Why do we feel protective when the things we love become popular?
Music, above all else, is an art form meant for sharing. Its essential quality is that it communicates, either elevating words or providing a voice that goes beyond language. It speaks and it unifies, from the beer-drenched warbling along to ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’ on the Oasis reunion tour, to the choir of voices in a small church singing ‘Amazing Grace.’ Music endures as central to all societies formed because it contains something essentially human. So, why do we feel so instinctively protective when an artist we hold dear becomes mainstream? The incredibly accessible nature of music in the 21st century should mean that this kind of popularity instead links you to a greater swathe of people, a larger community held around the mutual love of an artist. I’d argue that it is this exact accessibility that causes this feeling of protection, or even loss.
Spotify boasts 268 million paying users worldwide, and a music catalogue containing well over 100 million songs. Gone are the days of your favourite artist being discovered in the back of a box in a record shop you happened to duck into to avoid the driving rain, the frantic scramble to discern just what genius is playing over the radio. There is a constant surplus of music being offered up at all times, filtered through codes and algorithms to perfectly satiate you, yet in doing so, it reduces what you then find. There is no excitement in finding a band you know a machine has already worked out that you will enjoy. That feeling of wonder becomes fewer and farther between, and the discovery of an artist, whose music speaks to you and only you, becomes a task of finding your individuality amongst the noise of everything else. Yet it is this noise, this endless stream of content, that elevates the discovery, finding a needle in the haystack that has your name on it. This is why it is perhaps even more genuine and even more meaningful in the contemporary landscape of music, your own residence set up on an ever-widening soundscape.
As such, it is only natural to feel protective when an artist found in such a way moves to the mainstream and becomes the next viral TikTok soundbite. Short-form content necessarily detracts; it reduces music to either background or 30 seconds of entertainment. This undermines the creative efforts put in by the artist, the emotional output contained within its notes. And as such, that sense of connection and communication, that feeling of authenticity and uniqueness can feel severed. There is something lost when a song or an artist leaves the confines of your headphones and enters the realm of constant play and saturation. And there the protectiveness lies, not in gatekeeping a band, but trying to grasp onto an individual musical identity against a constant tide of consumption. An almost tribalist need to preserve a sense of belonging so uniquely imparted by music.
This is where the protectiveness of music should lie. It is understandable, and above all, honest, to want to retain something uniquely yours, spoken to you, in a world of overwhelming choice. It should not take the form of the classic ‘name three songs,’ nor in the form of elitist coveting and self-regaling as to the ‘nicheness’ of your music taste. This, in fact, only contributes to the issue brought about by consumerism and virality. Whether it’s reducing music to insubstantial sound for mass appeal or elevating it as a parade of your own individuality, you lose the essential parts of what makes music one of society’s more beautiful elements.
Illustration by Ashley James O’Connor (@kingjames.xxvi)