Ozomatli

The man holds a thumb and two fingers midair, motionless, aiming toward the crowd. There is a voice unlike the sound you would expect from such a man, and it is coming from him. The spell knits from his fingertips, mouth, from his skin, organs, from the heat of his body. There are other musicians, other instruments, the sea of crowd, the late hour, the lights, all feeding the sorcery, but here and now he holds the reins, is the prism through which the harnessed power sets the people and the atoms to dancing.