Here, amidst the pines and meadows of unspoiled Vermont, the Rainbow tribe takes on an ancient, pagan glow. Out from between Park Avenue Deadheads and heavy-metal burnouts appear gypsies and griots, hicks and hoboes, Faeries and harem dwellers, Indians, jesters, and 19th century utopians with bushy, serious beards. In the world, many are social workers, drug dealers, caf waiters, undergrads. But here all transform into a timeless crew of nomads, trailed by rags and incense. Materials come and go, goods are scrounged or bartered, technology jerry-rigged from branches and solar cells.
Commodity values become magical.
Late my first night, sweaty men and women beat the skins around the Drum Circle's pit of fire. A few brothers try to introduce true polyrhythms into the sea of beats inspired more by soundtracks to westerns than by Tito Puente. The complex clusters of polyrhythms come and go in the cold night air, they crystallize and decay. The waning moon rises above the trees as a mesmerized woman partially disrobes. The crowd starts singing the Brady Bunch theme song.