Everyone’s A Critic

Everyone's A Critic

True story. Around 1976 or so, as my quasi-psychedelic rock band strode offstage at some Northern California love-in, an audience member approached our flute player (this is back when it seemed like a good idea to have a flute player in a rock band), and said, "Hey man, you were bad."

"Thanks a lot," our flute player answered, understandably thinking he’d just received a compliment (this was also back when hipsters used the word "bad" to connote the word "good.")

"No man," the audience member deadpanned. "I mean, you suck." And sadly for our flautist’s rapidly deflating ego, he could find no other possible interpretation: "You suck" could mean nothing other than he sucked.

I did almost the same thing to a pianist the year before while living in Chicago. I’d gone out to hear a friend play with his progressive rock band, and was not only struck by how adventurous the music was, but also how downright terrible the keyboardist was.

Elbowing up to the bar during the band’s first break, my friend asked what I thought. "You guys are incredible," I answered, "but I couldn’t believe how bad your pianist is." And even though my friend’s face slowly turned ashen, I continued. "I mean, seriously, he can barely play! What’s the deal? Does he own the P.A. or something?"

With a wide-eyed glare and nearly imperceptible nod, my friend silently signaled something or someone right behind me. Slowly turning around I came face-to-face with the pianist, who’d been leaning in to hear our conversation, at which point I said something extra smooth like, "Wow — I, uhh — really need to go to the bathroom," and disappeared into the crowd.

Here’s one last true story. After wrapping up the very first album I ever recorded, my ’70s proto-metal band was listening to final mixes in our rehearsal studio, when an old college friend of the lead singer walked in. After a couple songs, our singer asked what he thought.

"It sounds really good, except for the drummer," the friend responded. He very likely didn’t realize I was the drummer in question, but that didn’t stop me from getting in his face. "What the hell you mean by that?!" I retorted, once again, extra smoothly. He went on to point out how I played too many fills, and my drum sound was dead and lifeless. Of course, I was too jacked on adrenalin and anger to believe a word he said.

Flash forward three decades. A CD player replaced my turntable, and then an iPod replaced my CD collection. Yet, for some reason, I still had a closet full of vinyl. So my girlfriend bought me a record player for Christmas and I began listening to my old records.

Within seconds of dropping the needle onto the wax of the very first album I ever recorded, I realized I was indeed playing far too busily and my drums sounded like cardboard boxes.

Criticism. I’ve observed it, dealt it, received it, and now fully appreciate how its value is decided in its delivery. So if you want to hurt someone’s feelings, use blunt force. They’ll get over it. But if you can point a fellow drummer in the right direction, try offering advice tempered with compassion. You’ll feel better about yourself in the long run, and won’t need to take quite as many fake bathroom breaks"