Content and Cadence, Fervor to Flow

“I need bars, sixteen of ‘em /”

Sleep may be the cousin of death, yet the time I spend awake is muted by the piercing echoes of solitude. Blaring ruminations and visceral regrets from the scheming neurons of an inescapable mind. But a maze without an exit can still house moments of respite. At least momentarily, the relentless volume set by my surroundings can be filtered by sounds of my own curation. For me, hip-hop provides the most reliable sanctuary. With my headphones on, I can find solace in the sullen sentiments of Earl Sweatshirt’s layered lyrics, bravado in the precise swagger of MF DOOM, and empowerment in Kendrick Lamar’s dense narratives. Every angle of expression, elevated by the transcendent measure of rhythm and rhyme. Through rap, I learn how to make sense of complexities and discover meaning in the mundane. Amidst contours and chaos, I realize that cohesion is possible in an otherwise discordant existence.

Every day starts the same. Once I am severed from my dreams, the ringing resumes as my blankets tighten. Thoughts keep knocking, and the scramble for my headphones becomes manic. An unresolvable torrent of feelings is met with a crippling loss for words. My burgundy eyes point me to my escape, and the sole ounce of energy within me is directed toward pressing play. Finally, I can drift away and maybe, just maybe, get through the day. My ears are not just covered, but filled. Before any bars deliver, I hear a melody — one that drowns out anything and everything else. The tranquil chimes of a keyboard, complementing an awfully familiar collection of jazz chords. Hip-hop is designed around a culture of compost, a reverence for tradition despite an urge for conquest. As sampled sounds circulate, the soothing rains of nostalgia drown the plains of remorse. Anxiety is nearly overwritten by the arrival of the 4/4 time signature. Tic, tic, tic…kick, snare, clap. The beat builds with more gravitas than the pump of my heart. Then, it drops.

Damn. The hook of a song holds more weight than a handshake. It goes beyond an impression, setting a story and framing a vision. A charged narrative ignites with every bar, following a meticulous tempo guided by syllable. Love, loss, change, tragedy. Vivid evocations of a soul laid bare. It turns out that even unresolvable, inscrutable feelings can be expressed. For once, I am lost for another reason — immersed in a color beyond onyx. The storybook act of rhyming, a most constructive paradox, fills the room with lighting. Auspicious constraints which serve to elevate a message, emblematic of the most prolific protest.

The conventions of rap turn limitations into possibilities. How am I so moved by the dichotomy? Perhaps the beguiling synthesis of an artist’s free mind and the craft’s historic structure lend credence to my own dissonance. Even missing a personal compass, I can discern such purpose in the poetic precision of a rebel armed with a microphone. For it is not simply a facsimile of a dense notebook, but an elegant collective of deliberate utterance. Words are universal, but voices are uncommon. The tandem bike seating rhythm and rhyme moves with fixed gears. So accurately described as flow, the rapper’s vocal navigation leads me exactly where their narrative is designed to take me — though my response is still my own. In spite of a ceaseless plunge, there is undeniable beauty in the crash of a waterfall.

Verses are often inked, but a pop filter demands more than recitation. These words are delivered, rather than spoken. With rawness, with authenticity. From individual intonation to prolonged cadence, the vocal presence of the rapper invigorates me. I remember how to speak. I remember how to breathe. In all of my hopelessness, I am moved by the recognition of something truly irreplaceable. The delivery of these bars can be mimicked, but never Xeroxed. The idiosyncrasies of rap run rampant, making me forget there was ever a ringing. So many moving pieces, yet an unexplainable symmetry strings everything together like an obsessive puppeteer. The process is Pythagorean, though the whole is greater than the sum of the bars. In the end, neither geometry nor gestalt psychology can explain the emotion. All of the pieces fitting together…

As the lyrics cease and the drums fade, the impact lingers. Just for a moment. Adjusting my headphones, I start walking. Before the ringing returns, the next song begins.