I’ll never forget the day my daughter was born. I was wearing a pristine The Postal Service shirt (circa their 2003 tour, way before they were popular). The delivery had been rough and the doctor came in to check on us. He assured us that everything was fine, and our daughter was healthy. On his way out, he nodded toward me and said, “Cool shirt.” I felt a wave of relief. With my daughter in my arms, and her cone-shaped head covering the band’s logo, I was afraid the doctor wouldn’t notice that I was into obscure music. His compliment reassured me that even though I was now a dad I could still project to the world that I was cool, that I was hip, and that I listened to bands that no one else has ever heard of.
A month later my daughter spit up on my shoulder, ruining my Neutral Milk Hotel shirt (circa 1997, NOT the lame 2013 comeback tour). Then she had a blowout, decimating my beloved Grizzly Bear shirt (signed by Ed Droste with a vintage fountain pen that I snuck into a concert). And later when she was a toddler she used my white LCD Soundsystem Sound of Silver shirt (I’ll admit, I bought this from Urban Outfitters, but it was still a rad shirt) as a hankie when she had a bloody nose. I was devastated. Not wanting to risk the rest of my vast collection, I reluctantly stowed my shirts in the attic.
I was devastated. What’s the point of listening to obscure music if no one knows your doing it? Why subject yourself to the likes of Car Seat Headrest, or King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard if you can’t brag about it?
Then my year-end Spotify Wrapped appeared! It was my savior. Each year I could let social media would still know that I listened to Tame Impala (Kevin Parker's early stuff before he sold out), Kendrick Lamar (all of it), Soccer Mommy (most of it), Black Midi (some of it), and a bunch of other artists you've probably never heard of. In a colorful display of bold text and retro graphics, my Spotify Wrapped was a way to let people know that I was still much hipper than them.
This year when people began sharing their Spotify Wrapped on Twitter, I kept refreshing the app on my phone, waiting for mine to appear. The anticipation was killing me. Would The 1975 take the top spot? I was praying that they would. Although, I would have been happy with Alvvays, or Jockstrap. Obviously, I didn't want Taylor Swift to be number one (that would send the wrong impression), but it would be cool in an ironic way if she made an appearance. I imagined sharing my Spotify Wrapped on social media; my friends and family shaking their heads in wonderment; what a cool guy, they’d murmur. What a cool guy.
Then my Spotify Wrapped appeared. My vision blurred, and I thought for a moment that I was having a stroke. I didn't recognize any of it. There was no The 1975, no Kendrick Lamar, not even Taylor Swift. Instead, this year's Spotify Wrapped was dominated by the Encanto and Frozen soundtracks, a band called Boots and Cats, and worst of all, Fart Man. All kid's stuff. And worse, mainstream kids' stuff. My god, I couldn’t share my Spotify Wrapped this year—what would my 43 Twitter followers think?
With the room titling, I heard noises coming from my daughter's bedroom. Confused, phone still in hand, I stumbled down the hallway to investigate. My four-year-old was in her bedroom dancing away while the Alexa on her dresser blared the song that according to my Spotify Wrapped was played more times than any other song on my account, “The Fart Song,” by the Fart Man.
In horror, I realized the truth; my daughter had been using my Spotify account and ruined my Spotify Wrapped. She did it, she had finally stolen from me my last vestige of coolness.
I stood there in disbelief. But then, as “The Fart Song” kept tooting along, it occurred to me that I had never heard the track before. I ran the numbers on my Spotify app. And hey, what do you know? My daughter must take after me. The Fart man isn’t exactly as cool as Kurt Cobain, but with only 60,000 monthly listeners, compared to Encanto‘s 5 million, The Fart Man, it turns out, is obscure.