Missing a Beat

Not long ago, I threw in the towel. Somewhere between Bloc Party and Cold War Kids, I lost the plot of popular music. Once I was able to navigate the changing soundscape with ease, if not arrogance. I read Fader cover-to-cover. I streamed radio from the UK. I was on the guest list. Plus one.

Now most of the music I hear is in yoga class.

Through much of my career as a pop culture theorist and brand strategist, my obsession with music served me well. Hip-hop music introduced me to cultural anthropology. As a teenager in Kentucky, I knew every lyric to Eazy-E’s Eazy-Duz-It, but it took years of investigation to figure out many of the South Central LA references. I loved the thrill of experiencing another culture through music.

Being attuned to music also helped me decode that most mystifying of target audiences: youth. For global youth culture, English is the language of communication, but music is the music of relating. I could access pretty much any international culture or homegrown subculture through its music. I was able to establish credibility with my subjects through an intricate game of name-dropping and code switching.

My love for the music was genuine, so the references were meaningful and always led to valuable conversations. Music was the bridge. Simply having been to see a particular artist or knowing about an upcoming album release could mean the difference between a surface-level engagement and true bonding. As long as I was up on music, I was in. I looked at people older than me on the subway with their pathetic iPod selections and outdated playlists and thought: OLD. I formed the naïve belief that losing my grip on music would signal not just the end of youth for me, but the end of my career in pop culture.

Yes, I had a tendency in those days towards black or white thinking.

A few years and life changes later, I started to feel my grasp on popular music slipping. At first I blamed my increasing musical obliviousness on the rising level of difficulty of staying abreast of new music. The industry was splintered, the channels too varied and too plentiful. There were suddenly too many genres, too many Sirius stations. I just couldn’t find the time to cruise MySpace looking for new music. Internet phenoms like Lilly Allen escaped me completely. I tried to ignore the early warning signs by immersing myself in back issues of Paste.

Then the other day it hit me: it’s no accident that I am still listening to a playlist called “New Years Eve 2007.” Hey, I like the songs and haven’t gotten around to creating “Summer Mix 2008.” And there’s no excuse for the fact that the new music samplers I receive from an indie magazine editor have started to pile up on my desk unopened. Then there was the night a couple of weeks ago when some friends had a cookout with the intention of heading over to the band shell in Prospect Park afterwards to see Cold War Kids. As dinner ran long, I realized I was happier talking to my friends in the comfort of the apartment than venturing out into the unknown to see a band I knew by name only.

It was time for me to own up to the fact that I was slipping. As the idea gained momentum, I realized the best remedy for slipping is to just let go. It was time for me to let go of this idea that music=youth. With a sense of relief, I put it up on the shelf of discarded youthful delusions along with: “fame is the key to happiness,” “nothing worthwhile happens before midnight,” and “it’s better to be overdressed.”

Suddenly, this quality that had defined me for so long was gone and I didn’t care a lick. This is the beauty of being older that young people cannot understand and refuse to believe. Your priorities shift as you get older and man, it’s nice. You are no longer the center of your universe. Your tastes do not define you. Those people I once pitied on the subway? They couldn’t have cared less that I had the new Sia CD before anyone else. Now, as is often the case in life, I am “them.”

The verdict is in: I am now musically passé. Which is fine with me personally, but what does it mean for my ability to relate to subcultures, different cultures, and that most elusive of all cultures: youth?

Thankfully, I’ve found I have lost my grip but I have not lost my ability to relate to anyone, least of all young people. Growing up and out of the insular euphoria of youth has actually given me greater perspective. I’ve learned: 1) you don’t need to relate to youth to understand them. My ability to listen and empathize has improved markedly as I’ve grown into myself. I’ve found that for the most part, young people are quite adept at self-analysis. They spend a lot of time thinking about themselves and their place in the world. A few good conversations, and I can access the information I need to understand how kids today are just like I was, we all were, only with slightly different idols and objects; 2) when it comes to understanding those differences, there’s no substitute for having a few smart young people on hand to set you straight. I never do a project that revolves around youth without a solid team of youth to back me up. Just recently I completed a global survey of pop culture for a major clothing retailer. The whole project revolved around the input of 20somethings. I stepped back as they weighed in with their firsthand experience. My job was to merely steer their magnificent energy and observations in the right direction.

It’s funny. In the last year, just as I have relaxed into the idea of growing up and settling down, I have been called on by more brands and companies to help decode youth culture. I have worked on healthy beverages for tweens, beauty products for young women, jeans for urban youth, soft drinks for teens…just a week ago I was asked by a major cosmetics company to come explain teen female sexuality.

I believe it’s no coincidence. I think I am actually better at understanding youth than ever before. As an adult (not a kidult or a grup) there are fewer assumptions and there’s less of a need to be right. I can be curious. I can ask questions without worrying about seeming out of it. I can see the forest for the trees. Not being in the middle of the action has turned out to be a great asset.

Just the other day I walked into a cool shoe shop on Lafayette. I found something to buy and approached the counter. On the wall behind the sales girl a music video was playing that caught my attention. As I was paying, I gestured to the video and said, “What’s that?” The girl, who couldn’t have been more than 16, studied me for a second and said, “Uh, that’s hip-hop?” I didn’t push for more and didn’t bother to tell her I had been there for the birth of hip-hop. I just paid for my shoes and left, smiling. She thought I was out of it. She didn’t know how right she was.