Summertime - And Still My Hatred Knows No Bounds

Summertime. Clear blue skies. Birds singing. The warmth of sunshine on your face and arms. A tantalising aroma of barbecued food wafting across the lush green grass of the local park. But there’s something not quite right. Something missing. Just one extra ingredient to make it perfect.

Hey! I’ve got it. How about some droning jungle drums. That will really enhance the summery atmosphere.

What is it about parks and sunshine that makes people lose all sense of musical appreciation and insist upon drumming out inanely monotonous rhythms for hours on end? It’s not that I’ve anything against bongos per se; they sound pretty good as an accompaniment. But as a solo instrument they’re somewhat lacking on account of their inability to produce more than one note let alone a melody or harmony. I’ve nothing against music in public either. The sound of a guitar, or violin, say, played competently would almost certainly enhance a lazy afternoon spent in the park. But bongos merely produce an ominous drone (I mean, are these crusty twats deliberately trying to recreate the atmosphere of cannibal ridden rain-forests?) Of course, it takes talent and years of practice to play a real instrument competently whereas it only takes dreadlocks and the inability to wash and shave properly to play the bongos.

The only reason they get away with it is because so many non-crusty idiots for some reason think the instruments of African bushmen are somehow purer and more in touch with the earth and will therefore stop global warming and other vacuous nonsense.