It’s time to admit a very deep, dark secret. For years, I’ve been bragging to my friends about my knowledge of music. I’ve always been the first to know the up-and-coming bands. Always the first to dismiss a new musical trend that didn’t fit my idea of “good music.” And let’s not even get started on my hatred for Avril Lavigne.

But the truth is, I’ve had more than my fair share of embarrassing musical choices. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not the all-knowing aficionado I’d like to be. I can’t continue to live this lie — my past is riddled with bad music.

Everyone remembers his or her first CD purchase. For some, it was the hair band escape of early grunge. For others, it was a love of junior high dance music (read: Salt-N-Pepa).

For me, it was Wilson Phillips.

In the beginning, Kurt Cobain’s befriending words of “Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be” meant less to me than Chynna Phillips’ inspiring “Don’t you know things can change/ Things will go your way/ If you hold on for one more day.” To this day, there’s something about off-key vocals and pseudo-gospel lyrics that sends cold shivers down my spine.

Such a rough introduction to music should’ve taught me a few lessons, but things went from bad to worse. Just as bands like Operation Ivy and NOFX emerged from the punk underground to save me from my tragic world of contrived pop music, the most embarrassing craze of all time occurred — the popularization of country music.

In 50 years, when a book about the trends of the late 20th century is written, the torn-out and missing pages toward the back of the book will be the ones documenting country music. Musicians like Ricky Van Shelton and Joe Diffie proved that music in the early ’90s didn’t have to be good — it just had to have a steel guitar.

Had I been born in New York or California, this corruption of my musical standards may have never happened. But for a 12-year-old boy in rural northeastern Iowa, cutting-edge music wasn’t exactly a top priority.

There I was, in the middle of a sawdust-covered dance floor, learning the “Electric Slide” to Dwight Yoakam’s cover of “Suspicious Minds.” My mother is a wonderful woman, but I wish she’d have traded in my boots and cowboy hat for some baggy jeans and a torn T-shirt. Then again, maybe my mad “Achy Breaky Heart” line dancing skills will come in handy someday.

My taste in music has improved drastically, but there have been more than a few speed bumps on my road to musical enlightenment. A little Robyn here, a little Marcy Playground there — and yes, even the first Backstreet Boys album — have all been skeletons in my musical closet.

Obviously, sharing these precious moments from my past isn’t exactly my favorite topic. But the truth is, almost everyone who has ever purchased an album has regretted it at least once. I just happen to be voicing my bad choices to an audience of 14,000 people. You may laugh at some of the music in my past, but I’m not the only one. If I were, the Spice Girls would’ve never released “Spice World,” let alone a second album.

They say hindsight is 20/20. Looking back at some of my past favorites, I’ll be the last to argue. Everyone makes mistakes, and I’m proud to admit that I’ve survived some of the worst music ever recorded and emerged relatively unscathed.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my Vanilla Ice.

Aaron Ladage is a junior in journalism and mass communication from Tripoli. He is the assignment arts and entertainment editor of the Daily.