There's No Such Thing as a Guilty Pleasure

An unnecessarily serious examination of why we take unserious music so seriously.

I love death metal. I love industrial music. I love complicated rhythms, aggressive guitars, and musicians who seem determined to make their instruments do things they weren't designed to do.

I also love No Doubt. Have since the beginning.

Matchbox Twenty? Absolutely. Natalie Imbruglia? Yep. Angry girl music? Inject it directly into my bloodstream.

And every time I listen to The Birthday Massacre, it takes me right back to when I was a little girl.

I'm a 6'4" grown man, by the way.

Here's the thing: I don't believe in guilty pleasures. I believe in good music, bad music, questionable decisions, and people who spend entirely too much time worrying about which category their favorite songs belong to.

The Snobbery Problem

I've spent enough time around metalheads to know that musical elitism is practically its own subgenre.

Death metal isn't heavy enough. Black metal isn't obscure enough. That band sold out. That other band was better before anyone had heard of them.

At some point, enjoying music becomes less important than proving you're qualified to enjoy it.

And I get it. I appreciate technical ability. I appreciate originality. I can respect a musician for their craftsmanship, their songwriting, or even their salesmanship. Making something people want to hear is a skill, too.

But respecting an artist and enjoying their music aren't necessarily the same thing.

Nickelback is a great example. Their reputation wasn't built entirely on bad music. They became a symbol of commercially calculated rock, whether that reputation was entirely deserved or not.

But I'm sorry, "Animals" goes fucking hard.

You don't have to defend their entire discography to admit that.

When Metal Learned to Smile

One of my favorite developments in heavy music is watching musicians gradually become comfortable being ridiculous.

There was a time when black metal bands seemed contractually obligated to look like they'd just murdered someone in a Norwegian forest. Venom helped establish that whole sinister theatrical tradition.

And look, I appreciate the aesthetic. The corpse paint, the atmosphere, the imagery. It's part of the experience.

But much like the teased hair and spandex of '80s glam metal, some of that imagery hasn't aged quite the way its creators probably intended.

Meanwhile, bands like Nekrogoblikon can dress up as goblins, and The Black Dahlia Murder can embrace humor and silliness while delivering absolutely ferocious music.

Turns out you can be an incredible musician without looking perpetually constipated.

Limp Bizkit figured out something similar. Their original swagger was obnoxious, aggressive, and wonderfully juvenile. Not all of it aged gracefully. But watching Fred Durst lean into the absurdity with "Dad Vibes" made me appreciate the whole thing a little more.

Sometimes the joke gets better when the artist realizes they're in on it.

Your Reputation Isn't Your Playlist

People have complicated relationships with music, and that's perfectly fine.

You can appreciate a song without respecting the person who made it. Michael Jackson's Thriller didn't suddenly stop being a landmark recording because his legacy became controversial. That doesn't mean everyone has to separate the art from the artist, either.

You can recognize incredible musicianship in something you don't particularly enjoy. You can recognize blatant commercial appeal in something you absolutely love.

And you can acknowledge that a song is stupid while singing every single word.

Especially if it's Bloodhound Gang.

Sometimes the Worst Song Is the Best Song

Working as a wedding DJ has reinforced something I've believed for years: the right song isn't always the most impressive song.

Sometimes it's not even particularly danceable.

I've seen how a song can turn a group of friends into a circle of idiots singing at the top of their lungs. The rhythm barely matters. The choreography certainly doesn't. What matters is that it's their song.

That's a beautiful thing.

Modern DJ technology even lets us remove vocals from a recording in real time. With a little timing, I can cut the singer out of Blink-182's "What's My Age Again?" and let an entire room enthusiastically inform me:

"WORK SUCKS, I KNOW!"

For a few seconds, nobody cares whether the song is sophisticated, critically acclaimed, or appropriate for their carefully curated musical identity.

They're just having fun.

And isn't that what music is supposed to do?

Like What You Like

I'm not suggesting all music is equally brilliant. Some musicians are better than others. Some songs are lazy. Some are masterpieces. And some are masterpieces of laziness.

Have opinions. Have standards. Argue about albums. Tell me why your favorite drummer is better than mine.

Just don't confuse your taste with your intelligence, or someone else's enjoyment with a character flaw.

Music can be technically astonishing, emotionally devastating, aggressively stupid, or shamelessly commercial.

Sometimes it's all four.

And for the record, Chappell Roan's "Pink Pony Club" absolutely slaps.

I will not be taking questions.