Clapping Before the Beat: Hands Down the End of Civilization
Among the more rhythmically ambitious members of our species, there exists a sad affliction known as premature percussive enthusiasm. In layperson’s terms— clapping before the beat. CBB is the audible equivalent of stepping into a revolving door at the wrong time and insisting it is everyone else’s fault. The hands come together just a fraction too early—half a hiccup before the music lands—and the result is a syncopated tragedy presaging the end of civilization: joy without coordination, participation without consent.
This condition reached its tragi-comic apotheosis, perhaps, during a presidential inaugural ball, when the Clintons were observed clapping gamely, earnestly, and catastrophically ahead of Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop.” The song’s message was hopeful; their timing, less so.
Anthropologists trace the earliest instances of CBB to medieval peasants who tried, but failed, to anticipate the arrival of drums in parades. They stood out like nose warts on a newborn. Soon they were targeted for social exile and, occasionally, rhythmic martyrdom. Rounded up by agents of ICE (Interval Precision Enforcement).
CBB is a recessive genetic trait, thankfully, but if both parents have it, their kids do also. (Why did somebody not warn the Clintons?)
By the 1970s, CBB had found safe harbor in political fundraisers, church picnics, and telethons in which producers begged for audience participation. “Clap along!” they said, not foreseeing the horror of spontaneous arhythmic expression.
CBB sufferers are at risk for unique secondary effects. Somewhere, perhaps even now, a man named Harold in Des Moines wanders the aisles of a supermarket, involuntarily clapping to “Sweet Caroline” as it echoes through the produce section. He cannot help himself; his neurons fire a split second too soon. He lives in a world where the music never quite catches up, where every banana is applauded before being purchased. Harold is not wrong—merely early.
We owe the early clappers our gratitude and a salute, those brave pioneers of temporal dissonance. Their palms are portals to another metronome, a plane of existence where rhythm is merely a rumor and the beat, perpetually but fashionably late. They remind us that time, like taste, is subjective—and that enthusiasm, though misaligned, is still applause.
For more red-hot dispatches from a culture in decline, click here and duck for cover.
