Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

Years ago, after a late night karaoke session, a friend plugged in his drum machine and keyboard and this girl-next-door type proceeded to give the mic a tongue-lashing that humbled everyone. Her sharp sense of rhythm was attributed to growing up po' in Pittsburgh; none of us privileged suburb-raised whities could hang.

Fuggit, how hard could it be? I'd give it a shot.

Before standing up, I rehearsed a few simple rhymes in my head. I figured the rest would flow straight off the dome. Wrong. After two lines, I paused---a deer in headlights---and repeated the same bullshit I'd just said. I stammered, gave a few false starts, and defeated, I set the mic down. I was beat.

Since that day, I've had a different appreciation of rap. Any hack can belt out wavey melodies till his heart is content, but rapping takes something that few of us have.

It's comparable to deciding you're going to learn guitar; you pick up the major chords in a few weeks, and learn to switch between them in a few months of diligent practice. But solid rhythm takes years to perfect.

Maybe this is peculiar to white people; when making music, the last thing we care about is maintaining rhythm, but often it's the one thing that makes music sound good.