We clawed our way out of the heartland iowa and left pig-farm purgatory and yet empty corn fields behind. The flight was a shaking metal coffin, turbulence like a bad acid flashback. Checked into some overpriced temple of insomnia, then hit the pavement into the electric circus that is New York City. The air was thick with cannabis and possibility. Strange and beautiful people drifted like ghosts through neon fog, guiding us toward the nerve center: Times Square.
And there—oh, sweet merciful madness—was the Dingonek Street Band Not just a band. A sonic riot. A holy brass-fueled exorcism of the soul. Afrobeat, Ethio-jazz, post-bop, funk, New Orleans voodoo parade music—all colliding in a glorious, unstoppable storm. These maniacs didn’t play songs, they summoned spirits. Every horn blast was a battle cry. Every rhythm, a call to arms.
We drank, we danced, we howled at the skyscrapers. The whole square was vibrating with life. The Dingonek boys didn’t just perform—they converted us. Goddamn right—we’re just getting started….
