How often do we genuinely love the music we listen to?
I think, more often than we realize, the music we listen to is simply a social tool used to meet arbitrary standards set by our peers. If we were all free from judgment from our "tastemaker" friends--the friends who wear plaid skirts, watch Dexter and listen to Ghostland Observatory--wouldn't we all listen to the processed crap we hear on the radio without hesitation?
I'm sure others have debated this exact point in more concise terms than I, but once again, a fantastic article on Hipster Runoff got me thinking. I mean, why is so many great pop songs (Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone") shunned by the cool kids while Rihanna's "Umbrella" is embraced? Almost as if Rihanna won some hipster lottery, enabling her to be accepted by all music lovers. How stupid.
All people want to feel good. Human nature has programmed us this way. Pop music, on the whole, makes people feel good. It's shiny and electric, filled with hooks and musical connections that send out reinforcing pulses in our brains--the same pulses that one feels upon the completion of a puzzle or a book. (We won't get complicated, but a good musical hook is like a puzzle being solved by the mind over and over again. When the song sounds synchronous and beautiful, our brains feel accomplished.) Basically, I'm saying human beings would likely listen to pop music above other types of music because it's so accessible and can make us feel good easier.
Personally, I've noticed that no matter which song or artist I'm listening to--50 Cent, Sheryl Crow, MGMT, Of Montreal--it's just pop. I don't listen to MGMT's psychodelia. I don't about Crow's country recordings. I pick and choose the songs that most fit this unfortunate "pop" recess in my music library.
Case-in-point: I drunkenly downloaded two Shania Twain albums a few weeks ago (the total truth--long, long story), and the only songs I genuinely listen to are the poppiest of the bunch. I avoid the heartier stuff.
So what is this "thing" about pop music? Is it just me? Do we listen to music that makes us feel good?
(I know plenty of people that listen to gloomy music to make them feel worse--a sad kind of spiral.)
Conclusion to be added when I think of something.
Showing posts with label weekend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weekend. Show all posts
12.22.2008
12.14.2008
Weekend: 12.14.08
Self-actualization! I can't even tell you how many times I've edited this post, trying to find the balance between a thought-to-keyboard tirade and sensible, restrained entry. It's supposed to be about authenticity, but it's hard to write about. The concept is even hard to grasp.
Who deems what is and isn't authentic? Do I sound smart and worldly if I just say, "Everything's authentic, there's no such thing as inauthenticity?" That's probably my canned response, like, "Everyone's got their own authenticity."
But it can't be true. If everything was authentic, than I wouldn't bristle when pretentious aquaintances brag about their co-op parties and their obsessions with Uggs. I'm not saying Uggs can't be authentic, but are they? This is Austin, Texas, where the winters clock in around mid-December and the temperature hovers at 70 degrees fahrenheit. Is practicality the ultimate tell of whether something is authentic or not?
What about motives? Perhaps, more so than practicality, the motives behind purchases and life decisions are a better measure of authenticity. Do you dress to be accepted by a peer group? Even in alternative circles, there are surprisingly salient trends. Child predator glasses (not my term), dark hose, dirty hair. Okay let's look at something less tangible than clothing. (It always seems to go back to clothing...)
Life decisions. Are you in business school because your parents demanded it/expected it/"your dad graduated from McCombs?" I'm not trying to judge anyone here. I'll be the first to admit that I am a product of my parent's raising. I'm independent and strong-willed, but that's because my parents taught me to be those things.
So, if you do anything someone expects of you, are you inauthentic? Motives cannot be a true measure of authenticity, because people do many things with ulterior motives that are entirely authentic.
What's the final answer, then? I can tell you one thing, I'm not authentic. I write my little blog, tromp around in my combat boots and Seven jeans, chatting about the latest issue of Texas Monthly and how I'm "sooo jealous" of all my friends' internships. I'm such a poser! Like, mad-pose! I'm not saying this as a deflector, either. This is not one of those disguised, "See I'm really authentic but I'll play like I'm not to diffuse any negative response." I'm serious.
I want to be authentic. I want to be as bold as Marc Jacobs, as enduring as Madonna, as creative as Steven Meisel. I want to be a genius like Kanye West and be as infiltrative as Crispin Porter + Bogusky. I want the life of The Sartorialist!
Bottom line. I may not be authentic, and can't tell you what is, but I can tell what isn't. Don't pretend, and don't be pretentious*. Don't live a life of self-indulgence and selfishness. Life a life of consequence. If you live for yourself there's no reason to live.
When Christopher McCandless entered the Alaskan wilderness alone in 1994, he thought life was about self-discovery and the relentless search for "the meaning of life." Dumb! He's authentic, for sure--he died for his own authenticity--but his theory failed.
On his death bed, McCandless wrote on a page of Henry David Thoreau's "On Walden Pond." Obviously he didn't have any paper, but in the margins he scribbled, "Happiness only real when shared."
You know, I may have just figured it out. (This is a post about authenticity, so I feel I have to reiterate that I didn't "get it" five minutes ago--this literally just clicked, which is a happy literary coincidence!) Living an authentic life means living a life loving others. A life is nothing without a counterpart, a husband or wife. How crazy, too, as a feminist and civil rights activist, I shouldn't be preaching eternal commitment. But I am because it's truth.
The key to an authentic life is--please excuse the heavy-handed cliche--love. That's what it's about.
[Dramatic pause. Go read something frothy so you can absorb all that corn syrup!]
And with that, I conclude my second weekend post.
Ooh, I feel all fulfilled and crap!
[This is an offish new tradish. Every weekend, since my life seems to both peak and recess somewhere between Saturday night and 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning, I have wild new thoughts. Definitely more on the rambling side, but they're important. I had a rant a few weekends ago on personal style, and you should read it. There's even a hobo shout out! Wha-what!]
*I know I'm like, extremely pretentious, so just pretend Mother Theresa wrote this post.
Who deems what is and isn't authentic? Do I sound smart and worldly if I just say, "Everything's authentic, there's no such thing as inauthenticity?" That's probably my canned response, like, "Everyone's got their own authenticity."
But it can't be true. If everything was authentic, than I wouldn't bristle when pretentious aquaintances brag about their co-op parties and their obsessions with Uggs. I'm not saying Uggs can't be authentic, but are they? This is Austin, Texas, where the winters clock in around mid-December and the temperature hovers at 70 degrees fahrenheit. Is practicality the ultimate tell of whether something is authentic or not?
What about motives? Perhaps, more so than practicality, the motives behind purchases and life decisions are a better measure of authenticity. Do you dress to be accepted by a peer group? Even in alternative circles, there are surprisingly salient trends. Child predator glasses (not my term), dark hose, dirty hair. Okay let's look at something less tangible than clothing. (It always seems to go back to clothing...)
Life decisions. Are you in business school because your parents demanded it/expected it/"your dad graduated from McCombs?" I'm not trying to judge anyone here. I'll be the first to admit that I am a product of my parent's raising. I'm independent and strong-willed, but that's because my parents taught me to be those things.
So, if you do anything someone expects of you, are you inauthentic? Motives cannot be a true measure of authenticity, because people do many things with ulterior motives that are entirely authentic.
What's the final answer, then? I can tell you one thing, I'm not authentic. I write my little blog, tromp around in my combat boots and Seven jeans, chatting about the latest issue of Texas Monthly and how I'm "sooo jealous" of all my friends' internships. I'm such a poser! Like, mad-pose! I'm not saying this as a deflector, either. This is not one of those disguised, "See I'm really authentic but I'll play like I'm not to diffuse any negative response." I'm serious.
I want to be authentic. I want to be as bold as Marc Jacobs, as enduring as Madonna, as creative as Steven Meisel. I want to be a genius like Kanye West and be as infiltrative as Crispin Porter + Bogusky. I want the life of The Sartorialist!
Bottom line. I may not be authentic, and can't tell you what is, but I can tell what isn't. Don't pretend, and don't be pretentious*. Don't live a life of self-indulgence and selfishness. Life a life of consequence. If you live for yourself there's no reason to live.
When Christopher McCandless entered the Alaskan wilderness alone in 1994, he thought life was about self-discovery and the relentless search for "the meaning of life." Dumb! He's authentic, for sure--he died for his own authenticity--but his theory failed.
On his death bed, McCandless wrote on a page of Henry David Thoreau's "On Walden Pond." Obviously he didn't have any paper, but in the margins he scribbled, "Happiness only real when shared."
You know, I may have just figured it out. (This is a post about authenticity, so I feel I have to reiterate that I didn't "get it" five minutes ago--this literally just clicked, which is a happy literary coincidence!) Living an authentic life means living a life loving others. A life is nothing without a counterpart, a husband or wife. How crazy, too, as a feminist and civil rights activist, I shouldn't be preaching eternal commitment. But I am because it's truth.
The key to an authentic life is--please excuse the heavy-handed cliche--love. That's what it's about.
[Dramatic pause. Go read something frothy so you can absorb all that corn syrup!]
And with that, I conclude my second weekend post.
Ooh, I feel all fulfilled and crap!
[This is an offish new tradish. Every weekend, since my life seems to both peak and recess somewhere between Saturday night and 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning, I have wild new thoughts. Definitely more on the rambling side, but they're important. I had a rant a few weekends ago on personal style, and you should read it. There's even a hobo shout out! Wha-what!]
*I know I'm like, extremely pretentious, so just pretend Mother Theresa wrote this post.
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