Why Does Disliking Radiohead Make You Feel Stupid?
You put on an album you’ve been meaning to listen to for ages. Enough has been written about it that you already know what to expect: it’s an important work, the band broke new ground here, and you’re about to have a valuable cultural experience. The first few songs pass uneventfully. A little too uneventfully. You adjust your headphones and put your phone away because this is obviously music that requires your full attention. Then you catch yourself thinking about what to make for dinner and turn your attention back to the album, feeling like you’ve zoned out during someone’s heartfelt confession. So far, you’re bored, but it’s too early to say that out loud. Maybe you haven’t figured it out yet.
That’s how it was for me with Radiohead. I kept coming back and eventually did grow to love their music. It would be convenient to end there: see, you just have to give it time, art takes effort, thank you for listening. Except I’ve gone through roughly the same process with other acclaimed records and come away thinking: how the hell do you people listen to this? Somehow, that second experience feels less worth talking about. You can write an entire article about finally getting a great album. Finally allowing yourself to turn it off feels vaguely embarrassing.
Maybe It’s Me
Radiohead are a good band to have this conversation about precisely because there’s plenty to love. Their music offers unusual choices, emotional precision, and things that become more interesting with repeated listening. The reputation didn’t come out of nowhere. Along with it, though, comes a strange advantage: if a song doesn’t work for you, you’re the first suspect.
With some random record, it’s much simpler. You listen, you don’t like it, you move on. Here, you want to establish a cause. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you started with the wrong album. Maybe you need to read about the circumstances in which it was recorded. Sometimes that helps, but at what point does getting to know the music turn into an investigation into your own inadequacy?
It happens especially quickly when someone introduces the word “intellectual. ” Suddenly, you feel like sitting up straighter. You’re assessing a song, but apparently you’re also taking some kind of test. Saying you didn’t like it is still acceptable. Saying you’re bored is riskier: what if you’re bored precisely because you’re used to simpler things?
Difficult Means Good?
Complexity is a convenient way to demonstrate quality because you can at least describe it. An unusual time signature, an unfamiliar structure, an elusive melody, a sound whose source you’d like someone to explain. Explaining why any of it moves you is harder. So somewhere between “there are a lot of interesting choices here” and “this is great music, ” an entire conversation sometimes quietly disappears.
That conversation could include some perfectly reasonable questions. What do those choices do for the song? What do you feel while listening? Do you want to come back? Or are you more interested in reading about how it works than in playing it again? That happens too, and fairly often. I can admire how someone made something without wanting to spend time with the result.
It’s hard to admit that once you’ve invested in listening, though. You’ve come back several times, read a review, worked your way through the context. You want that thing to finally happen. Otherwise, you’ve diligently prepared yourself for pleasure, and it hasn’t shown up.
Good Taste and Other Reasons to Feel Nervous
Musical preferences have a social life. We learn something about people from what they listen to, guess whether we’ll get along, sometimes brace ourselves for an unpleasant conversation. So a favorite album can easily become part of how we see ourselves, and someone else’s “I don’t like it” stings more than it seemingly should.
Sociologists Jean-François Nault and his colleagues studied musical preferences at the level of both genres and individual artists. In their sample, education and childhood exposure to the arts were associated with a preference for more culturally prestigious music. Having a broad range of favorite genres didn’t erase those distinctions: which artists people chose within them mattered too. journals. sagepub. com
That doesn’t mean loving Radiohead is a disguised attempt to impress people. It does help explain why talking about taste can sometimes feel like a job interview. You just wanted to discuss music, and now, for some reason, you’re explaining that you actually love experimental records and have nothing against difficult work. All that’s missing is a couple of references from friends with good vinyl collections.
I fall for it too. If people whose opinions interest me love an album, I want to hear what they hear. There’s curiosity in that, but there’s also the hope of being one of the people who gets it. Separating the two can be unpleasant: it’s much nicer to think of yourself as open to new things than to admit you’re a little afraid of looking stupid.
You Can Get It Without Loving It
The most useful thing I want to take from this conversation is that understanding doesn’t guarantee enjoyment. You can hear what the musicians are doing, appreciate the boldness of a choice, understand why a record mattered in its time, and still have no desire to listen to it. You don’t necessarily have to keep studying until the appropriate feeling arrives.
With Radiohead, my efforts eventually paid off. I’m glad I gave them time. I don’t want to turn my own positive experience into an obligation for everyone else, though—or for myself the next time I encounter an acclaimed masterpiece. Sometimes music opens up on the tenth listen. Sometimes, by the tenth listen, you simply have a better understanding of what you don’t like about it.
I think what bothers me most is the habit of saying “I didn’t get it” when you mean “I didn’t like it. ” As though the band has already done everything right and is now waiting for you to catch up. I’m perfectly willing to accept that I might be missing something. I’d just like to leave room for another possibility: I’ve heard enough to decide I’ll listen to something else today.
Maybe It’s Me
Radiohead are a good band to have this conversation about precisely because there’s plenty to love. Their music offers unusual choices, emotional precision, and things that become more interesting with repeated listening. The reputation didn’t come out of nowhere. Along with it, though, comes a strange advantage: if a song doesn’t work for you, you’re the first suspect.
With some random record, it’s much simpler. You listen, you don’t like it, you move on. Here, you want to establish a cause. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you started with the wrong album. Maybe you need to read about the circumstances in which it was recorded. Sometimes that helps, but at what point does getting to know the music turn into an investigation into your own inadequacy?
It happens especially quickly when someone introduces the word “intellectual. ” Suddenly, you feel like sitting up straighter. You’re assessing a song, but apparently you’re also taking some kind of test. Saying you didn’t like it is still acceptable. Saying you’re bored is riskier: what if you’re bored precisely because you’re used to simpler things?
Difficult Means Good?
Complexity is a convenient way to demonstrate quality because you can at least describe it. An unusual time signature, an unfamiliar structure, an elusive melody, a sound whose source you’d like someone to explain. Explaining why any of it moves you is harder. So somewhere between “there are a lot of interesting choices here” and “this is great music, ” an entire conversation sometimes quietly disappears.
That conversation could include some perfectly reasonable questions. What do those choices do for the song? What do you feel while listening? Do you want to come back? Or are you more interested in reading about how it works than in playing it again? That happens too, and fairly often. I can admire how someone made something without wanting to spend time with the result.
It’s hard to admit that once you’ve invested in listening, though. You’ve come back several times, read a review, worked your way through the context. You want that thing to finally happen. Otherwise, you’ve diligently prepared yourself for pleasure, and it hasn’t shown up.
Good Taste and Other Reasons to Feel Nervous
Musical preferences have a social life. We learn something about people from what they listen to, guess whether we’ll get along, sometimes brace ourselves for an unpleasant conversation. So a favorite album can easily become part of how we see ourselves, and someone else’s “I don’t like it” stings more than it seemingly should.
Sociologists Jean-François Nault and his colleagues studied musical preferences at the level of both genres and individual artists. In their sample, education and childhood exposure to the arts were associated with a preference for more culturally prestigious music. Having a broad range of favorite genres didn’t erase those distinctions: which artists people chose within them mattered too. journals. sagepub. com
That doesn’t mean loving Radiohead is a disguised attempt to impress people. It does help explain why talking about taste can sometimes feel like a job interview. You just wanted to discuss music, and now, for some reason, you’re explaining that you actually love experimental records and have nothing against difficult work. All that’s missing is a couple of references from friends with good vinyl collections.
I fall for it too. If people whose opinions interest me love an album, I want to hear what they hear. There’s curiosity in that, but there’s also the hope of being one of the people who gets it. Separating the two can be unpleasant: it’s much nicer to think of yourself as open to new things than to admit you’re a little afraid of looking stupid.
You Can Get It Without Loving It
The most useful thing I want to take from this conversation is that understanding doesn’t guarantee enjoyment. You can hear what the musicians are doing, appreciate the boldness of a choice, understand why a record mattered in its time, and still have no desire to listen to it. You don’t necessarily have to keep studying until the appropriate feeling arrives.
With Radiohead, my efforts eventually paid off. I’m glad I gave them time. I don’t want to turn my own positive experience into an obligation for everyone else, though—or for myself the next time I encounter an acclaimed masterpiece. Sometimes music opens up on the tenth listen. Sometimes, by the tenth listen, you simply have a better understanding of what you don’t like about it.
I think what bothers me most is the habit of saying “I didn’t get it” when you mean “I didn’t like it. ” As though the band has already done everything right and is now waiting for you to catch up. I’m perfectly willing to accept that I might be missing something. I’d just like to leave room for another possibility: I’ve heard enough to decide I’ll listen to something else today.
