In looking through a lot of our videos lately, it’s struck me how quickly people are to point fingers and shout, loudly, “NOT INDIE!” or “BLASPHEMY!” when an indie artist changes something.  If you play Guitar Hero, depending on the interview, that’ awesome and totally indie rock, or horrible and ruining music.  If you shop at Walmart, you’re destroying the fabric of our society and screwing over indie business, or, you’re doing what thousands of poor indie musicians do every day on the road.  If you become popular, suddenly your music sucks, because it is more accessible.  If you make money at your art, you’re a sellout.  Obviously indie means something different to everyone, but I am going to start a little point/counterpoint of indie truths.  

First up: Major Labels Censor the Indie Artist

Of course this has come up before, particularly when Clear Channel buys someone really awesome.  And many of the UI artists have strong opinions.  But I think Mike Doughty has a really interesting take on it:

In this view, it isn’t the evil megacorp, it’s the artist who takes the responsibility.  Artists aren’t censored, they just won’t make money or get major airplay.  While many an indie fan has dropped a band after they became too popular, most of us villainize the faceless corporation rather than our beloved rockers.  What do you think–who is at most fault when an artist signs with a major label?  The corporation giving them an offer they can’t refuse, or the artist trying to cash in and find more fans?  Is it the responsibility of a corporation looking to make money to give the artist free reign?  Or is it the artist’s domain to make sure he never stifles his art by getting into a major label contract?  

I’ve never understood why people sometimes ask you “if you found a genie lamp, what 3 wishes would you ask for?” First of all, if I found a genie lamp, you wouldn’t know because I wouldn’t tell you, I’m greedy like that. Secondly, what do you care what my 3 wishes are? Worry about your own 3 wishes, hombre. What really irks me is when I actually decide to answer to appease the douchebag and say “I would wish for unlimited wishes” and he/she whines “you can’t do that!” Like they are the proud keepers of the imaginary genie rules of the hypothetical question they just asked me. Well, Annuals seem to share the same penchant for breaking the genie rules as me, however, I think they might have found a loophole around the “unlimited wishes” clause:

Here’s something to keep your mind occupied on this boring last Friday in August (and possibly your last summer Friday, depending on where you work) – what are the 3 worst or perhaps most mundane wishes you could ask a genie to grant for you? Here’s my list, feel free to comment back with your own:

• Power to calculate tip without looking at the restaurant bill
• Ability to survive 3 gunshot wounds but not 4
• A really good tan

Some bands willingly admit their guilty love of pop schlock, yacht rock, or even cheesy R&B. And then there’s Passenger:

Hey, knock them all you want, but I’m actually with them on this one – there are times in life where you just NEED a fucking power ballad to get you energized, get that fist pumping, those toes tapping, and lift your mood. Like before a big job interview, oftentimes I’ll blast Sister Christian by Night Ranger and sing to myself in the mirror in my underwear. Hey, laugh all you want, but I haven’t been out of work since college.

Power Ballads also help in non-job situations, like when you’re about to serve your wife divorce papers – Boston’s More Than a Feeling is more than appropriate for that situation. Or perhaps you’re about to confront your family’s longtime pastor about the rampant sexual abuse he perpetrated upon you 20 years ago. Nothing gets the blood flowing there like Something To Believe In by Poison (although you’ll definitely wanna avoid Is This Love by Whitesnake).

Which brings me to my final thought for today – why don’t indie bands ever do power ballads? Seriously, try to name one.

I’ve always been of the opinion that the McGriddle is the unhealthiest thing known to man, beating out the previous champion “Asbestos-laced Pork Lard Covered In Hollandaise Sauce” immediately upon its debut in 2003. Sure, Burger King made a valiant effort to seize the crown of artery-clogging calorie king by introducing the Meatnormous Omelet Sandwich, but not even meat on top of meat on top of meat covered in cheese was enough to budge the syrup-soaked McGriddle from its meaty perch.

Little did I know that for centuries, our friends across the pond have been enjoying a tasty treat that makes the McGriddle look like a house salad – The Scotch Egg. Thank god that Barry from The Futureheads’ turned me on to this belly bomber, or everything I thought I knew about nutrition would still be a lie.

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By the way, if you’re wondering just what a Scotch Egg looks like, take a gander:

Jesus! Those Brits don’t fuck around, man. As if greasy sausage meat wrapped around a boiled egg weren’t unhealthy enough, they had to go and DEEP FRY the fucker just for good measure. I bet the guy who invented this
a) Died of cardiac arrest
b) Is kicking himself in the ass for not having the insight to cover this in gravy

What boggles my mind is that Barry admits to eating eating all the time, yet look at him, he’s the picture of health! How does he stay so svelt eating deep-fried sausage coated eggs? I must get his personal trainer’s phone number!

The Futureheads on nutrition: “Every time I go past a supermarket when I’m at home in Glasgow, I can’t help but go in and buy two Scotch eggs and eat them straight away…A Scotch egg is a boiled egg that’s wrapped in sausage meat, and then that’s wrapped in bread crumbs and then it’s deep fried.”

Bad Veins on food politics: “Was it Newsweek that had a little arugula vs. like a pint of beer or something? And arugula is supposed to represent elitism and college degrees and beer is the working man like what everybody wants. Somebody actually insulted Obama by saying he has arugula in his belly. Like ‘Oh no! He ate a vegetable!’”

Genji Siraisi on punk in New York: “It was kind of like the end of the real hardcore, real punk scene in New York. And this guy was washing his armpits out with beer and then he was getting on the stage – I don’t know if you remember the stage at CB’s but it was filthy – and then someone took a toothbrush and they were brushing their teeth with the beer off stage.”

Islands on Canada: “It’s good because there’s a grant system in place where you can apply for grants and get a bit of cash for touring, and for being Canadian essentially…and it all stems from a low self-esteem and a feeling of inferiority to America.”

Annuals on body art: “Me and Mike have bro tats. He has a glass of lava and I have a glass of water. When they blend together they make rock.”

In Flight Radio on television: “I was talking to some five-year-olds who knew that I was a musician and they told me that I should compete with this other musician guy that they knew…They have only been alive since American Idol has been around so they think that music is a big competition.”

Cadillac Sky on flashers: “A lot of audiences at bluegrass festivals that are going to flash you, they have to pick their skirt up. Those breasts have fallen that far.”

Passenger on guilty pleasures: “I love power ballads. You knonw the sort of disgusting, massive permed hair. Wind machines. Songs about highways and hearts.”

I’ve never been flashed at a bluegrass festival before. Hell, I’ve never even been to a bluegrass festival in my life. But I do know boobies – after all, I have seen quite a few pair in front of my face during my 27 years of being (11 but really who’s counting?) So take heed, Cadillac Sky, when a woman offers to flash her breasts at you, no matter where you are – on stage, driving down I-95, at a baptism, or an AA meeting – you don’t even think about saying no:

Sure, they may not be the nicest breasts in the world, especially considering your surroundings. They might even be deck swabbers, looking deceptively plump and round in a dress, but falling victim to gravity once the support bra is lifted. Whatever the case, you say yes, because odds are, there’s more than one serial titty flasher in the crowd, and one brave trailblazing gal showing her tatas will often draw more out of the woodwork, and you’ll eventually find yourself a nice pair that you can proudly salute like a tattered Old Glory on a flagpole. It’s all about playing the odds, my friends.

You know how they say that sometimes inspiration comes out of left field? Well in this case, inspiration came the fuck out of the parking lot next to the left field bleachers, because I would never expect 90′s indie queen Juliana Hatfield to be inspired by Henry Rollins of all people:

Ok, maybe that wasn’t the best video clip to use. Henry’s actually a pretty articulate, intelligent speaker, when he isn’t half naked, covered in red paint screaming “I’M A LIAR!!”. But still, isn’t it kind of weird imagining a calm, solemn Juliana Hatfield and a raging, impassioned, about-to-rip-off-a-child’s-head Henry Rollins in the same room together, getting along?

I’ve never actually read any of Henry’s books, but I hear they’re well-written and pretty damn interesting, which is a far cry from what I picture them to be whenever I watch that Liar video:

Me Henry Rollins. RAWR! Me Angry! Me Hungry! Kill Pterodactyl With Forearms Then Dance In His Blood. Me Have Big Muscles. Play In Band Music. RAWR!

All kidding aside, I love ya Henry. Please don’t kill me.