Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

The Santana concert was a Technicolor extravagance, a rich texture of sound against a modernized Mayan background lit with ever-changing lights.

My friends and I got to the Tweeter Center a little later than the 7:30 ticket time, because we hadn't counted on the traffic. While we waited in traffic, a guy came by and sold me a tie-dyed Santana T-shirt for $20. It wasn't a tour T-shirt, but I thought it looked cool.

We didn't get inside until nearly 8 but that's okay, there was an opening act. Her band did a world music flavored rock. They were good but couldn't quite fill up the space with their sound.

I was actually filling up my water bottle when Santana took the stage. Everybody was on their feet, applauding and cheering. Carlos launched into some fantastic guitar work over a rocking salsa beat.

It was during the second song when the keyboard player, Chester Thompson, was taking flight with an amazing solo, that I realized the diversity of the talented people on stage. When Santana himself launched into an intricate solo involving flights of fancy with a slide, I turned to my companions and said, "This is what America's all about. This is America." As far as I was concerned, in that second song alone, Santana had earned the ticket price from me. The rest of the concert was gravy.

Only a few songs later, Santana himself conveyed what I'd been feeling. He said, "When I look out into this audience, do you realize how beautiful you are? This is the dream, Africans and Mexicans and Italians and Irish and Cherokee, all gathered together in peace." Everybody cheered.

I wish I knew his body of work well enough to rattle off a play list of the songs performed. I do know that he sprinkled in instrumentals and solo performances from his band, just as a great Spanish guitar solo and a blistering drum solo alternating between Karl Perazzo on drum kit and Raul Kekow on bongo.

They interspersed this was some rarer tracks and then popular songs from "Supernatural." Those were the only songs that got people on their feet, which was a bit frustrating since a lot of Santana's music is dance music and I wanted to dance. But with the people behind me sitting, I was self-conscious about ruining their experience. I found myself wishing we'd bought tickets in the front section, where just about everybody was standing the entire time.

But I did dance in my seat, along with my friends, and we had a good time. A couple at the end of the row in front of us were giddily dancing. They were of indiscernible age. He had silver hair but seemed young. She was blonde and probably close to his age. When we finally spoke to them at the end of the concert, he had a thick Irish brogue.

In addition to the rich texture of sound, the backdrop of psychedelic Mayan art was complimented with some excellent camerawork. Several camera people, dressed in black, got some terrific shots of the band, which were projected onto the screen live so that even those in the back could see the expressions on Santana when he played a solo.

I've always loved Santana; he's always so relaxed, so seemingly peaceful, and then he tears up the stage with his guitar work. I'm not surprised his latest album is called "Shaman." He strikes me as someone who's clearly gained wisdom through the years. Several times, from the stage, he urged us to shed our old skins of distrust and hate and to put on new skins of love, peace and understanding. I'm not surprised, on visiting his web site, to discover a range of charitable work. At one point, as he spoke, the projection of a dove, flying in magnificent slow motion, was projected on the screen behind him.

Singers Andy Vargas and Tony Lindsay took turns singing the classics. Their voices were so similar it was hard to tell them apart. The band, though, was an ensemble and even with all the solo performances, it wasn't about any one person showing off.

I was on my way back after having refilled my water bottle again when the strains of "Smooth" picked up. I danced back to my seat. Everyone was up on their feet, singing and dancing. Two strangers had slipped into the seats next to us, having usurped the seats vacated by a couple that decided to leave early and beat the traffic.

They followed "Smooth" with "Black Magic Woman" and then "Oye Como Va." The three Latinos in the row behind us were belting out the lyrics. A guy a few rows back, clearly drunk on overpriced beer, kept making "Oooot! Ooot!" sounds like a human monkey.

At the very end of the concert, as they vamped on a slower, peaceful song, Santana introduced the musicians one by one, and as they were introduced they laid down their instruments, waved good-bye and left the stage. At the very end of this, the only ones left were Santana and Chester Thompson. After Santana introduced him, Chester Thompson introduced Santana, who left the stage after a graceful bow. The keyboard player, alone on stage, played some final, spiritually beautiful chords. It was a classy way to end it.

As the lights came back up and everyone, all smiles, left the Tweeter Center, we talked about the concert. My voice was scratchy from having tried to talk and sing over the volume. We hit the parking lot and a lone man with a tambourine was preaching that Santana was the tool of the devil. He forgot to hand out his slips of paper until I specifically asked for one. It only had a few Bible verses on it, neither one of which named Santana.

I thought about something Santana had said on stage, about how the government and religion had failed. And now, he said, it was up to us. And as this peaceful, multicolored group of a variety of ages and backgrounds walked quietly, happily out to their cars, I thought for the first time in a long run, "Yes, and we can do it, too."

Thanks, Santana.

Other thoughts on Santana:

June 24, 2003 - Santana Countdown

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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