a confession

I like to think that I have an eclectic taste in music. I was probably the only middle schooler with a passion for Miles Davis, Serge Gainsbourg and The Specials. But I also totally bought TLC’s CrazySexyCool when it came out and wore out my Hootie and the Blowfish tape. I pretty much adored anything and everything my musical family threw at me. In college I was all about the broody, introspective lyricists and even while studying abroad my tastes were rocked by the new world beats I was discovering.

So you’ll be shocked when you read what I am about to tell you. 

Being an expat has made me like, love even, really bad music. I love it simply because it’s American, simply because I heard it in my youth, simply because it’s in English. 

I know that’s subjective and all, but trust me, when you find yourself in the car blasting Nickelback, you realize that you’ve hit a low point.

Being an expat takes everything you thought you were and jumbles it up in a shake n’ bake of cultural confusion until you find yourself yelling at some random guy in a bar because he says he doesn’t like Beyoncé. And it’s not even like you adore her, you like her, but just because she’s American you feel like you have to protect her. (Getting in that fight was another low point. Not as low as the Nickelback thing, but still, pretty low.)

[circa 2008, as a pre-expat.]

So hit me with all the “bad,” super pop, mainstream, synthesized, produced hits that are big in America right now, so that I can make a cd of them and blast them in the car. Because the other day the Ketchup Song came on, and I listened to the whole thing. The whole thing, people! I thank you in advance, and hope that you won’t judge me for the Nickelback. (Even I am still judging me for that!)