Name 5 songs
Edited by: Surabhi Aivalli
There’s something comically predictable about mentioning a well-known band like Nirvana or The Beatles. Nine times out of ten, people won’t just nod and say, “Great taste.” Instead, they’ll look at you with a knowing grin, ready to dump their unspoken pop quiz on you: “Name five songs.” And somehow, that’s all it takes. Doesn’t matter if you’ve been listening to them for years or just stumbled upon their music recently— if you don’t have enough trivia locked and loaded, it feels like your appreciation doesn’t “count.” One of the biggest ironies about music is that it’s meant to be universal, yet there’s this unspoken hierarchy between “true fans” versus casual listeners. Being a “real fan” is almost like a badge of honour one wants to wear, and gatekeeping seems to come with the territory. Whether it’s Nirvana, The Smiths, or even newer artists with cult followings, people often feel the need to interrogate each other’s fandom. Why? In part, it’s because certain bands and artists have become cultural icons. Liking them is a declaration—not just of music preference, but of identity. For a lot of people, liking Nirvana isn’t just about their music; it’s a statement about rejecting the mainstream, about understanding the struggles Kurt Cobain poured into his lyrics. So when someone claims to be a fan, others often want to gauge if they truly “get it.”
Music taste (unfortunately) has become a way to judge each other in an increasingly superficial world. With social media, people are constantly curating their lives to fit certain moulds, music taste has become one of them; with specific bands or artists viewed as a shorthand judgement for intelligence, depth, or a “cultured” persona. If you’re into certain bands, it means something more than simply liking a song—it’s as if it says something about who you are and what you value. As a result, people who have embedded these artists into their identities sometimes feel protective, as if their “tribe” is under threat if someone new joins without the same level of dedication. The urge to test others becomes a way of asserting themselves as “true” fans and a way of distinguishing between those who “really understand” and those who don’t. And that’s where the trouble starts.
The challenge with this kind of thinking is that it misses the point of why we listen to music in the first place. Music isn’t something to memorize like a script. It’s not about logging hours that were spent studying albums. Music is an experience—something we feel. A person can deeply resonate with one song, and that connection can be just as valid and meaningful as someone who knows every single track. But with this kind of gatekeeping, we end up sidelining emotional experiences in favour of a knowledge competition. It’s as if feelings of connection or memories tied to a song don’t count unless they’re backed up by deep cuts or niche trivia. In the end, the connection becomes diluted as people start focusing more on proving their fan credentials than actually enjoying the music.
The question we often overlook is: Does enjoying something need to be earned? If someone loves listening to “Come As You Are” or “In Bloom,” does it really matter if they don’t know the backstory behind every line? Music should be one of the simplest pleasures in life, but this insistence on “authenticity” turns it into something exclusive, something conditional. These “true fans” describe authenticity as having an in-depth knowledge of an artist’s entire discography, knowing obscure facts, or being able to cite rare tracks at a moment’s notice. It’s as if being a fan is a performance in itself, where those who can only pass a certain test are allowed entry. Authenticity, in its truest sense, should be about a genuine emotional connection. When artists create music, they’re (mostly) not issuing a challenge to their listeners. They’re not asking you to prove your worthiness by memorising the entire catalogue. Instead, they’re sharing pieces of themselves- thoughts, emotions, stories and experiences. The beauty of music is how it doesn’t demand anything from you; it meets you where you are, whether that’s dancing in your room on a single hit or getting lost in a lesser- known album on a rainy afternoon. When we think about it, isn’t this gatekeeping contradictory to what many artists stand for? Many artists write music to express their thoughts and emotions; they don’t expect listeners to come armed with encyclopedic knowledge. They’d probably be just as happy for their work to resonate with a single person on a deep, personal level as for it to be dissected by a thousand superfans.
What would happen if we removed these expectations? Imagine a world where saying, “I like this song,” didn’t invite a quiz. Maybe then music could be enjoyed freely again, without anyone feeling they have to meet certain standards. Liking GnR or The Beatles wouldn’t need an explanation or a defense—it would just be a simple expression of enjoyment. Everyone’s relationship with music is personal. For some, it’s a refuge; for others, it’s background noise; for still others, it’s a deep passion. None of these are “better” than the others—they’re just different ways of enjoying something that was created to be enjoyed. Music isn’t a competition; it’s a shared experience that speaks to different people in different ways.
So, next time someone says they like a band, maybe just let them. Sometimes, liking a song is all the connection they need.