You probably haven’t heard of them.
No really—my favorite band is so niche, I’m pretty sure I’m personally responsible for at least 37% of their Spotify streams. Their concerts feel like secret society meetings, their lyrics sound like they were pulled from the fever dream of a sad poet with ADHD, and their merch is so obscure I once had a barista ask if it was a cult. (Technically, yes. But it’s a musical cult. With harmonies.)
I used to pretend I wasn’t a music snob. But the older I get, the more I embrace it. Because there’s something deeply satisfying about loving a band so underground, they basically live in a metaphorical basement apartment next to the boiler room of mainstream pop culture. When someone mentions they’re into the same artist, it feels less like a shared interest and more like a cosmic handshake. We nod. We bond. We exchange knowing glances that whisper, We are not like the others.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I don’t hate popular music. I enjoy a catchy bop as much as the next emotionally repressed millennial. But there’s a big difference between enjoying a Taylor Swift album and organizing your entire personality around an Icelandic synth-folk trio who only release vinyl recordings inside hand-stitched felt envelopes.
Because here’s the thing about loving niche music: it’s intimate. It’s not meant to be streamed in a Target dressing room while Karen tries on denim. It’s meant to be played on repeat while you sit on your floor contemplating if your ex ever really loved you or if they just liked your dog. (Spoiler: they liked your dog.)
Every favorite niche band has a moment—the one track that gutted you so personally you considered DMing the lead singer a thank-you note and then immediately deleted it out of embarrassment. For me, it was a live acoustic recording with the sound quality of a potato but the emotional impact of a gut punch. That song knew me. It saw my soul, patted it gently, and said, “You’re a mess, but you’re our mess.”
Of course, loving niche music isn’t without its hardships. When people ask what kind of music I like, I can’t just say the name. I have to explain the name. Then spell it. Then say, “No, it’s not in English.” Then pretend not to be annoyed when they ask, “So it’s like Coldplay?”
It is never like Coldplay.
I once made Matthew listen to an entire album on a road trip. He didn’t complain, but he did start Googling nearby exits for Taco Bell about four songs in—possibly as a distraction, possibly as a cry for help. He’s more of a “soundtrack from a show we watched three years ago” playlist guy, and I love him for it. But he also tolerates my obscure musical obsessions with the same patience he shows Daisy when she barks at leaves. Deep sigh. Loving eye-roll. But he stays.
And honestly, that’s the magic. Music is personal. Intimate. Weird. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. Your favorite artist doesn’t have to be critically acclaimed or Grammy-nominated or even well-produced. They just have to get you. Your mood. Your melancholy. Your mess.
So maybe your favorite band isn’t niche. Maybe you love Harry Styles and you’ll fight about it. Maybe you think Lizzo is a lifestyle. Maybe you just play the Bridgerton soundtrack and call it a day. And that’s okay too. Because the real joy isn’t in being obscure—it’s in being seen. In finding something that speaks your language when the world won’t shut up.
But if you do decide to explore niche bands, beware: it’s a slippery slope. One day you’re humming a folk-electronica remix from a Swedish artist who records in a yurt, and the next you’re weeping in a Whole Foods parking lot over a concept album inspired by the poetry of Sylvia Plath.
You’ve been warned.