It has been a long time since Y2K was in any way relevant. That pivotal moment could have been the end of modern existence, the dawn of a nuclear winter caused by our own blind desire to automate the world. Planes would crash into the sea, defense systems would go offline, banking computers would melt and the world's economy would collapse. Instead, we were faced with a fate much more horrifying. The new millennium ushered in the collapse of originality. The seizure of socially conscious art. The undoing of underground creativity.
In 1999 I was eleven years old. I could barely understand most of the music I devoured, but I was certainly able to identify trends, stylistic alterations which helped redefine my generation through the early part of this decade.
I think my current confusion climaxed last summer. I have attended scores of concerts: local basement shows, arena rockers, classical symphonies, festivals, operas, and more. None of these prior experiences could have prepared me for the total musical and counter-cultural immersion to which I was subjected at Bonnaroo 2009. As several close friends and I geared up for a seventeen hundred mile road trip, I could not have foreseen the consequences of our journey. Ultimately, it would take four days of musical bliss for me to realize how strained my relationship with music has truly become.
My parents were strong proponents of my musical education. My mother's family stems from a long line of pianists reaching back to czarist Russia. My father could not handle three chord guitar ballads; however, he owned and cherished every classic album my peers now idolize. He attended concerts in high school gymnasiums for twenty five cents, while those same bands, CSNY, The Who, and Pink Floyd (rather, what's left of them), now sell out arenas for hundreds of dollars per seat. And the confluence between my mother's musical talents and my father's deep seeded devotion to rock n roll left me with a two tiered appreciation for the art and cultural significance of music in society.
1999 unfortunately marked my entrance into the “scene” which, I obliviously failed to realize, was crumbling around me. I would spend hours scouring the internet, searching for free MP3 files, which had just begun to stun the record companies and some short-sighted recording artists. I sought the classics and the contemporary hits, but my true allegiance naturally lay with my Generation Y roots. While U2, Aerosmith, and Bon Jovi had somehow jumped the fence separating their decade from mine, the “alternative” to mainstream music had itself become the mainstream. Courtney Love sold out Nirvana, Billy Corgan sold out the Pumpkins, and despite early signs of brilliance, the Gallagher brothers turned Oasis into a poorly conceived soap opera. By the time Third Eye Blind and Modest Mouse arrived to save alternative music it was already too late.
So how did this fiasco devolve into my current predicament? I have spent the last ten years trying to find my identity in the jumbled music scene which emerged after Y2K. I've played in bands, I've gone to the shows, I've worked backstage, and I've studied musicology. And through it all, I was lucky enough to find some friends who, like me, loved every second of those sweaty basement shows and church halls willing to rent to us on Thursday or Friday evenings. But we were never able to clearly identify the source or cause of our unrest.
I find it incredible that Napster and its offspring failed to diversify the music being produced. Not only did hip-hop convert the white masses, but the “emo” kids who were unwilling to let go of rock n roll slowly started to suffocate the genre. I reluctantly must steal Cameron Crowe's wording, but my peers were once again turning rock music into an “industry of cool.” Emo music wasn't about the music. It never was. It was about an attitude which devolved and turned an entire generation of idealists into whiny suburban romantics. But at the time, I was too immersed to understand how ridiculous the situation had become.
Virtually all the bands sounded the same, and the kids at the shows seemed to blend together. Individualism, both in the music and among the fans, was an illusion. They thought they were reinventing the revolution. But there was neither a fire, nor a spark, nor even a dream with which these “scenesters” could identify. Everything revolved around the skin tight jeans, the terribly dry lyrics, and the occasional bong hit.
Of course, I now realize that there was great, meaningful music being created during the first half of this decade; and it came from two distinct sources. The first was the underground. I thought I knew what it meant to be part of the subculture, and in hindsight, I did the best I could as a high school student from a standard, suburban community. But there was some really revolutionary music emerging in Brooklyn and Silver Lake which would, several years later, help reawaken creativity in modern rock music. The other source of refuge during the early 2000s continued to be those influential musicians who, by all convention, should not have survived this long. Bruce, Bono, and Wayne Coyne became modern liberal activists while the musicians selling albums (or having them stolen online) were appearing on MTV Cribs.
The emo kids grew up, and their replacements embraced hip-hop. Until sometime last year (2008), I had almost given up on modern music. I was sick of searching deep within the used CD bins at local record shops, only to be disappointed by bands recording garbage in their friends' garage studios.
Fast forward to June 2009. I was excited to finally be traveling to Tennessee for America's ultimate summer festival. Bonnaroo started as a hippie-jam fest, and thankfully, its organizers gradually expanded that mission to include some of the more creative and exciting acts emerging today. The Obama era has ushered in a wave of experimental “indie” rock (although indie doesn't always refer to independent labels anymore) bent on expanding our auditory horizons. When I first saw TV On The Radio and Yeah Yeah Yeahs perform together in Baltimore, I was blown away by the diversity of sounds emerging from, what I had previously believed to be, a broken scene.
Both these acts, along with dozens of other modern innovators were poised to take the stage alongside classics like The E Street Band, Phish, and The Beastie Boys at Bonnaroo 2009. So we packed my Subaru hatchback and drove southwest for fifteen hours. I spent four days oblivious to the world outside our bubble. Our seven hundred acre haven. Our hazy, muddy, perfectly balanced home. I had never before been so tuned in to a mindset, but throughout the festival, I generally could not focus on any one band, artist, meal, conversation, or side-act for very long. I was totally overwhelmed and completely focused. I was a walking contradiction.
Throughout the weekend I decided nothing. Opinions were not forged nor broken. I just allowed Bonnaroo to hit me in waves. And as much as I'd like to say my experience was unique, I know there has to be at least a few others, among the 100,000 attendees, who shared my sentiment.
The bands that weekend performed virtually around the clock. I saw stages become laboratories. Experimentation was rampant, both on stage and off. I heard new and unique sounds emerge from the new leaders of my generation. And the jam band undercurrent simply served to reinforce the drug induced bliss which consumed the venue. So I silently hailed the revitalization of my scene, albeit a slightly different scene, as I had grown and matured and felt comfortable knowing that music was once again in an expansionary stage. And style wasn't important, and drug choice didn't matter, and footwear became an optional accessory.
But I look back and realize that my bubble was tainted. For every busker, graffiti artist, or truly unique vendor, a corporate giant was present and ready to burn their product into my already strained retinae. The advertising was overt, flashy, and for some strange reason, completely acceptable to everyone around me. To clarify, I didn't perceive the corporate presence as a problem or a nuisance. In fact, they provided some great free services. But I was surprised that the king of hippie-jam festivals had become a haven for commercial interests.
I thoroughly enjoyed the entire festival, but I realize that I may never be completely satisfied with the state of music in American society. There will always be a new and exciting band or sub-genre trying to earn listeners and acclaim. But I've realized there will never be, and probably never has been, an ideal period in music. Perhaps with the exception of Mozart and Beethoven's finest compositions, every song, album, and concert is a struggle for fans who truly seek audio perfection. My search for new trends and sounds continues, and I'll admit that I have some friends who have far surpassed me in this endeavor. Nevertheless, I will always notice the imperfections, and be amazed by the nuances, surrounding my love for pure, original, genre-bending musical experiences.
