The International Exhibition of Black Music is a must. Kudzi was right. A Samsung smartphone about twenty generations beyond my everyday punchpad guides you through the six rooms and the 13 hours of songs and videos that fills them. Seeing as Theo and I had 45 minutes during our lunch break, it wasn’t overwhelming at all.

The “Legends of Black Music” room was lit only by 24 waist-high crystal cylinders projecting images of Legends from Billie Holiday to Michael Jackson, with a few new names for me, like Fela Kuti, peppered in there, too.

“Mama Africa” room showcased the origins of African music by region, highlighting the “spectacular wealth” of rhythmic traditions. DJ Mujara and Township Funk. Tumi and the Volume. The visitors headbanging in their bulbous headphones were as entertaining as the music.

From “Mama Africa” we passed through the “Birth of the Black Atlantic” passage. Big eyes stare through chicken wire. A poem projects on the floor, its white-hot letters dancing around my feet. One step forward, two steps back. “The dead are never gone…”

The “Sacred Rites and Rhythms” room engulfs you, bringing alive the connection between music and the spirit. The drums beat and you’re one. With no way out.

The next room is red, lined with giant white egg-like chairs like the ones in Men in Black and is filled with videos and timelines flashing English-Francais-English-Francais of the explosion happening in black culture around the world. “You can restrain movement, but you cannot restrain imagination.”

With Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” video I’ve given up trying to look professional in my pencil skirt. Having dropped my bag into one of the eggs, I am straight up getting down. Flashback to Outside Lands this summer, with Madison silhouetted atop shoulders in Golden Gate park, aglow with Stevie’s stage lights.  And a moment where I miss my SF crew and so badly want to share this with them. To get Steve on Alex’s shoulders in the middle of this museum (and probably put Madison on mine) as we Kumbaya to “Isn’t she loveee-ly…”

My phone glares. 12:47. I have to leave…17 minutes ago. Theo and I whip through the “Global Mix” room with its turn table (Miss you Rap City!) and Graffiti screen. I’m so happy in cursive was my parting mark. On our way out, Theo added a “FOR REAL!” to the “It makes my skin go cold it is so fabulous!” on the feedback board.

I frantically fumbled for words driving back. “I know what I want to do with my life right now. I want to make people feel the way I do right now. The absolute joy. But why?  Why does music leave me with this feeling? Is it from me? Is it other people? It’s not me. Yes, it’s other people. Art – that exhibition, that music – brings joy because it makes me feel connected to something beyond myself, beyond my own experience.”

I am not Black. Though I’m not quite “White” either. More like ”Pink” after this past SPF-free Saturday. And I am certainly not musically inclined. And yet walking, no, dancing, through that Exhibition, I felt a part of something, of these people, of their history, of their story. We were in it together.

Back at ALA, it was House Choir night, and I had been tapped to judge, sandwiched between Sharmi and Gavin. Each House performed a Glee-inspired mash-up. Niger house opened up with a little “Stand By Me” and “Redemption Song” combo followed by their original score, “Africa Unite.” It was beautiful. Made extra beautiful by Faith’s red boa. Hiding my house pride under the judge’s table, I tapped my feet as my own house, Volta, performed  “Volta Style” which rivaled the remix quality of Romney Style in my unbiased opinion. Basked in green light, their house spirit had never been stronger, united by Kate’s drumming. After Tana concluded, we had a “Special performance” from the Staffulty.

I dodged the floodlight as the MC stalled, and slipped through the dark into the backstage cubby to slip on my secret weapon – my Christmas tree costume. (Yes, I took up half a suitcase to bring a foam Christmas tree costume across two continents and an ocean.)  Faith’s keyboard and Kate’s drums got us going, and from nowhere, a band of gangsters appeared. Chemeli wearing a clock, Robyn stepping out of MTV circa 1986, and the return of Faith’s boa. Alright STOP. Col-lab-or-ate and Lis-ten.

Chris Bradford comes out for the final verse and, without missing a single word, finishes strong with Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it,  dropping the mic. All I could see through the fog (and my rather itchy head hole) was a sea of smartphones flashing. 

“Did you SEE Dean Bradford? Did you see what colors he was wearing? Red, yellow, and blue! Just like Superman! We all have crushes on him now!” 

And once again, music takes us beyond our own humanity.