I hope he likes this essay.
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love One Direction
Right now it’s the end of the year, and everybody who’s ever listened to Spotify is sharing their top listens and their favorite artists on Twitter and Instagram. Which, like, awesome, I guess? Some people earnestly love music the way I love back-to-back screenings of Clueless, and if that’s what brings you joy, I wish you well. But some people just want to show off the reasons we should consider them cool/edgy/indie/authentic AF. I was getting annoyed at the relentless posts about top bands and go-to songs, but I realized it was because it felt like being forced into a time machine to my own pretentious past.
Once upon a time, I used to care about music. And, I mean, I care about music a lot now, but as a teen — shit, even as a 12-year-old — I cared about music to the point of embodying that infamous definition of fandom from Almost Famous. (“To truly love some silly little piece of music, or some band, so much that it hurts.”) I made Spice Girls scrapbooks. I learned, alone in my room, the choreography to *NSync’s “Bye Bye Bye” and tried to learn Spanish so I could sing along to Selena. And then I graduated to rock concerts when I realized music could also be used to (try to) make guys think I was finally cool enough to pursue.
My first real concert was Silverchair, which makes me sound a million times cooler than I actually was. I was 17, it was 2003, and I went with a girl who was barely my friend and a guy who was a complete stranger to me but drove us downtown in his cramped, dingy Honda. The only shows I’d ever seen were local, bands fronted by dudes I knew from school, and I was nervous about everything from drunken strangers to the venue to somehow being stranded in Toronto to the music being way too loud and permanently damaging my hearing. And then the band went on, and I was changed forever. (Ever . . . ever . . . ever . . .)
To start, frontman Daniel Johns was a total babe, so I found myself down the eventually very familiar path of falling head over heels for a guy in a band, failing to understand that charm and faux accessibility were part of the performance. But even at the back — the very, very back — of the sprawling albeit cramped Kool Haus (RIP), the music itself managed to trump the man in question. I heard some of my favorite songs played IRL, and even better than on the album. I bought a T-shirt, and I spent the following week listening to Silverchair’s complete discography on repeat while telling anyone who’d listen that they were totally my favorite band.
And for a while, they were. But as I got more and more into music, I began spending actual time trying to find new bands, new artists, and shows to fill my nights. My relationship with music became less and less about the feelings a song gave me, and more and more about using it to make myself seem cool. Which, of course, is the least cool.
So, by my early-to-mid-twenties, I was an absolute asshole. “You don’t know that band?!” became my nonchalant cooler-than-thou calling card. I’d attempt to mingle with musicians after a gig so I could tell everyone I knew that’s what I’d done. (My claim to fame? One time I “grabbed drinks” with a band from England. I drank a ginger ale and was home by midnight. But goddamn, I clung to that for months and believed in my heart I’d made all of them fall in love with me. Which I hadn’t.) As someone who’d never felt like she really fit in, I wanted to be in so much. When I became a music journalist, I figured that not only would I fit in, but I’d get to decide who else would.
The first two years I wrote about music, I couldn’t actually fucking believe it was a job I got to have. I worked for $10/piece, for free, for CDs, and for books. I smothered myself in notes on who was up-and-coming, who was not, who was trying too hard, and who “deserved” coverage. I anointed myself an expert (I wasn’t) who could and should make or break a particular act (woof) and became the worst version of myself because I was using culture as currency.
And, of course, I still didn’t feel like I fit in, and by 25, I was burnt out. After what felt like infinite shows, countless interviews, and no offers to write the Canadian version of Almost Famous, I couldn’t find it in myself to care anymore. I was tired and unhappy and in debt and mentally unstable and drinking alone. I said goodbye to the music industry. That part of my life was over.
Years passed, I found some equilibrium, and by the time 2014 rolled around, I missed how much music used to mean to me. I discovered I could once again listen to the bands that had defined my late teens and twenties. They weren’t painful reminders of who I used to be, but the soundtrack to some of my life’s biggest moments. I began to care about new artists and artists who seemed like they were trying their best, and I stopped dismissing pop music as a guilty pleasure. Instead of using artists as barometers of cool, I began to see them for what they were: sources of joy, ways to connect, both reflections of our culture and a means of shaping it. And I finally saw music itself as a gateway to discussions about politics and social justice and gender and sexuality, among other things.
We might all have our own tastes, but music should be something that unites people out of shared excitement, not out of douchey, insecure clique mentalities or holier-than-thou hierarchical nonsense. Music didn’t sign up for any of that shit. (And I’m sure it would very much like to be removed from that narrative.)
So, I’m trying to tune out my own cynicism as people I know revel in their favorites. I’m trying to remind myself they’re not always driven by self-aggrandizement, and that it’s possible to be enthusiastic in a public way without snobbery. For the first time in a very long time, writing about music makes me happy. I’m not a tastemaker (gross), I’m just writing about what I love: Drake and Harry Styles and Bieber’s latest haircut and *~what it all means~* for the industry. It makes me feel like a kid collecting Spice Girls stickers again.
I am always happiest when I love things. And when you begin to stop listening to pretentious blowhards, it’s amazing what you make room to care about. So say what you want — I can’t hear anyone over my Best of Britney Spears mix anyway.
Icebreakers:
A Guide to Making a Real Splash at a Party
Ninety-nine percent of the time, I don’t want to be at your party. I want to put on a nice outfit, I want to do a lap around the venue, I want to be complimented on my outfit in an appropriate way (after posting it on Instagram to show what I am aesthetically capable of), and then I want to leave.
But sometimes you can’t leave. Sometimes, because life is cruel, you will realize too late that you’ve arrived before all other guests, and now you’re in conversational purgatory with the host and their midwestern cousin who has strong opinions about terrible things. Or you will misunderstand the invite completely and, believing it to be a “drop in, drop out” situation, you will arrive unprepared for a full-on dinner party where you will be seated next to someone who insists on calling movies “films.” Once, I went to a “thing” that turned out to be incredibly formal and, in my nervousness, I explained to our server the specifics of why I can’t eat mushrooms.
But not anymore. I’d rather wear my eccentricities (otherwise known as the reasons I’m not invited to a lot of things) on my beautiful sleeves because, in moments of being candid, of being unapologetically yourself, you will immediately find your people. Here are some topics you can bring up to ensure that you are the most interesting person in the room, according to you (and to me, who would hang out with you in a second if I overheard any of these conversational gambits).
Ghosts
I love ghosts. I’m obsessed with ghosts. I always want to hear about the time you saw a ghost, and I want to tell you what I think about ghosts. Let’s talk about movies (not films) about ghosts, and then use ghosts to segue into spirits. I want to talk about the time you’re pretty sure you came face-to-face with a spirit, and I want to talk to you about how I feel nauseous every time I go into a place that turns out to be haunted. I want to talk about Ghost Adventures, Ghost Hunters, and The Dead Files, and then I want to talk about the sc
ary type of ghosts versus the kind that just seem to kick around.
If I die (because I plan to live forever), I will be the type of ghost that shows up at parties and hangs with the guests who are interesting enough to talk about spirits and hauntings and everything I deal with in my everyday ghost life. And then, out of sheer appreciation, I will rifle through their bags and coats and take the coolest things because what are possessions anyway? I deserve them. I’m a ghost. And now, look: you have something else to talk about at your shitty party.
Funerals
Speaking of afterlife plans, why not just bring up the coldest, hardest questions: who wants to be buried? Who wants to be cremated? These are terrific questions! So what if they trigger a tidal wave of feelings re: mortality? And why stop at post-mortem plans — ask your fellow partygoers how they want to die. Especially since those of us with like minds have already thought this through and planned exactly how we wish to shuffle off this mortal coil.
Me? Should I decide to finally expire (although I cannot stress enough how much I refuse to), I will do so in a public space filled with people paying homage to one of my recently deceased enemies. And, in a final act of thunder-stealing, I will make everything all about me and eclipse my aforementioned nemesis once and for all. I will be very, very, very old and very, very, very well dressed, and, from the afterlife, my nemesis will be very, very, very bitter.
And then we will join forces to haunt the hell out of someone we dislike even more than each other.
Murder
I have survived entire parties by talking only about serial killers. Is it appropriate? No. Is it upsetting? Probably. But why not use an occasion at which dozens of people are gathered to talk about what human beings are truly capable of? Merry Christmas, let me tell you about why you should call the police the second a man asks if you want help with your groceries. There are no meet-cutes, only predators. And yes, I check twice to see if my door is locked before I go to sleep every night, and no, I do not remember ever not being paranoid.
Alternate icebreaker: in old houses, I like to ask if anyone’s ever died there. And then I offer to Google the address and the word “murder” to see what we can dig up.
Podcasts about murder
Bridge the gap between interesting people and less interesting people by ushering them into the world of true crime via stories they can listen to while commuting. Not everybody can handle Ann Rule, and not everybody’s willing to learn while at a bridal shower, a Christening, or a visitation (regardless of how on-theme it may be) that real psychopaths are so manipulative they’re largely unidentifiable, so take baby steps. (And no, for the last time, I am not a psychopath.)
Podcasts in general
I’m just kidding, absolutely nobody wants to have this conversation. I have a podcast and I’m saying this, and I think I’m saying it louder than anybody else. So while we’re here, here’s a list of other things nobody ever wants to talk about:
Your book
Their book
Any books that aren’t about true crime or ghosts
Why you think the ending to that TV series was bad
Why you think the ending to that TV series was good
Your band
Their band
Movies
What distinguishes films from movies
99% of all music (outside of One Direction because Harry Styles is a safe topic for every occasion)
What you’re up to these days (the answer is always “nothing,” and you know it)
What you’re working on now
Who you’re dating
Why you aren’t dating that one person anymore
Your wedding
Their wedding
Muriel’s Wedding
It’s important to remember that you didn’t invent music, you didn’t invent weddings, you didn’t invent vinyl, you didn’t invent Toni Collette, and I don’t own a single title from the Criterion Collection. Please stop blocking my path to the shrimp ring.
Tarot cards or astrology
But don’t just bring them up by shouting either word into the ether and hoping one of them sticks (which I also like to do). Ask somebody what their birthday is, and then apply the characteristics of their star sign to their personality regardless of whether or not they want you to. This will go one of two ways:
You will be hailed as a mind-reading genius whose intuition will take you far in life and usher in an era in which everybody asks for your advice (and actually takes it).
You will be hailed as somebody who is very annoying, which means boring, nonbelieving people will never speak to you again.
Either way, the outcome will be a gift. At one party, as a result of this tactic, a friend brought out her astrology book and three of us just sat there talking about what it meant to be a Gemini rising (hi) or an Aquarius moon (also hi). Everybody else seemed to find it weird, but I don’t even remember any of their names, so obviously, this was a very successful party and I have just proven my above point.
How much you hate parties
Because sometimes all other tactics fail. And while I would never suggest doing this at a friend’s party (should you wish to remain their friend), I will say that nothing bonds kindred souls like their shared hatred of a thing. My earliest and best friendships were forged through disliking the same people, disliking the same books, disliking the same movies. My adult friendships have remained in place because we both can’t believe so-and-so is dating so-and-so, and why doesn’t this party have any bread?
And, if you’re really stuck, just tear out this page and bond over your hatred of everything I just said. “Can you believe this broad?” you will say, regretting having desecrated a book, even this one, for dramatic effect. Your new friend will shake their head in complete disapproval.
But that is how my spirit will be unleashed. And three hundred years down the road, at a party without murder lovers or refined carbohydrates, my ghost will be summoned to make it a party you will never, ever forget.
An Anne for All Seasons
I want to be someone who thrives during summer. I want to revel in heat waves, look dewy in humidity, and use the surfer emoji without irony. I want to go to parks. I want to post Instagram stories of parks. I want to tag the name of the park I’m at on Facebook. I want to eat fresh fruit and feel connected to our planet. I want to descend on a beach and not feel hyper-aware and uncomfortable about being around too many seminude strangers.
From May to September, I want to be more than just sweat and SPF 60 sunscreen. I want people I don’t know to describe my hair as “effortless” instead of offering me hair elastics. I want shorts and T-shirts — instead of slacks worn in protest — to be my proud summer staples.
As a kid, I liked summer. But that’s because as a kid, you’re a lovely, hyper, freezie-bingeing idiot, not a grown-up who sweats fanatically despite having to look like a professional person. As a kid, you get to run around outside and drink from the garden hose to stay hydrated. You wear a bathing suit as clothes, sometimes to a restaurant, depending on how close to a beach or lake it is. And while you’d know to avoid the kiddie pool a friend’s little sister had peed in, you certainly didn’t worry about the consequences of using rocks to hold down a tarp you’d sprayed with water and planned to slip ’n slide on. At its best, blue collar suburban summer is grilled cheese outside on the driveway wearing water wings for no explicable reason. At its worst, it’s being called inside for bed before the streetlights come on.
At the start of summer 2016, I was depleted. Paranoid that if I took a break — any break, even for lunch — I’d never work again. I’d surrendered to imposter syndrome and convinced myself that friends and editors were seconds from discovering how human I was. “What if?” became the first half of my mental call-and-response, the gateway to a million worst-case scenarios. I slept fitfully, couldn�
�t eat without feeling nauseous, and still refused to turn down work or plans in hopes of keeping up appearances. Toxically dedicated to my performance as a perfect, godlike specimen, I told myself I couldn’t be replaced if I distracted everyone from the fact that I was mortal. But eventually, my body rebelled against me. And within two weeks, I got two stomach flus and was forced to lie down and confront what would happen if I couldn’t work for a while.
Nothing. Nothing happened. Nobody cared, in the most positive sense. Editors graciously extended deadlines, friends rescheduled plans, and all sincerely told me they hoped I felt better soon. My work wasn’t reassigned, my friends still texted me back. As my physical symptoms began to subside, so did the cloud of self-doubt. So, with the Canada Day long weekend fast approaching, I made impromptu plans to road-trip to the beach. 2016 would welcome Summer Anne: a better version of myself who didn’t recoil at the mention of fun. Or, at the very least, who would not feel guilty about taking a nap.
From the moment she took her shoes off at the beach and sat down on the sand, I liked Summer Anne a lot. She wasn’t flinching under the sunshine, didn’t worry about the way lake water could ruin the bottoms of her overalls, and she stopped using GPS halfway home so she and her friend could have an adventure. When the work week started, she began working on the stoop outside and learned to press pause long enough to pick up a sandwich for lunch. She still worked super-hard, but she wasn’t defined by her work, which was new and exciting since it meant distancing herself even further from anxiety. She also began to use Regular Anne as a benchmark for what not to do: Summer Anne wore what Regular Anne wouldn’t (crop tops), listened to what Regular Anne wouldn’t listen to (“anything!”), and began looking the way Regular Anne hadn’t (blond and very, very slightly tanned). Summer Anne did yoga.
Nobody Cares Page 11