This month, I turned 30. Time to queue up some The Menzingers and Jeff Rosenstock to wax on about where to go when my twenties are over and how this decade’s gonna be fucked!
It’s a weird milestone. Half my lifetime ago, I saw 30 as a barrier to crash into or burn out long before. Not out of some edgy morbidity, but what felt like an inevitability. I watched my sister slowly lose a second battle with brain cancer; my childhood best friend had been briefly declared dead due to an accidental drug overdose. Both would be gone a few years later.
Racing into an unknown fourth decade — alongside the 10th anniversary of such significant loss — has made for a reflective whirlwind centered on the “Why?” of it all. What captures my undivided attention? What specific aspects are rewarded with passion? Why does it even matter?
Of course, it didn’t take long for music to come to mind because it’s been a constant in a chaotic world. Bands like Green Day, Pearl Jam, and Letters to Cleo were an on-ramp to obsession with pop punk, grunge, and alt-rock. (Anybody else’s parents fuck with Throwing Copper?) Eventually, every percussive surface, from trash cans to pots and pan set-ups, was a drum set in waiting. Church services lost my interest unless the good singers were there. Our Dookie cassette was thrown out the window in a desperate attempt to keep a 3-year-old me from raising hell from the backseat.
Music quickly became a foundational identity, from picking up instruments to digging into discographies with the fervor of an anthropologist. Gradually, time became measured by album releases and the feelings associated with them. For every peak moment — hearing a song or album that sends shivers down my spine or seeing a fantastic performance — there have been periods of upheaval where most melodies were too potent to take in: losing loved ones, ending long-term relationships, moving somewhere new.
The one of the most harrowing and recent was the COVID lockdowns, which severed music from the physical community in a way few alive had experienced. It was a wake-up call to the preciousness of live music and the spaces where we engage with it; 90 percent of independent venues surveyed by the National Independent Venue Association (NIVA) feared shutting down without financial assistance.
As tours were rescheduled and venues reopened, it felt like absence made the energy stronger. I thought it was the youthful energy of being in a college region or the collective catharsis of melting into a wall of sound with countless strangers. But it didn’t take long to see an almost-mycelial DIY movement, primarily led by Black and queer voices, emerge from the wake of unprecedented societal strain. A resilient flower growing through the cracks of the paved-over everything, inspiring everything from hardcore shows in Taco Bell parking lots to new community art spaces like Seventh Mission in Denver to perfect lovers cafe here in Durham.
Hope is vital in the face of despair because the future of music is terrifying. Streaming accounts for 84% of all recorded music revenue in the US, but the average payout per stream is less than a penny. (Actually, it’s less than a quarter of a penny.) A Ticketmaster-led monopoly in the ticketing and live events market has led to outrageous service fees for larger artists. While artists like Beyonce and Taylor Swift flourish, countless “working class” acts struggle with higher costs to tour sustainably.
Compounding these harsh realities is the fact that quality music coverage is dying. Private equity firms are vultures circling a carcass of their own design: buy something popular (like Pitchfork), monetize the hell out of it, and then cut costs when you need a profit boost. Talented music obsessives are being cut out by a media landscape that is more interested in hot takes and celebrities than nuanced reflections from diverse voices.
It’s challenging to look at the music industry and not see grassroots organizing as the way forward. We must take stock of what we value most and define the support we can carry. That may range from giving money to artists (buying records and merch; being a patron) or simply investing time to make your local community stronger. Whatever form it takes, we must fervently love our favorite artists and sacred spaces while we have them because survival is never guaranteed.
With that in mind, my goals for these next ten years and beyond are simple:
Uplift great, lesser-known music rather than dragging down what I don’t like.
Seek out novelty and share it whenever possible.
Lead with the mosh pit energy rather than keeping it covered by darkness in loud and humid rooms.
Here’s to the journey ahead.
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