A friend once forwarded me an online rant from a white, African-trained drumming teacher who criticized my community drum circles for not teaching the history of the djembe or traditional African rhythms. He claimed we were doing “more harm than good.”

Maybe he didn’t notice all the doumbeks, congas, cajons, and frame drums in the circle—or maybe he thought the best way to sell his classes in Maine was to belittle the only type of drumming 1,000+ Mainers had come to love. That’s like an Olympic Gold Medalist mocking Special Olympics athletes for not being “real athletes.”

African drumming is beautiful. But it demands physical skill and mental discipline to reproduce music someone improvised hundreds of years ago. It tends to attract people who prefer structure—those who like to know the “right way” to do things. That’s fine; traditional rhythms survive because of them. The problem comes when those drummers elevate themselves by dismissing others: “My drumming has value because it’s rooted in a rich cultural tradition—yours is just noise.”

Recreational music is not a competitive sport. I’m disappointed when professional musicians attack novices to build business. Another African teacher once criticized my circles because our rhythms were all in 4/4 or 6/8—accessible time signatures for beginners. But accessibility is the point.

My youngest drummer was 13 months old—little Gracie, who actually kept a 4/4 beat! My eldest was Ann, who began drumming at 90 after her husband died. She played so softly I never heard her once, but she told a fellow drummer, “There’s no age in that room.”

And then there was Laura—28 years old, born with cerebral palsy and autism. She struggled to walk and speak, but she loved drumming beside me every week. Her mother once said our circle was the only “normal” activity where Laura was welcomed among “normal” people.

If traditional African drumming is the only “valid” form, where would Gracie, Ann, and Laura fit? What would that teacher offer them?

My freestyle drum circles may not be as musically polished as an African class—but they’re inclusive. I give people permission to be beginners, to take risks, to make mistakes. I often tell newcomers, “We’re not auditioning for Santana,” or “The only sin is being the loudest drummer in the room.” When someone warns that they’re rhythmically challenged, I grin and say, “ So play quietly.”I give people permission to play badly… to find their own voice… to laugh at their mistakes and tolerate others’. Those are life lessons disguised as rhythm.

I’ve trained in rock/funk drumming, Middle Eastern, African, and Taiko styles—but I play from the heart because it expresses more than technique ever could. Buddy Rich was more skilled than Gene Krupa, but Krupa had more fun—and he invented the drum set! When I play, what comes out is Krupa’s joy, not Rich’s perfection.

When people dance to my rhythms—whether at kirtans in India or with the Santa Fe Blues Revue—I know their bodies are responding to mine. That’s connection. That’s community.

So yes, African drummers focus on precision, and I respect that. But in my circles, a conservative attorney might drum beside a lesbian acupuncturist. A Pagan and a born-again Christian might trade rhythms. A couple might drum together on their first date—then marry two years later.

A Vietnam veteran finds physical therapy. A grieving widow finds family. Depressed people smile. Anxious people breathe. Strangers connect.

And someone thinks this is about the music?

That’s like a fish mocking a bird because it can’t swim underwater.