Unjamming the next generation

In the Simpsons episode "The Old Man and the Lisa" which first aired in 1997, Lisa helps Mr. Burns regain his lost fortunes by inadvertently giving him the idea to "recycle" sea creatures into slurry. After Burns sells the business, he offers her a check for $12 million as her share of the profits. Lisa has a crisis of conscience about where the money came from, however, and tears up the check instead.

I always thought Lisa should've taken the money and spent it on the things she believed in, and I'm sure others did as well. But none of us condemned her decision to refuse the money as being flat-out wrong; after all, it was perfectly in keeping with how we all thought back then. For Generation X, virtue was about identity. And guarding your identity meant staying independent, in order to retain personal freedom and control over who you are. Once Lisa took that money, it would've owned her, in all its corruptness.

So Generation X set about to rebuild the world in their image, and nowhere were their efforts more successful than in the world of music. Pearl Jam, one of the most socially conscious bands of the '90s, could've been the next U2; instead, they sabotaged that chance. Resenting the loss of freedom that comes with fame, Eddie Vedder sang in "Corduroy" to the millions who adored him, "I don't want to take what you can give, I would rather starve than eat your bread." Which makes sense; when virtue lies in who you are, then being obnoxiously big means you've sold your soul on some level.[1]

As a result of cautionary tales like this, some of us sought shelter in indie rock, which was explicitly designed to help bands avoid Pearl Jam's fate⁠— or worse, the fate of those who tried for that level of fame and failed. When you stay small, you get to stay in control. You get to keep your soul.

Because ultimately, those who choose independence recognise that they're human. They're not good enough to scale, and so they don't try. Sure, every now and again, one of the countless indie bands out there does manage to win over a large audience, but they typically fade out as quickly as they came, making their short-lived success most likely the result of chance or favoritism. Of course, we'll attribute it to hard work or some innate quality instead, validating our belief in the virtue of independence. Unfortunately, this also warps our understanding of what it truly takes to compete, and then we wonder why their success isn't so easily repeated.

But there's really no mystery here. Independence means giving up scale and leverage in exchange for retaining individual freedom and control. And this applies to indie labels as well. Unlike Geffen, who signed both Guns N' Roses and their future archrivals Nirvana with no other concern than profit and prestige, an indie label carefully screens each new addition to its roster, ensuring first and foremost that they're the right fit. When preserving one's identity is paramount, scale and leverage simply can't factor into the decision-making process. So while indie rock should have produced the next two or three Radioheads by now, statistically speaking, it has instead produced none. This is a feature, not a bug.

As one of indie rock's rejects, I was awoken to the absurdities of the world built by Generation X pretty early on. Lately, though, I've been sensing a similar dissatisfaction amongst the younger crowd. Perhaps it was there all along; we'd just never crossed paths. But I do believe we'll reach a critical mass soon, at which point the next generation will openly question the notion that independence should be the highest virtue. In a world where people are literally starving, why would you resent being given free bread? Especially when you're perfectly free to spend it on the things you believe in?

For the Millennials, then, virtue won't be about identity, but about impact. And making an impact means seeking out inter-dependence, in order to maximise leverage and the chance to scale.

Because ultimately, those who choose interdependence also recognise that they're human. They're not good enough to scale either⁠— on their own, that is. But when they team up with other individuals, each of whom has something remarkable and unique to offer, they can accomplish superhuman feats, at will, again and again.[2] When we come together with others to create something greater than the sum of its parts, we become, quite literally, superhuman.

Maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see, but these days, signs of an upcoming change really do seem to be cropping up everywhere. Here's one example: twentysomethings pursuing lucrative careers, thus having more money to give away. At the very least, this isn't something you would have read about twenty years ago. As the article explains:

In another generation, giving something back might have more commonly led to a missionary stint digging wells in Kenya. This generation, perhaps more comfortable with data than labor, is leveraging its wealth for a better end. Instead of digging wells, it's paying so that more wells are dug.

I don't know if these kids have hit upon the best solution, but it's definitely another step in the direction of equating virtue not with who you are, but with what you get done.[3]

Let's get back to Lisa Simpson and her decision to refuse $12 million. Now, there's no doubt that her counterpart in real life would have taken the money. My point is that, within the safe confines of a fictional universe, the episode's writers could count on its viewers to feel that Lisa did the right thing by following her heart. At the very least, certainly no one would judge her decision to be immoral.

And yet, symbolic gestures don't feed people or save lives, do they? So at its core, what really happened was that she took $12 million that could have gone to charity, and instead gave it all to Mr. Burns and his evildoing ways. How is that not flat-out immoral, fictional universe or otherwise? What if, in the future, we all spent less time worrying about our identity, and more time maximising our impact? That's what Mr. Burns's counterparts in real life already do. So why wouldn't the world be better off if everyone thought this way?

Footnotes

[1] Kurt Cobain presents a more obvious case study for exploring what Generation X's values did to its heroes, but I'd rather not wade into those waters.

[2] It's encouraging to hear Robin Pecknold of Fleet Foxes sing in "Helplessness Blues," "I was raised up believing I was somehow unique… [but] now after some thinking, I'd say I'd rather be a functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me." The problem is, cogs are essential, but also easily replaced. So it's not clear to me whether he longs to be subsumed into some grand and noble purpose, or rather to play a unique and indispensable role within it. And that's a crucial distinction to make, because only the latter situation represents true interdependence. Being unique is a good thing; you just have to earn it, and of course that's the scary part.

[3] Turns out this whole consequentialism thing mentioned in the article has been going on for some time now. I'll definitely be looking into it.

Tossing Bo Diddley a bone

(My last post left one question unanswered: Why exactly is diversity in music important? It's not crude or closed-minded to ask. After all, we don't really care about the overall makeup of sports teams, symphony orchestras, or Hollywood movie casts; we just want the most qualified to make it. So this blog post seeks to answer that question. Too long, didn't read: Pioneering invention depends on it.)

Until we get the next Bo Diddley, we won't be seeing the next Beatles. I think we all understand this intellectually.

Much like DJ Kool Herc had to come before Tupac Shakur, Jelly Roll Morton before Miles Davis, the Notre Dame school before Palestrina, and so on. In each case, the former helped invent the craft that the latter perfected. But while they all deserve to be respected as pioneers, we don't place them on equal footing, and it's not hard to see why. Music needs context to be widely appreciated, and context is understood not at the onset of a new craft's invention, but through its perfection. It's the ones perfecting the craft who write the soundtracks to our lives, while having us gaze romantically upon theirs. There's little glory that comes with inventing a new craft, in comparison.[1]

So everyone hopes to be the next Beatles; few dream of becoming the next Bo Diddley. But without new craft being invented for others to perfect, the cycle of progress gets broken. That's easy to overlook while there are plenty of interesting concepts left to explore. Unlike craft, though, concept doesn't provide much fertile ground; it's mostly a one-time deal that benefits one generation, or even just one artist.

And then what? Once every last concept has been fully exhausted, the future simply becomes a steady rotation, rather than accumulation, of music that resonates with each generation. The newer stuff might sound raw, but the underlying vision will have been endlessly polished. Its artists might look farsighted and bold, but the context for seeing them as such will be as old as the hills. Many would argue that we've reached this point already. Which is not to say that our generation's music can't be genuinely beautiful and wonderful, of course. But if that's all it is, then the next generation won't be keeping it around for themselves. Why would they? They'll have their own.

In other words, there are no shortcuts. The future of pioneering music lies in the invention of new craft, just as always. However unglamorous the role, someone has to take the plunge and be the next Bo Diddley.

The problem is, for the past decade we've been telling ourselves that the music we celebrate can be exactly what we want, all the time, each and every time. And what we want is music and artists that immediately resonate with us precisely because there's nothing left to puzzle over and figure out in their underlying context. In other words, not new inventions; not the next Bo Diddley. Which makes sense, after all⁠— being the least wanted in his own time is how Bo Diddley himself came to be Bo Diddley. Had he had a better option, he would've taken it. The bands making what we want, though⁠— what do they want? Chances are, if they hope to be the next Beatles, they probably want to see the next Bo Diddley get tossed a bone.

But now here we are. The next Bo Diddleys will necessarily come from those we least want, the very ones our present system is set up to reject. Sure, we could learn to want them, and that might help in the short term, but it won't fix the underlying problem.[2] Since we can't ever want everyone equally, someone will always be the system's least wanted. The only long-term solution, then, lies not in being wiser about whom we want, but rather in changing how we respond to whomever we don't.

So here's a proposition. Whenever an artist who might be the next Bo Diddley happens to show up, why not toss them a bone? In other words, let's ask ourselves: What's the bare minimum they need to not starve and die, at least long enough for them to sink or swim on their own merits?[3] And then give them at least that much.

It doesn't matter what they're trying to accomplish, or whether we get it or not. And if the present system doesn't allow us to do this, then let's change the system so it does.[4] After all, there are plenty of bones lying around that we're already happily giving away willy-nilly, and who knows when the next Bo Diddley will come along if we punt on this turn. Taking the unfamiliar path is more hazardous than most realize, and it's a sure bet that for every one that made it far enough to land on our radar, countless others sputtered out long before. So let's just toss that bone and get on with the rest of our day. Besides, when there's so little to lose and the future of music stands to gain so much, what's the worst that can happen?

Footnotes

[1] This isn't true of all musical inventors, of course. While Bach's music was derided as old-fashioned in his own time, its inspiration to later composers led them to revive his works. Bach now outshines all his successors, with only the possible exception of Beethoven.

[2] By the way, I want to ensure that none of you are picturing the actual Bo Diddley, whose place within rock and roll's pantheon no doubt conjures only the warmest feelings today. Instead, try to imagine who can't possibly be music's next pioneering inventor. Seriously, do it right now. If you find this difficult, start by asking yourself: Who out there is doing everything wrong? Suddenly, the next Bo Diddleys don't seem so appealing, do they?

[3] Where we stand right now with mashups might be a good example. It's a craft that has the potential to be taken much further, but for now, many of us don't credit it with conveying any real artistic meaning or emotional depth. So those who care to hear more have the means to do so, while everyone else is free to ignore it completely. That's pretty much what I mean by tossing a bone.

[4] This is, in fact, what my startup hopes to do.

Why indie rock lacks diversity

(While most resources that seek to empower artists do so by helping them achieve independence, my new startup will do so by allowing them to seek inter-dependence. Now, interdependence in music and the arts has always been the historical norm. And yet, because the culture of independence these past few decades has been so successful and complete, any progress towards reinstating interdependence will likely be mistaken for a relapse into de-pendence, and thus meet fierce resistance. These next few blog posts will reflect my attempts in real time to perfect my arguments addressing these concerns, so bear with me because some of my thinking is still kind of raw. Feedback and criticism are always welcome in the comments, of course.)

Many haven't failed to notice that as socially progressive as indie rock is known to be, there's a surprising lack of female and minority artists in this scene.[1] The following is my explanation for why indie rock lacks diversity and probably always will, despite the best intentions of most everyone involved.

First, we need to understand what indie rock is. "Indie" stands for "independent," and as anyone who's ever tried to get anything done knows, you choose independence when you want to retain personal control. You choose inter-dependence when you want to make the largest possible impact. Neither is superior to the other; it's just a question of what you want.

So obviously, indie rock is about forgoing the chance to make a large impact in favour of retaining personal control. But this also eliminates the most crucial incentive for trying to stand among the best.[2] Let's face it, why would an unknown band put in countless time and energy working to be the best when they've already deliberately limited the size of their audience?

In other words, indie rock is a genre that explicitly chooses not to provide unknown artists with incentives to try to be the best, and in doing so, actively undermines any such efforts. Because now, trying to be the best doesn't just offer little advantage; it becomes an actual dis-advantage. After all, to do so would mean diverting time and energy away from efforts for which indie rock awards the most points, towards those that award the least.

Okay, so now we've established that an unknown band probably won't get far working to be the best in indie rock. But even if it isn't a competition, it's still a contest. Too many want recognition, yet too few can have it. There's just no way around that. So the designation of being "the best" must still necessarily exist; it just isn't something anyone can actively try for.

But this is a problem because for some out there, trying to stand among the best is the only recourse they have for overcoming their natural disadvantage and leveling the playing field. The world isn't their playground, which means they can't cop the same nonchalance towards success that indie rock's most favoured sons do, confident that life will still be pretty darn good if the stars don't align in their favour. Rarely do they even question their lack of options; it's just the only reality they've ever known, which they've long since internalised as the basis for how they go about everything.

I'll refer to all those who belong in this category as "the other half." Obviously this includes women and minorities as a general rule, but I'm really talking about anyone who isn't favoured to win outside a meritocracy: the old, the weird, the unattractive. The Beatles were working-class kids trapped in a rigid class system designed to keep them in their place. They count too.

So what happens when trying to be the best is taken off the table? In his review of Bon Iver's second album, Pitchfork's Mark Richardson writes, "There's something irresistible about the thought of a bearded dude from small-town Wisconsin retreating heartbroken to a cabin to write some songs[.]" Was it really necessary to mention the beard, and the part about small-town Wisconsin? Yeah. While Bon Iver's music is beautiful, what we really love is the whole package: the image, the backstory, the persona. This makes perfect sense, because if being "the best" can't be earned through trying, then it must necessarily come from some innate quality. It comes from who you are.

Now, in its defence, indie rock has proven no less willing to embrace the other half for who they are as well, once they do happen to land on the radar.[3] But this uncertainty of landing on the radar is precisely the problem, because when you're the other half, the prospect of having your story deemed irresistible just can't be a part of your contingency plan. Bob Dylan didn't go around telling people he was a middle-class Jew named Zimmerman. That just wouldn't have flown and he knew it, which is why he focused solely on writing amazing lyrics instead. Bob Dylan is now a legend, precisely because his work was allowed to stand on its own, separate from who he was.

And situations where your work can stand on its own, separate from who you are, are what the other half naturally seeks out, because that's the most they can hope for. Of course, your work won't mean anything by itself unless you stand among the best. But at least you get to try to do exactly that. And if this must be your reality, then your reality is pretty darn awesome, because the other half throughout much of the world doesn't even get to have this much.

Well, unfortunately, indie rock… belongs to that part of the world where the other half doesn't even get this much. For as we've just seen, it's not about trying to be the best; you're better off simply being yourself. This is just what indie rock is, and always will be. Obviously, many find this empowering and uplifting. But the other half needs merit-based competition to thrive. By shaming them for their personal ambitions, indie rock shuts off the one recourse they have for leveling the playing field and winning any recognition at all.[4] And so they rarely do, as plenty now haven't failed to notice.

I don't doubt that pretty much everyone in this scene has only the best intentions. Few would dispute that indie rock is one of the most socially progressive genres out there. But this is, in fact, precisely the problem. Indie rock protectionism, like almost every other form of protectionism out there, is ultimately motivated by an altruistic duty to stand up for the common man. Unfortunately, this ends up screwing over plenty who aren't men. Or common.

Footnotes

[1] There's been plenty of criticism directed against Jody Rosen's article in Slate, none of which seems to understand the real point. (Rosen doesn't make it either.) Competition doesn't begin the moment a band needs to pass muster with the critics and the public. It takes place much earlier, when the labels decide which bands to sign, when the venues decide which bands to book, and even back to when these bands first decide to form. So if there's a homogenising tendency at work here⁠— which many of Rosen's critics do concede, but just consider too slight to be of concern⁠— then it's actually getting amplified and reinforced at every single one of these stages.

[2] I'm not making any specific claims about what being "the best" necessarily entails, or how exclusive it has to be as a percentage of the whole. It can mean seminal, inventive, masterful; it can be the top 1%, 5%, 10%. Let's just recognise it as a quality that can be voted upon, by those who acknowledge and respect that the struggle for recognition is a competition very few get to win.

[3] I don't rule out the possibility that Bon Iver might also be an example of the other half getting his rightful due. I'd need to see it spelled out, though, since Richardson's description above doesn't exactly strike me as one of disadvantage. Unless there's something truly brutalising about small-town Wisconsin that I'm unaware of.

[4] Ambition from unknown artists certainly does get celebrated in indie rock; but it's strictly the kind related to furthering one's career, not making groundbreaking music. Again⁠— and this is not a trivial point⁠— the "indie" part of its name really does define the fundamental character of indie rock, wholly and absolutely.

Music must be marketable to matter

In preparation for my new startup, I've been reading books on various subjects related to business, such as negotiation, accounting, and so forth. One subject that keeps popping up again and again is marketing. Now, in pretty much every music scene out there, marketing is just a synonym for promotion. When you look at the word itself, though, there's much more to it than that. A market is where sellers compete to offer goods and services to buyers. So being marketable means staying competitive in the marketplace, and marketing is really about asserting a constant presence within it.

In every other industry, all of this just goes without saying. Ask a pizzeria owner how they stay in business, and they'll speak in terms acknowledging that their customers might just as easily go to their competitors. But they maintain loyalty by using only the freshest ingredients, offering fast and friendly service, sponsoring community events, and so on. How a pizzeria gets paid is directly related to how it competes in the marketplace. It would never occur to the owner to think any other way.

Ask the loudest people in today's music industry how an artist is to get paid these days, however, and they'll chatter on about new distribution channels, online tools for booking shows, and so on. Almost none will speak in terms acknowledging that each listener's time and spending money are limited, and that a gazillion other bands out there are hoping to claim their share of it.

The worst offenders are those established artists who gained exposure under a previous model, yet are now trumpeting some new model as the road to salvation for each one of the gazillion unknown bands out there. These artists get invited to give TED Talks on "The Future of Music." Any first-year business major, however, can easily out them as snake oil peddlers. Until you've acknowledged the competitive reality of the marketplace, your proposed solution belongs in the fantasy fiction section, alongside hobbits and vampires.

I do get it, though. Rock music has finally reached the point that classical music was at half a century ago, where the most pioneering artists are now the least likely to achieve mainstream popularity in their own time. Given this reality, competition naturally loses any meaning as an arbiter of artistic worth and thus gets left by the wayside. I get that.

But when aspiring pioneers stop competing for financial success, they lose a valuable tool for self-appraisal used by everyone else, including artists from the past, to improve what they have to offer. This makes it easier to neglect their marketability in areas that definitely should matter, such as social relevance and intellectual interest. And then they're left woefully unprepared to compete in the only market that can possibly redeem all their efforts: the marketplace of history.

Consider two frontrunners in today's indie rock and contemporary classical scenes, respectively. Bon Iver might beat Jack Johnson hands down, sure, but he still has to compete against the Beatles. Thomas Adès might have the edge over Eric Whitacre, but there's still Beethoven to contend with. (On a side note, it just occurred to me that Adès and Bon Iver's Justin Vernon share a resemblance, although maybe it's just the beards.)

While both are highly accomplished, neither Adès nor Vernon has invented a new musical language or idiom, which doesn't bode well for their chances at posterity. Sure, it's easy to think of history as an awards show, where one only has to beat the other nominees in one's respective category for any given year. But even if this were a fitting analogy, let's not forget that when we pore over lists of winners past, plenty will fail to stick out as names we recognise, much less care about. Their years are now placeholder years to us; there's no rule saying we must treat them otherwise.

And there's no rule saying that music history can't have its own placeholder years, or even decades. So how does one stay competitive in the marketplace of historical relevance, when the passage of time is forever compounding the artistic worth of those who came first? Where do new musical languages and idioms come from? Looking at past composers and bands who've managed to hold their own against Beethoven and the Beatles, I'd say they come from some weird combination of blissful naivety, relentless ambition, and heightened awareness of history's crushing weight. That's just my guess, though.

But finding a definitive answer isn't my concern here. I'm just pointing out that any artist who remains blithely unconcerned about competing in a marketplace will probably get trampled by history, because history itself is a marketplace. And until this reality is acknowledged, music won't be following us into the 21st century. We need to shout this from the rooftops again, and again, and again.

Music must be marketable to matter. Every other solution being peddled out there is just so much snake oil.

The problem with indie rock tenure

I've written two blog posts on Andrew W.K. already, and this will be my third. Truth be told, I don't dislike his music; I'd even choose it over half the stuff that's out there. And by all accounts, he's like the nicest guy on the planet. So why do I find the cultural elite's embrace of him so problematic?

I think the answer lies in the following two hypothetical questions: Given any beloved album, could an unknown band speak to similar values and hold their own, or even beat it with an album that's superior? Would such an attempt even be welcome? Every band has its devoted fans who would answer "no!" to both, of course. They're not my concern here.

My concern is only the cultural elite, who have to answer "yes!" to both, because their musical tastes are grounded in some communicable, defensible rationale for being good. And good music requires an open market where different ideas and sounds are free to compete.

Competition in an open market is great for two reasons. First, it assures us the best quality, and second, it gives us the freedom to decide. Commercial goods and services easily come to mind as examples, but politics works this way as well. If we don't like who we voted for, we can vote them out next time.

And this is precisely the problem with Andrew W.K.: He's undefeatable. I don't mean like Rocky Marciano, who never lost a boxing match; I mean like a monopoly or an autocrat. He literally can't be beaten, because once he's voted in, he can't be voted out.

You don't have to dislike his music to find this problematic, just like you don't have to dislike Facebook or some benevolent monarch to protest their hold on power. Once the market is closed, we no longer have the assurance of quality or the freedom to decide. Those who were opposed from the beginning lose the most, of course. But we all lose in the long run.

In other words, when we grant exposure to Andrew W.K., not only is that slot no longer competitive from now until forever, but a precedent has been established for the same thing to keep happening, over and over, until zero slots are left.

I'm not exaggerating Andrew W.K.'s tenure in the public eye here. Think about it. An artist known solely for making a "so bad it's good" album ten years ago was almost appointed cultural ambassador to Bahrain as recently as last year? How's that even possible? You don't hear anyone talking about Beulah or the Wrens these days. But it all makes sense once you consider that Andrew W.K. is undefeatable. What can't be beaten, will never go away.

Or here's even simpler proof. Just how would another band compete against I Get Wet, anyway? In other words, what could a "so much worse it's actually better" album possibly sound like, especially when Andrew W.K. himself hasn't managed to pull it off in the last ten years? So the answer to our first hypothetical question is no, and the same probably goes for the second one as well. Which means that Andrew W.K. is perhaps the only artist beloved by the cultural elite for whom their reluctance to entertain any new challengers exactly matches that of Justin Bieber's fans.

Of course, one could argue that this is all symptomatic of a larger problem. Bands these days no longer compete for our awe and admiration the way the Beach Boys and the Beatles once did with Pet Sounds and Sgt. Pepper's, respectively, but instead huddle together to bask in our unconditional support like children putting on a Christmas pageant. Of course, we haven't actually succeeded in replacing competition with communal harmony. When so many want exposure and so few can have it, competition must necessarily exist. It's just done out of view now, leading to a preselection process that's more haphazard and brutal than ever before, precisely because we don't see it.

So maybe Andrew W.K. is just a symptom, not a cause. I'm sympathetic to that. I just don't think we should so quickly resign ourselves to blithe acceptance once we believe it's the former rather than the latter. What if the two are intertwined and mutually reinforcing? Maybe there's no harm in celebrating Andrew W.K. while there are no new Radioheads to speak of. Or maybe the new Radioheads aren't getting exposure precisely because we're all too busy celebrating Andrew W.K., who knows?

I don't know. Just a thought, that's all. In any case, this is the last I'll be writing about Andrew W.K. for sure now.

Postscript, May 23, 2013: Yes, I know, he's also known for his motivational speeches. But this side career isn't really noteworthy by itself, since the power of his message stems precisely from what little he's accomplished relative to how far he's come. It wouldn't mean anything coming from Beulah or the Wrens, for example.

Addendum, May 23, 2013: Good Lord, I'd completely forgotten about Har Mar Superstar. This might throw a wrench in my whole argument here, since I definitely haven't heard from him in a while. I'll have to think about it some more. On a side note, I shared a bill with him in 1999, back when he was Sean Na Na. He ended his set with an ironic R&B cover, but other than that, he gave no indication at the time of being anything other than a bookish scenester.

Addendum, May 24, 2013: No, I don't think the example of Har Mar Superstar contradicts my point, since he was always much more transparent as a joke.

Undoing stupid damage

In a blog post several months ago, I referred to Andrew W.K. as a troll. Even then, though, I wasn't perfectly comfortable with the term. After all, what's a troll, exactly? If it's someone who upends the system, disrupting lives and careers in the process… well, isn't that just what every pioneer throughout history has ever done?

But I think I've settled the issue now, and it's all because I was reminded recently of something that happened many moons ago, back when I was a dishwasher at a dorm cafeteria. I worked there for six years of my early adulthood, and that dishroom still serves as the backdrop for about one in every ten dreams I have to this day. In fact, it was probably such a dream that triggered this recent memory.

Anyway, what happened was, someone had smeared shit all over the walls of a toilet stall in the men's restroom, and it fell upon me to clean it up. Naturally I was annoyed, but why? It wasn't much more disgusting than some of my usual daily tasks, like cleaning out tampon receptacles in the women's restroom. What bothered me, I think, is that while I didn't enjoy scrubbing it up, it couldn't have been all that fun for the guy who did it either. Shitting into a paper towel and then smearing it on the walls, while trying not to get any on your hands, probably doesn't top many people's bucket lists. In other words, neither one of us gained, and both of us lost⁠— though clearly my loss was much, much greater, and of course that was the whole point.

Now, this shit-smearer was probably a dorm resident, which means he probably ate at the cafeteria twice a day. So here's a thought. What would've happened if, several weeks later, he had to do his business right after a meal? Only to be greeted with the stench of his own putrefying shit, which no one had bothered to clean in the meantime, as soon as he walked into the restroom? I'm sure he wouldn't have been very happy. I'm sure he would prefer to live in a world where walls smeared with shit get cleaned as soon as someone complains about it. Yet a graffiti artist would love nothing more than to have their work left undisturbed.

And this, I think, is the difference between trolls and all the other troublemakers and system-disrupting pioneers out there: A troll doesn't really believe in the stupid damage they cause, and actually wants those undoing their stupid damage to prevail. Because without the assurance that it will be undone, what they do lacks any real meaning on its own.

So while Andrew W.K. might not be a troll himself, his enablers amongst the influential set certainly are. After all, since the dawn of humanity, every functional system has operated according to a basic principle: You enable what you want there to be more of, and you reject what you want there to be less of. It's like a WWI fighter plane that has to fly where it wants to shoot. You don't get to enable what you want there to be less of, and still think that things can go your way indefinitely. Do all these critics and bloggers, whose careers hinge upon giving the public a steady stream of interesting and innovative music, really want there to be more Andrew W.K.s out there? Or if the next Andrew W.K.s are already here, are they really ready to humour a good portion of them with the same admiration and respect? It's highly doubtful.

In other words, their eagerness to enable Andrew W.K.'s career rests on an underlying faith that someone else, some sourpuss out there, is willing to schlep through the ordeal of protesting⁠— and ultimately prevailing⁠— against them. And of course the sourpusses will prevail, since their protests will be based on reason. But it definitely will be a schlep. Which is weird, isn't it? Because while every system-disrupting pioneer in music history has inspired legions of future artists to follow in their wake, none of us wants to see that happen with Andrew W.K. So you'd think at least a tiny sliver of glory awaits those working hard to ensure that something no one wants to see happen… doesn't happen.

And yet, there's zero glory that comes with undoing stupid damage. It's just extra work you have to do before any real stuff can get done. You don't really even get credit for it, either. After all, the very nature of stupid is that everyone agrees it shouldn't be so, which means there's nothing particularly courageous or visionary about undoing it. It's just a schlep, in every sense of the word.

And so the shit-smearing trolls win every time. At the very least, they'll always be a few steps ahead. Not because we don't value the shit-scrubbing sourpusses at all, but because we don't value them enough to compensate for the fact that it's much, much easier to smear shit than to scrub it. And yet, no one actually wants to see shit-smeared walls just left as they are. Which makes all of this pretty crazy, right?

Wait, it gets even weirder. As I'd mentioned in my other post, though Pitchfork initially gave Andrew W.K.'s I Get Wet a dismal 0.6 in 2002, they offered a mea culpa by giving its 2012 reissue a glowing 8.6. Admittedly, they wouldn't have done so had this past decade been a watershed of musical innovation. But in the absence of true pioneers upending the system and disrupting lives and careers, Andrew W.K. does begin to resemble the closest thing we have to a Jelly Roll Morton, Bo Diddley or DJ Kool Herc these days. He won't be spearheading a new movement, and of course we don't actually want him to. But hey, why can't our generation embrace the troublemakers of our own time, indulging in the same proud subversion that past generations contemporary with the pioneers of jazz, rock, and hip hop were allowed to feel?

Well, here's a crazy thought. What if the next Bo Diddleys and DJ Kool Hercs are already amongst us, but they're just too busy undoing our stupid damage at the moment to be spearheading a new movement anytime soon?

Indie rock is doomed like the monarchy

Like the monarchy, indie rock is doomed. I don't mean that it will vanish completely, just that it will fade away in significance. The only nations ruled by monarchs today are either small and weak or else totalitarian nightmares. To be a respected player on the global stage, a government must be a democracy.

The reason for this is simple. No one says, "If I ruled the world, I'd be respected by everyone." That conveys nothing; it's a tautology, since rulers are respected by their very nature. No, they always say, "If I ruled the world, I'd do this, I'd do that." In other words, people intuitively understand that with authority comes leverage, the power to get things done.

But a king doesn't see it this way. For him, authority is the end goal and thus exists for its own sake, to be divvied amongst relatives and loyal subjects in a way that cements his own hold on power. Of course, royal appointees can certainly use their leverage to improve the lot of the people. But that would only be a fortunate happenstance; it's not why they were awarded their positions in the first place.

And so our natural inclination is to overthrow any monarchy, even one that's mostly benevolent. In our modern age, a nation led by an unimpeachable ruler can't hope to compete with one whose government officials use their leverage to advance society, and who are then held accountable by the people when they don't.

To be clear, I'm not comparing indie labels to the worst rulers in history. However, in favouring bands that are friends, ideological compatriots, and hometown heroes who've paid their dues, these indie labels have one thing in common with all monarchs: a disregard for how leverage might be distributed to maximise outcomes. In the indie rock scene, exposure is the end goal and thus exists for its own sake, which means that bands are rewarded based on how hard they've worked for it, not on how remarkably they can use the leverage that comes with it. It's always a pleasant surprise when indie bands exceed our expectations with ambitious projects that take years of downtime to complete, of course. But that's not why they get signed in the first place.

A year ago, I read that an indie label I'd long respected was struggling financially and thus closing shop indefinitely. Having some friends in common with the label's founder, I got in touch and offered a deal in which I'd pay off some of his debts. In return, he'd release my album, for which I'd completely pay the expenses upfront. While initially receptive⁠— if only because he wasn't in the best position to refuse⁠— he eventually shied away from my offer and stopped writing back.

I couldn't figure it out at first. After all, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain; I'd be shouldering the entire risk, and my band was at least as good as those on his roster. Only later did it hit me. To him, an indie label's greatest asset is its autonomy. Being admired and supported for doing things his way and listening to no one else is exactly what kept him afloat for as long as he did, and he wasn't going to jeopardise that goodwill now. Because without it, his only power is to grant exposure, nothing more, and exposure by itself just isn't worth much. Bands that can get decent reviews but don't really stand out from the crowd still have to hustle like crazy to get heard. And as far as he knew, those were the only bands respectable enough to represent his label.

For me, however, an indie label's greatest asset is its power to grant leverage. And that leverage is limitless in worth, just as a literal lever can be used to lift any heavy object by adding distance between the fulcrum and the exerting force. So if a band sees the leverage afforded by an indie label as their ticket to becoming the next Beatles, then that's exactly what it's worth to them, even if the label itself harbours no reciprocal ambition to sign the next Beatles.

In other words, this label's founder didn't value his own power to grant leverage anywhere near as much as I did. And those who don't value their own power⁠— who can't envision the lofty ends to which some out there might want to see that power used⁠— will eventually have it taken away, much like Vito Corleone took out Don Fanucci's little one-man operation. So his label will probably remain defunct, just like the great monarchies of the past. And if the other indie labels continue to shun those bands who value what they have to offer the most, in order to reward those who value it the least, then they'll probably fade away as well.