We spend our lives chasing what’s cool, curating our tastes, and mocking the mainstream—until a guilty pleasure anthem drops, and in an instant, we’re all believers. It’s in those moments we realize sometimes, the music we connect with doesn’t fit the image we’ve built.
Music is more than just sound, it’s identity, status, and self-expression. It’s not meant to be an aesthetic prop—it’s meant to be experienced. And sometimes, the songs we pretend to dislike are the ones that bring us the most joy.
The playlists we build aren’t simply collections of songs but carefully curated reflections of our taste, intellect, and individuality. Whether intentional or subconscious, we use music to project an image—one that aligns with subcultures, sophistication, or exclusivity. But, in our pursuit of credibility, we often deny ourselves the simplistic pure joy of unfiltered musical enjoyment.
Beneath the underground artists and obscure deep cuts, another playlist exists—the one we don’t . It’s the one that plays when we’re alone in the car or three drinks deep at a party. The playlist filled with guilty pleasure songs—the anthems we claim to have outgrown but never truly left behind.
Music has long been a marker of culture and identity, shaping how we relate to ourselves and others. From punk rockers rejecting the mainstream to hipsters priding themselves on discovering indie gems before they go viral, the pressure to have a distinct, discerning taste is everywhere. itting to enjoying a mass-produced, radio-friendly track often feels like a betrayal of a more refined aesthetic.
In the digital age, this pressure is heightened. Streaming services like Spotify and Apple Music make our music libraries more public than ever. The playlists we share, the artists we showcase, and even the algorithms that suggest songs for us shape an external perception of taste.
We curate our music taste to fit into social categories. In doing so, we often ignore a fundamental truth: the most universally loved songs are often the ones we pretend not to like.
A guilty pleasure song isn’t just about popularity—many mainstream hits are widely respected. Instead, these songs tend to fall into a few key categories. They’re often ridiculously catchy, tied to nostalgia, or just “uncool” according to the local music snob. And yet, despite this, no one is immune to their irresistible appeal, drawing us in even if we’re hesitant to it our adoration.
The second “Dancing Queen” by ABBA comes on at a wedding, suddenly, even the most self-proclaimed music purists forget their anti-cheesy pop talk and start dancing. Even the hardcore indie alternative fans—who swear they’ll only listen to obscure vinyl—can’t help but tap their foot to One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful.”
This contradiction isn’t just amusing—it reveals something deeper about the way we experience music. We’re conditioned to dismiss music that’s simply accessible, fun, and communal in favour of what’s perceived as intellectually superior or emotionally complex—like choosing Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” over an instant feel-good hit. And yet, the music that stands the test of time is often the music that makes people feel good. Just look at how “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers, “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond, and “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” by Whitney Houston can still bring a room to life, decades later.
While it’s true music that challenges conventions or dives into emotional depths deserves recognition, it’s equally important to acknowledge the cultural significance of songs that resonate on a more immediate, visceral level. The truth is, joy and simplicity in music often hold as much weight as introspective complexity; embracing both enriches our understanding of what music truly means.
The concept of guilty pleasure music only exists because of the external pressures dictating what we should value in music. Our embarrassment isn’t about the music itself—it’s about what we think they’ll say . itting to loving a mainstream pop song feels like it undermines our credibility, our individuality, or our depth.
It’s time to stop pretending. The next time a so-called “uncool” song comes on and the instinct to scoff arises, this—music is meant to be experienced, not filtered. Rejecting a song just to preserve a curated, self-imposed definition of taste only distances us from the real connection music is meant to create.
Guilty pleasures aren’t guilty at all. They’re just pleasures—ones we should celebrate without hesitation.
Because when “Teenage Dream” by Katy Perry plays at a party, everyone knows what happens next—the music snob, the indie purist, the too-cool-for-pop listener—they all start singing along.
Tags
All final editorial decisions are made by the Editor(s) in Chief and/or the Managing Editor. Authors should not be ed, targeted, or harassed under any circumstances. If you have any grievances with this article, please direct your comments to [email protected].