Another repost of a Facebook essay by Michael Jochum, an incisive and insightful writer. Not too bad on the drums either. 😀

MAA

Well, it’s over. The Late Show with Stephen Colbert will sign off tonight, Thursday, May 21, 2026, and with him, something far more meaningful than a television franchise will quietly walk offstage. But if I’m being honest, my relationship with late-night television didn’t begin with Colbert. It began much earlier, in a much smaller room, with a much younger version of me trying to find a little peace in a life that often felt anything but peaceful. I remember so vividly, despite the fact that my official bedtime was 10:00, not 11:30, sneaking the television on as a teenager just to watch The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. There was something almost holy about it to me. The glow of the television in a dark room. Carson’s effortless cool. The guests. The laughter. And that orchestra. God, that orchestra. As a young drummer trying to make sense of the world and my place in it, The Tonight Show felt like a portal into another universe, a grown-up world of musicians, storytellers, intelligence, sophistication, and possibility. A universe I wanted to occupy. When life felt turbulent, late night became refuge. Sanctuary. A quiet promise that somewhere beyond the chaos, there was a place for creativity, wit, music, and human connection. Maybe that’s why this loss lands with more force than some sanitized corporate cancellation announcement ever could.

Because late-night was never just television. And for someone who has spent more than five decades making music, I understand exactly why it mattered. Music doesn’t stop wars. It doesn’t lower gas prices. It doesn’t keep a fascist from cosplaying emperor while dismantling democratic norms in real time. But music does something equally essential, it gives us relief from the relentless tedium of chaos. It reminds us we’re still alive. It lets us breathe. A groove can shift the chemistry of an entire room. A melody can pull you out of despair for a few precious minutes. Humor does exactly the same thing. The right joke lands like a perfect backbeat. It releases pressure. It restores oxygen. It tells the audience, No, you’re not insane. Yes, this really is as absurd as it seems. That’s what Colbert understood. That’s what Kimmel, Meyers, Stewart, Oliver, and the rest of the increasingly endangered species known as politically courageous comedians understood. They became a kind of emotional rhythm section for a nation suffering political whiplash.

Because let’s be honest—the material wrote itself. When the President of the United States behaves like a thin-skinned, malignant narcissist with the emotional resilience of a toddler denied a second dessert, what exactly are comedians supposed to do? Ignore it? Pivot to observational humor about airline pretzels? This is a man who openly threatens broadcasters for criticizing him, fantasizes about yanking licenses because networks dare mock him, cheers when hosts get fired, and behaves less like a democratically elected president than a discount dictator auditioning for a banana republic. Meanwhile, ICE has been transformed into a militarized domestic theater production, American cities are increasingly treated like occupied zones, and we are now embroiled in this war in Iran with no coherent extraction plan visible through the smoke because apparently America’s foreign policy remains “light the fuse first and ask questions never.” Add Venezuela, Cuba, endless saber-rattling, geopolitical cosplay, and the ceaseless smell of testosterone, greed, and incompetence wafting from this administration, and yes, the jokes practically write themselves.

What remains staggering to me is that these comedians often showed more courage than many of the journalists whose literal job description is to hold power accountable. Too many members of the so-called serious press have spent the Trump years doing their familiar little dance, furrowed brows, grave voices, both-sides paralysis, endless handwringing while democracy quietly bleeds out on the studio floor. Meanwhile, the comedians simply said what millions of Americans were already screaming into their coffee cups and bourbon glasses: the emperor is naked, orange, dangerous, and dumb as a sack of wet hammers. That’s what made Colbert matter. Not just the jokes. The moral intelligence behind them. The empathy. The sharpness. The willingness to use satire not as escape, but as a weapon against absurdity.

And spare me the corporate embalming fluid about economics, restructuring, or changing viewer habits. We’re not children. When Bruce Springsteen stood on Colbert’s stage and said plainly that Stephen was “the first guy in America who lost his show because we’ve got a president who can’t take a joke,” he articulated what many already suspected. When he pointed directly at billionaire ownership and the transactional cowardice that comes with protecting mergers and business interests, he named the mechanism. This is how authoritarianism works in America. It doesn’t always show up in polished boots kicking down your door. Sometimes it arrives in tailored suits, shareholder meetings, merger approvals, FCC pressure, and frightened executives deciding that courage is too expensive. Sometimes fascism doesn’t scream. Sometimes it quietly edits the programming schedule.

Trump’s obsession with comedians has always told us exactly who he is. Strong leaders ignore mockery. Fragile despots obsess over it. The man experiences satire the way vampires experience sunlight. And yet, despite his tantrums, despite the threats, despite the whining social media meltdowns, Colbert kept swinging. That mattered. Deeply. Because humor is not frivolous in dark times. Humor is survival. Humor is oxygen. Humor is medicine. Humor, like music, reminds us we are not alone in the madness.

And now one of its finest conductors has left the stage. That hurts more than I expected.

Because for millions of Americans, Colbert wasn’t just a late-night host. He was catharsis. He was reassurance. He was proof that intelligence, decency, wit, and moral clarity still had a pulse in prime time. And now the room feels quieter. Darker. Less brave.

Because when the comedians begin disappearing, it’s rarely because the jokes stopped being funny.

It’s because the truth became too expensive.

Michael Jochum, Author of Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition. Veteran drummer, writer, observer of the absurd, and still foolish enough to believe truth matters.