Sticking Together

It appears that I have stumbled onto the set of an early 2000s music video. Toned biceps peek out of sleeveless t-shirts. Angular bubble letters are scrawled across the whiteboard at the front of the room. Everything is coated in spray paint. It’s 7:30 p.m. on a Wednesday night, and Holden Chapel is the site of “Sticking Together”—“the rhythmic collaboration of a lifetime.”

The room is filled to capacity with performers, and there’s only room for three rows of folding chairs. I choose the most incon- spicuous seat I can find and try to take notes without looking down too much. All eyes are glued to the peppy, prop-laden drummer onstage.

I don’t blame them—he’s mesmerizing. He bounces around the room so quickly that tracking him is a challenge, and his voice is so dense with enthusiasm that I can almost see the exclamation points. I’d bet he would be a hit at Visitas.

This bundle of energy turns out to be one of the evening’s hosts. He introduces himself as T-Spoon (I later discover that his alter ego is Tyler S. Parker ’17, a member of The Harvard Undergraduate Drummers), runs us through the program, and jives offstage.

The first act is performed by B.E.A.T.s, a percussion team from Tufts. They carry empty Rubinoff handles and introduce them- selves as “Tufts’s oldest all-male a capella group.” It feels so familiar that I don’t realize it’s a joke until I see their smirks.

They’re good, though, or at least they’re

loud. Some bang on three-gallon water jugs. Others use drumsticks and upturned Home Depot All-Purpose Buckets. One creative (or disoriented) soul weaves around clanging a frying pan. The whole production feels like a gleeful round of Let’s Make a Racket.

It also leaves me thoroughly unprepared for the next act. In fact, I’m so busy trying to cope with the ringing in my ears that I barely notice Boomshaka stalk onstage. When I do look up, I flinch.

A row of spandex-clad menaces has assem- bled in front of me. According to their leader, they are a group on tour from Northwestern, but their glowering stares and clenched fists suggest otherwise. I wonder briefly if I am about to be murdered or Ad Boarded.

The dancers stand in front, slowly wind- ing heavy-duty chains around their fists. The drummers stand behind, wielding full-size trash bins and backwards ball caps. And when the music starts, they let loose an onslaught of motion. Chains are whipped; staves are spun; “HIT ME” is chanted in deafening unison. I glance over at T-Spoon to see how he is taking this: He looks as ter- rified as I feel.

Eventually, Boomshaka relents, and the Harvard Passus Step Team settles into position. After several minutes go by without a single threat to my personal safety, I reopen my eyes.

My primary impression is that everyone looks like they’re having a good time. They jump and bend and groove and not once does anyone break from an ear-to-ear grin. Their energy is infectious, and the whole room los- es its mind when one dancer starts crunking.

Finally, THUD rolls up, T-Spoon includ- ed. Carrying buckets and dressed in matching t-shirts featuring red solo cups, the crew assembles across the stage. One performer points at his bucket. “This song is called Buckets,” he announces. Scattered nods of understanding play through the crowd.

The song is hypnotic. It’s simpler than anything else in the lineup—free of the clutter of B.E.A.T.s or the rage of Boomshaka or even the bubbly exuberance of Passus—and the rhythm feels like riffs on a heartbeat. I breathe and watch hands rise and fall, and too quickly the routine is done.

After Buckets, the crew brings out a fold- ing table and a row of red cups. T-Spoon waves his arms in excitement. “The next song is called Cups,” a performer informs the audience. T-Spoon yells indiscernible words of support. The team lifts each red cup to reveal a blue cup. T-Spoon is restrained by a friend.

As the last cup clatters to a rest, the teams pour back onstage for a mass dance number. Hidden speakers blast old school jams. A guy jumps over a wooden bar. A blond drummer pounds a trash can so hard that his hat flies several feet into the air. Finally, THUD starts a rhythmic clapping that eases into shameless self-applause.

I shrug and clap with them.