Very recently, I made the decision to purchase two surprisingly expensive tickets to see the band Fountains of Wayne in concert. For those of you who are struggling to remember, Fountains of Wayne is the band best known (and probably, only known) for releasing the song “Stacy’s Mom” eight years ago. And, yes, you didn’t read that incorrectly: “Stacy’s Mom” came out eight years ago. You’re getting old.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, hypothetical reader of the Friday Chronicle: Why on earth is this kid going to see the band Fountains of Wayne? Does he just crave the allure of fading one-hit wonders? Also, why is he addressing me so directly in this column?

The last question aside, I must admit that it isn’t really “Stacy’s Mom” that got me to buy the tickets. I am truly a die-hard fan of the band. Actually, I own (as in have really purchased) all of their albums. And just so we’re clear, nearly every other Fountains of Wayne song is as blissfully pop-esque (poppy? The world may never know) as “Stacy’s Mom.” It’s pure catchy trash ... AND I LOVE IT.

Fountains of Wayne is, to me, music in microcosm. They are somehow fully universal, yet strangely exclusive. Indeed, “Stacy’s Mom” is much, much, more than a song. Turn it on at a party, and 21 year olds become middle schoolers again. The guys are wondering if any girls will let themselves be kissed (with tongue!), the girls are awkwardly leaving class to have a punctuation mark of an experience with the school nurse and all the gentiles are wondering what the hell this “Bar Mitzvah” invitation they just got is. Sexuality, yearning, nostalgia: “Stacy’s Mom” has it all.

But although I go crazy for that song, like all of us Generation “We don’t know what letter Generation we are” do, it’s the deeper cuts, if they can be called that, that make me go crazy for Fountains of Wayne. Welcome Interstate Managers, Utopia Parkway, Acela: those words mean almost nothing to almost everyone, except for the rare diehard fans of Fountains of Wayne. Oh, and I guess people who are obsessed with modes of transportation, too.

The previous Fountains of Wayne concert I went to embodied this contradiction of exclusivity. Every song sounded like the pop music I grew up on, but with one glorious MILFy exception—they weren’t. It’s a band for hipsters if hipsters weren’t hipsters (I promise that’s my last bit of Yoda-like contradiction). It’s pop music for people who hate music that’s popular.

Á la Marie Antoinette, Fountains of Wayne allows me to have my cake and eat it too. All music must make that trade-off. When a song is unknown, it fundamentally belongs to you and your community. It’s a piece of identification in certain circles, a way for nerds like me to get into some exclusive club somewhere. Yet, talk about it in public, and that exclusivity is alienating: you get labeled “hipster,” which is the worst thing that can happen, especially to hipsters.

On the other hand, pop music allows you to interact with anyone. “Don’t Stop Believin’” is so much more than a song at this point, not because it’s special in any particular way, but because cultural experience has made it into a touchstone multiple generations can understand. When the first chords of “Closing Time” sound, you know the night’s almost over. It’s a way of interacting with society, but as you do it, you lose your individuality. You become one in a sea of many, lost and adrift.

So, on Feb. 11 at Cat’s Cradle, I will be negotiating this divide. Yes, I will be succumbing to the most pop-esque music in the world, but I will also be in a smaller crowd. A crowd of people who bought the entire album containing “Stacy’s Mom,” because iTunes wasn’t around to offer the option of single song purchases at the click of a button. And although most of the time the music would be completely foreign, there will be one point where the whole world could theoretically join in. For me, though, this concert is all I want ... and I’ve waited for so long.

Harry Liberman is a Trinity junior. His column runs every other Friday.