The Break Beat Break
originates from “Break Beat.” As in,
the faithful kick drum ride cymbal solo pattern
that never fails to unlock a host of holy ghosts
in any b-boy with a pulse. As in, James Brown.
Anything by James. As in, the “Amen Break”—
six seconds of a liquored-up Gospel B-side.
The break in Break Beat Break comes from you.
It is part of our collective audio unconscious.
A pause for the cause. The cause being the body’s
never-ending addiction to movement, which, spun
backwards on a turntable, would likely reveal
a link to thought. It happens on a deserted island
of a song, when a funky-ass fault line rips through
your bass induced Buddhist empty state and you
start thinking, Damn. What breed of human am I?
What type of man walks around with rhythm rattling
the trunk of his dome? And wherever you are you run
to the closest piece of light-reflecting glass, say Oh
that’s right, I do. You become a drum-dumb addict
and never recover. You let the Break Beat Break
into your closet. Headphones on, you nod toward
high water cords, think Yeah, that’s me.
My walk alone could make tight pants fit.
You bounce to the bathroom absentminded, brush
teeth with Break Beat Breaks. They start
looking like moldy gold fronts, and you say
Yo, this yellow is classic! An unfilled cavity.
You’d gladly crumble a break into a blunt
wrapper, roll it up and smoke if you could
keep that Mighty Midas High in your body
for even 30 days. Baby, when the break starts
knocking everything you think turns to music.
And dancing never felt so motherfucking right.
—After Ryan Teitman
