Illustrator Rob Dobi Thinks Your Scene Sucks!
We are all victim to the atrocities of today's many scenes and subscenes. Whether you choose to accept it or not, this reality affects us all in one way or another. We all deal with it in different ways, some keep themselves locked up in isolation, holding onto the hope that the scene won't penetrate their stronghold, others simply give in and take on a life of scenesterism – tragic. It's got to the point where you need to know what signs to look out for, where not to be at the wrong time, and most importantly, to know your scenesters. YourSceneSucks helps you define which totally sucky scene you belong to: Apple Store Indie, maybe Hipster Jesus? Or in my case, it basically outlines regrettable boyfriend choices of the last decade.
This crescendo crazed composer is hard to define by looks alone. His standard wear is so bleak and monochromatic that he could slip into any room unnoticed. Unlike his contemporaries who welcome attention through fashion, the Post Rocker would rather spend months alone in East Hastings.
Most aren't aware, but the good majority of Post Rockers are actually mutes. Their lack of vocals are covered up by songs consisting of long drawn out repetitive ethereal landscapes that try to provide the soundtrack for a tour through Chernobyl. Midway through most of their works you would wish you had radiation sickness to end the monotonous torture.
The few who can speak are usually tuneless band geeks who spend all day fooling around in Guitar Center playing with delay pedals. Much like any song they craft, a conversation with a Post Rocker can last 15 minutes and 38 seconds with only about a minute of pretentious substance.
Bored with conventional verse chorus verse rock and roll (see: emo), the Post Rocker doesn't have much time for a social life as band practice can run a bit long, especially with each song clocking in at an average of 12 minute long.
The Nintendocore fan refuses to let go of the video games from his youth, however, his dedication leaves him trapped in an 8-bit world in his parents basement without a warp pipe to escape.
This old school cellar dweller won't touch a controller that has more than two buttons, even after all of his friends and game developers themselves, have abandoned ship. Don't ask these retro gamers to share their joypad, old titles were rarely multiplayer and you can bet his social skills are lacking because of it. Time away from his console is usually spent rereading back issues of Nintendo Power or soldering old RF cables together. The music in his playlist consists entirely of instruments from the nintendo universe, such as a hacked Game Boy, Mario Paint and songs he's composed on his Ocarina iPhone app.
If this pixel pusher ever has a problem operating something, he will attempt to fix it in the only way he knows how: flip it over, flick it with his pointer finger, then blow in it. This poor gamer suffers from a chronic blistering "NES thumb" from endless Super Mario Brothers time trials, but at least he's got a top rated YouTube video to show for it. In the event that his current system fails him, he keeps an unopened NES in a safety deposit box, courtesy of his parents.
The Nintendocore fan dreams of one day becoming a game tester or perhaps even a reviewer, however, after a 20 year 8-bit coma, adjusting to the complex controllers of today is near impossible. He will eventually follow his destiny, become a plumber and defend the original works of Shigeru Miyamoto to his death.
Armed with his boots and braces, this working-class hero is ready for a fight after a long night of sing alongs and pbr with his friends fred perry and ben sherman.
Your average skin has the "spirit of '69" front to back multiple times and can recite any line from "romper stomper" word for word without missing a beat, yet can't seem to remember why he has a black eye from the night before or who the byrd in his bed is.
Unbeknownst to most, not all skinheads are racist, but all of them happen to own the entire skrewdriver discography, s.h.a.r.ps included. they'll tell you they like them "only for the music". most find this excuse hard to believe since there hasn't been a single oi record released that doesn't sound like it was recorded anywhere but a toilet.
Inevitably all skins begin to save up their hard earned money to convert their wardrobe over to all of the latest rockabilly gear as part of his skinhead retirement plan. be sure to ditch that #1 crop trimmer for some pomade, that pompadour is going to need some work!
Just when you think things couldn't get much worse than electro-ska, black polka metal, or christian punk, the crunkcore scene comes along and makes everything else look perfectly acceptable.
The crunkcore movement is one that seems to be a brilliant marketing strategy by some sort of modern day lou pearlman who learned to tap into the brain of misguided emo kids who don't know where to turn. there is no way such a genre would evolve organically, someone had to have made a conscious marketing decision to create one of the worst crossover genres of all time and throw it on myspace to see what happens.
To sum up the stylings of crunkcore, it is a horrific combination of two genres that were bastardized and declared dead several years ago, crunk and screamo, only now with overtly sexual lyrics directed at 7th grade girls. with that said, you can use the following recipe to create your own crunkcore band…
2 ¼ cups t-pain vocoder 4 tablespoons of angst ridden white teenagers 2 sticks of bowel inducing screams 3 teaspoons of shuttershades 2 cups fake bling from vending machines 12 cups of lyrics that would give brian peppers douche chills 205,809 myspace friends
Somewhere on the back of the miley cyrus tour bus the guys in metro station are thanking their lucky stars that bands like brokencyde came along. the crunkcore wave is to dance pop what 9/11 was to gary condit and his missing intern.
To most thrash fans, the "big four" consists of Metallica, Megadeth, Anthrax and Slayer. To the unsuspecting passerby of a thrash fan, the "big four" consists of indescribable odor, questionable stains, yellow teeth and unkempt lice infested hair.
No neo thrasher would be complete without his "kutte" or "battlejacket" or "smelly vest with way too many patches". The kutte is the thrash equivalent of a TGI Fridays waitress vest, the more flare the merrier. Spending endless hours scouring ebay for patches and bedazzler replacement parts, he hardly has any time at the end of the day to watch any of his 80's VHS troma movies. On a number of occasions his mother has snuck into his bedroom in the basement in an attempt to febreze his beloved battlejacket, but has ultimately failed as it seems he never removes the vile vest.
Stuck without a job, a futon covered in beer cans, a Metallica with short hair, a boom box that eats cassettes and a shower that hasn't felt his presence in months, the Neo Thrasher seems to be at his lowest. Fortunately there is a kegger behind the abandoned gas station this Friday.
You sir, are grizzled!
With a wardrobe that looks like it was donated to a thrift store by either crosby, stills or nash in 1971 and a beard that has its own zip code, this indie icon has a devout army of worshippers who follow his every whispered word.
The lethargic lo-fi lethario is known to lock himself in a cabin for months on end to craft minimalistic folksy songs. by the end of his self-imposed exile, all he has produced is a stream of hushed whispers with barely fingerpicked guitar strums. his musical works are recommended by doctors as a suitable alternative for ambien. in a matter of verses he could put down an army of mexican wrestlers hopped up on redbull.
One might say his songs give them the chills, but that is only because they passed out listening and forgot to get a blanket.
He's the last of a dying breed. the prehistoric emo only emerges from the depths of his studio apartment when his favorite bands reunite for one last show- and even then, he shows no sign of enthusiasm whatsoever.
Once an avid fan of the underground emo scene, he now cringes at the sight of today's batch of kids. he avoids mainstream media altogether, would rather listen to npr than podcasts and has no idea why anyone would panic at a disco. his favorite thrift stores are now raided by trend-hopping teens, making him resort to wearing the same vintage tees he has had for years.
He cries when he listens to pinkerton and spends days at a time organizing his vinyl collection. he refuses to join the kids on the current social networking sites as he finds them repulsive, yet seems to forget about the long since abandoned makeoutclub account he made years ago.
His casual-yet-somewhat dorky look has become the mainstream, and he is no longer identified as the emo king he once was. tear.
With more gaudy accessories than a williamsburg thrift store, this gal uses her daddy's credit card to stay hip! she is an art school dropout and has no intention of furthering her education. rather, she aspires to become a hairdresser one day; beauty school, here she comes! please note: this will not actually happen.
Her taste in music taste changes based upon what's being spun at whatever club is trendy that week. dance music is her absolute fave, but her friends have no idea about her checkered past.
Once a ska queen, she now works as hard as she can to preserve her fashionable hipster image by mimicking the incoming trends, and immediately ditches anything that might have been cool two minutes ago. this behavior prevents her from forming any individual identity whatsoever.
She aspires to work in the fashion industry, and she will- folding clothes at old navy for the rest of her life.
The black metal knight is an odd, multifaceted creature; when he is not adorned in his elaborate band getup, he wears green sweatpants and arizona wolf tees.
This guy has dreams of one day relocating his band to norway, but in the meantime settles for his mom's basement. he tries to make ends meet by working at the local comic book store, where he passes the time playing d&d and world of warcraft. with his career choice being unprofitable, he has suffered a series of financial setbacks that relate back to the upkeep of his image. two months worth of paychecks have gone towards having a frank frazetta clone paint his band's cd cover. in addition, his stage getup has put him well over $800 in debt to the home depot and various bondage stores. if that wasn't enough, medical bills have been piling up- the fearless knight suffered from a severe case of frostbite while filming a music video during a blizzard. regrettably, the aforementioned music video has enjoyed but 33 views on youtube to date.
The black metal knight recently suffered from perhaps the greatest embarrassment of all while onstage at the local dive bar. drunk past the point where he could comprehend his actions, the "kvlt" one accidentally applied his corpse makeup in a manner reminiscent of wcw's sting. fortunately for him, his drummer was also inebriated and emerged as a passable gene simmons.
Unlike his predecessors, he has never set a church on fire. he has, however, slipped and burnt his hair with his mom's straightener.
Here is "a message to you rudy"- give it up! although most of his favorite bands have ditched their brass sections for screaming and tight pants, the ska kid holds true to his checkered past.
There are still two-tone armies skanking the night away, though, to the tune of washed-up bands all across the united states. gone are the days when ska bands lived the high life in big-name clubs. nowadays, the ska kids flock to sweaty vfw halls and teen centers.
The rude boy was never good at any sports, so instead he opted to join the marching band which, incidentally, led to the formation of his own group. the band enjoyed their biggest success at a recent high school battle of the bands, where they showcased their originality by covering the reel big fish cover of a-ha's "take on me".
The majority of ska kid's funds go towards the repair of his vespa, which he totalled after spilling his pez while speeding. someday the ska kid might be able to afford the fred perry and ben sherman gear he so covets, but for now the hawaiian shirts from goodwill will have to do.
This kid seems to have missed the memo about ska being dead; one can only assume he forgot to "pick it up!"
She's the girl you see at all the "scene" shows, putting her chest piece prominently on display for all her super-indie (see: pop-punk) friends to admire. much like other scenesters, she is completely void of any originality and bases her identity off of whatever she sees everyone else doing.
She updates her livejournal on an hourly basis, making sure to keep everyone informed about her ever-evolving and always drama-filled relationships. speaking of boys, she only dates ones with the exact same taste in music, because in the end isn't that what matters most?
Her jeans and cowboy shirts come directly from urban outfitters, but when asked she'll tell you she can't stand "that store." as for her hair color, it changes as quickly as her mood, and trust me, that's fast!
Need to find her late at night? she'll more than likely be at the local underwear party- just look for the girl with the poorly thought-out nautical stars tattooed in all the right/wrong places!
Looking something like a mix of Pocahontas and a tornado at a thrift store, the Apple Store Indie is your typical #fauxhemian. Masking her love for Steve Jobs products with whatever your blind grandma wore 40 years ago, she blends in seamlessly with the rest of her contemporaries at All Points West Festival.
Tweeting endlessly about nothing other than questions to a fake Ezra Koenig account, her main source of news is whatever happens to be a trending topic on twitter. Her iphone isn't just a means to tell people what type of sandwich she is eating, she also uses it to cover Passion Pit's "Sleepyhead" using only app store instruments with her hipster friends.
Getting musical recommendations from last.fm or whatever Jenny Eliscu and Jake Fogelnest play on satellite radio, her entire "scene" seems to only exist in digital format. The only physical music she owns are vinyl hand me downs that serve as decorative filler for her Ikea Billy bookshelf. She rarely if ever supports her local indie music scene unless it is someone spinning records (see: itunes playlist) at a scenester bar.
Unable to make sales of her diy junk through her etsy store, she has set up shop at a number of craft fairs across the tri state area. Unfortunately everyone else was selling the same trite octopus necklaces, owl earrings and onesies she slapped together. Upset with the lack of enthusiasm towards her creations, she will later blog about it to an audience of spambots.
Often considered the neon pink-headed step child of the goth community, the over-the-top fashion of the Cybergoth is typically scoffed at by traditional goths. Looking something like a mix of Rainbow Brite meets The Matrix, they are by far one of the most flamboyant misfits of the goth subculture.
The appearance of the Cybergoth actually has nothing to do with the conventional gothic look, making them the very antithesis of the scene. The Cybergoth will often start by dressing in black but then over-accessorize with clashing neon color body mods, gas masks, goggles and live LED circuit boards, none of which serve any purpose whatsoever.
The key to being a pillar in the Cybergoth community is having a custom hairpiece, otherwise known as dread falls. This fake hair is typically ordered online and further customized from objects found at yard sales. The end result are dreads made of radioactive neon colors that look like something a unicorn might defecate. These elaborate hairpieces are a true sign of allegiance to their scene, much like a skinhead with a shaved head or an emo kid with scarred wrists.
Rave, cyberpunk, rivethead and goth fashion all look ridiculous on their own but combined takes on a whole new level of fail.
The Rockabilly lifestyle is generally what happens when punk scene veterans suffer some sort of trauma in their late twenties. As a result, they start believing they are the stars of a 1950's period piece, where they can idealize aspects of a simpler time. The Rockabilly kids can be seen attending retro car shows, drive-in movies and burlesque clubs.
The Rockabilly male generally works a blue collar job, nine times out of ten at an auto body shop restoring old cars. He longs for a '59 Cadillac but is seen shamefully driving his '91 Honda Civic. Other potential jobs include sailor tattoo artist, stand up bass player, or the role of Danny Zuko in the local theater production of Grease. The majority of his paycheck goes towards industrial strength Pomade as he spends hours crafting his magnificent pompadour and mutton chop sideburns.
The Rockabilly female is a bizarre hybrid of Betty Crocker and Bettie Page, trying to be part 50's housewife and part pinup model. Much like her significant other, she swears she was born in the wrong era but the classy Varga girls never covered their torsos with meaningless tattoos. She'll take pole dancing classes in an attempt to get in better shape for her burlesque troupe, but more often than not falls into a "temporary" career as a stripper. June Cleaver would not approve.
The Rockabilly couple are a clear example of what happens when aging punks embrace Johnny Cash rather than Ed Hardy. If at any time a Rockabilly individual adds coffins or zombies to their repertoire, they can instantly morph into a Psychobilly.
Deep seeded in 19th century Victorian fashion combined with a western sci-fi twist, the Steampunk tries his best to resemble an extra from Will Smith's The Wild Wild West. The Steampunk longs for a time where technology was romanticized rather than mass manufactured. He scoffs at the minimalism of homogenized modern devices and attempts to make them his own.
Displaying an unhealthy fascination with steam, valves and gears, the Steampunk will spend hours in his workshop crafting accessories for his wardrobe. Custom timepieces, goggles and Nerf guns are often overly customized to the point that they obscure the item's original purpose. Modern day electronic devices are modified to look like rusted antiques. Outside of Flava Flav, no one displays clocks as proudly and prominently as this dapper gentleman.
When not spending time reading the works of HG Wells and Jules Verne on his brass encased iPad, the Steampunk can be found attending various conventions and ballroom dances devoted to his fantasy world. The preferred method of transportation to these events is via zeppelin or steam engine, but most end up using the city bus.
One can say that Steampunk is "What the past would look like if the future had happened sooner" but the reality is that Steampunk is what happens when Goths discover the color brown.
this grizzled scene veteran often works in the music industry but he can't stand anything associated with it. he tends to be apathetic toward anything and everything, with the exception of the recent hot water music reunion or his yearly excursion to the fest in florida.
he daydreams endlessly about moving to gainesville or richmond where he can participate in the scene firsthand, but for now he is stuck behind messageboards. this modern day lumberjack often aims to be "first!" on punknews.org and wishes death upon any band that seeks financial help after flipping their van.
while his fashion might not be as over-the-top as other scenesters, he's just as identifiable with his signature scraggly beard, cowboy shirt, jade tree alumni tattoos, and swamp-like smell.
bitter and beaten, his days of stage dives and high fives are long since over. the orgcore punker is left drowning his sorrows over chuck ragan singles and a case of pbr. recently, after being dumped, his sense of apathy reached a new high; he announced to his ex that he was going to get a sandwich.
Once trust fund punks lose their savings they are reduced to riding a fixed gear bike, the same means of travel they had when they were in middle school. Their current bike build is actually less sophisticated than the ones they grew up on, but hipsters will always sacrifice the convenience of brakes for fashion.
One of the most pretentious of all hipsters, fixies are primarily located in Williamsburg, Portland, San Francisco and wherever else snobs congregate these days. They tend to hang out at cafés, bike shops and anywhere else they can turn their nose at other hipsters. Usually enrolled in some form of printmaking or photography at their art school, the fixie spends more time complaining about things rather than creating them.
One should not confuse a nonathletic fixie with actual racers or bike messengers. The latter can spot a fixed gear hipster from a block away, recognizing their bike as just another fashion accessory until they move onto the next trend. Usually a vegan, the street smart cyclist weighs no more than 100 pounds when soaking wet and gets his sole caloric intake from PBRs and plants.
A fixie longs for a Bianchi Pista with drop handlebars but instead will custom order their ride from Urban Outfitters using their employee discount. The Fixie likes to tell everyone they are saving the world by having "one less car" but ultimately they just can't afford one.