More Than Labels: The Complex World of Music Categorization
Exploring the complexities of genre labels in music, and how they can be both necessary and problematic.
Music can be everything and nothing. It doesn’t have to be just one thing. It doesn’t have to fit neatly within a genre. It doesn’t have to stand for something. It doesn’t have to be catchy. It doesn’t have to have the hardest bars or the smoothest beat.
It can also be all of these things.
I had a conversation with a professor five years ago. He mentioned a rap song with a catchy beat he loved but admitted the lyrics were surface-level and uninspiring. Someone had told him the song wasn’t worth his time because of that, and that rap has to make a bold statement. He disagreed—and so did I. We dove into a long discussion about how music doesn’t have to be defined by one characteristic or meet certain standards to have value. Simultaneously, just because it’s labeled as one genre, rap in this case, that doesn’t mean it fits a confined set of expectations that might come along with rap.
Yet in common rhetoric, especially surrounding accolades, artists are squeezed into boxes. Music is labeled by critics as "good" or "bad." Streaming platforms categorize albums and artists into genres, sometimes perfectly but often reductively. While some pieces of music clearly fit a category—rap, jazz, pop—others defy simple classification.
Music is a form of communication and connection, with genres acting like different languages. Within those languages, there are dialects, slang, and regional variations, blending elements from one culture to another. Metaphorically and literally, music is a global language. So in a world dominated by SEO and streaming algorithms, which aim to predict and feed our preferences, how do we categorize music without limiting it?
The expansion of the "alternative" genre reflects this complexity. As artists embrace creativity and blend styles, new sounds are born that defy traditional labels.
In an Apple Music interview, Nadeska Alexis and EarthGang discussed the emerging idea of "Afrofuturism." She suggested the group embodies the genre, but they challenged the very need for that label.
“We just are used to the Black identity being so monolithic,” said WowGr8 (one half of EarthGang). “It’s like, ‘Okay, well, you not the monolith—so you must be from the future.’”
“And you also still Black, so you Afrofuturistic,” he continued, leaning into the absurdity of labeling something as complex as identity with a single term.
EarthGang went on to explain how the diversity within Black culture breeds a vast array of sounds, making it difficult—and perhaps unnecessary—to confine them to any one genre.
“We personify just a place where that's not even a thing, we come from Atlanta, everybody know Atlanta is a bunch of Black people but they don't really fully appreciate until they there, we have the most identities of what Black is,” said WowGr8. “Each person is redefining the whole identity at all times for themselves and whoever around.”
“Each person is their own genre,” Olu (the other half of EarthGang) followed.
(Photo by Em Wilson)
This sentiment echoes broader frustrations among Black artists, who often feel their work is miscategorized. Tyler, the Creator addressed this after his album Igor won Best Rap Album at the 2020 Grammys. While grateful for the recognition, he criticized the label, pointing out that Igor wasn’t really a rap album at all—it just didn’t fit anywhere else in the Academy’s limited framework. The music defies a box, yet it’s still stuffed in it, and celebrated for that.
While Tyler's Grammy moment highlights a broader racial issue in how genres are assigned, there are other instances where artists—including Tyler—could embrace a more relaxed approach to how their work is perceived. Even Tyler has critiqued other artists’ work, like Eminem’s, only to later change his perspective.
We should acknowledge that just because an album is labeled under a particular genre or worth, that doesn’t mean it’s limited to that—or even that it fits there. Some work could even just be creatively ahead of it’s time in a way where we don’t have (/don’t use) the rhetoric in mainstream conversation to accurately describe it. This is where artists need to stand by their work and let people interpret the art in their own way, without becoming insecure or defensive about how others perceive it. Art is a reflection of its creator, so of course, it’s difficult to hear your work be misinterpreted, disliked, or mislabeled. But that’s the reality of sharing art, especially with a large audience.
I say this from my own experience. I’m writing about something that fascinates me, and how people choose to interpret it is up to them. If someone tells me this is a terrible piece or says it’s more about sociology than music and culture, those are their interpretations. By putting this into the world, I have to accept that others will have their own perceptions of it.
Labels aren’t inherently bad though, and are sometimes even necessary. They help us make sense of the world and give us a way to share and discuss the music we love. We can recognize a tried-and-true hip-hop album and discuss its place in the genre, or explore how a new release reflects hip-hop's evolution and early influences. Labels can serve as a tool and starting point to discuss broader conversation around the music, like cultural impact, historical significance, or artistic innovation.
But they can also be limiting. A misapplied label might mean missing out on a masterpiece. For example, someone might recommend a rap album, only for the listener to reject it because they don’t like rap—never knowing the album includes orchestral arrangements, soulful vocals, or jazz riffs that might speak to them. (One album that comes to mind is Russ’ Santiago, which he even performed with a live orchestra.)
Some artists embrace genre-bending as part of their identity. Mac Miller started in hip hop but consistently evolved, experimenting with new sounds. One notable contrast from his early work is his jazz EP, You, released under the alias Larry Lovestein.
Mac often spoke about not wanting to be confined by labels, but also not wanting people to make a big deal out of him branching out, which is part of why he created alternate personas to explore different musical identities. He also expressed in multiple interviews how he liked to create “characters,” and Larry Lovestein was one of these characters. Then there’s his albums Swimming and Circles that don’t belong to any one genre—they’re melting pots of sound, emotion, and musical techniques.
Then there’s the issue of genre stigmas. The perception of a classical artist versus a rapper, for example, often comes with ingrained biases. Artists who break these stigmas are seen as groundbreaking, but in reality, they’re just humans moving along their unique creative paths.
Ultimately, we should let artists create freely, without the weight of our expectations. Many artists themselves share the sentiment that they’re simply making what they want, hoping some people will connect with it. It’s that simple. But the question remains: How do we use genre labels to talk about music and share it without projecting a set of limitations and expectations?
Let’s take a step back and reflect on why we label music—and how we often mislabel it. Sometimes, it’s obvious and outright wrong; other times, it’s more nuanced. In many cases, we label music based on what we think it is, aligning it with our understanding of a genre, when in reality, that label might not match the artist’s true vision. After all, music is art, and art is inherently open to interpretation.
Maybe the solution is to rethink the way we categorize music. Maybe we use more keywords—mini labels that capture an album's essence and sound in greater detail. Then again, maybe we eliminate labels altogether and let the music speak for itself.
Whatever the answer, one thing is clear: Music doesn’t fit in a box—and it never should.
