Unfortunately, music carries a lot of baggage. Some types of music are strongly associated with a particular cultural identity. I’m not sure what the reason behind this is, but I am sure that it’s not a good one. If you avoid a certain kind of music because it’s the not the kind of music associated with your particular cultural identity, or because you don’t like the particular cultural identity associated with a certain kind of music, you are going to miss out on some good music. I sort of did that for a while, and I offer my experience as a cautionary tale.

I listen to country music because it is part of my cultural identity.  But even I can admit that it is terrible.

When I was in college I dated some girls who were really into indie music. For the uninitiated, “indie” stands for “independent,” meaning it’s not associated with a major record label, although the word has outgrown that original, literal meaning. It’s an amorphous, inexact term, but it’s applied well enough to bands and artists who make a certain kind of music that sounds a certain way. Anyway, being someone who really likes music, I was open to listening to some of the stuff that these girls liked. The problem I had was that I associated this kind of music with some of their friends – friends who all seemed to dress exactly the same way and who seemed to have a vested interest in making sure that other people didn’t discover the music that they loved so much.

Just because the people who listen to my music are annoying doesn’t mean that my actual music is annoying.  But yes, it probably does mean that I, as a person, am probably pretty annoying.

These people seemed pretty annoyed when a band they’d liked for years finally hit the big time and got discovered by more casual music fans, but they also seemed pretty annoyed with people who hadn’t heard of the bands they loved to listen to. In fact, they seemed pretty annoyed at most things. The indie crowd didn’t really seem to have much variation in the kind of music they listened to; they weren’t ever going to bop their heads to the latest ear candy from Britney Spears, and they’d stifle the desire to sing along to “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys (I heard or read somewhere that there are two kinds of people in the world: people who admit to absolutely loving “I Want It That Way”, and liars).

One of these girls even sang in a local indie band, and one fine evening I went to see her sing at a house party. She probably should have warned me not to come wearing khakis and a polo shirt. There was one other guy dressed like me, but I’m pretty sure he was doing it ironically. The other accessory I seemed to be missing was a sad, knowing, faraway look in my eyes. After a few experiences like this I pegged all indie music as emaciated people singing songs that were long on melancholy and short on melody – with plenty of strange guitar solos and lots of self-indulgent, experimental boops and beeps and screeches – to a group of people who were all dressed exactly the same and who had a huge chip on the shoulder of their thrift store shirts. Not my scene.

I can already tell that you won’t be able to understand the art behind those screeches and boops and beeps because I see the regular edition of Jenga over there on your shelf.

The ensuing years have led me to discover that I was wrong. Really, really wrong (about the music; I still think a lot of hard-core indie music fans are super annoying). Indie music is probably my favorite kind of music. It’s not atonal. It’s not experimental or high concept or self-indulgent, or at least it isn’t necessarily those things. What it is – or what a lot of it is – is really, really good. And contrary to popular opinion, you can like it with adopting the associated cultural identity, allowing you to continue liking other types of music, too! Indeed, one of my favorite things about Melissa is the fact that she likes a lot of good indie stuff while at the same time liking literally the worst music ever made. Case in point: The Christmas mix she made this year was 98% 98 Degrees.

Anyway, I don’t claim to be at the forefront of indie music, or to have an encyclopedic knowledge of it. I just claim to like it. I think there’s a decent chance you’d like it, too, and that’s actually why I wrote this post in the first place: My friend Craig has a blog, You Should Be Listening to This, devoted to helping you discover really good music. Most of it is indie-ish, some of it isn’t, but all of it is good. Craig is out there, kissing a lot of frogs and then introducing you only to the princes. That metaphor is a little unfortunate, but you know what I mean. So go on, give You Should Be Listening to This a visit and a listen.

(A few of my favorites are here and here and here).

There are, however, two important exceptions to advertising’s inability to shape my behavior.  The first is the J. Crew catalog.  I’m embarrassed to admit that I actually buy things from the J. Crew catalog in an attempt to make my world become more like the world depicted in the catalog.  “You know what?  I bet buying that sweater would make me feel a little more like I’m a dishevelledly handsome guy in a tweed sport coat writing a novel on a vintage typewriter in a cabin in Maine during the winter.”  It really is that easy for them, and whenever it works I feel embarrassed that J. Crew is able to sell clothes to me in the exact same way that Disney sells a Hannah Montana sleeping bag to an 11 year-old girl.

“Oh, me?  I was just going to chop some wood.  Which is why I’m wearing a pocket square in my blazer. Would you like my life?  Of course you would.  You know the first step to getting it?  Buying these jeans I’m wearing.”

The second exception is when a brand’s advertising annoys me to the point that I commit myself never to purchase that brand ever again. In other words, I doubt Madison Avenue can intentionally convince me to buy something, but I know they can unintentionally convince me not to buy something. For an example, see here. I have more than a few advertising pet peeves, but none of them irks me as much as one in particular, which comes in various guises, but always causes me to think the exact same thing: “Now you’re just insulting my intelligence.”

Look, I’m a big boy. I know that people who work in advertising are trying to sell us products that they don’t necessarily use themselves, and in doing so they’re saying things they don’t necessarily believe. Fine. My issue is when they make a pitch so ridiculous and extreme that not only do they not believe it, it’s clear that they couldn’t possibly expect us to believe it, either. I’ve seen this type of advertising used for a variety of products and services, but the example I’m about to give takes the cake for brazen effrontery (and although it’s not an example of advertising, exactly, it provides a perfect example of the approach I’m talking about).

Our friends Slade and Andrea brought the game Jenga over to our house the other night. This was not, however, just any Jenga set. This was “Jenga Onyx Edition.” So there’s the first problem: Jenga has different editions. I’ve compiled a list of things that I believe should and should not have different editions:

Should:

Lamborghinis
Faberge eggs
Robots that make your bed and can pour chocolate milk out of their fingers

Shouldn’t:

Jenga.

“We’re thrilled to introduce the new Platinum edition of eggs!”

Here is how the text on the box describes the Onyx Edition: “Edge-Of-Your-Seat Fun In Elegant Style!” Okay, it actually does offer “Edge-Of-Your-Seat Fun.” So fair enough on that one. But “elegant style?” And it gets worse. “The classic game gets a modern makeover with this JENGA Onyx Edition. Don’t just make a stack, make a statement with features like black and silver-accented blocks, a sleek stacking frame, and a unique pedestal.”

Make a statement. With your Jenga Onyx Edition. Make a statement with your $30 wooden block stacking game. And what statement, exactly, does the Onyx Edition of Jenga make? “I used to own the regular version of Jenga, but last year I got a huge promotion, putting my income well above $3 million a year. I also left my wife of 23 years for a 19 year-old supermodel from Croatia. I lost 35 lbs by doing Yogalates, and I now only wear black mock turtlenecks. I live in a $6 million dollar loft in Tribeca that has no furniture, with the sole exception of a small, black table which I use to snort cocaine and play my Onyx Edition of Jenga.”

“Yes, you would have the regular edition of Jenga, wouldn’t you?”

This description ends with the following line: “It’s JENGA for your contemporary lifestyle!” Sheesh. “I had the old Jenga, but it was just so jarringly out-of-sync with my contemporary lifestyle. How? Well, a lot of reasons you wouldn’t really get, with the main one being the total absence of a unique pedestal.”