Mary Harron’s 2000 crime drama, American Psycho, is as much a film about sound and music as it is about violence and identity. Its soundtrack does more than set the tone; it reveals character.
For Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale), music is not felt; it is curated. He doesn’t “hear” (and absorb the meaning of) lyrics; he analyzes them. He doesn’t listen for joy; he listens for his soundtrack of control. Pop songs, ballads, and synth-driven hits become extensions of his mask, utilized to maintain power, conceal chaos, and reinforce his place in the glossy, nihilistic world of 1980s consumerism.
Harron’s music choices for American Psycho expose Bateman’s fractured psyche and reflect deeper themes of alienation, performative taste, and the pleasures of conformity.
Contents
Patrick Bateman’s Conformity as Camouflage
In American Psycho, trends and conformity are as useful as knives and bulletproof vests. These are the real takeaways from Bateman’s most iconic scene — the “Hip to Be Square” monologue. In one of cinema’s most quoted moments, Bateman serenely explains to his victim, Paul Allen (Jared Leto), the artistic evolution of Huey Lewis & the News:
“Their early work was a little too new wave for my taste. But when Sports came out in ’83, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically… The whole album has a clear, crisp sound, and a new sheen of consummate professionalism that really gives the songs a big boost.”
This is a confession more so than record review. Bateman dismisses “new wave.” Instead, he embraces a clean, corporate pop-rock sound, full of polish and commercial success. That’s what he values: clarity, sheen, metrics. No mess. No feeling.
“I think their undisputed masterpiece is “Hip to Be Square”… It’s not just about the pleasures of conformity and the importance of trends. It’s also a personal statement about the band itself.”
That phrase — the pleasures of conformity — is chilling. It implies that sameness isn’t just useful; it’s enjoyable. Bateman thrives by becoming indistinguishable from his peers. In his world of Wall Street suits, status anxiety, and superficial excess, blending in is power.
The true pleasure, however, lies in what conformity allows him to do: kill without suspicion. The more average he seems, the safer he is. In American Psycho, art doesn’t serve as a form of expression. It’s camouflage.
The importance of trends, to Bateman, is about survival through popularity. If it’s trending, it’s right. Popularity isn’t validation; it’s the entire metric of value.
Cracks in Bateman’s Performance
One of the most revealing moments in American Psycho comes not from a violent murder but from a civilized conversation. During an uneasy encounter in his office with Detective Donald Kimball (Willem Dafoe), Patrick Bateman is asked if he likes Huey Lewis and the News when Kimball pulls out their new album.
It should be a layup; Bateman has rehearsed this before. He has a full monologue. We’ve seen him deliver it; calm, poised, in control, before swinging an axe. Here, though, without the armor of premeditation or the upper hand, Bateman chokes. His answer is blunt, offhanded, and jarring:
“Huey’s too Black-sounding for me.”
That’s it. No analysis. No breakdown. No commentary on professionalism or pop craftsmanship. Just a naked remark that’s not only racially loaded, but entirely at odds with everything he said in the above-mentioned scene with Paul Allen.
This moment does more than expose Bateman’s casual racism: it shatters the illusion of depth in his musical taste. In the Allen scene, Huey Lewis represents perfection: clean, commercial, trend-savvy. Bateman’s monologue is articulate, theatrical, an art critic’s performance in the role of a killer.
Here, however, under Kimball’s gaze and without a stage to play on, Bateman offers nothing but a defensive deflection. He doesn’t take pleasure in dissecting music. He takes pleasure in control. Without it, there’s no mask; only a cold, ugly void.
The comment also implies that Bateman’s love of music is rooted in identity politics, not ideology, but optics. “Too Black-sounding” doesn’t describe a musical quality; it describes a discomfort with anything that might disrupt his image. It suggests that Bateman’s relationship to Blackness — and by extension, authenticity — is something he instinctively avoids. His tastes are sanitized by design. They have to be.
This mirrors American Psycho‘s broader theme: Bateman performs culture, but doesn’t engage with it. He is drawn to music that he believes reflects his twisted values: clean, controlled, popular, safe. He wants music that reassures him that he’s winning. When confronted with unpredictability, when someone else controls the tempo, his curated identity begins to collapse.
It isn’t just an awkward answer, then. It’s a rupture in his mask. A moment when Bateman’s performance breaks, and the void beneath shows something it wasn’t meant to reveal.
Patrick Bateman’s Billboard Taste
Bateman doesn’t consume music emotionally; he processes it statistically. When discussing artists like Whitney Houston or Phil Collins, he doesn’t describe how their songs make him feel. He cites sales figures, chart positions, and industry milestones. His taste is a spreadsheet.
This makes his engagement with culture profoundly hollow and deeply unsettling. He praises Houston for her four number-one singles, not for her vocal ability or the pain in her voice. He likes Collins because his songs are produced well. His commentary is not about meaning, but about status.
He is the algorithm before the algorithm existed.
This obsession mirrors a growing trend in modern media consumption: favoring numbers over nuance. American Psycho‘s Patrick Bateman is the spiritual ancestor of the Rotten Tomatoes addict, the Metacritic worshipper, the Spotify listener who judges worth by stream count. It’s not “Do I love this?” It’s “How popular is this?”
To Bateman, commercial sound is synonymous with “good” music. If enough people like it, it must be safe. If it’s safe, he can wear it like a mask.
Whitney Houston Albums (More Than One)
Patrick Bateman’s affinity for Whitney Houston’s music complicates the racial and cultural dynamics of his character. When Elizabeth (Guinevere Turner) laughs at Bateman for owning multiple Whitney Houston CDs, it exposes the absurdity of his carefully curated persona:
Elizabeth: [laughing] “You actually listen to Whitney Houston? You own a Whitney Houston CD? More than one?”
Here, too, Bateman’s taste is superficial. He cites Houston’s debut album’s chart-topping singles as evidence of its appeal, but his knowledge is shallow. Popularity becomes a stand-in for genuine appreciation, mirroring Bateman’s overall approach to identity.
Whitney Houston’s soulful vocals contrast with Bateman’s violent tendencies, yet his embrace of her music reveals a compartmentalization. The soft and safe pop of Houston’s hits serve as another mask.
Patrick Bateman’s Fragile Calm Amid Chaos
“Lady in Red” by Chris de Burgh plays over a quieter, more intimate moment in American Psycho, with Bateman taking in a minute to himself in his office. The song’s tender melody, and romantic lyrics provide a brief window into Bateman’s yearning for normalcy and connection, even if that yearning is ultimately shallow and performative.
For Bateman, “Lady in Red” is not about genuine emotion, but the illusion of calm. The song temporarily soothes his fractured psyche, masking the chaos and brutality lurking beneath his mask.
Manic Cheerfulness’ Mask
Katrina & the Waves’ “Walking on Sunshine” blasts over one of Bateman’s most telling post-murder walks through the office in American Psycho. The song’s bright, upbeat tempo creates a surreal contrast to the violence he’s just committed. Far from a celebration, the exuberance is manic, fueled by adrenaline, cocaine, and the need to maintain appearances.
The Disguise of Control
Patrick Bateman’s remarks about Genesis and Phil Collins reveal his preference for sanitized success. He praises Genesis albums Duke and Invisible Touch, noting their accessibility and polish. Again, his commentary isn’t about emotional connection; it’s about production quality, metrics, and mass appeal.
Later, Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight” plays during a voyeuristic scene of a sex worker bathing. “Sussudio” follows during a narcissistic sex scene where Bateman flexes in the mirror. These tracks don’t enhance intimacy; they score dominance.
Genesis and Phil Collins’ music represent Bateman’s true taste; not artistic, but curated. Chart-toppers with a glossy sheen that he believes gives his brutality a certain elegance.
Subcultural Tensions and Inner Fracture
“True Faith” by New Order is heard in the background in a nightclub scene. It is the sound of haunting ambiguity. A song born of post-punk roots and goth-adjacent melancholy, it underscores Bateman’s disintegration. Lyrics about fading hope, disillusionment, and emotional numbness echo his condition:
“I used to think that the day would never come / I’d see delight in the shade of the morning sun…”
Its distance in the film to Bateman mirrors the scene in which goths share a table with him and colleagues. He’s outside of their subculture and probably felt uncomfortable by their authenticity.
It’s disconcerting that this track was later used in real-life horror, most infamously in Canadian murderer Luka Magnotta’s videos. It shows Bateman’s brand and influence of dehumanized performance in American Psycho echoes far beyond the screen.
Patrick Bateman’s CD Collection
Bateman’s music library resembles a record store display: curated by the market, not by the heart. His shelves contain full discographies of safe, successful pop acts. No surprises. No risks. Just metrics. His collection, like his skincare routine and business card, is pure brand management. It’s not for feeling. It’s for signaling.
To American Psycho‘s Patrick Bateman, a song is only as valuable as its chart position; its ability to conform, not to move.
This is why Huey Lewis & the News’ “Hip to Be Square” is his anthem. Because Bateman doesn’t want freedom. He wants camouflage. He doesn’t want rebellion. He wants the appearance of depth; a curated playlist for a curated man.
American Psycho’s soundtrack doesn’t just reveal a killer. It reveals the cultural formula in which he thrives.