Sprague’s Sprigs: Why Must We Twitch?

Syncopation appears to me to be basis or the trigger of some sort of reflex, at best, or a nervous disorder at worst. It is characterized by an involuntary movement of the limbs which is most unseemly, especially when on display in a public venue for strangers to see and judge. I withhold judgment, because I realize it is an affliction. I suppose it is a boon that similarly-afflicted individuals may congregate in designated areas and twitch together freely. Also, they seem to enjoy it. Why is that?

I confess that I sometimes feel the onset of a response to rhythm. I am somehow able to prevail against that impulse and not give way to undignified clapping and flopping in the manner of a sea lion. When I was younger I had not yet developed that discipline and occasionally found myself the cynosure of all eyes, save for those in the heads of those who were similarly giving way to spasms. I suffered considerable embarrassment thereby.

I did not take pleasure in it. Here I am, charged with writing an essay for a publication given to the celebration of what seems to me to be a disease. The usual editor is taking the month off for reasons of his own, but I suspect he has been overcome by a surfeit of this rhythmic distemper. It is safe enough when encountered in quick bursts, but to steep oneself in it and endure the constant paroxysms of a bacchante is bound to result in a grim eventuality.

Your debauched chief, in a glimmer of clarity, opened this space for alternate views. Not everyone drools all the time. As he headed to a darkened room to recline with a warm towel on his forehead, he declared that he had “let himself go.” I am reminded of a swing song by a certain Mr. Berlin bearing the title “Let Yourself Go” and the poor fish took it to heart—and to deleterious effect.

I cannot fathom the process of Letting Myself Go, based on my scarring experiences at school dances. I may Let Myself Go and not get myself back. What will I do at the weekend when I need myself and I am nowhere to be found? It is not a matter of Stoicism but simple economy.

Your editor is also ruled by an emotionalism and sentimentality that I find not to my taste. It likely goes hand in glove with the other disturbance. His ship is storm-tossed, and syncopation rocks the boat beyond endurance. I offer no rescue for him, since there is none. He is a Lost Soul.

What of you, dear Reader? Surely you do not spend every waking hour galvanized by a rhythm that never ceases? How do you command yourself to be still and not drum your fingers and tap your foot at inopportune moments? Do you not find solace in stillness or must you be constantly charged by a pulsing battery of sound? I have known people who did not realize that their radio had an off switch. Their locomotor functions were effected by “tunes.” They simply could not move without them.

To break what is manifestly an endemic addiction to twitchiness, facilitated by beats, off-beats, and back-beats, I suggest the cure that brought about my own liberation from that scourge: mortification. To be self-conscious is to be fully conscious. Wallflowers survive and prosper since they are not out on the dance floor to be crushed by the heedless, clumsy feet of others.

Go ahead. Go, in your mind, to that hop at St. Vitus High School. Stumble and cascade over the free-throw line and careen into the folding spectator stands. Envision the scene in your mind’s eye. Notice that girl with whom you used to chat in study hall giggle and look away. Shudder and pitch yourself into the punch bowl and the card table on which it is perched. How do you feel?

I know how you feel. Horrible. Humiliated. Like you want to crawl into the garden and pull a flagstone over your head. But…you also feel kind of positive about the whole thing. There is relief. “Well,” you say to yourself. “I’ve done that. Danced. It didn’t work out. I never have to do that again.”

One who has never experienced humiliation is capable of anything. It is better to prove oneself incapable of everything. If you have never danced successfully you never have to rob a bank because you think you can get away with it. In that manner, your dance with the brick wall of reality has been a triumph—better red bricks than gray bars.

Bringing this discussion into the present, it may be argued that there are worse things than twenty-first century tarantism, and its accompanying thump and drone. One of which is sitting too long at the keyboard. There are two opposing views, which may be taken up by some enterprising forensic society: “Is it Better to ‘Let Yourself Go’ or ‘Lose it for Lack of Using it?’ Discuss.”

If you are to flail about in the manner of a wildebeest in a gift boutique, I will concede there are worse things to gyrate to than the music which this paper has taken as its focus. For one, you are more likely to hydrate while in its thrall than in the throes of some endless rave variety. For another, it is patently listenable. (While I much prefer Brahms and Sibelius, Joplin and Gershwin will do.) Ultimately, it is neither the Hokey-Pokey nor the Chicken Dance. Nor does it inspire one to athletic displays for which one has no aptitude.

Syncopation is a lesser evil and, as such, I may wink at it.