The other day, I went to a bar with a friend I hadn’t seen in six months.
There was a sign that said the bar focused on 1970s rock music.
Just as we were about to enter, the owner asked us, “This place only plays 1970s rock. Is that okay? Do you know rock music?”
I answered, “Just the basics,” and we went inside for now.
I was thinking, “As long as I can talk with my friend, I don’t really mind the music. I know a few songs from the ’70s anyway.”
But in the end, we ended up talking about music with the owner.
He asked me if I knew any songs from the 70s, and I said, “Sunset by Gary Moore.”
The owner replied, “Strictly speaking, that’s from the 80s, but you could say it just barely counts as 70s.”
He then played a version of Sunset with an especially beautiful long tone.
He said that CDs can’t truly capture the essence of music, and that in the West, people now only use vinyl.
As I listened to the song, I was deeply moved inside—but I hesitated to express that honestly. Instead, I said this:
“This song is indeed wonderful, but I feel a bit uncomfortable speaking about its greatness, as if I could judge it, especially in front of people who heard it in real time back then.”
Hearing that, both my friend and the owner clearly looked at me with puzzled expressions.
They said, “You should just say you were moved.”
And, “Not saying what you truly feel is rude.”
To explain myself, I said this:
“I’ve joined all kinds of amateur bands as a hobby for over 20 years, and many of the musicians I’ve met have this mindset: ‘If you didn’t experience it back then, don’t act like you understand it.’
So I’ve developed a habit of speaking in this roundabout way.”
After hearing that, both the owner and my friend said,
“Then you’ve just been around the wrong people.”
“You shouldn’t associate with people like that.”
From that point on, I found myself constantly trying to explain what I had said.
It had turned into a messy situation, and I regretted it.
Looking back, I realize that many of the people I met through my music hobby were deeply proud of the artists they loved and held strong beliefs about them.
So when someone like me, a beginner, casually said something like “That artist is cool,” I’d often hear, “No, no, you don’t get it at all.”
To be honest, it seemed to me that what they really wanted was to show off how much they knew.
Those experiences shaped the way I spoke that night at the bar.
But this isn’t just about music.
Back in my twenties, some friends once started a conversation about “Which ramen shop is the best?”
In my mind, I thought, “Ramen, or food in general, is a matter of personal taste. There’s no such thing as the best.”
But if I had said that out loud, it would have dampened the mood.
So when it was my turn to answer, I said, “Yokozuna Ramen.”
It’s a chain restaurant and not the kind of place you’d expect to come up in a serious ranking among ramen connoisseurs.
It was like answering a question about fine ramen with “cup noodles.”
But during my university days, I used to eat at Yokozuna four times a week, and I truly loved it.
As expected, my friends said, “Huh? You have no right to talk about ramen. You don’t know anything about it.”
My answer was half-serious, but the other half was sarcasm—“I don’t want to play along with your pointless debate.”
That brings me back to the bar the other night.
Faced with a bar owner who was surely well-versed in 1970s music, I held myself back.
At the same time, before he could say “You don’t know anything,” I said it myself.
But this time, it backfired.
The owner and my friend both seemed to feel a certain discomfort with me.
Putting that aside, I often find myself in this dilemma—
When I speak with confidence, people say, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But when I show humility, they ask, “Why don’t you speak with confidence?”
To begin with, I don’t really have strong attachments to things.
I’m not particularly interested in other people’s actions or behaviors, either.
But completely ignoring things can come across as rude.
So in situations like that, I try to show at least a little bit of interest.
I feel like that tendency might be the reason people sometimes react strongly to me.
I shared this part with the bar owner as well.
But he simply said, “Then don’t hang out with people who don’t match your vibe.”
I felt it wasn’t that simple.
I don’t choose who to spend time with based on whether our opinions differ, or whether we like the same ramen.
Even people who have bluntly told me, “You don’t know enough about music,” have been perfectly pleasant in every other aspect of life.
Maybe such people just have deeply held beliefs when it comes to music, and don’t want outsiders stepping into that sacred space.
If you don’t understand that and just live your life by avoiding “those kinds of people,” you might end up surrounded only by people who agree with you on the surface.
I want to avoid denying anyone if I can.
When I don’t deny people and accept them as they are, they slowly start to reveal their true selves to me.
Most people put up invisible barriers to protect themselves.
And I think, in the end, it all comes down to this: people don’t want to be denied.
I’m not bothered by most things, so I can accept people as they are.
When I do that, people often become unguarded around me.
And in most cases, they turn out to be kind and gentle.
Of course, some people notice that I’m accepting and try to take advantage of it with bad intentions.
But I can sense malice immediately.
The moment I feel it, I make sure to stop meeting that person in real life.
At the bar the other night, at the very end, I told the owner this:
“My favorite Led Zeppelin song is All My Love.
But over the years, many people in music circles have told me it’s the worst song—
not just the song, but the whole album it’s on is considered the weakest in their discography.
Even music magazines used to say the same thing.”
The owner replied,
“You’ve just met the wrong people.
All My Love is a truly beautiful and wonderful song.
We’re past closing time, but let’s play it as the last song. I love that song too.”
It was the first time I had heard that song in about twenty years.
I wondered, when did I start losing confidence like this?
This really is a beautiful song.
No—that’s not it. It’s not that I lack confidence.
I just hate showing confidence in front of others, because it never ends well.
With all kinds of thoughts swirling in my mind, I listened to the song, trying to hide my tears from the friend sitting next to me.
A few days later, a classmate ordered pearl earrings from me.
I asked, “Do you prefer round or baroque? White or blue?”
She said, “Round and white!”
I didn’t recommend my beloved blue baroque pearls.
Or maybe… I just couldn’t.
Comment