I tell ya, kids today...

After a while, it becomes tiresome to care one fig about “scenes.” The dance scene, the fashion scene – these are things that are important only to a very specific and narrow age group, early twentysomethings with bellybutton piercings and purple streaks in their hair. Past 30, the only scene that really matters is the beer-and-recliner scene. And maybe the fresh-load-of-laundry scene. Depends how gross you are.

 

Nevertheless, I lately find myself decrying the state of the music scene, maybe the one youth-oriented concern that still perturbs my hackles. (Speaking of gross.) This happens to a lot of people the longer in the tooth they grow; we become attached to music of a certain era, and everything that comes after it sounds like a litter of kittens scratching the insides of a hollow trash can. The technical term for this is Fuddy Duddy Syndrome, symptoms of which include cynicism, a need for quiet, and a tendency to yell at teenagers from our front stoops over mugs of bad coffee.

 

What’s different about the current stage in music’s evolution is that the entire scene, the industry and its points of entry, are changing dramatically, due mostly to the prevalence of technology. The Internet is a great equalizer, which is fantastic for amplifying the voices of the powerless, but less fantastic for music, not all of which is strictly equal, and much of which belongs in the waste bin alongside old banana peels and opened packages of tube socks. When guitar virtuosos toil in obscurity while trouser stains like Justin Bieber find international success through YouTube, you know something alarming is happening.

 

There was a time when finding success through music was the result of talent, hard work, and liberal doses of mind-altering drugs. Boy, those were the days. Musicians could play instruments. Singers could sing. Image was still a consideration, but it wasn’t the be-all, end-all; you put on a sparkly outfit, teased your hair in a manner that would embarrass the curliest of poodles, and made a music video in which you ground your crotch against the exhaust pipe of a Ferrari loaded with booze-swilling volleyball players. You know. Innocent stuff.

 

No more. Now, anyone with vocal filters and beat-box programs on their computer can become a sensation simply by tapping into the Internet’s subtly shifting zeitgeist. It’s all about timing, looks, and the number of hits you get, which has supplanted record sales as the new metric by which success is judged. A well-crafted song no longer counts for much. If popular music was once a juicy steak, it’s now a soggy, grease-laden fast food burger, all taste and no nutrition. And at least burgers don’t make you want to drive a switchblade through your ear while leaping from the rails of an elevated train. Unless it’s White Castle.

 

Of all the musical genres that get my blood pumpin’, the blood-pumpiest of all is early-1980’s thrash metal. A below-the-radar subset of heavy metal, it’s populated by the ugliest long-haired freaks and brutes this side of an ancient Viking settlement. There are about two dozen people who still follow it, most of them single, hard-drinking, and riddled with adult acne – but while it’s the musical equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons, the artists that find success in thrash tend to do so the hard way. No get-famous-quick schemes for these angst-filled shock rockers. While my affinity for these artists is primarily musical – I like riffs, I can’t help it – I have to admire the fact that most of the artists cranking out squealing guitar solos come by their success honestly. Drunkenly and belligerently, but honestly.

 

Which isn’t to say they haven’t figured out the Internet, of course. Everyone uses technology nowadays, even artists who have been around for decades; they sell their music on iTunes and express “anger” when their sex tapes are “leaked.” But when it came to their rise through the ranks, they did it by touring their butts off and writing quality music – two activities which are sadly becoming old-school, like churning butter. Or wearing neon windpants.

 

Generally, I try to be understanding when it comes to the views and habits of all the ’Net-happy kiddos out there. One of the afflictions brought on by Fuddy Duddy Syndrome, after all, is a knee-jerk tendency to decry any youth-oriented endeavor as naive and inferior to those of one’s own generation. Few things make a person sound old like uttering the phrase, “Today’s music is junk!”

 

Except today’s music is junk. It’s not a coincidence that, since the onset of digital home studios and easily-pirated MP3 files, shockingly few artists and bands have emerged that are prepared to grab the torch of those who came before; most are fly-by-nighters with shelf lives shorter than raw meat. Where are the future legends? The next Led Zeppelins, the next Rolling Stones? They’re nowhere. The industry is no longer an industry, the “scene” diluted by  look-at-mes and wannabes. Miley Cyrus is a perfect example. She got a heapload of attention recently for her “Wrecking Ball” video, in which she swings about on a giant wrecking ball with her tongue wagging about like that of a bulldog on the verge of heat stroke. Salacious and titillating, sure, but that just masked the fact that the song itself is more headache-inducing than the warbling death cries of a Brazilian spider monkey.

 

So I’m a fuddy duddy. So be it. It’s probably time to let go of the whole scene, anyway, and focus on a more age-appropriate concern: The excited-over-a-new-pair-of-slippers scene. 

 

Hey, it had to happen eventually.