Years ago my friend was sailing the islands in the south pacific trying to expunge the wanderlust from his system. He approached an island dock of an obscure inlet to stay the week and enjoy some local Polynesian cuisine.
Once docked, he noticed and was intrigued by the constant drumming. It just went on and on, rhythmic twists and turns. Polyrhythms upon paradiddles. Quite pleasant, but a constant background pulsing presence.
He asked a local, “What does the drumming mean?” The native said, “When drumming stops, very very bad.”
Later that day, the drumming continued to beat and thrash. My friend got the attention of another local and asked, “What’s with all the drums?” The native replied, “When drumming stops, very very bad.” and then scampered quickly away.
That evening he retired to a native hostel. After hours of turbulent sleep he was awakened again by the constant throbs of the drumming. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to know the reason. He rushed out of hostel and grabbed the first native he found. He spun the man toward him and exclaimed in a screeching, tremulous tenor, “I’ve go to know, man. What does the drumming mean? Why is it bad when it stops? Dear Lord, what foul pestilence happens when the drumming stops?!!”
The native replied, “Bass solo.”