Millions of Red Bops, Part III

Part I Part II Part IV

Popular music has steadily gotten worse over the years, and I don't think it's just crotchety old man griping either. The consolidation of corporate radio stations under a handful of networks like Clear Channel Communications, and the consolidation of record labels into a few megalabels that own the rest, have played their part in making music worse. The labels will sign musical acts that sound like already-successful acts, and then get the radio stations to play those bands' singles in an effort to move albums. All this leads to a self-reinforcing loop where everything sounds like everything else, and out of that dynamic is born the wash-down-the-gravel-with-a-pint-of-gravel grunge vocals of butt rock.

In reaction to this corporatist dynamic came indie rock, the Death Cabs and Decembrists of the world. But as they enjoyed their own success, they just brought up clone acts behind them, because the same capitalist logic working on Atlantic Records also works on Sub Pop. But the way they forged their way to the spotlight was necessarily an elitist one that created the whole hipster scene. Who's Death Cab for Cutie? You probably haven't heard of them. Suddenly, if you wanted to hear music that didn't sound like Kurt Cobain's annoying kid brother was the lead vocalist, you had to do research on the internet, track down obscure bands, order albums through the mail. It took time and effort to find good music, and those requirements were a sort of gate that kept the working class out.

As the intelligentsia and bourgeoisie sorted themselves out of the general music pool, the most talented musicians often followed. Locked out of making catchy music for the masses by corporate consolidation, they made sophisticated music for each other and for the handful of fans crowdfunding their latest album on Kickstarter. The resurgence of prog rock and jazz in the last couple years owes at least something to this tendency, and the declining level of quality in popular rock owes something to this tendency as well. Why aim for a one-in-a-million chance to be a butt rock star making music for millions but losing your creative voice to the corporations when you could make it for thousands instead, and those thousands had more money anyway and would let you keep your creative freedom to a much greater degree?

So it's not as simple as the poor dumbs liking butt rock because they don't know what good music is. If butt rock sucks, in a very real sense, it's the fault of most of us who knew better but just didn't care to make good music accessible to the toiling masses. It's the fault of artists abandoning making simple, catchy, but good music for their fans to make complicated, inaccessible music for each other and for the bourgeoisie who profited off of ruining popular music in the first place.

I finally applied the wisdom I'd gained about music and about the music kids' class interests in a beautifully petty way. Together with two friends, I started a punk band: Republican Jesus. I don't play drums, but I was the drummer and backup vocalist. The bassist had just learned how to play bass about a year prior, and the guitarist/lead vocalist always got good and hammered and sang in a faux cowboy accent just in case anyone might mistake us for good music. We dressed like Johnny Rotten got beat up by Crass and chucked in a dumpster. It was glorious IRL shitposting, is what it was.

We played a grand total of three shows before announcing at the last one that "Republican Jesus broke up for your sins." The first show, we played a song making fun of jazz followed by a song supporting a local politician who'd gotten up to some socialisms. The music kids were livid, but the workers in the audience thought it was the funniest shit they'd ever seen.

For the Second Coming of Republican Jesus, we got the hype train chugging early, telling people all over town that we were going to play another set. We walked in in our leather jackets acting like we owned the place, we loudly ordered beers and shots, and were perfectly sloshed before we even got up on stage. When it was our set, we spent ten minutes setting up, and telling the crowd all about this new song we'd written, pouring our hearts out into the music about various things that had happened to us in the past few months. And then once all the amps were plugged in and the levels were checked, we told them the name of our song: "G Chord." One g chord and a ba-dum-tiss later, we got the only vehement chants for an encore that I believe I'll ever get in my life. So we repeated it, and then walked straight out, telling everyone that the afterparty was at a nearby bar.

The third show only happened when we heard that the most annoying music kid was coming back to town to play a set. The bourgeois owner of the cafe adored this girl, and for her previous performance actually brought out a local television crew to catch her singing her favorite song, "Ain't No Sunshine." She grew up to become a real estate agent, and was thoroughly obnoxious in every respect. So naturally we started off by playing "Ain't No Sunshine." We played that song straight, other than I mildly dissed her by changing it to "Ain't no sunshine 'til she's gone," and from a musical perspective it was probably the best song we've ever played. We were sending a message - we can play well, we just choose not to.

Well, we were playing the song straight until the breakdown - you know, the "I know, I know, I know..." part. I said that six times, and then was all like "Guys, guys, HEY GUYS, okay, wait, so what comes after that sixth 'I know'? [Bassist], do you know?" "I dunno." "[Lead vocalist], do you know?" "Oh, I know thur 'lil buddy." And that's when the death metal version began:


A̷͙̣̮̞͚͌̌̂͂̕͘í̵̢̺̘̥͎͎͇̫̱̘̾͒̄̽̕͘n̷̢̨̨̡͕̹̺͓̘͇̔͑̉̄̋͝'̷̗̲͙̃̾͐͂̚͜͢͡t̼̯͇̥̻̖͉̤̥̎́̋͂̃͆̕͝͠ n̶̡̛͚̘̥̟̖͊̊̈͐͐͛̀͘̚͢ͅô͓̝͍̘͓̣̏͋̿̂͠ s̷̩͉̺͕̫͋͌̊̄̍̐̄̕͞͠ͅų̡͓͍͓̳̬̫̪̋̓̑͛́͟ņ̨̘͙͇̝̞̭͚͋̑͒̂͗̏̕͢͝s̷̱͉͕͔̰͙̭̅̀̌̈̒̃͢͡͝h̛͚̟̹͕͚͖̠̹̭̉͌͐̇͌̒̆͛͝i̢͖͉͖͖͙̗͌̾͐̇̿͛͘ņ̧̹̺̙̗͈̝̅̇̄̀͋̄̓̉ë͈͇̣͉̬͈͌̍̑̄̐͘͢ '̴̨͕̻̙̟͗̋̑̄̃͛̔͗͆̾͟t̸̪̥̯͉̜̝͈̭̀̓̓̕͘͘̚i̵̹̼̙͙̼̹̹͖̞̍̀̇͂̄̀́̒͑l̸͍͇̜̠̭̮̜̈͗̚̕͜͢͞ s̴̨̡͕̯͙͉̹̳̝̊̄͗͒̂̕͝ͅḩ͕̹̼̻̤̖̘͌̆̏̀́̆̔̄̉̚ë̡̛͕̫͇̜͕̗͓́̈̇̈́̉͑̔̈͒͜͟'̢͔̗̰̬̄̒͊̎͘s̟̩͍̥̯̥͊̿̈̒̂͢͢͞ g̹̝͔̟̲̞͐̒̌́̓͛͛̈́̚ő̢͖̣̼̥̹͐́̋̒͆͠n̷͔̪̳͇͐͒͛̓͌͒͒͘͘͜͠e̸̡͕̩̣̥̼̤̓̑̍̑̉͘͢ ̷̧̠̣̬̻̞̬̈̎̀̀̊̇̊̌͟A̦̻͕̺̒̋͌̈́̀̌́͜͞͞͠i̷͕̟̟̘͓̻̺̒͌̂͗̓̊̀̕ͅn̲͓̣̭͑̔͊̍͋̓͑̿̚͢͠ͅ'̨̩̮̮̊̀̐͌́̕͜ṱ͍̩̪͚̠͖̩̆̾͆̌̚͟͞ n̴̨̫͔̦̖͕̹̉̍̊̒̕͢͜͟o̴̤̰̳͙̜̬͎͊̓͗̆͐̊͘͞͞ ç̢͓̭̩̰̗̰͉̐͊̊̀͒̋̐͜l̷͙͕̳̪̜̋̃̅̅͒̽̆̃̐͝ͅo̘͍̟̙̰͓̱̓͌̇̏̏͆̿̚͘͠ȕ̡̦̣͕̦͚̏͑͊̄d̶͇̳̰͔̖̯͆̀̔̓̓́s̶̞̳̤̤͖͉̲͌̀̆̎̈́̈́͊̈́͢͢ͅ w̘̜̜͖̝͇̹̏͑̆̆͂̂͂̎̌̄͟͟ͅḩ̰̟͇̓̄͆͗̿̐̚͢͝e̙̼̘̲̤̊̈͆̑̈́͐̄̒͘͝ņ̵̡̛̠̱͉̤̾̒̍̒̈́̐̓̐ ŝ̶̢̗̤̙͍͎̞͕̥͇̂̿̚̚h̵̡̞̙̘͙͍̎̀̌̏͆͡ḙ̶̛̻͚͇̠̟̭̔̔̌͡ͅ'̨̪̝̺̳̖̗͕͆̆́̊̍͒̀͢͢͠s̖̥̙̮̰̻̏̑́̋͑̈́͟͡ ā̶̖̱͍̥̫͇̇̽̇̿̓̕w̧͍̝͕̠͓̄̉̄͌͌͌̿̕͜͠͞ͅa̴̤̘̞̻̞̒͐́͂̍̒͜͞͝y̵̡͍̝̱̝͕̰͚̿̓̐̂͒̚


Needless to say, that did not go over well. The second song was a cover of the most covered song in that open mic, "Wagon Wheel," and it was probably the chillest song we ever played, we fucked up all the words on purpose and even drank a round during the song. We were told by the bougie owner that we could only do one more song after that, so we made it count and covered Crass' "Do They Owe Us A Living" because she stole her baristas' tips and everyone knew it. 'Lil Miss Music Girl sat there fuming, and then when it was her set she tried to play her one hit anyway. We were back at the bassist's place listening on the radio for that song, and she choked out the lyrics nervously and never came back again. It was probably the high point of my musical career, if you want to even deign it with that moniker.

Continue on to the conclusion, Part IV