The sole complaint I can muster is that there should be dancers.

That's what this music is designed for, and there isn't a whole lot of beautiful dancing going on at the Bohemian Backstage this Thursday night. (Well, there's a little--it's just not all that pretty. Most notable is the really drunk couple, still in white-collar workwear, stumbling all over one another, having an experience that borders on pornographic.)

Yeke Yeke is seven men playing drum songs, the bulk of which are, as lead drummer Thione Diop explains, native to Senegal, in West Africa. Diop improvises on his djembe. There are two other djembe players, three dunun players, and a man named Youssouf, who plays a small djembe drum and all sorts of other percussive instruments to create rain effects and an assortment of other sounds. Diop improvises over the set beats that the other drummers play.

Diop is tall, and he leans forward a lot, almost mechanically, as though his only joint is his hip. He moves about the stage and coaxes the audience into dancing, and his facial expressions are a large part of this show. While the others appear variously somber or pleased, Diop constantly entreats the audience.

There are roughly 38 people in the Backstage by my count. The drumming evolves quickly into intricate polyrhythms that take my focus and hold it. As the rhythms quicken, becoming more dense and intricately woven, the crowd is swept into happy movement by the unified sound. I notice throughout the set that most every song begins moodily, and then quickens and intensifies to dramatic effect. Even as I know nothing of this drumming from a critical standpoint, it feels familiar because it's so organic and literal, and simultaneously poetic. It's true: beats are literal. They are more physical than any other sound. And yet, when layers of rhythm begin to interweave, they make poetry. Strange new sounds reveal themselves. The drums become voices, sounding strangely human at times, while creating thunder or insect-like buzzing at others.

The second song comes on strong, fevered, and violent. Youssouf plays an instrument by shaking it, and it creates a rain effect. There is much focus here--each player beats out such a simple pattern, a small piece of something deeply interwoven. A beautiful energy pervades the room. The song works itself up even further, into what begins to sound like thunder, and now Diop is birdlike--strutting, smiling, the only overtly emotive or expressive player. He stares us down and beats at his djembe, and I'm taking fewer and fewer notes because this man is so powerful, and the group is so impressively synched up with him.

The song gets thicker and more lush, and when it comes to a sudden stop, the audience is ecstatic. The third song, which sounds like a Senegalese spiritual, is performed vocally by several of the members, and led by Diop. The men's voices are high and bright, and the melody is imbued with an abundance of emotion. Eventually the singing stops, and it becomes straight drumming again.

Diop explains mid-show that, in Senegal, the drumming is about dancing. If the dancers don't enjoy the drumming, then the experience is not complete. He asks us to not be shy. He breaks into an astoundingly quick rhythm, stopping momentarily before several members of the group start to sing. I start to feel guilty writing in my notebook. I put my pen down, and am transported by the beats and the beer, and other people's warm, summery faces.