Like many, my friends and I were once deeply invested in musical elitism. In our youth, passionately disliking certain bands and genres was practically a hobby. It’s almost comical to recall the intense disdain we held, for example, for bands like Styx. The very suggestion that someone might enjoy their music was met with theatrical outrage.
Looking back, this vehement musical snobbery was less about the music itself and more about identity formation. Navigating the complexities of adolescence, defining ourselves felt crucial. Drawing stark lines between “good” and “bad” music became a way to solidify our sense of self. Embracing punk rock, for instance, set us apart, creating a sense of belonging within a specific tribe (and even within punk, the sub-genre battles were fiercely fought). Conversely, rejecting punk and favoring bands like Foreigner also carved out a distinct identity for others.
These musical divisions, in retrospect, are somewhat embarrassing. It’s hard not to see parallels between these youthful skirmishes over taste and the deep societal divides we see today. Were we, as a generation, so adept at creating factions based on trivial differences that this behavior simply persisted into adulthood? Perhaps someone with sociological insight could map the connections between, say, Journey fans and fans of X, and the current political polarization.
It’s with this lens that I recall my initial reaction to “Dancing Queen.” At the time of its release, I was still deeply entrenched in the process of defining myself, a process heavily reliant on rejecting anything outside the narrow confines of “punk rock.” Therefore, “Dancing Queen” faced a double prejudice. First, it was swept up in the general knee-jerk rejection of disco that was prevalent in certain circles. Secondly, it became a target of my carefully cultivated musical snobbery, a song that represented everything my self-defined identity stood against. It was simply not punk, and therefore, in my youthful logic, irredeemably bad.
[Imagine a group of teenagers in the 1970s, some with punk rock attire and others with more mainstream clothing, looking disdainfully at a disco ball.]
However, time and maturity have a way of softening even the most rigid opinions. While I’ve consciously worked to cultivate a more open mind, the initial dismissal of “Dancing Queen” highlights a fascinating point about music, identity, and growing up. It wasn’t about the inherent quality of ABBA songs, and certainly not about the undeniable catchiness of “Dancing Queen.” It was about where I placed myself, and where I thought my music should be placed, in the social hierarchy of teenage taste.
The enduring popularity of “Dancing Queen,” decades later, speaks volumes. It transcends generational divides and musical trends. Its appeal lies in its masterful construction, its infectious melody, and its undeniably uplifting spirit. It’s a song that evokes joy and encourages movement, pure and simple. The sophisticated arrangement, the soaring vocals, and the subtle melancholy beneath the surface of its exuberance – these are qualities that are now universally recognized and celebrated.
[Imagine a diverse group of people of all ages dancing joyfully to “Dancing Queen” at a wedding or party.]
From a song once scorned as frivolous disco fluff by image-conscious teenagers, “Dancing Queen” has evolved into a beloved classic. It stands as a testament to the idea that true musical quality endures, regardless of genre prejudice or youthful snobbery. It’s a reminder that sometimes, letting go of rigid definitions and embracing music outside our self-imposed boundaries can lead to discovering true gems and, perhaps more importantly, a more open and appreciative self. The journey from teenage music snob to someone who can genuinely appreciate the brilliance of ABBA songs, especially the iconic “Dancing Queen,” is a journey of personal growth and broadened horizons.
