Drums get down like James Brown. They break chains, sing refrains of freedom. Drums are all about love. They’ll hit on you if you hit on them. Drums don’t take lip service from the apocalypse. Drums are planets with dense atmospheres of feeling. Each beat is its own Bruce Lee side-kicking us into cosmic bliss. Drums are raucous telegrams from the sonic world. They write on the breeze with tonality ink. Drums slip rhythms into locks of inhibitions and open our hips on the dance floor. Drums ain’t no sycophants; they’re sick for their own slick chants. Drums ain’t no Sisyphus shouldering boulders uphill. They’re rock ’n roll all the way, baby.