Groove: A Phenomenology of Rhythmic Nuance
Independent Scholar (Canada)
A fundamental expression of Zen Buddhist theology, attributed to founding Patriarch Bodhidharma, states that a true understanding of enlightenment lays in a “special transmission outside the Scriptures” (Jap: kyåe betsuden), unwritten and unreasoned—inexpressible knowledge passed down the lineage. And though Tiger C. Roholt’s Groove: A Phenomenology of Rhythmic Nuance is decidedly non-theological, it makes a vigorous and compelling case for its own kind of special transmission outside of the “scriptures” of Husserl, Heidegger, and Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological writings: kinesis over thesis, embodiment outside of analysis, the phenomenon of “groove” in music.
Taking on the subject after the “Husserlian Reduction” of the world-as-experienced (Carr 1967: 372) rather than the ontology of world-as-existing, Roholt examines the titular concept of groove, generally understood as a particularly influential drumbeat, or the feel of rhythms within songs (1). His argument is thus: that (1) grooves have a particular feeling, (2) they somehow involve the body, (3) are embodied and not theoretical/conceptual, and (4) to understand a groove is just to feel it. Groove is an essential part of many genres of music and, as Roholt reasons, an affective theory of groove will aid in better communication between musicians, critics, producers, and so on. In the attempt to do so, Roholt creates a type of informal Cartesian reversal: sum ergo cognito . . . I am thus I think, and therefore the body can know a priori through movement what the mind by its very nature seeks a posteriori.
This distinction is important because it allows Roholt to move forward from the canon(s) of philosophy in order to situate the reader in their own body, a truly remarkable feat for a philosopher, especially one who does not hold simultaneous graduate degrees in ethnomusicology or psychology. Choosing, and then moving on from, Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology of motor-intentionality, he both entertains the reader and upholds the top standards of philosophy (clarity and utility) without theoretical monism. As Merleau-Ponty himself stated in “Eye And Mind”: “Science manipulates things and gives up living in them. It makes its own limited models of things; operating upon these indices or variables to effect whatever transformations are permitted by their definition. It comes face to face with the real world only at rare intervals” (1964: 159). To return the reader to this real world then, Roholt creates particularly interesting taxometries, which I have organized into a tripartite form.
First of all, grooves (affective beats or rhythms) are classified by Roholt as outside writing (taxometric number 1): program notes, music theory, biography, ethnography, musical notation, dynamic markings; outside the musical score. He begins this process in Chapter One by giving an example of two different drum beats created for the Beatles’ song “Love Me Do”, comparing the differing accents and flow in the performance of session player Andy White’s album version to band member Ringo Starr’s 45 rpm version. In doing so, Roholt creates an initial reference for use throughout the rest of the book. Noting that their beats, when notated, look the same but sound different, this example reveals that what makes each unique are nuances of timing. But the problem here is that Roholt is using a drumbeat that does not fit another very common description of groove as a quality of feeling. Grooves have a feeling, but certain songs are “groovy”, and have a genre-specific groove that has a greater (more intense) effect on listeners and dancers than “Love Me Do.” A drummer can also groove (intransitive verb) and create a powerfully affective drumbeat, and “Love Me Do” is slightly groovy at best. Indeed, throughout the book, Roholt does not clearly define the differences between groove the noun, adjective, or intransitive verb, and much of what is defined as black music, for example, contains grooves of such impact that the light and airy beat of the Beatles’ song pales in comparison. Roholt’s later use of Sly and The Family Stone’s “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)” is such an example (113) and one could argue that his thesis would have been better served focusing on such grooves for their intensity and bodily affect. Also, Roholt uses the terms “pushing” and “pulling” as a way to describe the rhythmic tension that a great groove contains, when in actual fact the terms playing “behind” or “ahead” of the beat are more common (and I argue, better) metaphors amongst jazz musicians, for example. But, that being said, the idea of pushing and pulling foreshadows Roholt’s conclusion in Chapter Four, and thus what occurs in or as a result of the process of pushing/pulling is the true key to his argument.
A positive aspect of referencing a notated drumbeat vs. personal nuance raises the issue of non-standard notation, in particular graphic scores. “To standardize notation is to standardize patterns of thought and the parameters of creativity” argues Sylvia Smith (in Sauer 2011: 11), and though Roholt immediately leaves the idea of the score behind, it could be argued that it is notation itself that needs to expand beyond the standard to somehow include the “outside body”. In this sense then it is not what lies outside the scriptures but rather what the scriptures themselves need to address. The answer, in this case, may lay in part in the improvisation that accompanies many graphic scores, the potential for groove to occur spontaneously. Expanding notation thusly, the musical score is not static or predictable.
Secondly, (taxometric number 2): grooves are in the bodies of musicians and audiences. Using the drums (Roholt’s main instrument) as an example, some movements are technically required while others are not but are valuable as part of facilitating the feel of a rhythm. This example provides a gateway to the study of non-rhythmic nuance as part of grooves, as woodwind instruments such as the Arabian naï flute require both grand and subtle un-rhythmic movements (nodding) of the head to create vibrato, but are highly flexible and personal in the process of evoking powerful ecstasy (tarab) in the listener. As well, the player of a Noh theater flute (nohkan) can change the timbre and pitch of a note by merely waving or flicking a free finger near an open tone hole, a process open to great emotional potential even within its own acoustic indeterminacy. Noh also provides another excellent example of the marriage of emotion to rhythm in the syllables (kakegoe) shouted out by Noh drummers before or as certain beats are played. These cries and shouts play into the overall effect of the drama, putting the spectator in a state of semi-mystical ecstasy (myôfû)—an immediate essence of being which is “beyond all possibility of enunciating or explaining” (Arnold 1957: 86).
What matters are the feelings imbued/aroused in both the musician and audience, via an imprecise kinesiological act of shouting or instrumental fingering. Thus, musicians move their vocal chords and bodies intentionally; they direct their motor skills toward a specific end, what Merleau-Ponty calls motor-intentionality. The feel of a groove is the “affective dimension of the relevant motor-intentional movements” (105). As one “feels” their way along an icy sidewalk with their feet, our knowledge of ice is embodied as much as conceptual. Directing the body, rather than theoretical analysis, toward the experience and creation of groove provides the opportunity to experience a/the groove personally and non-cognitively understand its power with our hands, throat and feet.
Finally, Roholt’s third taxometric is rather profound in that it opens up a field of study that has yet to be addressed: there are specific things to feel and approaches to feeling them. There is a way to live in the world with motor-intentionality that understands groove rather than acknowledges its conceptual veracity. This is because rhythmic nuances “push” and “pull” against the general pulse (fundamental tempo) of a song or beat, and thus motor-intentionally creates a certain feeling of enjoyable bodily disequilibrium, which is emphasized by movements of the body. This sense of disequilibrium—motor-intentionality towards oscillating balance and pleasant unbalance—is such a perfect description of what grooves feel like from both a drummer’s and dancer’s perspective, it is rather amazing that no one has yet discussed it at length. Rather than being unpleasant, bodily disequilibrium is a potent state found widespread in music and dance, routinely felt in any style of music in varying degrees depending upon the nature of the genre (pitched-based, percussion-based, etc.). Implied in this terminology too is that there can be taxonomies of disequilibria, differing in praxis and pedagogy; swing feel in jazz, the “stumbling,” lilting flow of Turkish aqsaq rhythms, and the wonderfully disequilibric relationship between the handclaps and spoken syllables of South Indian konnakkol—without which the art of solkattu could not exist. An excellent example of this are the expanding and contracting yatis, augmented and reduced sets of syllables (“rhythmic design” Sankaran 2010: 30) that also create geometric patterns when transcribed (in essence, another kind of graphic score).
In this case, Roholt’s work also creates a significant gateway into groove phenomenology amongst non-musicians, the groove-receiving body being as potent experientially as the groove-creating body. Thus, taxonomies of general disequilibria after Roholt can be fruitfully situated in EDMC; further studies engendered by both academics and emerging groups of musical disequilibrians.
Arnold, Paul. 1957. Le théâtre japonais. Paris: L'Arche.
Carr, David. 1967. “Maurice Merleau-Ponty: Incarnate Consciousness”. In Existential Philosophers: Kierkegaarrd To Merleau-Ponty, ed. George Schrader, 369–429. New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company.
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. 1964. “Eye And Mind”. In The Primacy of Perception, ed. James M. Edie, 159–190. Evanston: Northwestern University Press.
Sankaran, Trichy. 2010. The Art Of Konnakkol: Spoken Rhythms Of South Indian Music. Toronto: Lalith Publishers.
Sauer, Theresa. 2011. Notations 21. New York: Mark Batty Publishers.