In 1971 I went briefly on the road with Carlos Santana and his band. It was an almost schizophrenic experience. For one, the thing that most often connected me directly to the music – the output of the singer songwriter – was not a factor. Santana the group was more overtly just about the music, the swing of Latin rhythm, a driving guitar, and a driving percussion section, and not really at all about the lyrics, or so it seemed to me. But really the thing I noticed was the developmental disconnect. Carlos Santana was quiet and somewhat aloof. His band on the other hand were – for the most part – like kids on summer vacation or Animal House. It was, it seemed, a marriage of the sacred and the profane. FROM AN AMERICAN STORY
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