Suaheli (engl.)

I walked into the gym and couldn’t make out anything at first, because there was just a red neon tube flickering. Everyone was sitting on the floor, passing a joint round and pondering the meaning of life. The guitarist struck up a chat with me and I went ahead and opened my can of beer. “Do you know Cecil Taylor?” As luck would have it, I’d heard a Taylor record at a bearded men’s get-together last week. Of course, everyone was absolutely raving about him – but not me. It was just too weird for me. When a bloke in a corduroy jacket asked me what I thought of Taylor, I said, with a tight-lipped expression: “Daring.” The group exchanged meaningful glances, and then came what always happens: they wanted to tear me apart. And suddenly I came up with the brilliant retort: “Cecil isn’t quite there yet” and “haven’t you lot heard that before?” In short, I was saved.
I asked about their set list. Set list? They all laughed and explained at length that they were artists and wouldn’t go along with the nonsense of these music gangsters. Fair enough. They wanted to improvise. Now I was starting to feel a bit queasy. Where was I supposed to get some lyrics from, what tune was I supposed to sing? What was I supposed to do now? I quickly downed two beers and took a hasty drag on the joint: “Right, lads, let’s get started.” But they were having the greatest difficulty getting up; only the drummer was tapping away a bit, and I was already getting a feel for his beat. After what felt like an eternity, the guitarist tuned his guitar and off we went! The bloke started in A minor and never left that chord; then he pressed some switch and massive sounds opened up, with echo chambers and reverb. At some point, the drummer started banging away at the cymbals. It was the perfect stoner sound. I suddenly found myself singing in a language I didn’t know, shouting “Revolution, Revolution” every now and then. I would have joined any revolutionary party on the spot.
At some point around midnight, everyone had finished, and I felt my way home through the dark grounds. The band wanted to stay and chat. A few weeks later, I bumped into the bassist and he asked me what language I’d been singing in. Without hesitation, I said, “Swahili.” He stared at me and walked away without a word. Later, I heard from an acquaintance that there was a singer in Düsseldorf who sang in Swahili. But he didn’t know any more details either. He remarked: “It’s a wonderful time; there are so many great characters.” “Yes,” I said, “there are some mad characters about.”