Hi. My name is Jordan. And I have a problem. I am a music snob.
Yes, I'm the guy who looks through your iPod and instantly judges you. I constantly badger my friends about what they should listen to. If I hear an artist that I like in an Outback Steakhouse commercial or-even worse-Grey's Anatomy, I immediately disown them forever. Every month, I spend $8 on a music magazine called Under the Radar.
I am an indie mess.
I've always known that I listen to some obscure music, but it is only recently that I realized I might have gone too far. Last year, I hit what all junkies call "rock bottom"-the moment you know that your addiction has completely taken over your life.
I was in the middle of a concert at the Duke Coffeehouse when I overheard two men debating the origins of the group Menomena, an experimental rock band from Portland, Ore. One man believed the band's name came from the infectious Piero Umiliani song "Mah Na Mah Na," made famous by The Muppet Show. The other thought that the name was derived from the dramatic French phrase "mais no! mais no!" which translates to "but no! but no!"
I suddenly saw myself standing before two grown men rather adamantly arguing about the name of some obscure band whose show they weren't even attending. The worst part, however, wasn't that I found this conversation to be endlessly fascinating but rather that I already knew all this!
In fact, since I had heard this topic debated a few weeks earlier, I went online to discover that the band chose the name-rather anticlimactically-simply because they liked the way it sounds.
I had never felt less cool and more pathetic.
I knew that I had to quit. I needed to be like everyone else: staying fly, meeting promiscuous girls, riding dirty, making it rain and just doing whatever else is necessary to bring sexy back. Yet, every time I attempt to renounce my musical tastes, I can't seem to do it. No matter how hard I try, I still hate Avril Lavigne.
So now I am stuck simply wondering why I cannot get rid of my music preferences. A little research has revealed that there are two potential explanations for my obsession (and no, neither one of them is because I like the way the music sounds).
First, I constantly need to prove I am better than you. French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu wrote that taste "functions as a sort of social orientation, a 'sense of one's place.'" Harvard Psychologist Steven Pinker notes that one function of "owning art is to impress other people with one's social status."
In other words, sophisticated taste suggests social superiority. It's no coincidence that few "high class" people enjoy Larry the Cable Guy. It may also be why I listen to The Wood Brothers while scoffing at your latest purchase of a Pussycat Dolls album.
Second-and perhaps the more plausible explanation for this obsession of mine-I desperately need to pick up women.
In his book The Mating Mind, Geoffrey Miller argues that art is basically a tool of reproduction. It's not only a chance to impress others with the quality of your genes, but also suggests fitness and intelligence. In this sense, my vast iTunes collection is a lot like a peacock's tail.
For mating purposes, a peacock's tail is not simply a sign of beauty; it also indicates good health and expendable resources. A particularly extravagant tail signifies that a peacock is so healthy and cunning that he can waste his spare energy building something solely used to impress peacock chicks. Perhaps for the same reason successful peacocks build elaborate tails, I download Icelandic pop music.
You should notice that neither of these explanations makes me look like a great person. I'm not going to try and deny this. It's only the confident people who proudly listen to the pop charts, while the self-conscious nerds scour the Internet for the next big thing. Apparently, I don't listen to music for the sound or the way it makes me feel. Instead, I listen to prove something. I can only hope that one day-after becoming more confident, more attractive, or both-I can join you all in actually enjoying Gwen Stefani.
Jordan Axt is a Trinity junior. His column runs every other Friday.
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