Indie Trends July 2010: The Slacker, Redefined
by Chris Polley
Some trends are probably cyclical in the world of indie, but in this author’s humble opinion, there is only one that will always pop back up on the ever-sprawling subculture’s radar: the slacker. Actually, I don’t think it requires too much of a leap of faith to believe this once one considers the very basic dichotomy that the term “indie” was founded upon. Since the beginning of the music industry, there was the mainstream, with their top dog dominance and cutthroat capitalistic practices, and there was the anti-establishment, with their underdog mentality and liberating freedom to be innovative, controversial, and…unmotivated. It might seem like a cynic’s viewpoint that one of the tenets of indie rock is its inherent slackerdom, but luckily history has proven (though not communicated) to all that just because a musician’s dismissive of traditionally positive attributes such as “industriousness” or “ambition” doesn’t mean their art is without talent or beauty. In fact, while the mainstream world has since co-opted the ideas of the innovative and the controversial, always with mixed honesty and success rates, it hasn’t been until recently that the attempt to capitalize on the slacker persona has been thrown into the mix.
And thus, with the very definition of indie constantly slipping through our butterfingers, the slacker is experiencing a new dawn eclipsing even the high threshold of what can arguably be considered “independent”, and this time not so much unearned as just inevitable. The new re-packaged, re-constituted slacker is no longer unattractive. They are no longer depressed and mopey. And they certainly don’t bury their faces in esoteric texts or stay indoors, afraid of the sun. Conversely, the new crop of slackers includes hot trendy types that yes, are hipsters, but the kind of hipster that’s non-threatening (often even inviting) to the common beachgoer or party populace. With this kind of potential, the slacker could very well be traipsing across the country next summer with hordes of teenaged bums now gorging themselves on apathy instead of plastic pop icons. One could even argue that this is already happening: strip Katy Perry and Ke$ha of their mechanical sheen and what do you have? A couple of aimless twentysomethings who like to hang out and maybe they feel some stuff sometimes in their hearts or ‘tevs.
But until that transition is completed, indie must have its overstuffed share of the slacker until the trend becomes too popular to be just popular enough. Nathan Williams and his new possibly permanent backing band (formerly Jay Reatard’s), aka Wavves, seem to be leading this craze with their new release King of the Beach, which is simultaneously a bland title and a wink-wink nudge-nudge to the fans who’ve already dedicated their indie identity to tie-dyed tank tops and half-hearted romps through the sand. Many who fell in love with 2008’s Wavvves (see what he did there?) had been anticipating this follow-up but those of us who didn’t get the whole samey lo-fi distortion rawk he was cultivating on that buzzed about record (guilty as charged) hoped he would go away or come back with something more obviously mediocre to the rest, and Wavves would be an embarrassing blip on the indie hype radar. Instead Williams had to a) get one of the tightest and most ebullient set of slackers to back him up (an obvious rarity), and b) put out a genuinely enjoyable collection of pop-rock songs slathered in fuzz.
How did he do it? Well that’s the ongoing rhetorical question of the beloved slacker musician, isn’t it? It’s almost as if it just fell out of him, like he just pressed record and played a new arrangement of power chords that felt good rather than sounded good, shout-mumbled some innocuously worded but semantically smart-alecky phrases like “you’re never gonna stop me!” into the mic, and hoped his boys behind him would be able to keep up with him. This directly describes the opening title track, but also basically every other song on the record sound just as rushed, with little forethought, but ultimately feels like lightning in a bottle every time a new track starts. While overall the aesthetic (which has somehow made the descriptor “Blink-182-esque” an okay thing to print again) isn’t anything special, the thought of William’s skinny flailing arms and unplanned passion oozing out of him with sweat (from the sun, not the effort) spraying over his unkempt guitar feels so real that it gives slackerdom new deserved notoriety. This is a guy who may or may not be fun to hang out with, but he doesn’t care if you want to hang out with him. He’s just going to chill out by the pool and finger-tap on his lawn chair until a new idea for a chorus pops into his head. Not like he’s trying to do that; it’s just what his mind does when it’s turned off. This, I am half-reserved to admit, is pretty sexy.
Speaking of seduction, Bethany Cosentino has even less vigor than Williams and her band Best Coast (again with the lazy but admittedly smile-inducing pun) emits so many potent pheromones that you won’t even notice that you’d be hard pressed to find her in a bikini that’s not obfuscated by a sweat suit or oversized t-shirt and cargo shorts. Crazy for You is the full-length that finally dropped this month after several grueling months leading up to the hottest four weeks of the year full of singles and seven-inches, and it doesn’t even have the thin layer of animosity that Wavves squeezes out with a half-sarcastic snarl. This is just honest pop from a lady who prefers to stay in the shade while wearing shades rather than participating in much of any kind of activity, regardless of its slacker-friendly passive nature. She is the ultimate figure of chill because while she’s stoic with a calmness that’s as intriguing as it is soothing, her songs communicate various innate needs of the slacker while every other slacker pretends they don’t need nothing but a PS3 and a bag of green.
It doesn’t matter that the repeated refrain of Crazy for You is companionship (the laidback nature of it all makes it sound less like romance and more like eternal friendship), something that has permeated pop music for eternity, because Cosentino and co. make it sound like something that’s earthly and immediate, not dramatic or unattainable. Like the respectable slacker that she is, she admits when she doesn’t understand her feelings or desires, and that counts for a lot, especially because it fits so well with the buried instrumentation, fizzling and bouncing simultaneously, yearning to be heard but not so much that it incites a tantrum. The music here is completely fine with being ignored, continuing the streak of singing-to-myself-ness that originated with her first blog hit “Sun Was High (So Was I)”, which makes one want to listen to it even more, because it sounds like you’re literally listening to someone’s thoughts rather than a band that’s striving to be heard. Of course part of the essential problem with this kind of off-handed intimacy is that once again clichéd and tired phrases are going to pour out as if a middle schooler is trying really hard to be poetic but is just writing down reiterations of song lyrics they heard on their binder. So while Cosentino’s messages and themes come through strong and intact within the mess of cloudy reverb (almost as if there’s constantly a mass of gray keeping her from putting her feet in the water – it’s going to rain so why get wet now?), the actual verbal gymnastics are weak when listened to too closely.
Of course this has always plagued rock music – so much vitriol (regardless of literal, physical energy), but the creativity and magnetism is all injected into the melodies rather than the poetry. Good thing our last entry doesn’t have to do with pasty folks who stare at their Chuck Taylors at all. This album’s inclusion in this Indie Trends entry is suspect at best, for sure, but hear me out before you let me deflate your beach ball. Big Boi’s Sir Lucious Left Foot: The Son of Chico Dusty is actually the true confluence of slacker ethic, more so than any rock band with beat up vintage amps ever could create on record. Not only does it have a perfect back story that places it (from the record label’s perspective) as allegedly not catchy or hard-hitting enough to make a mark on mainstream culture/radio, but it also is the mark of a man that has lied eternally and slyly in the shadow of a counterpart that is so manic and eccentric (Andre 3000, for those keeping score) that his cool and collected presence is not just welcome, it is seemingly required, nay, mandatory for the rap world to stay from falling out of flux. Big Boi’s proper solo debut not only surprised the legions of Outkast fans that honestly do not know what to do without Andre’s shrill intensity overpowering their car speakers, but it took the indie world from behind and asked for a warm hug. It reciprocated so kindly and loudly that anyone who caught a glimpse of the man at Pitchfork this year is likely saying “Andre who–?”
Now it’s just a matter of time until Sir Lucious enraptures not just the critics but the masses; but indeed it will be some time. It’s been six years and people still don’t realize that technically the lumbering softness known as “The Way You Move” landed higher on the year-end Billboard charts than the spastic and overplayed “Hey Ya”, so who knows when Big Boi will finally get his massive due. But that’s okay, because the incendiary but low-key rhymes of jams like the sweatpants-and-champagne-ready “Daddy Fat Sax” or the quiet yet rollicking “Follow Us” perfect the slacker formula exactly because they take multiple listens to appreciate. While Wavves and Best Coast are doing it easy (nothing wrong with that, but will it last?), Big Boi is reminding us all that there’s a reason why his duo isn’t just a guy and his back-up, it’s a smart but relaxed guy who has a mainstream front so he double-dip into both worlds. He’s been sneaking the slacker into our sugary cereal of pop culture since “Ms. Jackson” and it’s not until we get his record of meandering but oh so equipped gems of dynamic wordplay and bubbling bass that we realize the full potential of the truly gifted slacker. Yeah he’s in the back, slouching, but he’s been planning. And he’s finally unleashed. Huh, maybe Williams and Cosentino should hold back a bit next time instead, get embroiled with an oppressive record label, and then they’ll be able to muster up the right words to show that a new generation of uneducated tanners with guitars can properly express themselves and still retain the charm of being creatively lazy.