The Berklee Performance Center was teeming with high school drummers. Sticks in hand and ubiquitous lanyards in tow, they flooded the hall to attend a special performance held on Wednesday evening as part of the annual Berklee Percussion Festival. In addition to usual chatter, the pattering of drum sticks on knees could be heard everywhere. The young man seated in front of me took his mobile exercises a step further by practicing incessant rhythms with his feet (to simulate the pedals in a drum kit), creating the appearance from behind that he had been placed in an overactive massage chair. Fortunately, the restless youths ceased all fidgeting the moment Dafnis Prieto appeared on 
Drummers are not often bandleaders. Maybe it is the responsibility. Maybe it is because they have to look presentable. Regardless, Prieto is a damn successful one. The New York Times has compared his 1999 arrival from Cuba to the “landing of an asteroid.” His unique command over the drum set has unequivocally placed him among the living elite (frightening given his age of 34). He’s not a bad businessman either, announcing at the end of the set that he didn’t remember which songs were on which CD’s, so we might as well buy them all. In September, he will release a record (under his own Dafnison label) performed by his current touring band, Si o Si Quartet. The quartet is comprised of Manual Valera on piano, Charles Flores on bass, and Peter Apfelbaum on saxophone (percussionist Pedro Martinez appeared instead of Apfelbaum at the BPC).
As expected, there were a few open drum solos woven into Wednesday evening’s performance. However, the set was not entirely void of harmonic instruments. Prieto’s fiery and mostly odd-metered Latin jazz compositions showcased each band member adequately. Regular quartet member Manual Valera was brilliant on the piano. His poise and technique were frustratingly fluid. While he seemed able to make nearly anything happen on the keys, he showed remarkable restraint when called for. Subsequently, when it was time to explode with notes, he did just that.
Adjacent to Valera was upright bassist Charles Flores. Flores does not play the bass; he caresses it. Visibly in love with music, it was not a surprise that soulful playing ensued. The communication between drums and bass was unerring, partially thanks to the fact that the two Cuban musicians have previously toured together as part of Michel Camilo’s trio. Flores appeared slightly less settled in Prieto’s intrepid quartet than with the more traditional Camilo, but his playing was inspiring and solid nonetheless. Rounding out the group was guest was percussionist Pedro Martinez. He did not lack confidence - musically or otherwise. His authority over the congas made them look like wobbly bowling pins, and his flashy pair of sunglasses remained on throughout the set. This personality was not just visible, but an exciting addition to the music as well.
Practically every note of the concert was executed with hilarious precision and musicality. Prieto often wore a sly and incomprehensibly calm smile as he exercised monarchical power over the drums, with his four (or perhaps six) limbs blazing beneath. Pianist Kenny Werner’s book “Effortless Mastery” comes to mind. Periodically, just as the stage appeared to be overflowing with layers of syncopation, Prieto’s expression would harden abruptly as he executed fierce unison stop time with the rest of the band. Such phrases were prone to flabbergasted admiration in the form of shouts and groans, rather than the conventional head bobbing.
Highlights included the moments in which it was possible to take breaths. For example, the set opened with a few of the most relaxing seconds of the night. Prieto used mallets to create spacious and ethereal single-stroke rolls around the drum set, swelling freely and musically without a designated pulse. Also, a tune written in the traditional Cuban danzón style entitled “Until The Last Minute” (dedicated to the late percussionist Miguel Angá Diaz), was a gem. It was performed at a distinctly slower tempo than the rest of the songs, and breathed with an infectious groove.
After eight epic pieces of music, ears were sufficiently numb. The crowd was left winded in amazement, looking to go home and listen to something droning, triadic, and preferably in 4/4. Is there such a thing as being too good?
