“Wait, They Don’t Love You Like I Love You:” How TikTok is Corrupting Music

If you’ve been on TikTok recently, you’ve likely had the opportunity to discover (if you haven’t already) the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ masterpiece, “Maps.” With its urgent emotions and dingy guitar riffs, this heartbreaking love song unapologetically wears its heart on its sleeve, an attitude that must have helped it reach ninth on Billboard’s Hot Modern Rock chart and 26th in the United Kingdom chart in 2004. With this success, you’d think it’s some groundbreaking and extravagant work of art, but the song is actually astonishingly simple; in fact, the band’s lead singer, Karen Orzolek, repeats the refrain “wait, they don’t love you like I love you” 14 times in the song’s runtime. It is this minimalism that makes the hook so intoxicating, addictive, and inescapable, getting stuck in your head and leaving you with the desire to instantly hit repeat.

“Maps” doesn’t need to scream to get its message across; it lets its basic lyrics do the work, the straightforward hook conveying an urgency and insistence that contrasts with the song’s slow, steady, and predictable pace. “Maps” doesn’t need to be flashy or ostentatious; instead, it lets the love speak for itself, taking over your entire body.

Released in April 2003, the original “Maps” was too outdated for TikTok’s modern audience, so the platform’s creators employed their foolproof formula: change the speed, tempo, and frequency, then add a silly little dance as the cherry on top. As a result, “Maps” was transformed into digestible, bite-sized content, and the song has now spent its second week at No.1 on the TikTok Billboard Top 50 chart, its resurgence racking up 1.9 million U.S. streams in just one week.

In some cases, TikTok distorts songs beyond recognition — slowing them down, stripping away lyrics, and reducing them to hollow instrumentals — completely erasing the original essence. This approach dumbs down the music, making it easier to understand and listen to. And yet, it raises a compelling question: Why does “Maps,” an already remarkably uncomplicated song, need to be reduced even further to resonate with TikTok’s audience?

I realize this isn’t a pioneering inquiry, but I’ve been thinking a lot about how technology has redefined music consumption and production today. Instead of lugging around a Walkman, Boombox, or cassette tapes, listeners now enjoy the convenience of smartphones, which they carry with them everywhere. And, for just $10.99 a month, Spotify grants unlimited access to countless songs, EPs, albums, artists, and bands.

I think this accessibility is a double-edged sword. People can now easily reach all kinds of music and simply throw on a pair of headphones to listen wherever they want. Music can seamlessly become a part of everything we do, but this unprecedented accessibility can also overwhelm listeners with an overabundance of choices, ultimately diluting music’s transformative power.

For me, this ubiquity has desensitized my listening experience, diminishing music to accompaniment for my five-minute walk to class, or brushing my teeth in the morning, or washing my face at night. Instead of being its own immersive experience like it once was, music is now muffled to a background noise that attempts to make my monotonous everyday life routine more entertaining. Similarly, the way music is repurposed for TikTok audios reflects its devolution from art into a tool to merely capture and maintain the viewer’s attention and complement short videos.

A typical viral TikTok audio spans no more than 20 seconds — just long enough for the listener to retain what they hear and move on. This brevity creates a dangerous incentive for artists: Why pour time and energy into crafting a full, high-quality, three-minute song when a focus on sensory overload in the intro or chorus can instantly entice listeners? If it is assumed that only a snippet will be used as an audio anyway, there’s little motivation to make the entire track exceptional or adequate. Take Pink Floyd’s “The Great Gig in the Sky” for example. The song’s climax doesn’t arrive until a whole minute of careful buildup, and as a result, it hits so much harder than if it were immediately served on a silver platter. Comparatively, the strength of “Maps” lies in the tension that leads up to the chorus. TikTok audios allow users to bypass this buildup, skipping to the best parts for instant gratification and dulling its impact as a result. We’re being exposed only to the “best” parts, composing an idealized version of music that leaves us with a superficial and artificial sense of it instead.

Interestingly, many songs that go viral on TikTok were not at all intended or created for the platform, like Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill” or Milli Vanilli’s “Blame It on the Rain” — both songs that were released way before TikTok even existed. As a result, the platform promotes older tracks almost as frequently as new ones — except the older songs often require alterations to align with contemporary music’s aesthetic and trendy demands.

Truthfully, I may just be annoyed because one of my all-time favorite songs is now being lessened and attached to a fleeting, micro TikTok trend. I know if I were to play it now, my choice would be credited to TikTok rather than my actual music taste, stripping away its personal value for me. Instead of “Maps” being the iconic song that went on to change the course of indie music, it’s that one song currently viral on TikTok; these songs aren’t popular because of their musical significance or depth, but because of the catchiness and fame that a 15-second segment holds.

I also find it very concerning how TikTok has fostered attitudes around music. Shouldn’t I feel happy that one of my favorite songs is being embraced by my generation? Instead, I find myself getting defensive, desperately trying to prove that I knew the song before it went viral — as if this somehow makes my taste in music superior.

I know TikTok has done plenty of good for the music industry, like helping smaller artists gain recognition without a record label and exposing people to more niche genres like Midwest Emo and Slowcore. However, access to such immediate satisfaction often leaves users unsatiated and hungry, craving something bigger, similar to the hollow sensation one gets after doom-scrolling through Instagram and TikTok for hours.

Where we once played and listened to entire albums on vinyl in one sitting, we now hear mere seconds of a song in the background of forgettable, short-term videos. This shift has stripped music of its artistic element, leaving modern society yearning for more meaningful and creative ways to connect with music — a poignant reminder of the power music holds: the power to move us, unite us, and speak deeply to our souls — and how TikTok has numbed us to that profound influence.