It crossed my mind that I should write an apocalyptic rant for my final column, prophesying the decline of musical culture and calling us all hell-bound heathens, hopelessly tuned in to mainstream FM radio and listening to people like Gavin DeGraw. But then I realized that I actually like Gavin DeGraw, so perhaps any elitist ire would be out of place. Still, there’s an ominous, doomsaying voice crying out in my soul (kind of like a cross between Nick Cave and the dude from Interpol, so you know it’s serious), and I need to put it into words. So here it goes:
Your musical taste is under attack. Even as I type there are forces at work bent on telling, nay, dictating to you what is cool. Unfortunately, their identity is no longer so clear. You used to be able to round up the usual suspects with ease: “TRL,” Clear Channel radio, Now That’s What I Call Music volume 67. As long as you had your favorite independent record store and a subscription to CMJ, you could rise above such conformity of taste.
Not so anymore. In fact, I don’t even know if such a condition ever really existed in the first place. It’s probably a myth. But the fact remains that now there are two very dangerous trends that threaten the sanctity of your taste, and they both revolve around what’s always been called “indie.” I’d even go so far as to say that the rise of “indie” music is probably the greatest threat to truly independent-minded music fans today.
The first is a double-edged sword: the reception of formerly underground bands into the major label scene. I’d just bore you if I took the time once again to illustrate the ascent of Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand, and a host of others who have slowly infiltrated TV commercials, movie soundtracks, and frat party Winamp mixes. There are obviously a lot of positive aspects to this “selling out”: the fact that I can walk into Old Navy and hear some decent music on the PA being one example. But then there’s what I’d like to call “the great ‘O.C.’ hijacking”: the deliberate selling of a distinct “indie” look, a skinny, Lacoste’d Seth Cohen look with Death Cab for Cutie on the side. They’ve figured out that indie rock is marketable, and they’re using the image, however faked, to sell records. Hence the Killers. (Can anyone honestly tell me the difference between “Mr. Brightside” and Jimmy Eat World’s “The Middle”? What are the Killers anyway, except mall-punk done up in designer clothes and eyeliner?)
The second factor at work is even more insidious, because you can always count on the corporate rock scene to be crafty and profiteering. I don’t really hold it against them. What’s really shameful is the traditional indie community. The iron grasp it holds on the lives of music listeners everywhere is just painful, especially since I see it every day, and most of all because I see it in myself. I’m talking about the powerful nexus of Pitchfork Media, countless webzines and the supposedly “alternative” press, who never fail to ape each other in one big echo chamber.
If anyone should doubt that their word is sacrosanct among the hipster community, take the example of the Fiery Furnaces, who were just recently at our very own Gargoyle. When their “Blueberry Boat” record came out, I waited patiently for a reviewer who would have the nerve to call it out on what it was, namely a hookless, off-key exercise in pretentious wankery. Among all the glowing perfect scores, it took the somewhat conservative reviewing hand of Rolling Stone to call a spade a spade. I had sold my copy back long before. The same goes for similar Pitchfork favorites Animal Collective (tuneless faux-folkers who probably weren’t even on drugs when they recorded their abortive record) and Bloc Party (an average band riding high on the incredible power of “post-” words). To be sure, this dull smiling and head-nodding on the part of the underground community has invaded my own writing in Cadenza: my new purchases are more or less perfectly in line with the rest of the Converse-sporting set. So do as I say, not as I do.
Before you leave thinking I hate everything, you should know that it’s perfectly okay if the Fiery Furnaces are your favorite band of all time. More power to you. But don’t ever capitulate to the dictators, the ones who question how anyone could ever *possibly* dislike their picks of the week. Just like whatever the hell you like, and be ready to share your own honest opinion. That’s what I’ve loved about Cadenza – former editor Travis Petersen’s passion for both black metal and Prince, Dan Carlin’s record club meetings, Jess Minnen’s jam band faves and Tyler Weaver’s partiality to cute, piano-playing songstresses (not to mention his outright contempt for critical darlings Wilco). These people have introduced me to countless great bands, and I can only hope that I was able to do the same. And they’ve successfully avoided the indie vacuum, where nothing original is ever uttered.
So, any last parting thoughts…? Well, of course – if I can allow myself a bit of blatant partisanship (which I’ve always been pretty good about avoiding). Cadenza is the best part of the paper, and hopefully always will be. It’s been sad to see it wither into a three-page-a-week shell of its former self, but there’s no changing that now. What’s important is that you’re still reading, and perhaps one day writing. It’s true that no one’s going to steal 200 copies of the paper over a movie review or band interview, but you could share with someone a bit of music that meant the world to you, and I know personally that that’s a victory in itself. And that’s sonic reduction.