A few weeks ago I attended a free jazz concert along the banks of the Hudson. The late-summer evening was lovely, the breeze gentle, the music quite pleasant. But at the edge of the park, where people were barbecuing, stood the Guy with the Drone. The dreaded Guy with the Drone.

This was not a guy from the defense department or from Amazon; no, not even a drone pizza-delivery guy. This was just the ordinary and increasingly ubiquitous Guy with the Drone.

As the musicians diligently labored a hundred yards away, working their way through beloved standards, Drone Dude amused all and sundry with the exploits of his mighty spacecraft. The drone went up. The drone went down. The drone went hither and yon and hovered above the assembled multitude. The gentry were beguiled. The tykes were enthralled. The oohs and ahs could be heard miles away.

There were no oohs and ahs from the musicians or from the hard-core jazz aficionados. Jazz musicians have enough problems without having to compete with drones. It’s almost impossible to hold an audience’s attention during an eight-minute bass solo on “Someday My Prince Will Come” while somebody is clowning around with a drone in the vicinity.

http://www.wsj.com/articles/protect-us-from-the-game-of-drones-1441985711