It’s not that uncommon to see the bucket & refrigerator parts drummers in Boston. Once The Weather hits, they seem to sprout from the asphalt on street corners and park walkways. Like it or not, their rhythms affect us, guiding footfalls until whole crowds fall into time with the din. Our minds seek order, and it jjust makes sense to give in, to let go, of our control when something outside of us provides a beat to guide us.

This can’t be about all of them, though.

A couple of days ago, I was walking the rim of the parks and came across a rhythm whose sounds were peculiarly rich and well-defined, and it wasn’t long before I found out why. There were two drummers. The first was exactly what I expected – an inner-city teen with a kit made up entirely of discarded containers and appliances. The other was a young woman in dreadlocks straddling a djembe that was lying on its side. As they played, I realized that this pairing was not planned. I’m guessing she was an Emerson student who grabbed her drum and came out to see what could be made of a fortunate accident. Their play was complementary and competitive, and judging from the smiles on their faces, they were thrilled.

So were we. Anyone who walked by walked away just a little happier.