Maybe it was hubris. Musically, I had a great year. Finally, I had freed myself from the soul-crushing grip of my middle-school music taste. I perused music Twitter. I watched Anthony Fantano and read Pitchfork. I even created a Topsters (version 3) for my albums. 10×12. Color-coded. I was convinced I had become a musicologist, a connoisseur, a maestro, a virtuoso, Columbia’s resident music scholar.
Any other time, if my WKCR-employed hallmate asked me what music I listened to, I would have changed the subject, run away, or made up probable genres of indie bands (“You’ve heard of The Doorways? They’re kind of electronic dance midwestcore. Like a pov: escape room emo version of Rat Tails.”) This time, I did none of those things. Instead, I whipped out my phone and pulled up my Spotify. With a self-assured feeling and a calm expression, I watched my hallmate slowly scroll through my Wrapped as their brow furrowed in what I assumed to be awe.
What followed was a soul-crushing 30-minute conversation that left me with a shattered sense of self and a few new music recommendations. I listened to the wrong artists (“Yeah I know them…you heard them on TikTok, right?”) When I listened to the right artists, I listened to the wrong songs (“You need to be listening to the demos they throw out behind the recording studio.”) And when I somehow managed to get everything right, I was listening wrong (“Airpods distort sound. The only way you can really enjoy music is through Emile Berliner’s original gramophone.”)
It is not an understatement to say that my confidence is shot and I will not recover from this. Never pass me the aux again.
