It was a day when Max didn't feel like talking to anyone. He just sat on his front steps and watched the clouds gather in the sky.
A strong breeze shook the tree in front of his house, and Max saw two heavy twigs fall to the ground.
So begins this story of a young boy's introduction to the joys of making music.
Max picks up the sticks and begins tapping out the rhythms of everything he sees and hears around him...the sound of pigeons startled into flight, of rain against the windows, of distant church bells and the rumble of a subway. And then, when a marching band rounds Max's corner, something wonderful happens.
Brian Pinkney's rhythmic text and lively pictures are certain to get many a child's foot tapping, many a youngster drumming.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
"The fluid lines of Pinkney's distinctive scratchboard illustrations fairly swirl with energy, visually translating Max's joy in creating rhythm and sound," said PW about this account of a novice drummer. Ages 5-8. (June)
School Library Journal
Gr 1-3-On a day when Max doesn't feel like talking to anyone, a strong breeze shakes two heavy twigs to the ground in front of his brownstone home. Picking them up, the young African-American boy begins to beat out a rhythm that imitates the sound of pigeons startled into flight. Soon he is tapping out the beat of everything around him-rain against the windows, the chiming of church bells, and the thundering sound of a train on its tracks. The snappy text reverberates with the rhythmic song of the city, and Pinkney's swirling, scratchboard-oil paintings have a music of their own. This is an effective depiction of the way in which self-expression takes on momentum, as Max's quiet introspection turns into an exuberant celebration of the world around him.-Anna DeWind, Milwaukee Public Library
Hazel Rochman
Max makes music that imitates the sounds of the city around him and the rhythms within himself. Sitting on the steps of his house, the small boy finds two sticks and taps on his thighs; then he pats on Grandfather's window-washing bucket, and it's like light rain falling on the windows. When Mother comes home from shopping, he taps on her hatboxes and on his friends' soda bottles. He imagines the sound of a marching band in the clouds. On the neighborhood garbage cans he pounds out the sound of the subway thundering down the tracks. The text is a spare, rhythmic accompaniment to Pinkney's scratchboard illustrations of oil paint and gouache, which swirl and circle through the double-page spreads, filling them with energy and movement. The small solitary boy doesn't feel like talking, but his music communicates with the world. In a great climax, a marching band--just like the one he imagined--comes sweeping around the corner and the last drummer tosses Max his spare set of sticks. "Thanks," Max calls, and he doesn't miss a beat.
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