Transcriber: Reiko Bovee Reviewer: Mariana Alcantara
♫ They are killing our babies, and they are taking our drums. ♫
♫ Grandma, grandma, grandma, get your gun. ♫
OK, so let's pause and talk for a second
about what you just did, and did not hear, and why.
As it turns out, this is completely unnecessary.
And also all of the times your mother told you you have selective hearing,
not only was she right, [but] there is a scientific basis for it.
Now here is the big idea.
The art of spoken word
is about mastering the listener's attention
by manipulating their perception of sound.
So I am going to take you from the science of hearing
to the poetry of listening in under 8 minutes.
The Gabor Limit used to be the way
we measured the limit of human sound perception.
Basically, the Gabor Limit says the following:
The more accurate you are
at understanding the frequency of a sound,
the more you are constrained by its timing.
So, if I play you two tones over a second,
you have no problems telling me there were two tones,
and one is higher or lower than the other.
But the more I shrink that time frame, the less accurate you will become,
until finally you can't tell the difference,
you can't tell which was higher or lower,
and you can't even tell there were two tones.
This is the Gabor Limit.
And it turns out that the human brain
is better than that; much better, actually.
The human brain is better, because the human brain
is not a linear machine, and in fact,
we are magnificently non-linear.
This non-linearity gives rise to the fact that our senses are "multimodal."
You guys know "multimodal," right?
That's like when you're sick, you got a cold, your nose is stuffed up,
and you're eating, and everything you're eating tastes like crap.
That is multimodal.
It turns out all of our senses are multimodal.
Your sense of smell is associated with your sense of taste.
If you lose one, your whole perception is off.
Hearing is no different.
In fact, I can get you to confuse the words
"pat" and "bat" just by blowing on you at the precise moment.
Because you see, the "P" for "p" --
you guys will notice the electric company --
the "P" for "p" and "bat" is associated with the physical sensation
of a puff of air.
So, if I say "bat," you will hear "pat", if I blow.
So, now I've got your attention.
And this, of course, is the point.
This is unnecessary because you don't need to cover your ears,
and make noise in order to ignore me.
It turns out the easiest way to not hear what I'm saying
is simply to stop paying attention.
This is the blessing and the curse of multimodal sense perception.
And now we have come full circle.
The art of spoken word is about mastering the listener's attention
by manipulating their perception of sound.
So if I talk high or low, fast or slow,
if I say things you're prepared to hear,
things you are unprepared to hear, if I draw a pictures with my words
in your mind, forcing your brain to fire the visual cortex,
you are forced to use all of your non-linear processing capacity,
and your ability to synthesize this information
is directly related to how much you pay attention to me.
And so the amount of attention you devote to that experience,
the number of senses you allow to be engaged in that experience
determine whether or not you hear me and what you actually hear.
So when all of this is over, talk amongst yourselves, talk to your neighbors.
I can guarantee you that each one of you would've heard a very different thing.
So, allow me to demonstrate.
♫ Grandma, grandma, grandma, get your gun. ♫
"Grandma, get your gun. It's feeding time.
The wolves are in the yard. Don't you know that destiny is a delicacy?
Promise is quite tasty and legacy will stick sweet to your ribs,
like family reunion barbecue.
The revolution may be a bit lumpy,
but it goes down smooth, like your mashed potatoes.
Grandma, get your gun. It used to be safe out here in the country.
Young kings and queens could skip through the death fields, sniffing daffodils.
But now all the daffodils have been replaced by snapdragons,
breathing down their necks the fires of this hellish existence
burning away all memory of how to be royalty.
New Age roosters, a Venus at every corner, redefining beauty,
helping the misunderstand that natural state of their spirit is not desirable.
Now the coops are filled to overflow with eagles,
thinking that the life of a chicken is acceptable,
thinking that flying is overrated.
Grandma, get your gun.
The foxes are bold and the weasels got fearless.
They came in, up, over and around your fence
in broad daylight, snatched all the eggs
and finally the jackal learned how to play the drum.
Now the jackal has mastered the boom bap.
Watch the babies form of conga line behind him,
shaking their groove thing.
He will dance them right out of the village.
Grandma, the piper's price has just got too high.
When do we get to shoot him?
Now, I know we hid all the guns to shield the babies from the violence,
but now the sisters have been pimped by fashion
and prostituted by videos and billboards.
Now I know we hid all the guns to shield the babies from all the violence.
But now the brothers don't know how to defend themselves,
swapping chains for puppet strings. Watch them knock each other out.
Grandma, get your gun, get the buckshot, get the hollow-point bullet.
Grandma, break out the camouflage.
It is the time to stop playing,
because life was never a game, our freedom never is
and our survival never will be.
Grandma, get your gun. The wolves are in the yard.
Grandma, get your gun. Grandma, get your gun.
Grandma, get your gun, and give it to me."
Thank you.
(Applause)