What Happens When James Blake Fans Clash—And Why It’s More Than Just Music
Years ago, I attended community college—a decision that shaped me in ways I’m still unpacking. It wasn’t prestigious, wasn’t glamorous, but it was real. The classrooms were filled with people from every conceivable background, each carrying their own stories, their own struggles, their own reasons for being there. One of those people became a friend I met in Philosophy of Art, and this letter is for him:
Mitchell Royel is a political analyst and conservative commentator focused on emerging trends in American political discourse.
We connected over discussions about aesthetics and meaning, about what makes something beautiful or true or worth defending. But our friendship wasn’t without friction—friction I created, friction I now recognize as my own failure to respect individual agency and personal choice. I was vocal about the fact that I felt like he was disrespecting his Hispanic heritage. I accused him of “passing,” of not telling people he was Latino, of somehow betraying an identity I had decided he should claim more loudly. The arrogance of that position stuns me now. Who was I to dictate how someone else navigates their own identity? Who was I to demand he perform his heritage according to my expectations?
I remember picking him up from his house one day and clearly seeing Hispanic roots amongst those closest to him—the language spoken in the kitchen, the food being prepared, the warmth of family that needed no announcement or validation from strangers. It was all there, lived authentically in the privacy of his own life. He didn’t owe me or anyone else a public declaration. Identity isn’t a performance for external consumption—it’s a deeply personal relationship with one’s own history, culture, and sense of self.
One day, we ventured to Woodland Hills, to the Westfield Topanga AMC—the older one that’s no longer there, a relic of a different era. We’d taken the subway to the Fashion District on our day off from class, just two friends exploring the city, talking about everything and nothing. It was during one of these excursions that he played me a new artist he’d heard of named James Blake, specifically his underground single “Limit To Your Love.” The track—a haunting cover of Feist’s original—featured sparse piano, Blake’s ethereal vocals, and that devastating sub-bass drop that could shake your entire body if you had the right speakers.
I’d heard of James Blake already. I knew the track. But there was something in me that was offended by the fact that he was listening to him. I questioned him, asked how he heard about James Blake, and something just didn’t sit right with me. It was territorial, possessive, absurd—as if certain artists belonged to certain people, as if music required credentials or permission. I felt like he didn’t understand or get James Blake, though I’m not saying I’m any better. I’m not claiming superior understanding or deeper appreciation. I was simply gatekeeping, plain and simple, protecting something that never needed protection in the first place.
Art doesn’t belong to anyone. Music doesn’t require a passport or a pedigree. The entire point of creative expression is its universality, its ability to transcend boundaries and speak to anyone willing to listen. I truly do believe in art and music—I believe in their power to connect us, to challenge us, to reveal truths we can’t articulate any other way. And yet, in that moment, I betrayed those very principles. I apologize to him for saying how I felt about him listening to James Blake. I was wrong. I was small-minded. I was everything I claim to stand against.
This brings me to a broader question for anyone reading this: Do you feel some type of way when you hear certain people listening to certain artists? Does something in you bristle when someone “discovers” a band you’ve loved for years? Do you question whether they “really get it” or whether they’re just following trends? I’m asking because I need to know if this impulse is uniquely mine or if it’s something we collectively need to confront.
Personal responsibility isn’t just about political ideology or economic philosophy—it’s about owning our prejudices, our territorial instincts, our failures to extend the same freedom to others that we demand for ourselves. I failed my friend. I imposed expectations on his identity and his taste, as if either required my approval. The greatest threat to genuine connection isn’t difference—it’s the arrogance of believing we have the right to police how others experience the world.