And dance among them all

I've given you a taste of the magic Atwater-Donnelly weaves into their songs--but not Balkanarama. It's a completely different magic, which I'd like to share with you--I think I will tell you of the first time I met Eva Moon. She's their lead singer and has definitely got the voice for it. Here it is:
-=0=-=0=-=0=-
The Northwest Folklife Festival, a festival at the Seattle Center, was winding down for the day. It had been going since Friday afternoon, Memorial Day weekend, and would still go the next day, Monday. In the Center House, there were still starry-eyed dancers, some of which had been dancing since 7 o'clock. It was 10:30 now.

It was the Balkan Dance Party. Several different Balkan groups had come up on stage to play for the dancers and spectators alike, had come and gone. They had taken their turn, and now it was time for a finale. It was time for Balkanarama.

A group of six they were, all clad in black and maybe red. Or blue. A drum set decked with Christmas lights sat in the back. At this, a woman took her place. She had very short, brown hair and was dressed in a blackish-maroon.

Mostly they were older, not old, but not as young as some of the performers. Except for one, their violinist--he was young, playing the violin like a wizard, the fiddle somewhat lost in his bushy dark beard. He stood next to a guitarist, Bosnian by birth, clean shaven with dark hair. Next to the violinist, and slightly in front, though more next to, the drummer, stood a woman with shoulder length red hair. As she turned, I caught a glitter on her face not unlike glitter make-up. It looked cool under the disco lights. Next to her stood two men wearing hats and sunglasses like the Blues Brothers, but when they took their hats off, I saw that one was bald and the other was only balding.

I forgot looking at the members once their music started. Whatever it said--for they sang in Romani and Bulgarian, Macedonian and--does Bosnia have a language of its own?--whatever language they speak in Bosnia--it carried me to a strange spectrum of light, mostly black and red, with a little blue and some yellow. I had to dance. I must dance.

When you must dance, there is no stopping. The figures on the dance floor, the band, even the tables and chairs of the food court and the steps blurred into the spectrum. A spectrum. And one that my feet could not resist.

It was a half hour later, when, flushed and panting, my feet stopped. There was no urge anymore. They were finished playing, and it was time to breathe a sigh of mixed relief and disappointment.

The magic had not ended. We went to the edge of the stage where people were talking, and there was their lead singer, the red-haired lady. She was squatting at the edge talking to people. My father had met her about a week ago, performing with another group (pop music, this time), so he walked up and introduced us. She remembered him, remembered a blog entry about her music (which she put on her site, she liked it so much!), and she said as much.

I must have, outgoing person as I am, said something about dancing, or that I had danced. She nodded. "I know. I saw you. When people dance, it just makes me want to sing out."

I have remembered these words because they were words someone said to me. Someone who had made a CD. Those words stay with me.

Occasionally, I have spoken to her since. And I've always danced. It's impossible not to.