Judging a Song by its Cover

Because I am extremely cool, I read some message board post saying that George Gershwin does not write opera. Though his Porgy and Bess is a masterful blend of genres (see my post on "Summertime"), this poster felt music aficionados were ridiculous to compare it to the works of Wagner, for instance. It's a matter of taste.

Which got me thinking about how we construct taste. Before I go on, I'll confess it: I can be a snob. Though no expert on many aspects of film (foreign, indie), I will roll my eyes if you say your favorite movie is Austin Powers. I remember being coaxed into going to White Castle with Harold and Kumar back in high school. Surprise, I laughed a lot--but because I was able to construct a reason: the film cleverly subverted road-trip conventions and was self-aware of its idiocy. Others liked the pot humor. At college orientation, though, Harold and Kumar's wacky adventures were useful for bonding with other newbies who'd sated their White Castle hunger. So I allowed myself to enjoy it inwardly because it was a smart stoner movie, but around the guys, it was just totally awesome, man.

Many of us are self-aware of how others perceive our tastes. A colleague at work proudly displays posters of teen vampire books she loves, but if I mention one, she admonishes me: "Don't judge." Often diehard fans of "genre writing" equate their indulgence with guilty pleasure. But what's to say you can't elevate vampires and wizards into artful writing?

Speaking of bad taste... PhotoShop much?

At work yesterday, water-cooler discussion shifted from the Lost series finale to Glee. I found myself defending the fact that I watch Glee to a host of Lost fans. Aren't these shows cut from the same cloth? Neither is high art. Hard to say what alternative universes Glee will take up in the future; for some, glee club always is a form of purgatory. But this spring, I sense an effort by the writers to deepen the characters, while also churning out increasingly ridiculous musical spots. There have been stumbles. Shortly after an all-Madonna episode, we have to deal with a Lady Gaga tunestack. Then Neil Patrick Harris came in as yet another threat to the club, only to learn things about himself and fall back into his showbiz ways, never to be seen again. It's a sign of guest star fever. Why couldn't we have spent that time getting to know Idina Menzel's character (who had a big secret to share)? That she dreamed a dream feels less emotional than it should when she's been absent for a month.

But there are moments where Glee moves out of its inspirational box and appeals to more than the karaoke fanatic inside us. Future star Rachel, the self-absorbed spotlight-hugger of the glee club, recently lost her voice and, beyond the humor of her silence ("I'm like Tinkerbell. I need applause to live."), there was nuance to her loss. What if her fading voice were permanent? Fashionable boy soprano Kurt has dominated recent episodes; his struggles fitting in with his father formed the first genuine moments of Glee last fall.

Many of these high schoolers are going to graduate and stay close to home, never fulfilling their dreams of performing. That was the undercurrent of NPH's guest turn. Glee can be superficial--all that AutoTune!--but every now and then, there's something boiling underneath. Granted, as a theater nerd/musician/ex-college performer, this show is targeted toward my tastes. But it's not the cheesy episode themes (Bad Reputations, Dreams, Gaga). The best song choices this season have come from a real place, not just Jukebox 301. My favorite episode so far was "Home": three different plot lines and a hokey premise for exploring where we belong (the auditorium was closed to glee rehearsal). But each song was a guise characters could hide behind, grappling with displacement. Knowing his affection is not reciprocated, Kurt sang the melancholy "A House is Not a Home," later reprised by Will and April as they both yearn for unlikely companionship. And April's all-white production of The Wiz? Maybe in bad taste, but I'd sure rather sit through it than Wagner.