Few things frighten me more than popular radio stations. The current probability of catching a Michael Bublé song at any time of the day is far too high for me to feel safe. "Haven't Met You Yet" haunted me all summer at my receptionist position, along with a whole host of other soft−rock songs created to accompany mothers on their daily drive to the health club.
To me, it doesn't seem possible to be any more artificial than bubbly Bublé. The sugary sweetness of his manufactured love songs makes me involuntarily shudder — I want to "come out of nowhere and into [his] life" with a knife in hand and a murderous conviction. I resent his crooning voice, his unnaturally stylized hair, his arrogant confidence in his ability to eventually find that perfect lady and all the rest. In short, Michael Bublé should hope that he never meets me.
With this in mind, you can imagine my horror upon realizing that my sister owned nearly every Bublé album. Yes, nightmares do come true.
Driving with Abby to a since−forgotten destination, my stomach plunged with surprising swiftness when the first track on her mystery CD revealed the snazzy brass of his cover of "How Sweet It Is" (2008). Her shoulders bouncing with visible enjoyment, she turned to me and innocently said the unthinkable: "You like Michael Bublé, right?"
And to think, I believed we were related.
As my skin itched for a snippet of folk or even a modicum of authentic guitar, I simmered in disbelief and disgust. How could someone so closely related to me have such horrible taste in music? What possessed her to favor the tunes of suburban moms and clueless teenage girls? I had regarded her in such high esteem! I sat silently for the duration of the drive, mustering all my self−control and willing the ride — and the CD — to end.
Later that evening, while self−medicating with a dose of my preferred music, I recounted the story to my father, a Bach aficionado and jazz junkie. Expecting a kindred response and a similar disappointment in my sister's selection, I choked back my embarrassment when he replied. "What difference does it make to you? Taste comes in all shapes and sizes," he said.
I started to retort, but words dissolved on my tongue, unable to form an adequate explanation for my intense judgment. He walked away, leaving me to deal with a horror far greater than the one induced by Bublé's song.
I had become a full−on snob, and with no recollection of when it happened.
The ease with which my disdain surfaced had only seemed natural to me. I was proud of the things I enjoyed, musically and otherwise, but unknowingly I developed a standard to which I measured everything I encountered. How often had I scoffed at Twilight references last year? When was the last time I gave Ke$ha a real chance at approval? In my attempt to refine my taste, I had closed myself off to the greater world and effectively limited my mind. Was a sophisticated palate worth spurning my sister? Who was I to judge good culture versus bad? I am no authority, nor do I deserve to be.
Taste is not genetic, nor is it something which can be graded using a concrete rubric. In this column and its assessment of the cultural oddities of today, I'll reel in my caustic judgment and try to justify the peculiar preferences of our generation. I might fail to understand J−Biebs, but at least I'll give him a fighting chance.
Still, old Michael Bubs is on my hit−list.
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Madeline Hall is a sophomore who has not yet declared a major. She can be reached at Madeline.Hall@tufts.edu.
