There’s a one-in-thirty-one chance that you are reading this on the Fourth of July—that glorious day this nation’s forefathers threw off the shackles of that tyrannical monarchy and were finally able to enjoy the profits of the land and people they owned. Thanks to their strongly worded letter to the king, we no longer have to deal with political dynasties today.
But I digress.
While you are probably celebrating this holiday with some good ole fashioned bbq and an explosive or two, this column is about music, not former British colonies rebranding. Since Instagram invents new holidays every three seconds, this seems like a good opportunity to co-opt the whole freedomcore aesthetic for us lowly musician types.
Liberty is in the air, and I think we should celebrate our own rebellion against oppressive forces of power. I’m talking about those tyrannical, controlling major record labels. If you can celebrate those forefathers that you are one hundred percent probably not related to, I think the indie music scene deserves to blow some shit up in honor of those brave souls who stuck it to the man by declaring independence from any real chance of making a living at music.
After all, America’s favorite pastime is cultural appropriation. It seems like we’d just be following in the tradition. Indie does stand for independent. I think. There we go! We don’t even have to change the name of the holiday! We’re just celebrating our freedom from a support system taking a fair cut, like you! See? We’re the same. We’re all greedy bastards that just want the whole pie.
It is also important to craft a narrative. Give yourself an origin story that makes you look cool. Just like you hot dog eaters, we also have a nice, tidy history to feel good about. You see, around the late ’70s and early ’80s, super, totally talented acts that totally deserved more attention and money than what they were getting decided that the reason they weren’t getting signed was because they were way too awesome and edgy for major record labels. Their sound was way too fresh and innovative. Those fat cats holding the purse strings just didn’t understand—and they were the gatekeepers to the whole industry! It wasn’t fair.
But you see, technology was advancing, and these bands realized that those really shitty demos they were making at home could literally just be the albums they put out! As for touring? Hell, everyone in the band knows someone who knows someone that lives in enough cities with some shitty dive bar. Why stay at a hotel when you can stay on a friend’s sunken, threadbare couch?! I can’t think of a reason. Record labels thought they cornered the market on promotion. Hell, they never heard of flyers being stapled onto telephone poles. You see, this was before the days of Facebook events that all your friends RSVP’d as a hard "maybe" to. Thus, the concept of DIY was born.
Just like this great country, we proud musicians freed ourselves from the chains of financial support, actual distribution, and an established network of promotion and representation. Today is as good a day as ever to hoot and holler about this sea change in how we produce music, and you consume it. We’re trading one evil for the other, like those thirteen colonies. Why not just go over the top with explosions and over-drinking, as we honor the memory of those who paved the way for us musicians to also be our own bookers, promoters, managers, producers, roadies, and groupies! Complete independence! So much freedom! Maybe we’ll just swap American flags for Black Flags and have like...readings, or something, from Michael Azerrad’s "Our Band Could Be Your Life." What we won’t be doing is listening to chart-topping, sellout pop because we are celebrating our super cool independence from that money-making garbage and those artists that don’t have day jobs. Go us!
Obviously, this is a beer-fueled holiday, but it’ll have to be strictly PBR. And I guess instead of burgers and hot dogs, there will be an ornate buffet of beef jerky sticks and instant ramen. Because tradition matters.
While you’re getting hyphy over the signing of a break-up letter, think, too, of the shitty local band that, unfortunately, lives like a block away from you. They are part of a long and hallowed tradition of eschewing any semblance of an actual music career for a lifetime of boxes of unsold, homemade t-shirts and live bar shows to three people. But hey, at least we did it all by ourselves—without the help of any stinking, overbearing major label, with their stupid resources and connections!
To each their own cause for celebration and libation, right? I mean, there’s a chance you’re reading a nudie rag at a family bbq, for God’s sake. Freedom is a spectrum.
