[See: Carnival Culture Index]

Rhyme, of course, would be nothing without rhythm. It simply couldn’t exist. In order for the Word to unfold upon Earth, Time is required. Let there be light. Let there be darkness. This word first. This one next. Alternation. Pattern. On. Off. Rhythm. The essence of language is rhythmic sequences of sound; in English, it is the iamb of iambic pentameter, the ba-DUM ba-DUM beat of the human heart.

Traveling professionally, the Fool learns the rhythms of the road. Days and nights spent listening to the clack clack clack of the train upon the tracks leaves deep marks upon the rhythms of one’s mind and self-expression. Depression-era hobos turned these sounds into songs, mimicking the beats they heard, and setting them to rambling streams of rhyming words. Ghetto prophets and streetcorner poets turned this same impulse into the artform of hip hop, as we know it.

Rhythms have always unified people. Ask any DJ, the beats make the party. Simple party science: if you can get everyone on the same page, bouncing and gyrating to the same groove, fun instantly follows. Simple cause and effect relationships. The *Life* of the party. “Shakin’ that ass.” Drums bring people together, help people to move in unison, in communion, to have one giant heart-beat pulsating vibrantly within a community.

Drums are the conscious human linking of one’s existence to the cycles and patterns of the natural world {see also: rhythmic entrainment}: the rhythms of the tides, of waves crashing onto the beach, of blood pumping through our hearts and veins, the cycle of the seasons, stars & planets, the rhythmic penetration of animals fucking - perpetuating the very rhythms of life itself across generations, encoded in the written Word of God, DNA.

In Haitian vodoun, which comes to the New World via West Africa, drums enable the initiate to become “ridden” by the lwas, literally possessed by the gods and ancestors. The gods speak through them. In fact, the “break beat” of hip hop comes from the trance-inducing cassé or kasé of voodoo:

An extremely important aspect of the performance of this music is the Kasé (from the French Casser, to break). The kasé is a break from the main cycle of the rhythm into a kind of alter-ego rhythm, usually instigated by the maman drum. In some cases, all thee drums respond to the kasé with their respective changes, but often it is only the maman who will change, or at least the change in the segon is more subtle. Some kasé patterns stray quite far from the main rhythm, some create a counter pulse to it and others still remain fairly rooted in the pulse. Every rhythm has a kasé, and every kasé has it’s own way to enter and exit from the main line. Dancers also change their steps to follow the kasé.

The kasé is typically played to assist with aspects of the Vodou ritual, such as pouring libations before the drums. Sometimes these are cued by the officiating priests, sometimes by the maman player himself. However, the most dramatic use of the kasé is to facilitate spiritual possession. If the maman player recognizes the physical signs at the inception of a possession of one of the servants or dancers, he will play a heated kasé to entice the lwa and may keep up the intense drumming of the kasé until the chwal in question is fully possessed.

Drums were once used to communicate over great distances in the physical world as well. Telegraphs are really no different. Morse Code, patterns of accents and rests, binary punctuation and line breaks in computer code. The percussive slapping of the hands against one another, of the foot stomping on the ground. Rhythmic entrainment enables groups of people to work together {See: field hollers, work songs}, men to go to war together, and people to carry on the fundamental processes of life within a community. The drum is the tick tock of the clock, appointments kept and missed, the right word at the right moment, perfect comedic timing.

The drummer is the streetcorner loremaster, the carnival barker, the town crier, the beat reporter with a nose for news, and his finger on the pulse of the neighborhood. He is the bouncer at the club, the gate-keeper traffic cop, who controls the timing, flow, attitude and make-up of a space-time event. He is the bartender who keeps currency, libations and good times going.

Without rhythm the poet fool folksinger MC has literally nothing. Just a jumble of words that sometimes sound alike. Rhythm, you see, is the foundation of all things which exist within time, of all things which exist, which have pattern and substance. Atoms and molecules even have their rhythms, arrangements and rotations. Without them, things fall apart. Rhythm is the difference between something and nothing, and the conversation which follows. To perfect rhythm is to become the ideal man, re-born with the combined strength of all ancestors and breathed into by the Word of God, the creative pulse of life itself, able to pound opponents, obliterate enemies, liberate hearts and unite human communities.

Clay comes out to meet Liston
And Liston starts to retreat
If Liston goes back any further
He’ll end up in a ringside seat.
Clay swings with a left,
Clay swings with a right,
Look at young Cassius
Carry the fight.
Liston keeps backing
But there’s not enough room
It’s a matter of time.
There, Clay lowers the boom.
Now Clay swings with a right,
What a beautiful swing,
And the punch raises the bear,
Clear out of the ring.
Liston is still rising
And the ref wears a frown,
For he can’t start counting,
Till Sonny comes down.
Now Liston disappears from view.
The crowd is getting frantic,
But our radar stations have picked him up.
He’s somewhere over the Atlantic.
Who would have thought
When they came to the fight
That they’d witness the launching
Of a human satellite?
Yes, the crowd did not dream
When they laid down their money
That they would see
A total eclipse of the Sonny!
I am the greatest!

[Dedicated to Garrett]