Well, for one thing, it's about "letting go."  Each year,  we toil to build the Man that we will burn. We then spend a week of our lives watched over by this Man who is a part of our psyches as we play out the drama of Burning Man. Then, when we are closest in our relationship to the symbolic figure, we destroy him, as if to say...we recognize our transience here on this Earth. And if we cannot change the inevitable, at least we can celebrate it. Thus, we let go of the sweat of the brow that built him. We let go of the pride of creation. We let go of the notion that any of this has meaning other than that which we bestow upon it, as individuals.

The beat of the drum is always present in my most passionate connections...sensual, intellectual, musical. A fine drum is like a friend, shaped by the music I draw out, as it shapes me with its tones and responses. This was a hand-made Ashiko (African styled) by Tomas Hughes, of Texas. It was one of three that I bought from him at Burning Man four years ago. I've played it here each year, plus in a hundred circles and other performances.  By 1999, it had much of my very soul within it. I loved this work of art which played me as I played it.

For nearly the same amount of time, my soul has burned for release from the burden of guilt, lost passion, and isolation that has characterized my life recently. I have loved the drum. I have loved and lost love. I have cried more than my share. I know no other way to express my intense need for release, than to surrender it to the fire.

And so, at this year's Burning Man, I performed this ritual for the last time, recognizing as I watched the embers carried into the air, that I had finally succeeded in my quest. I am free.

I owe a deep debt of gratitude to my "adopted" brother David, for his guidance in this journey, and to friends Jon, Frank & Kitty, Galen & Bruce, who have done as much by just being here, consistently. Thank you all!

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SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES
[as appeared in Drum!, Nov./December 1991]
If you happened to be flying over the Black Rock Desert, 25 miles north of Gerlach, Nevada, last Labor Day, you might have spotted a plume of smoke rising from the barren basin below, and not thought twice about it. Had you gotten a closer look, however, chances are that you would have instinctively done a double-take. Maybe even a triple or a quadruple-take.

It was the seventh annual gathering of a loose-knit group of artists, professors, businessmen, and new-age misfits, who meet once a year to build, and then burn a 40-foot tall wooden figure that they call the Burning Man.

Down on the hot, steamy playa, the event takes on the trappings of a pagan ritual, with partially-clad, tranced-out dancers circling the inferno, egged-on by a pulsing 20-piece percussion section.  What's this all about?   "It's not like it has any religious connotation," explains Bobby Gelman, the de facto leader of the percussion troupe. "It's an art experience, so people can have a ritual in their lives to participate in. It's an experiment in identity, in temporary community--because when you go out to the desert to do this, you've left behind 20th century civilization."

Gelman became involved with the performance art ritual in 1991, when a friend showed him a videotape of the previous year's event. He was drawn to the images and says, "I heard the faint sound of drums in my head (although they weren't present on the tape). I wanted to see what would happen by taking a couple of drummers who knew what they were doing, and all the equipment that I could drag out to the desert, and then inviting anyone else who might want to participate in the percussion to just do whatever their emotions drove them to. And what hapened was that this thing increased in intensity. The emotions that drums and fire can conjure, seem to come from the same place. And when they amplify one another, the experience is just intense."

As for the wild man percussion facilitator, Gelman has returned to his routine as a marketing representative and event producer. Much as he enjoys the catharsis of the Burning Man, he seems glad to be back in familiar surroundings. "When I come home, I don't need to go back for a while," he says. "I can kick back and not burn a 40-foot man for several months." --Andy Doerschuk

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