The Big Questions What makes music boring? 

If somebody makes a list of 2011’s most controversial pop-culture essays, “Eating Your Cultural Vegetables” by Dan Kois from the April 29 edition of The New York Times Magazine more than likely will have a special honor at or near the top. Kois’ piece is remarkable for two reasons: 1) Its central argument—that slow, obtuse art films can be hard to enjoy and even dull—is obvious and relatable to most people; 2) This argument seems specifically designed to piss off Kois’ peers in the film-critic community, which it did smashingly well. 

“Eating Your Cultural Vegetables” inspired dozens, if not hundreds, of articles and blog posts—nearly all of which criticized, needled, and flat-out mocked Kois. (New York Times film critic Manohla Dargis was among many who suggested that Kois didn’t like thinking.) Observing the fracas from afar, it seemed a little much. (Full disclosure: I’ve hung out with Kois socially and consider him a friend.) Kois took it on the chin less for what he wrote—which he leavened with heaping doses of self-deprecation—than its implications. Film critics tend to see themselves as defenders of so-called “boring” movies that buck commercial convention, forsake traditional storytelling (or any storytelling), and scrape for the handful of viewers interested in sitting through purposely alienating arthouse cinema. Kois’ position might’ve inspired many viewers to nod their heads in recognition, but that was precisely the problem in the view of many film critics: The guy wasn’t helping.

If only Kois were a music critic. In my field, we have no problem classifying art as boring. This is the year of boring, as far as music goes. Boring dominates our music conversations. When I talk about a new record with other critics or fans, even (or especially) a record that’s garnered generally positive reviews, the No. 1 complaint I hear is that it’s boring. Doesn’t matter which album it is; the music changes, but the boredom stays the same. When The A.V. Club publishes its list of the best albums of the year in a few weeks, I predict that at least 80 percent of the comments will complain about how boring it is. (The rest will complain about how there’s not enough metal—though for these people, there’s no such thing as “enough metal.”) 

People are convinced that whatever it is that they’re hearing, it’s boring. But what makes music boring? What do we really mean when we say boring? Do we mean boring, or “boring”?

When music is boring, it speaks to a lack of what people turn to music for, which is a connection. It might be physical, it might be mental, it might be emotional—but we all want to feel something when we hear a song. If it moves us in some way (whether it’s in our hearts, minds, or hips), we like it. We might even need that connection, over and over again, if it reaches down deep enough inside of us. I write about music for a living, so it’s my job to describe how or why something moves me. But even for a critic, it still boils down to a response in your gut that you can’t ever totally explain. Music triggers a primal yet mysterious force inside of us. It’s universal, and yet the connections that are made vary from person to person. We don’t understand it, but when it’s there, we know. Sometimes we don’t connect, even when it seems that the whole rest of the world is, and that’s when music becomes uninvolving, even unlistenable. Hence, boring. 

Any kind of music can be boring depending on the listener. No song is inherently not-boring—not even CCR’s “Ramble Tamble”—because boring is obviously based on subjective perception. This makes boring music hard to pin down. In a sense, all music is boring. The same, however, can’t be said about “boring” music. “Boring” is its own genre. It is a code word that instantly conjures artists with clearly definable attributes. “Boring” music is slow to mid-tempo, mellow, melodic, pretty in a melancholy way, catchy, poppy, and rooted in traditional forms. It is popular (or popular-ish). It is tasteful, well-played, and meticulously produced. (Or it might sound like it was recorded in somebody’s bedroom under the influence of weed and Sega Genesis.) It is “easy to like”—or more specifically, “easy for white people to like” (“white people” being a sub-group of white people singled out by other white people). It is critically acclaimed (perhaps the most critically acclaimed music there is), and yet music critics relish taking “boring” musical artists down a peg more than any other kind of artist. 

Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes, The Decemberists, St. Vincent, Wilco, Coldplay, Feist, The National, Grizzly Bear—I like some of these artists, and I don’t like others. They’re all pretty different, but they all have one thing in common: They’re “boring.”

Here’s where things get confusing: None of the adjectives associated with “boring” music are bad. In fact, they are neutral to positive. It’s not bad to appeal to adults (or “white people”) or have your music featured on NPR, nor is it bad to write slow, pretty, poppy songs. None of these things preclude a piece of music from doing what it’s supposed to do, which is make the listener feel like he or she isn’t alone in the world for three and a half minutes. 

And yet the terms associated with “boring” music have become so loaded that they’re often perceived to be bad. The fine music critic Nitsuh Abebe of New York Magazine learned this the hard way when he recently wrote a piece arguing that Wilco and Feist have become modern equivalents of Sting and his “adult-contemporary” peers. Abebe’s essay drew a lot of criticism from those who interpreted “adult-contemporary” and the Sting comparison as cheap shots. “Adult-contemporary,” after all, is really just another way of saying “boring.” It is a descriptor that is now a criticism, just as Sting has gone from being the frontman of The Police to a go-to signifier of “meh.” 

Unlike the first kind of boring, which is a personal response, “boring” is a broad classification that implicates the audience along with the artist—which is why fans of “boring” artists tend to get a little touchy. Abebe insisted he wasn’t doing that. He was trying to use “adult-contemporary” without judgment. But the reaction to Abebe’s essay points to the No. 1 problem with our conversations about music, whether it’s among critics or fans: We’ve become preoccupied with clever terminology that’s helpful for analysis and categorization but is ultimately reductive, and this comes at the expense of what’s really vital about music and why we care about it in the first place. 

Ryan Adams—another “boring” artist—said it best when I interviewed him last month: “Less and less have I seen reviews where people actually talk about how the records make them feel … It’s usually in this kind of gray area of facts. And there’s usually subtext, which is, ‘You should be cool and not like this,’ or, ‘If you’re cool, you’ll like this.’” And this has filtered down to the people who read those reviews. Spend a few moments exploring any social-media platform and you’ll find countless music fans talking passionately about music they’re personally invested in. But you’ll also stumble into a lot of arguments where adjectives are tossed around like opposing ideologies. 

“Safe” and “tasteful” music that has no “edge” is a common assemblage of attributes. “Thrilling” sounds that are “experimental,” “challenging,” and “confrontational” is another.  Words like “challenging” and “confrontational” conjure up still more adjectives as they relate to our musical perceptions—“angry,” “loud,” “abrasive”—but they could also apply to whatever music you personally don’t get. What’s a tougher or more experimental listen than trying to understand music you hate? 

Which brings us back to our original definition of boring. If you hear a song and don’t get that elusive, enigmatic, deep-down-in-your-guts feeling, that’s an honest reaction, but it’s not necessarily a criticism of the music. The reason you’re not connecting might very well be you. Your boredom could indicate an inability to appreciate a particular kind of music at this moment in time. You should regret that—or take it as a (here’s that word again) “challenge”—not wear it like a badge of honor. What good is there in not being able to like a song, something that might bring you pleasure?

I’m not saying you should listen to Skrillex until you love him or your brain matter starts trickling out of your ears. Some music will evade your powers of appreciation, no matter how hard you try. Boring is okay. At least with boring we’re talking about something real; “boring” is a construct. Boring can be the start of a dialogue, the first step in exploring a new galaxy of sounds you’re just beginning to discover; “boring” shuts that dialogue down, and draws lines and creates divisions where they don’t need to exist. If music is a color spectrum, “boring” is black. Worse, “boring” is boring.