Good Music

By Grace Bridle

Coolness at my primary school in 2011 was defined by one thing – watching The X Factor. If you were one of those unlucky people, like myself, who had parents that put you to bed before 8.30pm, you were done for. While the performances in the show were enticing, it was the cute British boy bands that sustained our interest. 

The first time I heard about One Direction was on a class trip in year three. We were waiting for the bus to take us back to school. I sat lined up between India and Rosie. They were talking about someone called Zayn, who was dating a girl from Little Mix, and Harry, who had three nipples. Rosie turned to me, ‘Grace, who's your favourite from 1D?’ I’d once heard someone mention ‘Niall, because he’s blond,’ so that was my response. 

One Direction’s songs were exciting. It felt like every line was directed to me. Every word was about me. It gave me a warm feeling inside, I felt connected to the band. I was finally beginning to understand why everyone liked them so much. My Dad took notice of my new interest in music, and as a music lover himself began introducing me to his music. To good music. 

Most of our Saturdays were spent going between netball and football games. With the trips across town came hours in the car listening to music. Dad created a rule No Repeats Saturday to try and phase out the bubble gum pop my brother and I liked. In the place of that fourth repeat of Ariana Grande, we listened to rock, hip-hop, reggae, jazz, and punk. Dad said that good music should ‘make you feel something.’ I felt something when listening to One Direction, but No Repeats Saturday promised me that The Cure and The Stone Roses would give me fulfilment in ways that boy bands could not. 

In her essay “In Praise of Navel Gazing”, Melissa Febos writes ‘sometimes I felt embarrassed when I consumed media that featured mostly women, because media like this is often labelled in derogatory ways and dismissed as unserious.’ As my music taste started to align with Dad’s, I began to understand this good music feeling he was talking about. At the time I thought it was the drum beats, basslines, chord progressions and lyrics that were responsible for my feelings. Yet in retrospect, it’s clear the fulfilment came from the male approval of my new favourite genres. His smile when I asked to play Gorillaz meant more than whether or not I actually liked the song. 

Although I had more in common with Taylor Swift’s high school break up than Alex Turner’s stoned hook-ups, Alex gave me conversation starters with my uncles at Christmas lunch, while Taylor got cousins exiled from those same conversations in point-five seconds. We could bond 

over the lyrical depth of Alex Turner, and look down upon the unsophisticated listeners of Taylor Swift. 

Matisse DuPont, a Boston-based educator and gender consultant who explores the gender politics of musical fandoms explains that ‘cultural tropes like the “cool girl”—who isn’t like other girls because she loves sports—often exist to disparage feminine interests in favour of masculinely coded ones.’ From those early years, I’d let men dictate the way I perceived music, and this thread has continued into recent events too. 

My first job was working at a local burger store. From the start, I was thrown into five hour shifts with complete strangers who I had no common ground with, except the fact that we were a similar age. Music was always playing during the shifts, and therefore became the go-to conversation topic. With my female co-workers, there was never judgement. We would happily listen to Dua Lipa or Harry Styles for five hours straight. Upbeat pop was there to support us through the labourious work of scrambling burgers together while angry customers heckled us. My male co-workers were the opposite. They were vocal about the lameness of people who enjoyed listening to mainstream pop music, ‘they just don’t get what it means to have taste.’ The shifts with them felt ten times longer, not only were we under the pump from stressed out Uber Eats drivers, Kanye West was cussing at us too. 

Being a possible victim to such judgement made me overthink my own choice in music. Did my playlist have cool music? Underground bands? Were the songs added a long time ago (aka before they became popular)? Was my embarrassing Disney throwbacks playlist private, just in case someone from work wanted to stalk my Spotify? Was there a quirky mix of music? Did I have enough unknown songs? I had to prove that I wasn’t a fake fan and that I actually liked this music because I’m listening to a song that you’ve never heard of. And all of this for what? To be accepted by some guys I saw 10 hours a week. 

In Mina Le’s video essay “In Defense of The Boy Band,” she explains the history of the boy band, stating that the typical target market for a boy band has always been young girls whose taste is considered superficial and unintelligent. Therefore, artists who create music for this audience are not taken seriously. After all, if men cannot form a meaningful connection to this music, how could young girls’ feelings be anything other than surface level? Le argues that boy bands have always been considered low culture, even one of the very first boy bands - The Beatles. I was surprised to hear Le categorise The Beatles as a boy band, because they’re a rock band. A rock band that Rolling Stone classifies the greatest band of all time. 

In her book Boy Bands and The Performance of Pop Masculinity, Georgina Gregory explores the phenomenon of The Beatles in relation to soft masculinity. ‘Vulnerable pop masculinity continued into the 1960s, influencing groups like The Beatles, one of the first pop groups to gain international recognition for rejecting the aggressive, individualistic masculine mode of performance typically seen in rock and roll at the time.’ It wasn’t until the end of the 1960s, when The Beatles traded in their boy-next-door image for one suited to rock, that critics started to take them seriously. 

As a woman, feeling seen and respected by the music we listen to is part of the appeal of boy bands. When One Direction or The Beatles create music that interacts with women in a non-sexualising or objectifying way, it resonates. It treats us as participants rather than objects. Knowing that the boy’s break up has been gnawing away at him, or that he wishes he could have a do-over, shows an alternative approach to masculinity, which is a rarity, even today. 

In 2021, when Olivia Rodrigo’s album SOUR went viral, I already knew I was going to hate it. My co-workers reminded me it was pop, girly, mainstream. I didn’t need to listen to it to know that it was going to suck. It wasn’t until Ferne, the little girl I nannied, demanded we listen to Olivia Rodrigo that I gave her a chance. I decided I’d rather listen to this trash for the ten minute car ride, than a three-year-old having a tantrum. Creative lyrics, rock sounds, punchy beats – what! At every traffic light I was drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. I practically threw Ferne out at the preschool drop off and dashed back to the car, eager to hear what else SOUR had in store for me. 

The one thing I’ve always looked for in music is a connection between the artist and myself. When my Dad showed me what he loved, my young malleable mind assumed that the connection and feeling he got was something that could only be found through the same songs, genres and artists. When he saw I was connecting to his music, he got excited. While I’ve gained independence in the genres I listen to, it’s been interesting to see our common interest in music morph and grow. Both of us have opened up to new sounds and styles; for instance Arlo Parks, a Black, female, queer, indie pop artist. I expect we have different reasons for enjoying her music. As a young woman, I find lyrics thought provoking yet relatable. I’m sure that’s not why Dad connects with her music, but isn’t that the whole point? I enjoyed One Direction for a reason that Dad couldn’t see, and now that same goes for his love of Arlo. There are no set criteria for good music. It's not something that can be measured or defined:not by a single genre, band, song, playlist, or person.