Your Favorite Band is the Foundation of Your Identity

Our identities are a culmination of all sorts of beliefs and experiences, but in our youth, those beliefs are often handed down by our families and our experiences are limited. It isn’t until we’re “rebellious” teens shaking our hips to the Devil’s music that we actually start making decisions that form our own, unique identities and differentiate us from our parents. This is why your favorite band is the foundation of your identity. 

I did not choose my favorite band. My favorite band chose me, and it is one of the most impactful moments of my life. I was at a tennis tournament in Miles City, Montana, flipping through the CD case of my friend, Tyler, when I came across a disc with the most unusual artwork. I asked him who it was, and I can’t remember if he actually told me or simply said “just listen to it.” His face said a helluva lot more than his words. He clearly loved this album, so I stuck it in my Sony Discman and hit play.

Tyler watched me listen rather intently, with that “I know something you don’t” smile on his face. In roughly three minutes, Tyler got what he expected. The look on my face made him laugh so loud even I could hear it with my headphones at maximum volume. It was the look of a man who was in shock and delighted by it. “Now that’s how you start an album,” I might have uttered. If I did, they were the last words I spoke during the listening experience. I was captivated by this stoner rock concept album taking me on a road trip through the desert, and at the time, I didn’t even know stoner rock was a thing. I don’t even know if I knew what a stoner was. I was 15.

My favorite record is “Songs for the Deaf” by Queens of the Stone Age, released in August of 2002. Two band members you might know are Dave Grohl on drums and Josh Homme on guitar and lyrics. They’re basically the only two real rock stars left. I don’t really feel the need to further explain myself and never have. I feel like the careers of Dave Grohl and Josh Homme speak for themselves, as does the listening experience they created on that record. When I hear a single song from the album, I find myself listening to the rest, often starting from the bodacious beginning. That’s not the case for any other album, including anything Pink Floyd has done.  

I’ve always had an intimate relationship with music. I let it get into me and keep it there as long as possible. Are there any songs you heard for the first time and recall exactly where and when you heard them? If so, it’s likely because that moment was worth remembering. We associate those memories with places in time, and Marcel Proust would tell us, even tastes and smells, because those details are recorded in memory due to the immense impact of the event. 

In April of 2014, my friend, Michael, called me exclaiming The Menzingers had new songs on the jukebox, and since I too was conveniently located at a tavern in Pray, Montana, I went to the jukebox and played the two songs off the new album he recommended. The first is called “I Don’t Wanna Be An Asshole Anymore,” and by the end of the first chorus, I thought, “this is my theme song.” The second song I played is called “Rodent,” and by the end of that one, I thought, “this is Michael’s theme song.” It’s been his ringtone on my phone ever since. When I hear those songs, I close my eyes, and I’m at the tavern in Pray, smelling the spice of their excellent Bloody Marys and watching the dust being kicked up off the wood floors and catching the afternoon sunlight from the windows.

Here’s how impactful it was for me to hear “Songs for the Deaf” the first time. I write this as I listen to a limited edition vinyl record of “Songs for the Deaf” that cost me $180, and when I close my eyes I can transport myself to the very spot on those Miles City bleachers where I first listened to the album, surrounded by the smells of fresh cut grass and the taste of Special K bars one of the team moms made. I can even relive the feeling each track originally elicited, almost as if I’m hearing them all for the first time. I still exclaim, “Now that’s how you start an album!” when I start playing it in my car or home. But why do I have such a vivid, Proustian memory of an album I heard 20 years ago?

Before hearing “Songs for the Deaf,” I was “the Deaf.” Until that point, I had only heard what my parents wanted me to hear. I listened to their music, with the lone exceptions being MC Hammer and Will Smith. They were the only rappers who didn’t curse, so they were allowed in the house. I didn’t hate it. In fact, I still listen to a lot of my parents’ favorites (and MC Hammer and Will Smith). But even when I was making choices my options were limited. “Songs for the Deaf” had a parental advisory sticker on the album, and I didn’t care. I would have that album if it meant hiding it from my parents and listening to it on headphones while in the house. I don’t even know how I got my hands on a copy, but I did so immediately. I probably paid Tyler to get me one on the bus ride back from Miles City. Regardless, it was the last time I allowed my music options to be limited by language deemed “explicit.” 

Buying music with explicit lyrics might not seem empowering, but when it undermines the power of your parents, believe me, it is. I went from having the identity imprinted upon me by my parents, in all aspects of life, including music, to having the confidence to carve out my own identity based on what I believed to be true. That confidence came from finding this music I believed to be great simply by listening, not by listening to others who’d listened or heard. I was officially a fan of stoner rock, and I wouldn’t become a stoner for another three years.

One of the first decisions we make that differentiates our identity from that of our parents’ is choosing our favorite band. I was just someone who listened to everything my parents listened to until I listened to something they hadn’t. Those decisions formed my identity. I even advertised these aspects of my newborn identity, proud to have made a decision without the influence of others I believed to be right and good. That decision: Queens of the Stone Age is the greatest band in the world.

That record that cost me $180 is worth every penny, not because I could already sell it for more than I paid, but because of what it represents. It represents the foundation of my identity. The “who” I am only exists because of the listening experience that emanates from the grooves on that vinyl record. I am who I am because I believed, no, I knew, Queens of the Stone Age was the best band in the world. I now know I know nothing, but I believe it almost as much now as I did then.

I was so confident my favorite band was the best in the world, I literally wore it on my sleeve, and just about everything else. Before discovering QOTSA, I didn’t feel strongly enough to advertise anything as inherent to my identity except allegiances to sports teams. I also didn’t have the confidence to defend those allegiances. “Songs for the Deaf” gave me both.