Bad Religion And Miley Cyrus

(or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Dancefloor)

Last night I went to G-A-Y, a venue full of noughties pop music, drunk people and dancing, that’s been called everything from a club to a cheesy disco, and had a frakking awesome time; it was like moshing, without the leg cramps and diabetic failures in the immediate aftermath.

And while this evening taught me a valuable lesson in not being such a universally dismissive prat of things like pop music and parties (I’m not saying I’m a huge fan of Wrecking Ball now, but it was probably more appropriate for the evening than Two-Faced Bastard), and featured the fastest surprise hooking-up of people I’ve ever seen, on the street outside the flat we pre-drank in, before we even got to G-A-Y, there’s one thing that’s been bothering me: I have now danced to Miley Cyrus in a Bad Religion shirt.

I have danced to Miley Cyrus in a Bad Religion shirt.

What.

But those things are, like, totally different! One’s about tedious love stories and mindlessly wasting one’s youth in an alcohol-soaked quest for social acceptance, and the other’s about telling entitled hammer-wielding music video stars to piss off!

Inaccurate and annoying my italicised subconscious may be, there’s a point there; I’ve always hated things, perhaps unfairly, for standing for certain values or prioritising one set of needs over another (this hatred is a necessary byproduct of the ‘having opinions’ experience), but some of that hate melted away so I could dance to a song using the least subtle metaphor for sex since since Wall-E ensuring the survival of the human race by putting his seed in Eve’s belly.

But this is rather the point: it’s hard to hate all the time or, more accurately, hard to stick to abstract principles like ‘equality’ and ‘fairness’ when there’s music all around you and people dancing in real-life right in front of your face. I’d always assumed that setting aside lofty opinions for more mindless fun would render those opinions, the ones shelved for some temporary ass-shaking, less genuine, or less important, and I’d become some hideous partying creature, exclusively concerned with short-term enjoyment and unappreciative of the wider world. But having done this, I realise that that assumption is bullshit; just because I went pre-drinking and didn’t drink it doesn’t mean I’m suddenly an alcoholic, and dancing to Wrecking Ball for five minutes doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy Bad Religion.

And this is probably something that everyone under the Sun realises when they’re like twelve, but I’ve been living under a bit of a rock; my interests have become narrowed over time, as I listen to increasingly niche punk bands or choose from an ever-shrinking pool of shirts with Rise Against lyrics on them to define myself in ways that I pretend are unique and interesting, but probably appear to other people as diverse as different shades of black.

Don’t expect me to get into pop in the next few weeks, and don’t think I’ll post about trips to G-A-Y every week; but I’d like to think I’ll be less dismissive of things in the future, and if not like a thing, accept that it has its place somewhere, rather than renounce anything that can’t be moshed to as an affront to civilisation.

And you can tell I’m a pretentious English student because I managed to work a ham-fisted lofty blog post out of a few hours dancing to pop music; a novel-writing career awaits!

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