When I played a flurry of notes, "ghost" tones seemed to suspend in the air.

I began slowly, introducing the softer voices of the drum. As the rhythms began building, the groove established—then deepened. Like a trio of drums, the rich bass notes tied with the shaker-like brushing strokes and higher slapping commentary. My hands began to fly and I found myself in a rare place—in control and yet not in control.

The room had the same feeling of suspension as that of a baseball game before a decisive pitch: at once strangely calm, yet completely charged. The roll of the drum seemed to build emotionally almost of its own doing—louder, louder...louder still. I stopped. Nothing. Silence.

Then came a scream—not of fright or shock, but full of joy. Ecstatic, like a long-suppressed secret finally being told.

Everyone in the room froze for a moment, including me. Then I felt a need to bring things back into control, so I continued with the program. The rest went as it usually does, with no big surprises.

After the performance, one of the teachers approached me. She had clearly been crying and quietly explained what had happened. The outburst was from one of her third-grade students, a girl. This student was autistic and no one one in the school had ever heard her voice.

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