In the Cama’i green room to the side of the Bethel Regional High School gymnasium, a council of drummers convenes.
It’s the kind of club you might wish you were a part of, and this one has pretty open doors — all you need is a drum. A blend of percussionists from the groups performing at the Cama’i dance festival are part of this jam session, following drum leader Panuk Benjamin Agimuk’s gaze and command.
“I just know that it's the type of spiritual thing that touches everybody, especially when you see the whole audience dancing it,” Agimuk says. “It is just how light it is afterwards, it's just a moment of healing.”
In a few moments, the musicians will enter the Warrior Dome and perform for hundreds of spectators for the Heart of the Drums. Though the stage they’ll take has hosted basketball tournaments and fiddle dances, this is known to be the gym’s loudest event of the year.
But in the green room, the drummers keep their beating light as they rehearse the song they’ll play: "Seal Boy" composed by Aassanaaq Kairaiuak of the Inuit soul group Pamyua. It’s been chosen by the drum leaders, in part because it’s well-known by the crowd.
But with a few dozen drums, it’s hard to keep the practice hush-hush. The crew is quickly quieted by Cama’i organizer Linda Curda. The drums are distracting from the Latin dance performance next door.
Soon, showtime arrives. The drummers fan out across the auditorium, lining the top level of bleachers ringing the gym. Organizer Cody Pequeño of Chevak speaks to the crowd.
“Heart of the drums, we do this every year,” Pequeño booms into the microphone. “Our drums, our songs, they heal us. It’s our medicine, our form of prayer. When our drummers come out, I want you guys to use this time. I know everybody has troubles, everybody has sorrows. But we’re here to give it all up and start a new day because we need to be happy. We need to heal.”
Agimuk and his co-drum leader, Levi Nicholas of Kasigluk, stand in the corner of the stage. Under the stage lights, once again, the assembly of drummers follows their signals.
As the beating swells, spectators dance along to "Seal Boy" with movements known by heart. The group blows past the shout it made in the green room, reaching a sensation that vibrates through the crowd.
Back in the green room, Agimuk slumps into a chair, abuzz.
“I'm still, I still have a little adrenaline, and I'm kind of trying to clear it out,” Agimuk says. “When I was up there singing and seeing how the crowd was very into the song, and how the drummers were very into it, it's just a very powerful feeling. It's a very powerful thing to see, and that made me emotional a little bit.”
He says that it felt beyond him.
“It's very chilling, because even if I stopped, they kept going when we were rehearsing,” he says. “Then, you know, you did something, right?”
As the drummers disperse, Cama’i continues on. The drummers that lined the gym will be found later on stage, in Taiko drum performances, Tlingít dancing, and many yuraq groups, making music from their home communities at the annual Bethel festival.
