Articles & Essays Book Reviews Creative Writing
Consciousness, Literature and the Arts
Volume 18 Number 2, August 2017
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Singing Rainbow—An Unforgettable Evening for a Working Folk Musician
By
It was going to rain, there was no doubt about it. Any over-hopeful thoughts that the thunderstorm might miss us were quickly dispelled by several bolts of lightning and a cool moist change in the evening breeze. Almost before the echoing thunder finished reverberating from the deep canyon walls of the Colorado River, the guests grabbed their picnic plates of fried chicken, potatoes, and a brownie and scurried onto their dry tour bus. They left behind bedraggled river guides to clean up dinner in the rain and load up the boats and gear from the evening float trip onto the waiting gear trucks and trailers.
But I was neither one of the tourists, nor one of the guides. I was also not one of the truck drivers, nor the tour bus driver. No, I had been paid a small sum to drive out to the evening float trip takeout dinner beach and play a few songs while the guests, mostly Europeans, ate their dinner. The plan was for this to become a form of a modern Kokopelli’s Café, which was ostensibly giving guests time to reminisce on their fun-filled evening of rapids, swimming and scenery before heading to their next western tour destination. The music was planned also to give the guides some extra time to lay out the pre-cooked dinner and even load boats and gear before it got pitch dark. Then at dusk, with the guests full and content, all would exchange smiles, handshakes and of course tips before departing forever.
Things were not, however, going as planned. It was now raining—hard—and I stood in my poncho holding an old five string banjo wondering if the tour company would pay me if no-one stayed to listen to songs. The banjo was tonight’s instrument of choice. It was mostly waterproof, echoed nicely off canyon walls, carried well with noisy groups, was a pure-blooded American instrument, and was always a hit with Europeans.
Suddenly I realized that I was actually sweating in my poncho, for the rain was not really cold. It was actually refreshing, cool, and sweet after the near hundred degree day we’d had. I shed my poncho as the rain let up to a gentle shower of sparkling raindrops making the sand and sage and river smells come alive in a pungent bouquet of olfactory delight. A little rain wasn’t going to hurt the old 5-String, and so I thought I might as well play a few tunes for the guides as they humped the heavy rafts and gear up the wet sandy beach to the waiting trucks.
Maybe all that river soaked humanity eating on the tour bus got stuffy and hot, or maybe someone else realized that summer rain in the desert is something to be stood in and savored rather than avoided. Either way, the end result was that a few of the European tourists trickled back out into the rain to listen, to smell, and to just be part of a fragrantly moist and beautiful desert evening.
I kept playing, and before long a couple more tourists came out, and soon after a circle began to form, and then like the rainbow that was glimmering up canyon beneath the translucent edges of the storm, I noticed that voices began to sing along.
It’s hard to say when the entire bus emptied, or when the guides finished their work and joined the circle, but by the time darkness fell, seventy people from as many as a dozen different countries were holding hands in a huge circle, swaying side to side like waves on the water, all singing together.
The songs they were singing became the most magical part of the entire evening. There is a type of song that transcends time, race, religion, personality—a type of song that is known in at least five languages—a type of song “folk” sing when they gather. These are songs like Kumbayah, My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean, Michael Row Your Boat Ashore, Today, Let There Be Peace on Earth, and many more. They are songs that seem to have been written for everyone and can be sung by anyone. That night, by the Colorado River, beneath the sweet air of a summer thunderstorm, the stars witnessed a picture of human beings from every many different walks of life doing something as one, together, in harmony—it was a singing cultural rainbow.
The tour group was scheduled to return to their motel by nine, but didn’t make it until at least eleven. The guides forgot about the next morning’s early float that many would have to rig for after getting back. The musician forgot about sore fingers and sang until his voice started to wear out. The river flowed inexorably on towards the sea, and time saw the evening end, but for me, and I would imagine many others, this particular event is timeless. I moved on from guiding, rivers, and performing music. But I carry with me a picture of multicultural bliss which is a glimpse into one of the scintillating possibilities for our world. Tips that night for both me and the guides were great, but we all knew that something that transcended tips had occurred. I carry with me a hope, inspired by such moments, that someday humankind will evolve spiritually to a place where we always stand and sing, swaying harmony with each other and with the beauty of the natural world.