You Can Feel It

53: The Funky Drummer

Mar 19, 2024

The worst is the waiting. Fingers tap tapping to the impatient cadence of silent anticipation. Soothing and frustrating simultaneously.

The merch, they say, it always overpriced and I remembered a metal concert where my husband gladly lapped up the concert tees because it was evidence to say you had been there. This time, I was less inclined to buy a record without a record player for 50 bones.

I headed upstairs to figure out where I would be standing in the loft area. I approached a woman to ask, but when it was my turn a tall man materialize beside her from the ether. It was Yussef Dayes.

He was taller than I expected in a heavy orange and cream fur coat, knit hat, and durag underneath. He passed two feet in front of me and headed to the bar. In another time I might have risked saying hello. This time, I didn’t. I wasn’t too old to geek out, just not like that. He’s at work, after all, I thought. Leave the man to unwind, then do his thing in double time on stage. It’s alright.

Back in the loft area where I was standing, I had to be thankful it wasn’t as cold as it could be. I folded my arms across my chest and bobbed up and down. I shouldn’t have checked my coat. I chuckled at the irony of paying a convenience charge for a service that actually made me uncomfortable. Very New York.

The Irving Plaza stage waits for Yussef; ID: Stage with instruments set up and crowd waiting below.

Moment to moment I looked at the blue-lit stage intently. Maybe now. Maybe now. Still nothing. Another song would play and the clock ticked on. Then I thought of what it was like to be transported for a few hours when the artist finally appeared. My memory of the nearly five-year wait time since I became a fan1 would collapse on itself into a speck.

I had done or rather not done something I thought was curious: I had not listened to the album he was touring on, Black Classical Music. I wanted to hear the songs for the first time live and give a present to my future self when I was able to identify a track.

Yussef finally emerged in a short sleeve shirt and shy bow of the head. The crowd erupted into applause and hooting. I held my breath and waited for him to speak. An English accent tumbled smoothly in a deep timbre and I smiled. He was gracious and said a few words before getting seated.

Finally got the Yussef Dayes experience; ID: Drummer plays on stage in front of a packed crowd

It was in the first minute of his performance while playing “ Raisins Under the Sun”, watching him travel through his drum set that a term came to me: rock god. This must be what they mean. This being, who is able to bend matter and extend time at will. This being, who has command of our bodies as we bob and sway. He who has deep understanding of elements, who applies the appropriate force for rhythm to reverberate in ever-swelling waves.

Even his sweat is curious. His power and exertion are so great as he conjures this magic. Deifying someone breaks down when we see those bits of human frailty. His shirt is discarded as the heat intensifies revealing a V neck sweater underneath. The sticks are extensions of his hands and he pitter patters to the rhythm as pianist Elijah Fox rocks heavily forward and back, pounding on the keys, to the edge of a beat. Percussionist Alexander Bortz strikes the heels of his hands against bongos in time with Yussef. Accompanying them with a flutter like wings is saxophonist Venna.

The tempo quickened on the next track and I recognized it immediately, “Strings of Light” which impressed even me. The bass played by Rocco Palladino growled on this one, vibrating the wall in the loft section where I was standing.

He announced the next track, “Turquoise Galaxy”, a tribute to his mother, who passed in 2015. The lights panned down in hues of turquoise and blue, washing over the fans below. I thought of my grandmother, whose loss triggered generational grief that I imagined would be visited upon his daughter Bahia. He’ll tell her stories and show pictures and they’ll laugh at the memory of her, only to fall silent because she is not there.

I broke away from the daydream to rejoin the crowd and pay tribute by fixing my thoughts on how this song was a call to his mother. I thought of how proud I would be. He was rapidly tapping away at his drum set in patterns unreachable to amateurs. His chin-length locks bobbed and he grimaced when the rhythm is sweet. I did too.

I focused on remembering, stretching the moments, though I indulged myself with pictures and video to help stack the images2 and music in my mind. I wished I knew better how to write about experiences like these, to be able to tell you about the notes, the way his wrists seem to vibrate as he played, the way the music seeped from him. I hope you feel what I’ve extracted. I hope all the images remain.

Remember.
Remember.

After the encore, I watched the staff start clearing the stage. I went up close to snap another photo and take a moment to stare into the blue-lit stage.

Downstairs, a long line was forming for autographs. I contemplated joining, getting a tee shirt, and mumbling my admiration when we were face to face. In another time, I would have, but he was on the 5pm-1am shift, encouraging a boy of about 9, and smiling for photos. He was far from home at this late hour and I didn’t want to make him later still. Another time, Yussef.

Future me got their wish. As I barreled down the highway nearing home, finally listening to Black Classical Music for the first time, I thought I recognized one of the last tracks Yussef played during his set: Gelato.