Read Stuff Hipsters Hate Online
Authors: Brenna Ehrlich,Andrea Bartz
Stuff Hipsters Hate (20 page)
Basement recordings [critical reception: nonexistent]
Though no one will uncover these tracks until the band is hard at work on its third album, hipsters will talk about their possession of these recordings constantly and with a heavy dose of smarm while vaguely promising to burn a copy for you. After extensive surveys, the authors have yet to find a single instance of this promise’s fulfillment.
Though no one will uncover these tracks until the band is hard at work on its third album, hipsters will talk about their possession of these recordings constantly and with a heavy dose of smarm while vaguely promising to burn a copy for you. After extensive surveys, the authors have yet to find a single instance of this promise’s fulfillment.
First album [critical reception: minimal]
With its quiet release and “raw,” unproduced sound, this album is every hipster’s favorite. Though his CD player is covered in dust, a hipster keeps the jewel case from this purchase on his rack to prove via price sticker that he bought it at Atomic Records in the mid-’90s.
With its quiet release and “raw,” unproduced sound, this album is every hipster’s favorite. Though his CD player is covered in dust, a hipster keeps the jewel case from this purchase on his rack to prove via price sticker that he bought it at Atomic Records in the mid-’90s.
Sophomore album [critical reception: positive]
This album spews from the band’s flashy new label just as mainstream America perks up its ears to the sounds of the earlier CD. Reviewers call it “mature, polished.” Hipsters call it “a fucking shame.”
This album spews from the band’s flashy new label just as mainstream America perks up its ears to the sounds of the earlier CD. Reviewers call it “mature, polished.” Hipsters call it “a fucking shame.”
Third album [critical reception: disappointed]
This album follows an eight-year hiatus that included the band’s sequestering and a public split from their label. The hiatus killed it for everyone: critics are disappointed and hipsters have long since moved on. When pathetic hipster lites discover the band for the first time and eagerly ask their more legit friends if they’ve heard of them, they are subject to an intense beam of Hipster Hate in the form of a Look.
This album follows an eight-year hiatus that included the band’s sequestering and a public split from their label. The hiatus killed it for everyone: critics are disappointed and hipsters have long since moved on. When pathetic hipster lites discover the band for the first time and eagerly ask their more legit friends if they’ve heard of them, they are subject to an intense beam of Hipster Hate in the form of a Look.
Fourth album—independently released LP [critical reception: positive]
Critics say they’ve “returned to their roots.” Oddly, at this point the music snobs begin lauding the merits of the “underappreciated” second album.
Critics say they’ve “returned to their roots.” Oddly, at this point the music snobs begin lauding the merits of the “underappreciated” second album.
Anything released postmortem
Gospel. Pure gospel.
Gospel. Pure gospel.
“Oh, Christ, is that girl over there having a seizure? Someone should, like, grab her and hold down her tongue with, like, a swizzle stick or something. Wait…Oh, fuck—is she
dancing
? Really? Like, right up in the guitarist’s face? What the hell? Is she
waving her hands in the air
like she just don’t fucking
care
? Is this, like, a fifth grade dance at Cedar Lakes Junior High where someone spiked the punch and little straight-edged Sarah got unintentionally smashed and tried to grind with the foreign exchange student, Gunther, who ran to the bathroom and cried because his body is changing? No…I’m pretty sure that this is a Yo La Tengo concert, and I’m pretty sure that Ira would rather not see that chick’s uvula bouncing up and down as she belts out ‘Autumn Sweater’ and gyrates. No, dude,
uvula
—like, that thing in the back of your throat. Although I’m sure he can see that, too—she just attempted to do the twist. Ah, fuck, dude—why do people like that have to kill my buzz by coming to shows? I’m just gonna stand here in the front row and keep my face totally expressionless—that way those lyrical geniuses up there will know that I’m
serious
about my music.”
dancing
? Really? Like, right up in the guitarist’s face? What the hell? Is she
waving her hands in the air
like she just don’t fucking
care
? Is this, like, a fifth grade dance at Cedar Lakes Junior High where someone spiked the punch and little straight-edged Sarah got unintentionally smashed and tried to grind with the foreign exchange student, Gunther, who ran to the bathroom and cried because his body is changing? No…I’m pretty sure that this is a Yo La Tengo concert, and I’m pretty sure that Ira would rather not see that chick’s uvula bouncing up and down as she belts out ‘Autumn Sweater’ and gyrates. No, dude,
uvula
—like, that thing in the back of your throat. Although I’m sure he can see that, too—she just attempted to do the twist. Ah, fuck, dude—why do people like that have to kill my buzz by coming to shows? I’m just gonna stand here in the front row and keep my face totally expressionless—that way those lyrical geniuses up there will know that I’m
serious
about my music.”
—Stanley F., 31, short-order cook and cartoonist
“All I want to do is buy one of the CDs currently lined up in front of Jeffrey Lewis, who is totally bad-ass enough to sell his own merch. The line isn’t that long (due to the woeful ignorance of the majority of the American public when it comes to good music—they’re probably all drooling over motherfucking Coldplay at some shitty arena). I’m almost there. The awesomely D.I.Y. disc is within my grasp—and then,
he
steps in front of me.
he
steps in front of me.
‘Hey, Jeff!’ he says in an overly familiar voice—a tone that suggests that this hunched figure in scuffed green Converse has been friends with the indie musician since they were in preschool, that they used to build peanut-butter-and-Saltine-cracker towers together at the Lewis family kitchen table while giggling over Mrs. Lewis’s Victoria’s Secret catalog.
‘Jeff, awesome show, man. I loved that song about mosquitoes. I had a mother of a skeeter bite on my ankle last week and the swelling still hasn’t gone down. Hey, hey, hey, Jeff, I gotta ask you. I have to know. Did that girl from the “Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song” ever, like, contact you? Because I totally had a similar experience where I wrote this ironic poem in Missed Connections to this chick who works at Greenpoint Cafe and—’
Anger sears up through the soles of my Vans, worming its way in a hot channel through the legs of my skinny jeans until it comes to sit,
Alien
-like, in my stomach. I fight the urge to smash this dude in the head with my carabiner. I imagine him dying in myriad horrific ways—one of which involves a freak lightning strike that connects with that silly earring hooked on his lobe (does he think it’s, like, 2003?).
Alien
-like, in my stomach. I fight the urge to smash this dude in the head with my carabiner. I imagine him dying in myriad horrific ways—one of which involves a freak lightning strike that connects with that silly earring hooked on his lobe (does he think it’s, like, 2003?).
Finally, homeboy attempts a complicated handshake with the confused musician and shuffles away, probably with a tent in his Levi’s, fucking kiss-ass. Here’s my chance—I see the CD resting gloriously on the merch table. I raise my eyes to meet Lewis’s, open my mouth to speak, tell myself I’ll keep the interaction to a contained and slightly aloof token of praise. The CD is in my hand. Lewis is looking at me. The dude behind me coughs a slightly annoyed cough. ‘Hey, Jeff!’ I say.”
—Crispin C., 26, music writer and bicycle repairman
ARTEMIS:
Jesus, I was at this terrible fucking club last night—they charged ten bucks to get in because there was a “DJ,” but all he did was play shit like “Sunday Bloody Sunday” at a volume only feral dogs and babies can hear.
Jesus, I was at this terrible fucking club last night—they charged ten bucks to get in because there was a “DJ,” but all he did was play shit like “Sunday Bloody Sunday” at a volume only feral dogs and babies can hear.
ZEPPO:
Heh, feral babies… I just picture them foaming at the mouth. Oh, dude. I had to go to a U2 concert once.
Heh, feral babies… I just picture them foaming at the mouth. Oh, dude. I had to go to a U2 concert once.
ARTEMIS:
You
had
to? Did someone threaten to cut off your balls with garden shears or something?
You
had
to? Did someone threaten to cut off your balls with garden shears or something?
ZEPPO:
No. It was my little sister’s birthday. I had to, like, chaperone. I dunno what the fuck is wrong with that little brat—she just, like, lies under the kitchen table singing “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” for hours at a time. I think my mom dropped her on her head when she was baby.
No. It was my little sister’s birthday. I had to, like, chaperone. I dunno what the fuck is wrong with that little brat—she just, like, lies under the kitchen table singing “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” for hours at a time. I think my mom dropped her on her head when she was baby.
ARTEMIS:
She does have a weird-shaped head.
She does have a weird-shaped head.
ZEPPO:
Yeah. It was awful. It was at, like, Madison Square Garden and everyone was, like, crying and smiling and singing along. And they were
clapping
. You know, like, clapping along with the beat. Like they all felt like if they somehow didn’t participate in the horror that was going on stage, they would cease to exist. I hate when people clap along to the music. It’s not like it’s a Raffi concert. They’re just gonna, like, fuck up the jam. I mean, if it were possible to render a U2 song any more fucked-up than the original. Anyway, at one point, one of my sister’s little friends just, like, takes a break from roaring the words to “With or Without You” and turns to me and goes, “You look really unhappy.” And I was. I was so. Fucking. Un. Happy.
Yeah. It was awful. It was at, like, Madison Square Garden and everyone was, like, crying and smiling and singing along. And they were
clapping
. You know, like, clapping along with the beat. Like they all felt like if they somehow didn’t participate in the horror that was going on stage, they would cease to exist. I hate when people clap along to the music. It’s not like it’s a Raffi concert. They’re just gonna, like, fuck up the jam. I mean, if it were possible to render a U2 song any more fucked-up than the original. Anyway, at one point, one of my sister’s little friends just, like, takes a break from roaring the words to “With or Without You” and turns to me and goes, “You look really unhappy.” And I was. I was so. Fucking. Un. Happy.
ARTEMIS:
I feel you dude. I hate U2, too. Anyone who likes U2 should be sterilized.
I feel you dude. I hate U2, too. Anyone who likes U2 should be sterilized.
ZEPPO:
Um… my sister likes U2.
Um… my sister likes U2.
ARTEMIS:
Yeah, but…
Yeah, but…
ZEPPO:
Should my sister be sterilized?
Should my sister be sterilized?
ARTEMIS:
No….
No….
ZEPPO:
Well, man, I mean, it’s fine for people to like U2. It gets some people off, right? It totally gets my sister off. She fucking loves that shit—consumes it like food. I mean, I hate U2, but I feel like if it makes people happy, then fine. I mean, I hate when people judge people for liking shit. That’s just seriously fucked-up.
Well, man, I mean, it’s fine for people to like U2. It gets some people off, right? It totally gets my sister off. She fucking loves that shit—consumes it like food. I mean, I hate U2, but I feel like if it makes people happy, then fine. I mean, I hate when people judge people for liking shit. That’s just seriously fucked-up.
“The absolute worst fucking part of braving Goodwill for some sweet new blazers and grandpa sweaters: the incessant, cranked-up KissFM DJs, tumbling out of the store speakers, yammering on in their suffocating idiocy. Never mind their nasal tones and their struggle to read the morning news and traffic reports without stumbling over the big words. Forget their complete lack of a college education and their threadbare grasp of politics, 20th century history, even basic geography. (‘Archipelago? I think that’s a type of dictatorship.’) No, the truly insufferable aspect of every blubbering, moronic, overly enthusiastic ass-clown with a headset and microphone is that
arrogance
, that total delight in running contests and getting calls from preteen fans, that sugary glee that comes from listening to themselves speak. Really, the only thing worse than morning show DJs are the stupid motherfuckers who call in. Christ, those people who dial in should be fucking flagged for immediate departure to Gitmo. Polluting the radio airwaves is a crime against fucking humanity. If only every DJ were as awesome as my buds Kasia and Liam. Their show, ‘Pretentious Indie Suckfest,’ streamed online at 3 a.m. Thursdays and sometimes illegally downloaded from the web and transmitted over the air as an unlicensed service (the FCC fucking
hates
that) is the only thing outside my iPod I can stand.”
arrogance
, that total delight in running contests and getting calls from preteen fans, that sugary glee that comes from listening to themselves speak. Really, the only thing worse than morning show DJs are the stupid motherfuckers who call in. Christ, those people who dial in should be fucking flagged for immediate departure to Gitmo. Polluting the radio airwaves is a crime against fucking humanity. If only every DJ were as awesome as my buds Kasia and Liam. Their show, ‘Pretentious Indie Suckfest,’ streamed online at 3 a.m. Thursdays and sometimes illegally downloaded from the web and transmitted over the air as an unlicensed service (the FCC fucking
hates
that) is the only thing outside my iPod I can stand.”
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