Dead Scenester: An Introduction
This post’s recommended playlist (here if ya don’t have Spotify):
When I was in middle school I was an outcast, but not like a cool outcast. All the cool outcasts that had their counterculture aesthetics all figured out sat at the “freak” table in my school’s lunchroom. Me and my friends? We all dreamed of one day making it to that table.
The freak table had all the punks, goths, and metalheads. Me and my friends could never quite seem to get it right. Sure, I listened to The Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees, but I also had an Oasis poster hanging on my bedroom wall. And while the freaks had their all-black ensembles, spiked hair, and Metallica tees, I was wearing a pair of light-wash flares and a Sailor Moon baby tee my mom had bought me from JCPenney. Sure, my one friend would tease her hair exactly like Robert Smith every morning before school, but her overall vibe was more wacky 80s Robert Smith than the moody man in black we know him as today.
Me and my friends were hyper, eccentric little girls that wanted nothing more than to be embraced, not by society but by the counterculture. I was dying to be one of those badass punk chicks clad in spikes and leopard print that that no one messed with. Or one of those sad girls that hangs out in a cemetery, wearing a corset and thinking deep thoughts. I wanted to be sexy and dangerous and so much more than just…weird.
While I imagine most people can relate to some version of this, maybe there’s some abnormally self-assured person out there who thinks “Who was stopping you?” Well, back then it felt like there was a gatekeeper who had to deem me worthy of a subculture. In my mind, being part of a subculture wasn’t something you just did, it was something you had to earn. Like, only once I looked angry enough, wore enough black, and put the right pins and patches on my Salvation Army denim jacket would I be accepted into the fold.
So here I am, 25 years out from my first punk show. I spent my teen years trying not to be a poser, my college years trying to be the most punk-as-fuck person in any room, and most of my late 20s/early 30s going through an existential crisis. Decades and several existential crises later, I’ve decided it’s time to take a look back at the decades spent agonizing over securing my place in various scenes.
Join me each month as I look back at the clothes, the ideology, the self-imposed rules, and of course, the perfectly curated playlists. In hindsight, I definitely took myself too seriously, and it’s definitely embarrassing, but whatever.
Also, it’s not just about me. I’m sure you had your own scene of some kind—albeit maybe with different clothes and a different soundtrack. So, let’s all look back at being idiots together.