DEAR RACHEL – MUSIC’S WORST AGONY AUNT
Welcome to the inaugural edition of Dear Rachel, the agony aunt column no one asked for, with more sass than Smash Hits and more bite than a Morrissey tweet. It’s not Dear Deidre, it’s Dear Rachel, and it’s coming at you faster than a Top of the Pops countdown on speed.
This Week’s Burning Question:
“Dear Rachel, what do I do? I’ve burned out on my favourite music!”
Do not worry child, this shalt passeth. I’ve been there and it’s awful. I’m coming close with ‘Romance’ at the moment, clinging on by the skin of my teeth to not have a sabbatical. So your ears I bet are practically staging a rebellion, and your playlists are crying out for mercy, even your Nirvana vinyls are giving you side-eye. But fear not, I’ve got remedies more potent than a Glastonbury hangover cure (and they don’t include a cold plunge, so be grateful).
Try Listening to Music You Hate: Nothing reignites passion like pure, unfiltered loathing. Who can’t I bear? Tricky one as my tastes have grown more eclectic than a Glastonbury lineup curated by David Lynch. But if I had to choose, probably something heavy like Slipknot would have me crying back to Richard Ashcroft quicker than Pete Doherty dodging a soundcheck.
Let your musical disgust do its job; it’s the emotional palate cleanser that makes your old favourites sound like a salvation.
Reverse Psychology Playlist: Title it “Songs That I’ll Never Listen To Ever Again” and watch your brain do a U-turn faster than Alex Turner at a Radio 1 interview.
Go Full Hipster: Only listen to bands that haven’t released anything yet. Bonus points if they don’t exist.
Other Music-Related Questions You Didn’t Ask (But Should Have)
“Dear Rachel, is it selling out if my favourite band starts tweeting about politics?”
Answer: Selling out? Unless they’re endorsing tax evasion or launching a perfume called “Revolution by Ed Sheeran,” they’re probably just evolving. Music and politics go together like Johnny Cash and black, inevitable, iconic, and occasionally terrifying. If your band’s gone from singing about heartbreak to tweeting about genocide and housing reform, congratulations: they’ve discovered the real heartbreak. If they start quoting manifestos mid-set or wearing campaign slogans as merch, you might be at a rally, not a gig (this is not a bad thing, I repeat this is not a bad thing!). Look, if Elvis could shake his hips and shake up the status quo, and Ian Curtis could turn despair into poetry, your band can probably handle a tweet about climate change. Just pray they don’t rhyme “Brexit” with “exit” in their next chorus.
“Dear Rachel, my partner only listens to movie soundtracks. Should I be worried?”
Answer: Worried? Only if they start quoting The Greatest Showman in arguments. If they’re vibing to Walk the Line, Control, or Elvis, that’s different. That’s excellent taste, and if you don’t want them, you can always throw them my way for a 7-day trial. I find musicals that aren’t in the theatre more toe-tapping through existential dread. But if they’re exclusively listening to orchestral swells and dramatic crescendos, a much as that’s not the worst thing, you might want to check if they’re narrating their biopic in their head. So yes, be concerned, but only scared and in dumping territory if they start dressing like a Marvel villain and referring to dinner as “Act II.” Otherwise, let them live their cinematic fantasy. Just don’t let them near the Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat soundtrack; that’s where love goes to die.
“Dear Rachel, I cried during a Taylor Swift song. Am I broken?”
Answer: Broken? Erm, maybe, slightly? Or you could just be experiencing the full spectrum of human emotion as curated by a billionaire in sequins. Crying during a Taylor Swift song is practically a rite of passage for many. It’s like paying council tax or pretending to understand Radiohead’s lyrics, even though we hate it, we all do it, we just don’t talk about it.
So, whether it was the heartbreak of All Too Well or the existential dread of Anti-Hero, you’ve simply been Swifted. It’s not a breakdown, it’s a breakthrough if you want to stay positive. You’re not broken, you’re ears have just been hijacked, and you’re now just melodramatic according to some, with taste.
“Dear Rachel, I accidentally liked a Nickelback song. What now?”
Answer: I used to be an indie music snob so severe that I practically issued arrest warrants for anyone caught enjoying a chorus. Ten years ago, I’d have recommended full sensory deprivation and a month-long retreat into post-punk obscurities just to cleanse your soul of Nickelback. If you so much as whispered the word “catchy rock,” I’d have staged an exorcism with a Joy Division vinyl and a lit candle made of disdain. But now? I’ve embraced my so-called “cringe” era like it’s a spiritual awakening. I sing along to pop-rock hooks with the same intensity I once reserved for dismantling capitalism. And I’m happier for it. So here’s your choices… You can either enter the witness protection program because your playlist is committing war crimes against taste,
or you can own it fully, shamelessly, gloriously.
Life’s too short to pretend you don’t scream Nickelback in the car or clean the house to Madonna. The revolution will not be gatekept by people who pretend they never loved a banger.
So, whether your Spotify Wrapped looks like a cry for help or your record collection is gathering more dust than your GCSE certificates, remember never fear, Rachel’s here, armed with sarcasm, sympathy, and a suspicious amount of Fontaines D.C. references.
Want to submit your own musical meltdown? Just scream into the void or, you know, drop me a message.
