“So what’s your favorite band?”
That’s it, the only question that can cold-clock me into a fugue state where my knees feel as if they’re composed entirely of off-brand Jell-O and sweat drips from my forehead so furiously that anyone standing beneath me may experience a sensation not entirely unlike straight waterboarding. The fact of the matter is, while I’d like to say I’m proud of my music taste, I am, in part, admittedly pop-punk trash who also dabbles in mid-nineties to early two-thousands novelty hip-hop. When I put my iPod on shuffle at a party, there’s a strong likelihood that the seminal classic “Ms. New Booty,” by legendary hit-maker Bubba Sparxxx may interrupt a steady stream of emo ballads from the earliest days of the new millenium.
It is what it is. This is my lot in life. The final step is acceptance.
So when Apple announced a free trial of their personalized streaming service (aptly, though perhaps not overly creatively, called Apple Music), I was equal parts ecstatic and apprehensive. Would Apple Music have the sentience to see through my self-inflated musical ego and judge me?