“Music Porn”A Story of Pretentiousness in the Indie Music World

Music porn. It’s what me and my friend whispered to each other in the depths of an unfinished basement one night in Boston’s lower Allston. The chaotic melodies mixed with heavy shoegaze, jazz, post punk and at times metal seemed to seep out of the instrument-heads of Berklee school of Music and other hipstery 18-20 somethings, drifting through a weed and vape smoke haze into our ears that night, and many more nights to come. 

Winkler at “The Green Thumb”, 2019

This genre of eclectic, almost academic style music pulses through the Boston underground music scene and beyond. The overly-technical, almost chapter-like progressions create a jarring, self-indulgent sound, which to musically-intellectual ears exemplifies great skill in a sprawl of technical nods. Like “porn” for musical ears – hence our coined terminology. Regardless of their varied influences, the unifying characteristic seemed to be bend-over-backwards technical riffs and discordant melodies. But one question remained: was it actually any good?

Berklee student band performing at The Green Thumb, 2019

A web of pop-up basement concert venues concentrate around Boston’s marginally more-affordable student wonderland: Allston – also known semi-pridefully as “Rat City”. Home to a network of official and unofficial music venues, it’s a neighborhood of random hole-in-the-wall food places, multi-ethnic shops, stacked with dilapidated apartments and a plethora of musicians and artists. It also boasts a steady stream of university students from all of Boston's many academic institutions. 

We had been invited to the show that night, as my friend was dating a guitarist and singer in one of the bands playing. Details for the show had been circulated around Instagram, with the venue ambiguously referred to solely as “The Green Thumb” –  address given via direct-message. It was Springtime, stale brown leaves still littered the entrance to the stand-alone two-story house, a chain link fence wrapping around its half grass, half-dirt front yard – a typical home in Allston. 

People crowded around the side of the house and front porch area. Smoking and chatting in ornate, stylish outfits. My gaze hovered over a man, backlit, standing on the porch in a head to toe, leopard print, 70’s style satin three-piece suit and matching rocker-style long brown hair and a beard. He looked like a mirage, untrue to modern reality.

We walked down the side steps of the house into the basement area. Music played in the background as the next band prepared for their set. Naked tree branches hung from the ceiling, adorned with sticks of dangling rock candy, which you had to duck under, wrapped in green and blue fairy lights, illuminating the room in a greenish, turquoise glow. Iridescent plastic wrap was draped from the ceiling as well, surrounding the corner deemed ‘stage area’. The room was cloaked in white bed sheets, sound absorbing foam walls and carpet. As the next band readied to launch into their first song, the room filled with people. 

“This is…” My friend introduced me to her date,  a Berklee student. He was also dressed in an elaborate outfit – a coordinating suit splashed with erratic patterns and colors. 

“Hi! I’m… ” I smiled and politely introduced myself. We were then abruptly cut off from exchanging anymore pleasantries as the next act began. 

I stood listening, watching the uniform heads bob. My friend and her band-guy flirted beside me, their giggles muffled under the heavy music sounds. I tuned them out as he began to tout his knowledge on whatever music-related topic he’d chosen to lecture her about at that moment. We watched the four different bands play, including his which was riddled with improvised jazz elements as he danced around. The man with the leopard-print suit played in the third band, their sound much heavier leaning into post-punk shoegaze with the lead singer, screaming into her mic, wearing what could only be described as a white haired-version of a Siouxsie and the Banshees wig. 

The last band droned out their final song, before thanking the audience, marking the end of the concert. My friend and I made our way towards the exit as the crowd spilled out into the brisk evening air. I stood by while my friend said goodbye to her eccentric date, and made plans to see each other later. I walked through each act from the concert in my mind. To my surprise I’d actually quite liked the heavier sound of the leopard-print-suit-guy’s band and one other more poppy band which had gone last. 

As we left the venue that night, I felt like I’d wandered into a new world. But I wasn't sure if it was really mine, I felt more like Alice after she’d fallen through the looking glass. Discovering odd characters as I navigated a world of familiar things warped into a new light. 

“Music porn”, we giggled as we walked home, down the paved city suburb streets, discussing the concert. Neither of us were sure how we’d felt about it, both of us avid music nerds and indie listeners. A lot of it seemed almost technical to a fault. So bogged down in creating something complex and skillful it lost track of creating any semblance of unity within the songs. As another good friend of mine and very talented musician puts it, perhaps a bit “too much chin stroking”.

Five years later…

I rush down the steps of a Davis Square bar. My platform black slides slapping at each step, announcing my presence to the few employees clustered at what looked like a hostess stand. I shuffled towards them, trying to ignore my embarrassment, panicking that I would miss his show entirely. 

“Is this the xxxxx?” I asked, giving the name of the venue he’d given me. 

“Yes! Do you have a ticket?”

“No” I responded “I still need to buy one”.

“That’s no problem!” She pulled out a mini card reader. I rushed inside, past the bar, through two curtains, into a dark room filled by an awkwardly spread apart crowd swaying almost in unison. I scanned the band on stage. There he was, a guy I’d been seeing for the past couple weeks. Illuminated under the stage lights, his mop of long black hair hung over his face as he strummed his sticker-riddled fender guitar. I moved toward a gap in the crowd on the outer edge and was relieved to hear they still had two more songs. I listened patiently through the remainder of their set, the heavy shoegaze buzzing in my ears while their drummer screamed inaudible lyrics through the last song. Their petite frame shaking under layers of oversized clothing at the force of their shriek-singing. 

“Thank you.” 

The crowd turned into a buzz of voices bubbling together as his band began to unplug their instruments for the next act. I strolled over to him as he slid off his guitar strap.

“Hey!” 

“Hey!” He smiled with a small laugh. “I thought you were going to miss it!”

“No I was over there in the corner” I pointed to where I’d been standing and chose not to elaborate on that it was only for the last two songs. “You guys were great!”

“Aw thanks! We try, um we need to keep packing up but I can meet you after that?”

“Oh yeah that’s no worries! I’ll go buy a drink” I pushed down the swirl in my stomach at the thought of navigating a sea of no one I knew alone. “What would you like? On me!”

Trash Rabbit performing at The Rockwell, 2024

I walked back to the bar past the curtains, and ordered for myself a glass of white wine and for him a PBR which he un-ironically, ironically drank often. I returned with the drinks and we began sipping on them in between conversation, waiting for the next band to set up. 

Their sound was again another heavy wall of fuzz pedals and hushed instrumentals with occasionally pounding drum lines. However, over the top lay quintessential 90’s-esque, grungey, melancholic vocals. They were coming out of a nerdy-looking boy standing a few feet in front of me, with shoulder length blond hair, crocks and metal rimmed glasses. 

Clifford at The Rockwell, 2024

“The vocals kind of remind me of Temple of the Dog” I mused.

“Nice read!” He said. Nodding enthusiastically, a pleasantly surprised smile splayed across his lips.

I smiled up at him before batting my eyes down, a blush spreading across my cheeks. Suddenly, feeling like an obedient puppy basking in a glow of euphoric, external validation, I winced. Had I really just smiled at that? 

His eyes had already flicked back to the band grumbling into their microphones. The two quick words, ‘nice read’ lingered in my ears. They dripped with condescension. Yet the butterflies in my stomach shamelessly craved their approval nonetheless.

I stood swaying and listening to the three remaining bands as they each went through their sets. I felt my ears beginning to numb as the wall of sound seemed to build in the low-ceiling room. It was a parallel universe to my own. One which revolved around Blue Smiley as their sun and savior, as opposed to other indie bands I tended to gravitate towards. The bands rambled through portions of stumbling riffs jumping from sweet melodies to startling heaving drum and bass lines overlaid by equally heavy guitar. It was like listening to a bipolar guitar navigating a schizophrenic episode. 

Pons at The Rockwell, 2024

Suddenly I felt a smile pull at the edge of my mouth. A flash of an Allston basement concert surfaced in the back of my mind, wandering home with my friend. I remembered the feeling, like ‘Alice’ again. 

“Music porn”, I mumbled under my breath, laughing to myself knowing no one else would hear me over the pounding speakers. Even my date as he bobbed his head to the music, stood completely oblivious. I looked around at the lilting crowd. It was a mix of people, dressed more plainly than that concert many years ago, many just wearing band t-shirts. I truthfully wasn’t sure if I still liked much of what the bands were playing, with the exception of a few songs I took note of. It continued to be at many times a series of jarring, disjointed chapters all squeezed into one over-done song stretching on for ages, but I loved listening. 

As much as I quietly stuck my nose up at the overt self-indulgence and arguable egotism in our coined ‘music porn’ subsect, I couldn’t help appreciate the at times edgy and nuanced risks it took. However, it is equally shrouded in ‘chin-stroking’ experts.

I still roll my eyes at most Blue Smiley songs, and I stopped going out with the guy not long after the concert – too much chin stroking – but I felt more at home in this parallel universe in the Indie world. As temporary a character as he was in my Wonderland, at least he introduced me to Shower Curtain, who I now adore. It was a world I now wanted to fall into and explore with curiosity.

As the concert ended that night and I walked back to my car, I let the music sink in more. I climbed in behind my wheel, turning the key until the engine grumbled on along with the stereo which I promptly plugged my phone into and selected what song I wanted. 

I clicked my phone into its holder on my dashboard, pressing play as I pulled out of my parking spot. The discordant sounds of “Candyskin” by Fire Engines filled my car – an early-days 80’s indie, post-punk, New York’s ‘no wave’ scene influenced band, and UK underground scene classic.

I smiled, “Music Porn”.