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Sport 32: Summer 2004
Rio the Rock
Rio the Rock
And so when Rio plays bass, he stands with his feet planted as firmly in the ground as a tree plants its roots. He pumps from the torso, his shoulders jumping rhythmically: it's an idiosyncratic bodily gesture, instantly identifiable when imitated. His face remains tranquil, his eyes cautious. He's a big man, broad-shouldered, with waist-length dreads page 114 that he pulls back in a ponytail; he seems far more guarded than the others, less immediately warm, much less of an extrovert.
This seems to be Rio's musical persona. It is not: it is only one of them. Seeing him play with Trinity Roots is startling. Riki is always the same, no matter where, no matter what, no matter with whom he's playing. Rio with Trinity Roots is someone else. He is a far more powerful presence on stage, far more vital: he expands, solidifies, reaches outward; he throws his gaze toward the audience, which he never does when he's playing jazz, pulling them in. Rio with Trinity Roots plays with passion.
‘Well it's our music, you see,’ Rio says when you ask him about this. He segues into Sweet Dumb Maori Boy, the way Riki can (both of them graduated from Jazz School; nothing at all dumb here, though certainly some sweet). ‘That jazz stuff, man. It's intimidating.’
Toward the end of the shooting, Rio starts fooling around with percussion. It delights him; and here's a third persona. Again, here is someone else. Someone loose-limbed and grinning, shifting his feet, his whole body moving. This is light-years away from Rio the Rock playing bass, playing the same music with the same people.
The only conclusion you can come to around personality types and instruments is that the man (to speak advisedly) does not play the instrument; the instrument plays the man.