The Grammy Awards were last night. As if you didnâ€™t know. Hereâ€™s the thing, my social network (physical and digital) is comprised of friends Iâ€™ve made throughout my Frodo-style journey through punk, hardcore, emoâ€”whatever you want to call the so-called indie scene that Iâ€™ve been a part of since I was 15 or soâ€”and last night my little iPhone screen lit up with status updates like, â€œI cannot believe THIS won a Grammy,â€ or â€œI did not even know THAT record existed.â€
What it comes down to is the fact weâ€™re all totally ok with advertising banking off and bank rolling all of the precious sounds and styles weâ€™ve produced for decades.Â Weâ€™ll all be first in line for reunion shows that smell of W-9s, but when it comes to The Grammys, do we honestly expect people to include our wee subculture? Thatâ€™s just insane. The very reason that WE exist how we do, is because theyâ€™ve never included us. You donâ€™t like our style of music? Cool. Weâ€™ll start our own record labels. You donâ€™t like writing about us? Cool, weâ€™ll print our own magazines. Weâ€™re not invited to your award show? Sweet. Weâ€™ll host our own. You get it?
We created this subculture, and weâ€™re moderately ok with everyone being a part of it, but then weâ€™re appalled when weâ€™re not really invited to sit with the grown-ups. And whatâ€™s so great about being excused from the kidsâ€™ table? I love this kidsâ€™ table. We built it. We carved our initials in it. Letâ€™s stay for dessert.