Alpha to Omega

Part One: The Slow and Tragic Coercion

hi-fi [hi(gh) + fi(delity).] n.
Extremely high-quality sound reproduction with minimal distortion, achieved with electronic equipment (hyphenated when used before a noun)

Here’s a stupid question: Isn’t the whole point of indie music, the whole attraction to indie music, the fact that it’s supposed to differ from the formulaic and mass produced cultural dictatorship that is the mainstream media and record labels? Are my expectations completely misplaced when I anticipate something somewhat, you know, GOOD?

Well, let me tell you a little secret. It’s all just a big fat lie. There is nothing good about most indie music, and in fact, most of the people associated with it need just as much attention as the AC/DC chicks who take off their shirts and shake their tits on bar-room tables. Only, these are creative people, so naturally, they have to find another way of being boring, predictable and just plain pathetic—a way that to the undiscerning eye might even (fingers crossed) make you think they’re a lot cooler than you.

There has been a trend towards crap in indie music as of late. In fact, did you know that an overwhelming majority of the “popular” indie bands were begotten through the incestuous union of shite and crap? It’s a fact. I won’t go into specifics and identify the bad band that I so desperately want to dig into. There are three reasons for this:

1. I don’t want people to go searching for them to confirm or disprove my judgement on them, thus giving them even more traffic than they deserve.
2. Despite their uninspiring musical ability and their association with the scenesters, the individuals in this band are examples of exceptions to the rule; they are far more real than their trendie-friendie counterparts.
3. Flappy mouths.

I will say this though, a couple of chords thrown haphazardly together, banged out to the accompaniment of bad lyrics and off-pitch whiny vocals on what might as well be a toy piano, and a hyper-cute and hyper-sexed lead singer whose best moments are supplying witticisms between songs does not constitute any kind of meaningful or lasting art. That doesn’t really matter; these bands have managed, by their mere charm and more importantly, personal connections, to rise to the top of the food chain in this sad excuse for a city. Our setting is an oil city, a desert for anything but suburban sprawl, consumerism, and an innate acceptance of all these things—opportunity enough for a rich underground counter-culture of ideas, music, and art. You know, just for posterity. But, I like to compare the realisation of this opportunity to the sound of a deflating balloon, which coincidently, is the same sound that comes out of the trendy advocates of it: “PUHFFTHTHTHTHTTTTT…” Say it with me now—it’s quite fun. A word comes to mind as well: Impotence. Lacking girth. Not for posterity. Several inches short of joy. Flaccid.

The opening of the Hi-Fi club comes one year after the hockey play-offs. Thankfully, we have not had to sit through another shit show like last year, though our weekend home away from homes have been coveted by the hockey-sheep and there isn’t a day you walk down the strip and don’t run into someone who looks like they just time-ported it over from Miami Beach. To reiterate: the perfect situation for a significant cultural opposition.

So, you would think that the Hi-Fi Club, an arena to the indie scene, would be filled with people with ideas, and originality, and things to say. But alas, it would appear that I am going to be condemned to my apartment balcony with a bottle of wine for an undetermined period of time. This is because I made a trek out to the Hi-Fi Club the other night and was inexorably disappointed. Not by the club itself—I think the club has real potential, but once again: “PUHFFTHTHTHTHTTTTT…”

The reason for this is simple. Any religion, or in this case cult, teaches us that the church is not the building but the people inside of it; a cult is only so good as its people. Here is where the Hi-Fi Club runs violently astray.

Part Two: You Can’t See the Wood for the Trees on Your Knees

There is a line to get in when we arrive. I admit surprise, since I’ve never had to wait in line at the other live venue in town, but it’s not cold out, so I’m not bothered. We may miss the opening band, but we have only come to see them out of situational association and not in anticipation of good music. Three more girls arrive, these ones with the steely look of determination and Ben Sherman button-ups. They make for the door, even when the awkward girl in front of us points out that we are in fact, a line up. She is ignored of course, and I recognize the silencing look as one that I’ve been forced into getting worked up over many times. This pisses me off. I mentally console myself even as I have a sinking suspicion that it might be one of those places and one of those nights. Whatever that means.

The girl exits, looking rather annoyed and she and her two friends consign themselves to standing behind us, bitching about how they’re missing the band and the bouncer won’t even let them in to look for someone.

Almost out of nowhere, twenty or so people scatteredly begin to arrive, each group ignoring the line-up and walking straight in, but this isn’t all that surprising. What is surprising is that despite their disrelation, or at the most casual association, with each other, they are all wearing varying degrees of the same outfit. This is fascinating to me; I don’t think I’ve seen such an intense concentration of scensters in one place, without the dilution of ‘others’ in quite some time. There is an overwhelming prevalence of thick-rimmed glasses, ties and thrift store sweaters (which were actually purchased at Purr for well over $100). And don’t forget the beret—the must have for EVERY trendy generation. (Please support the beret; its prevalence is being threatened daily with the sudden ascendancy of the Castro Hat.) Oh, and don’t forget the self-important blather. Someone behind us starts talking about school.
“Yeah, I went to ACAD, but I don’t really make art anymore. I don’t know, I just think I’ve moved beyond a lot of that.”
ACAD is the local arts school. I certainly am not one to judge the program, since I have never attended a class there, nor have I had any discussions with any of the instructors. If the art produced by its graduates at the year-end art show or the self-aggrandizing students are to be any representation of its academic merits, ACAD is the equivalent of getting your degree and then hanging out at the Hi-Fi Club and telling people you went there. Yeah, but you don’t make art anymore. Yeah, you’ve totally moved beyond ART.

Every person who enters the building without even considering that the line-up may apply to them gets me more and more worked up. A girl with an updated Pat Benatar haircut searches the line desperately for a lighter and upon retrieving one, returns to the hollowed out demeanour of a china doll without so much as a thank-you. A few people are admitted into the bar…errr…sorry, club, because they are apparently “with the band”. It strikes me as strange that the people on the guest list would be arriving to a show that was already in progress. I make another snide comment about how “apparently all you need to get in is a tie and some nice Value Village attire”. The girl in front of me laughs. I have a fear creeping into me. The warmth of the adrenaline is beginning to make my hands sweat and my tounge grow sharp. I’m about ten seconds from saying something especially nasty or vomiting. This is not good. I promised myself when the first three girls arrived that I wasn’t going to react in this way and now I’m already beginning to sweat and frown. Suddenly, another Pat Benatar girl swoops through the line with an “exCUSE me”, which I can’t help but view as uncalled for. A few moments later she opens the door and yells at her friends “K is really awesome tonight”. The tone in her voice and the fact that her friends barely listen to her makes me believe that this was an advertisement that was more for my sake than theirs. Surely if she tattooed “I’m with the band” on her forehead, she wouldn’t have to go to all the trouble of drawing people’s attention to it, thereby, in her mind, assuring them of her supreme coolness. There is something in her eyes and I realise that without that grotesque loathsome look of desperation and disrespect that is so permanently etched into her face, she would be quite beautiful. She pops back in and then out again moments later to announce “You guys…WE don’t have to wait in line”. The mechanical excitement became so rampant you would think someone had thrown a tofu cheese slice at the flock. She reiterates this more than once, again, more for the benefit of the people in line than the people at whom she directs it.

At this point I’m confused about what exactly “maximum capacity” means, and reflect with some confusion that anytime I’ve been “with the band” the guest list has allotted one person per band member, not five. Despite the nauseous feeling and the swell of complete repulsion, I hold my tongue this time and simply suggest that this is gearing up to be a shitty evening and we should hit the road before I hit someone. We walk away and my anger dissipates. I congratulate myself for my comparatively good behaviour. Those trendies always get me so worked up.

That evening has not discouraged me from going back to the Hi-Fi Club. It’s great material. It’s also great practice in not being so reactive, in doing what I should be doing when I’m around these people: laughing. Plus, despite the sometimes crappy music and the all times crappy people, this is my culture too. And I’m proposing that those of you who feel the same way take it back. The Anti-trend. Kind of like the anti-hero—the protagonist who lacks the predictability and socially accepted qualities of the protagonist. So join me at the Hi-Fi Club. The next time you encounter one of these trendies basking in their utter desperation, behaving like complete and total wankers, congratulate them. That’s right, clap your hands together, bend down to make eye contact and pretend you’re talking to a puppy who has just taken his first shit in the right place—“You’re so cool! Yes you are, so stop worrying! That’s such a good boy! You’re such a good boy…yes you are!” ETC. Remember, their grandiosity is based entirely on fear, so it’s not like they’ll actually do something about it.