How can it have had that much of an impression on you, guy-whose-name-I-can't-recall?
So listening to DMB, and even going to DMB shows, became a de facto part of socializing. And if I admitted that I couldn't stand their music, I wouldn't have been able to participate without seeming desperate or weird. For a man who craves the approval of others the way most people crave clean water and oxygen, that simply wasn't an option. So I began trying to trick my brain into liking "The Dave."
Some context about me: I don't make friends easily (because I'm "too real" and "an insufferable snob"), so I tend to stick to pretty tight-knit groups. So when everyone I knew and cared about loved DMB, and yet I didn't, that meant I had to either a) make new friends, or b) retrain my brain to like this s****y jam-band bullshit. And since a) seemed like the scariest thing possible (despite my innumerable failings as a human being, my high-school friends are top-notch, Grade-A folks, aside from their unfortunate taste in music), I tried to do b) as well as I could. Here's a true story: I bought all the DMB CDs, put them on a loop in my bedroom, and tried to train my brain to enjoy them. I played StarCraft and re-read old Discworld books, hoping I could tie this s****y, s****y music to positive memories.
Did it work? Of course not. I mean, listen to this f*****g garbage.