I have never felt anything quite like the fresh panic of someone asking me what music I like. For what is a seemingly light question, it has always felt so heavy. It feels restrictive, claustrophobic, as though there’s a limit to the number of words I have until the other person starts forming unfounded judgments about me.

“I knew nothing of the culture and had not yet had time to develop any interest, or taste, in music”

On my first day of primary school, the girls in my class crowded around me curiously. “Who’s your favourite singer?” they asked me. I could feel my stomach churn. As a 6-year-old, I didn’t have the words to explain that my parents and I had moved half-way across the world and were settling into a brand-new life in a brand-new place where I knew nothing of the culture and had not yet had time to develop any interest, or taste, in music. I didn’t have the words to express that the only music I’d been exposed to by then was vibrant Bangladeshi pop music from artists such as  Ayub Bacchu and James, the occasional Bollywood hit and anything that made my parents feel nostalgic of the South Asia they had left behind. 

Instead, I settled for looking at my feet and mumbling, “I don’t know any.”

“So, you don’t know who Girls Aloud are then!?” 

I shook my head. The wrong answer, I thought to myself as they rushed to report their findings to the rest of the class while I died of embarrassment.

It was clear to me then that music was a very important tool for fitting in, or at the very least, not sticking out. At that age, I craved being accepted more than anything else in the world. My Dad had picked up on the shame I felt and he would pick me up from school blasting bollywood hits from the car speakers in an effort to teach me that I shouldn’t be embarrassed by what others thought of me. My younger self did not appreciate this lesson. 

On trips to the supermarket with my family, my eyes trailed along magazine sections picking out names of important and significant musicians of the time such as S Club 7 and the Sugarbabes because I was not going to be caught out again by a 7-year-old. 

When I arrived at secondary school however, I found myself surrounded by more faces than I had ever seen, and I found myself wanting to stand out. I hated how girls were mocked for liking artists such as One Direction and Justin Bieber and I decided I didn’t want to be reduced to a stereotype, and if I were to be reduced to one, I wanted to be a unique one. I wanted it to be one that would throw people off and have it change continually: never leaving people time to settle on any particular assumptions about me. 

“Then, as I picked up my first electric guitar, Year 9 was spent learning Metallica guitar solos and getting really into thrash metal”

I spent Year 7 in a rap phase, an era from which I still retain the ability to spit out whole Eminem song lyrics at supersonic speed. In Year 8, I got really into Radiohead and eventually classic rock as I started learning to play acoustic guitar. Then, as I picked up my first electric guitar, Year 9 was spent learning Metallica guitar solos and getting really into thrash metal. My phasic enjoyment of music continued as I relished in periods of pop punk, hip-hop, 2000s pop, emo rap, Disney, folk punk, bluegrass and plenty more. 

Music was then, and arguably still now, such an integral part of my identity. While part of it was to do with what I enjoyed, part of it was about what I wanted to be seen enjoying. 

It always felt like there were never any right answers. Anything in the charts was too “mainstream”, old school genres were “pretentious,” and liking bands no-one had heard of was “edgy and avant-garde”. While this was a game I could never win, I still distanced myself from the music my parents listened to. I was okay with standing out, but only if it was standing out in a way I could control. 

In retrospect, I think the problem was that I spent too much time in my youth viewing myself exclusively from the point of view of everyone else. Growing up feels like a long lesson in learning to uncouple how you view yourself as a consequence of how others view you. I needed to step out of my own head for long enough to realise how music truly made me feel and how it could set me free. 

If my Dad were to pick me up now playing bollywood music, I don’t think I would have any other option but to revel in the vibrancy and celebrate a genre that brings a smile to my face. I didn’t pick up on the lesson he tried to teach me back then but looking back I can appreciate his intentions. My experience with music has been a complicated one, but one that has taught me an important lesson. 

Currently, I’m enjoying listening to music that reflects different periods of my life but also the opportunity to properly enjoy the artistry behind the art without worrying about what other people think. Right now, I would describe my music taste as a nostalgic, bittersweet collection of the best bits from all the phases in my life, but this time it doesn’t feel like a time period, it feels like I’ve settled on something permanent.

“Mum it’s not a phase,” may finally ring true after all.