Gird your loins, parents. Spotify Wrapped season is here to remind you that your personality has been hijacked by small people whose taste in music blows.
I dread this each December because it feels so definitive. In the Year of our Lord 2024, analytics are king. We cannot argue with the data, which says we are no longer cool. Sure, Spotify has tried to create some filters that weed out kid music, but what about the sneaky songs that kind of slap, like “The Chicken Wing Beat”? Last year, “Everything Is Awesome” somehow made its way to my No. 1 most played, and I still resent Spotify’s faulty technology.
So imagine my surprise when at the top of my list this year was not SuperKitties or Blippi, but pop princess and LGBTQ+ icon Chappell Roan.
I was surprised. I felt caught? I’m a Latter-day Saint mom living in the Utah suburbs and had not realized the extent to which Chappell had bewitched me.
I retraced my steps, back to that fateful day when I Googled “what is Chappell Roan.” Upon realizing she was music and not designer clothing or a derby horse, I decided to give her a try. I bopped around while cleaning the house, trying to ignore the lyrics.
I meant no offense to Chappell. This is simply what your brain does when you are raised in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, because all the popular songs are naughty. I have memories of me and everyone from my Provo high school yelling, “From the windoooow, to the wall!” Did we know what Lil Jon was talking about? Not fully, but we did know enough. We knew it was something not just sexy but also vulgar, and yet it didn’t matter because Lil Jon’s pimpy lifestyle was so far from our social experience, it couldn’t really touch us. It was like cosplay; for one night we all came to the school to pretend to be the high schoolers we watched in movies.
My Mia Maid ears
In my teens, I learned the vital skill of listening to music without listening; of being in the world without being of it. It’s a skill that has served me these two decades since. I want to be clear that I genuinely revere the 13th Article of Faith’s admonition to seek out art that is, “virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy.” But also it’s extremely hard to feel any sort of groove to MoTab, and right now, I need a lot of groove. I need music that can inject my brain with something strong enough to survive another round of dishes.
And so, on that fateful night while picking up Legos and stray socks, I successfully screened out all the F-words and kinky stuff — until I reached “After Midnight.”
Here is a bop about all the great things that happen after the Holy Ghost goes to bed: bar fights, kissing one another’s lovers, general debauchery. My Mia Maid ears couldn’t help but perk up, but rather than make me think Chappell was a bad influence, it made me feel seen; she once went to church just like me!
When I reached “Pink Pony Club,” I realized Chappell and I are basically the same. Because I, too, once had to explain to my wonderful mother that Santa Monica was calling me, and I’ve been a good, good girl for a long time, so would she please trust me to go?
I did more Googling.
Did you know Chappell started writing music because she had a crush on an older Latter-day Saint boy at school? Did you know she used BYU’s online classes to finish high school, or that her real name is Kayleigh? Sure, she may look like the opposite of what I hear at church, but my best friend Chappell genuinely gave me the strength to get through 2024. The fierceness of “Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl” has leveled up my sad mom basement workouts from a 2 to maybe a 5. That’s huge progress, you guys. I have belted “stuck in the suburbs, you’re folding his laundry” while doing that exact thing; hating this part of my reality while having no intention of leaving it.
This tiny rebellion
I have wondered if my old age has made me immune to the naughty lyrics. Or did they never have any sway to begin with?
Perhaps listening to Chappell has been magical because I’ve done it in the privacy of my AirPods or rare stolen moments alone — times when little minds aren’t watching my every move, waiting to hear me say “stupid” and justify saying it from here on out.
It’s oddly the same as being a teen, when part of the joy in inappropriate music was the misperception that my parents didn’t know I was listening to it. Or perhaps an accurate perception that if they heard it, they wouldn’t know what the words meant. It was this small thing I had for myself, this tiny rebellion I needed to feel like I wasn’t The. Most. Boring. Teen. In. The. World. Even growing up in a town where the cool kids said no to drugs, I needed to believe I had some kind of edge.
I now find myself wondering what things my parents kept to themselves. My mom famously vacuumed to ABBA on full blast, but when I wasn’t home was it different? Does Earth, Wind & Fire have an explicit album I don’t know about?
I remember thinking in my child-free years that I would never be one of those parents who listened to kid music all the time. Just, like, play them the Beatles. I wondered how my siblings could stand their lives — all those hours in the minivan with Baby Einstein. I wondered where my siblings had gone, frankly.
And then I became a parent, and I realized it’s hard. But my music taste was not going down without a fight, which is why I instituted “car D.J.,” where passengers get a turn picking whatever song they want. I used math to figure that this way 25% to 30% of my car time would not be torture. My picks are usually Taylor or Fleetwood Mac. Sometimes I’ll even choose a Primary song to brainwash my kids a little. But so far, Chappell hasn’t felt pickable. Maybe I’m not ready to explain the word “fugly” to a 5-year-old. Or maybe I’m still the same girl I was as a teen, and it’s fun to have a tiny dirty secret.
(Rebbie Brassfield) Tribune guest columnist Rebbie Brassfield.
Rebbie Brassfield is a writer and creative director in the advertising industry. She lives in Saratoga Springs with her two young kids, where she spends most of her time picking things up. You can find her overanalyzing at @MormonsInMedia on Instagram, or see more of her work and writing at www.RebbieBrassfield.com.
