“There is no such thing as a guilty pleasure.” While carrying on a conversation with avid music nerds, there is approximately an 82-percent chance (I’ve done the math) that, at some point in the discussion, you will hear them blurt this mantra or some variation of it (e.g. – Ben Folds makes me feel good, and there’s nothing your hipster ass can do about it).

And it’s a mantra with teeth. Music is an incredibly subjective art form. It enters our ears and mingles with the chemicals in our brains and affects us all very differently.

But if I truly believe this, then how does the devil-horned phrase “guilty pleasure” consistently elbow its way into my psyche when I’m simply trying to enjoy a song? Is it the popular opinion of music critics that implants itself into my noggin, hindering me from enjoying an album with a sub-par score on Metacritic.com? No, because I’m a very counterculture-type person (probably to a fault) and, if anything, I take pleasure in going against the grain.

The truth is, I know exactly what is at the root of my Jewish musical guilt, and it’s not what you would expect: my brother. My younger, 16-year-old, still-has-to-sneak-into-R-rated-movies brother named Zach.

For whatever reason, if Zach dislikes a certain artist/album/guitar tone (he could write you a five-page proof on why he’s anti-distortion), I have trouble sitting back and soaking it in without an image of his blue-eyed, dimpled face popping into my consciousness to challenge my visceral reaction. And this self-imposed stumbling block isn’t just restricted to music he has already judged. Even if I’m listening to a song he has never heard in his life, an automated voice will switch on in my head and ask me whether or not Zach would approve.

Do I enjoy this silly compulsion? No. Do I think it’s healthy? Absolutely not. Am I fully aware that I’m a micromanaging ball of neurosis who can’t even take a piss without questioning its validity? Yes. Yes times infinity.

But even though I’ve dredged this ridiculous guilt complex up from my unconsciousness, looked it in the eye and forced myself to form my own music-related opinions, the fact that I still have to override this automatic impulse can be pretty vexing. For me, the process I have to go through to guiltlessly enjoy a piece of music that my brother has publicly denounced is absolutely difficult. It’s pretty paradoxical, but I have to actively fight against my natural cognitive flow in order to shape my own opinions on music.

Now, this fixation isn’t completely arbitrary. It probably has a good deal to do with the fact that, while we’re both drummers, Zach has gone on to compose music, record songs and play gigs with his friends, while I’ve been marooned at college without a drum set or band. And even while I was in high school, my “band” and I never really evolved past the “let’s play an awesome jam” phase. So I guess I feel a bit inferior. Consequently, when it comes to music, I really look up to him and his Gestapo opinions.

And I don’t use the word Gestapo lightly; Zach is easily one of the most strong-willed people I know. The way he talks sometimes, it’s hard not to take his views as the gospel. For instance, when he was only a fourth grader, he swore to vegetarianism in support of animals’ rights. He's a stubborn guy. So when it comes to debating music with him, the odds aren’t in my favor.

About a week ago, I told him about this voice in my head — about how I have a hard time letting myself enjoy music that hasn’t been graced with his stamp of approval. And this is all he said: “That’s not good.” As simple as his response was, it made me feel so fucking stupid; why in Michael Jackson’s name should it matter to me whether or not my brother endorses Wilco? (He doesn’t, FYI.) If I like something, I need to go ahead and like it, as tautological as that sounds. Because life’s too short for guilty pleasures. And because I really like Wilco.