An ode to guilty pleasures

Photo credit: PA Images

Nothing turns me on like some good, heated discussion. You want to discuss the afterlife? I’m into it. You want to debate politics? Let’s go. You want to vent about people who text while going down subway stairs? I’m here. I’ve got opinions for days. Some of them mine, others are the product of me playing Devil’s advocate. I’m a gemini through and through, and I can talk until my cheeks go numb. 

So why is it when the conversation turns to music, I’ve historically fallen mute? Ask me what my favorite bands are and suddenly (frustratingly) I forget every chord progression I’ve ever heard. I’m unable to produce the names of any of the bands I’ve played on repeat for years. I can’t tell you the last song I listened to or even what genres I gravitate toward. Does this happen to anyone else? Why is that when someone asks me what my favorite albums are, my cheeks turn hot and I respond, “I don’t know. I really like everything.” 

I think it’s because to answer the question honestly is to make myself vulnerable in front of a stranger. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with music. Its history, its production, its performers, its evolutions over time – all of it. Like so many other children of divorce, music was my consolation when I feared for my family’s future. It was my distraction from the yelling. From the slammed doors. From my drunk dad. From my crying mom. The music I listened (listen) to directly correlates with my emotional condition. So to tell a stranger anything about my iTunes library is… daunting. 

And then there’s the possibility of rejection to  consider. What if instead of saying “I don’t know what my favorite artist is,” I tell them that I’m in the top 1% of Ariana Grande streamers on Spotify (it’s true). What if they laugh and ramble on about how pop music is all just an algorithm designed to satisfy the masses? Are they going to skip off to some Radiohead song they listen to because someone somewhere told them it was cool, while I’m left with flushed cheeks red from embarrassment? Maybe… but how fucking lame does that make them?

So, fuck it. I’m done with the shame. I no longer classify any of my favs as “guilty pleasures.” I like what I like, and I don’t care what other people think about it. Because the only thing more boring then judging someone else’s taste in music is limiting your mind to a single genre or artist.

And please, for the love of God, stop telling people you like “everything but country.”