One of my great musical shames is my inability to appreciate Stevie Wonder.

I understand why he’s considered a genius, and one of the most influential and accomplished artists of all time. I hear the intricacy in his melodies and instrumentation, and I marvel that he often played all the instruments himself. I pay my respects to a man who once won three Album of the Year Grammys during a four year span in the mid-70s, a feat nobody else has managed.

I get all that on an intellectual level, but his music just doesn’t move me. I enjoy several of his songs but I never find myself revisiting them.

I have tried. I own and have spent a fair amount of time trying to crack his most celebrated albums: Music of My Mind, Talking Book, Innervisions, Fulfillingness’ First Finale, and Songs in the Key of Life. But no dice.

I call this blind spot (excuse the pun) a “shame” because indifference to Stevie Wonder isn’t something a self-respecting music fan should exhibit. But I decided awhile back to reject the idea of guilty pleasures, or their flip side, guilty displeasures.

I like what I like. It’s silly to apologize for it.