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Percussion Poem
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Listen
Garrison Keillor: 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the condo
No music was playing, not even a rondo.
No radio, CD player, or iPod by Apple
It was quiet as a Trappist monk's personal chapel
The children were nestled all snug in their room.
When it's quiet in there, they're asleep, I presume;
And mamma in her cap, and I in my visor,
Had just settled our brains with a nice tranquilizer,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed and lost control of my bladder.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutter and threw up on the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Reminded me of when I mooned someone long ago.
When what should I see but a tom-tom and snare,
And a man with two sticks and his hands in the air
Just getting ready for a big solo number.
I knew in a moment it must be the drummer.
He had a triangle, slapstick, high-hat, tambourine
And small castanets, about seventeen,
Conga, cowbells, claves, temple blocks,
And a big tin can full of small nails and rocks
Whackers and shakers and clackers and chimes
All you would need to keep very good time
Cabasa, bodhran, djembe, dumbek
And a pair of spoons that hung round his neck.
Maracas, and bongos, and — O no, something else
There in his hand a whole string of sleigh bells.
He didn't play some — no, he played them all,
It was almost too much, I about climbed the wall
As hard drumming was to the Dead and the Who
And The Stones, Led Zeppelin, Guns & Roses, U2
So up to the housetop he flew like a song
With his whole drum kit and a big Chinese gong.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the terrace
Him playing "Caravan"— or was it "April in Paris"?.
As I picked up the phone, and was calling the cops
Down the chimney the drummer suddenly drops.
He was dressed in a T-shirt, sneakers, and jeans
And his teeth were all tarnished from old nicotine;
He carried some stuff on his back — O my Lord
A rainstick, a rattle, and a great big washboard
His eyes how they twinkled! His fingers how nimble!
As he swung to his right and banged on the cymbal;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
As he played first loud, then pianissimo.
The stump of a pipe he held in his fist
Which he tapped on his teeth, a true percussionist
He had a broad face and a nice big abdomen.
No novice at eating but a veteran and yeoman.
He was short and solid,- a jolly old soul
Not much for rocking but still able to roll.
A jerk of his head and the wink of his eye
Soon gave me to know that his solo was nigh.
He spoke not a word, and he made no mistake,
And he played a rather ambitious drum break.
And then for reasons that nobody knows
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh like a big guided missile
And away he flew to go wet his whistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he lit a panatela,
"Merry Christmas to all, from Arnie Kinsella!"
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