Knock Knock Knocking on Heaven’s (Music Elitism) Door

Previously published on Berkeley B-Side but I felt it deserved to be here.

Halloween brought about several anxieties for me. Along with the typical worry of what function I would attend and which costumes my housemates and I were going to wear, another unrelated but essential thought ran through my mind: October 31 marks the (alleged) cutoff date for Spotify Wrapped. When November hits, the platform apparently ceases counting data so that the month can be dedicated to amalgamating listening history and streaming statistics for the annual launch of Spotify Wrapped in late November to early December.

While there is no concrete proof that October 31 is the final day of streaming tracking, I personally mark it on my mental calendar as a soft deadline to fix my algorithm. In these final days, I make a last ditch effort to skew my results so that I am not humiliated by my basic or absurd musical taste when I inevitably post the summary graphic to my Instagram story. I am the first to admit that I can be performative about my music taste, especially in recent years. I want to be perceived as a music elitist of sorts or, at the very least, someone who strays from the mainstream enough to be considered worthy of being a B-Side member.

Unfortunately, I allow the perspectives and judgments of others to influence my listening habits. The “Friend Activity” bar on the Spotify desktop app is the first level to this performative behavior: I generally like to see what my friends are listening to and almost unconsciously I make judgments or form assumptions about someone’s listening habits, the mood they are in, the emotions they are feeling. As a playlist girl, I have a designated list of songs for every experience—from the first date to the breakup, from the dashing appeal of Logan Huntzberger from Gilmore Girls to the autumnal, melancholic feel of Dead Poets Society. Each of these has been specially curated with the intention of my Spotify followers seeing my Friend Activity status and saying to themself, “She’s going through the crashout of the century right now” or “She’s seen a vision again, hasn’t she?” Realistically, I know that no one likely cares, but it’s the simple fact that there is the potential for someone to notice that forces me to curate my library so meticulously. Still, it begs the question, is this performativism at its finest? 

As I write this article, streaming indie rock band Ax and the Hatchetmen’s latest album, So Much to Tell You (2025), I have begun to contemplate why we (or at least those of us who love music to our core) have taken a personal habit like listening to music and made it into an aesthetic experience. Music listening has become geared towards skewing external perceptions towards ourselves, rather than for mere enjoyment and pleasure. TikTok and similar platforms have greatly skewed the perceived quality of music, with many listeners referring to songs as “TikTok-ified” or “TikTok songs,” even if the songs are objectively on the same lyrical and/or sonic level as any other song that hasn’t gone viral. And yet, I find myself internally rioting when a niche or underground song I enjoy finds its way to Tiktok. Suddenly, that song becomes anathema to me, even if it had secured a spot on all of my monthly playlists before. 

Every year, there is one consistent artist or song that “ruins” my Spotify Wrapped and thus, forces me to share the basic or well-known pop side of my music taste with my online friends. Last year, I am almost ashamed to admit on such a public platform that my number one artist was the one andonly Taylor Swift. Granted, several hours of streaming dedicated to this woman was a result of weekly karaoke with my housemates on our Roku TV. I also went through a rather delusional era, where I was obsessed with a certain someone for several months, forcing me to the inevitable shame spiral of Ms. Swift’s love discography. 

Now, I have nothing against Taylor Swift’s music or Swifties (for the most part), but shame and embarrassment curdled in my stomach when I saw that she had surpassed all artists who I listen to regularly and am not ashamed to be a fan of. I do not consider myself a Swiftie by any means; I did not go to the Eras Tour (nor would I ever), and I only know her most popular songs (and the entirety of the Reputation [2017] album). I did not find enjoyment in her recent projects, aside from the lyrical genius of “Maroon” on Midnights (2022) and some parts of Folklore (2020). I’m almost scared of sharing such information, at risk of the incurring wrath of the Swiftie cult (cue the “you just have internalized misogyny” truthers). However, I must be transparent to examine my internal monologue about the inadequacy of Spotify Wrapped as representative of my music taste.

I am fairly certain I already know who my number one artist of the year will be. While I have nothing against this particular musician and can admit that I did likely stream this man’s songs the most, I found myself actively putting myself on a self-imposed listening ban as November approached. This Halloween season, I repeatedly streamed Dominic Fike, an artist who has consistently made my top five for the past few years and who I feel is more representative of my overall listening taste—walking the line between basic and alternative, mainstream and unique. I would never claim to be a true music elitist (yet, at least) as some of my friends are, who listen to 40 minute songs regularly and love bands with 284 listeners, but I also do not consider myself to be as non-elitist as someone whose number one artist is unironically Bob Dylan (my personal guess for this year’s results). Dominic Fike as my number one I could live with. Bob Dylan? For shame. How do I join the ranks of music elitists while still genuinely enjoying the music I listen to? And why do I even care so much about being perceived as elitist, whatever that means?

What does it mean if someone likes a song that everybody else also likes? Does this make them any less worthy of formulating an opinion about music, genre, or artist than someone who listens to underground tunes? The obvious answer is no, everyone is entitled to an opinion about music. But still, my music elitist friends have pulled out the ace that can beat my hand every time: “Well, your #1 artist is Bob Dylan [or any other “basic” artist] so you can’t be talking about the merits of [insert band here] right now.” I can’t lie, I have found myself guilty of the same behavior towards my Swiftie friends or Coldplay stans. It’s hypocritical of me to perform the same behaviors which I consider so anxiety-inducing from others towards me. And yet, I find myself wanting to place myself on some sort of pedestal because an artist I listen to is more niche than the current pop stars of our time. But who dictates what makes someone worthy of sharing their opinion about music with others? 

Last night, my housemates and I made a Spotify blend. I found myself complaining that their country music affinity and two hour long songs were going to ruin my algorithm and skew my listening charts. Today, I ask myself, who really cares? Why does having Luke Combs on my listening roster affect how I perceive my music taste? I feel I am placing too much self-importance on myself, assuming that there are people out there who actually will observe and judge my music taste. And yet, I can’t stop myself from this internal struggle whenever I play the new Sabrina Carpenter song I can’t bring myself to delete from my rotation.

The music elitists must have some psychological grip on me that forces me to ban certain artists I enjoy from my playlists. How do I join this club and why do I want to be a part of it? I often struggle with self-perception in the context of elitism and pretentious communities of music listeners. By presenting a certain type of music taste to my friends and followers, I feel more validated in being worthy of sharing opinions about music on public platforms or to friends and family. We all desire to be perceived in certain ways, whether we want to admit it or not, and personally, music falls within the portrait I have tried to paint of myself. I care about being seen in a certain musical light, and if that makes me performative, then I must accept the label without argument. Music is meant for enjoyment, whether it’s #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 or made in someone’s dusty, cluttered garage in the Midwest. Perhaps I am both sides of the coin: both basic and performative. Maybe we all are.