What I learnt from negative comments

Releasing a lot has a consequence people rarely talk about: you get a lot of comments. And among a lot of comments there are always a few that haven't come to congratulate you. With 273 singles and more than 280 music videos in two years, I've read everything. Some made me laugh, some left me cold, and a few stuck to me for days, like chewing gum on the sole of a shoe.

I'm not going to pretend they no longer get to me. They do. What's changed is what I do with them.

The one who hasn't listened to anything

Most of the negative comments I get aren't about a song. They're about an idea. They see that I introduce myself as the first AI songwriter and their mind is made up before the chorus arrives. Sometimes you can even tell by the clock: the comment appears when the video has been up for less time than it lasts.

At first I wanted to answer every one. To explain that the lyrics are mine, that I produce the music with artificial intelligence tools but I'm the one directing them, that I throw away far more than I release. I wrote enormously long replies, carefully reasoned, with an introduction and a conclusion. Nobody read them. Or worse, they read them and replied with another five-word sentence, and I'd write another paragraph. It was a conversation between an essay and a slammed door.

I learnt that someone who hasn't listened isn't looking to be persuaded. They want it on record that they don't like something, and they have every right. Now, if I reply, I reply briefly. Often I don't reply at all. And I was surprised to find that absolutely nothing happens.

The one who can't stand what I am

Then there are the comments that aren't aimed at the music or at the AI, but at the fact that I make songs about love between men. PLANETA GAYFOLK talks about exes, pride, self-esteem, the everyday life of people like me. Some people find that enormously annoying, and they say so with the same old words.

From these I have nothing to learn, frankly. There's no criticism to salvage. I delete them or leave them, depending on the day, and get on with my work. The only thing they confirm is something I already knew: that these songs are still needed. If a title like «La primera drag» can still make someone angry enough to type in capitals, the title is touching a nerve. I'd rather that than indifference.

There's one thing I do. When I see one of those under a video, I check whether someone has answered before me. Very often someone has. A complete stranger steps in to defend the song, or simply laughs at the comment. I like that moment more than any reply I could write.

The one who's right

And here comes the awkward part. Some negative comments are right.

Not all of them, not even many. But every now and then someone, rudely or kindly, points out something true. That a chorus repeats too much. That a music video has nothing to do with the lyric. That a song sounds a lot like an earlier one of mine. When I read it, my first impulse is to defend myself. The second, a few hours later, is to listen to the song again with that sentence in my head. And sometimes I have to admit that person heard something I didn't want to hear.

It's happened with titles above all. My audience is in Europe and in Latin America too, and a word everyone in Madrid catches instantly can sound bizarre in Lima or Mexico City. Once or twice it's been pointed out to me without any tact whatsoever. I didn't change those songs, because they were already out and because I like them as they are. But since then I think twice before settling on a title. I owe that to someone who probably had no intention of helping me.

The trick, if there is one, is to separate the tone from the content. A comment can be rude and accurate at the same time. And a very kind one can be no use to me at all. It took me a while to understand that the manners with which something is said don't change whether it's true or false.

What I do now

I don't read comments at night. At night everything weighs double, and a sentence I'd find silly in the morning stays with me until I turn the light off and for a good while after. I read them in the daytime, with some coffee and a clear head.

Nor do I count them. There was a time when I kept a mental tally of good and bad, like the scoreboard at a match. It was exhausting and pointless, because one bad one outweighed twenty good ones. That arithmetic can't be fixed, so I stopped doing it. I read, I keep what's useful and I let go of the rest.

And I've learnt not to write in the heat of the moment. If a comment fires me up, I let some time pass before replying. Almost always, when I come back, the urge has gone. That's spared me quite a few embarrassments that would now be sitting there, pinned forever under a music video.

There's one last thing I didn't expect. Negative comments have made me clearer. Since I know some will arrive with a knife between their teeth, I've learnt to explain what I do in fewer words and without apologising. I used to tell it in a roundabout way, like someone justifying themselves in front of a teacher. Now I say that I write the lyrics, that I direct the production and the videos, and that I have the final word. Full stop.

I don't know if one day they'll stop hurting altogether. I suspect not, and I'm not sure I want them to. A bit of thin skin helps me write. What I don't want is for them to decide for me which song comes out and which stays in the folder. So far they haven't managed it.

The songs, the ones people like and the ones somebody hates, are at mikesaintlouis.com.