Origin Story · Volume 24 · NEW JACK SWINGIntroduction
Thirty Milliseconds
This volume of this series turns on the smallest unit of anything in it: a delay of roughly thirty milliseconds, applied to every second sixteenth-note of a programmed drum pattern, by a control most listeners have never heard of.
Thirty milliseconds is less time than it takes to blink. It is close to the threshold at which the ear stops hearing two sounds as separate events at all. Nobody has ever danced to a record and thought the word milliseconds. And yet that delay (settable, repeatable, printed on a screen as a percentage) is the difference between the way American pop rhythm felt before 1987 and the way it has felt more or less ever since. This book will show you the arithmetic, because the arithmetic is genuinely simple, and because once you can see it, a decade of records stops being a mood and becomes a mechanism.
Here is the situation the mechanism arrived into. By 1986, Black American popular music was running as two separate systems that shared an audience and did not share a method. One system was hip-hop, whose story the volume on it has already told: drum machines and samplers, records built by programmers, a music that had spent the decade getting harder, drier and prouder of its machinery. The other was rhythm and blues (the phrase the industry still used for the whole tradition this series has been following since the jump-blues volume) which remained, at its commercial heart, a singer’s music: gospel-schooled voices, songs, ballads, romance, craft learned in church lofts and school choirs. The two systems played in the same houses, often to the same teenagers, frequently within the same family. On record they barely touched. A rap record with real singing on it was a novelty. An R&B record with hard machine drums under it sounded, to most producers of the day, like a mistake, because the machine could not do the one thing the singers’ tradition regarded as non-negotiable. It could not swing.
Except that it could. The capacity had been sitting on the front panel, under various names (shuffle, swing, swing quantise) since 1980, designed into the first serious drum machine by an engineer in California, and this series flagged it two volumes ago as the ancestor of everything in this one. What happened in the late eighties is that a small number of very young Black producers (a teenager out of the churches of Harlem first among them, two fired sidemen in Minneapolis in parallel) stopped treating that control as a correction and started treating it as the instrument. Turned up, the grid limps. Turned up further, it struts. Set precisely, and layered with the hardest drum sounds hip-hop had taught a machine to make, it produces a rhythm no human drummer ever quite played: perfectly repeating, mechanically confident, and swinging, a beat with a machine’s authority and a congregation’s gait. Put a trained voice on top of that and the two systems stopped being two systems.
The introduction runs on for another 8 paragraphs, and then the book starts. 28 chapters · about 122 pages · $14.99
