Admit it — you’ve judged someone’s Spotify Wrapped before.
Maybe it was a friend, an ex, or that one person you swear you understand better now that you’ve seen their top artist is Lana Del Rey. You weren’t judging, not really; you were just curious. Because somehow, seeing someone’s music feels like seeing their insides a little.
Music is personal like that. It’s memory, mood, identity, and therapy. However, it’s also socially shaped by who we want to be, who we hang out with, and what the internet keeps presenting to us. We talk about music as if it’s just sound, but honestly, it’s politics. Quiet, emotional politics.
Taste as Identity
Our playlists say things about us that our words don’t.
You can tell a lot about someone by the song they put on when they’re alone. Music becomes this safe mirror, one that doesn’t talk back, just reflects whatever we’re feeling that day.
When we say, “I’m into old-school R&B,” or “I can’t start my day without Lata Mangeshkar,” we’re not just describing our taste, we’re describing ourselves. It’s what psychologists call social identity: the need to define who we are, at least partly, by what we love.
It’s also a connection. You meet someone who loves the same weird band as you do, and suddenly you’re not strangers anymore. You share something unspoken, a rhythm, a wavelength. That’s the power of music: it builds tiny, invisible communities wherever it goes.
What “Good Taste” even means
But somewhere along the way, we decided that some tastes are cooler than others.
Liking “underrated” or “underground” artists earns points. Pop music? Too “basic.” It’s funny how quickly we turn something as personal as sound into a social hierarchy.
There’s a kind of quiet pressure in it. Like, if everyone’s listening to Taylor Swift, maybe you should say you’re more of a Phoebe Bridgers person. Or if you love Bollywood bangers, maybe you’ll call them “guilty pleasures” just to sound self-aware.
But really, who made the rules? Every song that hits you, that makes you feel something valid. That’s yours.
Sociologists call this kind of status play cultural capital taste as a way to signal class, intellect, or “refinement.” But outside the theory, it’s just… tiring. We spend so much time performing tasks that we forget how to enjoy them. Maybe “good taste” isn’t about knowing what’s cool, maybe it’s about knowing what moves you.
Algorithms and the “Real You”
And then, there’s the modern twist that we’re not even alone in choosing what we love anymore.
Spotify, YouTube, Apple Music, they’re all quietly building a version of “you” out of your listening data. They know what songs you skip, what you replay, what you listen to at 2 a.m. when you can’t sleep.
It’s amazing, but also a little eerie. Because the more they learn, the more they shape you back. You think you’re discovering a new artist, but maybe you were nudged there.
It’s the illusion of choice. The more we let algorithms guide us, the smaller our taste bubble becomes. We get comfortable. We stop digging. Psychologists call this confirmation bias, gravitating toward what already feels familiar.
And still, when that “Discover Weekly” playlist hits just right, it feels so personal. Like the app knows you. Maybe that’s what makes it work, we crave to be seen, even by code.
The performance of listening
Once upon a time, music was private, the kind of thing you did quietly, in your room, headphones on, staring at the ceiling.
Now, it’s something we show. A concert post, a playlist aesthetic, a lyric in a caption, listening has become a form of self-expression.
We don’t just listen to music anymore; we perform our listening. We share playlists titled “songs that feel like monsoon afternoons” or “main character mood.” It’s cute, and kind of beautiful, but also a little curated.
Psychologists call this impression management: shaping how others see us. Music just happens to be the easiest way to do that — it feels genuine, even when it’s edited.
But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Sharing music is one of the few ways to show emotion online without having to explain it. Sometimes a song says what a 200-word caption can’t. So yeah, it’s performance, but it’s also communication.
The Empathy Angle
At its heart, music is about emotion, not image.
A song can take you back to a moment you thought you’d forgotten: the smell of a classroom, a voice you haven’t heard in years. Neuroscience says it’s because of how music links memory and feeling; it’s one of the rare things that can time-travel inside your brain.
It’s also self-care. People use music to regulate mood, to make sadness bearable or happiness stretch a little longer. It’s emotional honesty disguised as art.
And when you find someone who feels the same thing through the same song, that’s empathy in its purest form. It doesn’t matter if you discovered it on TikTok or vinyl; the feeling is the same. That’s what makes music so human: it connects our private worlds for a few minutes at a time.
The Bigger Picture
If you zoom out, music taste is really just a mirror of how we live right now.
We’re all trying to be authentic, but also to belong. We want to be unique, but not alone. We want to show our emotions, but in a way that still looks good on the feed.
Music sits at the centre of that tension, deeply personal, but also deeply public. It’s shaped by algorithms, but also by heartbreak. By trends, but also by memory.
And maybe that’s the point: our taste doesn’t have to be pure to be real. The song that comforts you at your lowest is still yours, even if a million others love it too.
Conclusion
So, the next time you see someone’s Spotify Wrapped, don’t roll your eyes. It’s not a competition, it’s a diary. Behind those stats are memories, moods, and stories we’ll never fully know.
Music taste will always have its politics, but it’s also one of the few things that still lets us feel in a world that’s constantly asking us to perform.
Whether your playlist is full of jazz or Punjabi pop, Lana or Lata, that’s you.
And maybe the most radical thing you can do is to love what you love, shamelessly.
Because at the end of the day, it’s not about being interesting.
It’s about being alive.