Here at Flavorwire, we do our level best to engage in rational, reasoned, thoughtful criticism. But there are elements of our culture that are simply out of our analytical grasp: the films, music, authors, television shows, etc. that we hate with no reasonable explanation. Welcome to Irrational Hatred Week, in which your Flavorwire staffers share what we loathe in a variety of media, and do our best to figure out why. Today’s Irrational Hatred topic: music.
The Postal Service
I’ve hated the shit out of The Postal Service since the first moment I heard them, and I figured everybody was behind me. They’re terrible, right? Everybody with good taste agrees with me, don’t they? I spent a decade thinking the answer was a unanimous “yes” until Saturday, June 15, 2013, when a number of friends joyously tweeted live from the Postal Service show at the Barclays Center in Brooklyn, took Instagrams from far, far away with just exclamation marks as the text, and posted live Facebook status updates telling the world which songs the band played and when. So I guess the hatred I harbor for The Postal Service is irrational. Who knew? — Jason Diamond, Literary Editor
The Who
I love ’60s British rock, and from all the usual, boring suspects: Beatles, Stones, Cream, Yardbirds, Zep, etc. etc. And as much as they are par for that particular course, I’ve never been able to work up any remote degree of enthusiasm for The Who. I recognize the skill of the craftsmanship, but that’s all it ever sounds like to me: empty, showy craftsmanship. Part of the issue is generational, I’m sure; by the time I was old enough to form an opinion on them, I’d already heard all of their hits so many times that I was resoundingly sick of them. But unlike, say, the Stones, getting past those ubiquitous hits and checking out some of the deep album cuts resulted in little worth remembering. The Who is (are?) fine. But I certainly never listen to them voluntarily. — Jason Bailey, Film Editor
R. Kelly
This is controversial, but I hate R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix).” Like, a LOT. I can’t even really put my finger on it, but I think it has to do with the fact that the phrase “freakin’ weekend” makes me want to rip off my own skin. I’ll dance to it at a wedding because I’m not in the business of spoiling a good time, but I will storm right off the dance floor if it’s played any other time. — Tyler Coates, Deputy Editor
Metric
Metric, mostly because of all the young men in Brooklyn who begin any rhapsody of praise for said band by telling me how hot they find Emily Haines. — Michelle Dean, Editor-at-Large
The Beatles
It’s not that I hate The Beatles, per se — I could just never bring myself to care about them. It’s not like I didn’t try — my parents own most of their albums, and all my friends listened to them growing up, so I jumped on the bandwagon. As I listened, I looked for the feverish devotion I saw in my peers and elders, but I couldn’t find it. I thought they were often cheesy, preachy, and pretty derivative. I never understood their cult until I heard the still revolutionary “Tomorrow Never Knows,” which is probably single-handedly responsible for most of my favorite music. I just found myself wishing I cared that much about their other stuff. Sorry, guys, but The Beatles are not my thing. — Sarah Fonder, Editorial Apprentice
Jam bands
I consider most of my musical hatreds to be entirely rational, but I’ll admit that my loathing for Phish/Grateful Dead-style jam bands verges on the pathological at times. Sure, they’re talented and competent musicians. Sure, they’re probably lovely guys, too. And no, there’s no objectively justifiable reason why the simple sight of Jerry Garcia’s face makes me want to take to something with a chainsaw. But it does, so, y’know, fair warning. — Tom Hawking, Music Editor
Tori Amos
I don’t have a problem with the angry women of alternative rock. In fact, I kind of love them: Courtney Love, Fiona Apple, Alanis Morissette. I even have a soft spot for the second-tier ones like Poe and Tracy Bonham. So it is with great personal shame that I admit to having never enjoyed Tori Amos. Perhaps “hate” is too strong a word, but there’s something about her confessional piano balladry that I have always found off-putting. It’s impossible to articulate why this is, although I assume that it simply comes down to my brain irrationally rejecting the particular combination of sounds she makes. I won’t argue with you if you tell me that Amos’ first three albums are classics, and I certainly feel thankful to her for founding RAINN and telling the story or her own rape, both of which made her a great source of strength to a whole generation of sexual assault victims. But, as much as I wish I felt differently, that doesn’t stop me from cringing every time I hear “Crucify.” (And finally, let the record show that I was so reluctant to bash Tori Amos that I was all set to write about The Postal Service before our esteemed literary editor called dibs.) — Judy Berman, Editor-in-Chief