Wednesday, June 10, 2015

The Lowest Form of Human

Call me judgmental, but, in my not-so-humble opinion, the lowest form of human is the YouTube commenter. And a lower subset of that lowest form of human is the YouTube commenter who comments on drum and drumming videos. I felt you should be aware of my feelings on this issue.

But what really crumbles my crackers (and not into the chowder, but right onto the dirty diner table) is people who feel compelled to respond to things with superficial comparisons or connections that are devoid of any cleverness -- nay, of any need to have been said at all... These are comments formed in a teensy little brain and submitted by someone who was no doubt mouth-breathing as he clicked "submit." These comments are always irrelevant to the post or video. They're like yelling out: "I love potatoes!" in the middle of a conversation about theology.

Today, I watched a video from a drum shop that I like, in which a fine player is demonstrating a beautiful Pearl "piccolo snare drum." (As the name suggests, this is a snare that is shallow and smaller than the usual snare.) There were a few comments, and I happened to see one that said: "Is it the late nineties again?"

[Pause for me to smash things; sweep books off of shelves; spike potted plants; kick over end-tables; elbow-smash a few windows; rip open a throw-pillow with my teeth and consider kicking the dog.]

Very clever. Ho-ho-ho. It is to laugh. Piccolo snares were popular in the late nineties. Kudos on knowing that. How about a discussion of how nice and unusually warm this particular maple drum sounds? Hm? How about discussing the drum and not making your pathetic attempt at proving you can see connections? -- that you know your drum history? Do you also walk up to people who are reading in the park and say, "What are we, in a library?" and walk away chuckling to yourself?

You know what? No. I'm not going to try to expand this into other people. It is always musicians; usually drummers. I'll be watching a tremendous performance by, say Bernard Purdie, shot in the eighties, and some doorstop will inevitably comment, "Dude -- is that Bill Cosby?"

Because he is black? Because he is wearing a colorful sweater? Good job of completely missing the sublime depth of the man's rhythmic concept; good job hiking through glorious countryside while watching your feet; good job putting your egocentric need to speak before your own personal education. Good job of perpetuating your sub-mediocrity.

And for what? To see you name in a list of comments.

[Stands still in middle of room full of broken furniture breathing savagely; calms down; sheepishly picks up a capsized lamp. Picks up book; looks at author picture; speaks in cartoonishly stupid voice:]

"The Sun Also Rises? Dude, I didn't know Santa wrote books..."


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