The Disappointment of Watching My Favorite Artists Fall

 Growing up, music was more than just background noise—it was a lifeline, a way to make sense of the world, a companion during the quiet and chaotic moments alike. Certain bands and artists weren’t just catchy tunes on the radio; they were part of my identity, part of the soundtrack to formative experiences, part of the emotional architecture of my teenage and early adult years. I can remember staying up late listening to tracks on repeat, memorizing lyrics, replaying solos and hooks until they became ingrained in me, sharing favorites with friends and discovering new layers in songs I thought I already knew inside and out. Those moments created a kind of bond between me and the music, a bond that, at the time, seemed untouchable, almost sacred.

But now, as I look back, that bond is fractured. I’ve been disappointed by the heel turn of so many bands and artists I used to hold close, the ones whose music once seemed untouchable. Artists I grew up loving—Kanye, Trapt, Skillet, Smashing Pumpkins, Staind, Disturbed, K’naan—they’ve evolved in ways that make it hard, sometimes impossible, to listen to them the way I once did. Not in the sense of changing styles, because musical evolution is natural and expected, but in the sense of changing values, of changing into people whose public personas, statements, or actions make it uncomfortable to engage with their work. The music I loved feels tainted, not because the tracks themselves are different, but because of the context of who these artists have become.

It’s hard to articulate exactly why this hurts so much. There’s a part of me that can still recognize the old music for what it was at the time—the catchy hooks, the raw emotion, the moments of genius—but there’s another part that struggles to separate the art from the artist. I know people often say, “separate the art from the artist,” but it’s not that simple. Music isn’t just entertainment; it’s an extension of the artist, a window into their perspective, their mindset, their values. When I see these artists embrace ideologies, make statements, or align themselves with things I find morally or emotionally untenable, it casts a shadow over the songs that once gave me joy. Even if the lyrics haven’t changed, even if the tracks are technically the same, the meaning has shifted for me because the creator has changed.

Kanye is an obvious example. His work in the early 2000s was transformative, reshaping hip-hop with emotion, vulnerability, and experimentation. I could connect to those albums on a personal level; they spoke to struggles and triumphs that were authentic and nuanced. But over the years, watching him embrace far-right politics, make deeply hurtful statements, and surround himself with people whose views are overtly harmful, it’s impossible for me to listen to his work without feeling the weight of what he’s become. It doesn’t erase the brilliance of those early tracks, but it makes them heavy, complicated, almost guilty pleasures that I can no longer indulge in fully.

Bands like Trapt and Skillet strike a similar chord of frustration. Trapt’s music was part of my high school years, the emotional soundtrack to awkward, intense, and formative experiences, but their turn toward right-wing alignment and support for figures like Trump makes their music difficult to enjoy now. Skillet, too, occupies this weird space—Christian rock that once resonated for its energy and earnestness has become entangled with political stances that feel antithetical to the way I want to engage with music. It’s not just a shift in messaging; it’s a shift in alignment, and that alignment makes it impossible for me to fully celebrate the work I once loved.

Then there are bands like Staind and Disturbed, artists whose music defined parts of my adolescence, whose raw emotion and angst captured feelings I didn’t know how to express. Songs I once played on repeat now feel almost bittersweet, as if the context of who these musicians are now retroactively changes the experience of those tracks. I can hear the hooks, remember the lyrics, but the connection isn’t pure anymore. It’s tinged with disappointment, with a kind of mourning for the artists I thought they were, for the connection I thought I had with them through their music.

Even more complicated is the case of K’naan. His early work, full of socially conscious lyrics and stories of resilience, felt like a bridge to understanding broader struggles, a voice that brought both urgency and hope. But the allegations against him, the reports of assault and harm, make it almost impossible to listen to his songs in the same way. I can still recognize the skill, the craft, the lyrical ability, but the shadow of who he has become—or at least the allegations of who he has become—makes the act of listening fraught, uncomfortable, almost impossible to enjoy without a sense of moral dissonance.

What I struggle with is the idea that music was once an escape, a refuge, and now that refuge is complicated. I still find some of these old songs catchy, still can remember the feelings they evoked, but there’s a barrier now. A knowledge that the person behind the work has evolved—or devolved—in ways that clash with my own values, that makes full enjoyment of the music feel like complicity, or at the very least, an act of cognitive dissonance. I can compartmentalize to some degree, I can appreciate the musicality in a vacuum, but the visceral joy, the deep emotional connection I once had, is no longer accessible in the same way.

I recognize that this is a personal reaction. Others might be able to compartmentalize, to enjoy the art purely as art, ignoring the actions or beliefs of the artist. But for me, the connection is too intertwined. I don’t just vibe with music on a technical level—I vibe with the people behind it, with the energy, the intent, the humanity that informs the art. When that humanity turns in a direction I find morally or emotionally troubling, it ruptures the experience. Music stops being a refuge and becomes a reminder, a mirror reflecting the disappointment of seeing someone I once admired become someone I can no longer admire.

There’s a mourning in this, a sense of loss that is hard to articulate. It’s not just the loss of enjoyment; it’s the loss of a relationship, even if that relationship was mediated entirely through sound waves and lyrics. I’ve lost access to moments of nostalgia that once brought comfort, moments where a song could perfectly capture what I was feeling, moments where music and life felt aligned. Now those songs carry an asterisk, a caveat, a moral and emotional footnote that I can’t ignore.

It’s also a reminder of impermanence, of how nothing stays the same—not people, not perspectives, not art itself. Just because someone created something beautiful doesn’t mean they will remain someone whose values or actions I can support. And that’s a hard truth to accept, especially when the music was formative, when the emotional stakes were high, when the bond felt unbreakable. Part of me still wishes I could listen without thinking, without judgment, without the shadow of disappointment. But the reality is that my connection to these artists’ music is inseparable from my awareness of who they have become.

So I navigate a kind of bittersweet space with these tracks now. I recognize the brilliance, I remember the joy, I can even hum the lyrics, but full enjoyment feels out of reach. It’s an experience colored by history, context, and disappointment, a testament to how deeply I once cared, and how deeply it hurts to see those I cared about change in ways that make them hard to love or admire. Music is still music, but the people behind it are no longer untouchable, and that shift transforms the listening experience in ways that are impossible to ignore.

In the end, I think this disappointment reflects the way I approach life and art: with investment, with empathy, with the hope that connection will endure. When that connection falters because of the trajectory of the artist, it hurts. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the pain is part of what makes those old tracks meaningful, a reminder not just of what they were, but of what I once felt, of how deeply music could matter, and of the high bar I set for the people whose work I choose to let into my emotional world.