If you were to look through my music inventory, you would see an array of artists. There are a couple of Beyoncé songs, even more Taylor Swift breakup anthems and a whole lot of Luke Bryan. However, you’d notice that the majority of artists are bands you’ve probably never heard of, and who, if you ever took the opportunity to listen to them, would startle you with wild vocals and harsh rhythms. “Screamo” is the term I hear most often to describe this type of music. This encompasses hardcore, post-hardcore, pop punk, and almost anything with the word “metal” in it. To anyone outside of the genre, I suppose that’s what it sounds like, but I think it’s important for people to recognize that these sub-genres are more than just the guttural noise of a scream (and don’t even get me started on how many types of those there are).

Often the first reaction I get is wide eyed stares and a plead to “turn it off, turn it off.” Some of my friends even refer to it as the devil’s music. I think it’s one of the most misunderstood genres, as it is not widely attractive to contemporary popular culture. Our culture has become so accustomed to mainstream music that it’s become hard to appreciate anything outside of that sphere. I grew up with bands like Green Day and Breaking Benjamin, so it was almost second nature to transition into heavier sounds. It’s a very honest and raw art form, one that isn’t afraid to produce works that contemplate the darker sides to life. It gives a voice to any inexpressible feelings that linger on the tips of our tongues, that perhaps we can only form in the force of music. It’s not just an internal expression, but a corporeal one as well (just look at the center of a mosh pit!). These musicians put everything into their work. Most start out in a basement or a garage, slowly making their way from the small stage to clubs and, if they're lucky, amphitheaters. They set up their own equipment and pay for a great deal of their travel expenses. They stay humble and grateful. I've been privileged enough to watch many performances and even meet a few bands, and they never fail to meet my expectations. I've seen singers brought to tears by the size of a crowd and I've had conversations with artists as if we were old friends. This genre doesn't just make you feel like a number in a crowd of fans: it makes you feel like part of a community.

There’s something that this music does to me that I cannot quite put into words. It starts in my fingertips, electrifying the nerves and circulating through my synapses, jolting each one awake. My lungs concave for a moment, just long enough for the beat to catch up, the breath caught in a paralysis of pure bliss. Something about the harsh clash of drums and heavy guitar riffs puts my body on edge, letting my synapses fire in free range. I lose control of myself, forgetting everything. I feel my body drawn towards the music, aching to merge with the beat and melodies until I am totally synchronized. Nothing exists outside of that feeling. Once my lungs release, I feel them screaming along with the undeniably magnificent pieces of art. I like to think of it as a lot like Cubism: many don’t completely understand the concept, the pieces broken apart in a way that’s often distorting to the natural eye. Only some may fully understand what the artist is trying to convey, but that doesn’t take away from the work put into such pieces. It makes me feel full in a way that few things do. It inspires me, comforts me, and often acts as a caffination for my mood: I feel lighter, more energized. That alone makes all the judgement this type of music receives worthless.