It's important to admit when you're wrong. I once resented that it was possible to have wrong musical opinions, but I have since come to accept that such things do exist. I was so wrong about Abba's song “Dancing Queen.”
I'm happy to admit that, and maybe even a little proud of myself for not continuing to dislike this song for even a second longer than necessary (how many people I know who are still holding back? ). Looking back, the strangest thing for me was that I felt compelled to hate something so obviously irresistible.
In a way, I blame the time and place I grew up in. When “Dancing Queen'' came out in the mid-1970s, there was a time when very strict lines were drawn between cultural camps. For a kid who loved punk rock, this song sat at the intersection of pop and disco, deep in enemy territory.
I'm probably a little skeptical by nature, but when I scan the horizon of my memory and see what I saw around me from the mid-1970s to the late 1980s, I see something else as well. I think it was happening. I was just a kid. And for that particular nanosecond of geological time, kids hated things.
In particular, my group of friends and I despised a lot of music and, by extension, the idiots who dared admit they liked things we hated. music. Can you believe it? It seems hard now to imagine that a group of pre-teens could summon up such vein-popping anger just hearing the name of the band Styx. But we were. And we did.
Why did we feel that way? I think the number one reason is that hating certain music gave us a way to define ourselves. Our identities were blurred, and once we drew a line in the sand between what we liked and what we didn't like, our young minds felt complete.
Our love of punk rock made us unique. (I won't even go into the subgenres, schisms, and sects that have spawned their own punk microtribes.) Likewise, the kids who wore Foreigner T-shirts and carried giant combs in their back pockets liked punk rock. It gave purpose to something that wasn't.
The division we created was embarrassing. I sometimes even wonder if these youthful skirmishes over musical tastes weren't a childhood version of the current state of our country. Were people of my generation that good at dividing themselves into factions based on stupid, insignificant differences? Didn't you stop doing that? Perhaps someone smarter than me has mapped the similarities between Journey fans and X fans and the current dichotomy between political right and left. Or, if no one has, someone should.
I'd like to think I have a more mature perspective now. I've tried hard to open my heart and stay open, but when “Dancing Queen” came out, I was too young to think of myself as anything, much less “punk.” I couldn't recognize it as anything with a bold outline such as “Locker.” As such, the song ended up receiving a double scorn — early local disco panic, and later defending my self-conscious boundaries against anything that didn't clear punk music's lowest hurdles. , an evolved curatorial hatred.
Let's talk a little bit about the first wave of disgust. At first, I didn't think I had a choice in hating this song and Abba in general. You know, it was normal for me to feel nauseous at the mere mention of this adorable little quartet. And when “Dancing Queen” was released, it wasn't hard to dislike disco songs anyway. Disco was despised by almost everyone I knew (except for kids who liked roller skating).
Basically, it meant that for all the men older than me, in my extended family circle, disco (and by extension the culture it was reputed to encourage) took on the profile of being rightfully wrong. To do. A world-destroying force that we must all unite against. So back then, it was easy to say, “Okay, that music sucks and I'm not even going to listen to that music!”
And, of course, most of the local arguments revolved around a certain adjective I've never heard applied to music. That is, disco was “gay.” And to an ignorant 9-year-old boy, “gay” meant “bad.”
Additionally, musically, disco was a technological reinterpretation of black American musical forms, and as a movement it seemed to completely ignore traditional American racism. There's also the fact that it made some people very uncomfortable. Even the most confident and self-respecting child (I was not) is too ignorant to categorize and reject.
Because of society's forces and because of my own weaknesses, I never allowed myself to like it. Even as I grow older, and even after subsequent disco fails to destroy “our” “way of life,” Abba's exhilarating pop perfection remains in the roped-off part of my brain. It had disappeared.
Other exiled artists were later reevaluated and accepted – Neil Young comes to mind. Believe it or not, a friend and I once rejected his entire catalog as hippie drivel. But Mr. Young unlocked the cage we put him in with the single most irresistible force in our young man's heart: an electric guitar played at an irresponsible volume. But Abba's status as Other felt secure and permanently determined.
Eventually, many years later, after I started trying to write songs, I stared at the overhead speakers in the grocery store aisle (no stones were thrown at me!) and heard this familiar melody and it… I found myself just staring at how sadly excited I looked. “Let's have the best time of our lives!” That was the exact moment when I “came to Jesus.” “Agnetha, Bjorn, Benny, here comes Annifrid” moment.
Until that day, I, like many others, had denied myself undeniable joy. Countless great records and deep grooves were ignored and ridiculed due to ignorance. But of course, this song and this music will always win in the end. Because it's too special to ignore forever.
Even now, every time I think I don't like certain music, I think of “Dancing Queen” and feel humbled.
This song taught me that I can't completely trust my own negative reactions. This song was hidden in my heart for so long and it hurt me so much. Now I never listen to music without first examining my heart and politely asking any blind spots I have to step aside so my intuition can make the decision. There is. However, if I don't like something, I decide to try again in 10 years.
It's not every day that a melody is as pure and evocative as “Dancing Queen,” and I regret every moment I didn't love this song. As I write this and play it again to make up for lost spins, I am filled with gratitude for its existence.
So if you take anything away from this, I hope it's this recommendation. Take some time to look for songs (or books, movies, paintings, or people) that you might be unfairly disparaging.
It feels really good to stop hating something. And music is a great place to start. Because we can and we do, even if the record doesn't change over time. Better late than never.
Jeff Tweedy is the singer and guitarist of the band Wilco, and the author of World Within a Song: Music That Changed My Life and Life That Changed My Music, from which this essay is based.
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