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By: Layla Soler
I fell in love with pop music riding home from school, listening to the radio in my mom’s car. At sleepovers, my friends and I would sit at the computer and rewatch the same music videos over and over again. It was always “You Belong With Me” and the very age-inappropriate “Telephone” music video. It was so easy to be entranced by the interesting visuals, the incredible outfits, and the upbeat music. To the little girl who shared a bunk bed with her brother, it all seemed like a fairytale.
But the thing about fairy tales is that eventually you grow up and realize they aren’t real.
Without warning, I woke up one day, and everything appeared differently to me. Time had changed not only me, but the musicians I looked up to. All of a sudden, Beyoncé didn’t do interviews, Lady Gaga was a movie star, and concert ticket prices exceeded the money in my checking account. It seemed like the artists that dominated the radio when I was a kid had ascended to a new tier of stardom, and to me, they started to feel like these untouchable entities with unattainable talent and status. In a world where I worked all day just to go home and study for exams due at 11:59, the artists of my childhood couldn’t sell me the fairytale, and they didn’t offer me anything I could relate to. They didn’t feel like people to me anymore; they felt like brands.
My love of music didn’t die, but it did change. Instead of tuning in to hear the newest Billboard hits, I sought nostalgia. I coveted CDs and playlists that reminded me of the songs I replayed on my iPod as a kid. I spent every car ride turning the radio dial over and over, chasing that feeling I used to have listening to music. I thought maybe pop music wasn’t for me anymore, and that’s when “drivers license” came out.
That changed everything.
The words and messaging were personal, authentic, and vulnerable. I wasn’t the only person who felt that way, because the song was an immediate sensation.
Flash forward to now: Olivia Rodrigo is about to drop her third album, Addison Rae is doing interviews with a bare face, Billie Eilish is crying while being pushed on stage for “One Less Lonely Girl” at Coachella, and Doja Cat is posting videos of herself dancing in her bedroom on TikTok. For the first time, the music I hear on the radio is by people I can relate to.
And don’t get me wrong, I still love Beyoncé and Lady Gaga, but nothing beats putting on a song by a heartbroken 23-year-old girl who kind of reminds me of myself.
In a world full of unachievable polish and perfection, I think we all crave a little more authenticity and relatability. When an artist allows their listeners to see them as a person and not a brand, it can feel easier to find a connection with their art.
