“Eminem has to be the greatest of all time,” exclaims my rap-Tok indoctrinated friend. “I mean, think about it in terms of technicality.”
Whenever I meet someone who steadfastly stands by Eminem as the best rapper to ever walk the face of the Earth, I listen to the same few arguments. Time and time again, I have witnessed the spiel about his rhyming ability, words per minute and sometimes the hilariously blunt, “Have you even listened to ‘Rap God’?”
Trust me, I think Eminem is phenomenal. The Slim Shady LP is a canonical near-perfect rap album. “Till I Collapse” reigned my Spotify wrapped in eighth grade, and I still refer to that one Dido song as the sample in “Stan.” Yet, I find myself struggling to see how his technical ability as a rapper has seemingly infinite sway as to whether or not he can be considered one of the greatest. I mean, if technical skill is the deciding factor, why don’t we round up as many people as possible and see who can talk on-beat the fastest? Then we’ll test the top five as to how many ways they can near-rhyme the word “orange.”
The role of technicality in art feels lopsided. Jimi Hendrix is regarded as the greatest guitarist of all time, yet his knowledge of music theory consisted of mere intuition. Bob Dylan was a layman instrumentalist at best. Kurt Cobain’s simple melodies could be overlooked for his feel, whatever that means. Nonetheless, all three are legends.
So does the technical aspect of making art even … matter? Do you actually have to be good at art in order to be a good artist?
I mean, obviously yes. In order to write a novel, there must be some idea of what it means to write a character. And a plot. Or at the very least, what words are. But there is a general consensus that a writer doesn’t necessarily need a near-perfect grammatical understanding of whatever language they happen to be writing in. As a journalist, I really hope that’s true.
Sure, there’s a baseline foundation required to be capable, so theoretically speaking, an enhancement or broadening of capabilities should then lead to the creation of more nuanced, interesting pieces. Art creates communication between artist and audience — a better understanding of structure and theory allows for more leeway in order to strengthen such communication. The deft hand of Edgar Degas and Winslow Homer made for some of the best realist paintings of the 19th century; if not for their technical ability as visual artists, they would not be able to make such detailed depictions of everyday life.
Yet at the same time, art with strong technicality can often feel soulless, as if a focus on arbitrary rules hinders raw human expression.
Jacob Collier is known for being a musician’s musician. The entirety of his discography consists of extended chords, intricate voice leading and innovative application of “just intonation,” a literal rewriting of the tuning and units notated in Western music. Collier definitely has a vast understanding of different theories that lap the classic pentatonic and major/minor scales many of his contemporaries utilize.
However, in the nicest way possible, some of his music is genuinely unlistenable.
Collier’s extremely gifted musical prodigy seems to restrict him from making emotionally complex, accessible or culturally-defining music. He relishes in making any musical decision he feels like, despite the resulting quality of the sound. Songs shrink from expression to experiment. By both critics and audiences alike, he holds a paradoxical space in the music industry. Though respected for his vast knowledge of Western and non-Western applications of music theory, his Djesse album series has not necessarily resulted in great rapport of his potential artistry.
Thus, the role of technicality reveals itself. Of course, pure skill can sometimes serve as an effective crutch for artists: wild four octave runs, breathtakingly beautiful dialogue, a painting that could be a picture. However, being a masterof one’s craft should be seen as just another tool in an artist’s tool kit. Pushing an aspect of your art should not be a necessity, but rather one of manytools to better enhance the communication between artist and audience. Robin Williams’ “You Don’t Know Love” monologue in Good Will Hunting is fantastic not simply because of Williams’ capital-a acting but also because of the context, buildup and content of the monologue itself. Technical skill represents only one of many aspects of this heart-wrenching monologue. Williams’ role as an older, starved artist is perfectly characterized — the audience cannot help but feel closer to the completely fictional Sean Maguire.
As much as technicality can elevate an artist’s work, it’s the connection, the emotion and the story being told that ultimately resonates and makes a piece so perfectly human. The greatest artists go beyond just their technical skill — they amplify their craft with emotion. Skill matters, but the soul of the work, the heart that beats within it, is what makes something truly great.
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