Sweet Vibrations

I've always wanted a gong. A big one, one that will make your entire body vibrate when rung. I'm not sure why, but I think they trigger a response in me that is primal. You may see them from time to time. They're sometimes at small boutique stores or even music stores. I saw one once at the Museum Store in a mall that really struck me. It wasn't huge, but, on its stand, it was nearly five feet tall. They're heavy, ornate, and expensive. The one I saw was about $1,500, and it seemed like it was an imported antique or something.

But it sure rang. It vibrated my soul. Before it settled, I knew that I wanted one. I wanted it. Hearing it, feeling it, made me realize something about the percussion instruments that are so immersed in almost every culture on earth. Its vibrations connected me with something, somehow, somewhere -- perhaps way back when. Something in me now knows. I have discovered why they exist. But I can't explain it.

From the small, hidden tribes of South American natives to Ancient Mongolia to the native indians who live within the Arctic Circle, drums have been as much a part of culture as a set of beads or a magic potion or an American hot dog or a rite of passage. Or a death march. They are the beat of life.

Why would I want one, where would I put it, and what would I use it for? All good questions. I'll answer them now. I'd make a high quality digital recording of mine and connect it to a 1,000-watt amplifier and a huge set of speakers mounted on the hood of my 1970 Datsun. That way, twice per day (on my way to, and then back home from, work), instead of the gay-sounding, puny-assed little horn I have, I can hear my sweet, gigantic gong do it's thing at the four-way-stop intersection where people like to sit and either pick their noses or talk on their cell phones instead of taking their turn to move on and get the fuck out of my way. Punch play, and listen to a screaming, vibrating, primal gong, and watch that "I'm-so-friendly-I'll-Let-You-Take-Your-Turn-First" jerk in front of me flinch like a jackhammer. Maybe he'll accidently flick his little Nokia out his window and step on the gas. Asshole.