What To Do When Bad People Make Good Music

At the end of every year, like clockwork, social media feeds descend into a collective frenzy for the now-inescapable phenomenon known as Spotify Wrapped. An ingenious marketing ploy cooked up by the music industry’s most sinister streaming service, the campaign capitalizes on our generation’s obsession with “personalization” by gathering each user’s annual music metrics and displaying them in colorful, eye-catching graphics ready-made for ultimate shareability.

The gimmick has paid off tenfold — it’s been meme’d into oblivion thanks to its uplift of hilariously-named subgenres (like “Nerdcore,” “5th Wave Emo,” and “Escape Room”) and its thinly-veiled suggestions, through new “sound towns,” that queer people should move to random places like Berkeley, California and Burlington, Vermont. But mostly, the feature has been commodified and embraced as a way to publicly signal one’s selective music taste.

As an Apple Music user, I’m used to feeling left out of this year-end festivity. Forced to settle for the significantly less-appealing “Replay,” I’m rarely inspired to publicize my own roundup — even when, like in 2021 when Burial topped the list, it could be a boon to my perceived coolness to do so. Last December, however, I felt rather thankful that my music distributor of choice kept me out of the loop.

Confronted with the truth about my listening habits from the past 365 days, I saw the usual suspects: Yves Tumor and Sufjan Stevens had both accrued thousands of streams while NewJeans’ “Super Shy” had predictably finished as one of my most-played songs. But there, right next to it, was something I would have never chosen to reveal publicly — the type of highly sensitive intel your favorite Bushwick Twitter gay would joke “you could never waterboard out of me.” The evidence was undeniable. In 2023, one of the songs I had listened to the most was, gasp, “Keep Going Up,” the comeback single for Timbaland, which reunited the super-producer with Nelly Furtado and…unfortunately…Justin Timberlake.

I was taken aback. This was Justin Timberlake, after all. The same former *NSYNC member that Britney Spears, in her searing memoir, had just exposed for pressuring her into getting an abortion…and then slut-shaming when that decision led to their breakup. The same person who, two decades on, had still refused to acknowledge his part in the sexist scapegoating that almost ruined Janet Jackson’s career following their Super Bowl halftime incident. How could I be wasting my streams — so, so many of my precious streams — on the likes of him?

Well, in the immortal words of YouTube sensation As Told By Kenya: I can’t make the music not bop. “Keep Going Up” is a certified banger with endless replay value, a worthy followup to the trio’s Billboard chart-topping classic from 2007, “Give It To Me.” As she wraps her sultry vocals around Timbaland’s typically springy synths, Nelly Furtado, singing about working on her gains and cutting off the people that are draining her, sounds incredible — and as much as I hate to admit it, Timberlake makes for a terrific duet partner. Not even his claims of being a “top-notch dresser, one-two stepper” could turn me off this earworm. I stand helpless against its power.

This isn’t the first time this has happened — and if I’m being honest with myself, it certainly won’t be the last. Ever since I was old enough to understand that the music I listened to was the product of a person (or team of people) with their own set of moral values and pattern of behavior, I’ve been doomed to a never-ending internal battle, forced, again and again, to reconcile my personal indulgences with a higher moral calling. And it’s not just me — there’s a very good reason we’re all so familiar with the concept of “separating the art from the artist.”

To this day, I follow Azealia Banks’ every move like a starving hawk circling its prey. I know that she’s said some rather unsavory things in the past — and that she seems unapologetically determined to keep doing so in the future — but what am I supposed to do when “212” comes on at the club? Not dance? That feels like more of a punishment for me than it would be for her. And what about Nicki Minaj? I grew up as a card-carrying Barb (albeit with a bit more social decorum). But ever since the Queen from Queens tried to defend her convicted rapist husband by taking cheap shots at Megan Thee Stallion, I’ve been less inclined to post Pink Friday 2 screenshots on my Instagram Story. Does that mean “Fallin 4 U” and “Cowgirl” have stopped racking up plays in the meantime? Well, we’re all allowed to keep some secrets to ourselves.

Besides, I’ve been known to bend the rules for people I don’t even really like. As much as I’ve formed a personality around my distaste for private jet enthusiast Taylor Swift, I know that, gun to my head, I could successfully sing every song from 1989 — with or without accompanying lyrics. Sure, her recent plea for fans to “vote the people who most represent YOU into power” felt laughably inadequate given all the years she’s spent toeing the political line to appease fans on both sides of the spectrum. But am I expected to prevent myself from crying when “Clean” comes on the radio at my neighborhood coffee shop? It’s not like I have control over my tear ducts. They have a mind of their own!

Of course, as is the case with all things, there are limits to how much unsavory conduct any single person can excuse. I’m not a monster. After squirming through the sordid revelations unmasked in Surviving R. Kelly, I’ve found it hard to ever “believe I can fly” again. When “Step In the Name of Love” or “Ignition (Remix)” comes on at a family cookout, I no longer feel comfortable joining in on the Electric Slide that inevitably forms around the barbecue pit. Ditto Chris Brown. Years of my youth were spent drooling over the posters of him I had plastered right above my bed; regularly, I imagined that I was the one who had caught his eye in early career hits like “Gimme That” and “Yo (Excuse Me Miss).” But much of that teen yearning disappeared in the aftermath of his attack on Rihanna. That he has continued to show little remorse, all while racking up new allegations in the years since, has completely obliterated any remaining goodwill.

Even the toughest bonds can be broken if an artist tries hard enough. Take Kanye West: Growing up, I worshiped the ground he walked on. Though he’d always been prone to troubling outbursts, in my eyes, the artist now known as “Ye” could do no wrong. In fact, in many respects, these very tendencies seemed to go hand-in-hand with his undeniable talent; you loved Kanye because of his lack of couth.

Still, lately, it’s become impossible to look past his antics. Antisemitic, misogynist, fatphobic, racist (and sometimes a combination of all the above), his recent invective feels unforgivable. But almost as by natural selection, the problem has rectified itself — as his behavior has soured, so, too, has his music; and in turn, I haven’t found my morality tested. If prompted, I’ll still cite My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy as the best album of all-time. But with the rapper’s last listenable record being 2016’s The Life of Pablo, I’ve never had to feel compelled to defend statements like “slavery was a choice” or “I like Hitler.” Single listens to embarrassing drivel like follow-ups Ye and Jesus Is King were enough to push me off the Yeezus train forevermore. (I still haven’t listened to Vultures 1 and won’t be checking in on Vultures 2 or 3 either.) By the time he debuted his not-at-all-cool-even-in-an-ironic-way “White Lives Matter” t-shirt during a YZY runway show at Paris Fashion Week, I was long past feeling any urge to turn the other cheek.

But that isn’t always the case. While I’ve been successful in swearing off R. Kelly, I can’t say the same about Michael Jackson. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t hit the dance floor when “Billie Jean” comes on at a wedding. I’m only human. Decades of practice have taught me that, occasionally, you simply have to give in. No ethical consumption under capitalism, as the famous saying goes. Even now, I’m guilty. Despite my best intentions, the song currently slated to be my most-played for 2024? The title track from This Is Me…Now, the latest offering from serial song-stealer Jennifer Lopez. Let’s just say: thank god I’m still an Apple Music loyalist.