NO IRONY

(2001) If I were a billionaire, one of the first things I would do is start an indie record label and name it No Irony. Like No Depression, the modern country music magazine, the title would defy the defining trait the genre has been drowning in since its inception. From seminal smart asses like Nirvana and Beck to today’s Clem Snide and Quasi, nothing sparks more excitement and passion in fans than bands who seem incapable of either. I love many of them – the music is great, they’re witty and hilarious and often speak the truth, but I’m getting a bit bored of those who are bored with everything.

Too often I have spent 50 minutes listening to a CD only to realize as the spinning stops that the only genuinely expressed emotions were disillusionment and cynicism. How jaded and bitter are these kids going to be at fifty? And how about the fans who listen? Much of the so-called X Generation has been tagged as apathetic, so these bands are just reflecting that, but the entire thing is absurd for three reasons. First, it seems to me that twenty- and thirtysomethings are not as flippant and nihilistic as they are made out to be. Many are passionate, involved and optimistic. Second, in a world that is kicking your ass – when you lift boxes or clean plates for a living and your college degree is folded in fours and used as a coaster on your Ikea cardboard box coffee table – the last thing you need piping through speakers you’re still making payments on is a fatalistic baritone. Historically, the more twisted and sadistic the world is, the more intoxicating its art (its refuge) is. Like E from the eels told me once, “That’s when you need something to mean something to you.”

Most importantly, though, all of these world-weary whines and caustic quips are nothing but verbal armor – “Fuck You (before you fuck me).” If you admit to, care about and stand for nothing, it is impossible for me to ridicule you. I have no idea who you are. You are above it all, bored by it all. You’re a hipster (ugh), an enigma… and a total coward. All of this smirking and posturing is just a mask for insecurity. And the more snide you are, the more piercings you get, the more you sneer disaffectedly at everything around you, the more obvious it is that you just moved to L.A. from Ohio or Louisiana and are freaked out and lonely and terrified that someone else here with bigger army boots or a better cartoon lunchbox purse will pull off your mask and expose you for the unhip, unsure, unworthy person you perceive yourself to be.

Even if you begin your career – as an artist or a fan or a big-city denizen – with optimism and sincerity, it won’t be long, it seems, until the disease of disaffection gets you too. You think that brown haze over the Santa Monica Mountains is smog? It’s actually the collective cloud of soot that rises from and settles on every self-conscious creature crawling around the 323 area code. A film that covers everyone like a slicker that keeps the bad stuff out but it also keeps the good stuff in. And after hiding your enthusiasm and laughter and curiosity from your neighbors for two years, you eventually realize that you’re hiding it from yourself as well.

Return to Writing