Hardcore and earning it

Hardcore is cyclical. People come and go. That’s always been the nature of it. There’s no fault in dropping out. People’s priorities are allowed to change. There are millions of reasons why hardcore kids might jump ship, and one of the biggest I’ve personally seen involves a warped sense of expectations.

There’s a great Title Fight video from one of their live sets at Chain Reaction in Anahiem. Vocalist Ned Russin is introducing the song “Shed”, and he says “People come into hardcore, get what they want and then bounce. That’s not what this is about”. Surely what he’s describing happens, but I’ve also seen it the other way where people bounce because they DON’T get what they want. They start a band and nobody cares, or they go to shows and girls don’t pay any attention to them. Once they get bored and begin envying their more successful peers, they dip.

That’s one of the most discouraging things to witness. Not because it “violates the sanctity of hardcore” or some dorky shit, but because those kids would probably have made something for themselves if they just stuck around a couple more years.

This post-pandemic influx of new kids, if we want to look at it cynically, are nearing the end of their three year hardcore life-cycle, at a time when opportunities have never seemed more fruitful, at least on the surface. Kids are developing wild expectations of what they might achieve, and I fear the wake up call is gonna be a tough one.

The window for commercial viability will probably be closed by the time the average youngster gets his band off the ground. A lot of people are about to be hit with the harsh reality that for most of hardcore’s history, being in a band meant sleeping on punk house floors and coming home from tour broke. Some people will be fine with that. Many won’t, and when they realize how nearly impossible it is to get Taco Bell sponsorships, they’ll be gone.

This is the nature of hardcore. It’s also the nature of youth. Kids weren’t around to witness Ian Shelton of Militarie Gun grind for ten years in the Pacific Northwest before anyone gave a shit about his bands. They see his latest project go from basement demos to being on TV in three years and think it’s possible to do the same. It is possible, but not without the prior decade of silent sacrifice.

With most things in life, you get out what you put in. Hardcore seems to be something you put lots into with very little tangible return. I’ve been doing The Daily Snob for over ten years. Very few people care. Until last year my biggest piece ever — about catfishing dudes on Tinder — had 600 views. To be fair, my blog went through multiple periods of inactivity, but that’s because I gave up when success wasn’t immediate.

I shudder to think how much further along I’d be if I just stuck with it.

The tried and true way to accomplish something in hardcore is devoting yourself to the scene and your work. You will most certainly fail numerous times and wait a very long time before accomplishing anything. 95 per cent of successful band members and label owners spent ten years going to bunk local shows and doing shit nobody cared about before anyone knew who they were. Of course some folks come into the scene and find immediate success, but they tend to be super magnanimous, socially adaptable people. If you’re somebody who loves the idea of punching strangers in the head while annoying music blares in the background, there’s a very high chance you’re not a social butterfly.

MINDFORCE’S JAY PETAGINE (RIGHT) AT A BUNK SHOW IN THE 90’S

I love hardcore’s theoretical low barrier to entry — the idea that any group of five idiots can pick up instruments, get onstage, and play. That ethic may not always pan out in reality, but the allure draws a certain type of person who I enjoy being around. The general vibe of a hardcore show is more creative, individualistic and open-minded than almost anywhere else. The thing is, more creative people in one space means more competition.

If you love hardcore and want to be part of something bigger than your own ambitions, creative competition is the best thing in the world. You’ll have no problem cheering for other people if you’re meaningfully engaging with their work.

If you don’t contribute beyond working on your own shit, that competition will chew you up and spit you out. Everyone in the room is trying to accomplish the same thing you are. Unless (and even if) your creative endeavours are exceptional, don’t expect opportunities to fall in your lap. Those are reserved for people who contribute.

Why would a promoter put your band on the big show when the kids he sees paying for tickets and moshing hard every weekend also have a band? Those people keep his lights on and allow him to continue doing what he loves. He’s gonna throw them a bone before giving an opportunity to someone he couldn’t pick out of a police line-up. It’s common sense.

Here’s the good news — contributing to your scene is easy. Go to shows and talk to people. The tiniest bit of effort and dedication will go a long way in getting people to recognize you. Will it translate to automatic success? Absolutely not. Like I said, you might be toiling in obscurity for a decade before people you don’t know start to care. The only way to get there is by starting small, though.

You literally can’t skip that step. The decision-makers and gatekeepers of hardcore are usually down for the cause to an unhealthy extent. They’re at shows every weekend, driving and/or flying across the continent, simply because they love doing it.

You don’t need to match their level of unhinged commitment, but you have to put yourself on their radar. You’ve gotta know a guy who knows a guy. Then think about all the people that cool promoter or label dude knows and ask yourself why he would give you an opportunity before anyone else. You need people who can vouch for you on both a creative and personal level. The best way to make those connections is by showing out for other people’s shit.

I want to say “if you love hardcore, showing out for the scene should come naturally”. I know it’s not that simple, though. Hitting a show in the nearest big city is hard when it’s on a Tuesday night, you live an hour away, and you have to work the next day. That’s where the big squeeze comes in — where people start to get frustrated and drop off.

The old adage “hardcore is for anybody but it’s not for everybody” applies to more than just newjacks who fear violent moshing. It’s about a lifestyle very few can sustain for more than a couple years at a time. Success can be a war of attrition. Can’t get your band off the ground before college is over? Hey, you tried. Got a promotion and now your weekends are off the table? You had a good run, man.

That’s why loving the creative collective and contributing where you can is essential. The odds you’ll get to play Sound and Fury are slim to none. If you approach every moment as an opportunity to be a part of something bigger, you can’t fail. This ecosystem needs you just as much or as little as you need it.

Not everyone gets to reach the top of the mountain, but not everyone needs to, either. Local shows need openers, just like national tours need headliners. Get in where you fit in.

I have no problem with people who are casually involved. Most people hit that stage at some point. What bothers me is the bitterness and resentment from people who didn’t really grind that hard, failed to get anywhere, and then peaced out, all while hating on those who got more opportunities than they did. That energy sucks. Hopefully we see less of it in 2024.