The Inevitable Death of All Music Scenes

NYC's art-punk golden age, Chapel Hill's indie-rock community, and Memphis's Stax Records all declined in about the same way: The underdogs became the establishment.

Who makes the art when no one can afford the rent?

This question has come up a lot lately, especially for New Yorkers, perhaps thanks to Bill de Blasio's "two New Yorks" mayoral campaign. After attending the Basilica Soundscape 13 recently held in Hudson, New York—a relatively affordable destination roughly two hours north of the city by train—New Yorker critic Sasha Frere-Jones wrote a blog post suggesting the following ingredients for art production: “When a city allows you to be poor enough to live without starving but not work all the time, you can find the time to find your voice, a cohort, and maybe even a building.” He’s got ‘70s and ‘80s NYC in mind, when punk, new wave, and hip-hop flourished, resulting in an exciting music scene. The piece concludes with a cautionary note (and an expensive dinner). “Hudson may price itself out of the Soundscape game," Frere-Jones writes. "The artists always bring in the people they most want to escape.”

On Sunday, David Byrne—the lead-singer of Talking Heads, a band that benefited immensely from being in New York in the ‘70s—published an editorial for Creative Time Reports and The Guardian, addressing the city’s supposed artistic demise. “[W]e come to New York for the possibility of interaction and inspiration,” Byrne writes. Since “[m]iddle-class people can barely afford to live here,” he says, “the resources [knowledge and creativity] that keep the city vibrant are being eliminated.” As a result, “[t]his city doesn’t make things anymore.” He largely blames the culture that surrounds banking. Byrne is careful to point out that he does not believe poverty is necessary for art, but “[t]he idea of making an ongoing creative life ... is difficult unless one gets a foothold on the ladder.” (The steady decline in the probability of being able to climb society’s “ladder” has been well-documented by scholars and journalists.) Byrne ends wondering, “where will I go? Join the expat hipsters upstate in Hudson?”

The trends described by Frere-Jones and Byrne are not part of an isolated pattern. As places develop into artistic hubs, they often end up destroying the very forces that brought about their transformation. This is demonstrated in two new books: Late Century Dream: Movements in the US Indie Music Underground (out November 5) and Respect Yourself: Stax Records and the Soul Explosion (out November 12).

Late Century Dream collects stories from indie-music communities—small (Chapel Hill, North Carolina; Athens, Georgia) and large (Chicago)—in the late ‘80s and ‘90s. Vanessa Hay, from the skittering, propulsive Athens band Pylon, echoes the language of Frere-Jones and Byrne: “Pylon toured sporadically ... but we were not into being a career band. ... I actually was able to survive on the money I brought home from touring.” Matt Gentling, in the band Archers of Loaf, believes Chapel Hill exploded as a music center because of “the availability of these sort of hand-to-mouth type jobs you can pick up quickly and put back down at a moment’s notice, then come back and find another one later ... and then having colleges all around, you get all these people who are curious about art.”

But creating interesting art draws other artists, groupies, hangers-on—crowds of people looking for Byrne’s “possibility of interaction and inspiration.” Of course, the market also swoops in, looking to quickly incorporate new creative energy. Pop is worth money, and wherever there's money to be made, companies will show up to make it, creating winners and losers.

When a number of indie-rock bands broke into wider success, a genre founded on outsider status had worked itself into the insider’s club, and it didn’t know what to do. This tension plays out in Late Century Dream. Paul Butchart, who played in the Athens band Side Effects, which disbanded in 1982, dismisses the artists—he contemptuously refers to them as “real musicians”—who came to Athens to “surf” on the success of others, including Matthew Sweet, whose career is still going. And the book’s introduction notes that the history of Seattle rock has been “reduced ... to the history of a single label,” Sub Pop. It proposes to fix this by “circumnavigating the populist Sub Pop hegemony to look at seminal fringe groups.”

Then again, the indie-rock scene of Late Century Dream wasn’t the most inclusive world, and it remains generally white (a fact that Frere-Jones noticed in Hudson). Respect Yourself portrays a more diverse community: a mixture of lower- and middle-class, men and women, black and white, who managed to create an essential body of music in the ‘60s and early ‘70s. 

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Elias Leight writes about music and books for Paste and Popmatters.

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