Brandt Hart

“Hipster” is a fun word. It’s still new enough to society’s vocabulary that a finite definition has yet to be nailed down. Until then, we can let “hipster” register in our minds however we like. Evoking visions of fixed gear cycling armies or stampedes of awkwardly waddling individuals in ultra-tight denim. See? Fun, right?

There does seem to be at least one universal requirement in dubbing an individual as a hipster. A fierce desire exists in these people to inform you that they’ve known about that band way before they were popular- they’ve been torrenting/pirating their music since grade school and watched the lead singer take his first guitar lesson at age seven. And it’s not just the process of informing someone of their discovery of a band before you found them years later, it’s the condescending tone in which it occurs. You can almost see them getting high on that superior air as they describe the “intimate venues” where they’ve seen that band perform.

I’m not that innocent. Britney Spears reference? Maybe. But what I do know to be true is that I’ve definitely been called a hipster before, and I’ve certainly called others hipsters, too – usually prefaced with expletives and rolling of the eyes. I’ve been on both sides of the “Hipster Spectrum” (it’s a real thing). When I was 14 years old, I was borderline obsessed with Green Day’s album, American Idiot. I don’t know if it’s because it was one of the first albums I bought myself, if the simplistic chord structure spoke to me or if I just thought that heart-grenade thingy was kind of cool. Whatever the reason, I memorized every lyric and preached the album’s brilliance to anyone willing to listen. My older brother, a musician, was neck deep in his punk-rock phase at this point. I remember being chastised by his posse for my newfound fandom of Green Day – told that the album was a quintessential example of selling out, and how they used to be good. They don’t even play punk anymore.

I’ve found my way to the opposite end of the spectrum, of course. A time or two too many. I recall seeing MGMT live, and this drunken kid started endlessly chanting “Elec-tric Feel”- two songs after the band had just played it. It bothered me so much that I think it actually ruined the concert for me. I remember thinking, they just played, it you assh*le. Don’t you know any of their other songs? Why the hell are you even here? Even though I kept my thoughts to myself, I was still breathing that superior air.

There are countless other times that I’ve donned the hipster persona. Cringing as I heard Old Navy and Honda commercially rape Vampire Weekend’s music. Wanting to punt a child every time I hear a teenage girl refer to Dave Matthews as “Dave,” followed by an anecdote about how his music has influenced their entire life.  All the times I’ve ever said, “How have you not heard of [insert obscure band name here]?”

Now I’m wondering why? Why is it so damn tempting to act that way? Anytime I’ve heard the word “hipster,” I automatically associate it with music. But the truth is that hipsters aren’t anything new- and it is not quarantined to music alone. Think about it. Take sports fans, for example. How many times have you heard a fan describe in excruciating detail how long they’ve been supporting a team for? Is there anything worse than someone who proclaims themselves a fan of a team only after they’ve won a championship? Strikingly similar to announcing fandom of a band after a hit song.

If we make the leap to sports, we must keep leaping. Because it doesn’t stop there. Hipsters have long been weaved into the fabric of society. How about religion? Are new converts to any religion not somewhat looked upon as “lesser” by those who’ve been practicing their entire lives? What about relationships? Does a couple who’ve been married for 20 plus years not wince just a little bit when they hear the newlywed teenagers exclaim how in love they are? Don’t we tend to feel the need to say how long we’ve known a friend for when undergoing introductions at parties?

“Hipster” isn’t a new idea at all. It’s just a word we’ve finally attached to our human need to prove our commitment to something. That thing can be a band, a sports team, a religion, a person, etc. The universal root of it all remains: we’ve spent more time. Perhaps that is where the entire phenomena originates. The ultimate tribute an individual can pay to anything in this world is to dedicate time to it. Not money. Not support. Time.  As mortal beings, we only have so much time to give. So of course, when we’ve spent large amounts of time following a band, rooting for a team, etc., we feel somewhat irked when we see the same passion in someone who has spent less time doing the same thing. Because if they display the same passion as you in a smaller amount of time- then well, damn, it kind of undermines your commitment. Wait a bloody minute now. Where were you when Pitchfork gave them 0 stars and condemned them to hell?

If “hipsterism” is essentially derived from a desire to prove a greater dedication to something, then there must be more constructive ways to apply this desire than to let it manifest in condescending tones and sarcastic laughs. And there is. Let’s take the “wise old man” cliché for a moment. The proto-hipster. Always some sagely advice to offer- that you might not quite understand at first. But never judgmental. Just offering new paths.

That could be the solution. How hipsters finally lose the negative stigma they’ve cloaked themselves with. When you hear a new fan talk about how much they love a band’s new, poppy, hit single, don’t reply by informing them that said band is complete shit compared to their first album’s work. Instead, tell them to check out that first album. Suggest some other bands they might enjoy too. Smile, and agree at said band’s awesomeness. I didn’t know it at the time, but American Idiot opened a door for me not only to Green Day’s classic albums, but to the entire genre of punk. We can facilitate that experience in music for others if we don’t take a new fan’s opinions as attacks on the time we’ve spent following a band. Be the wise old man. Offer the sagely advice. They might not have any idea what you’re talking about, but some of them- a few- may come to understand.

Vinyl is not a fad. As much as corporations like Best Buy and Hot Topic would love to stand on the ashes of independent record stores and capitalize on vinyl’s apparent trendiness, the reassuring truth remains that black wax is not just what’s “in.” Over half a century of existence solidifies the LP’s purpose as beyond whimsical. That amount of time sends words like “cool” and “hip” sliding into the drains to describe things like skinny jeans and thick-rimmed glasses. So take heart. Don’t be convinced that records are just 12×12 squares to throw in the corner and point to when the conversation dulls. Vinyl is much more than that.

Vinyl is a perpetual treasure hunt. Our love of looting isn’t contained to gathering stars in Mario or searching treasure chests in Skyrim. It’s thumbing through stacks and stacks and stacks and — sweet Lord — they have this one. You scan your periphery to see if anyone has noticed and might ambush you on the way to the cashier, because, God knows, this is the holy grail of records. And then a new holy grail climbs atop the pedestal. It could be waiting up there for months, or years even. Because vinyl can’t be downloaded or torrented. It’s acquired by searching shops, attics, flea markets, boxes and basements. Not by searching Google.

Vinyl is a commitment. A commitment to part ways with 15 to 30 dollars of that legal tender for which we spend the majority of our day slaving away. There’s not much in the way of music that our generation feels obligated to pay for these days. A subconscious notion exists that our abundant concert ticket purchases, festival attendances and free advertisement on our t-shirts allows us to supplement ourselves with free music. We will buy records though. But vinyl can be like Russian roulette. Sometimes we pull the trigger before we even know if we’ll like the album. Usually we do. Or sometimes our brains get splattered all over the turntable as Make Believe plays from the speakers…

Vinyl is a commitment. A commitment to the idea that a band has siphoned every last drop of their creative energy and watched it solidify into an album. An album. A collection of songs. Not a playlist. The idea is almost lost on us today as we press shuffle on our ipods and drop 99 cents for the only song we actually wanted to hear. Sit down for a few minutes. Follow one single instrument. Interpret the lyrics your own way. Have an actual conversation with someone about the music instead of filling the silent voids with Netflix and Xbox. There’s a reason albums similar to Dark Side of the Moon don’t exist these days. We don’t have the patience for them anymore.

Vinyl is an opportunity for education and enlightenment. The enlightenment is not gained just through purchase or acquisition — only the opportunity. Vinyl is a library in your home. And, as with any library, there’s nothing against recreational use and exploration. Records can be used to stumble and tumble down analog hills into valleys of genres we never knew existed. It can send us back in time and allow us to — gasp — relate to our parents. Or it can send you to the outskirts where the line between music and noise is blurry. And guess what? You get to decide what side of the line to stand on.

There are so many little things that vinyl is. Pulling lent from the needle. Alphabetizing your stack and, as time passes, your shelves. It’s cringing when your friend tosses Zeppelin IV carelessly to the side and drops the needle like an anvil on the next selection. It’s anticipating that spot in the song where you know the record skips. But there’s one thing exceedingly more important than the rest, and it may be the concept we are least aware of.

Vinyl is not a battle between analog and digital. It is a battle between physical and digital. And it’s a battle that has been waged on all aspects of our lives as we cloak ourselves in today’s modern technology. Everything physical is slowly withering and morphing into combinations of ones and zeros. The pages of books. The ones that used to get stuck together when we tried to flip them. Now we flip them with a swipe of our finger. Phone calls where two human voices bounced between satellites have become text. Print media is a novelty. Our money exists only as arbitrary numbers in some account that has no actual location. The trend is evident, and music has not been spared. Compact discs have been deemed dead technology -drowned by MP3 files. Music today is double-clicks on HD screens. No continuity. No concept.

But vinyl is not only durable physically, but metaphorically as well. And I believe we love it for all the reasons stated above; but above all else, we love it because it is tangible. We can hold it. We can watch it spin on the turntable and be hypnotized by it. We can observe the album art, feel the weight of the wax and know that it’s real. It’s a miniscule piece of the collective musical archive in this world, but still a piece. It’s one thing that hasn’t been consumed by technology and the digital age in which we so obliviously thrive. Vinyl gives an artist something real in return for the very real time they have committed to their craft- which must be much more rewarding than being granted 12 digital files on iTunes. Vinyl is dusty. Scratched. F*cking old. But it’s something that can be held in our hands and only works properly when spinning at 33 revolutions per minute. And that’s much more than a fad.