One Thousand Three Hundred and Ninety-Three Rhythm Imbalance

"Five six seven, go!"

But the first four beats weren’t over yet—to be precise, at the third sixteenth note of the fourth beat, Fletcher interrupted the performance again, shaking his head slightly, expressing denial. It was neat and tidy, and the rhythm was cut off without any hesitation. The sense of oppression seemed to be accumulating little by little, creating a feeling of shackles stuck in the throat.

Unconsciously, Fletcher was already standing in front of Andrew, and there was only a set of drums between the two—his footsteps seemed to be pushing forward in line with the rhythm of the speech and the accumulation of pressure, and then he stopped. Having formed a one-on-one confrontation with Andrew, he raised his hands and pressed down gently, faintly feeling that he was patiently explaining the situation, "It doesn't fit my rhythm. It doesn't matter, don't worry, Let's do it again."

Fletcher himself began to beat the rhythm, "Five, six, seven, go."

Andrew listened to Fletcher's rhythm and started his own strike, but after a four-beat, Fletcher paused again and said plainly, "You're in a hurry. One more time."

Andrew's muscles have tightened, "rush"? Why didn't he notice?

The drumsticks just stopped, and then, just before Fletcher hits the beat again, he hits the drums again, as if he can't wait to show himself again, proving that his talent can still control the situation, but the sound of the drums seems to be Impatient and abrupt.

He immediately paused in a panic and looked at Fletcher; Fletcher raised his hands for a gesture, his tone still gentle, "Not in a hurry. Are you ready?" Andrew didn't even realize that he Nodding, "Very good, five six seven... let's go!"

Another four-shot.

Fletcher shook his head again and again, "You're dragging. That's it." Then he gestured with his eyes, as if to say: Do you understand?

Andrew nodded quickly to show his understanding, and then he couldn't wait to start hitting again, but Fletcher immediately waved his hand, interrupting Andrew's hasty performance, "Wait for my prompt."

This made Andrew's muscles completely tense, and he realized that he seemed to be losing control, but the tension and panic deep inside could not be revealed, and he had to remain calm. Focus, focus, focus!

"Five six seven, go!"

The first four beats again, the damn seventeenth bar.

Fletcher's hands were clenched into fists, and he kept shaking his head, "Come on." Then he hit his hands again, "Five, six, seven, go."

wrong again.

"Delayed. Five, six, seven, go."

It's all like a nightmare against a wall, over and over and over and over, and they're stuck in place like a cheap horror movie. Every time Fletcher said he was rushing, he slowed down a little bit, only to delay again; he would then speed up a little bit, and he didn't expect to rush again, and so on, going back and forth, forever and ever. Can't get around.

That sense of oppression begins to accumulate layer by layer. The more nervous you are, the more mistakes you will make. The more mistakes you make, the more panic you will become. The more you panic, the more nervous you will become. Trapped in a maze of nightmares.

Didn't Fletcher say that he came here for a reason? Didn't Fletcher say, just relax and enjoy? Didn't Fletcher say he could chase Buddy Ritchie? Didn't Flake say that his performance was very good?

So what's going on now? What the hell is going on here? What did he do wrong? What's wrong with his performance?

he does not know. What's even more terrifying than making mistakes is that he doesn't know what went wrong. How should fast and slow be coordinated and controlled? What the hell is going on with the third sixteenth note in the fourth measure? Damn sixteenth notes, what is rushing and what is dragging?

How to do? How to do!

Andrew's shoulders were completely tense, like an endless loop, and he threw himself into the same measure again.

The first four beats have passed. No sound.

The second four beats passed again. Still no sound.

Andrew looked at Fletcher out of the corner of his eye, trying to confirm whether this was good news or bad news, and was his performance finally right? Is the rhythm just now the rhythm of Fletcher? Wait, if that's correct, what was the rhythm just now? Where should Fletcher's rhythm be?

But Fletcher turned around and couldn't see his expression at all. He could only judge from his back. He was hitting the rhythm with his nod, as if he was completely immersed in the melody.

This made Andrew more and more energetic, and tried his best to show his spirituality and talent, hoping to win Fletcher's favor again.

Fletcher stood next to the door, holding the folding chair with his right hand, and the movement of his jaws stepping on the rhythm still did not stop. The whole person seemed to be enjoying and very comfortable. Without warning, he raised the folding chair. The chair, like throwing a Frisbee, turned around and flew away in the direction of Andrew.

Andrew, who was playing the drums earnestly, slowed for half a beat, and then saw the folding chair fly around like blood droplets, and a strong sense of survival burst out. He quickly bent down and wrapped his head with his hands. Taking a defensive posture, you can feel the air waves whizzing past the helicopter's propeller above your head.

"call."

The sharp and sharp wind swept through, and then the folding chair slammed into the wooden wall behind, making a muffled sound, knocking down everything next to it, and the entire Everyone in the rehearsal room was terrified, and the trombone, horn, saxophone and saxophone all began to go out of tune, and they were not the original.

Andrew was hit by 100,000 critical hits.

His life was in danger. He really felt the danger of his life hanging by a thread. He stuck his head out in shock, looked around carefully, and continued to swallow his saliva, revealing the fear and panic in his heart. The pupils even revealed the uneasy embarrassment and timidity.

what happened?

What the hell just happened?

Andrew sat up again hesitantly, and then saw Fletcher standing in front of him, staring at him blankly. Andrew was aggrieved and dazed, unable to understand the situation at all, and his slightly trembling pupils turned away. Fletcher glanced at him, but he turned away quietly because of fear, but Fletcher's fixed eyes seemed to be able to devour him alive at any time, and he had to move his eyes again and face Fletcher squarely.

He swallowed again, trying to ease his nervousness, but it was too difficult.

Inhale, exhale; inhale again, exhale again.

Fletcher only used two actions to show his suppressed anger. He was very angry. He was out of anger now. Even if he just threw the chair, he still couldn't express his emotions. He needs to now. Outburst, whoever hits the muzzle of the gun will die extremely ugly.

Obviously, now Andrew hit the muzzle.

Fletcher tried his best to remain calm, and once again supported his chin with one hand, "Do you know why I threw a chair at you just now, Neiman?"

Andrew knew the answer deep in his heart: he was wrong. But the problem is, he doesn't know where he went wrong. Now his head is a mess, and he can't think at all. He can only stammer, "I... I don't know." The violently shaking pupils revealed his heart. of uncertainty.

"Of course you know," Fletcher said firmly.

Andrew held his breath, closed his lips tightly, his eyes condensed slightly, no one noticed, he secretly adjusted his breathing, seemed to be cheering for himself, and then tried his best to keep his words steady, " Rhythm?"

Fletcher took a deep breath, rubbing his chin with his right hand, "Are you rushing or dragging?"

Andrew's expression froze like this, he blinked slightly, and said hesitantly, "I... I don't know."

This answer completely angered Fletcher, and he strode over, his murderous eyes seemed to have put Andrew on the gallows, "Start counting."

"Five, six, seven..." Andrew couldn't help but closed his eyes, the ubiquitous sense of fear firmly surrounded him, and even his voice began to tremble slightly.

"Count to four hells!" Fletcher's voice was tense to the extreme, anger seeping out little by little, "Look at me!"

Like a robot, Andrew turned his head blankly and tried to keep his eyes open to stare at Fletcher, but the focus and focal distance were gradually disintegrating, and those light brown eyes were full of light, like deer spots. More than normal, innocent and vulnerable, he still tried his best not to look away, and then… started counting.

"One two three four. One two three four."

Fletcher raised his right hand and slapped him fiercely, but when it was about to land on Andrew's face, he swayed over Andrew's head.

The next second, "Ka", Damien's voice called out, he hugged his head in annoyance, and let out a depressed exclamation, "jk, oh, jk, what's going on? What's going on! Everything is fine, isn't it? jk!"

Simmons hugged his big bald head, all the anger and all the irritability subsided like a tide, he stood up straight and looked at Renly who was close at hand.

He couldn't make a move, and he still couldn't make a move after all. It was at this moment, the slap happened at this moment, but Simmons couldn't shake it off hard. At the last moment, he couldn't help but slam on the brakes. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't control his emotions, those panicking. And timidity, the emotions that should have appeared in Andrew, but fell in his heart.

This is really hard.