ABSTRACT
Summer 2005, driving home from the gym in Bull City (Durham, NC, if you don't know), FM radio cranked. A new beat catches my body. Hot and lean. I ride its tones downward, catching the finger snaps in between the throaty, falling and rising bassline that asks a question then answers itself in one continuous swoop. Funky, hot, and full of potential, the spare beat is only a basstone and a fingerpop, but it is defiant and inevitable as it commands me to move my shoulders, my neck, my pelvis. A whispering male voice draws me toward the radio speaker; for a moment, I focus only on the sound and its desire for me to pay attention to its musical imperative. "Wait till I show you this ... You will never get enough."
