I’ve come to greatly admire my daughter’s cello teacher. The woman is unrelentingly positive. And good at playing cello. During the teacher’s lesson my daughter’s fingers move deftly over the cello’s four strings, as if under a spell, and I’m shocked at how the sounds often don’t match those made at our house.
I don’t know squat about playing an instrument, but I do know a great deal about how to criticize. If there were levels to criticism-givers, I’d be Super Platinum. You know, like good albums or those rankings given to philanthropic donors in the back of event programs? No? Well, trust me.
Even if, as I said before, I know zilch about playing an instrument, I’m all, “Can’t you stretch your hand a little wider?” Or “Your pinky’s not quite on that finger-placement sticker.” I can be a real ass.
But honestly, neither my assholery nor my knowledge (or lack thereof) about music-playing is the…
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