Kirtan Field Notes

When I look back, my connection to kirtan didn't begin in one moment. It arrived in pieces over many years.

One of my earliest encounters may have happened around 2003 while playing drums in Lady of the Lake near Dallas. After rehearsal, someone suggested we stop by a Hare Krishna restaurant for free food. The restaurant was separate from the temple, but as we walked by I could hear chanting and singing coming from inside. I had no idea what I was hearing.

Around the same time, sitar player Tom Griffin invited me to a kirtan in Dallas. Once again, I didn't really understand what I was experiencing. I was fascinated by Indian classical music and rhythm, but kirtan wasn't the music I had been studying. My thinking mind was trying to figure everything out. What were these chants? What did they mean? Why were people singing them?

Life moved on.

I continued studying tabla, playing in bands, performing jazz, teaching music, recording, and following my fascination with rhythm. Looking back, those early encounters with kirtan were more like seeds than beginnings.

Years later, while spending time at Yellow Feather Coffee Shop in Denver, a couple of Hare Krishna devotees handed me a copy of the Bhagavad Gita. That eventually led me to visit the temple, meet a monk, and participate in kirtan in a more direct way.

The next major turning point came at Mr. E's Mystery School south of Boulder.

One of my first invitations to play kirtan as a tabla player came through the Sacred Sound Lab community. The gathering took place outdoors beside a river with the mountains all around us. It was also where I first met Makaysha Rain. What began as a single event eventually led to years of collaboration with Makaysha and sitarist Bijay Shrestha through Cosmic Mantra and related projects, including appearances at Sonic Bloom and other gatherings throughout Colorado.

Since then, the path has continued through house kirtans, festivals, temples, retreats, and regular chanting circles throughout Colorado. Along the way I've been fortunate to share music with many wonderful musicians, chant leaders, and communities who have helped shape my understanding of this tradition.

But if I'm honest, the story isn't really about the events.

It's about what happened when I stopped trying to understand kirtan and started participating in it.

The first chant that truly connected with me was the Hare Krishna mantra. Listening to the Radha Krishna Temple recordings, I could hear something I wasn't finding elsewhere. I could hear hope. I could hear the enthusiasm of people who believed they were part of something meaningful. That feeling still moves me today.

At first I entered kirtan through the tabla. Gradually I started singing the responses. Part of me simply wanted to chant, but I also discovered that singing helped me lock into the feel of the music in a deeper way. Somewhere along the way, something shifted. I stopped standing outside of the experience and became part of it.

As a tabla player, I don't think of my role as simply keeping time. Sometimes rhythm acts like a bridge between the chant leader and the community. Sometimes it serves as the glue that helps a room full of individuals become a shared musical experience. And sometimes its job is to gently raise the energy—to help a chant build momentum, invite participation, and support the collective spirit of the gathering as it unfolds.

One of my favorite insights comes from Ky Gabriel, who says that the kartals chant the mantra. I love that idea. In kirtan, the mantra isn't carried only by the voices. The harmonium chants. The tabla chants. The cymbals chant. The entire room becomes part of the mantra.

The deeper I get into kirtan, the more I find myself absorbed in it. Sometimes I'll be completely lost in the rhythm and the sound of the group singing. Then I'll open my eyes and suddenly become aware of the room again. The lights. The people. The voices.

And there is often a moment when something shifts.

People stop worrying about themselves. The chant takes on a life of its own. It stops being about the leader, the musicians, or the individuals in the room.

It becomes about us.

That's the part that keeps drawing me back.

Sometimes we'll be chanting a Devi mantra and I'll have the feeling that I'm stepping into something ancient. Not ancient in a historical sense, but alive. I feel connected to the people in the room, to the generations of people who have sung these same names and mantras before us, and to the deity being invoked through the chant itself. In those moments it feels less like creating something and more like joining something that has been unfolding for a very long time.

The longer I've participated in kirtan, the harder it has become to separate the roles. Am I there as a musician, a participant, a devotee, or a facilitator? At this point, the distinction has started to disappear. I'm aware of my role, but it doesn't feel more important than anyone else's. We're all there together. The chant belongs to all of us.

Maybe that's why kirtan reminds me of old punk shows.

Different music. Different setting.

The same feeling.

A group of people creating something together that is bigger than any one person in the room.

It has been said that chanting allows us to get a taste of that which we are seeking. I don't know that I can fully explain what that means, but every once in a while, in the middle of a chant, something shifts. The distinctions disappear. Musician, participant, devotee, facilitator—it all falls away. There is only the chant, the community, and a feeling of connection that is difficult to put into words.

Those moments don't last forever.

But they leave an impression.

They keep me coming back.

This page is an archive of that ongoing journey. I'll continue adding photos, recordings, videos, flyers, stories, and future events as the path unfolds.