The phone rang.
I reached in my pocket, pulled out my cell phone and studied the Caller ID.
It was Dan.
"Hello?"
"You need to come by the house. I've got something you're going to want to hear."
"What is it?"
"Just come by and see. Whenever you get some time this weekend drop by the house. You're going to dig this."
It's a Saturday afternoon in the middle of the summer. I pull up to the curb in front of Dan's house in downtown Kansas City. There's something about the downtown area that makes anyone feel alive. The city is breathing. People--the blood of the city--keep its heart beating. They're walking the streets. Laughing. Talking. Living. Cars race down the street with music blarring.
And Dan is sitting right there--on the steps of his porch--taking it all in. He briefly watched me approach before standing.
"It's in the house. You've got to hear this."
I follow Dan into the house and we go up a flight of stairs. At the top of the stair case is a small hallway with two rooms. One on the left. Another on the right. We enter the room on the left-hand side. I've been told one can tell a lot about a person by studying their homes. In this room, I noticed something. Dan was a fiend. He was addicted--to The Art.The room was cluttered. There were stacks of records. The Commodores. The Jackson Five. Guns N' Roses. Cds were piled high. Goodie Mob. EPMD. Roy Hargrove. There were DVDs scattered from place to place. With the sound off, a DVD of "The Best of Good Times" was playing on the screen.There were two couches, one on the north and another rested on the west end of the room. I took a seat on the west, Dan the north.
"So I was at the music store the other day, leafing through some things and I come across this album I hadn't seen in years. I didn't know it even existed anymore," Dan said. "Found it in wax. I grabbed it quick, got a little excited. I bring it up to the counter and dude there is like 'What do you know about this?' I tell him I know just enough. I picked it up for about $10."
"What is it?"
"Art of Noise."
"Never heard of them."
Wearing a black baseball cap, Dan shook his head and smiled.
"Well you need to listen to this then," he said.
He reached into a crate of records, selected one and held it as if it were gold. Dan was six years my senior. He was nearing his 30th birthday. Dan had mixed feelings about it, anxious to crossover into another year but afraid of what it might bring. Dan was a mentor in music. He taught me to value different. He helped me find the art in genres outside of my comfort zone. Dive in with an open mind. Learn before I judge. Understand before I dismiss. Leave no stone unturned. Find its beauty and live in the experience that others often miss out on.
"I first heard this when I was 8 years old. This kind of takes me back. I was a little kid back then and now here I am knocking on 30," he said. "It was my birthday--my 8th birthday--and my mama wanted to get me something. So she asks me 'What do you want me to get you for your birthday?'"
Dan laughed to himself.
"I've got this high-pitched voice," he said. "Yeah, a high-pitched voice and I say to my mama 'I want Art of Noise!' She looks at me crazy because she doesn't know who they are. But she gets it anyway. All right, fast-forward to the summer. I'm at a family barbecue, right?"
"Right."
"And they've got the music going. People are dancing, socializing and eating. They've got the music going, rocking some Motown, r&b and funk. I've got my Art of Noise record with me. I make my way through the crowd and I get to my uncle who's working the record player. I look up at him. He looks down at me. I'm like 'Put this on!' It takes me some time to convince him but I finally get him to put it on the player."
While continuing to tell the story, Dan took the record out of its case. He made his way to the record player.
"They're all dancing and then all of a sudden my record comes on. And it's like the movies. Everybody stops on a dime. They're frozen. They're like 'What the hell is this? Turn that off!'"
Dan laughed to himself.
"But anyway, let me put this on," he said.
The needle hits the record and music began to play. Bongos opened and in seconds it was accompanied by the keyboard. They worked together like the Ying and the Yang. But they weren't alone for long. The bells came in, complimenting the aforementioned sounds. With forearms on thighs and heads down, Dan and I are taking it all in. And just when I think it's all the song has to offer, it all stops.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Like The Eye, it returns with more force. A melody formed by different sounds, which ultimately become one. A whisper enters the room. And in moments, the whisper is joined by more voices. I found myself knodding my head and listening. I took a glance at Dan. He was doing the same and watching me for my reaction. We're lost in The Art. Caught in the quiet storm. My eyes return to the floor. I study the carpet. It's brown. Sun rays peek through clouds. Rain stops. And we are immersed in The Moment. It seems as though time has stopped and all that matters is right now. For six minutes and 16 seconds, my mind traveled this globe. My thoughts wandered through time. I saw my past. With an aspiring eye, I witnessed my future and acknowledged the present. Lost in The Art. The not-so-hidden secrets.
When it ended, I looked at Dan. He looked at me. He knew what I was thinking, as if we were sitting in the classroom, reading the same book. Our thoughts were linked as if we were both born on the 23rd hour of the same day. At the same moment, we both spoke.
And we only had one word to say.
Yeeeeeeeaaaahhhh!
---EOB.
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