Russell Buddy Helm

Greetings Buddy! I am one of the web people for Capt Dan / Dolphin Landings. I wanted to share with you a new link for the Drumming Sail on May 24 (the old one you reference on your website no longer exists and “errors-out”). I look forward to seeing you in May!! —Pam http://www.dolphinlandings.com/special_features/drumming_sunset_full-moon_sail_with_buddy-helm_may-24-2013.html

I have witnessed drummers banging away until their fingers bleed. I have even done it myself. Any other activity where our hand would be hurt we would stop immediately. What’s that all about?

In psychological terms drumming also is a pain killer. The solace and comfort of a good groove goes a long way toward soothing the soul. The critical mind is put on hiatus. Emotional pain is put on hold if the grove is forgiving, laid back and nurturing.

sxxxxxxxszxsxszxsdxzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzssxci8o9-==Good Morning to the West Coast!!

I want to thank all who have kept me in their thoughts, their drums and prayers. My story of stolen drums ends well. When I returned to work on Monday, the first e-mail was DRUMS!!!!. Easter Sunday they were returned. Damaged, but back home. I usually do not become so upset when a possession is lost, but this time I was. I spent quite a bit of time thinking about it. The drums were not a thing, but an extension of spirit. I missed that spirit. I can’t thank all of you enough for your concern for someone you do not even know. But we do know each other, through the power of the drums. Thank you. Now off to have the repaired and join the circle once more. Sharon Wimple

This is getting esoteric because there are a lot of effects the drum generates that we do not have words for. If we were discussing drumming phenomenon in the Rainforest of the Amazon Basin, the curandera would be talking like it was as obvious as taking a bus down 57th street; “You do this and you get there.”
Drumming and rhythm is the keynote language of the universe. Know how to speak it and the universe sits up and barks like a trained dog…Just kidding. Provided the Powers That Be decide to make it so. There is always an override and often mephestofelian dividend. But the facts, the observable events point toward the conclusion that drumming creates vortex and even Toroids or donuts of power that revolve and recycle energy and do things. The drum head itself is an interdimensional membrane. The physical force of the hand hitting the goat skin head transforms the energy from one reality to another. From force into Grace. From physically silent muscle movement into sound that resonates the body and mind generating unique energy fields. Opening portals. The energy comes through but the drummer must maintain the safe space so that the right energy comes through. The right healing energy.

This djembe from Ghana was stolen from a Dominican Nun in Saline, Michigan just a few days ago. This drum was part of the miraculous event that transpired at the Adrian, Michigan mother house for the Dominican Nuns Order.
1,000 NUNS
I drummed at the mother house with a thousand nuns. We prayed for the children of Irag and the families of the soldiers and civilians. It was the date that Iraq was initially to go back to civilian control, (some years ago).
I was very tired and worn out from weeks of touring and teaching healing drumming meditations all across the U.S. I had just come from Kansas. I was tired as I drove the rental car up to the Dominican Mother house in the small remote town of Adrian, Michigan. I used the moment to talk to God.
“Look, I am tired. This is beginning to be a lot like work. If you don’t give me a sign. I’m going to stop doing this. But you have to make it a big sign. Because I am deaf, stubborn, lazy and I don’t pay attention. So it’s got to be real obvious otherwise, I’m going to miss it.”
I pulled into the parking lot of the sprawling Dominican Order Convent and put on my best smile and went to work unloading the djembes I had brought with me.
The nuns had invited me to come and hold a drumming prayer group. The Dominican Order is an impressive group of women who are committed to the good causes. We drummed in the chapel for two hours with two hundred nuns and a video feed out to the dormitories where there were a thousand nuns sharing the groove. It was a powerful experience. At the end, Mother Superior came in and spoke to me quite simply saying, “We have been here in the Dominican Mother House for over one hundred years. We built it. We have had a favorite tree that has been here since the beginning. It is an Oak tree and it is in front of the Mother House. It’s old and split up the side but it is still alive. While you all were drumming it caught on fire. it is burning right now. The grounds keepers are calling it spontaneous combustion.” The mother Superior gave a little shrug then continued, “That happens..”
None of the nuns said a word. Finally the elder Nun, who was eighty years old and still in her habit growled with conviction. “When are we gonna do this again?”
I asked if I could see the tree. The nun who had arranged the event bought the drum that I was playing after the photographer from the Adrian newspaper took pictures. She has been using the drum in prayer groups for many years.
We did it five more times over the next two years. Each time it was memorable and inspirational.
This large djembe and a smaller djembe was stolen by a man she worked with and trusted. Keep an eye out for it.

The firetruck was leaving as Sister Sharon drove me up to the smoldering tree. One solitary nun stood watching at a distance. Plus two grounds keepers. Firemen could not find a reason for the tree to be on fire. They cut a hole in it. Sprayed it with water. Put a hazard tape around it. It was three stories tall enveloped in a huge cloud of white aromatic smoke. Red Oak smells beautiful when it burns. The Adrian Gazette news photographer was excited. “I got the message on my CB and followed the firetruck up here. While you all were drumming, there were flames coming off the top of the tree. I got pictures.” I looked up, puzzled, “The leaves aren’t consumed?” He grinned, “Yeah. Weird isn’t it? Get in there. Let’s get some pictures.”
The city cut the tree down. Eliminated even the roots, down to a smooth putting green of level grass. The only clue was the old sidewalk that had curved around in a half circle where the tree had stood. But the last time I was there, two years later, a new sapling was coming up.

Watch live video from buddyhelm on www.justin.tv

When the Bethlehem Asylum foundered in Coconut Grove, Christian did not waste any time getting another gig for himself and whatever musical aggregation he could pull together. He put together a horn section and wanted me and Charlie to do the gig in Key West at the Great Escape Lounge in the Key West Airport. I named the band after Christian as a joke. The Christian Gahndi Syndrome.

Key West…part #1

Key West.. Part #2

Zanzibar….part #1

Zanzibar…part #2

Woodstock(instrumental)

His personality was so indelible and consistently cool and heavy that he was an icon of hip genius. His look, attitude was a mix of Brahmin Indian,(Born in Jaipur) and Harlem (grew up in the jazz scene of Harlem). From another planet but in the deep south he was just another man of color to alot of the rednecks and he had a rusty razor for them too. Talked more babes into giving him their car and apartment than any man I have ever met. Role model.  Guru. The best musician I have ever played with.
We arrived in sleepy Key West under the boiling tropic sun. Duval street, the main street was lined with bars. filled mostly with Special Forces re-enlistments looking for something to beat up. We gladly stayed out at the edge of town at the airport where uniforms were not allowed. But the Great Escape lounge was the strangest club in the universe.
I sat onstage in a fifties classic style building looking out through tilted glass windows that were twenty feet tall. The room stuck out into the landing strip area of the old base right out of Casablanca. As we played “By the Time we got to Woodstock” using a Latin percussion section and horns, I would look out over the darkened landing strip and watch an occasional Cessna land without running lights under a new moon. Good pilot. Meeting up with an old station wagon. They exchanged whatever then the tiny plane rose up into the balmy night and the station wagon drove off with its swag. Sometimes they came in for a drink. Dieter owned the bar. He was a German national and built like a wrestler. Thick German accent contrasted nicely with his screeching JAP wife from Miami Beach. They were passionately in love and never stopped yelling at each other. Their huge apartment had a refrigerator containing only a jar of mustard and a bottle of vodka. Dieter rearranged the bar almost every day. Moving the piano around and projecting old eight millimeter stag movies on the front of the upright piano while Christian played jazz and blues. There were more bikinied beauties than should be allowed in one spot. Also lots of spooks. CIA, Spetznaz, KGB, East and West German spies, Mossad. Everybody was hanging, everybody was packing a piece. It was very polite. A few Russians over from Havana for a drink. It was only eighty miles to Havana across the straights of Florida. They could make the trip in a cigarette boat in under two hours. A sunburned salvage diver with a pocket full of freshly discovered gold found in thirty feet of warm Caribbean blue water. A platoon of huge Irish Regulars in kilts on R and R from Belfast. They danced and showed everyone what a Scotsman has under his kilt. We lived the life. I’m cooling off from a hot set, drying out in the evening trade wind breeze about one o’clock in the morning when an Anglo drunk saunters out and takes the night air along side me. “Good drummer” he says. “Whats yer name?” I tell him and his eyebrows go up. ” The guy who signs my paychecks has the same last name.” He muses with a grin. He pulls me into his conversation so I play along. “So what do you do?” I asked innocently. “I’m a pilot.” he mumbles with calm pride. “That must mean you fly for Air America.” I said. He jumped with a start, got a little less drunk and turned to me. “That’s not really public knowledge.” He said. “It is if you want to know.” I was evasive just to mess with him. “Are you in the family?” He asked me. “Uncle” I lied. He warmed up to me now.
“You know this weather reminds me of home.” he said lazily.
“OK, I’ll bite. Where’s home?”
“Bangkok.” He said. “Its nice. I’m on vacation. They let me go for awhile to come down here and develop some business connections in South America.”

“I have to go finish the last set. Nice talking with you. Have a nice vacation.” I never saw him again.

Link to the live recordings at the KEY WEST AIRPORT GREAT ESCAPE LOUNGE OF THE CHRISTIAN GANDHI SYNDROME 1971:
http://www.buddyhelm.com/vintage-original-music-prductions/christian-gandhi-syndrome-band-in-key-west-live