The Art of the List: Why We Love to Hate (and Secretly Need) Them
Let’s face it: we’ve all rolled our eyes at a listicle at some point. Whether it’s The New York Times ranking the ‘30 Greatest Living American Songwriters’ or Apple Music’s ‘Top 100 Albums of All Time,’ lists seem to invite more outrage than appreciation. But here’s the thing—lists aren’t just clickbait. They’re cultural mirrors, reflecting our biases, our values, and our endless need to categorize the world. Personally, I think what makes this particularly fascinating is how lists force us to confront our own subjectivity. We don’t just disagree with them; we feel them, often deeply.
Take The New York Times’ songwriters list, for example. On the surface, it’s a well-intentioned effort to celebrate American songwriting. But dig a little deeper, and you’ll find a minefield of omissions, inclusions, and questionable choices. Dolly Parton and Willie Nelson made the cut? Of course—excluding them would’ve been cultural heresy. But Taylor Swift? Now that’s where the debate gets spicy.
In my opinion, Swift’s inclusion isn’t the problem. What’s problematic is how the list lumps her alongside legends like Bob Dylan without any nuance. Swift’s impact on songwriting is undeniable—she’s democratized the craft, making it accessible to a generation that might’ve never cared otherwise. But is she in Dylan’s league? Not even close. What this really suggests is that lists often prioritize cultural relevance over artistic depth, and that’s a conversation worth having.
One thing that immediately stands out is the list’s treatment of country songwriters. Josh Osborne, Brandy Clark, and Shane McAnally are lumped into a single slot, which feels like a half-hearted attempt at inclusivity. From my perspective, this is a missed opportunity. These three are powerhouses, but grouping them together diminishes their individual contributions. Why not give Shane McAnally his own spot? Or, better yet, include the ‘Love Junkies’—Lori McKenna, Liz Rose, and Hillary Lindsey—who’ve penned some of the most iconic country hits of the past two decades.
What many people don’t realize is that lists like these are less about definitive rankings and more about sparking dialogue. Sure, the parameters are limiting—only 30 slots, only American songwriters—but that’s kind of the point. If you take a step back and think about it, the real value of this list isn’t in who’s on it, but in who’s left out. James McMurtry, Alan Jackson, Jesse Welles—these are names that deserve recognition, yet they’re conspicuously absent. This raises a deeper question: are we celebrating the songwriters we know, or the ones we should know?
A detail that I find especially interesting is the list’s lack of representation from certain genres. Country, for instance, is often sidelined in all-genre lists, and while The New York Times made an effort to include it, the execution feels tokenistic. Meanwhile, rock, pop, and hip-hop dominate, reinforcing the same old hierarchies. If you ask me, this is where lists fail us—they’re too often shaped by the tastes of the gatekeepers, not the diversity of the art form.
But here’s the thing: lists aren’t going anywhere. They’re too useful, too provocative, too irresistible. They challenge us to think critically, to defend our favorites, and to discover new voices. Personally, I think the next time you see a list, don’t just dismiss it. Engage with it. Argue about it. Let it frustrate you, inspire you, and maybe even teach you something. Because at the end of the day, lists aren’t just about ranking—they’re about storytelling, and that’s something we can all get behind.
Final Thought: Lists are like songs—they’re never perfect, but they’re always worth listening to.
