There are roughly five things I absolutely despise in this world:
-ranch dressing
-Tupperware
-two-name first names (particularly “John Paul”)
-mute cats
-Christopher Walken
With that being said, I absolutely hate only one thing: the term “guilty pleasure.”
While the expression can refer to balloon fetishes or a love of urinating in the shower, a “guilty pleasure,” when applied to music, is something you’re ashamed to be caught listening to because it has been deemed “uncool” by self-appointed music lords. Nothing in the world irks me more than when people sleazily throw the question “What’s your guilty pleasure?” my way in regards to music.
Every now and then I derive pleasure from cranking up Billy Joel, but am I embarrassed about it? Hell no! Why should I listen to “Only the Good Die Young” in secrecy? Why should anyone deny what makes them happy? The phrase is a contradiction to itself; no one should be ashamed of experiencing a music-induced elation.
Taking the saying “you are what you listen to” seriously, I am an angst-ridden rocker with a tendency toward cutting myself. I am a product of both Led Zeppelin and Taylor Swift. This image scares me, for it is a totally inaccurate depiction of who I am as a person. I honestly do not believe anyone could or should be judged so harshly by their taste in music−unless Mariah Carey is your artist of choice (just kidding).
The following confession has the potential to destroy my music cred, but I am a proud fan of Lana Del Rey, The Script, Maroon 5, Styx, and the aforementioned Billy Joel.
We all want to give the illusion that we’re cultured individuals through our music choices. No one in their right mind is ashamed of liking The Beatles; quite the opposite occurs. Not only do people lie about not liking a certain band, they’ll also fake liking the bands they believe they’re supposed to like−which explains all the fabricated Fab Four fans in our midst.
It seems the more mainstream a song is, the least likely we are to admit to liking it. No one wants to fit the Jell-O mold of the Top 40 listener who questions the “deeper meaning” behind T-Swift’s lyrics. Mainstream music is for closers, or so they say.
But who are these music elitists that have the final say over what music is distinguished and what music should be buried in a safe 16 feet deep? I imagine these condescending zeitgeists to be hipster, moustached men who smoke pipes and listen strictly to Radiohead whilst polishing their pickle fork collections.
I have this one friend Matt whose life revolves around ABBA, the Village People, and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. He doesn’t shy away from advertising his freakdom; he prides himself on knowing all six of the Village People (I’ve been told on numerous occasions the posse includes an Indian, cowboy, construction worker, police officer, navy man, and a biker). He identifies himself as a minority and is damn proud of it.
So Matt listens to the Doobie Brothers and Chicago and I listen to Elliot Smith and The Shins. You listen to Bruno Mars and Miley Cyrus and your friends listen to Phoenix and The National. You rock out to Guns N’ Roses and Boston while your boyfriend prefers Steve Vai and John Lee Hooker. You idolize Ghost B.C. and your Mom and Dad sign you up for counseling because of it. Who cares?
Even an entire genre has been deemed uncool: country music, y’all. Nine times out of ten, when you ask someone what kind of music they listen to, they’ll vaguely respond with something along the lines of “everything BUT country.” First of all, this is one of the worst questions to ask someone for it’s a terribly open, premeditated question. Many people ask this question knowing full well that they’ll use their own taste in music to gauge whether or not their potential friend scores high on the music scale.
Discrepancies may occur over the artistic merit of EDM, but usually the two can agree that mainstream country is the music of serfs. If the FDA were to release a music food pyramid, it’s highly likely that country music would be allotted the very tip; the population would be advised to listen to Rascal Flatts only in moderation and in privacy of their homes.
Whether you’re cognizant of your favorite artists’ reputations in the music world is irrelevant. It’s actually better not knowing that what you love is considered shit to others’ ears—relish in this blissful obliviousness. And if you are aware that your choice in music is lacking, don’t you pause. We all need to stand strong by our own musical convictions and bask in our love of what makes us happy. Lay claim to what makes you want to dance, what makes you want to cry, or what makes you want to get naked and start a riot.
