Kelly McCann works a sound system mounted on a rickshaw. Photo by Harbeer Sandhu.
Memorial Drive seen from blue trees. Photo by Edward Garza.
Harbeer Sandhu. Photo by Edward Garza.
A May Day renegade strikes a pose.
Rickshaw-mounted mobile sound system. Photo by Edward Garza.
A dancer at the renegade May Day party. Photo by Edward Garza.
A May Day hairdo. Photo by Harbeer Sandhu.
Before May 1st, it was only from a distance that I had seen the semi-circle of crepe myrtles along Houston’s Memorial Drive. Viewing them through my passenger-side window, I always thought the trees looked like giant dandelions. To this day, my heartbeat slows down whenever I drive past them. Lush and delicate, they offer an image of peace.
So, naturally, I was excited when I heard that Harbeer Sandhu, founder of the intrepid art blog texphrastic.com, was organizing a May Day dance party in the semi-circle. When Harbeer and I exchanged emails beforehand, he emphasized that attendees should send invitations only by word of mouth.
“Please don’t publish [the party] anywhere until the day of,” Sandhu wrote. “I am deliberately eschewing permits, on principle.”
When May 1st arrived, I drove to Allen Parkway at the appointed time—4:30. The sun hung among the clouds like a glowing egg yoke, giving Houstonians a preview of its summer might. Parallel to the expressway flowed the brown waters of Buffalo Bayou. I left my car in the nearby lot of Eleanor Tinsley Park, where young professionals were jogging along its concrete trail. Wearing a t-shirt and khaki shorts, I started my trek through the syrupy, carbon-infused air, keeping an eye out for those crepe myrtles.
Crossing the bridge at Waugh Drive, I met a bearded man with black, curly hair. Coming from the crepe myrtles’ direction, he was walking with some concentrated speed. However, with his jeans and black t-shirt, he had the relaxed vibe of someone who might attend a dance party at 4:30 on a Wednesday, and turned out to be none other than Sandhu.
Arriving at the other end of the bridge, I saw several people drinking beer in the semi-circle, cars whizzing about 75 feet from them. What first struck me was that the trunks of the crepe myrtles were painted blue, the work of Australian artist Konstantin Dimopolous at the behest of Houston Arts Alliance. The color emphasized the trees’ peacefulness, while also making them more attention-grabbing—maybe not the best thing for a dance party without a permit, I thought. (In case you’re interested, Dimopolous and his team painted the trees with a biologically safe, water-based, primer-free mineral pigment that rain will wash away within several months.)
After introducing myself to my fellow partiers—a jovial bunch largely characterized by the wearing of shorts—I was asked if I would join a game of “Smack Fu” (or at least that’s how I think it’s spelled). To summarize Smack Fu, it’s like hacky-sack except it’s played with a feathery contraption that looks like a mix between a badminton shuttlecock and a pagan noisemaker. It had little plastic disks that wrapped around a stick and absorbed whatever punches, head-butts, or kicks came their way. The game was more fun than my description might suggest. There was a circle of about five of us and we were able to hit the contraption 11 times before it finally fell to the ground. “No, no, NO!” yelled one of my teammates as she dived for the feathery object.
The sound system arrived on wheels. With Harbeer at his side, a rickshaw DJ pedaled through the street and joined us in the semi-circle. Instead of people, the rickshaw carried speakers and a large tangle of wires.
“Oh my God,” said one of the partiers with a smile.
The music reminded me of electronic, instrumental hip-hop from the late '80s, the kind that makes you want to jack your torso from side to side. Some beats were smooth, others wonderfully rough, but they shared a cohesive atmosphere. Curious about the songs’ titles, I opened up my iPhone’s Shazam app, but it could not pinpoint the beats. I peeked to the side of the rickshaw and saw a man improvising the songs on a silver pad that was hooked up to the speakers. People began to sway their bodies. Others mingled over cups of beer. The May Day party had officially begun.
I saw two HPD patrol cars driving toward downtown, but they passed as if we weren’t even there. By this point, Harbeer had changed from his black tee-shirt into a red and white, apron-like top. I asked him about the significance of the party’s date and start-time.
“May Day has been a holiday celebrating workers’ rights,” he said. “In other countries, people get May 1st off.”
He explained why, here in the States, May Day has been supplanted by Labor Day, a holiday that was first marketed as a gift from employers to workers.
“Labor Day,” he added, “has allowed companies to obscure the success that labor unions have had on May 1st and make themselves look generous for giving their employees a day off. Every year I give myself May Day off.”
In other words, this party would be a way of taking May Day back, however briefly. Now the 4:30 start-time made more sense: the party would be seen by thousands of people as they drove home from work. The crowd was, in a way, exercising free speech by way of partying, creating a guerrilla public space. Moreover, aside from its labor history, May 1st has been a major pagan holiday, marking the approach of warmth and life.
Glancing at the growing party, I saw a little more dancing, drinking, and merrymaking, but I also saw people simply standing or walking among the blue trees, taking gentle, child-like steps. Indeed, it was refreshing to literally surround yourself with nature, with grass and leaves and small birds. The DJ’s songs might as well have been the songs of a satyr, some enchanted hymns of life. It wouldn’t matter whether authorities showed up: we were reviving May Day, and May Day was reviving us.
