Recently, I decided to dive into the sticky, sweet buzz of The Umbrella Academy, a new television series birthed from the fecund mind of Gerard Way. There I was, minding my own business, absorbed by the steel nylon unraveling, the too-cool aesthetics of its world unwinding like a mack truck, when suddenly, the opening beats followed by the synthetic notes of Tiffani’s “I Think We’re Alone Now” pulled upon my heartstrings, gracing the sequence that danced into the scene, revealing the idiosyncrasies of its titular characters. A masterful stroke that endeared me towards the show and its soundtrack even more. This particular song pushes through my memory like fingers of the sun pushing through a dense wood’s shroud. It sounds like wanton glee, frenzied joy, a certain happiness bereft of any prejudices cultured through the social compromises we willingly make to become adults. It sounds like salvation, free of the real world and its many trappings. Indeed, the song is a haven where I am free to be whoever and whatever I want to be. Now, I am fully aware that the song is simply four minutes of balderdash, that the words are juvenile deprived of any significance, but the way it makes me feel, the elation that it radiates… its like waking up in the morning and realizing its Saturday and you are off of work today. I remember listening to the song on my Walkman, knowing and singing all the words as I imagined myself performing the song in front of an adoring crowd, sensationalized by the fact that a boy would dare to sing from a girl’s point of view.

We all harbor musical skeletons in our closets, those pale bones we compulsively keep within to hide from the outside world, those artists, bands, and songs that we covertly love but shun openly because we wear our “punk” ethics on our sleeves, those badges of honor that proclaim, “My taste in music is vastly superior to yours.” We hide these bones because we fear to ruin our “street cred,” to lose our “cool factor,” to betray the elitism we wield like militants to belittle anything that is not post-punk, weird, alternative, dance punk, electro, metal, indie, dark wave, dangerous, experimental, underground, progressive, avant-garde, and so forth. And the same is true for those who shun the music just listed, whose persuasions fall within dissimiliar spectrums. It’s a cruel cycle that voids the joy that springs from the soul whenever we hear a song that is no longer or never was and never will be considered cool. Still, was it not Kurt Cobain who sang, “I’d rather be dead than cool,” the very Messiah of all that is cultured, chic and cool. One can only aspire to be so indifferently cool, so nonchalant in one’s discretions. Still, these words ring clear and true like silver striking through the lunar core, words that have come to define the very spirit that underlines my every decision, choice, and action. So I will cease such proclamations, to hell to music-snobbery, and sever the skewed nose I usually look down upon like a sky lark in the gnawing darkness to share some of my guilty pleasures. I will show my bones.

Thus, “I Think We’re Alone Now” has prompted this overshare, to unearth the waxing traxs that many will consider uncouth and uncool. These are the artists, bands, and songs that are spheres of joy that pop like pop rocks whenever consumed. As a write this, I am listening to a playlist pregnant with all the guilty pleasures that have brought joy into my life and I am stung by the nostalgia, the toxin slowly spreading through my every fibers, pinning me open with my entrails and skeleton smiling, bleached by the glaring glory of my 80s. I am a glutton for guilty pleasures. So here is a just a taste: I fucking love disco, Donna Summers is a goddess, I was suckled on Madonna and “Into the Groove” is a fucking masterpiece, Cyndi Lauper is a genius and “I Drove All Night” and “Time After Time” are my jams, I am quite fond of Debbie Gibson’s “Only in My Dreams” and I was totally gaga for her songs and style, I worship Janet Jackson and Rhythm Nation 1814 is a seminal classic, Paula Abdul’s first three albums are actually quite good and I often “rush[ed], rush[ed]” into the arms of Keanu Reeves, I used to rewind the ending of Mannequin over and over again just to hear Jefferson Starship’s “Nothing’s Going to Stop Us Now,” EMF’s Schubert Dip minus “Unbelievable” is totally unbelievable, Cher’s “If I Can Turn Back Time” is a fucking revelation, and I raged to Pat Benatar’s “Love is a Battlefield” and “Invincible” as I raised my fists in the air saying, “Fair is fair!” Hell, I even believed Europe’s “Final Countdown” was hardcore and till this day whenever I hear the lead keyboard winding out like striking metal I remember that time in 4th grade when a bully pushed me into the wall and threatened to kick my ass. Ahhhh, memories…. like “summer breeze[,….] blowing through the jasmine in my mind.” And so, this is just a morsel of my guilty pleasures. I have not even included the more recent ones or the Holy Trinity of Rihanna, Robyn, and Gaga. No, that will unravel when the right time comes. Now that I have dragged some of my skeletons from the very depths of ill repute, show me your guilty pleasures, show the world what music liberates you from the social constraints and the corporations of cool. Show your bones. “Running just as fast as we can, holding on to one another hands, trying to get away into the night and then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground and then you say, I think we’re alone now, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around, I think we’re alone now, the beating of our hearts is the only sound…”