The Fainting Drummer

Originally published in July 2016.

If there's anyone in this godforsaken place who can get away with staring at my ass, it's my drummer. Actually, that's his job. I pay him to observe every drop, lock, twist, twerk, clench, accent, bounce, circle, roll, shimmy, vibration, jiggle, wiggle and wobble that it's capable of doing, and to create a corresponding sound for each movement. 

Doom; tak; traaaaaaK!; dr-r-r-r-r-r…; dishhh. This is called translation, and it's what draws attention to my moves. So basically, he's my butt's translator. Or spokesman.

Don't laugh. It's a serious job (and a much coveted one in the land of sexual frustration). But it isn't easy. You see, my behind is a complicated thing. It has a mind of its own, and it moves in ways that even I don't fully comprehend. Somehow though, my drummer understands it. I want to say it's because we've been working together almost every single night for the past five years, but that's not the reason. Tamer understood my teeze from day one.*

I don't know how he does it. All of the other drummers I worked with took at least two weeks to even begin to understand my musicality, let alone translate my moves. Tamer, on the other hand, is so in tune with my butt that he can anticipate how it will interpret any given measure of music—even when I try to surprise him with a new movement, a new way of doing a movement, or by altering the timing of my moves. It's like he shares a brain with my behind or something.

All this time, you probably thought it was the other way around. You probably thought the drummer calls the shots, and the belly dancer slavishly follows along. This may be how it works outside of Egypt, but in Egypt, it's the opposite. The dancer decides where to add shimmies, accents, and pops, and the drummer follows her lead. Basically, he's her bitch. On stage, at least. :)

This is why I freaked out when I went to work one night and learned that Tamer had been kidnapped. Apparently, he was in serious debt, and his lenders snatched him while he was visiting family in Alexandria. They kept him tied to a chair for days in an undisclosed location until he arranged to pay the money he'd borrowed. In the meantime, I had to suffer through yet another drummer. To be fair, he wasn't terrible. He pounded his tabla as though it insulted his mother. But he didn't translate my movements like Tamer did.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, but still no word from Tamer. Then one day, he miraculously reappeared. I didn't see him before going on stage, but when my band started playing, I immediately recognized his drumming. It was a very happy day for me… and my butt.

Contrary to what it may seem, my drummer's relationship with my rear (and by extension, with me), is the most non-sexual, non-threatening relationship I've had with a man in this country. It's probably because I'm constantly swinging that thing in his face.

It's funny. We have a great relationship when we’re on stage. Off stage, not so much, because he’s forced to deal with my brain. This is where the problems arise. We actually don't like each other very much. We've had plenty of screaming matches, and I even had to (temporarily) fire him once for punching one of the other percussionists in the face in a dispute over a cup of tea.

We fight about other things too. Mostly trivial stuff, like which member of my band I give my music requests to on any given night (he always wants to be the one), or about how he flails his arms in anger whenever another musician makes a mistake on stage. But sometimes we fight about more important stuff… like how he scares off every musician I introduce into the band. So far, he's lost me three exceptional keyboard players and one singer. All because he bullies them on stage.

This is partially my fault. Rule number one when working with musicians is to never let them know how amazing you think they are. You must act like there's nothing special about them, and even pretend to be dissatisfied with their work occasionally. This is what keeps them on their toes—or rather, fingertips. It's what makes them do their best every night. This also humbles their egos and prevents them from becoming divas.

I knew all of this, yet after observing Tamer’s behavior the first few weeks on the job, I made a conscious decision to break the rules—to use some *reverse* reverse psychology. I did this because almost every night after a string of shows, Tamer would faint in front of all of us. Actually, physically faint.

One night, I told my other musicians that all of Tamer’s fainting spells were feigned. That they were a desperate plea for attention. Expectedly, my musicians scoffed at me. They fell for Tamer’s act, saying that he had only recently sold his liver, and that his body hadn't yet recovered from that operation. I, however, wasn't buying it. I was aware of his operation, but I knew it was his deep-rooted insecurity, not his chopped liver, that was causing him to 'faint.'

So, one night when Tamer wasn't busy fainting, I praised his drumming in front of the entire band. I told him what an astute drummer he was… how no other drummer had been able to keep up with me the way he did, and that he played a mean tabla solo. I could tell by the look on all of their faces that they had never heard a belly dancer direct such kind words to a musician.

And who knew that when all was said and done, I was a doctor? From that night on, Tamer miraculously stopped fainting. In fact, he became even more attentive on stage, throwing creative accents into our routine and surprising me with mind-blowing drum solos. He did become a diva and a bully, but at least I got a top-notch drummer who wasn’t fainting after every show.         

By now, any other dancer would have gotten rid of him. But not me. This man understands my butt too well, and that is an ASSet that's difficult to replace. Though we come from very different places, we share a musicality. (One of the signature features of our musicality is adding two fast tak-taks to the 5,6 of a phrase of music. Sometimes the 7,8, but mainly 5,6.)

We also share callouses and wounds. Well, we don't actually share them. We just have them in common. Him on the insides of his hands, and me on bottom of my feet. Him from beating his drum, me from dancing barefoot. Every night before the show, we sit in my dressing room. He wraps the tips of his fingers in protective tape, and I place Bandaids all over my wounded feet. Sometimes I give him some of my stash. He likes American Bandaids. Egyptian ones don't stick. ;) 

 

*Teeze is Arabic slang for ass.