"It's Not a Fashion Statement It's a F*cking Deathwish." Say what you will about My Chemical mastermind Gerard Way, but the "Black Parader" isn't one to pull punches when it comes to defending (or critiquing) the scene that his band helped revitalize. If only I was as eloquent as he. Now it's time to burn every bridge I've crossed over the last three years.
I'm not one to cast criticism at a collectivistic group of people, but I've had enough. And when I say I've had enough, I mean I would rather listen to "The Great Escape" by Boys Like Girls on repeat for the rest of my life than have to deal with the scene and more importantly, the kids that mare every concert I go to. Ok, no I wouldn't.
For those of you who don't know, music plays a big role in my life and I spend the vast majority of my free time and funding going to shows and supporting the bands in which I seek refuge. Unfortunately for me, a lot of these bands fit into the pop punk, emo, screamo, and metal/metalcore genres. How can you not love catchy riffs, gripping, yet brutal lyrics, murder chords, or two-step demanding breakdowns? They're just delicious.
So where's the misfortune? It lays therein the kids that these bands and their shows attract, which border on revolting. Gone are the days of going to a show to just enjoy the band that makes you bearclaw or headbang like the rabid wolverine...I'm leaving that reference alone. Gone are the days of the concert hall being a sanctuary of sorts, a place where you'd go to scream back every lyric of every song from the bands that knew you better than you knew yourself.
In are the days of vanity and overt femininity, and that's just in regards to the dudes. In an exercise of damage control, I'm going to leave my views on scene girls out of this as I'm not stupid and refuse to kill off any opportunities before they arise.
I have more problems with the scene than Lindsay Lohan has sexually transmittable diseases, but as we're only in the first chapter of the John "destroys his scene novella," I'll stick to the most obvious of issues - the look.
The concert hall has inexplicably turned into a fashion show. This is Buffalo, not some trendy New York City fashion magazine. Why don't you guys just "Admit it!!!" You look like idiots.
Hair: the color revolt(ing). It has become a scene staple for boys to dye their hair in at least two different colors, which are always on opposing sides of the spectrum. Either chunking blond hair amidst an elegantly disheveled sea of asymmetrical black hair means you strongly support the breaking of the color barrier and racial equality, or it screams I want attention from shallow females that want me for my looks and body that looks identical to theirs.
I'm not saying scene boys look like lesbians. I'm saying that their hair looks like a one night stand between the coifs of K.D. Lang and Anne Heche circa Six Days Seven Nights.
Pants: The friction in his jeans. There's only one jean size for these "boys" - way too tight. That's an understatement. These jeans are ball bursting, meat mashing, leg lynching tight. I've tried on a pair of said jeans out of sheer curiosity and there was literally no material space in them for my material. And since it has to go somewhere, it's front and present at all times.
I'm sorry, but I really don't want to see your camel tail. Ever.
And the best thing about scene jeans, they even come in Spandex! That's right, jeans not tight enough? Are your Olsen twins still two separate entities and not one mushed conglomerate? Well, never fear! You can actually have the pleasure of wearing bike shorts in jean form, wrapping all of your dirty little secrets tighter than you could have imagined. Talk about riding dirty.
Accessories: fer sure maybe, fer sure stop. That's right boys, we accessorize. When they dare cover their hair up with a hat on a "bad hair day," there's only one that does the trick - the train conductor cap. Apparently when not being overly emotional, they conduct steam engines as well. I would have no problem with the pinstriped conductor hats if they were on a train, near a train, or taking part in some sort of metaphorical train, but they aren't. There aren't any locomotives even remotely close. Ditch the stupid hats, please?
And then there's the bandana. You know the one, folded at a triangular angle, hanging ever so perfectly from the back pocket. Now I'm not sure what the reasoning is behind this, but I can deal. But when those cool kids decide to put it on their face like they're in some sort of Western that involves a great train robbery, that's where I draw the line. And for those going for the modern reference, you're not a Mexican gangbanger. Pull that bandana down, and maybe wrap it tighter around your throat? For me?
Writing can be therapeutic. Not now. As I'm not even remotely close to an end, my fists are starting to clench and I'm getting this sudden urge to windmill. But then I'd probably mess up my hair. No but seriously, you guys need to grow a pair...and then put it in pants that actually fit.
Photo: Courtesy of Laron Fomby
