Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes (vol. 3) Paula Guerra and Tânia Moreira (eds.) First Published April 2017 by Universidade do Porto. Faculdade de Letras [University of Porto. Faculty of Arts and Humanities] Via Panorâmica, s/n, 4150-564, Porto, PORTUGAL www.letras.up.pt Design: Tânia Moreira Credits photos of book’s parts: Chris Low ISBN 978-989-8648-88-4 All the content presented in texts are solely the responsibility of the authors. The ideas presented do not necessarily represent the opinion of the editors. Attribution CC BY 4.0. International This book is Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0. International License (CC BY 4.0). It is allowed to share, redistribute, adapt, remix, transform and build upon the content of this book. The appropriate credit must be given to the authors and editors. More informations: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0 Contents INTRODUCTION _______________________________________________________________________ 5 DIY cultures, spaces and places ___________________________________________________________ 7 Paula Guerra and Tânia Moreira THEME TUNE 1 | THOUSAND ACTS OF LOVE: DIY CULTURES, PUNK, SPACES AND PLACES ________ 11 1.1. “Houses provide a spatial backbone for virtually everything we do”: An anthropological study of DIY (“do-it-yourself”) house shows in the US __________________________________________ 13 David Verbuč 1.2. Re-shaping and re-defining a scene: The Rise of collectivism in Istanbul independent DIY music scene? __________________________________________________________________________ 25 F. Nur Gürbüz 1.3. Boots and braces don’t make me racist: Antiracist skinheads in the Czech Republic ___________ 39 Jan Charvát 1.4. Same name but different things? DIY practices in New England and Switzerland _____________ 49 Loïc Riom and Vera Vidal THEME TUNE 2 | RADIO, LIVE TRANSMISSION: AUDIENCES, MARKETS, HERITAGE AND MEDIATIONS IN MUSIC ______________________________________________________________________________ 55 2.1. Dancing the Poot! Devo and postmodernism 1975 - 1980 _______________________________ 57 Grace Healy 2.2. The practice of award as a means to fix a memory of jazz: The case of Richard Galliano _______ 63 Mathieu Feryn 2.3. Music festivals as a factor of regional development: A pre-study. __________________________ 71 Miguel Teixeira 2.4. Participation and role in the Northern soul scene _______________________________________ 75 Sarah Raine and Tim Wall 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach __________________________________ 87 Tatiana Dinis Ribeiro, Pedro António Ferreira and Maria João Vaz THEME TUNE 3 | STARING AT THE CITY: ATMOSPHERES, ENVIRONMENTS AND MUSIC SCENES ___ 101 3.1. Academic involvement in the Lion City underground: Documentation, pedagogy, and scholarly connectivities in Singapore’s multi-subcultural music scene _____________________________ 103 J. Patrick Williams and Kai Khiun Liew 3.2. The disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night _______________________________________ 113 Jordi Nofre and João Carlos Martins 3.3. Sensing the City – mapping the beat. Analysing (affective) rhythms of music-making in Wellington and Copenhagen ________________________________________________________________ 125 Katie Rochow 3.4. Songs for Cassateves (2001): A shared strategy between U.S. independent filmmaking and underground music scenes ________________________________________________________ 129 Maria Teresa Soldani 3.5. Overflowing days. Flows and routes in/of the Portuguese urban culture ___________________ 139 Susana Januário and Paula Guerra THEME TUNE 4 | WALK TOGETHER, ROCK TOGETHER: DILEMMAS OF MATERIALITY, HISTORICITY, AESTHETIC, POP ROCK TECHNOLOGIES IN THE CONTEMPORANEITY _________________________ 147 4.1. Erratic diversity: Failure as feedstock creative __________________________________________ 149 Carlos Eduardo Soares (Caeso) 4.2. Resistance patterns of a tattooed body ______________________________________________ 155 Cihan Ertan 4.3. Carioca youth, their cultures and media representations: Searching for roads to a research ___ 161 Cláudia Pereira 4.4. Depressive Suicidal Black Metal and borderline personality disorder: A journey into the depths of emptiness ______________________________________________________________________ 167 José Filipe P. M. Silva 4.5. Digital, electronic, visual and audio: Digital fabrication and experimentation with musical instruments from do-it-yourself to new business models _______________________________ 173 Julianna Faludi 4.6. From CBGB to Forever 21: the Ramones T-shirt and it’s representations on the mainstream ___ 185 Lívia Boeschenstein and Cláudia Pereira 4.7. Tracing back lipstick. Glam narratives in popular history ________________________________ 193 Mara Persello THEME TUNE 5 | SHEENA IS (ALMOST) AN AGING PUNK ROCKER: CAREERS, GENDER AND AGING IN MUSICAL SCENES ____________________________________________________________________ 203 5.1. ‘Old punks don’t die, they stand at the back’… and make radio: 1990s anarcho-punk and the continuation of DIY values in contemporary radio practice ______________________________ 205 Charlotte Bedford 5.2. You never know: An exploration of the difficulties in music career development when engaging with record labels _______________________________________________________________ 215 Christina Ballico 5.3. Is a music scene an unexpected area to carry out a design research? ______________________ 225 F. Nur Gürbüz and Çiğdem Kaya 5.4. Amplified heteronormativity in online heavy metal spaces _______________________________ 239 Tristan Kennedy 5.5. Conflicts, integration, hybridization of subcultures: An ecological approach to the case of queercore ______________________________________________________________________________ 245 Vincenzo Romania, Fabio Bertoni and David Primo THEME TUNE 6 | ‘HOW SOON IS NOW?’ (SUB)CULTURES, NARRATIVES, MOBILITIES, INFLUENCES: POSTCOLONIAL IDENTITIES AND GEOGRAPHIES __________________________________________ 253 6.1. Analyzing the Japanese discourse on subculture/ sabukaruchā ___________________________ 255 Franziska Ritt 6.2. The social meaning of accelerated noise in speedy capitalism ____________________________ 263 Ion Andoni del Amo Castro, Arkaitz Letamendia Onzain and Jason Diaux González 6.3. Hindrances and enhancements to sub-cultures: An analysis to observe the effects of self-organised musical activities onto the finished creative product ___________________________________ 271 Simon Paton 6.4. Of goths and salmons: A practice-basedeExploration of subcultural enactments in 1980s Milan 279 Simone Tosoni © Chris Low Introduction DIY cultures, spaces and places 1 Paula Guerra and Tânia Moreira 2 The third KISMIF International Conference “Keep It Simple, Make It Fast! (KISMIF) DIY Cultures, Spaces and Places” was help in Porto, Portugal, between 18th July and 21st July 2016. This edition was once again focused on underground music, but directing its attention this time towards the analysis of DIY cultures’ relationship to space and places. Thus, we challenged students, junior and senior teachers/researchers, as well as artists and activists, to come to the KISMIF International Conference and present works which explore the potential of the theoretical and analytical development of the intersection of music scenes, DIY culture and space under a multidimensional and multifaceted vision. Our intention was to enrich the underground scenes and DIY cultures analysis by producing innovative social theory on various spheres and levels, as well as focusing on the role of DIY culture in late modernity. Indeed, the role of music and DIY cultures is once more an important question — taking place in a world of piecemealed yet ever-present change. The space, spaces, places, borders, zones of DIY music scenes are critical variables in approaching contemporary cultures, their sounds, their practices (artistic, cultural, economic and social), their actors and their contexts. From a postcolonial and glocalized perspective, it is important to consider the changes in artistic and musical practices with an underground and/or oppositional nature in order to draw symbolic boundaries between their operating modalities and those of advanced capitalism. Territorialization and deterritorialization are indelible marks of the artistic and musical scenes in the present; they are related to immediate cosmopolitanisms, to conflicting diasporas, new power relations, gender and ethnicity. Taking the example of punk, many individuals speak about the death of punk (Reynolds, 2007). But its death is more symbolic than real, because the movement has undergone changes and was restructured by its relative incorporation in the cultural industry system (Masters, 2007). The world would not be the same. A plurality of musical opportunities and concomitant worlds of life were opened. (Clarke, 1990; Garnett, 1999; Lawley, 1999). Since its mediatic emergence in the late 1970s, punk has become a global phenomenon with more or less expressive local translations: punk is not only English or American, but it’s Portuguese, Spanish, Mexican or Thai. Thus, our perspective refutes the interpretation that punk is a form of cultural imperialism (Sabin, 1999: 3), or a pure and simple British invasion; instead, we suggest that punk emerged as a result of a process of cultural syncretism (Lentini, 2003: 153); it is locally re-appropriated and redefined according to local resources and needs in a process of mixing characteristics of the global punk and local elements (Haenfler, 2014, 2015; O’Hara, 1999; Moore, 2004). This situation reconfigures and also brings us closer to post-subcultural theory in the defence of the emergence of specific local and translocal scenes (Straw, 1991, 2015; Bennett & Peterson, 2004). Punk is everywhere (Matula, 2007; Osgerby, 2008). Punk is a musical form, but it is also an aesthetic, cultural, political and symbolic form. Punk is a hyperword. Holistic, hybrid, situationist, Dadaist, punk contains a very particular symbolism in the contemporary Western culture. Two key features contributed to enhance this relevance. First, punk represented an innovation, that is, the vivacity of an instituting form, at a time when the rock of the 1960s and 1970s was in a process of institutionalization, incorporated by the great recording 1 Faculty of Arts and Humanities, Institute of Sociology, University of Porto, Griffith Centre for Cultural Research, KISMIF Project Coordinator, Portugal. E-mail: pguerra|at|letras|dot|up|dot|pt; mariadeguerra|at|gmail|dot|com. 2 Faculty of Arts and Humanities, University of Porto, KISMIF Project, Portugal. E-mail: tania.kismif|at|gmail|dot|com. 7 8 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 industry and accepted — if not already consecrated — by multiple instances of cultural legitimation. Punk defined itself exactly as a dissent form from this logic of co-optation, constituting the underground and extending to the street, clothing, fashion, design, illustration. Second, punk describes itself as the music that anyone can do (Guerra, 2013, 2014; Silva & Guerra, 2015). In this sense, the process of performing punk is available to everyone, and anyone can do the lyrics, instruments, recordings, concerts, distribution, clothes, record covers, cassettes, fanzines. Punk is do-it-yourself (DIY) (McKay, 1998, 1996; Moran, 2010; Dale, 2008). But it is also a cultural movement. It is part of the dynamic of successive generations of young people, who — since the Second World War — live and interpret the great historical processes of mass schooling; development of mass production and consumption; emergence of the mass media and cultural industries; growing of the marketing, advertising and fashion functions in the generation of economic value; development of the Welfare State; emergence of ideological and political-military polarization in antagonistic blocs; and the challenges to the Western order posed by the decolonization, anti-imperialism and Cold War. Punk, along with the underground and DIY, defines itself as a form and an aesthetic movement (Silva & Guerra, 2015). The difference of punk lies in a combination of characteristics: the positioning on the edge or in the underground of what is perceived as an established system, whatever it is its sphere of influence — from politics to economy, from society to music; the permanent and irreversible challenge to these system, in a logic of systematic questioning and deconstruction of any expression, symbol or convention, even if it seems to be naturalized; the search for a personal coherence, whether based on the articulation between what one is, what one says, what one dresses and what one does, whether based on the practical realization of the principles defended, namely in the way that one lives the music. Punk is a local, virtual, global and translocal scene. It is a matrix of connection between different protagonists — bands, record labels, promoters, critics, disseminators, consumers, fans — and resources and means, such as discs and other phonographic records, concerts and other events, bars, rooms and other spaces, newspapers, fanzines, clothing stores, accessories, streets, physical and digital platforms... This structure has a spatiality and a territoriality; it is part of a (physical or, more recently, virtual) social environment, enhancing economies of agglomeration and scale (Silva & Guerra, 2015). Therefore, as in previous KISMIF Conferences, we welcomed reflexive contributions which consider the plurality that DIY cultural practices demonstrate in various cultural, artistic and creative fields and to move beyond music in considering artistic fields like film and video, graffiti and street art, the theater and the performing arts, literature and poetry, radio, programming and editing, graphic design, illustration, cartoon and comics, as well as others. Reflecting the Programme of the Conference, this book is organized in six parts, or as we call it “Theme Tunes”. Theme Tune 1 entitled “Thousand acts of love: DIY cultures, punk, spaces and places” begins with an analysis to the “DIY house shows”, in which the author aims to understand the significance and centrality of “place” for the American DIY communities. In the second article, the author discuss the theme of collectiveness, trying to present the rise of collective efforts in Istanbul independent music scene. The third article focuses on the anti-racist skinheads in the Czech Republic, presenting us their history and their relevance within the skinhead subculture generally. Finally, the fourth article describes how actors practice DIY in different aspects of music making, by presenting the results of two field studies conducted in New England and Switzerland. The Theme Tune 2 — “Radio, live transmission: audiences, markets, heritage and mediations in music” — leads us to a fruitful discussion. The first paper focuses on the American post-punk band Devo and tries to understand how they deal with the rise of corporate capitalism in the late 1970s. The second article discusses the recognition and legitimacy processes in the French jazz field, by focusing on the case of Richard Galliano, French musician. In the third article, the author speaks about the importance of some Portuguese music festivals to the local development. In the fourth paper, we are led to the discussion around the mythologizing process; here the authors, by analysing the northern soul scene, aim to show that this process is a characteristic of DIY cultures DIY cultures, spaces and places more generally. In the last article of this section, we return to the festivals’ analysis, in this case to the analysis of Rock in Rio Festival and its business model. The third part, the Theme Tune 3 or “Staring at the city: atmospheres, environments and music scenes”, begins with a text that reflects on how the academia influences Singapore’s underground music scene through documentary filmmaking, the exhibition of heritage, among other activities. The second article of this part explores the Disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night in the old historical neighbourhood of Bairro Alto in Lisbon (Portugal). In the third paper of the Theme Tune 3, the author presents us a way of capturing, understanding and interpreting the multi-faceted rhythmical layout of urban spaces, introducing an innovative methodology — the rhythmanalytical methodology. The fourth paper explores how Justin Mitchell’s DIY documentary Songs for Cassavetes contributed to fix the status of the so-called “American indie underground”. And the fifth paper of this part presents a research project which seeks to understand the new contemporary Portuguese urban culture by analysing a set of “actors/settings/scenes” that have been developing activities since the beginning of XXI century in the different cities of the country in a perspective of glocalization. The Theme Tune 4 — “Walk together, rock together: Dilemmas of materiality, historicity, aesthetic, pop rock technologies in the contemporaneity” — is constituted by seven papers. The first paper discusses the concept of failure, in a technological context, and its capacity to create new artistic forms and practices. The second explores the meanings of tattooed bodies, by providing some of the results of a research project that conducted 70 in-depth interviews in Turkey. The third paper refers to a Brazilian work still in progress and which aims to understand how media influences the social representation around the youth. The fourth paper discusses the relation between Depressive Suicidal Black Metal (DSBM) subculture/subgenre and Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), while the fifth paper of this part focuses on the possibilities of music creation originated by new technologies and digital forms. The sixth paper explores the meanings of rock bands’ t-shirts in the contemporaneity, focusing its analysis on the t-shirts of Ramones. And in the seventh paper, the author analyses the glam rock subculture, arguing that semiotic analysis can be useful to understand better the history of (sub)cultures, the cultural aspects of change and the cultural strategies to gain and maintain power. The Theme Tune 5 aggregates texts under the epitome “Sheena is (almost) an aging punk rocker: Careers, gender and aging in musical scenes”. The first paper of this part explores the link between older punks and radio, and what it indicates about DIY and radio practice today, stating a growing movement of DIY radio online among a particular generation of producers, originally involved in 1980s and 1990s anarcho-punk. The second paper presents some of the results of a PhD level project whose main goal was to understand the real-world challenges of trying to develop a music career, focusing on the experiences of musicians from the indie pop/rock music scene in Perth, Western Australia. In the third paper, the authors discuss about the challenges that design faces nowadays and how DIY ethos can inspire new design approaches and practices. The fourth paper offers us some of the results of a research conducted in online heavy metal spaces, aiming to contribute to a discussion around masculinities and heteronormativity and how their meanings are evolving as social interactions shift to technologically mediated online social spaces. The fifth article of this part investigates the case study of queercore, providing a socio-historical analysis of its subcultural production and offering an innovative theoretical proposal about the interpretation of subcultures in ecological and semiotic terms. The final part of this book, the Theme Tune 6 entitled “How soon is now? (Sub)cultures, narratives, mobilities, influences: Postcolonial identities and geographies”, begins with a paper that explores the usage of and the discourse on the term “subculture” in Japan, taking the existing discourse on otaku culture but also a broader understanding of youth and underground culture into account. The second paper of this part presents a work where the authors study the parallelism between the acceleration of the rotation of the Capital and the hastening of the rhythm of music. The third article tries to answer to the questions: How the environment that once have inspired 9 10 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 artists influence their judgement about their own works? How beneficial can a scene really be, namelly scenes based on DIY ethos? Are the scenes and DIY ethos always a positive and creative influence, or are they castrating the artists due an expected way of acting/thinking/creating? And, finally, the fourth paper explores the appropriations of British goth in Italy, and in particular in Milan during the 1980s. References Bennett, A., & Peterson, R. A. (2004). Music scenes: Local, translocal and virtual. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Clarke, G. (1990). Defending ski-jumpers: A critique of theories of youth subcultures. In S. Frith & A. Goodwin (Eds.) On record: Rock, pop and written word, (pp. 68-80). London: Routledge. Dale, P. (2008). It was easy, it was cheap, so what?: Reconsidering the DIY principle of punk and indie music. Popular Music History, 3(2), 171-193. Garnett, R. (1999). Too low to be low: Art pop and the Sex Pistols. In R. Sabin (Ed.), Punk rock: so what?: The cultural legacy of punk (pp. 17-30). London: Routledge. Guerra, P. (2013). Punk, ação e contradição em portugal. Uma aproximação às culturas juvenis contemporâneas. Revista Crítica de Ciências Sociais, 102/103, 111-134. Guerra, P. (2014). Punk, expectations, breaches, and metamorfoses. Critical Arts, 28(1), 195-211. Haenfler, R. (2014). Subcultures: the basics. Abingdon: Routledge. Haenfler, R. (2015). Straight edge: Clean-living youth, hardcore punk, and social change. New Jersey: Rutgers. Lawley, G. (1999). ‘I like hate and i hate everything else’: The influence of punk on comics. In R. Sabin (Ed.), Punk rock: so what?: The cultural legacy of punk (pp. 100-19). London: Routledge. Lentini, P. (2003). Punk’s origins: Anglo-american syncretism. Journal of Intercultural Studies, 24(2), 153-74. Masters, M. (2007). No Wave. London: Black Dog Publishing. Matula, T. (2007). Pow! To the people: The make-up’s reorganization of punk rhetoric. Popular Music and Society, 30(1), 19-38. McKay, G. (1996). Senseless acts of beauty. London: Verso. McKay, G. (1998). DIY culture: Party & protest in nineties Britain. London: Verso. Moore, R. (2004). Postmodernism and punk subculture: Cultures of authenticity and deconstruction. The Comunication Review, 7(3), 305-27. Moran, I. P. (2010). Punk: The do-it-yourself subculture. Social Sciences Journal, 10(1), 58-65. O’Hara, C. (1999). The philosophy of punk. More than noise!. London: AK Press. Osgerby, W. (2008). He filth and the fury: The development and impact of british punk rock. Groniek: Historisch Tijdschrift, 179, 173-87. Reynolds, S. (2007). Bring the noise: 20 years of writing about hip rock and hip hop. London: Faber and Faber. Sabin, R. (Ed.) (1999). Punk rock: so what?: The cultural legacy of punk. London: Routledge. Silva, A. S, & Guerra, P. (2015). As palavras do punk [The words of punk]. Lisbon: Alêtheia. Straw, W. (1991). Systems of articulation, logics of change: communities and scenes in popular music. Cultural Studies, 5(3), 368-388. Straw, W. (2015). Some things a scene might be. Cultural Studies, 29(3), 476-485. www.kismifconference.com www.punk.pt DIY cultures, spaces and places © Chris Low THEME TUNE 1 | Thousand acts of love: DIY cultures, punk, spaces and places 11 12 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 1.1. “Houses provide a spatial backbone for virtually everything we do”: An anthropological study of DIY (“doit-yourself”) house shows in the US David Verbuč1 Abstract The subject of this article is the phenomena of “DIY house shows” (i.e., “do-it-yourself” house concerts) in the US, which usually incorporate a variety of music genres, from punk and indie rock, to experimental music and singer-songwriters. In this regard, I am mostly concerned with the significance and centrality of “place”, more specifically, DIY venues, and particularly houses, for the American DIY communities in terms of the spatial or venue constitution of scenes, community construction, political aspiration, musical aesthetics, and sound. In terms of community construction, I particularly look into DIY organizational patterns, space policies, and translocal musical interaction. The findings that I present are based on my long-term ethnographic study of American DIY house shows and scenes, particularly on the West Coast. Ethnographic approach consequently informs also the main focus of this paper, in which I am concerned with both discursive and material aspects of American DIY scenes, as related to the issue of place. In other words, I present native or emic discourses about the value and importance of place, and particularly houses, for the American DIY communities, while I also demonstrate how these discourses are manifested in the everyday practice of American DIY participants. Keywords: American DIY scenes, DIY house concerts, music and place, music and community. 1. Introduction The subject of this article is the phenomena of “DIY house shows” (i.e., “do-it-yourself” house concerts) in the US, which usually incorporate a variety of music genres, from punk and indie rock, to experimental music and singer-songwriters. In this regard, I am mostly concerned with the significance and centrality of “place”, more specifically, DIY venues, and particularly houses, for the American DIY communities in terms of the spatial or venue constitution of scenes, community construction, political aspiration, musical aesthetics, and sound. In terms of community construction, I particularly look into DIY organizational patterns, space policies, and translocal musical interaction. The findings that I present are based on my long-term ethnographic study of American DIY house shows and scenes, particularly on the West Coast.2 Ethnographic approach consequently informs also the main focus of this paper, in which I am concerned with both discursive and material aspects of American DIY scenes, as related to the issue of place. In other words, I present native or emic discourses3 about the value and importance of place, and particularly houses, for the American DIY communities, while I also demonstrate how these discourses are manifested in the everyday practice of American DIY participants. The claim about the centrality of place, and houses in particular, for American DIY communities comes from within these communities themselves. For instance, consider this quote, taken from a Portland DIY zine dedicated to the theme of punk houses: 1 Faculty of Humanities, Charles University, Prague, Czech Republic. E-mail: david.verbuc|at|fhs|dot|cuni.cz. For my research, I conducted interviews, attended concerts, lived in DIY houses, toured with bands, and studies DIY literature (e.g., DIY zines, comic books, and blogs). 3 In anthropology, the terms emic and etic refer to insider and outsider perspectives, respectively. 2 13 14 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 In this cartoonish, messy underworld known to some as the punk scene, houses provide a spatial backbone for virtually everything we do. They are at once a movie theatre and a venue for touring bands. A sketchy organizing space and a living room for ‘fancy’ dinners. The place a drunk book club can meet [at]. A living room of weirdos equally ready to lend support to your bad day as they are to your bad idea (May 2013, p. 1; emphasis added). It is possible to infer several things from this quote. First, the houses are public and communal spaces.4 Second, they serve as a place for a multitude of activities, from music concerts and movie nights, to meetings of various sorts. Third, they are considered as a “spatial backbone”, or a central place, for everything what happens in American DIY communities. Before I further elaborate on these issues, and examine the role of houses from the perspective of the spatial or venue constitution of scenes, the construction of communities, and the question of politics, aesthetics, and sound of American DIY communities, I first briefly address the structural and ideological reasons for the centrality of houses and other DIY venues for American DIY communities. 2. Structural and ideological factors contributing to the centrality of DIY venues and houses within American DIY music scenes Among the structural causes that contribute to the high importance of houses and other DIY venues for American DIY communities are, first, the lack of public, and non-commercial spaces, and the lack of governmental support, for social and cultural activities of the youth in the US, and second, the restrictive role of regulation and age limitation for the people under the age of twenty-one, to attend public concert spaces where the alcohol is served. Both of these structural forces necessitate American DIY youth to seek out alternative spatial solutions, such as houses, or other types of DIY venues. However, American DIY communities also intentionally avoid non-DIY places for ideological reasons, because they strive for creative and social autonomy. To address both structural and ideological aspects, American DIY communities use DIY, or do-it-yourself approach as their central organizing principle, both as a means to an end, and as an end in itself. Furthermore, the do-it-yourself approach does not only point to the centrality of DIY practice, but also to the centrality of DIY place for the American DIY communities. A quote by Mark Andersen, an organizer and DIY music historian from Washington, D.C. (Andersen and Jenkins, 2001), further illustrates this close relation between DIY practice and place: [P]unk is about doing what you can with whatever you have, wherever you are right now. As a result, whatever space you can find that is low cost enough and open to what you are doing (at least for that day) is perfectly appropriate for a punk show (personal communication, 14 May, 2012). This DIA, or “do-it-anyplace” approach leads to the fact that the most commonly available and the least restricted DIY place that almost everybody in the DIY scene has an access to is one’s own living space. It is not surprising then that DIY bands often rehearse in their own houses, record music and run DIY labels from there, play or book shows at theirs or other people’s houses, and distribute and sell their records at house shows. DIY participants also organize other collective activities and events in their houses, anything from tool, book, and zine libraries, theatre plays, 4 Compare to Brian Tucker’s experience of living in a punk houses “At the time, our house was the headquarters for Food Not Bombs, Columbus Copwatch, and a splinter faction of Anti-Racist Action. Several book clubs and sundry other organizations held meetings in our living room as well. Columbus, while having a fairly sizable punk scene at the time for a city its size, couldn’t support its own meeting place or punk-run music venue, so most radical activism or DIY activities took place in someone’s home. House decisions were made using consensus based procedures in weekly house meetings. The house itself served to dissolve distinctions between public and private life; it was a home, a meeting place, and a site of politics. It was a means by which we could, at least in limited ways, live our politics and experience the possibilities of alternative ways of organizing ourselves (…) In our happier moments, we’d claim that privacy was bourgeois; at other times we’d just grumble as people drifted in and out” (Tucker, 2012, p. 204). 1.1. “Houses provide a spatial backbone for virtually everything we do”: An anthropological study of DIY (“do-ityourself”) house shows in the US reading clubs, comic book workshops, and movie nights, to organizational and political meetings, birthday celebrations, and work and dance parties. Furthermore, there are also hours, days, and months of plain hanging out on the porches, in the gardens, kitchens, and living rooms. 3. Constellation and functionality of DIY venues within American DIY scenes While the DIY houses are central meeting places for the DIY participants, they are not the only places in the larger constellation of “do-it-anywhere” places, which American DIY communities use for organizing their activities and events. It is possible to conclude this, for instance, already from the following description of the types of venues and events that a group of Portland DIY participants includes in their DIY calendars: “This is a collection of DIY, radical, queer & punk events (…) We prefer all-ages shows in basements, warehouses, at the beach, but some worthwhile bar shows are included [in the event calendar]” (see http://forming.tumblr.com/tagged/diypdx). American DIY communities use a variety of different types of venues, some DIY and some not, and establish a kind of a hierarchy among these places in terms of their importance and function for the scene, as seen in the general typology of DIY venues used by American DIY communities below (see Figure 3). I created this typology of DIY venues based on the information about venues I gathered from the interviews with American DIY organizers and participants. However, for the illustration of the diversity of opinions and approaches to the venues typology, I present first two emic or native DIY typologies and their descriptions (see Figure 1 and Figure 2), and then proceed with the general typology (see Figure 3). The first one is made by a DIY punk participant and organizer Bryan from Portland (see Figure 1), and the second by a DIY experimental musician and organizer John, who used to live in Davis at the time of my research there (see Figure 2). I also include here Bryan’s and John’s commentaries to their typologies: I think the physical space does a lot for the overall feeling and level of excitement. so some spaces just lend themselves to an exciting show, like an outdoor generator type thing or a warehouse, where anything can happen. then there’s intimacy. certain venues feel more intimate than others (basements/warehouses/infoshops). and also when a space is controlled by us (basements, infoshops etc) or public (outdoor) it feels a lot more special (Bryan, personal communication, 8 August, 2016). My scheme weighs intimacy as the most important factor for performing or witnessing music. I’ve divided venues between stage and non-stage, with concert halls as the least important (though not unnecessary) and the living room as the most important. To be sure there are times when I’ve felt alienated at a living room show and connected to a performer on a stage, but the activity of performing in small, intimate spaces and attending concerts in houses is a sort of rare experience that has had a lasting impact (John, personal communication, 8 August, 2016). Bryan and John made their typologies based on the criteria that they describe in their comments, which also elucidate the value-system implicated in these typologies. As it is evident, they both emphasize the importance of “intimacy,” while Bryan also explicitly foregrounds the value of autonomy (“controlled by us”), and “excitement.” 15 16 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 1: The typology of DIY venues made by a DIY participant and organizer Bryan from Portland.5 Figure 2: The typology of DIY venues made by a DIY musician John who used to live in Davis. 5 VFW Hall or similar refers to Veterans of Foreign War Halls and similar community spaces that are sometimes rented for low price by the DIY organizers. 1.1. “Houses provide a spatial backbone for virtually everything we do”: An anthropological study of DIY (“do-ityourself”) house shows in the US These two emic DIY typologies significantly overlap with my general DIY venue typology (Figure 3), but also add some individual perspectives to it. For instance, Bryan mentions anarchist info shops, because he is coming from an anarchist punk community and is involved in the organization of Portland’s anarchist info shop. John, on the other hand, comes from a more academic and experimental music background, and thus also mentions concert halls, although these are found on the bottom of his list. What also significantly informs John’s typology is that his formative DIY years hail from Davis, CA, which is a college town with a dearth of industrial warehouses on the one hand, and a lack of anarchist and punk spaces and events on the other. In addition, John deprioritizes outdor and park shows because they do not satisfy his criteria of intimate sociability, but he also considers alternative possibilities in which case some guerilla shows could be ranked higher: I was basing my typology on intimacy and personal spaces I felt that parks were too public, open, more like passageways or temporary spaces to pause but not stay, maybe for the sort of ephemeral magic that can happen with impromptu happenings and emergent collective collaborations in these public zones I might rank them a bit higher ( a street corner or a parking garage or an empty lot would carry the same kind of weight) (…) there’s always a sort of tension between connecting with as many people as possible and connecting with people at a deeply personal level (personal communication, September 3, 2016). The general DIY venue typology I represent (Figure 3), is a compilation and a summary of a variety of different views and opinions about DIY venues made by the DIY participants themselves (including Bryan’s and John’s). This hierarchy is organized on the continuum, spanning the guerilla shows on one side, and bars and other similar commercial venues on the other. It ranges from the least to most regular, legal, permanent, public, and hierarchical, and from most to least accessible, socially and artistically innovative, and radically political spaces. Houses or warehouses, the latter often found in more industrial cities and areas, are considered as ideal DIY venues, since DIY participants can attain the greatest social and musical autonomy in these kinds of places (see Bryan’s quote above), and are also able to organize shows and events in a more or less non-hierarchical manner.6 Warehouses are sometimes even a better option for them. Since they are located outside of residential areas, it means that the DIY participants do not have to worry about noise complaints while the shows can run later into the night. However, these show spaces also often tend to be semi-legal or illegal, and are therefore also more transitory and precarious in their nature.7 Houses and warehouses are on the one hand sometimes more secretive about their activities, or situated in more remote neighborhoods, sometimes considered as “dangerous”. On the other hand, they are often also more accessible in terms of age and class difference (e.g., they usually have all-ages door policies, based on donations). In addition, houses and warehouses are also considered as the most “intimate” (see Bryan’s and John’s quotes above), and also often practice safe(r) space policy that provides for greater inclusivity based on ethnicity, gender, and sexuality. Guerilla shows are particularly exalted, and considered as even more fun and exciting (see Bryan’s quote above), but they are also more difficult to organize, and contain a greater risk of police intervention. Communities that rather organize DIY shows outside of official legal structure (i.e., house, warehouse, or guerilla shows) are often more radical in their political views (e.g., anarchist), and have a tendency toward cultural and political organizing outside of the dominant institutions. On the other end of the spectrum, there are more legal and secure options of working within or with the system. These include renting of all-ages community spaces, or organizing one-night 6 In 2008, Tim Jones and Tim Wood counted 95 all-ages and DIY clubs in the US. They made a survey of 51 of them, out of which 53% defined themselves as having a non-hierarchical structure (2008, pp. 13-18). In addition, many people, among them DIY participants, argue that lesser commercial, organizational, and spatial restrictions in music venues usually enable greater social and artistic innovativeness at these same places (Stump, 2003; Chatterton and Holland, 2003, p. 210; Becker, [1951] 2004; Muršič, 2012, p. 19). 7 They are precarious also because of the gentrification processes of which these venues are often a constitutive part of. 17 18 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 shows in bars or clubs. Because of their legality, these types of venues can function on a more permanent basis; they can organize more regular shows, and advertise their events more openly and publicly. However, these types of venues can have other kinds of limitations for the DIY communities (especially in case of bars and clubs): they are not always accessible to all-ages audiences, and can sometimes charge high admissions; they are usually organized hierarchically, and have a greater tendency toward artistic and cultural standardization, while the DIY organizers and participants often find lesser artistic and organizational autonomy there. << << << << << << << << << regularity of shows legality permanent nature of spaces more public, but restricted in terms of age, and class less intimate space hierarchy in organizational structure tendency toward standardization later time of shows tendency toward the politics of working within the system BARS/CLUBS< COMMUNITY/ALL-AGES SPACES <HOUSES/WAREHOUSES > GUERRILLA SHOWS >> non-regularity of shows >> semilegality, or illegality >> transitory nature of spaces >> less public, but more accessible in terms of age, and class >> more intimate space >> autonomy and non-hierarchy (participation in organization) >> aesthetic tendency toward innovation and experimentation (also in organization) >> earlier time of shows >> tendency toward the politics of working outside the system Figure 3: A functional typology of American DIY venues. There are some generalizations in this typography of DIY venues, and there exist several exceptions to it, often depending on geographical and regulatory, or pragmatic and contingency factors. For instance, some houses can have longer shows, depending on the type of neighborhood. DIY communities that I studied also liked to organize more well-known touring bands or their own album release shows in bigger and legal places, such as bars and clubs, or official all-ages venues, partly because they considered these shows as more important, and therefore wanted to reduce the risk of their cancellation. Moreover, some of them organized house and warehouse shows, or guerilla shows, not necessarily because of their anarchist political convictions, but also for pragmatic reasons, out of necessity, or for pure fun and excitement. Nevertheless, this scheme clearly demonstrates what some of the main values and ideologies that exist within American DIY communities are, and what compromises or sacrifices do American DIY participants have to make, to achieve them. For example, it indicates how they accept greater risks to attain greater autonomy. It also shows how these values integrate different aspects of DIY culture, from the types of places and the types of social and spatial organization, to the types of politics and aesthetics related to them (see more about the aesthetic aspect below). Since American DIY communities experience the most limitations on both extremes of this continuum, for instance, either by not having enough freedom and autonomy when organizing bar shows, or by risking police intervention in case of guerilla shows, they most commonly resort to house or warehouse shows as their ideal option (thus the arrows going in both directions from the central position of houses/warehouses in the typology represented in Figure 3). In addition, these kinds of venues also often feel the most intimate to them (see Bryan’s and John’s quotes above). 1.1. “Houses provide a spatial backbone for virtually everything we do”: An anthropological study of DIY (“do-ityourself”) house shows in the US However, this scheme shows the total constellation of DIY venues and shows, and how they functions within certain materially and discoursivelly determined parameters. 4. DIY values and ideals as manifested in DIY social and spatial patterns and policies There exist particular organizational, interactional, and spatial DIY patterns that are favored by American DIY participants, and are seen as essential for the material establishment of an ideal DIY community at DIY shows. It is instructive to read the following two quotes in this regard, to get a sense of how place and spatial relations within it contribute to the establishment of a particular type of community: Shows at Louigi’s, it’s a nice venue, all-ages (…) but they have a stage. It bummed me out, if you are in a front row, right next to the performer, and you’re still looking up at them. Didn’t feel (…) it’s not interactive. I really like that about house shows (…) we’re all the same, we’re equal, and when [the performers] they’re done playing then you talk to them and hang out with them. Eat the food with them, and it’s like no separation. And it’s to the point that I don’t even enjoy going to the concerts anymore. Such a completely different experience! Even to be able to talk to the people while they’re performing instead of being this anonymous person, and yelling out the requests, like, you have a conversation with them if you want (…) It’s very comfortable (Elisa Hough from Davis, personal communication, 20 June, 2011). And I think that’s what’s so special about house shows in general is their ability to make people feel united in ways a normal venue never could. They make us feel closer to the band, closer to the music, but most importantly, closer to our friends and each other. They provide a feeling of intimacy totally unmatched in any other setting, and that feeling is something that is ours forever, and the companies can never commoditize (Kuhns, 2011). What is apparent from these two quotes is an emphasis on the values of equality, intimacy, participation, and community and on the methods of how to achieve them through particular spatial patterns that entail spatial or architectural features (e.g., absence of stages), organizational patterns (e.g., aiming toward equality and autonomy), and “intimate” social space, i.e., personal, friendly, and non-anonymous interaction among all of the participants at DIY shows, including audiences, performers, and organizers. These values are further reinforced through a variety of DIY space policies: (1) accessible all-ages and donation-based door policies, (2) programming policies inclusive to local, amateur, and often commercially nonattractive performers, and (3) safe space policies that advocate against racism, sexism, homophobia, and transphobia.8 There also exist seeming contradictions in this regard. American DIY communities should be seen both as counter-public spaces that challenge oppressive policies of dominant spaces, and at the same time as “subsidiary” or “damaged” spaces that mirror some of these same dominant practices (Nguyen, 2002, p. 110; Warner, 2002, p. 63). However, as I argue elsewhere (Verbuč, 2014), what is important in this relation is that there exist intense critical debates within American 8 Two quotes by American DIY participants illustrate their efforts to create utopian social spaces: “It would seem like, actually, there is plenty of space, right, but the spaces that exist, are not spaces that feel like places that we can have the kind of culture that we want to create. So then, we’re talking about a different kind of space, which is the search for sort of like a free, sort of utopian space, the kind of space that doesn’t really exist in the world” (Eric Lyle, personal communication, 24 October, 2012). Mike from Villanova house in Davis talks about DIY spaces in a similar way: “I think coming back to politics too, [it might be] a stretch, but (…) you could think of a house show or a house scene as a model of democracy: every actor is really important, and there’s a lot of very small amount of barriers between (…), going between roles, going up and down the scene” (personal communication; 20 January, 2011). 19 20 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 DIY spaces and communities about these issues that at the same time also reveal inherently heterogeneous constitution of American DIY communities, both in terms of social identity and political position of American DIY participants. 5. Translocal networks of American DIY communities On the translocal level, DIY communities resort to particular spatial practices that enable them to constitute themselves not only as “virtual”, technologically mediated and imagined translocal communities (Duncombe, [1997] 2008, pp. 60-61; Anderson, [1983] 2006), but also as intimate and face-to-face communities at a distance. DIY touring musicians generate face-to-face translocal DIY community through the reciprocal relation of playing and booking each other’s shows. To be able to tour, touring bands use favors of local DIY participants, who organize shows for them, in their houses, or other DIY venues, while these local DIY participants, when they go on their own tours, later seek out the return of the same favor. Within this social and spatial arrangement, place (as a venue) is treated as an “item” in a translocal reciprocal exchange of shows, or booking “favors”, among touring and translocal DIY participants (Verbuč, 2015). Figure 4: A drawing from a comic book, showing audience members from a DIY touring band perspective as “one-night-stand-best-friends”. Source: Lewis, [2007] 2009, p. 73. 1.1. “Houses provide a spatial backbone for virtually everything we do”: An anthropological study of DIY (“do-ityourself”) house shows in the US The type of translocal community generated through DIY touring is a network of participants that are not seen as “fans,” as in most non-DIY music scenes, but more of as “friends.” As Danielle from the Portland band Taxpayers noted to me, the whole translocal DIY network is based on the “network of favors,” and added that “friendships are born out of that” (personal communication, 26 April, 2012; see Figure 4). Furthermore, the place also determines the quality of relations established between the touring band and the locals. As DIY participants acknowledge, playing in small and non-commercial “intimate” venues, hanging out with locals and sleeping in their houses instead of in motels not only reduces traveling costs but also generates more close and personal relationships, and establishes for them the feeling of “home,” and intimate community, wherever they go. This feeling is, for example, also expressed the following excerpts from Kimya Dawson’s song “My Rollercoaster”: (…) And if we keep up this pace pretty soon we’ll know the name of every kid and every grown up booking house shows in their town (…) And if home is really where the heart is Then we’re the smartest kids I know Because wherever we are in this great big world We’ll never be more than a few hours from home... (…) On the road again Just can’t wait to get on the road again The life I love is makin’ music with my friends And I can’t wait to get on the road again (…) I’ve got my scrabble game, food on my plate, good friends and family And now there’s you understanding why I do the things I do Knowing that you do them too makes me really happy (…) (Dawson, 2006) 6. DIY place and DIY music aesthetics and sound For the end, I also examine the relationship between DIY place, and DIY sound and aesthetics within American DIY scenes. DIY venues can be quite diverse in terms of architectural styles and how they might affect the sounds (examples include houses, warehouses, all-ages shows, guerrilla shows, and squat shows — Verbuč, 2014), but I am only emphasizing two types here: basement shows and living room shows in houses. This is, for example, how some American DIY participants talk about basement shows in terms of atmosphere, sound, and aesthetics: I think the quality of sound is usually different and that changes the way you approach the set. Obviously the sound won’t be as crisp or clear as in a venue, so there’s a lot more emoting, a lot more creating atmosphere (C.T. Ballentine as cited in Carroll, 2007). The sound is usually horrible, and the space is usually cramped, so you have to make adjustments. (…) To me, basement shows mean that you play sloppy and loud, and the songs are usually twice as fast (Liam Kimball as cited in Carroll, 2007). The shows I have the most fun at are the ones where you’re in a packed basement where you can’t breathe, can’t move and are covered in sweat (Gaworski as cited in Connor, 2012, p. 71). House shows are better. They’re smaller, more intimate, your gear is at stake because of this, but it’s worth it because we’re fucking punk (...) It’s louder, you’re in the crowd, it’s in your face. Quality often does not matter as much as community and fucking family and the ways, like being emotional and playing, and could be one of the band (Chris from Religious Girls, personal communication, 23 January, 2011). 21 22 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 What is obvious from these quotes is the following. First, small concert places like house basements create special kind of atmosphere, which is considered as more intimate, energetic, and communal. Second, material circumstances for playing music at these kinds of shows are not always the best, so the musicians adjust by playing louder, faster, and more energetic music, sometimes also more sloppy. Third, aesthetical preferences at these kinds of shows are a combination of the first two factors: musical and technical quality does not matter as much as the feeling of community, and the energy that these kinds of shows generate for many of the American DIY participants. On the other hand, while not being a rule, living room shows usually require quieter sets, because of a lesser sound isolation of living rooms which contributes to the greater possibility of noise disturbance and consequently police intervention at DIY house shows in residential areas. In addition, because of the furniture, electric appliances, and decorations, living rooms often encourage less rowdy behavior and require greater care at shows. Consequently, the DIY house show residents as organizers usually but not always prefer booking quitter acoustic or “laptop” performers, and bands with no electric guitars or drums. Moreover, the musicians from louder bands sometimes adjust by preparing softer sets for these kinds of spaces. Members from the band ALTO! from Portland, for instance, told me in this relation about the adaptability of their sets for different kinds of environments: “we have intimate living room sets and blow out noise sets for clubs” (Stone, personal communication, 3 June, 2013).9 7. Conclusion My aim in this paper is to present a multi-dimensional perspective on the centrality of place, and particularly house shows and DIY venues, for the American DIY communities. I argue, first, that the centrality of DIY places, and particularly houses and warehouses for the American DIY participants, is the outcome of structural and social limitations and therefore a material necessity for the assemblage of American DIY communities. Second, DIY venues are also a result of the ideological orientations of American DIY communities toward social, cultural, and political autonomy. Third, there exists a larger constellation of DIY venues within the local American DIY scenes, among which house shows and warehouses are the most desirable options. Fourth, I emphasize the importance of physical place and social space at DIY shows for the constitution of American DIY communities, which means everything from architecture to spatial organizational patterns, spatial policies, and spatial relations at DIY shows. Five, I demonstrate how in the larger space of translocal DIY networks, DIY houses serve both as central items in the reciprocal economy of exchange of shows, and as central places for the constitution of intimate and face-to-face communities at a distance. Six, I establish there is a relation between DIY places, DIY sounds, and DIY aesthetics within American DIY scenes. Funding: This paper was supported by the Faculty of Humanities, Charles University Prague, under Grant SVV 260351/2016. 9 In relation to acoustic music being played at punk shows, Aaron Scott wrote the following thoughts on his blog: “Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me that there’s more acoustic music being integrated into the DIY show circuit these days. More musicians are realizing the versatility of traveling without drum sets and guitar cabs, and more show house hosts are realizing the advantage of the lower decibel levels of acoustic music. I hesitate to suggest what, if anything, this trend represents. But I think that there is a tangible benefit to broadening the definition of DIY music and art to encompass all genres that want in, including acoustic music” (Scott, 2011). 1.1. “Houses provide a spatial backbone for virtually everything we do”: An anthropological study of DIY (“do-ityourself”) house shows in the US References Andersen, M., Jenkins M. (2001). The dance of days: The history of the Washington D.C. punk scene. New York: Soft Skull. Anderson, B. ([1983] 2006). Imagined communities. London, New York: Verso. Becker, H. (2004). Jazz places. In A. Bennett, R. A. Peterson (Eds.), Music scenes: Local, translocal and virtual (pp. 17– 30). Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Carroll, T. (2007). From a basement show on a hill. Paper presented at the 2007 Experience Music Project Pop Conference. Retrieved from http://www.yourbestguess.com/scowl/from-a-basement-show-on-a-hill/ Chatterton, P., Hollands R. (2003). Urban Nightscapes: Youth cultures, pleasure spaces and corporate power. New York: Routledge. Connor, S. (Ed.) (2012). Basements and living rooms: A zine about house shows & diy music. Subtopic: marginalized identities in DIY & punk. Volume III. [Self-published zine]. Milwaukee, WI. Duncombe, S. ([1997] 2008). Notes from underground: Zines and the politics of alternative culture. Bloomington and Portland: Microcosm Publishing. Jones, T., Wood, T. (2008). Sites of resistance: All-ages music venues in their local and theoretical contexts. [Working paper]. University of Chicago. Retrieved from http://www.issuelab.org/resource/sites_of_resistance_all_ages_music_venues_in_their_local_and_theoretic al_contexts Kuhns, S. (2011). My first house show. Please Don’t Hang Out In Front Of The House. Retrieved from http://donthangoutinfrontofthehouse.tumblr.com/ Lewis, J. ([2007] 2009). Make me a pallet down on youth floor. In S. Jaffe, M. Clarke (Eds.), The art of touring (pp. 70–74). Portland, OR: Square Root/Yeti Publishing. May, B. B. (Ed.) (2013). Kids of the black hole: Perspectives on the North American house. [Self-published zine]. Portland. Muršič, R. (2012). Na trdna tla: Brezsramni pregled samoniklih prizorišč in premislek nevladja mladinskega polja [On the solid ground: Shameless analysis of grassroots venues and youth non-governmental field in Slovenia]. Tolmin: Ustanova Pohorski Bataljon. Nguyen, M. T. (Ed.) (2002). Race riot 2. [Self-published zine]. Retrieved from http://issuu.com/poczineproject/docs/race-riot-2 Scott, A. (2011). MORE FREE MUSIC! Retrieved from http://donthangoutinfrontofthehouse.tumblr.com/post/3582377817/more-free-music-last-week-pleasedont Stump, R. W. (2003). Place and innovation in popular music: The bebop revolution in jazz. In G. O. Carney (Ed.), The sounds of people and places: A geography of American music from country to classical and blues to bop (pp. 217–240). Fourth edition. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Tucker, B. (2012). Punk places: The role of space in subcultural life. In Z. Furness (Ed.), Punkademics: The basement show in the Ivory tower (pp. 203–215). Wivenhoe [England]: Minor Compositions. Verbuč, D. (2014). ‘Living publicly’: House shows, alternative venues, and the struggle for place and space within American DIY communities (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of California, Davis, CA. Verbuč, D. (2015). Fans or friends?: Local/translocal dialectics of DIY (‘do-it-yourself’) touring and DIY community in the US. Lidé města/Urban People, 17(2), 221-246. Retrieved from http://www.urbanpeople.cz/archiv/cisla/17,-2015,-2/ Warner, M. (2002). Publics and counterpublics. New York: Zone Books. Audio recordings Dawson, K. (2006). Remember that I love you. [Audio CD]. Olympia: K Records. Interviews Andersen, M. (2012). An interview by author. Email interview. 14 May, 2012. Bryan from Portland (2016). An interview by author. Email interview. 8 August, 2016. Chris from Religious Girls (2011). An interview by author. Audio recording. Sacramento, CA, 23 January, 2011. Hough, E. (2011). An interview by an author. Audio recording. Davis, CA, 20 June, 2011. John from Davis. 2016. An interview by author. Email interview. 8 August, 2016. Kordani, D. (2012). An interview by author. Audio recording. Portland, OR. 26 April, 2012. Lyle, E. (2012). An interview by author. Audio recording. Davis, CA, 24 October, 2012. Mike from Villanova house, Davis (2011). An interview by author. Audio recording. Davis, CA, 20 January, 2011. Stone, S. T. (2013). An interview by author. Email interview. 3 June, 2013. 23 24 1.2. Re-shaping and re-defining a scene: The Rise of collectivism in Istanbul independent DIY music scene? F. Nur Gürbüz1 Abstract This article tries to present the rise of collective efforts in Istanbul independent music scene. The study is carried out with two distinctive examples of collective contributions in the scene. Istanbul independent music scene is well established and contains different micro scenes defined by genres and venues. It is geographically separated by Taksim and Kadiköy districts which are positioned at opposite sides of Bosporus. The scene is sometimes transitive but mostly it is strictly localised. Bant Mag -one of the pioneer independent publishing collectives-takes the centre of this article by building the base for more than ten years. They organise events for independent artists both local and from throughout the world since 2005. The magazine also makes ground for emerging illustrators and visual artists with exhibitions they held at their own space. With the annual “Demonation Festival”, the magazine promotes local independent and DIY music acts (mostly debuts) since 2010. Based in Kadiköy, İstanbul, Bant Mag. always challenge the geographic positioning of music scenes in the city by diversifying the venues. Other collective act, Tight Aggressive is a “strictly DIY collective”. They organise events and produce albums under the name of Byzantion Records & Shows also opened their own space and hosting the “Byzantion Fest and DIY Design Bazaar”. They combined the music acts with numerous DIY initiatives at pop-up stands selling their products. Both collectives increase the possibilities of recognition for emerging independent musicians around all genres, designers and artists. Both collectives bring together many micro communities (in music, art and design) by their not-too-huge local efforts and re-shape the scene in terms of experiences, culture and economy. The methodology is formed on participant observations and interviewing the actors to position the pre-existing conditions of the scene and to point out the shifts took place in recent years. Keywords: collectivism, independent production, re-shaping scenes, local music scenes, DIY communities. 1. A short introduction into collectivity resources for this study Collectivism takes its roots from the artistic movement of Avant-garde. As Bürger states (1979/1996, p. 49), The European avant-garde formed to oppose to the position of the “bourgeois art”. The main opposition was not to art in its classical form but to the organisation of the distribution of the art in bourgeois society. “The Avant-Gardists demand that art become practical once again, they do not mean that the contents of works of art should be socially significant” (Bürger, 1979/1996, p.49). Another demand of the Avant-Gardists was that the art should be autonomous. The first collective actions took place inside the avant-garde movement, through the artistic groups and movements such as Surrealists, Dadaists and Futurists before the WWII (Stimson, B., & Sholette, G, 2004, p. xi). of those we can call as the “modernist collectivism” (Stimson, B., & Sholette, G 2004, p. 4). Their notions of artistic collaboration and collectivism is related with the Avant-garde Theory. After the WWII, as Stimson & Sholette (2004) calls it, “collectivism after modernism” has been brought up by art organisms as Situationists, Fluxus or the practitioners of Abstract Expressionism, Happening Art or Conceptual Art. Those movements had similar approaches as the avant-gardists but additionally they were embracing the heterogeneity in culture 1 PHD Candidate, Graduate School of Science and Technology, Istanbul Technical University, Turkey. E-mail: nurgurbuz|at|gmail|dot|com. 25 26 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 and society compulsorily with the zeitgeist. Today’s collectivism takes its root from the avantgardists. Collectivism today is adding up to its fundamentals with “being local”; also shifting to a “virtual presence” since it is the age for interconnectedness. Regarding “opposing a hegemonic idea”; their main target becomes “mass production and consuming” in multiple areas. Punk movement, the main source of opposition to mainstream in recent history, is connected with Situationists, Holmes (2007, p. 274) seeks the roots in SI definitions text. Also we see the roots of the DIY production techniques in avant-garde; collage, fanzine, the ready-made production, copy and paste and etc. This paper tries to understand these two collectivist accounts inside Istanbul’s independent music scene in sense of the collectivism sources accounted above, within their resourceful efforts to stand the mainstream music industry’s impositions. These new wave of collaborative togetherness is evolving into collective events and gatherings (festivals in this study’s case). Organising “Events” are mandatory actions for DIY initiatives to balance and enhance the economical yields of their work. Events such as music concerts, are the main gathering/meeting places for certain subculture’s members. This concept is a type of action that participants resort to. Sometimes they organise the events themselves or participate to other organizations as supporting elements. 2. An abbreviated historical background for the foundations of Istanbul independent music scene In search for lineage of collectivity in Istanbul’s independent music scene, a summarized look at the Punk and Hardcore Scene of 1990s and the situation in more recent is year might be. Istanbul is geographically divided by the Bosporus and so that the music scenes. The Anatolian Side of the city has the Kadıköy area. The European Side of the city had Bakırköy scene in nineties (Soynik & Güldallı, 2007)2 and Taksim, the famous city centre. Figure 1: Geographical placements of Istanbul music scenes, Taksim and Kadıköy. Note: Bakırköy is not shown, since it is a historic scene which do not exist anymore. 2 Bakırköy scene was not a venue based scene, it is an essential developmentally planned residential area for uppermiddle class with large recreational areas where youth can get together easily. 1.2. Re-shaping and re-defining a scene: The Rise of collectivism in Istanbul independent DIY music scene? Both Kadıköy and Bakırköy had its own idiosyncratic scenes of Metal, Punk and Hardcore Punk. Taksim was known as the “zone of neutrality” for these two areas and the density for live scene does start with the mid-1990s to end of the 1990s (Boynik &Güldallı, 2007). Bakırköy and Kadıköy were mostly residential areas, on the contrary to Taksim which stands as a main area for many kinds of entertainment and touristic attraction. Since the music genre that is closely related to today’s DIY culture and independent music is the Punk era, what was going on during 1970s and 1980s in Turkey Punk scene is very relevant. But as we can dig deep back there not that much of a history seen until late 1980s (Figure 2). Figure 2: Album art for “Tünay Akdeniz and Cigrisim - Punk Rock” the first ever use of Punk word in Turkish music industry in 1978. Source: Retrieved from psychemusic.org, 2003. The first and still the only resource on Punk’s history in Turkey is “An interrupted History of Punk’s Resources in Turkey 1978-1999” (Boynik & Güldallı, 2007)3. The book covers up to 19 Punk, hard-core act active in years between 1987 to beginning of the 2000s. The punk and hard-core scene are very close-knit also have interactions (sometimes just opposition) with the metal scene too. There are never more than 10 groups active at the same time. Most of them self-released their albums and played live many kinds of spaces such as midday concerts in wedding halls to home (studio) concerts. The history is “interrupted”, because in 1980, The Military took control in Turkey with a coup. And the “state of emergency status” after the coup lasted for three years. According to Aras (2007), the effects of the militaristic oppression did not dissolve until 1990s with the new liberal political wave started with Turgut Özal4. Below there is a quote from a prominent music shop owner and DJ from Istanbul.5 (…) A completely de-politicized generation of people was created [after the Coup]. So Punk began by ‘imitation’. Because there was no proper infrastructure I felt that everything they did was borrowed directly from abroad. For instance, they listened to foreign Hardcore Punk bands and they made similar stuff, those guys being against the system was pretty much a coincidence; our guys here were not really concerned about that. I’ve never heard anything political in their concerts (Aras, 2007, p. 536). 3 At http://www.turkiyedepunkveyeraltikaynaklarininkesintilitarihi.com/about-the-book.php some excerpts from the book in English, can be found. 4 The 8th president of Turkey — Serves from 1987 to 1993. 5 Tayfun Aras still runs the record shop in name of “De-Form” to this day. 27 28 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 3: Headbangers (Bülent), Harbiye Merhaba Disco, Istanbul, 1989 (2007). Source: Retrieved from turkiyedepunkveyeraltikaynaklarininkesintilitarihi.com. The reason why punk and anarchy had always lagged in Turkey was a result of “systematic counter propaganda of the fascist culture” (Boynik, 2007, p. 563). “Anarchy” started to be used as a word in mainstream media for the most fearful and loathed things (Boynik, 2007), becoming a non-political word, only for describing any kind of resistance to government. Together with the disruption of the cultural production as a result of the military coup, Punk has never had its golden years in Turkey like the rest of the world. Figure 4: On the left: A newspaper clipping from late90s saying “How to determine if your child is a Satanist” - On the right clipping from a late 90s newspaper, saying “Satanist raid have been made to a Rock music band while they were filming their music video in a coastal residential area”. Source: melquiades, 2011. During those years, mainstream media’s efforts to stigmatize the scene for being “Satanist” or “junkie” was notable. Satanism6 became a very common theme in television news and newspaper 6 In Figure 4, we can see examples of media coverage against rock music listeners; left one implies that “anyone wearing a Christian cross, listening to Black Sabbath or Led Zeppelin (which is not a metal band) may be Satanist”. It delivers those kind of subcultural behaviours (reading fanzines, wearing crosses, hanging in metal music venues/bars, etc.) as suspicious acts of a “Satanist”. 1.2. Re-shaping and re-defining a scene: The Rise of collectivism in Istanbul independent DIY music scene? headlines. Also, every story told by first and second generation members of the scene states police’s searches, arrests or custodies for just being “long haired” (especially with men members). Above is not a complete portrayal of course, it is just a little sense of it. The scene was led by a small group of listeners and bands gathering at some venues with helps of individual promoters and booking agents and venue owners. All the actions were strictly DIY in the scene and collective actions were not very solid. The members were inside a close-knit circle. In nineties, the heroin breakout mostly washed away the smallest collective efforts too (Boynik & Güldallı, 2007). We can say that today’s independent music is not organically bonded with nineties scene. But we see the traces of kinship, through some bands, members, and venues.7 3. After the 2000s: mainstream vs the independent and shift in scene’s geographic origin At the beginnings of 2000s, the musical production of many live bands was under the influence of “The British Invasion” and grunge music. Bands were starting their profession by covering those genres’ songs in available music venues. On the other hand, “the independent music scene” was taking its first steps and most of them were not strictly DIY. We can call their style belonged to rock genre8. The main issue for the independent artists and groups were, “without official album releases” from certain music record companies, they could not play live at most of the venues and big festivals. The live scene was dependent on foreign acts and local cover bands. The leading venues were Babylon Istanbul, Peyote Nevizade, Garage Istanbul, Vox Club (very short time 2004-2005) and İndigo Club. Bands like Baba Zula, Replikas, Nekropsi, Athena were followed closely by the independent scene but they all had official releases which distribute all around the country. Babylon was the most desired venue during 2000s but everyone (in independent music scene) were so angry to them. They wouldn’t accept any band without official release to play live there. Also in other venues and bars Turkish music was banned. There were no possibilities for you (a band/musician) to be visible anyhow. Every other place has its limits and taboos (Güngör & Dedeoğlu, 2016). The venues’ followers were differentiated through social and economic class. Babylon Istanbul9 used to be an upper-class venue, mostly specialized in jazz, avant-garde and international live acts back then. Peyote, Kemancı were mostly followed by middle class people. Scene’s characteristics regarding its relationship between members from 2000 to 2012 changed from close-knit to loose-knit, according to the change of population and ease in access to music resources. For years, the people in the concerts may be the same but within years it is now unpredictable according to the types of communications that venues and organisers use. The only close-knit scene was the metal, punk and hard-core sub-scenes in Kadıkoy+Taksim before 2000s. Their approaches were mostly midday concerts at cafes — Punk, Hard-core scene, with max. 200 people, aged from 13-35 in more unconventional spaces where no legal sale of alcohol was available. 7 A recent compilation made available by Byzantion Records, taking punk and hardcore bands from 90s to today https://soundcloud.com/byzantion-records/tape-01 8 Many of the bands were labelled “Anatolian Rock” which is a genre specific to Turkey, takes roots from Turkish Psychedelic acts like Barış Manço, Cem Karaca et al. and carrying it to 2000s. See: Pentagram (metal genre), Replikas, Babazula, Ayyuka and etc. 9 Babylon had its own recording label Doublemoon Records. The catalogue is reachable from this website: http://www.doublemoon.com.tr/Katalog.aspx?Page=0 29 30 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 The shift in scene’s geographic origins began recently. The Taksim (Cihangir) residents of young entrepreneurs, young and middle age creatives, intellectuals, artists and independent musicians slowly started to move to Anatolian side. This new urban mobility was due to various reasons such as uncontrollable rises in rent rates, dumbing down for the local attractions and recently the overwhelming upper-class immigrant population. After 2013 — starting with The Gezi Protests and taking peek with recent terrorist attacks & threats to Istanbul’s city centres, many of the residents moved to the Anatolian sides. And there is a drastic downfall10 on live music events in Taksim. Before that we could say Taksim was the most prominent location for the scene to see live acts. Kadıköy has less history live musical attraction. Especially in Kadıköy area, there is new booming factor regarding DIY music scene. After the decline in the allure of the Taksim for venue owners, musicians and consumers; they moved their businesses and residencies to Kadikoy. A specific scene was born and members gathered in the area. The most important characteristic of the area is being only-local acts (still the international bookings occur at the European side in gated venues) As Andy Bennett states the setting of a scene as (2004, p.223) “a particular local setting, usually a city or district, where a particular style of music has either originated, or has been appropriated and locally adapted”. Regarding that notion, now we can locate Kadıköy is becoming as an origin for some music scenes closely communicating with each other. Main features of the bands and musicians are being local, DIY, independent. So I call it “independent music scene”: sub genres may include singer-songwriter, indie, avant-garde, synth pop, hip-hop & rap and psychedelic. Another escalating concept in the city is to organise Craft and DIY bazaars with swap markets. It is very hard to allege who first started the DIY and craft bazaars concepts, but it is ok to say that Bant’s Saturday Bazaar (Figure 5) was one of the earliest’ ones that I could document related to this music scene. Another one documented was also organised by Bant Magazine, as the first ever Vinyl bazaar in city. Starting this year Kadıköy will now have a Vinyl Days supported by the municipality11. Record Store days already being celebrated for a few years around Taksim and Cihangir’s record stores. Now in Kadıköy there are many DIY and crafts bazaars, Pop-up events, makers Bazaars, Vinyl Bazaars and more. So there is a new local economy. Most of the followers and the sellers are the residents of the district. Luvaas (2012, p. 63) uses a term “creative collectivist capitalism” to describe the close-knit community of young people engaging with each other through creative practices. New art galleries with independent formations, contemporary craft shops, DIY and craft object shops, third wave coffee places, new generation gourmet restaurants and etc. are the main examples that emerge in whole Istanbul nowadays. The main tendency is to connect the local music acts with such gatherings. Even big organisers planned huge festivals of craft bazaars with independent local acts. Within this new era of collectivity and collaboration in making and being, people start engaging in shared practices in a spatial context too. The type of a productivity not only limited with collective of people creating together but releasing the collective effort onto neighbourhoods, district, many individual and collective other actions coming together to become a bigger space of production. This type of engagement in a collective approach is the main matter and the motivation of this paper. 10 A very recent article published in english on this subject: http://www.thenational.ae/world/europe/istanbuls-heartstruggles-to-keep-beating-amid-serious-downturn 11 See: https://www.facebook.com/events/1651202028526561/ 1.2. Re-shaping and re-defining a scene: The Rise of collectivism in Istanbul independent DIY music scene? Figure 5: At June 28 2014 the first Bant Bazaar event was held at the Bant Space in Kadıköy, Moda. Also this is where I first encountered the Tight Aggressive collective’s members. 4. Need for collectivity and collaboration on Istanbul independent music scene This study relates to a notion of collective creativity and standing against the mainstream for the independent musician and organiser. Beyond that how the collective efforts let members of scene to access music without getting tangled up in corporate businesses. Also, how to keep this audience present, in such a complicated environment as Istanbul where any social or politic disorder can wipe off any type of event effort in instance. In this sense scenes are very first habitats for collective creativity. Haggard and Malešević, (2000, p. 2) uses Marxist terminology to reach the conclusion of every collective organisation or formation expand into own class systems since every one of them are specific “social forms”. Practicing/producing inside such a class system creates its own economy. People following those scenes buys merchandise, albums and be present on events for a purpose. Their main aim is to be freed by the mainstream musical experience at the first place. And there is a close-knit communication factor, where most of the followers are known friends or become acquaintances in time. So there we have to again emphasise the main motivations behind DIY lifestyle choices; independency and self-sufficiency, economic independency. Economic framework of independent scenes is not yet possible to measure by this type of a study. But it is possible to make reasonable assumptions through observations and first hand experiences conducted through 31 32 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 interviews with the members of the collectives of the scene and followers. Their grate contribution to the audience and the musicians is visible clearly. Below the two prominent collectives — Bant Magazine and Tight Aggressive are presented who non-stop continue to nurture and shape the scene12. 4.1. “Bant Magazine” and the “Demonation Festival” This part contains a short history for the formation of the Bant Mag. collective and the events leading for them to start organising the first “debut local independent artist’s festival of Istanbul”, the “Demonation Festival”. The information is gathered by my own participations & observations through the years and an interview conducted with the founders of the collective (Güngör & Dedeoğlu, 2016). Bant Magazine is an Istanbul based art, music and culture’s publishing collective. They have started their careers in different publishing firms of the sector before becoming their own magazine. I call them as a “publishing collective” in the first place because while having their own magazine, they create content for various culture, art and music as a collective to continue to support their own magazine. We were in our 20s working in arts and culture publishing industry. We were so naive and brave at the same time. Why do not print our own magazine. later Why do not we interviews with bands like Sonic Youth, Pavement, and etc. later we thought why don’t we organise our own concerts (Güngör & Dedeoğlu, 2016). They started as a printed magazine in 2004 and lasted till 2011. After the decline in the economy of printed magazines, they decided to be an online magazine. Also, they continue to published condensed version of the magazine in print and distribute it free. During years 2007-2011 they have started a series of concerts called “City Star Nights” which was sponsored by Converse company. For these events, famous or debut independent non-local artists came to Istanbul mostly for the first time. After long discussions, the magazine decided to design a series of new events called “Demonation”, the name comes from a DJ Set, James Hakan Dedeoğlu delivers during those years in a bar called “Arkaoda”. Figure 6: January 2015 Ha Za Vu Zu (http://hazavuzu.blogspot.com.tr/) an art collective from Istanbul while playing at Demonation No:5. Source: Photo by the author. 12 There are of course many other colletive acts and initiatives in the scene who organize festivals: Such as very recent and prominent example: A.I.D (art is dead) collective “formed upon anomalistic urges; does not give shit about being the first “nonmusic” festival of the country and hates compassion” Source: https://www.facebook.com/aid.artisdead/. They organize A.I.D festivals in unexpected places with local audio-visual artists. 1.2. Re-shaping and re-defining a scene: The Rise of collectivism in Istanbul independent DIY music scene? During 2005-2012 Istanbul had a big take-off in cultural and music scene. A boom in new venues, international bookings in various genres, huge sponsored concert series like Rock and Coke and etc. Bant Magazine started those organizing and booking acts just before this boom. This early initiative let the independent local groups to have their priory arranged spaces in this boom. While trying to organise the “City Star Night” events, they have always matched a local based music group with the headliners for the concerts. Those local groups were mostly Istanbul’s known independent acts. After a while they have decided to make a local music festival consisted of new independent groups of Turkey every year. Demonation was emerged in 2010 and is held every year in various popular mucis clubs (e.g. Santral Tamirane 2010, IKSV Salon 2012, Babylon Istanbul 2015, Arka Oda 2013, Babylon Bomonti 2016). The name of the event refers to “demoscene” in music culture. Bringing local groups without releases to Babylon was a special mission for us. We really payed attention to pairing local acts with our international guests. So we thought of a festival with only local acts called DEMONATION. Festival was to be able to bring together these marvellous bands with record companies. Hereby the industry would become aware of these unique acts (Güngör & Dedeoğlu, 2016). “Demonation Festiva”‘ is a keystone event where the independent music scene consumers and producers can gather together to see new acts and distribute the new acts. New local groups can become visible and also can sell their albums in every format and merchandise. After years of venue trials and fails they kept doing the festival despite all the economic and strategic complications. 4.2. Tight Aggressive DIY collective and “Byzantion Festival” This part contains a short history for the formation of the Byzantioan Shows & Records and the events leading for them to start organising “Byzantion Fest”. The information is gathered by my own participations & observations and an interview conducted with the founder of the collective (Erkut, 2016). Tight Aggressive is a DIY collective and their manifest is unique in terms of this study. They identify themselves as a “strictly DIY collective”. “Tight Aggressive is an underground collective based in Istanbul/Kadikoy representing DIY culture.” (Erkut, 2016). They identify themselves as a group of people “against sexism, racism, homophobia, flags, borders and every other discrimination.” They also started to publish a fanzine called “Depths of Byzantion”. In their very first issue (“Byzantion Fest #1,” 2015) they locate music as a unifying element and also must be a rebellion mechanism more than being just fun. Music confines in art and they are liberating forms of creation. They see resistance in every form of art. They have several initiatives under their collective roof: “Painite Prints”, “Byzantion Records & Shows” (organisational branch), “Loom Handcrafts” and Tight Aggressive Space and “VegaPetite” vegan foods. The name, Byzantion — the non-Latinized version of Byzantium — is referring to the history of Istanbul, the Ancient Greek colony which will later recall their city as Constantinople. They recently opened up a space called Tight Aggressive, where there is a music studio, a vegan collective “VegaPetite” catering and selling Vegan food. They describe themselves belonging to a DIY community, a subcultural community (“Byzantion Fest #1,” 2015). The main objective of the organisation and fanzine is to leach into DIY ethos, anticonsumerism, self-sufficiency and subcultures. They are reaching out to collectives and people outside Istanbul, who have common interests. During 2005-2006 I started organizing concerts. Started to work with people from first generation (of Punk, 1990s). Our collective Noizine.net/forum was still active in 2015. There 33 34 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 13 was Tolga (Güldallı) too. First booking was Allee der Kosmonauten (German post-punk band https://myspace.com/alleederkosmonauten). Our approach was to book a band, to host them fully, to pay them the entrance fee and they would do the same when our bands want to play in their country (Erkut, 2016). Erkut’s approach on organizing events and festivals is in Punk and DIY attitude, standing on a more voluntary approach. Where the minimum of profit is in mind, mostly all the action is for sake of music. At the June 2015 they hosted ‘Byzantion Fest #314 and DIY Design Bazaar’ at one of the Prince’s Islands of Istanbul, Burgaz Island. A one-day festival with six groups and first time with numerous DIY Design initiatives. Tight Aggressive Collective, emphasises to maintain collective effort on every level of action to be able to sustain the DIY production. Figure 7: At June 2015 a new local act Palmiyeler (https://palmiyeler.bandcamp.com/) while playing live at Byzantion Fest #3. Source: Photo by the author. This year’s festival was also held at the same Cennet Tea Gardens at Burgaz Island. It was as the same organisation as the last year’s but this time they had two differences, they had collected entrance fees of 30 and 40 liras (approximately 10 and 12 in US Dollars). Also, they have decided that they are a vegan festival and all the food served was vegan. Entrance fee affected negatively on this year’s participant numbers, it was (by almost a third) less than last year’s numbers. 5. Conclusions and futures for the scene: Independency or dependency? The music scene in Istanbul has been unintentionally collective by small initiatives of close friend groups who had intentions to be collective. Bant Mag’s first motivation was to be able to publish their own content with independent publishing strategies in a close circle. The collectivity occurred in a smooth transition when they invite their friends with snowball fashion to join them. Years later these attributions became the foundation for a music festival. In Tight Aggressive’s example, their 13 One of the author of the “An interrupted History of Punk’s Resources in Turkey 1978-1999” mentioned before. The first Byzantion Fest #1 was held at December 2014, in Kadıköy. Retrieved from https://www.facebook.com/events/736536819758245/ 14 1.2. Re-shaping and re-defining a scene: The Rise of collectivism in Istanbul independent DIY music scene? main motivation is “to become a collective” they had the knowledge at the first hand, but also their main problem is also keeping the collective together. We started as a collective but people eventually have to work. Work a full day, then get back to home in Istanbul’s traffic which can take 4-5 hours a day. Their minds are full with what life forces upon them then it is really hard to keep creating together in this sense of living. I do not have a regular job. My job is the collective and this space. But in time people’s creativity will come back (Erkut, 2016). The new economic system according to Castells (2000) is informational, global and networked. So, in such highly connected way of consuming, people unintentionally and intentionally distance themselves from the “global village”. It is a very complex system that one may not easily get away from. (Urban) DIY lifestyle opens up new experiences and micro-economic independencies to the creator and the consumer. But those collectives need autonomy to be able to keep their own unique presence while keeping up to the standards of living costs. As Hebdige (1979) states, if you move the autonomy from the subculture; They become frozen (…) Once removed from their private contexts by the small entrepreneurs and big fashion interests who produce them on a mass scale, they become codified, made comprehensible, rendered at once public property and profitable merchandise” (Hebdige, 1979, p. 96). These collectives eventually had to create their own economical networks. They produce practice in do-it-yourself attitude and (try) stay(ing) autonomous. So the sponsorship becomes a problematic issue in event organization. The two collective have different approaches on sponsorship. Tight Aggressive rejects such approach, but the latest festival (June 2016, the entrance fee was 40 TRY — 13$) showed that entrance fee higher than 15 TRY (5 $) is not actually crowdpuller. There is sponsors, yes. But it is not an independent music festival at all then. There, I think, we all get lost in translation. An independent music festival, an independent but sponsored music festival, independent music band, sponsored and dependent music band and, the dependent music band who makes me get face to face to sponsors (Erkut, 2016). On the other hand, Bant Mag.’s approach, finding a sponsor who do not meddle into the organisation and the content, may actually work, but it is very hard to make it sustainable for the future events. According to the interviews, any news brand they reach up to ‘wants a new face’ like a new name to the festival or new branding, etc., because of they do not want to mix business with other sponsors. The European examples of state or city hall related or NGO related sponsorships always sound better. Both collectives been at European Festivals as participants or audience exemplify their experiences there with affection. In Bant Magazine’s case they are very happy to even organise events in British or Swedish Consulates sponsorships but never had a chance to meet a national governance, institution or foundation. Collective creativity harbours shared knowledge. The information coming from all the participants of this research agree on the fact that they experience the whole system together with a common thinking approach. That is why many event look alike. All the interviews showed that, the main tendency in organise festivals is including more than 4 or 5 groups in varying genres rather than organising in specific genres. Istanbul is a very internationally connected city to the global music scene. So for the small scale, self-sufficient initiative, it is becoming very hard to get the crowd to individual concerts for economic reasons. Also change in the safety and security precautions in the country, bigger and safer venues are the most preferred locations. Such events require spending more time on arrangements. 35 36 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 In the new gated venues you are away from the rest of the city and the rest of the city is unaware of you, it’s safe and feels free but not very independent and accessible and available at the same time. Taksim area is the place where anyone can access but people are not going there and how long will the venues will bare this emptiness. Unless alternative common accessible new venues are not open at other neighbourhoods, there will be only expensive and gated places so that for bands it will be harder to take stage there (Güngör & Dedeoğlu, 2016). Re-enforcing the audience’s attachment to the music and the scene is a must. They should enhance audiences’ belongingness more. So it is not enough any kind of collective action when there is no audience. At the opposite side at the scene the creator/s keep having the motivation more to create. In the study it was both observed and gathered by interviews that both collective’s Bant Mag and Tight Aggressive find the courage from their followers, despite all the economic and organisational problems occur with all their events. We have to figure out solution from inside. How many bands can be global? How can our system of organization can evolve more and to where? Will there be a Byzantion #6 yes? But should be more accessible. Everyone could come. But you lose strength in time. There is a new generation coming up but with the same economic and cultural constraints. Therefore, we [organisers] need encouragement also from commonwealth. The cleanest one. It’s public’s money. But we need to stay collaborative and collective. Nowadays the shared knowledge leads to designing events consisting of not only live actions but with DIY bazaars + merchandise bazaar where more types of initiatives can be together. After Gezi Protests of 2013 many people in the independent music scene lost their interest in music, as an everyday activity and canalized themselves in more politic and activist situations but at the other hand according to Hakan Dedeoğlu (Güngör & Dedeoğlu, 2016), there emerged some really deeply underground independent and local acts too. In time the political canalizations started to dissolve and now the scene is at a very fertile status regarding the DIY and independent music acts. But for small bands and musicians finding a place to organize a solo concert in not very probable. So small and local festivals especially who turns their faces to debut act are treasure for the DIY bands. The Istanbul scene basically needs small and locally curated festivals but collectives that are already organizing such events do not communicate. The main lack is the communication through those collectives. They are very respectful to their practice methods but they should do more information exchange on their experiences. More collective creating may deduce into a shared outcome and expand to more. Acknowledgments: So many thanks to the participants for sharing their precious memories and experiences with me Alper Erkut (Byzantion Records & Shows; Tight Aggressive Collective), Aylin Güngör & James Hakan Dedeoğlu (Bant Magazine). References Aras, T. (2007). Music Sources: Tayfun Aras- Interview. In S. Boynik & T. Güldallı (Eds.), Türkiye’de punk ve yeraltı kaynaklarının kesintili tarihi 1978 - 1999: An interrupted history of punk and underground resources in Turkey 1978 - 1999 (pp. 533–537). İstanbul: BAS. Bennett, A. (2004). Consolidating the music scenes perspective. Poetics, 32(3-4), 223–234. http://doi.org/10.1016/j.poetic.2004.05.004 Boynik, S. (2007). On Punk in Turkish. In S. Boynik & T. Güldallı (Eds.), Türkiye’de punk ve yeraltı kaynaklarının kesintili tarihi 1978 - 1999 =: An interrupted history of punk and underground resources in Turkey 1978 - 1999 (pp. 563–569). İstanbul: BAS. Boynik, S., & Güldallı, T. (Eds.). (2007). Türkiye’de punk ve yeraltı kaynaklarının kesintili tarihi 1978 - 1999 =: An interrupted history of punk and underground resources in Turkey 1978 - 1999 . İstanbul: BAS. Bürger, P., (1996). Theory of the Avant-Garde. MN: University of Minneapolis Press. Byzantion Fest #1. (2015, January). Depths of Byzantion, (1), 2–3. 1.2. Re-shaping and re-defining a scene: The Rise of collectivism in Istanbul independent DIY music scene? Castells, M. (2000). The Rise of The Network Society: The Information Age: Economy, Society and Culture. London: Wiley. Erkut, A. (2016, July 16). Tight Aggressive and Byzantion Fest [Voice record]. (F. N. Gürbüz, Trans.). Güldallı, T. (2007). Türkiye’de Punk Olmak. In S. Boynik & T. Güldallı (Eds.), Türkiye’de punk ve yeraltı kaynaklarının kesintili tarihi 1978 - 1999 =: An interrupted history of punk and underground resources in Turkey 1978 1999 (1. baskı, pp. 10–11). İstanbul: BAS. Güngör, A., & Dedeoğlu, J. H. (2016, May 31). Bant Magazine interview [Voice record]. (F. N. Gürbüz, Trans.). Haugaard, M., & Malešević, S. (2002). Introduction: The idea of collectivity. In S. Malešević & M. Haugaard (Eds.), Making sense of collectivity: ethnicity, nationalism, and globalisation (pp. 1–11). London. Sterling, Va.: Pluto Press. Hebdige, D. (1979). Subculture: The meaning of style. (New Edition ed.). New York: Routledge. Luvaas, B. A. (2012). DIY style: fashion, music and global digital cultures (English ed). London; New York: Berg melquiades. (2011, October 24). Satanizm. Stimson, B., & Sholette, G. (2004). Preface. In B., Stimson, & G., Sholette (Eds.), Collectivism after Modernism: The art of social imagination after 1945 (pp. xi-xvii). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minneapolis Press. 37 38 1.3. Boots and braces don’t make me racist: Antiracist skinheads in the Czech Republic Jan Charvát 1 Abstract This paper will focus both on the historical and actual development of the anti-racist skinheads in the Czech Republic and also their importance within the skinhead subculture generally. Special attention will be given to the relationship of antiracism and leftist political ideologies (communism, anarchism). The ideology of the political left is generally perceived negatively in the post-socialist societies, which also reflects on the subcultural development. So for most Czech anti-racist skinheads, being distinctly anticommunist is an integral part of their political identity. Many of them also consider their anti-racism as a moral attitude rather than political, to avoid accusations of politicization of the subculture. This dual tension (to the left and toward politics in general) is what I will try to identify. Keywords: Subculture, skinhead, anti-racism, SHARP, RASH, Czech Republic. 1. Introduction There is a long-term lack of attention to subculture issues in the Czech context. Although the skinhead subculture (which tends to be rather perceived as a movement, mainly with regard to its extreme-right branch) became established in the late 1980s and won a relatively negative reputation during the 1990s (again due to its extreme-right branch), few works have focused on its subcultural framework. There have been even fewer works centred upon other than racist forms of the subculture; and practically a single title (Bastl, 2001a) has dealt explicitly with its antiracist part, while Heřmanský and Novotná (2014, 2013, 2008) have paid at least partial attention to this branch of the subculture. There is also a cursory mention in a pioneering publication on radicalism and extremism in the Czech Republic generally (Mazel, 1998). For that reason, I am going to concentrate in the following text just on that part of the subculture, with a view to somewhat improving the situation. 2. The skinhead subculture Formed in late 1960s England, the skinhead subculture was especially attractive for young men from working-class suburbs (Marshall, 1996). The early form of the subculture was neither racist nor, in the strict sense of the term, political. However, it exhibited elements of nationalism as well as social protest and class self-identification (Moore, 1993). The movement peaked at the end of the 1960s (Marshall, 1996) and later was faced with declining interest in the British society (while it had practically not yet expanded internationally). A comeback was enjoyed at the turn of the 1970s and 1980s in the context of a punk revolt in which skinhead groups were involved. Soon, however, conflicts between both groups broke out because many skinheads came to perceive punk negatively for its openness to drugs, its rather leftist political orientation and finally its antisocial image, something that an orderly skinhead would find despicable. The subculture as such underwent some changes at that time (Hebdige, 2012), with declining relevance of first-generation reggae and ska music bands (as many Afro-Caribbean 1 Institute of Political Studies, Faculty of Social Sciences, Charles University, Czech Republic. E-mail: charvatj|at|centrum|dot|cz. 39 40 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 musicians became affiliated to Rastafarianism — Hebdige, 2012). Instead, a growing popularity was enjoyed by a more vigorous style referred to as Oi! (basically, a simpler and more aggressive variant of punk music). What also changed in a way was skinheads’ appearance, as they started wearing the now typical bomber jackets and generally became more inclined to a quasi-military style. At the same time, there was growing support for the hitherto rather latent racism among some skinheads, which stimulated their contacts with extreme-right groups. Soon, the deformation of a part of the subculture towards open racism elicited an antiracist response in other parts. By the end of the 1970s and early 1980s, these tensions caused a split in the skinhead subculture (Moore, 1993), with three main branches emerging: a racist one, a non-racist one and an antiracist one. When the skinhead subculture expanded outside Great Britain, it was its racist branch that became the most famous in the world. Despite that, practically every place to which the skinheads came now has members of all three branches of the subculture. In my text, I am going to focus on the antiracist part of the skinhead subculture in the Czech Republic after 1989. 3. Research design The present text is based on the project, “Sources and forms of subculture politicization in postsocialism”, implemented by the Faculty of Social Sciences, Charles University, in the years 2014– 2016. The underlying data on which I rely in this text (apart from scholarly literature) come from three sources. First, 30 interviews (20 with members of the antiracist skinhead scene and 10 with members of the non-racist music scene) were conducted under the project. Second, I undertook a content analysis of antiracist skinhead music lyrics, interviews and texts published in fanzines, web pages and social networking sites. Finally, the third source of data consists of participant observation at music events of the subculture of interest conducted by the author over the course of the past decade. 4. Skinheads in Czechoslovakia and the Czech Republic The skinhead subculture in the Czechoslovak context emerged during the second half of the 1980s (Mazel, 1998) and it was associated with the punk subculture from the very beginning. Despite its relatively specific form, given the Iron Curtain and the political situation in communist Czechoslovakia, it shared with its sister subculture generally anti-regime, anti-communist attitudes which, however, were not especially accentuated in the extreme right direction, albeit there was some awareness even in communist Czechoslovakia about the orientation of at least a part of Western European skinheads. After 1989, the skinhead subculture experienced a dynamic development, especially in its racist branch which exploited general societal sentiments that were anti-communist and mostly hostile to the political left as such, including negative views on attributes of the former communist regime (especially internationalism or a friendly immigration policy towards socialist countries of the third world such as Cuba, Vietnam and Angola), and including growing animosity towards the Roma minority (Charvát, 2007). In this atmosphere, nationalist and racist ideas enjoyed societal tolerance or even acceptance for a short time in the Czechoslovak society. This made room in the society for the dynamically developing racist skinhead subculture. Although this transitional period of social acceptance lasted for a relatively short period of time, the racist branch of the skinhead subculture managed to secure a relatively strong position in the Czechoslovak and Czech societies. The racist branch became an important actor in the Czech extreme right, with direct influence until the year 2005 and indirect influence until about 2010. However, since the early 1990s, there was also a skinhead community in the Czech territory that refused racism and identified, to some extent, with the original roots of the subculture. 1.3. Boots and braces don’t make me racist: Antiracist skinheads in the Czech Republic 5. History of the antiracist skinhead scene 5.1. 1990–1992 Although the racist branch overwhelmingly dominated the skinhead subculture of 1990s Czechoslovakia, antiracist groups can be traced back to the beginning of the decade as well. Two groups were formed in 1990 in Prague. One was entitled simply “SHARP” (Mazel 1998, p. 182) and the other, localized more specifically in Prague’s district of Braník, referred to itself as “Antinazi Redskins Front”. Both groups shared contempt for racist skinheads and identified themselves as parts of the anarchist spectrum. At the same time, there were some differences between them. SHARP followed a German example and the appearance of its members (uniform-like black bomber jackets and green cargo trousers stuck into high boots) was more related to the scene of German Militant Autonome (Bastl, 2001, p. 43) than to the traditional skinhead image. Some of its members never even strived to model the orthodox skinhead appearance because they considered political activism to be more important. Their activism covered a relatively broad field. In addition to the normal activities of the anarchist movement (concerts, demonstrations), a large part of the early SHARP skins also actively contributed to the growth of Czech squatting and promoted Straight Edge (SxE) ideas, which reflected their combined inspiration by the skinhead scene and by hardcore punk (HC) (Mazel, 1998, p. 174). Czech SHARP skins listened to HC music as well, whereas a greater role than traditional skinhead bands (albeit well-known and respected) was played by early SxE HC bands. The other branch, the Antinazi Redskins Front, differed in some aspects from that model. The image of its members complied with the skinhead orthodoxy (jeans, Dr. Martens boots etc.) and while they identified themselves with the anarchist movement, they placed much greater emphasis on militant activities aimed against racist skinheads (Mazel, 1998, pp.181-182), Stejskalová 2012, p. 184). Their very name, Redskins, was relatively atypical in the first half of the 1990s because the term “red” was associated with the extreme left and communism in the Czech society, and as such had fallen very much out of favour. Being a Redskin in the early 1990s posed dual hazards: given their relatively authentic skinhead image, they were often mistaken for neoNazis by the general public, while they were always identified as Redskins by actual neo-Nazis. A classical Redskin at that time wore a relatively traditional skinhead uniform (bomber jacket, jeans) but at the same time made sure to display red or black-and-red clothing items (Stejskalová, 2012, p. 162). As the early 1990s media coverage basically associated the term skinhead with neo-Nazism, it was clear that the black-and-red attire was intended just for neo-Nazi skinheads, not for the general public (which would have been unable to distinguish such nuances — most of the Czechoslovak population in the early 1990s were not even able to tell members of the skinhead and punk subcultures apart). The very image of a Redskin contained a clear political message which can be interpreted as unconscious cultural resistance in terms of the Birmingham school or Dick Hebdige. Such resistance was only not aimed against society’s hegemonic culture but against a different subcultural group (and secondarily against the hegemonic perception of skinheads as neoNazis) which competed with the Redskins at both the political and the subcultural levels. Thus, to members of the Antinazi Redskins Front, the term “red” meant absolute opposition to being a neoNazi skinhead and the name “Redskin” was effectively a slap in the face of those they hated the most; it did not signify an inclination to communism or Marxism. The actual membership of the two groups was very low and did not exceed approximately 10– 15 people in each group. Despite that, the terms “SHARP” and “Redskins” resonated in both the left-wing and the right-wing scenes at that time, and especially extreme-right skinheads tended to strongly overstate the importance and membership of both groups (Bastl, 2001, p. 43). During the first two to three years after 1989, the country saw a dynamic growth of political subcultures (skinheads, punk, HC) but also a high level of street violence. On one hand, the emerging skinhead subculture (then overwhelmingly racist) rather took the form of a political movement at that time and thematised general societal sentiments, including aggressive anticommunism (including rejection of the ideals promoted by the communist regime such as 41 42 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 internationalism and antiracism) and generally anti-leftist attitudes. At the same time, it embodied an authentic fear in a part of Czech society of the impending social and, in particular, economic changes. On the other hand, the anarchist movement attracted many young people, especially secondary school students, many of whom had taken part in the 1989 revolution, still viewed the regime change as an opportunity to effect far-reaching social change, and carried radicalized versions of the pre-revolutionary dissent — advocating human rights and environmental issues, but also questioning the party system and calling for alternatives based on cooperation among members of diverse social groups. The third actor influencing the situation, law enforcement, did not know how to respond to new phenomena such as racist violence by the skinhead subculture in the wake of the revolution. A whole series of attacks that were perpetrated at the time, especially by the racist branch of the skinheads, were effectively ignored by the police. Thus, violence became a part of everyday experience for most people involved in the emerging subcultures (Novotná, 2013, p. 255). Certain locations in Prague (typically subway stations with connecting bus service to large housing estates) had a reputation as racist skinheads’ meeting spots and posed real danger of immediate assault to members of other subcultures (especially punk). Some rallies held by anarchist groups and attended mostly by the subculture crowd were assaulted as well. More importantly, several racially motivated murders were perpetrated during that time. Thus, being a member of certain subcultures was quite a risky business. In a way, this era peaked with a rally on May 1, 19922, which saw a clash between several hundred anarchist demonstrators on one side and racist skinheads on the other side. SHARP and Redskins members took active part in the conflict and arguably, it was them who won the battle for the anarchists (a kind of unexpected result at the time). The considerable decline in racist skinheads’ public appearances and violent activities that occurred in the following years, especially in Prague, came to be viewed by members of the subcultural scene in the context of that very clash. 5.2. Mid-1990s The recession (yet definitely not elimination) of the activity of racist skinheads, including violent crime, was accompanied by an evolution of antiracist skinheads. At that time, SHARP and Redskins members gradually gave up their subcultural image; some abandoned the anarchist scene completely while others opted for a more civilian appearance but remained active. Simultaneously, a new generation of skinheads was maturing who were little affected by the violence of the early 1990s transition period and for whom image was the primary signifier of the skinhead subculture (Stejskalová, 2012, p. 170). Whereas the first generation of antiracist skinheads in Czechoslovakia did not pay much attention to their appearance and how it followed foreign examples, the skinheads who came to the Czech scene in the mid-1990s complied with skinhead fashion attire and music style with precision. As one of the informants put it concisely: “First everyone listened to hardcore and attended fights with the Nazis. Then suddenly they were listening to Ska and started attending dance clubs” (Viktor, 43). While it remains questionable whether the change that the skinhead subculture underwent in the mid-1990s can truly be described in this way, the quote does seem to be a relatively accurate account of how that change is viewed by the first generation of SHARP skins. In 1992, “Bulldog” (Mazel, 1998, p. 182) emerged, a fanzine for this branch of the skinhead subculture which was key in shaping one form of Czech antiracist skinhead identity (it continued until 2003 and was later accompanied by a “Bulldog shop” which still exists today). The skinhead crew formed around the zine, Bulldog Boot Boys (BBB), became perhaps the largest and bestknown skinhead group that directly identified as SHARP at that time. However, the label gradually 2 As early as in 1990, the anarchist movement attempted to revive a tradition of May Day celebrations at the Střelecký Island in Prague, which dated back to 1890. After the Střelecký Island rally in 1992, there was a march through the city which ended at the Letná hill, a regular meeting point for racist skinheads, who were holding their own rally there on the same day. 1.3. Boots and braces don’t make me racist: Antiracist skinheads in the Czech Republic came to signify a different meaning than in the early 1990s. While first-generation SHARP skins perceived antiracism as part of a broader political stance, those around BBB approached antiracism apolitically, an attitude which distinguished them clearly from neo-Nazis but which was not meant to embrace additional political opinions. This is well documented on BBB’s declaration that came out in the Messenger skinhead fanzine: We, skinheads from Prague who are S.H.A.R.P., are 100% apolitical, and REDSKINS are equally our enemy as WHITE POWER BONEHEADS!!! We are committed to protecting the skinhead cult because this is our life, our pride, boots, braces, beer, girls (…) This is our life on the street, which is never going to belong to Nazis or communists (Messenger No. 1, p. 15). As noted by Bastl (2001a), the BBB basically undertook to push politics outside the realm of the skinhead movement. They understood the idea of SHARP skins as an apolitical one and considered antiracism to be merely a moral stance, not a political affair. This approach included resistance to neo-Nazism as well as communism, both as political ideologies (clearly a reflection of the general social climate in the post-communist country, where communism was sharply rejected) and as subcultures (hence their contempt for the Redskins). At the same time, this approach was faced with certain discrepancies from the very beginning. The Bulldog fanzine published declarations of SHARP apoliticism, on one hand, and from the very first issue it offered room for the promotion of Vlastenecká liga (Patriotic League), the main representative of a specifically Czech stream of skinheads, so-called Kališníci (Calixtines), who — just like Bulldog — stood against Nazism and communism but simultaneously relied on nationalism and political conservatism. In addition to anti-Nazism and anti-communism, patriotism was the common denominator that Bulldog identified with, following the example of traditional skinheads. As I am going to demonstrate below, this connection was not a mere coincidence. In the mid-1990s, the antiracist skinhead subculture in Bohemia finally settled down. In addition to fanzines and the different crews, the first explicitly skinhead band emerged (1995, The Protest, with links to the BBB crew) and the Propast club was established in Prague in 1994 (operational until 1998) as a meeting place for most of Prague’s SHARP skins. The Bohemians Praha football club (later renamed to Bohemians 1905) became an important integrating element with a reputation for anti-fascist fans (whereas a racist or even neo-Nazi orientation was exhibited by an overwhelming majority of football rowdies and especially hooligans at that time) (Bastl, 2001b, p. 56). Although anti-racism had by then become an inherent part of the subcultural identity of antiracist skinheads, it ceased to be manifested as a political stance which used to align anti-racist skinheads with anarchist groups in the early 1990s; it came to represent a wall raised against neoNazi skinheads, on one side, and against communists, on the other side. 5.3. Turn of the millennium The situation in the extreme right scene changed after 1998. The older generation of neo-Nazi skinheads was primarily inspired by Anglo-Saxon models (the Hammerskin Nation in the US and Blood & Honour in the UK) and was more inclined to subcultural activities (concerts, parties, fashion, music). In contrast, the Národní odpor (National Resistance) organization which was formed at the turn of 1998/1999 followed the example of Germany’s Nationaler Widerstand (Charvát, 2007, pp. 151-153). It brought together a new generation of neo-Nazis oriented on political activities, which was accompanied by increased levels of violence. After some delay, a generation of radical antifascists followed suit and organized a Czech branch of the Anti-Fascist Action (AFA). A part of these skinheads identified with AFA’s positions while the rest tended to reject AFA and emphasize their apoliticism (Stejskalová, 2012, p. 168). In a simultaneous reverse trend, a part of AFA activists transformed their image more towards the skinhead subculture (a similar process was described by the French documentary, “Antifa: Chasseurs de Skins”). As a result, a part of the people who joined the ranks of AFA also identified with the antiracist skinhead subculture. An interesting fact is that 43 44 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 this part of the skinheads ceased to call themselves SHARP, arguing that it was a relic of the early 1990s, and typically used the label “antifascist skinheads”. In this way, what used to be a relatively broad group of antiracist skinheads started to diversify into a radical antiracist branch and an apolitical branch. The latter referred to themselves as “nonracists” more and more often to differentiate themselves both from racists and from active antiracists (as they viewed antiracism as a political stance which contradicted their declared apoliticism) (Stejskalová, 2012, p.184). At that time, the non-racist skinhead scene became oriented on the Bulldog fanzine and bands such as Operace Artaban (“Operation Artaban”, Brno), The Riot (Vyškov) and Pilsner Oiquell (Plzeň). This group, too, openly rejected the SHARP label, which it viewed as too political or as synonymous of a “leftist deviance” within the skinhead subculture. This again was a response to the alignment of some skinheads with the AFA (albeit, as mentioned above, most skinheads who identified with radical antifascist politics did not use the SHARP label). AFA as such came to be referred to as “red fascists” or communists by this part of the subculture (even if the Czech AFA consistently and clearly declared an anarchist orientation and strict rejection of the authoritarian left to the point of physically clashing with members of Trotskyist groups, among others). While both scenes kept meeting in the same places, the tension between them was growing. The situation is somewhat simplified by the fact that whereas non-racist skinheads tended to form local groups or crews (Rabiát Gang in Brno, the Street Knights in Hradec Králové, Armáda Zkázy or the “Ruination Army” and later the Nord Bohemia Gang in North Bohemia), antiracist skinheads did not form such groups (Stejskalová, 2012, p. 162) and instead emphasized the ideological dimension of antiracism, building rather broader networks based on personal friendship and shared antiracism. As a result, the non-racist branch of skinheads concentrated in the regions while the trend of antiracist skinheads slowly rose to dominance in Prague (which had always been a centre of subcultural and activist life of sorts). As both scenes tended to form territorially separated wholes, the frequency of personal contacts between them decreased. 5.4. 2005–2010 The level of street violence subsided once again around 2005 in the context of a second wave of temporary marginalization of the neo-Nazi scene. Despite that, the developments in this part of the skinhead subculture continued to affect the evolution of other branches. A part of the neoNazi scene responded to the stagnation by attempts to modernize, rejecting the skinhead image (again partly under German influence) as stigmatizing and detrimental to political activism (Charvát, 2007, p. 155). This resulted in the establishment of Autonomous Nationalism, which gave up on skinhead appearance in favour of a more civilian one and, over time, grew into a scene per se (some authors refer to it explicitly as a subculture per se, see Vejvodová). Largely inspired by the extreme left, the Autonomous Nationalists strived to incorporate some of its external manifestations (black bloc, graffiti, hip hop etc.) This was met with a strong backlash among traditionalist skinheads in the neo-Nazi scene, headed by older members of the subculture (thus, Autonomous Nationalism can be viewed as a clash of generations in the extreme-right skinhead scene). Another part of them responded to the new situation by reemphasizing their subcultural appearance and the traditional skinhead fashion (shirts became more commonplace, neo-Nazi items receded) and somewhat distancing themselves from explicit neo-Nazi ideology (while keeping their racist, ultraconservative and anti-communist positions). Thus, they attempted to model the 1980s wave of British skinheads which had often mixed neo-Nazism with British nationalism and racism without necessarily relying on a solid ideological foundation. This trend gradually facilitated contacts between extreme-right skinheads, as defined above, and a part of apolitical non-racist skinheads. The latter increasingly combined anti-communism (a generally accepted and widespread stance in the Czech society) with nationalism. This included latent racism in general and Czech antiziganism in particular (which solidified its positions in Czech society around 2008–2009 following a series of antiziganist rallies, primarily in North Bohemia, held 1.3. Boots and braces don’t make me racist: Antiracist skinheads in the Czech Republic by the Workers’ Party, then a key part of the Czech extreme right). In short, both scenes shared both their image and the emphasis on anti-communism and nationalism. The apolitical skinhead scene in Prague started concentrating around Motoráj, a motorcycle club where young members of both the non-racist and the antiracist branches of the skinhead movement mingled at concerts. Motoráj was not a skinhead club but merely an establishment that allowed even some controversial bands to play on its premises. This was not a classical subcultural meeting point, in contrast to Resort Pub which was established in 2005 and became a meeting point for the antiracist skinhead scene. Located in the very centre of Prague, Resort Pub was not only a convenient place to have beer with friends but also screened movies, organized live performances, and even sold clothing for some time. The club became a true central for this branch of the subculture and, in a way, served to mobilize its members. In the interviews, several informants put it as follows: “The Resort shut down — activism shut down”. The interviews also revealed that the club would refuse to admit individuals deemed by the owners to have good relations with racist skinheads or with the extreme right in general (albeit the term was perceived in somewhat different ways by each side of the conflict, namely non-racist and antiracist skinheads). These moments, too, led to a relatively apparent distinction between both scenes. Additional regional centres of antiracist skinheads started emerging at that time. Otrokovice, a town with long-term reputation for an active anarchist scene, saw the formation of the Last Strike skinhead band in 2006. It performed until 2009 and presented itself as an antiracist left-wing skinhead band (practically the only Czech band that might be referred to as RASH). In addition, several other skinhead bands emerged at that time (Muerti in 2005, Crossczech came back in 2008, Punto d’Honore in 2009) that began to comprise a skinhead antiracist scene per se. Although the scene never became as coherent and, as a result, as influential as the apolitical skinhead scene (and, of course, as that of racist skinheads), it did function as another uniting element that strengthened the antiracist skinhead scene. The Bohemians football club continued to play its unifying role during this time period as well, when most antiracist skinhead bands were associated with it. The antiracist skinhead scene was strongly mobilized by the murder of Jan Kučera, an 18-yearold antiracist skinhead from the town of Příbram who died of fatal injuries in January 2008. He was killed by neo-Nazi skinhead Jiří Fous following a fight between antiracist and neo-Nazi skinheads in the town of Příbram, a climax of a long-term conflict between both groups. The event obtained intensive media coverage and Jan Kučera’s funeral was attended by several hundred people from subcultures as well as antifascist organizations (Novotná, 2013, p. 257). A website was created as an homage to Jan Kučera, concerts and rallies were repeatedly held at the anniversary of his death, and his name has been mentioned internationally side-by-side with numerous other activists murdered by the neo-Nazis. 5.5. After 2010 2010 was the year when the antiracist and non-racist branches of the skinhead subculture in Bohemia parted their ways definitively. This was triggered by a series of concerts featuring key bands of the non-racist scene with those from the RAC (Rock against Communism) and WP (White Power) scenes (Mareš, 2012, p. 81). Organized by people from the non-racist/apolitical skinhead scene, the concerts were considered by antiracist skinheads as a proof of the former’s inclination to neo-Nazism. In contrast, non-racist skinheads argued they had sought to create an authentic skinhead experience and accused the antiracists of pursuing a communist-like open campaign to suppress their attitudes. The scenes drew a clear boundary between them. In doing so, the antiracist scene deployed the almost forgotten label, SHARP, this time to differentiate itself from apolitical skinheads rather than from neo-Nazis (in the interviews, most informants admitted that they had not seen a neo-Nazi skinhead for several years). However, some bands from the apolitical scene, too, were reluctant to perform at events organized in cooperation with RAC or WP bands. As a result, the apolitical scene divided between a part inclined to accept extreme-right attitudes and one that strived to stay away from politics. The latter part distanced itself from sharing events with 45 46 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 the extreme right scene but, at the same time, it fiercely rejected SHARP skins and radical antifascist groups such as AFA, calling them communists. In this way, it symmetrised its resistance to Nazism and communism (see the popular apolitical slogan, “Good Night Any Side” as an ironic response to the antiracist “Good Night White Pride” campaign). However, the division of the apolitical scene contributed to its marginalization and to SHARP’s dominance, at least in Prague. Thus, a new generation of SHARP skins grew up in Prague who had several things in common. First, they were all fans of Bohemians 1905, which became almost a flagship of antiracist skinheads across the country at that time. Second, they shared an affiliation to Acuelos, a newly (in 2013) established skinhead band that promoted SHARP ideas and associated the skinhead identity with not only active antiracism but also with radical-left activism more generally — cf. songs such as Obsaď a žij (“Occupy and Live”) in support of the Klinika Autonomous Social Centre in Prague. The third unifying moment was the establishment (in 2013) of Buben, a new mostly skinhead club which replaced the abandoned Resort as a meeting point for the subculture (Buben’s importance can be illustrated on comparison with the apolitical skinhead scene, which had not had have any “home” club in Prague for a long time and relies entirely on the willingness of other music clubs to admit their bands, which is often not the case). This new generation of SHARP skins has been politically active beyond rejecting racism, also embracing the modern trends of veganism and squatting. In this way, the situation slightly resembles the early 1990s. 6. Interview results Although the informants differed in many respects (age, social status, existing relation to the subculture), a few points emerged that were basically shared by everyone. For example, all the informants stated that they had experienced their first contact with the world of subcultures around the age of 12–14 years. Everyone stated that punk was the first subculture they got acquainted with and only then did they transfer to the skinhead subculture, mostly for very similar reasons. It was personal experience of neo-Nazi violence that typically threw them into the open arms of the skinhead subculture. Whether this happened in the early 1990s or at the turn of the millennium, the immediate danger of neo-Nazi skinhead attacks was perceived as omnipresent by the subculture youth. While the most part of the punk subculture viewed such attacks as a necessary evil, a minority chose to fend for themselves. However, they did not consider their punk image particularly useful for that purpose, and preferred the skinhead uniformity that elicited at least an impression of discipline, unity and operational responsiveness. The informants also labelled skinheads as “strong” and “militant” — exactly the qualities they needed in their fight against neo-Nazis but had lacked in the punk context. Thus, from the beginning, violence was clearly associated with their perception of what it means to be a skinhead — just like resistance to racism, which they all understood as a completely natural attitude that does not or need not have political connotations but is primarily a moral imperative. The interviews also revealed that a working-class identity did not play an important role for most of the informants, although it had defined the skinhead subculture in its old days (and its iconography continues to refer to that identity). Most of the antiracist skinheads interviewed were categorized as “college students” or “college graduates working administrative jobs”. The final connection between all informants consisted of a very strict rejection of communism as an ideology and an historical-political practice. Communism was equally rejected by those who identified as left-wing skinheads (which was not the case of all the antiracist skinheads I had the opportunity to interview — and which is supported by additional findings based on observation and analysis of texts produced by the antiracist skinhead subculture). When asked about differences from the original skinhead subculture, one of the informants put it concisely: “There were never black skinheads in our country. All the antiracists have always been white” (Viktor, 43 years old). 1.3. Boots and braces don’t make me racist: Antiracist skinheads in the Czech Republic 7. Conclusion The antiracist branch of the skinhead subculture in the Czech context has been evolving since the early 1990s, although it has always been overshadowed by the racist branch which is stronger in numbers and better covered by the media. Personal experience with neo-Nazi violence (typically as a victim) and the desire to stand up against that violence has been mentioned in all the interviews as the deciding moment that triggered the formation of an antiracist skinhead identity. Although the real danger of clashing with a racist skinhead for members of Czech subcultures is much lower today than it was in the early 1990s, the experience became part of the collective memory. For most antiracist skinheads, the question of violence continues to be framed as protection from neoNazi violence. This has implications for the inner dynamic of the entire antiracist branch of the subculture. At times when pressure by the extreme right grows, a part of the subculture tends to radicalize and mobilize, typically assuming clear antiracist attitudes and more often adopting a political framework. In contrast, at times when the pressure subsides, they shift from SHARP principles to apoliticism. It also seems that the more important one finds the subcultural style the less attention he pays to politics, and vice versa. The aspects shared by and strengthening antiracist skinheads in the Czech Republic undoubtedly consist of music, skinhead clubs, and the Bohemians 1905 football club. Funding: This work was supported by the Czech Science Foundation (GAČR) under grant number 1419324S, “Sources and forms of subculture politicization in post-socialism”. References Antifa: Chasseurs de Skins (2008). Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfDbTgb6uyc Bastl, M. (2001a). S.H.A.R.P. - Skinheadi proti rasovým předsudkům, Středoevropské politické studie, (3). Retrieved from: http://www.cepsr.com/clanek.php?ID=74 Bastl, M (2001b). Radikální levice v České republice: Devadesátá léta dvacátého století. Brno: Masarykova univerzita v Brně, MPÚ. Hall, S., Jefferson T. (1993). Resistance through Rituals: Youth Subcultures in Post-war Britain. London: Routledge. Hebdige, D. (2012). Subkultura a styl. Praha: Volvox globator. Charvát, J. (2007). Současný politický extremismus a radikalismus. Praha: Portál. Kolářová, M. (eds). (2012). Revolta stylem. Praha: Slon. Mareš, M. (2003). Pravicový extremismus a radikalismus v ČR. Brno: Barrister & Principal. Mareš M., Smolík J., Suchánek M. (2004). Fotbaloví chuligáni. Brno: Barrister & Principal. Mareš M., Smolík J. (2012) White Power Music and Interconnected Issues in the Czech Republic 1999-2001. In A., Shekhovtsov, P., Jackson (Eds.), White Power Muisc: Scenes of Extreme-Right Cultural Resistance. Northampton: RNM Publications. Marshall, G. (1993). Spirit Of 69: A Skinhead Bible. Donoon: ST Publishing. Marshall, G. (1996). Skinhead Nation. Donoon: ST Publishing. Mazel M. (1998). Radikální a extremistické politické organizace v České republice. In P., Fiala (Ed.) Politický extremismus a radikalismus v České republice (pp. 117-277). Brno: Masarykova univerzita. Messenger, (1), 15. Moore, J. (1993). Skinheads: Shaved for battle. Ohio: Popular press 3. Novotná, H., Dvořák J. (2008). Punks vs. skinheads — historie jednoho vztahu. In D. Bittnerová, M. Heřmanský (Eds.). Kultura českého prostoru, prostor české kultury (pp. 261- 288). Praha: Ermat. Novotná, H. (2013). Punks and skins united? Souvislosti proměn vztahů punkové a skinheadské subkultury v Československu, respektive České republice. In O., Daniel, T., Kavka, J. a kol., Machek J., Populární kultura v českém prostoru (pp. 249-26). Praha: Karolinum. Novotná, H., Heřmanský M. (2013) Shared enemies, shared friends:the relations charakter of subcultural ideology in the case of Czech punks and skinheads. In The Subculture Network (ed.). Fight back: Punk, Politics and Resistance (pp. 170-185). Manchester, Manchester University Press. Pilkington, H., Garifzianova A., Omel’chenko E. (2010). Russia’s Skinheads: Exploring and Rethinking subcultural Lives. London: Routledge. Stejskalová, P. (2012). Subkultura skinheads: kam až došly těžké boty. In M., Kolářová (Ed.). Revolta stylem (pp. 159199). Praha: Slon. 47 48 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 The Subculture Network (ed.) (2014). Fight back: Punk, Politics and Resistance. Manchester, Manchester University Press. Travi,s A. T., Hardy, P. (2012). Skinheads: A guide to an American subculture. Santa Barbara: Greenwood. Vejvodová, P. (2008). Autonomní nacionalismus. Rexter, 2. Retrieved from http://www.rexter.cz/autonomninacionalismus/2008/11/01/ Worley M. (2013). Oi! Oi! Oi!: Class, Locality, and British Punk. Twentieth Century British History, 1-31. Retrieved from: http://tcbh.oxfordjournals.org/content/early/2013/03/20/tcbh.hwt001.full 1.4. Same name but different things? DIY practices in New England and Switzerland 1 Loïc Riom and Vera Vidal 2 Abstract Many studies have well documented how actors use Do-It-Yourself (DIY) practices for cultural production in different places across the world. However, too few comparison studies examining the differences between these various uses of DIY have been carried out. This paper considers how DIY can be understood and applied in various ways. For this, we use the results of two field studies conducted in different DIY music worlds: New England’ basement show network and Swiss indie rock. Using an ethnographic approach, we describe how actors practice DIY in different aspects of music making. Our results show that considering DIY not as universal but rather as relative and contextual enhances its understanding. Keywords: DIY, Switzerland, New England, music production. 1. Introduction Since the beginning of the 2000s, several authors have drawn attention to Do-it-Yourself (DIY) practices for music production. They emphasize DIY’s roles in the emergence of new musical genres, the diffusion of music across the world, and also in the persistence of certain musical practices (see Culton & Holtzman, 2010; Gordon, 2005; Hein, 2012; Holtzman, Hughes, & Van Meter, 2007; Luvaas, 2013; Tarassi, 2012). With regard to those works, it appears clear that DIY, either understood as a way to claim anti-capitalism in music production or as a focus on selfproduction (Hein, 2012), can take different forms depending on the actors and the contexts. But while DIY practices have been well documented across the world, few comparative studies have been carried out. With that in mind, this paper aims to highlight the value of considering how differently DIY can be put into practice in different contexts and by different actors. Indeed, being able to describe the similarities and the differences between DIY practices across the world is necessary for understanding what DIY means to music. This paper compares two field studies conducted in different DIY music worlds3: New England’s basement show network (Vidal, 2015) and Swiss indie rock (Riom, 2016). These studies show actors putting DIY into practice differently in these two settings, underlining that DIY practices need to be understood in relation to their contexts. Indeed, examples from both of our case studies show that DIY is a way to respond to the challenges that these musical worlds are facing (show organization in New England and album recording in Switzerland). Furthermore, we see that there are not clear boundaries between underground and industry, but rather there is a continuum of practices. 1 Institute of Sociological Research, University of Geneva, Switzerland. E-mail: loic.riom|at|unige|dot|ch. École des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, France. E-mail: veravidalbeneyto|at|gmail|dot|com. 3 Here we understand musical world in the sense of Crossley (2015). Such an approach allows us to take into account all the actors taking part in the collective act of music production beyond boundary making processes (Becker, 1984; Mueller, 2016). 2 49 50 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 2. Cases and methods In both of our case studies, we used a panel of qualitative methods including interviews, participant observations, and virtual ethnography. The first study that we compare is an ethnography conducted on a DIY network organized around the production of live shows in non-profit spaces (e.g. basements, record stores, and art galleries) in Boston, New England. This network consists of about fifty bands of different genres and a dozen independent bookers whose aim is to ensure fair compensation to the bands, accessibility to the shows for people aged under 21, and more freedom for artistic experimentation. The second study was conducted in Switzerland with six bands who identify themselves as indie rock (even when the definition of that musical genre was not always clear). The aim of the study was to understand how these bands identify and participate in the indie rock world. Fifteen individual interviews were conducted with the members of these bands along with observation at shows and online tracking. The two cases share some important common features that can be highlighted. First, most of the interviewed musicians do not make a living from their music. Most of the bands do not have media exposure and are barely known, even on a local level. Also, the majority of the actors spontaneously used the term DIY during their interviews to define their own approach to musical production. In both cases, there is no unified aesthetics defined and artistic innovation and experimentation were greatly valued. Furthermore, as in many other musical worlds, most of the actors are male, and both of these musical worlds exist in a dense urban network in a midsize city4. We should also notice that our participant recruiting processes reflect the differences between the two cases. In the case of Boston’s basement show network, the researcher got in touch with the participants through their shows, while the Swiss indie rock bands were identified through their recordings, via their Bandcamp pages, or their labels’ websites. In other words, the way we discovered our informers emphasizes what their most visible activities are. 3. New England The DIY basement show network5 in New England presents several features. As mentioned before, bands perform a wide range of genres (songwriter, garage, noise, experimental electronic, indie rock, etc.). Often they are at least acquainted with one another if not playing at the same shows. This network, mainly centered on live music, is made in Boston of over one hundred musicians, a dozen booking agents, some bloggers, a couple record store owners and micro-labels, as well as show-goers. Shows are mostly performed at unofficial venues, such as houses, art galleries, and record stores. The setup is minimal, and bands are plugged directly into a portable PA system. As houses are unlicensed for performances, shows there are illegal. Therefore, location addresses have to be kept secret, and the different spots are identified by pseudonyms. Bookers may be tied to one place, but it is common for independent bookers to book shows in multiple unofficial venues. Bands may perform up to once a week and tour once or twice a year in the eastern half of the country. The tours are self-organized and rely on the support of local DIY networks all over the country. It is also common for musicians to play in two or three bands. With a dense network of cities located a couple of hours away from Boston, bands commonly perform in the neighboring states without staying overnight. Bands from Boston are well connected to many other bands across New England. When they are self-producing, bands usually release music on cassette tapes and digitally via Soundcloud and Bandcamp. Burned CDs are very uncommon to find. Releasing a record needs 4 About 14.7 million inhabitants around Boston and 8.2 million inhabitants around Zürich. According to Mercklé (2004, p. 4), a social network is “constituted by a set of social units and relationships these social units maintain with one another directly or indirectly, via chains of varying length. These social units can be individuals, informal groups of individuals, or more formal organizations” (our translation). 5 1.4. Same name but different things? DIY practices in New England and Switzerland greater means, which involves financial support and assistance with contacting the media that typically only a label can provide. Releases are recorded in home studios and are sometimes mixed. Rather than an end, tapes are used just to leave a mark and to help a band support itself at home and while touring. One monthly fanzine and one website are dedicated to covering the local network by giving information on the shows and on new releases. Both are run by the same nonprofit which is also the main booker. This network answers a triple need for economic sustainability, accessibility, and aesthetic freedom. In terms of economic sustainability, this network is the result of a specific American context, where public subsidies barely exist for popular music and musicians can only rely on a capitalistic market for funding. The crisis of CDs as a format, progressively replaced by online options, and the rise of live performance as a revenue source partially informs how this network is mainly focused on the live performances. Booking shows in houses allows booking agents to redistribute all of the door money directly to the bands rather than paying a large fee to the venue and giving the bands the meager leftovers. Shows are donation-based; showgoers usually pay $5-10 per show, and the door collects on average $100-200 per show. Line-ups tend to include 4 bands, the opening band being a new local band and the closing one a more established local band that is able to draw an audience. Thus, a band’s recognition is largely induced by the quality of their live performances and their extensive touring. Most of the interviewees only discovered new music by going to shows, where they have a better feel for how a band sounds. In terms of accessibility, houses are all-ages, while bars are only open to adults over 21. This means, in a city where a fourth of the population goes to college or university that they can reach a wider audience. Last, this network wants to guarantee a certain aesthetic freedom; it provides a space for music that wouldn’t get booked elsewhere, especially noise and experimental music, a space for show-goers to get exposed to them and expand their appreciation of genres. It is also providing a space for bands to hone their performance skills and musical identity, where technical skills matter sometimes less than their energy and conviction. Tension between interviewees or with other actors in the music community in Boston was useful to pinpoint where the stakes lied. Most of the conflicts around DIY that were mentioned during interviews related to live performances. Some of the conflicts were related to organization, especially regarding economic sustainability. Even if profitability is not the main goal, there is a need for money to support the musical activity; though they are usually housed for free by the people who book them, touring bands need to pay for gas at the very least, as well as food. Local bands need to pay for equipment, a practice space if they cannot practice in someone’s basement, and their releases. Most show-goers willingly pay the door fee, as it is only a couple of dollars. Hence, “free riders” who claim they cannot afford to donate because they need the funds to work on their craft or who will not pay for political reasons are criticized by those who analyze these behaviours as individualistic and hypocritical. Those individuals are seen as detrimental to the logic of solidarity and support necessary to build and sustain the network that can only happen when contacts, skills, material and financial resources, and opportunities to perform and record are shared between participants. Ties are created when people support each other and then get supported in return down the line. Other tensions were related to boundary-making. A common critique of bars and music venues disqualified them as places that only care about business. According to interviewees, those places care mostly about filling the room, which pushes them to book bands that are already known to attract large crowds, such as cover bands or national acts, and are thus not taking risks music-wise. Additionally, the sociability at bars, where the music is loud and it feels improper to talk to strangers, does not foster the same kind of bonds between participants as private house shows, which are seen as intimate and safe. They thus try to present themselves as the opposite to bars and the only option for supporting music described as innovative, experimental, and potentially with a very limited draw. 51 52 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 4. Switzerland In the Swiss indie world6, bands do not often play live (only around 15 shows per year). The shows that they do perform mainly take place at official venues7 or festivals which have both good infrastructure and professionalized staff (technicians but also booking agents and promoters). Only a few shows take place in less official settings such as squats8. Most official venues are more interested in booking big international bands recognized by the main music media (Pitchfork, Stereogum, Les Inrocks, etc.). Thus, Swiss bands often play only as supporting acts and are not always well considered by the venues’ booking agents. Furthermore, Swiss bands have trouble touring abroad independently because they either do not have the financial resources to organize their own tours (booking, promotions, travel, etc.) or they are not well connected enough to DIY networks in other countries which could help them tours at lower cost (for more details see Riom, 2016). For these reasons, finding shows can be difficult, so bands that can afford it hire booking agents and promotion agencies. Such professional support helps them to be integrated into the Swiss music market and to get shows. Regarding recording, bands tend to release an LP about every three years. Usually it is a classic LP with between ten and fifteen tracks. For most of the bands, writing and recording music is their main activity. Interviewed musicians explain putting a lot of effort into the recording process. The music is mainly recorded in small home studios (recording in a professional studio is very expensive in Switzerland). Friends or the musicians themselves handle the technical aspects of recording often sending to professional studios only for final mastering. Such work process allows them to take their time and “feel comfortable”. Most bands put out vinyl, CDs, and occasionally tapes. The recording process and the associated production costs (cover art, mastering, manufacturing, etc.) are covered both by the money earned during shows and also largely by public funding. Indeed, most of the largest cities of Switzerland as well as the cantons have implemented policies to support independent music production9. Such support mainly offsets costs of recording and touring abroad (once you have a booked tour). Some of the interviewed bands have received up to 2000 CHF (about 1800 Euros) for their records. Record releases are important for the bands recognition. In order to get performance offers, a band needs to release some music first. Then, it can hope to get some press coverage (especially if it works with a promotion agency) and be booked by venues across the country. It is rare that music media writes about a Swiss band because of a show; the media attention is mainly focused on their albums. Moreover, this is also the way that musicians are used to promoting their music; promotion deals are usually made for a new album release. A band might play twenty shows in the months following the release of an album before going back to a relatively calm performance schedule. Another manifestation of the importance of records is in awards given by media or music industry associations. At events such as M4music (the Swiss equivalent of SXSW) or on indie music blogs such as Orange Peel, awards mainly recognize albums. This leads to albums being the main basis for Swiss indie band reputations. 6 We call the Swiss indie world the network of actors around the bands I have interviewed, even though these bands are not always directly connected to each other. We use the label “indie” because it is the common label used by the bands themselves to define their music (for instance on their Bandcamp pages). Of course, “indie” can take a different meaning depending on the context and the period (Kruse). In our fieldwork, it mainly refers to guitar-oriented music inspired by Anglo-Saxon bands ranging from Sonic Youth to Radiohead, the White Stripes, My Bloody Valentine or Arcade Fire. A selection of Swiss band music can be heard on the following YouTube playlist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uAg3zaG-aM&list=PLw-by-0r2prtzKHvw7hF_e6gl_NZrPQXK. 7 Here we understand unofficial venues in the sense of Bennett and Rogers (2016). 8 From the early eighties until about ten years ago, Switzerland had a very large squat movement, and a large variety of shows took place in such spaces. However, nowadays, the majority either have been closed or had to accept regulation in order to stay open and/or get public funding (professional staff, norms and rules, etc.) and eventually started to book more established acts just like the official venues. 9 In Switzerland, cantons (the Swiss regions) and cities are responsible for most cultural policies. The federal government is only in charge for the movie industry. There are federal institutions such as Swiss Music Export, but these are mainly financed either by cities and cantons or private funding. 1.4. Same name but different things? DIY practices in New England and Switzerland In the Swiss indie music world, DIY forms of organizing mainly impact music recording. As said before, bands play most of their shows at official venues, and several hire professional booking agents to find gigs more easily. The interviewed bands release their music either themselves individually or through DIY collaborative labels that they or others run. These DIY labels are more platforms to publish and promote their music than commercial enterprises. The labels do not own the music, and they do not fund the bands’ careers. Money from record sales covers the recording costs. Conversely, these labels are a way to share resources and skills. Indeed, the value for the bands is to be able to both reach their expectations in artistic and technical terms and also record at lower cost. Through the cooperative labels, musicians help each other with the different labors of producing music and its peripheral arts (for instance music videos). Thus, it is a way to collectively share know-how. Furthermore, label names are relatable and can lend credibility to the member bands. Labels serve as a promotional amplifier for the bands to divide up effort and to pool contacts. They even occasionally book and organize label nights where the label’s bands play. If DIY organizations mainly answer the challenges of music recording, the boundary-making behaviour toward actors seen as non-DIY focuses on this aspect too. During our interviews, musicians were critical toward bigger independent but commercial labels. They argued that signing on to such labels would mean a loss of artistic freedom. They highlighted that since the commercial label has to invest money in your career, they would have a say in the music. And such labels, because they have to be economically viable in order to pay the employees and cover their costs, make choices that are not motivated by only artistic aims. Furthermore, several interviewees insist that, even if it could be beneficial for the music, they would not work with professionals to record their music, because they do not want to approach music that way. They emphasize, insisting on the pleasure of making music, that what matters to them is working with people with whom they feel comfortable, friends and people with whom they share a common approach. In their views, it is crucial that the band controls the complete process of the production. 5. Conclusion Our main goal in this paper is to show the importance of local contexts in particular economic markets and opportunities, to better understand how DIY as a notion is used by the stakeholders and how it is connected to recognition and fame. In both cases, our informers draw symbolic boundaries between themselves and people whom they consider as having commercial-centered aims. In their views, the legitimacy of their practice comes from their independence over any requirement of profitability. However, if these boundary-making processes definitely share some common features, their modalities are different. Identifying different points of tension and friction within our field is particularly helpful in identifying different representations of music as well as different stakes in different DIY economic circuits. The Switzerland scene emphasized recordings and so built boundaries around recording, while the New England scene emphasized live performances and so built boundaries from that. In Switzerland, musicians can benefit from state-funded subsidies for recordings, which usually allows them to cover the costs of the studio recording, mixing, mastering, and pressing into records or CDs. The media (magazines, blogs, etc.) covering music pay particular attention to record releases and have the biggest collective voice publicizing bands. Comparatively, live performances are few and not the main means of getting notoriety: Swiss bands usually play only a dozen show a year given the competition with foreign bands to play at live commercial venues. The lack of noncommercial venues and the difficulty of organizing European tours prevent Swiss indie bands from finding other opportunities to perform. In the United States, there are hardly any state-funded subsidies for music that is not classical or jazz. Popular music belongs to the realm of the capitalistic market. In New England, the dense network of cities and longstanding tradition of DIY hardcore, punk, and indie shows in noncommercial spaces provide many opportunities for local underground bands to perform on an 53 54 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 almost weekly basis. Bands build their fame by playing live sets and by touring along the east coast, which most bands do at least once per year for two to three weeks at a time. In terms of revenue, bands only get paid for their shows while touring (around $100-200), while otherwise supporting themselves by selling their tapes. When playing at home they agree not to get paid in order to support the visiting touring bands. One interesting result of these different environments is that, ultimately, Swiss bands try to reproduce the sound of their recordings when playing live, while New England bands record their albums as if they were playing a regular live show. Our results emphasize the relation between different DIY practices and the context where they take place. In the two cases, different challenges addressed to the actors by their social, political, and economical environments produce different forms of DIY. Furthermore, we have highlighted that boundaries drawn by the actors are strongly related to the perceived stakes and conflicts when producing music. Therefore, DIY should not be considered as a set of practices universal and uniform, but rather multiple and heterogeneous. It takes shape differently within different spaces. This acknowledgment challenges the idea of clear boundaries between underground worlds and music industries and, it opens new ways to understand the relationship between musical aesthetics and their production contexts. Acknowledgements: We would like to thank Yves Dorémieux and Avi Kelman for their useful insights and critiques, as well as people at the KISMIF conference for their challenging comments. References Becker, H. S. (1984). Art worlds. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Bennett, A., & Rogers, I. (2016). In the Scattered Fields of Memory: Unofficial Live Music Venues, Intangible Heritage, and the Recreation of the Musical Past. Space and Culture, 31(1), 1-12. Retrieved from http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/1206331215623217 Crossley, N. (2015). Networks of sound, style and subversion. The punk and post-punk worlds of Manchester, London, Liverpool and Sheffield, 1975-80. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Culton, K. R., & Holtzman, B. (2010). The growth and disruption of a “free space”: Examining a suburban do it yourself (DIY) punk scene. Space and Culture, 13(3), 270–284. Retrieved from http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/1206331210365258 Gordon, A. R. (2005). The authentic punk: an ethnography of DIY music ethics (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Loughborough University, Loughborough. Hein, F. (2012). Le DIY comme dynamique contre-culturelle? L’exemple de la scène punk rock. Volume!, 9(1), 105– 126. Retrieved from https://volume.revues.org/3055 Holtzman, B., Hughes, C. & Van Meter, K. (2007). Do it yourself... and the Movement Beyond Capitalism. In D. Graeber, S. Shukaitis & E. Biddle (Ed.), Constituent Imagination. Militant Investigations, Collective Theorization. Oakland, Edinburgh & West Virginia: AK Press. Luvaas, B. (2013). DIY style: fashion, music and global digital cultures. London & New York: Berg. Mercklé, P. (2004). Sociologie des réseaux sociaux. Paris: La Découverte. Mueller, A. (2016). Beyond ethnographic scriptocentrism: Modelling multi-scalar processes, networks, and relationships. Anthropological Theory, 16(1), 98–130. Retrieved from http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/1463499615626621. Riom, L. (2016). « We’re from Switzerland, that’s a chocolate island in Sweden! » : Comprendre l’indie rock du point de vue de six groupes suisses. Genève: Institut de recherches sociologiques, Université de Genève. Tarassi, S. (2012). Independent to what? An analys is of the live music scene in Milan (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, Milan. Vidal, V. (2015). Children of the Night: the Boston DIY network (Unpublished master’s thesis). Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris. 1.4. Same name but different things? DIY practices in New England and Switzerland © Chris Low THEME TUNE 2 | Radio, live transmission: audiences, markets, heritage and mediations in music 55 56 2.1. Dancing the Poot! Devo and postmodernism 1975 1980 Grace Healy 1 Abstract This paper focuses on the American post-punk band Devo, and the way in which they drew on central tenets of postmodern theory to comment on the rise of corporate capitalism in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Devo self-consciously constructed a Dadaist aesthetic to comment on ideas about postmodernity, commercialism, and late capitalism in Conservative America. Much of their work is centred on two postmodernist presumptions: that the philosophical subject is under threat, and that parody is fundamental to the notion of postmodernism. This paper explores how Devo’s music sits within this context. Keywords: Devo, post-punk, postmodernism, parody, the subject. 1. Introduction In much of their musical output from 1975-1980, American post-punk band Devo self-consciously drew on postmodern theory to comment on the rise of global, corporate capitalism in the 1980s (Devo Inc., 2014). Their music explores the retreat from subjectivity, a central tenet of postmodern theory, and comments on the negative impacts this may have on society; the most injurious being the prospect of an “identity crisis”. French sociologist and philosopher Michel Foucault (1982), in The Subject and Power, writes that the philosophical subject is simultaneously ‘subject’ to another’s control, and attached to an identity position. Devo’s work explores this relationship between power and subjectivity, particularly in the track “Corporate Anthem” (1979) released on the album Duty Now for the Future; using music and visuals, Devo comment on the fate of subjectivity in a world increasingly controlled by global corporations. The second tenet of postmodern theory often explored within the work of Devo, is the endorsement of parody. The concept of postmodern parody can be traced back to scepticism against decidable origins and causes, found in the work of writers such as French sociologist and philosopher Jean Baudrillard (Hebdige, 1998). In The Precession of Simulacra, Baudrillard (1998 [1981]) claims that Western society has replaced all reality and meaning with signs and symbols, and that human experience is merely a simulation; what is left is a fascination with icons and mirrors, and a proliferation of sources and readings is celebrated. The concept of postmodern parody is explored within this paper from two central perspectives: firstly, from the perspective of Frederic Jameson (1992), who rejects the notion of parody entirely; and secondly, from the perspective of Linda Hutcheon (1986-87), who believes that parody is fundamental to the concept of postmodernism. Devo’s “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” (1978) self-consciously explores the notion of parody in a postmodern context. 2. Identity crisis In Postmodernism and Consumer Society, Marxist political theorist Frederic Jameson (1992) writes that today, from two central perspectives, postmodernist theorists are exploring the notion of the 1 University of Huddersfield, United Kingdom. E-mail: healygrace43|at|gmail|dot|com. 57 58 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 “Death of the Subject” — that personal identity is a thing of the past. The first perspective argues that in the emergence of the bourgeoisie as a hegemonic social class, there was once such a thing as individualism but today, in the age of corporate capitalism, the old bourgeois individual no longer exists. The second position argues that not only is the bourgeois individual a thing of the past, but it is also a myth; a cultural perplexity designed to persuade people that they once possessed a unique identity. From the perspective of the first standpoint, as the old bourgeois individual breaks down in the rise of corporate capitalism, the bourgeois/proletariat dualism is destabilised, thus decentralising the Western proletariat as the absolute horizon of socialist and technological advance. This destabilisation is further intensified by what British sociologist Dick Hebdige terms the “three negations” which underpin postmodernist theory, all of which involve an attack on Marxism (1998, pp. 374-381). Hebdige’s first negation “against totalisation” underlines the tendency of postmodernist theory to attack the Enlightenment, and any other discourse which advocates collective human goals (1998, pp. 374-376). This includes the rejection of all sociological concepts and modes of enquiry, such as Marxism-Leninism and Hegelianism. This move gathered impetus in the 1960s, and grew from scepticism of political programmes prescribed by an elite. New subjectivities — feminism, non-normative sexualities and gender identities, the counterculture, etc. — could not be accommodated by the older paradigms; people were supposedly free agents, and yet at the same time subject to an authority (Hebdige, 1998). In The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, French sociologist and philosopher Jean-François Lyotard (1984 [1979]) talks of a suspicion towards metanarratives — religions, sociological concepts, etc. — that make universal claims to reason, insisting that they create a society that listens to some, and ignores others. For some theorists, however, this destabilisation does not mean that unique identity ceases to exist. In Postmodernism, Politics and Art, British historian John Roberts (1990) proposes that there has been a shift in focus from class, to gender, race and sexuality. Romanian-American cultural philosopher Virgil Nemoianu (2010), in Postmodernism and Cultural Identities, explores this point further, working from the premise that we are living in a turbulent and uncertain postmodern world, in which the bourgeois individual no longer exists. He posits the question: can anything really function in this fragmentary randomness? He writes: Any randomness deserves this name precisely because it is constituted out of some elements, out of a certain number of ‘pieces’, diverse as these may be in nature and behaviour. We can easily concede a number of points to postmodernism (…) but we cannot simply deny what is strikingly observable, and what, after all, makes any ‘chance-driven’ system possible to begin with: multitude and variety. If this is so, then postmodernism must contain inside itself at least a few sections that are based on continuity and on identity. If it does not, the situation ceases to be describable as randomness, chance, and discontinuity, and becomes instead a kind of uniformity, of general fixity and predictability — in other words, it becomes exactly the opposite of what it claims to be. Continuity and identity are therefore not only imaginable inside a postmodernism mode of existence, they are absolutely necessary for its survival (Nemoianu, 2010, p. 7 — author’s emphasis). According to writers such as Roberts and Nemoianu, then, in the destabilisation of the bourgeois/proletariat dualism, identity and subjectivity may shift to gender, race and sexuality, as opposed to disappearing completely. Theorists such as Lyotard and Foucault see an intrinsic link between the “Death of Subjectivity” and the centralisation of power. Roberts (1990) criticises Lyotard for this, writing that many of his works, including The Postmodern Condition, are based on highly selective accounts of modernity; expansion of the nuclear state and the rise of the mass media are considered “technological and industrial processes out of control” (1990, p. 12 — author’s emphasis), and thus the “Heideggerian notion of technology as the death of subjectivity is pushed towards apocalyptic ends” (1990, p. 12). In The Subject and Power, Foucault suggests that Western science and globalising discourses have been, and continue to be, used to oppress; institutionalised power is therefore seen as nothing but a threat to subjectivity. Where, then, do 2.1. Dancing the Poot! Devo and postmodernism 1975 - 1980 Devo stand on this “identity crisis”? Do they stand with theorists such as Lyotard and Foucault, insisting on the “Death of Subjectivity” as a result of the centralisation of technology? Or, like Roberts (1990) and Nemoianu (2010), do they envisage a future where technology as “Death of Subjectivity” is not pushed towards apocalyptic ends, but instead takes radical forms? Devo’s album track “Corporate Anthem”, released as part of the album Duty Now for the Future in 1979, is a nod to the 1975 Norman Jewison film Rollerball (Devo Inc., 2014). Rollerball is set in 2018, where the world has become a corporate state, home to entities such as the Energy Corporation — a global energy monopoly based in Houston which controls access to all transport, luxury housing, communication, and food. In “Corporate Anthem”, Devo introduce themselves as a corporation (see Fig. 1). The music is a synthesised fanfare, accompanied by a video of Devo saluting the corporation to which they are enslaved. The band are wearing identical, industrial uniforms, thus eroding personal identity and destroying uniqueness in the name of corporate capitalism. This visual, accompanied by the fanfare-like musical flourish, could be read as Devo’s paranoia concerning the rise of corporate capitalism, the centralisation of technology, and subsequent decline of individual identity. Figure 1: Devo “Corporate Anthem”. Source: Devo Inc., 2014. Figure 2: Devo “The Day My Baby Gave Me a Surprise”. Source: Devo Inc., 2014. Figure 3: Devo “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”. Source: Devo Inc., 2014. On the surface “Corporate Anthem” echoes the works of writers such as Foucault and Lyotard, who push the “Death of Subjectivity” towards apocalyptic ends. However, an alternative reading might be that Devo are in fact preserving their subjectivity in the hope that it may take radical 59 60 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 forms. By wearing sunglasses, Devo are shielding their eyes, and therefore souls (there is a historical connection between the eyes and the soul in Western literature; for example, in many of his Sonnets, Shakespeare uses the eyes as a metaphor for the soul) from the blinding light of corporate capitalism, consequently preserving their subjectivity. Devo often wear identical uniforms and sunglasses (sometimes tape is used) in their videos (see Fig. 2). This shielding could be read as an act of optimism; despite the oppressive powers of corporate capitalism, there is still hope for subjectivity — it may yet take radical forms, and shift from class to gender, race, or sexuality. The alternative reading, that identity is completely eroded in the wake of global corporations, is rather more pessimistic. Whichever way one chooses to read “Corporate Anthem”, it is clear that Devo are paranoid about the rise of corporate capitalism, and the threat it presents to personal identity; whether there is a future for this subjectivity, however, remains disputable. 3. Celebration of parody, or trivial kitsch? As briefly discussed earlier, Hebdige (1998) identifies three negations which underpin postmodernism. His second negation, “against teleology” is a fundamental rejection of the philosophical study of nature by attempting to describe things in terms of their purpose, principle, or goal (Oxford Dictionary, 2016) (1998, pp. 377-379). Baudrillard’s (1998 [1981]) The Precession of Simulacra draws on (and rejects) the phenomenon of teleology. He introduces the idea of simulacra, or copies that depict things that either had no original to begin with, or that no longer have an original. Baudrillard claims that Western society has replaced all reality and meaning with symbols and signs, and that human experience is merely a simulation; consumer goods have a “sign-exchange value”, which signifies distinction, taste, and social stature. For example, when purchasing a car, one might be drawn to its symbolic value, as opposed to its use-value. Baudrillard’s work draws on post-structuralist ideas on the elevation of the signifier; in elevating the signifier, or the sign’s physical form, the result is what Hebdige defines as a “parodic inversion of historical materialism [where] the model precedes and generates the real-seeming” (1998, p. 377). Mirrors, icons and surfaces are therefore celebrated, and parody ensues. Jameson (1992) explores this concept, arguing that in elevating an object’s physical form, the linguistic norm — and therefore parody — cannot exist. Parody capitalises on the uniqueness of styles, playing on their idiosyncrasies to produce a mock of the original. Parody, for Jameson, should cast ridicule on the private nature of eccentricities with respect to linguistic norms: in elevating the signifier, the linguistic norm is lost; therefore, parody (by definition) cannot exist. In The Politics of Postmodernism: Parody and History, Canadian literary theorist Linda Hutcheon (1986-87) responds to Jameson’s article, rejecting his concept completely. For Hutcheon, postmodernism is a fundamentally contradictory enterprise: its art forms and its theory mock “the original” in a parodic manner by installing, and then subverting, convention. Postmodernism self-consciously calls attention to its own inherent paradoxes, whilst offering a critical re-reading of the past. The borderline between art and the world is re-mapped, producing a model that is embroiled within that which it seeks to criticise. Hutcheon argues that the paradox of parody is that it is not essentially depthless, trivial Kitsch — as Jameson suggests — but rather it leads to a vision of interconnectedness. This rejection is supported by Roberts (1990), who criticises Jameson for assuming that postmodernism is coeval with post-structuralism. It is clear from much of Devo’s work that they intend to play on the conventions of popular music. In 1978, Devo released a cover of The Rolling Stone’s 1965 hit “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”. If, according to Hutcheon, postmodernist parody installs and subverts convention, then it would appear that Devo’s cover could be read as postmodernist art. From the analysis of “Corporate Anthem”, it is clear that Devo were paranoid about the negative impacts of corporate capitalism on subjectivity, and so in covering a song that became successful by the efforts of multi-national corporation London Records (Official Charts Company, 2016), whilst self-consciously demonstrating an erosion of individualism through identical, industrial outfits (see Fig. 3), Devo offer a critical and ironic re-reading of the 2.1. Dancing the Poot! Devo and postmodernism 1975 - 1980 song. They are installing convention by offering a model that is profoundly implicated in 1960s rock ‘n’ roll — the instrumental line-up for example is not dissimilar to the original — and are therefore in a position to offer a critical re-reading from within. Devo are capitalising on the idiosyncrasies of classical rock ‘n’ roll, whilst offering an ironic re-reading of the genre. Other signs from the video point towards this reading, for example: the tag on the guitar at the beginning could be read as a nod towards the idea of music as a commodity, and the “Devo” logo worn by all band members presents the band as a product. 4. Conclusions Devo’s music clearly sits within a postmodern framework. In drawing on postmodernist ideas concerning the “Death of Subjectivity” and the centralisation of technology in late capitalist Western society, Devo’s music sits somewhere in between the Foucault/Lyotard, and the Roberts/Nemoianu perspectives; further investigation into alternative schools of postmodernist thought, and Devo’s musical output (particularly between 1975-1980), would help pinpoint the specific tenets of postmodernism upon which Devo’s music is constructed. Their use of postmodernist parody supports Hutcheon’s argument that parody is fundamental to postmodernist art — Devo’s ironic re-reading of 1960s classical rock ‘n’ roll would not work without the shared conventions of popular music, from within which Devo can criticise and thus subvert. Devo’s approach therefore appears to denounce Jameson’s ideas, rendering them too abstract. One of the main criticisms of Jameson’s work is that it often lacks empirical evidence, and Devo’s work could be used as an example to support this. A brief analysis of “Corporate Anthem” and “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” demonstrates that Devo’s music can be read as a postmodernist reaction to the rise of corporate capitalism in early 1980s America. References Baudrillard, J. (1998). The Precession of Simulacra. In J., Storey (Ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader (pp. 350 — 357). Hertfordshire: Simon & Schuster International Group. Devo Inc. (2014). Devo: The Complete Truth About De-Evolution [Recorded by Devo]. Foucault, M. (1982). The Subject and Power. Critical Inquiry, 8(4), 777-795. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/1343197?origin=JSTOR-pdf&seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents Hebdige, D. (1998). Postmodernism and ‘The Other Side’. In J. Storey (Ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader (pp. 371–386). Hertfordshire: Simon & Schuster International Group. Hutcheon, L. (1986-87). The Politics of Postmodernism: Parody and History. Cultural Critique, (5), 179-207. Retrieved from https://www.jstor.org/stable/1354361?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents. Jameson, F. (1992). Postmodernism and Consumer Society. In P. Brooker (Ed.), Modernism/Postmodernism. (pp. 163 -179). New York: Longman. Lyotard. J. F. (1984). The Postmodern Condition. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Nemoianu, V. (2010). Postmodernism and Cultural Identities: Conflicts and Coexistence. Washington: Catholic University American Press. Official Charts Company. Retrieved from (http://www.officialcharts.com/artist/28195/rolling-stones/) Oxford Dictionary Online. Retrieved from (https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/teleology) Roberts, J. (1990). Postmodernism, Politics and Art. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Discography: Devo (1978). (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction [Recorded by Devo]. Devo (1979). Corporate Anthem [Recorded by Devo]. 61 62 2.2. The practice of award as a means to fix a memory of jazz: The case of Richard Galliano Mathieu Feryn 1 Abstract We will focus on how and with which collectively contribute the fabric of French jazz musician in the broadcast space and consecration of bodies in a context where the scanning of objects from the past (digital assets) like social activities (digital traces, personal data) is on the practices of memory but also the perception of the future? Concretely, our thinking is primarily to understand the distinction between art prices and performance, including the value placed on “moments of performance” (concerts, festivals) in the construction of artistic legitimacy and career musicians over the process and streamlining procedures for social activities. As part of this communication, we will rely on the case of Richard Galliano, French musician. Keywords: awards, recognition, musicians. 1. The time does what it can, genius does what he want? If the world of jazz in France has often been studied by French sociology (Fabiani, 1986; Roueff, 2003; Perennoud, 2006; Pecqueux, 2009) approaches this subject often remained confined to the question of the legitimacy of musical forms in terms of value scales and jazzy practices under an objective referent remained the domain of music called “learned”. Jazz has long been, for the proponents of critical sociology and convenient thanks to its strong heuristic power paradigm that allowed to observe the legitimacy games at work between two worlds: that of a part of the art music that jazz of the field would seek to imitate in its internal organization (Roueff, 2003), another one of popular music, which would be the emanation and artists naturally seek to distinguish themselves. Pierre Bourdieu considered as belonging jazz, as well as cinema and comics, these “arts means” seeking social legitimacy. Sign of a now bygone era on the ethnography plan, even the pioneering work of H.S. Becker did not escape the tropism of analyzing jazz musicians with the theoretical and methodological equipment from the sociology of deviance. However, in the 1970s and 1980s, new looks were worn on jazz. It must first be emphasized the importance of work who approached the musical culture and certain specialized aesthetic in terms of market (Moulin, 1986), or “world (s)” (Becker, 1992) made of actors and mediators interacting in terms of other motivations as the legitimacy and domination. Jazz has also been approaches that fall within the sociology of work (Menger, 1986), a socio-anthropology lying in the passeronien inheritance (Fabiani, 1986) or that of gender studies (Buscatto, 2007). Our research is to continue studying the dynamics of change within the jazz market in France since the early 2000s an approach starting with the awards in the jazz world (prices, competition, dedication instances distinctions). Thus, internationally, “the price is the result of an effort and success” (Frey, 2005) while in France, our study shows that prices devote more intermediate field of creation. To analyze this paradox, one may be tempted to mobilize work on the emergence of musical labels and taxonomies. Our research extends this Conventions economy approach by asking the question of collective representations about creating jazz in France. Indeed, this niche market reveals many 1 Équipe Culture et Communication — Centre Norbert Elias, UMR 8562 — Université d’Avignon et des Pays de Vaucluse, France. E-mail: mathieu.feryn|at|gmail|dot|com. 63 64 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 paradoxes where insiders/experts reflect a diversity of backgrounds and expectations of action logics. To do this, the most visible of these actors takes place at the awards and professional awards each year at various ceremonies with a role of market regulation (Victoires du Jazz, Academy Award Charles Cros, Springboard Jazz of Defense, 1st Prize at the Conservatory ...). In the continuation of our work on the issue of work allocation properties as belonging to the authenticity of jazz, the issue of relations (installation, belonging to multiple genres, etc.) with other currents is to study the changing forms of jazz. Legitimacy debates gave way to discussions of authenticity, no less fruitful, as the work of Richard A. Peterson on the music authenticity can, for example, usefully illuminate (Peterson, 1992). But beyond the artistic disputes, it is the contextual relevance of classification operations that interests us since artists are validated and awarded by the profession. How do these new institutional actors jazz recognition arrangements they are “translated” (within the meaning of Sapiro and Calon/Latour) of established experts to programmers, broadcasters, talent agents, specialized radios constituting the “field restricted production” of jazz in France? Among the speeches products about Richard Galliano, the terms “flexibility,” “mastery of different musical languages”, “openness,” “shackles of stereotypes”, “bridges the gap (...) between composition and improvisation, harmonies between “classic” and rhythms “jazz” “(…) made him one of the most recognized jazz musicians and broadcast in the 2000s What has happened? Like many French jazz musicians, child and teenager, he realizes competitions and won many prizes and international awards (1st prize of the World Trophy in 1966 and 1967, 1st prize of the President of the Republic in 1968, 1st prize at the Nice Conservatoire in 1969). These competitions are as many connections with the world of music since they are the place of the press conferences, peer reviews, public and when also relies color, imprint a style. Indeed, in the first contest, the musicians play the same instrument and the same piece; we must differentiate by their styles and technical mastery to claim recognition. It reinforces or not the musician in its efforts to pursue a professional and musical activity. But it may happen that due to the stress and external factors competitions (death, technical, health, ...), candidates are missing and the damage can be great. Many talents fail to these competitions and ascension is then longer for salvation yet to come as it is linked first to the recognition of different circles present in these areas where visibility is restricted to represent. However, some find alternatives. For Richard Galliano, the contest promoted directly (in competitions) or indirectly (networking effect, learning, cumulative trust) connections with “peers” (Lucien Galliano, Pierre Cochereau, Claude Noël) which he then takes distance to assert through his own music and his own style. The studies are then a time when technical mastery and color of the interpreter is developed. Then, the graduation and particularly Conservatory award inserts in professional life. When he went to Paris, these prices are a self-worth and a scenario with musicians who have worked in concert or still in business, prices guide the beginning of his professional musician. It is found in our corpus of winners, besides the importance of competition and training, springboards and jam sessions act as connection setting the catalyst with actors and artistic and professional networks. The purpose of these is to be revealing talents. That is for producers, music publishers and the media, musicians, public; a space of discovery and experimentation that allows the winners to start collaborations with musicians in activity. Precisely in these terms, we must understand that the competition, training, jazz jumps do not lead as a jazz musicians activity itself. The musicians make “music with all [their] influences and with [their] own sensibility” and registered in the history of jazz (Tournès, 2001); musicians operate in all music (classical, world music, songs, varieties ...). As a corollary of these activities, fees are opportunities to produce their own records and claim the distribution of their music. Through the price follows then an equivalent course in terms of recognition, both recognition works peer reviews from critics, involvement in the market and the public, and in the musician’s ability to technical mastery and develop a singular color, authentic. Since the 2000s, collaborations and performances of jazz arrangements are increasingly 2.2. The practice of award as a means to fix a memory of jazz: The case of Richard Galliano emancipated in modern music as the heritage and aesthetic lines. There are the musicians interact in different circles mentioned. 2. Changing practices of actors in the factory musician Indeed, we can say that the process is established in four interrelated circles; that of peers, specialty and critical media, markets, public. Indeed, mentor networks between musicians alternately leader and sideman involve changes at different times of the career of the musician. The fact that Richard Galliano play with Claude Nougaro, Astor Piazzolla, Eddy Louiss, Chet Baker, etc. and record music for a television series to identify it and to become a recognized leader among different circles while honoring them in compositions, then. Indeed, insofar as the musicians interact on stage and on time chorus (solo improvisations of times) they emphasize in turn the singular character of a musician vis-à-vis the rest of the group, different circles may well be confronted on the proposal of the artist who performs the chorus and consistency with regard to the rest of his group. This notice is not instantaneous is to be communicated by the media, critics, audiences. Therefore, the media and specialized critics recognition methods may or may not involve the name of sideman. By communicating his talent and recognized musician’s name circulates, the information goes beyond the circle of peers. The full media circle the field experts, it comes confront that of licensed players, the market will allow the artist previously sideman, unknown to position itself as a leader in training, its name appears on posters. In building the careers of French jazz musicians, this communication process is now supplemented by more nebulous practices. The price is an indicator insofar as its quality and the time he enrolled in one of these four circles and contributes to a “collective practice”. Uses over the 2000s show an acceleration time of consecration process: the musicians are winning more and more young people are increasingly playing earlier with their elders, the speeches of those musicians invoke positioning as regard as the artists who sponsored or behind their practices. Practices are observed at several levels that can be evaluated qualitatively and quantitatively. According to the winning project, the artists will evolve in different places, they can both provide compositions in places with low capacity audience as tributes in places with high capacity. Thus, in a first category of discourse, the work of the musician is associated with the composer, he has extensive discography jazz and classical. Marked in the speech by the terms of virtuosity, sophisticated aesthetic style; the artist is known for these masterpieces. These appearances are rare in theatres or festivals dedicated to both jazz and classical music where it is then accompanied by musicians with traditional style. Here we find the classic jazz lexicon. While in a second category, which is where the artist works, looking for a game on the harmonies, uplifting tones and rhythms created connections with other musical styles. He expresses his talent in the world and its image is closely linked to that of its peer or its instrument. The words associated such as color, youth, dust guide the discourse towards a representation of modern jazz. Finally, the third category comes from a speech identified under creative, nonconformist, unpredictable, explorer, daring. The network of specialized clubs and innovative festivals participate in the recognition of those artists. It is called contemporary, innovative or modern jazz, it is the third category. This demonstration tends to be verified by the development of artists’ careers that evolve in different areas according to recognition and dynamics that operate them. When passing data to our corpus of festivals and awards, one clearly sees these three dynamic; where on the one hand, musical innovation and public demand for the questioning aesthetic unite the players in the current jazz; while on the other hand, the will to fight against a form of elitism and public demand to listen to musicians identified by their media presences unite players of modern jazz. In classic jazz, the approach is to rely on a classical repertoire and are intended for musicians to participate in projects in philharmonic and opera. 65 66 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 INTERVIEW TO AJMI (JAZZ CLUB), MODERN SAXOPHONIST I’m lucky to play everywhere at the moment both in the halls of 3000 people in 100 people clubs. I must say that there is something that seems obvious and linked to the directory; here I can a lot of things, test them, evolve, experiment. The approach taken by the team for 35 years is in line to listen to the musicians. Over a 3000-people scene, the relationship with the public is more distanced, one more awaits us in our classic, which has made us successful, so I started playing what I’m doing tonight, half the room will empty, because they come to the disk that has received Victory talked about in the media. I can see the difference already at the stamp, it is clear that when I come to AJMI it is not for money. In this interview, the musician recalled that opposition, divisions are not the subject of a generation; it’s a matter of practice at a time in the life of the musician, a value system that also takes on institutional sources, economic or logistical issues which will be discussed extensively. Dynamic confront: the modern works of classical, modern is worked by the contemporary. From our work on the distribution, we find different degrees of autonomy in recognition of the winners: the versatile musicians play locally at festivals, institutional clubs freelance, self-produced; musicians belonging to a group are organized by region: larger, they recorded in an independent label; while international artists supported by an agency are closer to the networks linked to the majors and renowned press officers. Indeed, these economic agreements also work the artistic proposals based on what they entail in terms of market and artists of circulation systems. Investigations by economist’s culture show an application and a specific offer (Armstrong, 2006); or that the price guide consumers in view of the uncertainty in the field of arts and culture (Ginsburgh, 2003). James English considers the assessments are an opportunity to open a closed forum of cultural insiders (journalists, sponsors, artists, critics, cultural officials, etc.) may exercise their influence peddling and return the favour. However, a priori, each of the contributing can make quality of evidence but a posteriori, the winner is dependent on the opinion of the judges. When the judgment is not unanimous, it is a problem: how to deal with the multiplicity of criteria and opinions? Thus, social conventions and social authority of judges operate. It is in this context that production of analysis is to integrate the works that have “survived” long-term and cross them with immediate data through the transmission. Facing some quality differences; we have winners and losers controversy. If these are not steps or choices that promote recognition; it is a series of uses and conventions that act. The fact that these customs and conventions are shared by artists and actors enables instances reconnaissance exercise with authority. Actors or artists are not far from the concept of public; they share a passion and questioning. Through their attachments at different times of their lives, they love together and are sensitive to details: body movement, interaction between musicians, paradoxical signs, etc. The process of recognition and dissemination of such works is not far from it, because it brings together music, their performers and audience. Transmitted by listening discs, players engaged in theatres or festivals, attentive listeners driving or any other delicate approach works recognition. Since the early 2000s, and devices operating in the factory according to the musician space. 3. The evolution of devices in the factory musician We note that beyond the artistic disputes, rankings operations and the continuing legitimacy of conflict, yet old, between jazz “authentic” and a more globalized and commercial can be seen today, as the constitution networks of specialized rooms, embodying organizations, as in the field of art-house cinema and a form of “resistance” to constraints of globalization aesthetic whose consequence would be broadcasting a jazz “mainstream”. In this context, the public interacts with different actors. An American musician confided, “When I arrived in France to play with Richard, I thought to stay two weeks, I lived five years. It owes much to the French public, we would not have jazz without him. During slavery, the French have supported the cause of jazz while everyone 2.2. The practice of award as a means to fix a memory of jazz: The case of Richard Galliano wanted to expel him from Congo Square. The French public it indoors in a festival or otherwise participates in a key component of our success.” The public comes into contact at several levels with the musician, the development of amateur practices volunteers publishing activities, involvement in the festival events to participation in a debate, an evening with a glass of wine or participation in an ox, the audience enjoyed a moment music (Hennion, 2003). As the work, the public does not see gives spontaneously, which requires the observer to analyze the listening through a constellation of practices over time. The public comments of Richard Galliano, exchange, sharing these finds, confronts them; it operates within a larger space; the focal length of the scientist and scholar jazzophile sat in the first row restricts the analysis. It is appropriate to expand the study of the reception conditions. Indeed, when Richard Galliano furtively gaze involves the audience to sing the Javanese (french song) through singing, whistling; somehow, it desecrates the relationship between artist and audience while invoking the past. About this incorporates both an environment and a common world class product and at the same time a dimension beyond space of jazzy conventions, that of the improviser and grandiose. The work is indescribable, it is located between the music and the staging performances and conventions, beyond the proposed purpose and where the public takes all its dimension active. It involves the public in the heart of the device and works the standards process of enactment by stating implicitly the question of the involvement of the artist in the public political engagement; that is to say its ability to look around a common and shared meaning. It is in this sense that the value of speech assigns coherence to its context, logical, judgments that prevail in how it is built during the life of a spectator. Tower visible or audible on television (Petitrenaud the getaways on France 5 — PJ series on France 2: French TV), in an anecdote (tour stories with Claude Nougaro), in a book (Complete Method for accordion), radio (morning of France Musique) or reinterpreted by other musicians; the music of Richard Galliano suggests the public and communication plays a vital role in its temporal anchor. There are not those who know and those who do not know Richard Galliano, there is music and all the technical means and practices that surround it (artists, records, sheet music, instruments, etc.) constituting the media between the work and the public. The development of new-musette in itself, integrating the accordion in jazz music and all made tours are all ways that contribute to make the connection. Contrary to the widespread image of sophisticated public and connoisseurs, they are curious who come to a concert at different times of their lives to confront their visions, expectations and share with other audience members about their feelings, they discuss their a priori, a continuum of non-assertion of taste and values. Received in the moment, improvisation as film projection may cause some difficulties in determining the real and fiction. In this, it is not for nothing that many jazz musicians are related to cinema. Jazz and cinema confront both the creation and a series of messages, that is to say, the challenge of bringing together a group and realize the uniqueness of a musical act in a world where all categorizable grip supposed to grasp the imagination or creativity of the artist. Furthermore, jazz is not limited to the stage performance is a set of shared values that are more or less made aware by the public. We observed during our professional activities among the public and the musicians the arrival of newcomers actors other artistic spheres such as pop, world music, electro and hiphop. This arrival has strengthened dialogue and public actors: sharing and linking in digital social networks, involvement in participation and funding of events, adherence to cultural activities devices, content exchange. Indeed, the hybrids of jazz are more visible, they form a corollary rewards. Richard Galliano thus being recipients of the Jazz Award in 1997 for his album “New York Tango” Jazz Award in 1998 for “Blow up” a Classical Award in 2014 under best composer. On stage, accordionist alternating times of Bach, Vivaldi, his own compositions, tributes to peers such as Astor Piazzolla, Claude Nougaro and popular songs like the Javanese. It develops a dialogue with his audience, greedy of mixing genres and cultural eclecticism. Thus, the dialogue intensified as well by the artists, animators of living jazz that public and leads to themed evenings outside the conventional spaces. It was thus seen as a public reconciliation 67 68 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 period at times improvised. Ie, that the public themselves composed of musicians (rappers, rockers and jazzmen) shared the stage during improvisations. Leading to their towers in exchanges with public presence in radio, squats, operas, in a jazz club. In each of these areas, each worked his shots, attitudes, instruments, techniques; it is noted for example that rappers favored the beat box to the battery. Nothing innovative in the world of rap and yet for some public jazz club, there was something new. The approach of this process in the sense of Jean Yves Trepos have consisted of questioning the social construction of the music by the public and mobilize people and objects borders. “Open up,” “get out of clichés”, “get rich music”, ... On 12 November 2015, the public, our interviews with rappers at the corner of the stage attracted attentions of several nearby support. Engaged in promoting rap and urban music, our exchanges have fueled the curiosity of our neighbors, accustomed to jazz sounds and improvised music. What has happened? For many current jazz lovers as teenagers, music was an escape and allowed to get out of a personal situation. For our respondents as to its public, they discovered for the first time the recordings to 15 years. Their own initiatives, they decide to write texts at home. According to respondents, it is a way to communicate with the outside world since the texts will then be a meeting place with a community that shares their tastes, values, ways to counter the order and the time is also based an approach of musical works. Indeed, public near the scene and consist of jazz musicians or amateurs confirmed having experienced the same age as our respondents (at the time of May 1968), the jazz and the search for originality. Music played a political emancipation vector; deal with an established and contested order, he was to differentiate his style and commitment. The taste was referring to musical groups and particularly to individuals within these groups. It reinforces or not the public involved in his engaging approach. For the group we interviewed, associative engagement allowed him to organize concerts, radio broadcasts weekly in free radio, be constituted as media to carry these resistance values and to be a voice door. This is both meeting spaces, a recognition, a flat experimental form with other worlds and an activity that will guide the beginning of the career of a witness and the pursuit of a musical commitment in connection with the exercise of a passion and development of artistic careers. However, the attachments are not decisive in the musical experience. Participate in a jam or a concert also means come for the music or in addition, meet friends, discover artists. Therefore, alternately actor and spectator, as a couple, with friends, with colleagues at different times of life, the agents of change and moving movingly in the collective factory of French jazz musician in spaces dissemination and consecration bodies. The acceleration of technological processes proceeding in a form of scan objects from the past like the contemporary social activities is the memorial practices. They involve the musician, his peers, specialized critics, the market, the public collectively; they realize all the music and improvised attachments. The memory becomes instant and reflexive, it queries the near future. References Armstrong, M. (2006). Competition in two-sided markets. RAND Journal of Economics, 37(3), 668-691. Becker, H. S. (1992). Les mondes de l’art. Paris: Flammarion. Buscatto, M. (2007). Femmes du jazz. Musicalités, féminités, marginalisations. Paris: CNRS Éditions. English, J. (2005). The economy of prestige, prizes, awards, and the circulation of cultural value. Cambridge University Press. Frey, B. (2005). Knight fever. Towards an economics of awards. Institute for Empirical Research in Economics, University of Zurich, Mimeo. Fabiani, J-L. (1986). Carrières improvisées : théories et pratiques de la musique de jazz en France. In R. Moulin (Ed.), Sociologie de L’Art (pp. 231-245). Paris: La Documentation française. Guinsburgh, V. (2003). Expert opinion and compensation: Evidence frome a musical competition. American Economic Review, 93, 289-296 Hennion, A., & Teil, G. (2003). Les protocoles du goût. Une sociologie positive des grands amateurs de musique. In O. Donnat (Ed.), Regards croisés sur les pratiques culturelles (pp. 63-82). Paris: La Documentation Française. Latour, B. (2006). Sociologie de la traduction. Paris: Presse des Mines. 2.2. The practice of award as a means to fix a memory of jazz: The case of Richard Galliano Lizé, W., Audier, D., & Sofio, S. (Eds.) (2014). Les stratèges de la notoriété. intermédiaires et consécration dans les univers artistiques. Paris: Éd. des Archives contemporaines. Menger, P-M. (1986). L’oreille spéculative. Consommation et perception de la musique contemporaine. Revue française de sociologie, 27(3), 445-479. Moulin, R. (1986). Le marché et le musée. La constitution des valeurs artistiques contemporaines. Revue française de sociologie, 27(3), 369-395. Pecqueux, A., & Roueff, O. (Eds.) (2009). Écologie sociale de l’oreille: Enquêtes sur l’expérience musicale. Paris: Éditions de l’EHESS. Perrenoud, M. (2006). Jouer «le jazz» : où, comment ? Approche ethnographique et distinction des dispositifs de jeu. Paris: L’Harmattan. Roueff, O. (2003). De la légitimation du jazz. In P. Tolila & O. Donnat (Ed.), Les publics. Politiques publiques et équipements culturels (pp. 319-341). Paris: FNSP. 69 70 2.3. Music festivals as a factor of regional development: A pre-study. Miguel Teixeira 1 Abstract In my paper I will give a brief point of view which I consider important to study. Having in mind cultural and touristic contexts, music and arts festivals are very important for the development of smaller regions, mostly due to the increase of tourism in a specific time of the year. Successful cases of this model include the Festival Paredes de Coura in Minho area and Bons Sons in Cem Soldos, Tomar. But, more interesting than these cases, is to see this happening in even more smaller contexts, in Portugal. I seek to present the most important developments in this small venue, explain the benefits of festivals in Portugal, as well 2 as give some good examples of the specific cases at hand. This is a pre-study. Keywords: festivals, festivalisation, music scenes, small venues. 1. Introduction With this paper I intend to present a study about this new “boom festival” conception in Portugal, in the last 15 years, and the impacts caused by these events in smaller regions of Portugal. The data presented here is mostly empiric, obtained in news, articles, reviews, and some field work done by me, and theoretical, with some revision of literature. Although I’m presenting some facts and content about this now, this study is not yet completed. Also, the reason why this is not the final project, is because I was proposed to present at KISMIF’16 event, during my first year of my master’s in Sociology. 2. Music festivals context in Portugal In the last 15 years, there was a “boom” of music festivals in Portugal. We can know at least one festival in each region of Portugal. We can say that Portugal, nowadays, is in the “music festival route”, in an international level, with some festivals appearing in music magazines and websites, such as NME (New Music Express), Rolling Stone, Guardian Music, CNN, BBC, etc… In fact, Portugal has some of the best music festivals in Europe and in the world, having the example of NOS Alive, which was considered, this year one of the best ten music festivals in world, by CNN, nominated as one of the best Overseas Festivals at the UK Festivals Awards in 2015 and winner of many titles in Portuguese Festivals Awards, including Best Festival in Portugal, and other significant major festivals like Super Bock Super Rock, Meo Sudoeste, NOS Primavera Sound, etc… Also, it’s important to say that, every year, there have been an increasing number of foreigners in music festivals in Portugal, with 20% to 40% of the audience composed by people from other countries, and that in just five years. Quoting Farinha, “In this sense, it is possible to register, according to Guerra (2010), a significant increase in the number of festivals rock from 2004.” (Farinha, 2012) But not only big festivals are important to be analyzed. Besides the big music festivals that Portugal 1 Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto, Portugal. E-mail: up201108447|at|letras|dot|up|dot|pt. This is a pre-study. The content presented here are just things I intend to study in the future and some revision of empiric and theory data. 2 71 72 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 has, there are a huge number of medium and small size festivals that are very important to some regions of Portugal and that are my focus point in this paper. 2.1. Music festivals classifications (events) Referring Barbara Maciel, “Getz3 defines event as a temporal phenomenon, with a beginning and an end, with territorial expression confined to a special space that can be a showroom, a large space open or multiple spaces.” (Maciel, 2011). Festivals usually have a small duration, between one to five days, in a specific place that can be open or closed, big or small, in a city or in rural places. Also, there are festivals that don’t have a specific place, but multiples places, such as the example of NOS D’Bandada in Porto, or Vodafone Mexefest, in Lisbon. Also, one characteristic of music festivals is their typology. Using an event classification introduced by Donald Getz, there are some types of events: mega-events; media events; supporting causes events; special events; and community events. Festivals can be included in one of these event types, specially the small ones, due to the variety of small festivals. At last we can classify festivals in size. We have mega and big events; medium sized events; and small and micro events. In Portugal we have some examples: in mega and big festivals we have, Rock in Rio, NOS Alive (figure 1), Super Bock, Super Rock, Meo Sudoeste, Meo Marés Vivas, Nos Primavera Sound and Vodafone Paredes de Coura, for example. Those are the main festival events in Portugal; in medium sized festivals we have, Milhões de Festa, in Barcelos, Vodafone Mexefest, Vilar de Mouros, NOS D’Bandada, Tremor in Azores, Festival de Músicas do Mundo in Sines, for example. In small and Mircro festivals, we have the biggest part in Portugal. Almost every region of Portugal has their own festival, and they are countless. I can give examples from the region of Aveiro, with AgitAgueda in Águeda, Party Sleep Repeat in São João da Madeira, Cambra Fest in Vale de Cambra, Festival OITO24 in Espinho, etc…There is a wide variety of festivals in Portugal. Figure 1: Logo of NOS Alive’15. Source: Retrieved from www.meiosepublicidade.pt. Figure 2: Logo of Party Sleep Repeat in São João da Madeira. Source: Retrieved from www.media.rtp.pt. 2.2. Impacts of music festivals on the development of regions — a pre-study context As I said earlier, this is not a final project, but a pre-study, with some field work and empiric data. In my project, I will study the cases of medium, small and micro festivals in between Douro and Vouga area, more specifically the cases of Milhões de Festa, Party Sleep Repeat and Cambra Fest. 3 Barbara referred Donald Getz in her paper, in the book “Event management and event tourism” 1997. 2.3. Music festivals as a factor of regional development: A pre-study. 2.2.1. Milhões de Festa music festival From news and articles and video footages, I know that this festival is very important for the region of Barcelos, due to the economic impact that this festival has in that region. Despite not being a big festival, many people from other countries already visited this festival. As the organization, (Lovers and Lollypops) says, they have many people from England, Spain and Deustchland. This festival usually takes action in in the end of July, in the last weekend of July, and during that time, Barcelos is home to a large number of tourists who came for that festival, and because of that the economy of that region improves a lot. It is important to say that this festival is considered one of the best medium size festivals in Europe by critics, according to the organization. Milhões de Festa, not only focus on the music itself, but also in the regional products of Barcelos. The products that they sell in the festival are mostly regional products. For example, the food come from the restaurants in Barcelos, and that is very important for the economy of Barcelos. One more idea of this festival is that, this is a new conception of festival. This is a medium size festival, with some international bands, in the line-up, like Alt-J, Crystal Fighters, Dan Deacon, etc…and the place where it takes action is quite peculiar. One of the stages is in the municipal swimming pool, and people can watch the concerts from the pool. 2.2.2. Party Sleep Repeat music festival Party Sleep Repeat is a small festival located in São João da Madeira. It is a two-day indoor festival, in Oliva Factory with only Portuguese bands in the line-up, (Linda Martini, Paus, Holy Nothing, etc... examples of Portuguese bands that performed there). Usually, this festival takes action in the month of April. This festival has already won the title of Best Indoor Festival at the Iberian Festival Awards in 2015, a very important title for this festival, and that’s why this festival is known in other parts of the country, people from Porto, Aveiro, Coimbra, already visited this festival. According to the organization (Associação Cultural Luís Lima) this festival is very important for the city of São João da Madeira, because the box office goes entirely to the families in need. They say that, they want this festival to be a community cause for those families, and they have already helped many families in their economic situation. Figure 3: Party Sleep Repeat Festival photo. Source: Retrieved from www.ecosurbanos.pt. 73 74 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 2.2.3. Cambra Fest music festival Cambra Fest is a micro festival, in Vale de Cambra, in Aveiro region. This festival usually happens in the month of September, in every weekend of September. Is a festival based on garage band contest in several pubs in Vale de Cambra. According to the organization, Vale de Pandora, this allows some pubs to participate in the festival, winning a share of the festival box office, giving them a chance to improve their economic situation. Also, it is a chance for the bands to “get out of the garage”, to be recognized by the audience, and that’s good for the culture of Vale de Cambra. Figure 4: Cambra Fest Banner. Source: Retrieved from www.aac.pt. 3. Conclusion Having in mind that this is not a finished project, with this pre-study, we can see that music festivals are important in these days. Not only big festivals, but mostly the small ones, because those can make a significant difference in some regions of Portugal, in small cities, villages and other parts of the country that aren’t so developed. During those days, music festivals have a significant role in the improvement of economic, social and environmental development in those regions. References C. (2016) Party. Sleep. Repeat. — O festival que é amor. Shifter. Retrieved from http://shifter.pt/2016/04/party-sleep-repeat-o-festival-que-e-amor/ Farinha, A. C. (2012) Festivais de Música. A grande cena! (Unpublished master’s thesis). Faculty of Humanities and Arts, Porto. Guerra, P. (2010). A instável leveza do rock. Porto: Universidade do Porto. Maciel, B. P. (2011). Festivais de Música e Turismo: Dois estudos de caso: Les Aralunaires e Milhões de Festa (Unpublished master’s thesis). Faculty of Humanities and Arts, Porto. Vilhena, I. (2015). Festival Milhões de Festa já ultrapassa fronteiras. Correio do Minho. Retrieved from http://www.correiodominho.com/noticias.php?id=87952 Cardoso, 2.4. Participation and role in the Northern soul scene 1 Sarah Raine and Tim Wall 2 Abstract This article uses the current northern soul scene as a case study to explore the mythologising process of “self-documentation” evident in the practices of music fans in DIY cultures. By focusing on the construction of scene histories, we offer the idea of myth-making as a useful frame through which to explore music cultures that demonstrate DIY elements as central scene practices. Through this paper we offer two different approaches to understanding the northern soul scene, both of which frame origin stories as myth and make use our distinct personal experience as scene insiders. The analysis presents the northern soul scene as a DIY culture, draws upon ideas of myth from anthropology and cultural studies, and uses an innovative collaborative approach. By working together as a critical, self-reflexive inter-generational team we offer new insights into northern soul and provide some potential models for the study of other music scenes. Keywords: DIY culture, myth, Northern soul. 1. Self-documenting and DIY cultures Northern soul is a DIY culture. Like other DIY cultures, participants on the northern soul scene are involved in intensive self-documentation, a practice often associated with accounting for the origins and past of the scene. As we will show, northern soul scene participants have a tendency to mythologise their own past. Using the northern soul scene as a case study we propose that this practice is a characteristic of DIY cultures more generally. From our relative positions within the scene we are able to offer distinct generational conceptualisations of scene insider and outsider. In addition, we explore the mythologizing role that certain central aspects of DIY practices, and scene self-documentation in particular, play in the inter-related ideological construction of notions of scene boundaries and narratives of scene history. We identify a central origin myth as significant in a range of mediations of the scene produced by both scene insiders and outsiders, as well as in the academic writers who have attempted to theorise and explain the scene. As very differently positioned academics and scene participants, we have direct access to these mythologizing processes: in the journalistic mythologizing of Blues & Soul journalists who documented the original scene; and ways in which current scene participants position themselves within these mythologies to demonstrate their insider status. 1.1. The northern soul scene Northern soul is the product of a distinctive music scene which started in the UK in the 1970s, and continues today across the world. The scene is built around distinctive styles of mostly 1960s and 1970s African American records played at events for dancing. Scene participants take on key roles of dancers, DJs and record collectors. In the 1970s the geographical distance between the American music and industrial cultures that had produced the music and the UK scene participants who selected and consumed the music created a distinctly British incorporation of these records into the leisure and identity politics of urban youngsters. The northern soul aficionados who 1 Birmingham Centre for Media and Cultural Research, Birmingham City University, United Kingdom. E-mail: sarah.raine2|at|mail|dot|bcu|dot|ac|dot|uk. 2 Birmingham Centre for Media and Cultural Research, Birmingham City University, United Kingdom. E-mail: tim.wall|at|bcu|dot|ac|dot|uk. 75 76 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 danced, played or collected these records knew very little about their origin or context of production, and overlaid the records with a meaningful set of practices abstracted from their original creation. What they meant in the metropolitan areas of England was far more important than their place in the racial politics of the USA. Nevertheless, it is important to note that the preferred sounds of the northern soul scene were ironically more associated with the dance cultures of the early 1960s, than the later soul music linked to a distinct black American identity. This paper considers the shared stories of some of these scene participants that aim to explain where the scene came from, how insider membership is forged, and critiques the role of researchers in engaging with these stories. Rather than considering stories of the scene’s past as representing shared cultural memories (see, for instance, Bennett & Rogers, 2016), cultural archives or personal histories, we argue that calling upon mythology as a theoretical frame for analysis provides researchers with a means to critically engage with music scene origin stories, allows us to avoid shallow replication or the perpetuation of unchallenged assumptions, and enables us to identify the roles played by key scene practices in this process of mythologizing. 1.2. Northern soul as a DIY, insider culture Set in strict opposition to the “mainstream”, northern soul is considered by its participants to be an underground scene, with most members arguing that mainstream media coverage should be avoided at all cost. This avoidance of mainstream music cultural practices is also evident in the temporary venues of northern soul events; most often hosted in working men’s clubs, town halls and sport facilities rather than bars or clubs, and in the central DJ rule of OVO — Original Vinyl Only — employed at the vast majority of events. As alternatives to earlier, “outsider” mediations of the scene, over the last few decades scene participants have begun to represent their scene engagement through film and new media productions, problematising the earlier strict division of scene / inside and media / out. However such engagements still divide scene opinion and are the focus of much critical insider debate. For many professed northern soul enthusiasts, scene participation is a “way of life” and viewed as a total culture, influencing not only one’s weekends but also most of the days in-between. Regular participation at events, and the knowledgeable and competent public demonstration of scene practices (see Wall, 2006), are central to the development of insider membership, with all aspects of scene participation set apart from not only the mainstream, but other music cultures. Through such participant discourses, the northern soul scene is positioned to be a distinct cultural form, indelibly linked to very particular cultural, economic, political and geographical foundations. Although the term (or even the concept) “DIY” is not used on the northern soul scene, its culture and economy demonstrates a central DIY ethic, with the key practices and busy event schedule under the direct control of its participants. Events are organised by most commonly by DJs from the earlier decades of the scene, and promoted from within the scene through flyers at events or on social media platforms. Established DJs and other influential scene members continue the tradition of importing records from America, selling them to other scene insiders. Social media and scene websites are now an important space for a range of scene-related activities. From events posted on Facebook to the online archiving of memories, photographs and records, the news and events of the scene are communicated outside mainstream media avenues, and actively controlled by group administrators and critical online voices (see Long & Collins, 2016 for an account of these activities). Equally, its participants write the history of northern soul with a scene audience in mind: a process we define as “self-documenting”. The self-documenting nature of the northern soul scene and, we argue, other DIY cultures is a key element within a mythologising process, and central to participant engagement with this insider culture: the fact that the origins of northern soul are historically and geographically contemporary means that they can be personally claimed as a demonstration of inside membership. The replication of these mythologised histories within one’s own narrative (be they oral and personal, or publically in print) offers participants a means through which to demonstrate their position as 2.4. Participation and role in the Northern soul scene an insider. Because of this, the histories and current conceptualisations of the scene have developed a pattern, with specific people, places and events forming the central backbone of the historic, and indeed contemporary, scene, placed in heroic distance from other mainstream and “subcultural” experiences. As some of the scene criticisms of mediations of the scene have shown, major deviations from these shared constructions of the scene past are considered to represent a lack of scene knowledge or insider experience, further legitimising this dominant version of the scene past. As we will highlight later, these central and related practices of mythologizing self-documentation and performance of the insider positions the northern soul scene within a specific geographical, cultural and socio-economic history. 1.3. The insider academic Studying an underground “insider” scene raises important questions about the academic, their relationship to the scene, and to those people they are studying. As well as asking who they are, we need to ask who we are and how our different positions of participant and researcher relate to our academic engagement with the scene. As we negotiate these overlapping positions, we must consider the role of insider academic and question the ways in which we engage with the things we see, hear and experience. As well as academics authoring this analysis, we are both insiders to the scene we study. However, we entered the scene at different times, identify ourselves differently; and we come to the study from different disciplines. We are positioned differently within the scene: one as an “original” member of the 1970s scene, and the other a member of “third” generation of participants in their late twenties and early thirties. One of us is a male dancer, record collector and former DJ in a scene dominated by white, middle-aged male DJs, the other a younger woman who engages primarily through dancing. These differential insider positions are in turn placed within a wider network of academic relationships: as co-authors and co-editors of academic papers; as supervisor and student; as researchers of different, and sometimes combative, generations of the same music scene. We have found that these differences have created a productive and stimulating relationship. Through our experiences as both scene insiders and academic researchers, we have been able to interrogate the existing literature in a self-conscious way, and to critically question each other’s self-narration. This has been particularly productive when considering generational experiences, with each of us demonstrating to the other the meaningful ways in which our generation engages with the scene. By engaging critically with each other and the northern soul scene, we have questioned our assumptions as both insider participants and analytical researchers; our differential positions within the scene and academic life have provided a deep and scenespecific arena for the testing of ideas. 2. Myths of origins and belonging Through this paper we argue that by framing music scene histories as origin myths, we can reveal important insight into both the scene and the academics who study them. By myth, we mean the stories we tell ourselves to explain who we are and how our culture is meaningful; origin myths explain where the scene comes from and how one can become an insider. While stories may differ from person to person in terms of particular details, such as the comparative importance of specific people and places, these shared stories of scene origin and membership act to provide a sense of community (Eder, 2009), stability (see Sahlins 1981, 1985) and separation from other music scenes and, importantly, the mainstream against which northern soul is positioned. In viewing these stories as myths, we do not seek to simplistically question their truth, but rather consider the role of these stories in the past and present northern soul scene. The myths we want to explore are those stories that are told on the scene about how the scene originated and who can make claim to be a member. We follow these central scene origin myths 77 78 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 as mediated through the recent Northern Soul (2014) film, self-documenting fan publications, and (importantly) academic research, and offer two different ways in which myths can be studied. By engaging critically with the origin stories people told, we were able to more usefully consider the role played by Blues & Soul journalist Dave Godin in the geographical positioning of the scene, and to explore the ways in which younger northern soul participants engage within an internally retrospective scene. 2.1. The North of northern soul Northern soul, as the name suggests, has been associated with a specific geographic location in the UK: most often the northwest of England. This association is not only made through the labeling of the scene as “northern soul”, but also through prominent clubs such as The Twisted Wheel in Manchester, the Blackpool Mecca and perhaps best known, Wigan Casino. Northern soul enthusiasts in the 1970s actually attended events across the United Kingdom, yet it is through the names, places, sounds and individuals of these key clubs that the current scene locates itself. Any reference to a map of the United Kingdom will demonstrate that this naming represents the complexities of the geopolitics of the UK, rather than an accurate geographical positioning of the scene. London has been, and arguably continues to be, ideologically the power center of the UK, and within the countries of the UK England is considered to be the focal and dominant part. From this perspective anywhere north of the South East is therefore considered to be “The North”. This cultural and geopolitical positioning also frames the scene within specific social spaces and cultural discourses, locating the scene and its participants within the mythologized “Land of the Working-Class” (Shields, 1991), adding a class-based dimension to the separation of northern soul from the music and practices of the “mainstream”. 2.2. Mediating northern soul origin myths The northern soul scene has been the setting for various mainstream mediations, from documentaries to music videos, adverts to full-length films. The earliest and most reviled within the scene is arguably Tony Palmer’s 1978 Granada documentary Wigan Casino, viewed by scene critics as an outsider’s misunderstanding of the scene and the north of England in general. In more contemporary mediations, scene insiders have taken advantage of the rise of social media and the opportunities of independent British cinema production to offer alternative perspectives. The most recent example is Elaine Constantine’s Northern Soul. As an active and well-connected participant on the scene since the 1980s, Constantine’s insider experience is evident in her decision to organize dance sessions for two years before filming, to work with a range of scene participants to train dancers and develop the wardrobe, and to host a premiere in Blackburn before the official date in London. However, as an analysis of the film will show, insider knowledge does not necessarily mean that mediations will deviate from common expectations of what the northern soul scene is and who might be found on the dance floor. Constantine’s Northern Soul is structured by, and represents, some of the key scene origin myths, following the experiences of two young, white, working-class men from the north of England in a coming-of-age narrative. They express their masculinity through a spectacular dancing style, captured by camera shots across the upper torsos of the dancers, rather than documenting the footwork, central to the scene dancing style (see Wall, 2006), and dream of getting to America, the spiritual fatherland of northern soul music and the home of imagined working-class black American musicians, singers and producers. Placed in comparison to the collective Wikipedia definition, several elements evident within Northern Soul are replicated: (…) a music and dance movement that emerged from the British mod scene, initially in northern England in the late 1960s. 2.4. Participation and role in the Northern soul scene (…) dancing became more athletic, somewhat resembling the later dance styles of disco and break dancing. Featuring spins, flips, and backdrops, club dancing styles were often inspired by the stage performances of visiting American soul acts. (…) mainly consists of a particular style of black American soul music based on the heavy beat and fast tempo of the mid-1960s Tamla Motown sound. Wikipedia entry for “Northern Soul” This Wikipedia summary of the scene offers a collective definition of northern soul, as geographically positioned in the north of England, focused around a range of practices which include a spectacular dancing form, and owing its genre to a Black Soul Music heritage of the US. The archetypal northern soulies of Constantine’s Northern Soul are placed within two mythologised scene origins: the working-class, masculine “North” of their 1970s England existence; and the “black America” (Cosgrove, 1982) of their dreams, full of warehouses and records. The same myths are reproduced in a growing body of publications, written by DJs and enthusiasts alike for insiders in the scene: Teenager Dave Scutt felt the pull and the passion of black music form the minute he first saw old black-and-white TV clips of jazz and blues artists strutting their stuff in smokey inner-city bars. ‘There was something about the way they looked and they way they moved their feet’ (…) When he heard the mid-60s rhythm and blues and soul, it was the beginning of a love affair that would last a lifetime. Dave, then a 16-year-old living in Southport, Lancashire, found a circle of friends who were dancing to and collecting Tamla Motown, Atlantic and Stax current releases (Nowell ,1999). The myths of the scene not only offer a definition of what the northern soul scene is and who is part of it, but provides a means to position oneself as an insider through a demonstration of scene knowledge: the telling of these shared stories and (more importantly) a positioning of self within them. While personal experience may indeed deviate from these common pathways, divergence from scene origin myths indicates a lack of scene knowledge or experience. Through these books, the authors are publically locating themselves as key cultural gatekeepers in the documenting of scene history, and in acting as witnesses to these many events, an undisputable member of the inside. In replicating the myths of scene, the writers document a communally agreed scene history and are in turn accepted as knowledgeable insiders3. Taking into consideration the central role of scene knowledge in the public demonstration of insider participation, the reasons for participant replication (albeit individually negotiated and embellished) are obvious. How, then, have previous researchers into the scene negotiated these origin myths? 2.3. Scene myths in academic texts A review of the extant research on the northern soul scene highlights the reproduction of key origin myths, albeit in more theoretic form. The scene is once again positioned in the north of England (Hollows & Milestone, 1998) and, by a theorized extension through an empathetic relationship through shared music and imagined common experiences of disenfranchisement, the industrial cities of the U.S. (Nicholson, 2012; Hollows & Milestone, 1998), evident in the iconography of northern soul which echoes the black power movement of the 1960s (see Wall, 2006 for a critical analysis of this proposition). The scene as a masculine and competitive space 3 This practice of self-documenting is key to the mythologizing of the scene, and will be explored in more detail in our forthcoming chapter in The Northern Soul Scene (Wall & Raine, 2018). 79 80 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 permeates the focus of research, with dancing (Doyle, 2005) and scene style (Nicholson, 2012) considered as an assertion of masculinity, the dominant voices emerging those of male participants (Smith, 2012) and the male writers of fan publications (such as Nowell, 1999). It is important to note that by citing these published self-documented histories as evidence of the realities of the field, academics have not only reinserted the patriarchal voice of the scene male hierarchy, but also used the product of self-documentation as a fact. This reproduction of scene myth values, and indeed makes heroic, certain voices, places and events, certain ways of viewing and remembering the scene, merely reiterating the mythologised boundaries of the northern soul scene. What then is the role of the academic in engaging with an insider scene? And in considering this, how is the work of an academic distinct from the cultural practices that of the fan? Hesmondhalgh (2005, p. 29) has argued that the academic distinguishes and defines the cultural boundaries of the group s/he is studying, capturing these through their analysis. Much of the extant research on the northern soul scene has done this primarily through replicating an idealised and mythologized construction of the scene, rather than interrogated the processes of construction and the politics involved in the creation of an insider identity, particularly for those who engage on the discursive peripheries of the scene. In contrast, we offer two case studies taken from our own engagement with the scene as insider academics that aim to investigate, rather than merely reproduce, the myths of a scene. 3. Approaches to mythography In setting out these two alternative approaches to mythography, we move from the collective authorship “we” we have used in this article so far, to the single authorship “I” as a way of narratising the processes of research practice rooted in our own insider position and experience, each reflecting our scholarly backgrounds in media analysis and ethnography. Although written with the single personal pronoun, the analyses were developed through a critical and reflexive collaberation between two insider academics who position themselves, and are positioned by others, in relationships of: original male and new scene female member; media and cultural academic and anthropologist; and supervisor and student. We return to the collective authorial “we” in the conclusion to make more general reflections and raise questions for the wider community of popular music scholars. 3.1. Approach 1: The naming myth and Tim’s origins in the 1970s scene Weiner has argued that “the bestowing of place names constitutes (a culture’s) existential space out of a blank environment’ (1991, p. 32). One of the most powerful of popular music mythologies relates to the naming of a culture as place. This is not, as Weiner’s quote reminds us, a practice restricted to music culture. The northern soul scene has at its heart a powerful naming myth of its own that is widely told across all the media we studied, and always associated with a single heroic figure, Dave Godin, then a London-based journalist for Blues & Soul magazine and record shop owner. It sometimes seems fitting that Godin’s name calls forth the idea of an everyday English man who takes the form of supernatural being worshiped for his control of an important aspect of life. In the northern soul origin myth Godin most often officially names the scene in 1971 in his column in Blues & Soul magazine. This myth is elaborated upon through other versions of the naming story in which the term is first seen to emerge when Godin organises records in his London “Soul City” shop to cater for the increasing number soul enthusiasts in pursuit of records with a particular sound. Of course, this central role for external mediators naming music genres or scenes is not specific to the northern soul scene alone, but perhaps an uber-myth for popular music in general. As Sarah Thornton notes, “[j]ournalists and photographers do not invent subcultures, but shape them, mark 2.4. Participation and role in the Northern soul scene their core and reify their borders’ (1995, p. 160). In the origin myth of northern soul, the power of naming attributed to Godin, reifies borders, of shapes and marks a core, positioning the scene within a specific place, and the wider cultural, economic, social and political semiotics of this place. Insider archives In exploring this naming myth, we should return to the original source referred to by the narrative of the scene’s past: Blues & Soul magazine. Blues & Soul was, and continues to be, available for public consumption, to be bought in high street shops or subscribed to for postal delivery. However, the volumes necessary for an examination of Dave Godin’s mythologised act of naming are now forty-five years old and in a magazine rarely publically archived. While some articles have been scanned and uploaded to scene-related websites, these fragments do not provide the wider context for a detailed and immersive piece of archival interpretation. As an insider, as part of my fan practices, I collected Blues & Soul magazine, generating a full set of volumes published during the 1970s. These personal acts of collecting allow me an access that few others have to the original copies of the magazine, and in particular those published in 1971, the date of the “naming of northern soul”. These artifacts undoubtedly trigger a personal sense of place within the scene, along with memories of learning about the scene in adolescence. But as a participant in the contemporary scene, such possessions are also a way of demonstrating one’s ability to connect to the scene’s origins and claim a place of authenticity within scene culture. Such cultural positioning provides a major motivation to align these possessions, memories and status advantages with the naming myth itself. And yet, rereading the articles Godin wrote in his 1971 columns, the most striking thing is that he does not name the scene as “northern soul” in any of these issues. The term only gains currency in the magazine in 1973, and then only in adverts for records and mobile discos. On this evidence, Godin’s role seems incidental at best. As an academic, rather than participant, such access provides a door to the past through which certain aspects of the original culture can be glimpsed. Simply refuting the myth, though, does not explain why and how Godin’s columns have taken on the significance in the story of origin that they have. What is much more interesting (and never discussed in histories of the scene) is that Godin is the first to mythologise the scene in print. Rather than a character in the myth of origin, close attention to Godin’s columns reveal that he is the original mythologiser for the scene, and that he made a significant departure from his usual journalistic practices to take on this role. Godin’s twice-weekly columns in 1970 and 1971 issues of the magazine are mostly a list of records and his commentary on their aesthetic and cultural value. Prominent in his discourse is the evocation of soul as an intangible spirit and the hard division between the records he discusses and the mainstream pop of British culture he derides. In issues 36 and 37 he creates a distinctly different column and turns for the first time to lists of records played in clubs in the North of England. While the term “northern soul” is never used, Godin does talk about the scene in the north of England as different to that in the south. In issue 50, Godin makes a dramatic change in his writing and subject, adopting a style some way between an ethnographic account and what was then called new journalism, to chronicle his trip to Manchester to visit one of the mythologised founding clubs of northern soul: The Twisted Wheel. Something of the flavour of his mythologizing can be found in two extracts. The column opens with the construction of a romanticized northern-ness: rhetorically so different from his own London. If northern soul as a concept is born here, it is defined by someone from the south of England, and built upon a sense of the exotic “other”. In his account he meets the scene’s participants and is temporarily allowed an “inside” view of its culture. Godin constructs the scene as literally underground, hidden from the normal world outside: the north is not (to Londoners at least) what it seems at first view: Somewhere out in that black dim night gloom in this city of what looked like perpetual night there was an oasis known as The Wheel. It was as if all the life energy of the great city was 81 82 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 channeled into this spot and hidden away under the ground for fear of disturbing the ‘respectable’ citizenry, because looking out of the cab windows on this dank and murky night, Manchester looked like a ghost town. How wrong first impressions can be was to be shown by later events and happenings (Godin, 1971). As his account unfolds what have become the core myths of the scene are set out. Godin codifies the dancing and the relationship of the scene to the US. For the London columnist, this UK scene is not the England we usually think of, “rigid and armoured”, and he identifies “the soul clap” (today part of the dance mythology) as symbolising a community spirit that Godin had often evoked in his discussion of soul records in his columns. Here, of course, Godin is mystifying this scene at the very point he defines it, and he does so from outside and for reasons of his own. Like the mythical being he has become, he determines a place and a group of people from another place and exoticises them: The dancing is without a doubt the highest and the finest I have ever seen outside of the USA in fact I never thought I’d live to see the day where people could so relate the rhythmic content of Soul music to bodily movement to such a skilled degree in these rigid and armoured Isles! And, unbelievable as it seems, everybody there was an expert in Soul clapping! In the right places, and with a clipped sharp quality that only adds an extra something to appreciation of Soul music (Godin, 1971). Dave Godin is heralded as a central character in the mythologized history of northern soul, his outsider generational and geographical attributes neutralized through the role of an honorary member, a benevolent (and, it has to be said, at times belligerent) god-father. This heroic identity was taken up by members of the scene and made their own, its meanings reimagined through the mythologies of its origins. 3.2. Approach 2: Origin myths and the scene inside and Sarah’s ethnography of new generation scene members The origin myths of the northern soul scene position the insider in terms of British geography, gender and time of participation. They are from the North of England. They are male. And they attended events at the key mythologised venues during the 1970s. Being able to discursively position oneself within these ways of seeing the scene provides ways of constructing and performing an insider identity. Through these myths, the “original” members who populate the extant research conform to these archetypes, their experiences of attendance at particular venues in the 1970s used in their authenticating narrative of insider membership, pursued and documented by academics. In addition to constructing an archetypal northern soulie at the center of the inside, these myths also position those who do not conform on the periphery. As the northern soul scene finds new enthusiasts in different countries and younger generations, those who wish to claim to be an insider must find new ways to engage with the mythologies of the scene and to prove they belong. The reality of the current scene problematizes the mythologized boundaries of inside and out, the realities of who attends and the dissonance between actual participation and mythologised participant. In order to distinguish and define the increasingly “hazy” boundaries (Hesmondhalgh 2005, p. 29) of the northern soul scene, we must explore the individual engagements of not only those who fit, but those who must find new ways to demonstrate their membership. By using the frame of myth, we can view these boundaries as culturally constructed through stories of scene origins, as sites of struggle and individual negotiations. Through such a framing, new insights into scene boundaries become apparent. An ethnographic study My research focuses on the younger generation of the northern soul scene. A second wave of scene participation developed in the 1980s, based upon individuals who had not been part of the 2.4. Participation and role in the Northern soul scene original culture mythologized by Godin. In the next two decades, a third and fourth generation of scene participants emerged, positioned by themselves, and by older participants, as “younger” members of the scene. My ethnography reveals that the boundaries of the scene and the people who can make claim to membership are delimited by the origin myths we have discussed so far, and yet the reality of contemporary scene engagement both challenge and highlight these boundaries. As an active participant on the scene before my research began, I was able to engage with an insider society and test the assumptions reproduced in the extant literature. By framing the common scene histories as myths offered me a more flexible approach that valued individual voices and different engagements with the scene, rather than a search for an “authentic” Soulie; a common pursuit in much of the extant research. The origin myths of the scene position the insider in terms of British geography, gender and time of participation. As we have already established: they are from the North of England; they are male; and they attended events at the key mythologised venues during the 1970s. Being able to discursively position oneself within these ways of seeing the scene provides ways of constructing and performing an insider identity. However, the young people that I talk to as part of my research cannot claim to be an insider through stories of original participation. How do they engage with the mythologies of the scene? How do they prove that they belong as part of the scene? Through an analysis of what these individuals do and what they say in terms of their engagement, it is evident that younger participants actively work to position themselves within the scene’s past. For example, the younger members increasingly adopt a vintage style, wearing clothes from predominantly the 1960s and 1970s. However, in explaining and justifying these stylistic choices, the participants within my study go beyond the founding structures of the 1970s scene and use their engagement with the material culture of the past to both demonstrate knowledge of two mythologised origins: 1970s England and 1960s America. They position themselves within these two pasts through the rejection of the present and the declaration of “finding true self”. Through individual narrative processes, the scene is discursively positioned within these two mythologized pasts, an arena of “authenticity” within which individuals position themselves as scene insiders. They highlight practices such as listening to vinyl on a record player in terms of imagined past sociability, aligning themselves with the discourses and memories of the older participants of the scene. To engage with the scene inside, the younger members of the scene must engage with these the mythologised scene past through the means available to them. By considering how the younger members of the northern soul scene engage with the origin myths and associated expectations of the archetypal insider, certain aspects of the scene’s boundaries became evident. As with many music scenes, the scene inside is placed in opposition to the commercial “mainstream”, yet these engagements demonstrate that the boundaries between inside and out within the northern soul scene include temporal dimensions. Northern soul is not simply placed in opposition to the commercial mainstream, but in opposition to the present. 4. Conclusions and questions The neat narrative construction of the origins of music scenes are not unique to northern soul, but pervasive to popular music culture. For those who study popular music the long, hot summer and stinking dustbins of the punk-mythologised year 1975, or the revolutionary records of Elvis Presley that merge black and white music into 1950s rock ‘n’ roll are standard parts of the story of pop. Each of these mythologised stories is built by a combination of insider and outsider chroniclers, and features their own heros. Perhaps DIY music cultures, with their strong insider identities, require even stronger origin myths to provide a common sense of belonging. Accordingly, we would argue that acadmics studying these cultures, especially those who are participants themselves, face a strong temptation to simply reproduce the assumptions and myths of the scenes. 83 84 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 This raises a question for us as academics, then: how can we use our insider knowledge to better explore such mythologies and the importance they have for other insiders, and how can such a study aid the understanding of outsiders? By using a case study of the northern soul scene and our engagement with it as insider academics, we have demonstrated the potential insights offered by critical academic frames of mythologizing histories, especially in the DIY practices of “self-documentation”. Certainly, the northern soul scene has not been considered as either a DIY culture or mythologised scene by participants or previous researchers, yet it clearly exhibits elements of both. By reframing of scene histories as scene mythologies we are able to offer new insight into the myth-making role of one important Blues & Soul journalist and the contemporary engagement of individuals who find themselves, because of the challenge of connecting themselves to the origin myth of the scene, on the discursive boundaries of its insider culture. We end by proposing a question to other students of DIY scenes. Would a study of other subcultures in terms of their tendency as insider cultures to mythologise provide new insights? How might research into punk, for example, benefit through a framing of the scene as an insider culture? How would frames of origin myth, the naming of music and scene, the self-conscious discourse of the DIY ethos, and roles of different generations of participants transform our understanding of these important social movements? We have also demonstrated how a critical reinterpretation can be achieved through a reflexive engagement between insider academics of two different generations of participants. This is especially so as the replication of scene myths within individual narratives is a key demonstration of experienced scene membership. We have shown how, in their negotiation of the scene inside as ethnographic researchers, many researchers within the field have adopted and reproduced origin myths as a demonstration of their scene knowledge. In contrast, we offer our inter-generational analysis as a model for critical ethnographic engagement in multigenerational music-scenes. Acknowledgments: The authors would like to thank the Birmingham Centre of Media and Cultural Research at Birmingham City University for making this paper possible and for supporting us during our time at the 2016 KISMIF conference in Porto; the members of the Popular Music Research Group for their constructive feedback; the KISMIF conference team; and the University of Porto for hosting us. Funding: Attendance at the 2016 KISMIF conference was funded by the Birmingham Centre of Media and Cultural Research at Birmingham City University. Part of this paper builds upon emerging material from Sarah Raine’s ongoing doctoral research, which is funded by a Birmingham City University Studentship Award. Professor Tim Wall’s research was undertaken as part of his role as Professor of Radio and Popular Culture at Birmingham City University. References Bennett, A. and Rogers, I. (2016). Popular music scenes and cultural memory. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Cosgrove, S. (1982). Long after tonight is all over — Northern Soul. Collusion, 2. Doyle, B. (2005).’More than a dance hall, more a way of life: Northern Soul masculinity and working class culture in 1970s Britain. In A. Schildt and D. Siegfried (Ed.), Between Marx and Coca-Cola: Youth cultures in changing European societies 1960-1980. Oxford: Berghahn. Eder, K. (2009). A theory of collective identity making sense of the debate on a ‘European identity. European Journal of Social Theory, 12(4), 427-447. DOI: 10.1177/1368431009345050. Godin, D. (1971). Land of a thousand dances. Blues & Soul, vol. 50. Hesmondhalgh, D. (2005). Subcultures, scenes or tribes? None of the above. Journal of Youth Studies, 8(1), 21-40. DOI: 10.1080/13676260500063652. Hollows, J. and K., Milestone (1998). Welcome to Dreamsville: A history and geography of northern soul. In A., Leyshon, D., Matless, and G., Revill (Eds), The place of music. London: Guilford Press. 2.4. Participation and role in the Northern soul scene Long, P. and Collins, J. (2016) Affective memories of music in online heritage practice. In J., Brusila, B., Johnson and J. Richardson (Eds), Music, memory and space. Intellect. Nicholson, S. (2012). From Detroit to Wigan — Style as a refusal. In J., Berry (Ed.), Fashion capital: Style economies, sites and cultures (Critical Issues). London: Inter-Disciplinary Press. Nowell, D. (1999). Too darn soulful. London: Robson. Sahlins, M. (1981). Historical metaphors and mythical realities. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Sahlins, M. (1985). Islands of history. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Shields, R. (1991). Places on the margin. London: Routledge. Wall, T. (2006). Out on the floor: The politics of dancing on the northern soul scene. Popular Music, 25(3), 431. Doi:10.1017/S0261143006000985. Wall. T. & Raine, S. (forthcoming, 2018) Myths on/of the northern soul scene. In S., Rain, N., Smith and T., Wall (Eds.), The northern soul scene. Sheffield: Equinox Publishing. Weiner, J. (1991). The empty place: Poetry, space, and being among the Foi of Papua New Guinea. John Wiley & Sons. 85 86 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach 1 2 Tatiana Dinis Ribeiro , Pedro António Ferreira and Maria João Vaz 3 Abstract The scope of this paper is the Rock in Rio’s (RIR) Business Model (BM). The concept of creating shared value (CSV) is integrated for a better understanding of the company’s sustainability program. The main goal is the construction of RIR’s BM based on Canvas BM. The research method used was qualitative and focused on a case study. Data was collected from sixteen public interviews, with a total length of five hours, and sixteen public documents, with a total of ten pages, available in different formats (video, digital and print). Content analysis was used to process data and deliver results. The main limitation found during the research was the lack of direct information, due to untimely response to a questionnaire sent to RIR’s managers, which conditioned the enhancement of data triangulation and obtaining information related to the use of CSV in the company’s sustainability program. Keywords: musiness model, canvas business model, Rock in Rio, creating shared value. 1. Music festival’s in Portugal In 1985 the number of music festivals in Portugal was very low. The type of music associated with them was manly classic and they were aimed at an audience belonging to the upper classes of Portuguese society. In 1990, there was a recorded increase in the number of festivals, mainly in the north, although not very significant. The year 1999 saw a greater improvement, with the appearance of Rock festivals in Portugal as well as a large growth of music festivals (Martinho & Neves, 1999). The business of music festivals had a boom in Portugal in the twenty-first century. Many external factors may have helped. With an easier access to the internet, it became possible to get free downloads of music. It caused a tremendous break in the record sales, which meant that artists had to do more live concerts to cover their losses (AA.VV., 2013). Traveling became cheaper and faster, making for a perfect combination to help this sector of business grow. In 2016, there were more than 200 music festivals in continental Portugal. These events happen mostly during summer and are very popular among the younger groups aged between 17 and 30 years old (Bramão & Azevedo, 2015b). The type of music ranges between rock, pop, alternative music, indie, electronic music, jazz, metal, hip hop and rap (Bramão & Azevedo, 2015b). The ticket sales of a festival are largely dependent of the participating artists, causing the organizers to negotiate the contracts they sign more than one year prior to the event (Fernandes, 2015). Music festivals in Portugal are very dependent of both branding and sponsors. Branding and sponsorships make for the largest share of most festivals’ revenues. These contracts tend to be long-term contracts and every year it takes a long time to negotiate all the conditions required by both parts. 1 Alumni ISCTE — University Institute of Lisbon, Portugal. E-mail: tatianadinis77|at|gmail|dot|com. ISCTE — University Institute of Lisbon, BRU — Business Research Unit, ISCTE-IUL, Portugal. E-mail: pedro.ferreira|at|iscte|dot|pt. 3 ISCTE — University Institute of Lisbon, Portugal. E-mail: maria.vaz|at|iscte|dot|pt. 2 87 88 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 The music festival that will be analyzed in this article is RIR, a 31-year-old festival that started in Brazil in 1985, went to Portugal in 2004, then Spain in 2008 and was recently implemented in USA in 2015. For a complete understanding of this case study, the following chapter will explain BM theory and the BM theory chosen. 2. Business model 2.1. Theory BM concept has been used more frequently since the 1990´s with many theories about how it should be. There is no right or wrong theory about BM. There are plenty of ways to run a business. Entrepreneurs should not lose focus of where they want their business to go as well as of the way to get there. The notions of every author are important in the sense that they can give guidelines to run a business, helping to organize all the information and helping maximize revenues. However, every business is different so it is impossible to give a unique recipe for creating a successful business. Fielt (2013), in his article Conceptualizing Business Models: Definitions, Frameworks and Classifications, describes the most important theories written by different authors ordered by name and year as presented in the table 1 (Fielt, 2013, pp. 87-88). Author(s) Definition Timmers (1998) Definition of a business model: (a) an architecture for the product, service and information flows, including a description of the various business actors and their roles; and (b) a description of the potential benefits for the various business actors; and (c) a description of the sources of revenues. (p.4) Mahadevan (2000) A business model is a unique blend of three streams that are critical to the business. These include the value stream for the business partners and the buyers, the revenue stream, and the logistical stream. (p. 59) Rappa (2000) In the most basic sense, a business model is the method of doing business by which a company can sustain itself -- that is, generate revenue. The business model spells out how a company makes money by specifying where it is positioned in the value chain. Afuah and Tucci (2001) A business model is the method by which a firm builds and uses its resources to offer its customers better value than its competitors and make money doing so. It details how a firm makes money now and how it plans to do so in the long-term. The model is what enables a firm to have a sustainable competitive advantage, to perform better than its rivals in the long term. (p. 3-4) Amit and Zott (2001) A business model depicts the content, structure, and governance of transactions designed so as to create value through the exploitation of business opportunities. (p. 511) Tapscott (2001) A business model refers to the core architecture of a firm, specifically how it deploys all relevant resources (not just those within its corporate boundaries) to create differentiated value for customers. (p. 5) Chesbrough and Rosenbloom (2002) The business model provides a coherent framework that takes technological characteristics and potentials as inputs, and converts them through customers and markets into economic inputs. The business model is thus conceived as a focusing device that mediates between technology development and economic value creation. (p. 532) It “spells out how a company makes money by specifying where it is positioned in the value chain” (p. 533). 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach Morris et al. (2005) A business model is a concise representation of how an interrelated set of decision variables in the areas of venture strategy, architecture, and economics are addressed to create sustainable competitive advantage in defined markets. (p. 727) Shafer et al. (2005) We define a business model as a representation of a firm’s underlying core logic and strategic choices for creating and capturing value within a value network. (p. 202) Chesbrough (2006) At its heart, a business model performs two important functions: value creation and value capture. First, it defines a series of activities that will yield a new product or service in such a way that there is net value created throughout the various activities. Second, it captures value from a portion of those activities for the firm developing the model. (p. 108) Johnson, Christensen, and Kagermann (2008) A business model, from our point of view, consists of four interlocking elements that, taken together, create and deliver value. The most important to get right, by far, is the customer value proposition. The other elements are the profit formula, the key resources and the key processes. (p. 52-53) Demil and Lecocq (2010) Generally speaking, the concept refers to the description of the articulation between different BM components or ‘building blocks’ to produce a proposition that can generate value for consumers and thus for the organization. (p. 227) Osterwalder and Pigneur (2010) A business model describes the rationale of how an organization creates, delivers, and captures value. (p. 14) Teece (2010) In short, a business model defines how the enterprise creates and delivers value to customers, and then converts payments received to profits. (p. 173) Zott and Amit (2010) A business model can be viewed as a template of how a firm conducts business, how it delivers value to stakeholders (e.g., the focal firms, customers, partners, etc.), and how it links factor and product markets. The activity systems perspective addresses all these vital issues (...). (p. 222) George and Bock (2011) (...) a business model is the design of organizational structures to enact a commercial opportunity. (p.99) (...) three dimensions to the organizational structures noted in our definition: resource structure, transactive structure, and value structure. (p.99) Table 1: A selective overview of BM definitions. Source: Fielt, 2013, p. 87-88. All of these theories have BM studies as their main focus, although they do not follow the same scope. There are different subtopics analyzed by the authors: Definition; Taxonomy; Components; Representation tools; Ontological model; Change of methodology; and Evaluation measures (Osterwalder, 2004, p. 24). These subtopics have different characteristics:  Definition: Contributions to define what a BM is or should be;  Taxonomy: Classification suggestions;  Components: Conceptual approach of BM that goes beyond the definition and the characterization, dividing the business into its components to facilitate comprehension of the business model.  Representation tool: Construction of a representation tool in order to easily understand how the business model works as a whole.  Ontological model: Define and classify a BM, define their components and explain how they connect to each other.  Change methodology: Authors that address the methodology change as well as the change of components;  Evaluation methodology: definition of indicators to measure BM’s success. 89 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Osterwalder (2004), represents the approach of the main authors as characterized in the table (Alt and Zimmermann 2001) X (Applegate 2001) X Evaluation Measures Change Methodology X X (Amit and Zott 2001) Ontological Modeling X Representation Tool (Afuah and Tucci 2001; 2003) Components Authors Taxonomy 2. Definition 90 X X X (Bagchi and Tulskie 2000) (Chesbrough and Rosenbloom 2000) X (Gordijn 2002) X (Hamel 2000) X X X (Hawkins 2001) X (Linder and Cantrell 2000) X (Magretta 2002) X X X X X X X (Mahadevan 2000) X (Maitland and Van de Kar 2002) X (Papakiriakopoulos and Poulymenakou 2001) X (Peterovic, Kittl et al. 2001) X (Rappa 2001) X X X X (Stähler 2002) X (Tapscott, Ticoll et al. 2000) X X (Timmers 1998) X X (Weill and Vitale 2001) X X X X X X Table 2: BM authors list. Source: Osterwalder, 2004. As shown in the table 2 there are diversified approaches about the concept of BM and each adds value to the common knowledge of the subject. Nevertheless, it was not simple to characterize RIR’s BM without a representation tool due the complexity of their components. The Business Model Canvas seemed the most appropriate approach for this particular study, since it gives a clear idea on how the business works, connecting every component of a company. 2.2. Business model canvas In Osterwalder (2010) the author has created a very useful tool that helps entrepreneurs visualize their BM (Osterwalder & Pigneur, 2010). Business Model Canvas is simple to understand for newcomers in the business world. In the picture 1 it is presented the Business Model Canvas. 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach Figure 4: Business Model Canvas. Source: Retrieved from http://espriex.co/business-model-canvas. Business Model Canvas is divided in nine blocks representing: customer segment; value proposition; channels; customer relationships; revenue streams; key resources; key activity; key partners; and cost structure. These are the most important components to describe how certain business work.  Customer segment: The definition of the market you want to achieve;  Value proposition: The distinction of the value you added with your product from your competitors’;  Channels: The way you get in touch with your customers;  Customer relationship: The way you treat your customer and the way he sees you;  Revenue streams: The way you generate profit;  Key resources: The human or material resources that are essential for your business;  Key activities: The description of the most important activities to the maintenance of a business;  Key partners: The description of the partners that are needed to make the business grow;  Cost structure: The costs related to the management of the business. After defining all of these points in a BM one could have a more clear idea of what is sustainable and what could be improved in the business. Therefore, it seemed important to use this model to describe RIR’s BM. The next chapter will explain the CSV concept, aiming to finding if it is possible to integrate in the company business model. 3. Creating shared value 3.1. Porter and Kramer theory CSV is a concept developed by Porter and Kramer (2011), and it is based on corporate social responsibility, sustainability and philanthropy (Porter & Kramer, 2011). The definition of CSV might 91 92 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 be confused with these theories. While in corporate social responsibility the company donates certain part of their profits to support social causes, in sustainability they are more focused on protecting the environment and maintain the balance between what mankind destroys and what it gives back to the ecosystem. Philanthropy is what companies give to noble causes without expecting return. Porter and Kramer tell us that shared value is created when companies create value for society, particularly in social and environmental terms, in addition to creating value for themselves (Porter & Kramer, 2011). This economic theory was consolidated step-by-step, beginning with the article The Competitive Advantage of Corporate Philanthropy, where Porter and Kramer describe how it is possible to make a company competitive through philanthropy. They criticize multinational companies for using philanthropy as a mean to promote themselves in society’s eyes. For example, Philip Morris donates almost 75 million dollars to social causes while it spends around 100 million dollars to promote their acts of charity (Porter & Kramer, 2002, p. 1). The authors defend that the critic factor to competitiveness is productivity. They believe that having better conditions for employees’ are crucial for high levels of productivity. If employees have access to education, healthcare, safety at the workplace and reasonable conditions in their own houses they will be more productive at work, which makes the company more competitive in their market (Porter & Kramer, 2002, p. 2). Porter and Kramer (2006) reinforce the idea of integration of society in the business world in order to solve the lack of understanding between companies and society (Porter & Kramer, 2006). They go on with their critics to corporate social responsibility politics used by companies, arguing that the only means that it exists are moral/civic duty; sustainability; license to operate; or reputation (Porter & Kramer, 2006, p. 3). They keep the idea that the best way to develop businesses is improving the employees’ quality of life. The better working environment a person has, the more they are willing to produce at work. Moreover, the more money a person has, the more that person will be willing to spend and, consequently, the economy flows. The authors also argue that sooner or later a weak society might bring tremendous costs to the companies, such as work accidents and non-competitive products (Porter & Kramer, 2006, p. 6). Porter and Kramer believed that: “Companies can create economic value by creating social value. There are three distinctive ways to do this: by reconceiving products and markets, redefining productivity in the value chain and building supportive industry clusters at the company’s location” (Porter & Kramer, 2011, p. 7). 3.2. Other author’s reviews CSV is a controversial theory. There were many authors to give their opinion about this concept. Many agree and find the concept useful both for society as well as for the companies. Others find it used and without any novelty, almost a copy of corporate social responsibility with little upgrade. In the table 3 there were analyzed seven different author’s that argue about the relevance of CSV concept. It was concluded that most of the authors show a positive position in reaction to the concept, although the major critics goes for the lack of novelty, the problem that companies can face having two different missions, and profit oriented theory. The concept shows goodwill from the authors on trying to make a difference in the economic sphere although it might be considered utopian, since the companies live for the maximization of profit. Subsequently the CSV concept only shows their results in long term, only companies with high levels of profit such as Nestlé, Cisco or Coca-Cola have the financial capacity to invest in this concept, as well as the ability to dislocate their business for places with low conditions of live to make a difference creating clusters of development. Although this practice is not yet fully consolidated was considered relevant to study if it is used in RIR’s business model. The company is well known for their sustainability practices as well as their size and relevance in international level. With this study, we try to understand if there are some 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach shared value creation practices in this business model. If it is verified that RIR use this practices we want to position it in canvas business model. Author Positive Criticism Negative Criticism X Positive impact in society; Suggestion to create a business model focused in CSV. Difficulty of maintaining two goals in the mission of a company (social and economic); Difficulty in measuring the efficiency of the CSV application impact. Micheline, L. & Fiorentino, D. (2011) X Growth in employability; Development of local entrepreneurship; Access to new products and services; Increase of quality of life; Knowledge of markets; Access to local networks; Development of social responsibility. Risks of privatization of public goods; Oligopolistic markets; Guidance for profit; Long term economic sustainability; Management complexity. Szmigin, I. & Rutherford, R. (2013) X Appreciation of the positive impact of the CSV; Add the theory of Adam Smith — Invisible Spectator Test (IST) Necessity of regulators (IST) in order to have benefits both for society and the company; Florin, J. & Schmidt, E. (2011) Pros Beschorner,T. (2013) Hartman, L. P. & Werhane, P. H. (2013) Generalist approach; Oversimplified assumptions; Ambitious concept; Lack of novelty; Misunderstandings in the terminological and conceptual level; Purely economic approach. X X Crane, A., Palazzo, G., Spence, L. J., Matten, D. (2014) Rocchi, M. & Ferrero, I. (2014) Cons X X Agreement in most CSV points; Add some suggestions. It is not the only form of business awareness; Lack of definition in specific problems. Successful appeal to professionals and schools; Raises social issues at the strategic level; Articulate a clear role for the responsible behavior of governments; Adds rigor to the ideas of “conscious capitalism “ and provides a link building between concepts. The concept lack originality; Ignore the tensions between social and economic objectives; It is naive in relation to business compliance challenges that companies face. Compliance with the values of CSV concept, adding some points to improve it (Systematic CSV). Incomplete conceptual model; Little discrepancy of values between Social Responsibility and the CSV. Table 3: Table analysis of theoretical scientific articles of the concept of CSV. Source: Table constructed by the authors. 4. Rock in Rio’s case study RIR celebrated in 2016 their 31st birthday. The festival was born in Brazil in 1985 by Roberto Medina, who brought the event also to Portugal in 2004, Spain in 2008 and for USA in 2015 for the celebration of their 30th birthday. The festival was born with the promise that would be the biggest festival in the world. Every year in organization break their boundaries of success, investing in huge artists and giant animations for each event they organized. In order to measure the company’s success, we propose to describe RIR’s business model, using canvas business model. 4.1. Methodology This article is a case study about RIR. This methodology was chosen in order to build the company’s business model, in order to understand how it works, what are the most important building blocks and if it is possible to recognize some CSV politics in it. The case study approach is 93 94 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 appropriate for describing, analyzing and understanding formal and informal processes in organizations (Hartley, 2004, p. 323). It was also used qualitative methodology, using the document analysis to conduct the literature review and data analysis to gather necessary information from the interviews given to the media (written and audio/video format) by the company’s managers and employees. For documental analysis was used: (1) Analysis of basic articles on music festivals, business models and CSV; (2) Research articles and authors relevant to the issues; (3) Description of the theories basis of each subject; (4) Construction of the analytical frameworks; To content analysis, it was analyzed 32 interviews, which 16 of them was written and 16 video/audio. The video/audio interviews length almost five hours. For this analysis were used the next procedures: (1) Search in several media articles, interviews and news; (2) Building of a datasheet with the data found; (3) Transcription of audio interviews; (4) Construction of analytical frameworks; (5) Analysis of the interviews one by one; (6) Presentation of results. In order to present all the results of this study it was also used the canvas business model to visually represent the way RIR business model works. In the next chapter, each block will be explained in detail. 4.2. Rock in Rio’s business model RIR’s business model will be explained following the order suggested by Alexander Osterwalder (Osterwalder & Pigneur, 2010). First it will be explained the costumer segment, following the value proposition; the channels; the costumer relationship; the revenue stream; the key resources; the key activities; the key partnerships and finally the cost structures. The data for the construction of this business model was obtained by the search of media interviews due the lack of timely response of RIR’s managers to the questionnaire sent to them. Subsequently the company did not confirm this data. RIR’s Business Model was built as you can see in the figure 3. RIR’s customer segments are:  Public of the festival: buying the ticket and goes to the festival;  Sponsors: Paying some percentage of the cost of the festival in exchange for publicity of their brand or company.  Social media enterprises: paying some amount of money to have exclusive information or streaming of the concerts. The brand intends to demark itself from their competitors offering to their public:  Unique experience: They offer a unique experience not just about music but creating an amusement park in the event room;  Communication platform: RIR have a full coverage of the event by communication enterprises being a tremendous focus of attention to the media in general.  Planning and Organization: The planning and organization of the event it is a crucial point to the success of the event. 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach  Music diversity: the variety of artist chosen to participate in the event, creating thematic days to range the bigger amount of public segments possible attract people with different musical tastes;  For a Better Word Project: RIR shows ambient consciousness with the project For a Better World, a sustainability program that intends to diminish the Human environmental footprint in the ecosystem. Key Partnerships Key Activities Value Proposition Key Resourses CostumerRelationship CostumerSegment Chanels SUPPLIERS CostStructure ARTIST'S REVENUE Revenue Streams INSURANCE PRODUCTION Figure 2: RIR’s Business Model. Source: Ribeiro, 2015. Biggest festival in the world: The patent of biggest music festival in the world helps in terms of reputation and quality standards. RIR gets in touch with their clients through different channels:  Social networks: Social networks are used to promote the festival and help the costumers to get actualized information about what is going to happen on it.  Contact network: The contact network are all the brands involved in the organization as sponsors and partners that promote the festival before and during the event.  Media Partner’s: Media partner’s whose support the festival.  Official website: Official website of the festival where are given all the information’s related to the festival as well as curiosities.  City of Rock: Contact with the public in the event’s plaza. The relationship that RIR wants to establish with their costumers is based on trust in the brand. The organization of the festival tries to increase the quality of the event every year. The particular relationship that the brand wants to establish with each specific costumer segment it is not totally understood, although it is noted that there is personalized treatment for each kind of costumer. These relationships are listed as:  Relationship with sponsors: Relation of proximity, using legal contracts and agreements;  Relationship with the public of the festival: Regular relation costumer/seller, trust based in the final product; 95 96 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3  Relationship with VIP public: The organization of the festival makes a special effort to please these clients in order to give a good image for the rest of the costumers. Having celebrities going to the event gives good reputation.  Relationship with social media: Relation of proximity, using legal contracts and agreements; The four points listed above are the main responsible for the success of the festival, as well as the amount of revenue obtained before, during and after the event. If all the processes happen according to the expectation, in the end of the festival there are a massive profit, even after paying all the cost associated with the organization of the event. Revenue Stream is generated through:  Ticketing: Revenue earned through the sale of tickets to the event;  Licensing: Revenue made through the licensing of the brand to other companies or brands (for example Toyota Yaris Rock in Rio);  Spontaneous media: Revenue obtained by social media without partnership with the brand in publicity;  Sponsorship: Revenue gained through the sponsor that pays to have their brand related to the festival;  Merchandising: Revenue earned through the selling of merchandising of the festival;  Media Partners: Revenue made through the selling of the exclusive news our transmission of the event. The key resources have a substantial importance to the success of RIR’s business model. These resources are:  RIR’s Team: RIR’s employees are the main asset of the company. They are responsible for all the contracts that the company sign in order to have success.  RIR brand: RIR brand is a massive asset since brings huge profits to the company.  Musicians: Artists are quite important since without them the festival could never exist. The better the artists contracted more ticket sales the company will achieve.  City of Rock: Although the event plaza is indispensable, it not belongs to the company nor in Brazil, nor in Portugal or USA. The organization of the festival makes agreements with town hall to have this spaces through counterparts;  Outsourcing: The organization of the festival hire outsourcing for all the material needed to the festival. Light, sound, stages, amusement machines are assembled by outsourcing companies. The key activities developed by RIR are:  Hiring artists: This process takes more than a year to the company, and requires a huge effort to RIR team. This process goes from the first call to the artist manager till they sign the contract;  Capturing sponsorship: The capturing of sponsorship is a slow process that requires much negotiation. As well as hiring artists it is an activity developed by the RIR team;  Infrastructure management: These activities included the City of Rock management during the event, management assemblers of stage, lights and sound. This activity is important to make the festival happen, as well as to maintain their good image;  Design experiences: Design the festival in order to make the public have the better experience they could;  Design campaigns: The design of marketing and advertising campaign is probably the most important activity in the RIR. As the managers of the festival mention the RIR is not just a music project, it is a communication project;  Project management: Production of RIR requires the management of various types of projects in which the festival is involved. Among these should be included in the 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach project For a Better World, the festival export projects to other geographies, Rock in Rio Academy, among others. The partnerships that RIR agree are benefic for both parts. Some are payed in real money, others by counterparts. These partnerships are:  Artist’s manager: They are company partners because they enable organizations to contact artists in order to sign contracts.  Media partners: To promote the festival;  Governments and city halls: Essential entities to the event. The company need various agreements with the local authorities where the event is located to enable it to happen in perfect conditions;  Sponsorship: Sponsors are crucial to the event, especially in the dissemination, visibility and for its funding;  Suppliers: Suppliers are a fundamental to hold the festival in various areas of operation, such as the supply of food and beverages, assemble stage, lights and sound. The main cost associated with the organization of RIR are:  Artist’s revenue: The paychecks of artists are a major festival costs. This value is variable, taking into account that depends on the band or contracted musicians. The cost of hiring artists is an important part in the total costs of the festival.  Production: Production services involve all the activities of the RIR’s team as well as his salary and legal obligations of the company. So this is the activity that requires the largest RIR financial burden for the festival and these are fixed costs.  Infrastructures and services: The infrastructure and services to the festival represents another major cost. Mounting the stage, light equipment, sound, pyrotechnics and other activities necessary for implementation of the festival makes the RIR also incur high costs to ensure the quality of the organization of the event;  Counterparts of partners: Compensatory measures required by municipalities have representation in the event of the cost structure, but are not the most relevant factors.  Insurance: equipment insurance products, workers’ insurance, artists and costumer’s insurance are fundamental to the safety of participants of the event as well as a huge cost for the company. 4.3. Creating shared value integration in Rock in Rio business model As could be noted in the construction of RIR’s BM, it was not possible to prove the application of CSV politics by the company. It is well known that the company has a sustainability program, although we could not prove with the information gathered if RIR use CSV or not. Since there is no evidence of the application of this concept by the company, its introduction into the business model is testable. However, it is believed that if this concept were to happen, would enter with the commitment to sustainability of the company, given the nature of the activity. Thus, it can be considered that it would join the project For a Better World in the value proposition as the key activities by the project management. Nevertheless, these assumptions cannot be proven through a company’s source. 5. Conclusions Throughout the analysis of the interviews from RIR’s managers and employees, it was possible to build its BM, which was the main purpose of this paper. The conclusions we can take about RIR’s BM concerns the most important activities for the perfectly operation of the business. Although its BM is consistent, the company is quite dependent of partnerships, sponsors and media partners to assure the viability of business. 97 98 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Also, we can understand that RIR has a huge communication platform which is manly supported by the sponsors and partners of the brand. This entire factor makes the value proposition the costumer segment as well as the key partners are the most important building blocks for the RIR’s BM. Consequently, we might conclude that the crucial resources of the company are the human resources, because without the RIR’s team it was not possible to organize and manage all the operations to make the festival happen in the perfect conditions. Concerning the applications of CSV concept, it was not possible to confirm and deny the practice of CSV politics in the sustainability program of the company. Although, if it was possible to find this politics in RIR’S BM it would be positioned in the value proposition building block along with the For a Better World project of sustainability. These conclusions are exploratory since it was not possible to confirm the results with a source related to the company. Unfortunately, it was not possible to have an answer to the questionnaire sent to the company manager in time to introduce in this paper. References New Business Models in the Music Industry. Retrieved from (2013). http://static1.squarespace.com/static/552c0535e4b0afcbed88dc53/t/553021e3e4b012ff28709a3f/14292 17763895/rethink-music-2013-framing-paper.pdf Afuah, A., & Tucci, C. L. (2001). Internet business models and strategies: Text and cases. New York, New York: McGrawHill/Irwin. Beschorner, T. (2013). Creating shared value: the one-trick pony approach. Business Ethics Journal Review, 1(17), 106–112. Bramão, R., & Azevedo, M. (2015b). Questionário “perfil do festivaleiro e ambiente social nos festivais de música em portugal”. Paper presented at Talk Fest 2015, ISEG, 4, 5 and 6 of March of 2015, Lisbon. Chesbrough, H., & Rosenbloom, R. S. (2002). The role of the business model in capturing value from innovation: Evidence from Xerox Corporation’s technology spin-off companies. Industrial and Corporate Change, 11(3), 529-555. DOI: 10.1093/icc/11.3.529. Crane, A., Palazzo, G., Spence, L. J., & Matten, D. (2014). Contesting the value of “creating shared value”. University Of California, 56(2), 130-153. DOI: 10.1525/cmr.2014.56.2.130. Demil, B., & Lecocq, X. (2010). Business model evolution: in search of dynamic consistency. Long Range Planning , 43, 227-246. DOI:10.1016/j.lrp.2010.02.004. Fielt, E. (2013). Conceptualising business models: definitions, frameworks and classifications. Journal of Business Models, 1(1), 85-105. Retrieved from https://journals.aau.dk/index.php/JOBM/article/view/706. Florin, J., & Schmidt, E. (2011). Creating shared values in the hybrid arena: a business model inovation prepective. Journal Of Social Entrepreneurship, 2(2), 165-197. DOI: 10.1080/19420676.2011.614631. Hartley, J. (2004). Case study research. In C. Cassell, & G. Symon, Essential guide to qualitative methods in organizational research (p. 323). London: Sage. Hartman, L. P., & Werhane, P. H. (2013). Proposition: shared value as an incomplete mental model. Business Ethics 36-43. Retrieved from Journal Review, 1(6), https://bejreview.files.wordpress.com/2013/02/bejrv1n06hartman.pdf. Johnson, M. W., Christensen, C. M., & Kagermann, H. (2008). Reinventing your business model. Harvard Business Review, 86 (12), 50-59. Retrieved from https://hbr.org/2008/12/reinventing-your-business-model. Mahadevan, B. (2000). Business models for internet-based e-commerce: an anotomy. California Managment Review, 42(4). DOI: 10.2307/41166053 Martinho, T. D., & Neves, J. S. (1999). Festivais de Música em Portugal. Folha OBS, 1. Michelini, L., & Fiorentino, D. (2011). New business models for creating shared value. Social Responsibility Journal, 8, 561-577. DOI: 10.1108/17471111211272129. Morris, M., Schindehutte, M., & Allen, J. (2005). The entrepreneur’s business model: toward a unified perspective. Journal Of Business Research, 58, 727. DOI: 10.1016/j.jbusres.2003.11.001 Osterwalder, A. (2004). The business model ontology a proposition in a design science approach. Lausane: Universite de Lausane, Ecole des Hautes Etudes Commerciales. Osterwalder, A., & Pigneur, Y. (2002, june). An ebusiness model ontology for modeling ebusiness. Paper presented at the15th Bled Electronic Commerce Conference eReality: Constructing the eEconomy, Bled. Osterwalder, A., & Pigneur, Y. (2002, october). Business models and their elements. Paper presented at the International workshop on business models, Lausanne. Osterwalder, A., & Pigneur, Y. (2010). Business model generation. New Jersey, USA: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Osterwalder, A., Pigneur, Y., & Tucci, C. (2005, may). Claryfying business models: origins, present and future. Comunication of the Association for Information System, 15, 9. AA.VV. 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach Porter, M. (1990). The competitive advantage of nations. Harvard Business Review. Retrived from: https://www.clustermapping.us/sites/default/files/files/resource/The%20Competitive%20Advantage%20o f%20Nations%20HBR.pdf Porter, M. E., & Kramer, M. R. (2002). The competitive advantage of corporate philanthropy. Harvard Business Review, 1-15. Retrieved from https://hbr.org/2002/12/the-competitive-advantage-of-corporate-philanthropyPorter, M. E., & Kramer, M. R. (2006). Strategy & society - the link between competitive advantage and corporate social responsability. Harvard Business Review, 84(12), 1-14. Retrieved from https://hbr.org/2006/12/strategy-and-society-the-link-between-competitive-advantage-and-corporatesocial-responsibility. Porter, M., & Kramer, M. (2011). The big idea: Creating shared value. Harvard Business Review, 89(1/2), 62-77. Retrieved from https://hbr.org/2011/01/the-big-idea-creating-shared-value. Rappa, M. (2000). Managing the digital enterprise: business models on the web. Retrieved from http://digitalenterprise.org/models/models.pdf Rocchi, M., & Ferrero, I. (2014). systematic shared value in finance: expanding porter´s approach. Navarra: Universidade de Navarra, Faculdade de Ciências Empresariais. Retrieved from: http://www.unav.edu/documents/29056/3882084/WP_07_14.pdf. Shafer, S. M., Smith, H. J., & Linder, J. C. (2005). The power of business models. Business Horizons, 48, 199-207. DOI: 10.1016/j.bushor.2004.10.014. Szmigin, I., & Rutherford, R. (2013). Shared value and the impartial spectator test. Journal of Business Ethics, 114(1), 171-182. DOI:10.1007/s10551-012-1335-1. Teece, D. J. (2010). Business models, business strategy and innovation. Long Range Planning, 43, 172-194. DOI:10.1016/j.lrp.2009.07.003. Timmers. (1998). Business models for electronic markets. Journal on Electronic Markets, 8(2), 3-8. Retrieved from: http://www.cs.uu.nl/docs/vakken/ec/Timmers_BMem.pdf. Trapscott, D. (2001). Rethinking strategy in a networked world: or why Michael Porter is wrong about the internet. Strategy + Business. Retrivied from: http://www.strategy-business.com/article/19911?gko=e37c4. Zott, Amit, Massa. (2010). The business model: theorethical roots, recent developments, and future reaserch. Working Paper, (862). Retrieved from http://www.iese.edu/research/pdfs/DI-0862-E.pdf Zott, C., & Amit, R. (2010). Business model design: an activity system perspective. Long Range Planning, 43, 216-226. DOI:10.1016/j.lrp.2009.07.004. 99 100 2.5. Rock in Rio’s business model: An exploratory approach © Chris Low THEME TUNE 3 | Staring at the city: Atmospheres, environments and music scenes 101 102 3.1. Academic involvement in the Lion City underground: Documentation, pedagogy, and scholarly connectivities in Singapore’s multi-subcultural music scene 1 J. Patrick Williams and Kai Khiun Liew 2 Abstract Singapore may be reputed as a soft-authoritarian contemporary city-state. Yet within its tightly regulated political and social landscape lies a stubborn multi-subcultural underground music scene that has wrestled a more-or-less autonomous identity spanning close to four decades. Once characterized as either a symptom of western influence or juvenile deviance (or both), a collection of “rebellious” genres, including punk, hardcore, metal and ska, has recently gained a more engaged form of scholarly attention in the republic. In this article, we first map out some significant features of the history of underground music culture in Singapore, and then reflect on and represent our roles as academics in supporting a critical third space for underground music in Singapore. Rather than focus on our performance of normalized/traditional role identities rooted in the scholarly production of research reports and/or providing the legitimacy for students’ scholarly endeavors, we instead discuss our active involvement in supporting Singapore’s underground music scene through documentary filmmaking, the exhibition of heritage and developments in the scene, and the integration of university-based active learning pedagogies at local gigs. Through these activities, we highlight some connections between academia and the multi-subcultural music scene as a community resource. Keywords: music, pedagogy, Singapore, Southeast Asia, subculture. 1. Introduction On February 14th, 2015, an alternative music festival was organized to bring together different generations of underground bands in Singapore. Called “Sound Steady Saturday,” the festival involved more than fifteen bands participating in three venues: Pink Noize on North Bridge Road, the Aliwal Arts Centre on Aliwal Street, and Wonderbar @ The Sultan on Jalan Sultan. Sound Steady also provided the opportunity to record and document an oral history of alternative music in Singapore, from the 1960s through the 2010s, entitled “Resurfacing 50 Years of Underground Music in Singapore”. Resurfacing took place at the three music venues, as well as at two other nearby locations: the Independent Archive and Resource Centre and the Museum of Independent Music, both on Aliwal Street. Funded substantially by the state under the Singapore Memory Project, Sound Steady and Resurfacing were two pieces of a larger set of projects aimed at increasing the salience of underground music and arts cultures as a component of Singapore’s cultural heritage. In this paper we discuss how we as academics have tried to contribute to the nurturance of the underground music scene by fostering connectivities between ourselves as university professors and the multi-subcultural music scene in Singapore. Focusing on these two overlapping projects — “Sound Steady Saturday” and “Resurfacing 50 years of Underground Music in Singapore”— we discuss in (auto)ethnographic fashion a case study of how academics can utilize their cultural and social capital in the service of alternative music and youth cultures. 1 Nanyang Technological University, United States of America, patrick.williams|at|ntu|dot|edu|dot|sg. 2 Nanyang Technological University, Singapore. E-mail: kkliew|at|ntu|dot|edu|dot|sg. Singapore. E-mail: 103 104 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 2. National context: Singapore As a centuries-old regional trading crossroads and a British colonial port-city since the 19th-century, Singapore (from Old Malay, “Singapura,” meaning “Lion City”) has hosted a multitude of intermingling cultures for generations. The Lion City’s multicultural roots extend to musical cultural genres as well, with a rich (although largely uncharted) history of local, colonial and global music genres developing alongside and mixing with one another. However, with Singapore’s establishment as a sovereign nation and the coming into office of the People’s Action Party (PAP), the government began taking a distinctly interventionist approach toward cultural practices of many kinds, but particularly towards “yellow culture,” a direct translation of the Chinese term huangse wenhua, used by the Chinese political left from the 1920s to refer to decadent and antisocial behavior. Between the 1960s and 1980s, Western and local musicians and genres were closely scrutinized in terms of their risk to citizens. As part of the anti-yellow drive (…) jukebox and pin-table saloons were outlawed because they were gathering places for gangsters and youths. (…) The prohibitions extended to music: Radio Singapura pulled rock ‘n’ roll music off the air to feature more serious programs with a Malayan emphasis. The government also frowned on the hippy movement and men with long hair, as these were associated with the drug culture, as well as permissive and deviant behavior. In addition, several discothèques were closed and had their liquor permits revoked. (…) The restriction on long hair was gradually relaxed in the 1980s, while the ban on jukeboxes was lifted only in 1990 [National Library Board, n.d.]. Until the 1990s, “yellow culture” was informally used to describe and subsequently contain emerging Western inspired popular music youth cultures in the republic. “Yellow culture” was associated with traits such as individualism, indulgence and insolence, and Western music was seen as condoning or even promoting such traits. The state contrasted such problematic cultural ideals with a preferred collectivist ethos involving diligence, hierarchy and harmony. Subsequently framed as “Asian Values,” this value-orientation has promulgated through mainstream, state-sponsored music and other culture industries (Kong, 1995). Accompanying institutional constraints against youth cultural forms was the systematic marginalization of youth and musicians themselves. An anti-long hair drive named Operation Snip Snip, for example, was launched in 1974. Men with long hair already in-country were served last at government offices, while long-haired men outside were denied entry into the country at all borders. This affected young Singaporean men who consumed Western music and styles and kept Western artists out of the country as well—Led Zeppelin is one famous example of a band barred from entering the country to perform because of their hairstyles. Barring Western musicians out was not enough, however, and vigilance against yellow culture resulted in a large volume of music literature from the West also being banned. Clampdowns on spaces utilized by alternative youth and musicians occurred, with both public spaces cleared and many dancehalls’ operating licenses withdrawn. With the re-emergence of countercultural music subcultures such as punk and then hardcore by the early 1980s, alternative music continued to be scapegoated as a source of social problems. In 1993, a moral panic followed a newspaper report on slam dancing at hardcore gigs, and conservative officials quickly banned the activity outright. Although the rhetoric of yellow culture is no longer deployed today, the instruments of control remain under the official pretext of maintain “family values” and “social and religious harmony” in a “conservative Asian society.” For example, the ban on moshing was quietly lifted in the early 21st century, yet even today any venue wanting to host live music for public consumption must apply for a permit, submit the lyrics of the musicians’ songs for vetting by a government agency, and pay several thousand dollars as a type of deposit on the permit. Organizers who allow musicians or attendees to behave in ways that threaten or disrupt the Asian values of the state (for example, through lyrical content or physical actions) can have their deposits confiscated (Liew & Fu, 2006). 3.1. Academic involvement in the Lion City underground: Documentation, pedagogy, and scholarly connectivities in Singapore’s multi-subcultural music scene Generally speaking then, alternative music genres in Singapore have for decades been made synonymous with problematic or deviant behavior, delinquency, risk, and/or criminality. Meanwhile, the state has benefitted by creating a system within which the majority of youths toe the line, and has prided itself on its reputation of maintaining the safety and allegiance of those who do so. Despite all this, multi-subcultural music scenes—falling within an umbrella of various old and new genres that share similar platforms, ranging from Britpop-inspired indie rock to that of punk, heavy metal and ska—have been able to negotiate for ideo-political terrain since the beginning of the nation (Kong, 1995). The essential component for the presence and evolution of these multi-subcultural music scenes perhaps lies in the availability and access to performative spaces within the city-state. From government-run community centers, to schools and universities, malls, and even carparks, organizers have held gigs in many different types of venues. As the decades have passed, the alternative music scene has grown with and into the landscape as well as the history of Singapore. Alongside pioneers who introduced specific music genres to the scene, enduring bands who continue to serve as focal points around which other musicians and fans work and play, and significant places and events visited by both aging and younger scenesters, there is a perennial need for academic involvement in this lifeworld, whether to document its past and present, or to help negotiated its interactions with dominant/mainstream society. In the remainder of this paper, we briefly describe how our own involvement in two related project serves these functions. 2.1. Sound Steady Saturday and resurfacing 50 years of underground music in Singapore “Sound Steady” refers to the perennial and steady existence of alternative, D.I.Y., and resistant music cultures in Singapore. Year after year, decade after decade, alternative sounds persevere and adapt to larger cultural conditions. Sound Steady Saturday was driven by a motivation to appropriate the otherwise commercialized Valentine’s Day on 14 February 2015 to stage a music festival-cum-archival and documentary project along an entire Aliwal Street. Overall, the event involved over twenty musical performers and bands (see Figures 1-2). Over the course of the evening, bands representing Singapore’s 50-year history, from 1970ss R&B and Rock to contemporary death metal, shared the stages at three venues. While one venue was filled with teens and young adults head banging to extreme metal, toddlers sat on their fathers’ shoulders watching ska music at another. There was talking dancing, sing-alongs, hugs and cheers in abundance. It brought together many generations of alternative music scenesters and fostered new connections between young and old just as it facilitated the maintenance of old bonds. “Resurfacing” refers to collective efforts from within the alternative, subcultural, and underground music scenes to make their identities known. The purpose of the documentary project itself was to record the evolution of these scenes over several decades. Performers and bands from the 1960s to the present gathered and shared their experiences and contributions to building up the music scene, and to clarify their own integral parts in Singapore’s music and cultural heritage. As such, while Sound Steady was about experiencing culture and music in the moment, Resurfacing was about personal recollections of past motivations and struggles, as well as hopes and concerns regarding the prospects of alternative music in Singapore’s future. 105 106 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 1: Flyer for Sound Stead Saturday. Figure 2: Flyer for Sound Stead Saturday. 3. Kai Khiun: When subculture becomes cultural heritage With the exhibition of memorabilia and literature from the 1970s as part of the commemoration of four decades of Punk Music by the British Library from May to October of 2016 (British Library 2016), there is a growing realization and recognition of the historical and archival value of what was otherwise though of “passing fads”. Scholars and artists are increasingly seeing punk and other alternative music subcultures as part of urban heritage and that of collective cultural memories (Bennett, 2009; Darvill, 2014; Reitsamer, 2014; Stanković, 2014; Spracklen, Lucas & Deeks, 2014). Oral history interviews, memoirs and recollections in public talks as well as exhibitions and archival collections count as much as the “latest” album releases and performances as cultural resources for the evolution of the punk and alternative music scene (Baker & Collins, 2015; Baker, Dolye &Homan, 2016; Brandellero & Janssen, 2014; de Jongh, 2013; Lothian, 2012). These trends resonate personally as I have witnessed how the alternative music scene in Singapore has fostered critical community despite the transient nature of music venues (till this day, organizers struggle to carve out performative spaces). Despite the fluid nature of the alternative music scene, a culturalspatial network has developed over the decades centering around dated shopping malls like Peninsula Plaza and arts houses such as the Substation and more recently Aliwal Arts Centre. Being involved in the advocacy of conservation in Singapore from cemeteries to railroads (Liew, 2014; Liew, Pang & Chan, 2014), I recognize the heritage value of these sonic spaces that has yet to be sufficiently documented and appreciated, even by the participants of the alternative music scene themselves. So while I have been more of an audience member than a musician in the scene for decades and do not command an intimate presence among bands and the larger community, my academic, media and conservation networks have given me opportunities to nevertheless establish connectivities between the scene and the broader politics of heritage and collective memory in Singapore. This potential for connectivity became the impetus for the documentary project. 3.1. Academic involvement in the Lion City underground: Documentation, pedagogy, and scholarly connectivities in Singapore’s multi-subcultural music scene A valuable opportunity came in 2014 with the open grant calls for films by the government initiated Singapore Memory Project (SMP) Film Festival to take place in 2015. Working with the producers of M’GO Films, we successfully pitched our proposal to make a documentary on the heritage of alternative music in Singapore through a live performance and interviews with subjects simultaneously. The budget given by the state was modest (around S$40,000), and hence the filming and post-production process had to be compressed significantly. I was both the researcher and script writer for the documentary, and my other collaborator, Shaiful Rizan, a prominent gig organizer, made the arrangements to coordinate the performances for the concert while M’GO Films coordinated the filming process. We divided the documentary project team into four units to cover the entire Sound Steady Saturday event. Two fixed cameras were stationed at Aliwal Arts Centre and Pink Noize directly recording all the performances of the day. A more mobile unit headed by the chief director, the late Abdul Nizam, moved among the venues covering the activities of the event. I was involved in the oral history recording unit that was stationed in the lecture theatre at the Malay Heritage Centre (MHC). Known previously as Istana Kampong Glam, which was the palace of the old Malay royalty before being converted to the current MHC, the premise offered a more conducive soundproof environment for the recordings to take place for the band members prior to their performances. I spent about two days conducting oral interviews, not only with participating bands, but also with other academics, DJs, music critics, and retailers who supported the local music scene during the decades concerned. We made contacts to many bands through our personal networks in the scene and were fortunate that most responded positively to be interviewed. The team interviewed musicians from historically and contemporary prominent bands over two days. Among them included members from the pioneering punk/hardcore groups Stompin Ground and Opposition Party, the first ethnic Indian based Vedic (Extreme) Metal band Rudra, as well as women-centered punk bands and other bands with female artists such as Radigals and Ethereal. We interviewed others who played important roles in the scene, including radio station broadcasters such as Chris Ho and fanzine writers such as Lim Cheng Tju. Record shop retailers such as “Paul” of Roxy Records and “Ridhwan” of Straits Records were also involved. I also turned the camera on myself as one of the local academics who have studied the Singapore alternative music scene for the past two decades. Throughout the interview process, we had graduate and undergraduate students (including from Patrick’s course, see below) assisting us with the coordination with interviewees, the recording as well as the transcription of interviews. For many students, this was their first time doing interviews, and more importantly, encountering another part of Singapore society. For one Malay-Muslim graduate student who grew up listening to local hardcore music, the experience was indeed an emotional affirmation of his communitarian roots. Supplementing the live recordings of the performances and interviews was invaluable archival footage that I managed to source from community arts archivists like Ridhwan Ghany of Straits Records as well as from the voluminous photographic and newspaper collections of artist-archivist Koh Nguang How. Both Ghany and Koh have been diligently been collecting flyers, records, posters and fanzines since the 1980s, when explicitly oppositional music subcultures started to develop. Together with purchased copyrights images from the national newspapers, we produced a 45minute documentary, “Resurfacing 50 years of Underground Music,” for the Singapore Memory Project Film Festival where the films were screened in the main libraries across Singapore between August and September 2015. While this documentary could potentially have given clearer recognition to the political and cultural agency of alternative musicians in Singapore, the strings attached to government funding resulted in the contents being “moderated for public consumption.” In short, we were required to edit the film to function as a celebration of multiculturalism and youthful creativity without engaging in discussions of politics or social justice. This sanitized the more important themes that I wanted to deal with explicitly, like that of the politics of state control and policing on alternative music in the republic. Fortunately, the project did not end with the 2015 screenings. The producers 107 108 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 and I are still keen to re-produce a more critical version for film festival circuit. Yet, given the prior official and public disdain of underground music in Singapore, I feel that through the commissioning of the documentary and its screening in public libraries, this was a significant step forward in the positioning of this genre of musical expression as part of Singapore’s national heritage and the collective memories of its citizenry. 4. Patrick: Building understanding and reflexivity through student engagement While Kai Khiun took to lead building connections from the inside out, I took on the role of establishing connectivity from the outside in. Having taught at universities in North America, Europe, and Southeast Asia, I have learned that Singaporean university students overwhelmingly lack meaningful contact with subcultures, not least because of the social and political trouble that can come to those who engage in explicit criticism of dominant policies and practices (e.g., Amnesty International, 2016). Thus I have created an opportunity for students to interact with the topic of alternative and opposition cultures through an undergraduate sociology course entitled, Youth Cultures and Subcultures. In the course, students interact with the relevant literatures, assemble data having to do with a youth cultural or subcultural topic of their choice, and tie those data to theories or concepts (see Williams, 2008; Williams & Ho, 2016; Williams & Zaini, 2016). Because Sound Steady and Resurfacing would take place during the semester I was teaching this course, I made participation in the event a course requirement. Specifically, I assigned students to work a minimum of three hours at the event in some capacity needed by the promoters, venue managers, or documentary film crews. Many students subsequently wrote reflective essays in which they analyzed their experiences in terms of sociology [the block quotes below come from these essays]. In the weeks leading up to the events, I invited two members of the local punk scene to class to discuss underground music and culture in Singapore, to outline some possible roles students might perform, and answer any questions. The need to break the ice between university students and local scenesters was obvious in students’ essays. As one pair of students wrote in reaction to the punks’ visit: There was much apprehension and anxiety due to a lack of knowledge and understanding regarding what this particular subculture entailed. We had preconceived notions that this subculture would be non-accepting of us, because we have been religiously adhering to the system our whole lives. We also expected the environment to be very ‘us versus them’, believing that they would not be welcoming to people who did not seem to belong. Especially since they came to our class and told us that all of us looked like undercover cops (…). Despite such fears, students responded positively to the punks’ visit and admitted that the punks were much more “normal” than they had anticipated. This warmed students up to the prospect of working alongside punks and other members of the multi-subcultural music scene at the event. On the day of the event, students were again surprised, this time by the passion and camaraderie expressed by subcultural attendees. Some students were surprised at seeing individuals who “were well above 50,” but for whom “rock and roll is very much still alive within them. It was inspiring to see that they were so passionate about the subculture despite having aged.” Another student wrote, “What was striking was the way in which everyone knew one another, be it young or old. At the door and even in the crowd, they would shake hands and greet each other by name.” My desire as a sociologist was not simply to have students experience the event as cultural tourists, but rather to find the opportunity to engage in making use of the “sociological imagination” (Mills 1959; Williams, 2016). For one student, sociology’s relevance became suddenly clear as whe helped the film production crew at the Malay Heritage Centre. 3.1. Academic involvement in the Lion City underground: Documentation, pedagogy, and scholarly connectivities in Singapore’s multi-subcultural music scene I was given the logline job. I thought it was a mundane, give-any-tom-a-job task, but little did I know how wrong I was. I was in time for the (…) interview [with] an all-girl band that was formed in 1997, and that plays hardcore punk music. The interviewer asked questions about how the band evolved, how it was like being an all-girl band in a predominantly male subculture, and if the band feels accepted in mainstream society. There was a question about whether they sing about girl power. Right then and there, I knew those were wonderful sociological questions (…). Another pair of students also recorded insights on gender, as well as on notions of ethnicity and class: Over the course of the afternoon, it appeared to us that the DIY music subculture embodied a tacitly masculine dimension. The festival also had a distinct ethno-racialized character. An overwhelming majority of the participants were observed to be of Malay heritage. We opine that the ethno-racial makeup of the participants can be linked to the historical socioeconomic position of the Malays in Singapore. Getting Singapore university students engaged in the everyday life of the underground music scene gave them the opportunity interact with the cultural Other. Because Singaporean university students are largely those who have been “religiously adhering to the system” for much of their lives, I believe it is important to show them ways of living that do not adhere closely to dominant cultural values such as meritocracy and economic pragmatism. And while not producing instant and profound effects, the opportunity nevertheless expanded their interpretive horizons: Upon leaving, my friend and I had a long and in-depth conversation about what subcultures meant to us. We think that so much can be said about what we think about subcultures, about why they are antagonized, and whether the antagonising is real and whether they themselves want to remain antagonized (because going mainstream is not an ambition) — when at the end of the day, we should really ask and listen to what subcultures really want from this society. What we do know that subcultures have given us a really refreshing perspective that is radically different from the lives we lead in a Singaporean university, and for that, we thank the course for exposing us to them. When studying subcultures through normal classroom assignments, my students most-often engage in descriptive, third-person writing, even when discussing topics they are sincerely interested in. Such reflective writing therefore represented moments ripe with the potential for personal growth as social change (Boud, Keogh, & Walker, 1985). I will continue to flesh this out with some literature on pedagogy, active learning/engagement, and reflective writing. 5. Conclusions Kai Khiun—The entire documentary project opened me to the possibility of developing a model for applied research in the otherwise predominantly theoretical field of cultural and media studies. Moving from perceiving them as merely ethnographic subjects to be studied, what I see now is a more dynamic form of scholarly engagement. In essence, Sound Steady and Resurfacing have reconnected my experiential subjectivity, the alternative music that I had listened to for several decades, my academic expertise, and my activist involvement in conservation and heritage in Singapore. Through the project, I have been able to make meaningful bridges between academia and active citizenry. Patrick—Feeling like a subcultural outsider when I came to Singapore, the Sound Steady project gave me a way to connect with local subcultural actors and to offer my cultural and social capital for the betterment of the scene. Equally important has been the opportunity to bring high-achieving Singaporean university students into this connection as well. Rather than engaging in the armchair study of cultural difference, students were able to connect with the local punk scene in a way that moved them beyond characterizations of what it means to resist or reject mainstream culture. By 109 110 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 interacting with members of the alternative music scene, mainstream students walked away with new knowledge about the breadth of human experiences and beliefs to be found in their own island nation. Such contact needs to increase in both frequency and duration. The experience, I hope, will remain with them as they continue on their sociological journey through life. On the hand, the Sound Steady and Resurfacing projects function alongside similar projects in other countries to map out the heritage of oppositional music cultures (Guerra and Bennett, in press; Moreira, Guerra, Oliveira, & Quintela, 2015). On the other hand, these projects were much more than academic. Brotherton (2007, p. 377) has written that, The role of the researcher must not be merely that of acquiring knowledge or the accumulation of information. To the contrary, it must also contribute to the empowerment, the reflexivity, and the (…) abilities of the subaltern youth, launching the construction of bridges able to support social relationships (…), from a mediating perspective in which the researchers may also learn to walk with youth that produce on a daily basis a culture of resistance. This relationship may also move to the rest of society, so that the results of the investigations may be put to the service of moral values that could help the excluded and oppressed communities. It was with a similar commitment to underground cultures and music scenes that we have undertaken a responsibility toward building up connectivities that may benefit society at large. The Sound Steady and Resurfacing projects gave us new opportunities to apply scholarly and pedagogical practices to contribute to the strengthening of the music scene, to create new documents that map out its history and heritage, and to expand the cultural horizons of university students. Going beyond the usual roles of participant-observers or experts, we have we linked our academic and pedagogical backgrounds more tightly with the community as co-producers in the making memories in contemporary Singapore. References Amnesty International. 2016. Singapore: Government critics, bloggers and human rights defenders penalized for speaking out. Amnesty International Public Statement (Index: ASA 36/4216/2016). Retrieved from https://www.amnesty.org/download/Documents/ASA3642162016ENGLISH.pdf. Baker, S. & Collins, J. (2015). Sustaining popular music’s material culture in community archives and museums, International Journal of Heritage Studies, 21(10). 983-996. DOI: 10.1080/13527258.2015.1041414 Baker, S., Doyle P., & Homan S. (2016). Historical records, national constructions: the contemporary popular music archive, Popular Music and Society, 39(1), 8-27. DOI: 10.1080/03007766.2015.1061336. Bennett, Andy. 2009. ‘Heritage rock’: rock music, representation and heritage discourse. Poetics, 37(5), 474–489. Boud, D., Keogh, R., & Walker, D. (Eds.). 1985. Reflection: Turning Experience into Learning. London: Routledge. Brandellero, Amanda, and Janssen, S. (2014). Popular music as cultural heritage: scoping out the field of practice. International Journal of Heritage Studies, 20(3), 224-240. Retrieved from http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/13527258.2013.779294. British Library. (2016). Punk, 1976-78. Retrieved from https://www.bl.uk/events/punk-1976-78. Brotherton, D. (2007). Proceedings from the transnational street gang/organization seminar. Crime, Media, Culture, 3(3), 372–381. DOI: 10.1177/1741659007082472. Darvill, T. (2014). Rock and soul: humanizing heritage, memorializing music and producing places. World Archaeology, 46(3), 462-76. DOI: 10.1080/00438243.2014.909096. De Jongh, S. (2013). Anarchy in the Archive Again: An Account of South African Punk Rock Music Collection.” Fontes Artis Musicae, 60(2), 63-75. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/23512768. Guerra, P., & Bennett, A. (in press). Punk Portugal, 1977-2012: a genealogy. Poetics. Kong, L. (1995). Music and cultural politics: ideology and resistance in Singapore. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 20(4), 447-459. DOI: 10.2307/622975. Liew, K.K., & Fu, K. (2006). Conjuring the tropical spectres: heavy metal, cultural politics in Singapore and Malaysia. Inter-Asia Cultural Studies, 7(12), 99-112. Doi: 10.1080/09502386.2014.937945. Liew, K.K. (2014). Rewind and recollect: activating dormant memories and politics in Teresa Teng’s music. International Journal of Cultural Studies, 17(5), 503-15. DOI: 10.1080/13527258.2012.740497. Liew, K.K., Pang, N., & Chan, B. (2014). Industrial railroad to digital memory routes: remembering the last railway in Media, Culture & Society, 35(6), 761-775. Retrieved from Singapore. http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/0163443714532984. 3.1. Academic involvement in the Lion City underground: Documentation, pedagogy, and scholarly connectivities in Singapore’s multi-subcultural music scene Lothian, A. (2013). Archival anarchies: online fandom, subcultural conservation, and the transformative work of digital ephemera. International Journal of Cultural Studies, 16(6), 541-556. DOI: 10.1177/1367877912459132. Moreira, T., Guerra, P., Oliveira, A., & Quintela, P. (2015). Social sciences, punx archives and memories: considerations concerning the KISMIF archive. In KISMIF: Crossing Borders of Underground Music Scenes. University of Porto, Portugal. National Library Board. (N.d.). Campaign against yellow culture is launched: 8th Jun 1959. Retrieved from http://eresources.nlb.gov.sg/history/events/47129576-377a-44fe-a05f-fefddf0cb765. Reitsamer, R. (2014). ‘Born in the Republic of Austria’: the invention of rock heritage in Austria. International Journal of Heritage Studies, 20(3), 331-342. DOI: 10.1080/13527258.2012.738698 Sparkle, K., Lucas, C., & Deeks, M. (2014). The construction of heavy metal identity through heritage narratives: a case study of extreme metal bands in the north of England. Popular Music and Society, 37(1), 48-64. DOI: 10.1080/03007766.2012.724605 Stanković, P. (2014). When alternative ends up as mainstream: Slovene popular music as cultural heritage. International Journal of Heritage Studies, 20(3), 297-315. DOI: 10.1080/13527258.2012.754368. Williams, J.P. (2008). Teaching and learning guide for youth-subculture studies: sociological traditions and core concepts. Sociology Compass, 2(2), 765–774. DOI: 10.1111/j.1751-9020.2007.00090.x. Williams, J.P. (2016). Connecting personal troubles and public issues in Asian subculture studies. In S., Blackman and M., Kempson (Eds.) The Subcultural Imagination: Theory, Research, and Reflexivity in Contemporary Youth Cultures (pp. 167-177). London: Routledge. Williams, J.P., & Ho, S.X.X. (2016). ‘Sasaengpaen’ or K-pop fan? Singapore youths, authentic identities, and Asian media fandom. Deviant Behavior, 37(1), 81-94. DOI: 10.1080/01639625.2014.983011. Williams, J.P., & Zaini, M.K.J. (2016). Rude boy subculture, critical pedagogy, and the collaborative construction of an analytic and evocative autoethnography. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 45(1), 34-59. DOI: 10.1177/0891241614549835. 111 112 3.2. The disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night 1 Jordi Nofre and João Carlos Martins 2 Abstract The recently expansion and commodification of youth-oriented and tourist-oriented nightlife in Lisbon may be seen as a strategy of a socially and morally sanititation of the urban nightscape of the city center, marginalizing everyone who is seen as inappropriate, or in other words, socially perilous to the city branding of Lisbon. By focusing on the old historical neighborhood of Bairro Alto in Lisbon (Portugal) and based on a five-year ethnographic fieldwork, this paper explores the Disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night in this central quarter of the city. After a short presentation on the quarter, the text below will show that suc a Disneyficated urban night is featured by simulated joy, happiness and exultation, high level of alcohol and drugs consumption, race, gender and class inequalities, liminality and labor exploitation, hypersecurization of public space and social, moral and political control, and, finally, and heteronormativity and patriarchalism. Keywords: nightlife, disnyefication, neoliberal city, Lisbon. 1. Introduction [The proletariat] must accustom itself to working but three hours a day, reserving the rest of the day and night for leisure and feasting (Paul Lafargue,1880, Le Droit à la Paresse). Concepts such as “the 24-hour open city” or ‘the leisure city’ highlight not only the importance of the urban night in the revitalization of many post-industrial cities but also the growing nocturnalization of everyday life in Western society. Indeed, nightlife has become a time-space for youth relationships and diversions in opposition to the day, where time is often strongly marked by institutionalized responsibilities (Willis, 1990). The rise of new forms of youthful hedonist consumption during night-time hours have contributed to shape new forms of socialization, a new conception of time, and a new spatialization of social relationships (Straw, 2015). However, urban nightscapes in most European cites remain clearly segmented socially, racially and spatially (May, 2015; Shaw, 2015; among others). This is despite the “nocturnalization of Western life” (Koslofsky, 2011) and the role the night-time economy has played in (re)shapping how tourists, visitors and different segments of local population (especially university students) “experience” the city today (Grazian, 2008). Actually, in some European cities the expansion and commodification of the youthoriented nightlife in the city center has been acompanied by the strengthening of race, class, ethnic, and labor inequalities, which feature the neoliberal city (Brenner & Theodore, 2005). In this chaper, we will explore the “Disneyfication” (Bryman, 2004) of the neoliberal urban night of the city of Lisbon. By focusing on the case of the old neighborhood of Bairro Alto in Lisbon (Portugal) and its Rua Atalaia Street, this chapter will argue the “Disneyfication” of the neoliberal urban night of Bairro Alto is mainly featured by (simulated) joy, happiness and exultation; high level of alcohol and drugs consumption; race, gender and class inequalities; liminality and labor exploitation; hypersecurization of public space and social, moral and political control; and patriarchal heteronormativity. 1 2 CICSNOVA, Universidade Nova de Lisboa, Portugal/ Spain. E-mail: jnofre|at|fcsh|dot|unl|dot|pt. CICSNOVA, Universidade Nova de Lisboa, Portugal. E-mail: joaomartins.cf|at|gmail|dot|com. 113 114 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 1: Localization of Bairro Alto neighborhood. Source: Jordi Nofre © 2015, from Lisboa Interactiva, CML © 2016. Results presented here are based on a five-year ethnographic work which paid attention to particular nighttime leisure practices of tourists and Erasmus students, who may be considered as “student-tourists” (Lesjak et al., 2015). However, our ethnography much privileged Erasmus students rather than tourists, since the “ephimeral city consumption” of tourists made impossible to carry out an in-depth ethnographic fieldwork based on the following qualitative techniques. Indeed, we carried out five-year ethnographic fieldwork between 1 March 2010 and 21 December 2014. The complexity of the research presented below forced us to employ some methodological eclecticism (Hannerz, 1980, 2003) in order to achieve a comprehensive meta-ethnographic overview (Weed, 2005) to capture the complex combination of actors, practices and institutions that make up the urban night in Bairro Alto. Moreover we took benefit of using floating observation (Pétonnet, 1982), consisting of free as well as inductive exploration of a certain urban space; nonintrusive observation (Webb et al., 2001; Lee, 2000); and “shadowing” (Czarniawska-Joerges, 2007; Bartkowiak-Theron and Sappey, 2012) which is understood as “obtaining as quickly and as faithfully as possible the shadowed person’s understanding of how and why things just happened, according to them and their own frames of reference (…), ask[ing] questions and seek[ing] explanations and/or interpretations from the shadowed participant” (Bartkowiak-Theron and Sappey, 2012, pp. 7-8). The sum of these qualitative techniques allowed us to identify a total of 57 individuals who were interviewed in situ during our fieldwork. Last but not least, some short notes on legal and ethical issues concerning this research must be mentioned. Because this research involved observation of individuals (no underage individual was interviewed), personal data collection and processing, we followed the ethical guidelines of social sciences and humanities and research on human subjects, as shown in the European Research Ethics Guidelines, The Code of Ethics from the International Sociological Association, The Ethics Statement of the American Anthropological Association, and the RGS-IBG Code of Practice for the Grants Programme. Once participants were contacted in the field (they were not remunerated for participating in the project), they were informed about the purpose of the research and the funding institution. Key informants’ data were recorded in the form of hand-written notes taken in situ. Once they agreed orally to participate in the research, we carried out informal interviews several times during the period of the fieldwork. In some cases, some sensitive personal data regarding participants’ ethnicity, their lifestyle, leisure practices, social class, professional situation and their intersections were collected. Transcriptions of hand-written recordings were anonymized and kept 3.2. The disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night in a separate secure file only accessible to the authors of the text. In order to preserve anonymity, extracts from oral interviews do not appear in this article, only ethnographically-derived syntheses. 2. The study of the neoliberal urban night: A new vibrant research field Until few decades ago, darkness in the capitalist city has been seen as synonymous of sin, immorality, and crime. Since the early industrial age until the leisure revolution in the 1960s, the history of the urban night in European cities can be read as a compilation of episodes of repressive policing against sordidness, misery, prostitution, moral deviance, ... and proletarian conspiracies (Cunningham 1980). Everyday life practices and conflicts that took place in the industrial city often expressed and reinforced social, political, economic, cultural and moral order, since every activity had its own place and time through the day (Bourdieu, 1980). Therefore, space generated by capitalist processes in the industrial city were profoundly segmented according to its exchange value and technocratic rationality, and urban dayscapes differed from nightscapes (Lefebvre, 1974). Actually, the emergence of leisure in western countries must be thus seen as part of the process of modernization and industrialization of the capitalist city (Burke, 1995; Elias & Dunning, 1987; Marrus, 1974; Veblen, 1973 [1899]), while western middle classes started to progressively have more free time, concentrating their ambitions on leisure. In that sense, nightlife consumption, new sexual expression/experimentation, youth culture and social informality rapidly became emblems of western middle-class values in the 1920s United States of America (Burke, 1995; Cressey, 1932; Erenberg, 1986). The Second World War meant a progressive rupture between two models of nightlife consumption, the modern (selective) and the late-modern (mass) nightlife. Since the second half of the twentieth century, the emergence of “new” Fordist forms of consumption, the increasing purchasing power of middle classes, the motorization of society and the increasing free time for most of working and middle classes led to the democratization of nightlife in western countries — except for those which were then governed by fascist/Catholic regimes as, for example, Spain and Portugal. However, the case of the expansion of nightlife in British cities after the Second World War became central in the (re)production of youth subcultures in modern Britain in the sixties and seventies (Fowler, 2008). The first authors to explore the class-based segregation of nightlife in British cities came from the CCCS at the University of Birmingham (Frith, 1983; McRobbie, 1984; Stahl, 1976, among others). They established the foundation for later studies on nightlife developed since the mid-1990s (Thornton, 1995). But interestingly, over the last two decades bibliographic production on nightlife has grown and has been divided into three main areas. One of them focuses on drugs consumption, alcohol consumption and violence as one of the main characteristics in most of western urban nightscapes (Homel & Clark, 1994; Morris; 1998; Allen et al., 2003; Eckersley & Reeder, 2006; Lister et al., 2010; among many others). The second is formed by those works dealing with drunk-driving during/after night-time leisure in the US, UK and Commonwealth countries, especially emphasizing their age-differentiated analysis on the higher occurrence of alcohol-related road accidents involving young people (Simpson et al., 1982; Hedlund, 1994; Keall et al., 2004; Peck et al., 2008; among many otheres). Moreover, many studies on nightlife-related drugs consumption and health problems not only in British cities but also in Eastern and Southern Europe have been published (Calafat & Juan, 2004; Hughes et al., 2008; Tutenges, 2009; among many others). The third main area of contemporary nightlife studies is mainly based on the “spatial approach” to the study of nightlife, emphasizing the close relationship between the strategy of hypersecurization of the neoliberal city and the promotion of a “gentrified nightlife” (Chatterton and Hollands, 2003; Gwiazdinski, 2005, 2009; Williams, 2008; Shaw, 2010, 2015; Hae, 2011; Straw, 2015; among many others). 115 116 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Today, works on power relations, social exclusion, nightlife regulation and sociocultural significance of the urban night are currently among the most prominent meta-themes explored (Gerbod, 1989; Grazian, 2007; Talbot, 2004, 2011; Boyd, 2008; Mahig, 2008; Williams, 2008; Hadfield et al., 2009; Roberts & Eldridge, 2009; Hae, 2011; Apprill, 2012; Roberts & Townshend, 2013; Søgaard, 2014; Hadfield & Measham, 2015; van Liempt, 2015; Straw, 2015; among others). However, most studies on the urban night are almost exclusively referred to Anglophone contexts. In this sense, some authors have taken the urban night as case study to analyze urban transformations in Anglophone worldwide cities (Chatterton & Hollands, 2003; Robinson, 2009; Boyd, 2010; Farrer, 2011; Farrer & Field, 2015), but far too little attention has been paid to the contribution of the night-time economy to the social, cultural, spatial and economic re-shaping of South European cities. More particulary, although some few scholars have begun to pay some attention to the relevant role of gentrification in promoting current urban transformation in contemporary Lisbon (Rodrigues, 2010; Mendes, 2006, 2011, 2014a, 2014b; Malheiros et al., 2012; Nofre, 2013; Galhardo, 2014; Tulumello, 2016; among others), few studies have investigated how student and tourist-led nightlife promotion are contributing to the urban change in the Portuguese capital (Nofre, 2013; Nofre et al., 2016a). These two works mentioned here, which focuses on the interplay between the urban night and urban change in both Lisbon’s Cais do Sodré and Bairro Alto quarters, provide an excellent point of departure for the text below. Nofre and his team LXNIGHTS explore how the recently expansion and commodification of youth-oriented and tourist-oriented nightlife in Lisbon may be seen as a strategy of a socially and morally sanititation of the urban nightscape of the city center, marginalizing everyone who is seen as inappropriate, or in other words, socially perilous to the city branding of Lisbon. The case of the Bairro neighborhood is of a great interest. 3. Bairro Alto, a nightlife spot Despite its origins as a residential area for the nobility and clerics in the early fifteenth century (França, 2013), the historical neighborhood of Bairro Alto was almost exclusively inhabited by local lower classes who coexisted with Fado bars, prostitution and the headquarters of some Portuguese newspapers until a few decades ago. Local and national governments formed after the end of the fascist dictatorship in 1974 attempted to address urban poverty and the decaying built-environment in order to prevent the quarter becoming a ghetto, although unsuccessfully. Urban regeneration could not be carried out until mid-1990s, when Bairro Alto experienced a first-wave of gentrification. Luís Mendes (2006) argued that local, young adult, marginal gentrifiers in Bairro Alto “become pioneer gentrifiers presumably attracted to the nonconformist lifestyle as well as by the liberal and tolerant urban environment of city center neighborhoods, refusing conventional suburban normativity” (Mendes, 2006, p. 29). But for Walter Rodrigues (2010) marginal gentrifiers in the historical neighborhoods of Lisbon seemed to feel attracted to their traditional architecture, their genuine people and their tiny groceries and bars. Actually, the 1997 Urbanization Plan for Bairro Alto and Bica (PUNHAB) favored the substitution of traditional venues and shops for creative activities and night-time industries such as antiques, restaurants, book-stores, art galleries, bars and fashion boutiques (Vale, 2009). This process of commercial gentrification (Kloosterman and Van Der Leun, 1999) transformed Bairro Alto into a cultural cluster (Balula, 2010; Costa, 2013). In parallel, a new residential cohort of marginal gentrifiers were attracted to the quarter since late 1990s, mainly university students and young high-skilled professionals (mostly singles, mono-parental families and non-child couples) with high levels of cultural capital but precarious works. They avoided moving to live in suburban commmunities since they preferred living in a traditional but trendy central quarter such as Bairro Alto by houing in degraded, old buildings for low rental prices (Mendes, 2006). Together with such an early social change in Bairro Alto, new gay-oriented and underground nightlife venues opened in late 1990s by continuing the vivid inertia of the eighties, while violent clashes between punks 3.2. The disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night and neonazis started to be part of the Bairro Alto urbanscape’s together with petty dealers. Such an insecure urbanscape did not discourage middle classes to enjoy the Bairro Alto’s nightlife in late 1990s, visiting some alternative venues playing live music, smoking hashish in public and meeting friends in the cheap, tiny, traditional bars. Moreover, the arrival of the Erasmus students to the Bairro Alto quarter in mid-2000s meant a non-planned social and moral sanitiation of the traditionally dangerous areas of the quarter (Malet, Nofre & Geraldes, 2016). Figure 2: Bairro Alto’s nightlife. Source: Jordi Nofre © 2015. Over these last years, urban change in Bairro Alto is product of a complex, multifaceted interplay between touristification, gentrification, studentification and nightlife (Nofre et al., 2016a). However, the expansion and commodification of youth-oriented and tourist-oriented nightlife in Bairro Alto since the mid-2000s has led to the rise of tension between lifelong residents and nightlife consumers (Filipe, 2012; Ruas, 2014). The case of Rua Atalaia Street is of a special interest. Similarly to Bourbon Street in post-Katrina New Orleans, Rua Atalaia in Bairro Alto has become one of the most crowded urban hotspots for nighttime entertainment in the whole city. In the central section of this street, customers set up a micro-spatial and temporary universe of simulated reality– in Braudillardian terminology– which is (re)produced in a socially, physically degraded but hypersecurized, tourism-led themed playscape (Crivello, 2009). 4. Rua Atalaia, a disneyficated nightscape During night weekends, in the stretch of street located between Arroz Doce Bar and Spot Bar in Rua Atalaia Street, a (mostly white) intergenerational, interclass crowd of around 2000 people, including local people, Erasmus students, and some tourists drink handheld beer mugs while chatting in a lively way in the middle of the street, often blocking the flow of police cars, taxis, trash trucks, and neighbors’ vehicles. Actually, in almost the whole venues of Rua Atalaia Street, beer is (incomprehensibly) much cheaper than water. That is why beer is the most socializing drink in Lisbon’s nightlife. If they are Erasmus students, females too drink beer -especially if they come from the Southern European countries, where monthly allowance payment for Erasmus students is much lower than offered in other EU-member countries. The soundscape in this sector of the street is formed by a noisy sum of Brazilian, American commercial, funk, and rock music; hundreds of nightlife customers chatting loudly, crying, singing; dozens of taxis and private cars honking the horn because they are blocked by the crowd standing up in the middle of the street; the trash truck 117 118 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 working until 2 a.m....Noisy and nasty nightlife, drug dealing, cheap alcohol, alcohol-fueled girls and tons of garbage at the feet of nineteenth-century buildings shape this themed nighttime megaplayscape (Crivello, 2009) where thousands of tourists, young and adult-young locals and Erasmus students drink in order to socialize by sharing time, space and experiences with their peers in a nightlife urban spot. In Rua Atalaia’s nights, all that is not permitted in the European Nordic cities during nighttime hours is welcome in this nightlife area of the city of Lisbon, especially in Rua Atalaia Street, where the concentration of bars and dancing bars shape a kind of de-territorialized New Orlean’s Bourbon Street. Indeed, Rua Atalaia Street has become one of the most crowded urban hot spot for nighttime diversion in the whole Lisbon. In Rua Atalaia Street, the urban night is transformed into a crazy night, that is, an illusionist evasion from the real world (Nofre, 2016a). Clients set up a micro-spatial and temporary universe of simulated reality– in Baudrillardian terminology– which is (re)produced in a socially, physically degraded but hypersecurized, tourism-led themed playscape (Crivello 2009). Actually, in Rua Atalaia Street links between control, safety and youthful hedonist consumption shape a riskless nightlife area, or in other words, a socially, morally and politically sanitized urban nightscape (Nofre, 2013). Interestingly, our definition of “Disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night” goes beyond Alan Bryman’s (2004) definition of Disneyzation, who considers that this term refers to “the process by which the principles of the Disney theme parks are coming to dominate more and more sectors of American society as well as the rest of the world” ( Bryman, 2004, p.1). First, Disneyficated neoliberal urban night provides the consumer a security that contrasts with the perception of the rest of the city as a risky nighttime urbanscape. As Alan Bryman suggests, “consumption is at the heart of Disneyzation and as such issues to do with control and surveillance are intimately connected to maximizing the visitor/consuming ability and inclination to consume goods and services” (Bryman, 2004, p.149). Bryman also adds that “surveillance is a marked feature of such tourist enclaves so that the perceived threats of the wider city can be kept at bay and affluent tourists and locals can be enticed back into cities for shopping, restaurants and other leisure activities” (Bryman, 2004, p.146). In Bairro Alto, a total of 27 CCMTV cameras, dozens of uniformed police agents, others dozens of secret police agents, and venues’ bouncers reinforce social and moral control over the clients, especially over the “unwilled”. Punks, squatters, gypsies, and young local blacks from working-class suburbs are invited to not to stay drinking, chatting or smoking in the premises of venues, apart that they are not permitted to entry in the venues as previously commented. In fact, the hyper-securization of the urban space is crucial in developing the politics of playscape (Hannigan, 1998), what Adrian Drummond-Cole and Darwin BondGraham (2012) in the case of Oakland results of a great interest if it is compared to the Bairro Alto neighborhood. Drummond-Cole and Bond-Graham notes the Disnyefication of an urban space hinges on an intensive gentrification effort in which undesirable categories of persons (e.g., youth of color, activists, the poor, houseless persons, among others) and activities associated with them are removed. In our case, we suggest that the Disneyficated neoliberal urban night in Bairro Alto is quite more complex, encompassing a multifaceted set of social, spatial and economical issues. Second, an exorbitant noise coming from live music bars and dancing bars invades public space, fostering alcohol-fueled to show hyperreal jubilation by chatting, drinking and trying to hook up with someone. Simulated joy, happiness and exultation aims at expressing modes of existence other than that of the oppressive routinization of work, evoking joy and stimulating the out-of-the ordinary (Lefebevre, 1974). Here one drink just to escape from their harsh individual circumstances. Still others hope for an unforgettable night... if they are not affected by race and class inequalities. Because of many venues in Bairro Alto target tourists and/or locals with high purchasing power (Nofre et al., 2016), the right of admission is converted into a very efficient mechanism of (racist) social sanitization of the urban nightscape. Actually, entrance is usually free at any dancing bar in Lisbon, but sometimes depends on how the article 14.2 of the Act 234/2007 of 19 June approved by the Portuguese Republic Assembly is executed. According to its article 14.1., there is no fee 3.2. The disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night entrance to come in dancing bars. However, the application of the admission is restricted (article 14.2) whether the venue’s security staff considers that some customer may likely disturb the “normal order of the venue”. According to the established legal terms, the normal order is disrupted if the customer does not express his/her intention to consume, expresses will of violating the law and/or the venue’s code of conduct or he/she entries in restricted areas such as the venue’s storage room. However, there is another “implicit” article regarding the admission carried out by the venues’ security staff. Certain social actors of the Bairro Alto nightlife are considered perilous because of their color of the skin and their appearance of not having high purchasing power. Even though the presence of young Roma, Afro-Portuguese and Afro-Brazilian in the Bairro Alto during night-time leisure activities is scarce if they want to enter in some venues they must accomplish one of the two main access conditions that are actually not required to others (here including phenotypically black tourists). In this case, a black tourist must demonstrate economic solvency in a very clear way (that is, through his/her dress style, paying an entrance ticket), and showing sobriety. Faced with such mechanism of social and class exclusion, young and young adult AfroPortuguese and Afro-Brazilian individuals tend to (re)produce their own mechanisms of sociospatial segregation in “their venues”. The Sem Nom Bar (132 Rua Diário das Notícias Street) is a venue that offers an alternative night, different from the “Portuguese white student” night which dominates the Bairro’s Alto nightscape (Nofre et al., forthcoming). The Sem Nom Bar thus becomes a place for (re)producing gendered mechanisms of community purity (Sennett, 1970). Actually, using the term “gendered mechanisms of community purity” would not be risky: (white) male individuals are not welcomed in the Sem Nom Bar. However, females are always welcomed there. Other dancing bars such as Club Carib (78 Rua Atalaia Street) are also a meeting point for some young and young adult Afro-Portuguese and Afro-Brazilians. Those who are admitted by the security staff, finally come in the venue are in most cases usual customers. But some of them must display some “rituals of aggregation” (Van Gennep, 2010). They allow to legitimize and normalize their presence because some tourists and white locals often see them as “perilous agents” (Nofre et al., 2016b). Third, the urban night in Bairro Alto is also featured by liminality. Illegal activities (small drug dealing and male/female prostitution) become temporally “tolerated” by police and local administration. Despite the urban night in Bairro Alto is highly featured by the significant presence of tourists and Erasmus students in many parts of the quarter, some of them make contact with young adult black African, Afro-Portuguese or small-time gypsy drug-dealers to be found not only in marginal positions of the Erasmus Corner but at many street crossings in the whole quarter. Some dealers operate at the end of Rua Atalaia, where it turns left, thus forming a corner. It may be seen as a night-time loophole partly tolerated by police, by the logic that drug dealing is removed from the real center where only adult and/or elderly upper-middle class tourists go to have a caipirinha and enjoy live Brazilian music coming from some venues in Rua Atalaia. Actually, some observational fieldwork and informal interviews carried out with the boss of the three petty dealers acting in Rua Atalalia seems to confirm that it indeed exists an implicit agreement established between dealers and police: They must be discreet and do not provoke neither major, nor minor public disturbs. They offer badly-cut cocaine, hashish and marihuana which are stored in private houses in the Bairro Alto itself, which the police cannot enter without having the court order. Actually, where Rua Atalalia Street forms a corner it is where petty drug dealing is held every night. It may be seen as a night-time loophole partly tolerated by police, by the logic that drug dealing is far away from the area where adult and/or elder upper-middle class tourists are dinning Portuguese cuisine with Fado music and enjoying a riskless night in a vintage neigborhood. Fourth, the Bairro Alto’s night is highly marked by labor exploitation. In many nightlife venues in Bairro Alto, while a young girl (or boy, in less frequency) promotes the bar by picking clients in the street and offerring them free shots and cheep caipirinhas, mojito, or beers, other(s) are working as bar tenders, DJs, or playing live music. In many cases, they are informal workers, with no contract. Interestingly, some Erasmus students also work in such precarious conditions since 119 120 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 they need an extra montly money in order to pay their house rent (they are usually girls...). Moreover, the recent expansion of tourist-oriented and youth-oriented nightlife in Bairro Alto (including a significant increasing of nightlife-derived profits) have not involved the improvement of labor conditions for most nightlife workers. Night-time economy in Bairro Alto continue to show profound inequalities regarding owner’s profits and worker’s wages. In parallel, dozens of adultyoung black Africans work as street vendors. Many of them are not living permanently in Lisbon but travelling around South Europe by following seasonal jobs mainly related to agriculture. For many of them, the objective is to accumulate and send money to their families in Senegal in order to be able to facilitate the access to school and university for their children. Finally, heteronormativity and patriarchalism continue to be present in the Bairro Alto’s nightlife. The urban night in 1980’s in Bairro Alto became a time-space of liberation for local LGTBQ individuals (Ribeiro, 1982) after decades of fascist opression and repression. However, the recent commodification of the urban night has marginalized the contested, bohemian atmosphere that was a feature of Bairro Alto at night in the seventies and eighties. Today, although the Portuguese capital is worldly sold as the best gay nightlife in Europe, observational fieldwork allows to state that homophobia is especially significant among local population — some derogatory comment can be heard when an effeminate young boy or male pass by the street. Actually, the Portuguese society is still today profoundly heternormative and patriarchal (Costa and Davies, 2012), Hence queer individuals are still seen as decorative, exotic of the heteronormative and patriarchal disneyficated neoliberal urban night. 5. Final remarks This paper has shed light on the “Disneyfication” of the urban night in the historical neighborhood of Bairro Alto in Lisbon by focusing on a specific setting, Rua Atalaia Street. The use of the term Disneyfication in exploring the urban neoliberal night has had the objective to provoke debate among readers. Darkness provides various opportunities for simulated transgressions — in Braudillardian terminology — which are always delimited by the social, cultural, economic and political order of the neoliberal city. In this sense, Rua Atalaia Street in Bairro Alto (Lisbon) might be seen as a simulated transgressive space-time of leisure that also expresses modes of existence other than that of the oppressive routinization of work, evoking joy and stimulate the out-of-the ordinary (Lefebvre as cited in Williams, 2008, p. 520). In the disneyficated urban night, the “what to do”, “what to drink” and how to behave is strictly delimited. Moreover, social codes in the disneyficated urban night are mainly defined by a) do not challenging social, political order of the neoliberal city, and b) allowing the individual to feel as part of the community by celebrating happiness, joy and success in life (although in a simulated way). However, happiness and joy can hide despair, anguish, and a desire for a emancipatory potential for young precariat working in the disneyficated urban night. In the bars and dancing bars of Rua Atalaia Street, labor exploitation is aesthetically removed, while the carnavalization of the “otherness” becomes part of the scenario of the nighttime Rua Atalaia Street. As Alan Bryman (2004) argues, Disnyefication thus hinges on an intensive gentrification effort in which undesirable categories of persons and activities associated with them are removed. Heteronormativity, patriarchalism, and social, moral, racial and political sanitation reinforce of the organizational ethos of the disneyficated neoliberal urban night. Acknowledgements: This paper was supported by the Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia de Portugal (under the Program Pest-OE/SADG/UI4067/2014 and the Training Program for Human Resources in Science & Technology-SRFH). This work has also counted with the support of the Interdisciplinary Centre of Social Sciences from the New University of Lisbon (CICS.NOVA). 3.2. The disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night References Allen, J. et al. (2003). Nature of burglary, vehicle and violent crime. In C. Flood-Page & J. Taylor (Eds.), Crime in England and Wales 2001/2002: Supplementary Volume. Home Office Statistical Bulletin 01/03. London: Home Office. Apprill, C. (2012). Dancing Parisiens au Quotidien. Un Loisir de Seniors. Ethnologie Française, 42(3): 483-491. Retrieved from https://www.cairn.info/revue-ethnologie-francaise-2012-3-page-483.htm. Balula, L. (2010). Espaço público e criatividade urbana. A dinâmica dos lugares em três bairros culturais. Cidades, Comunidades e Territórios, 20-21, 43-58. Retrieved from http://revistas.rcaap.pt/cct/article/view/9328. Bartkowiak-Theron, I. & Robyn-Sappey, J. (2012). The methodological identity of shadowing in social science research. Qualitative Research Journal, 12(1), 7-16. DOI: 10.1108/14439881211222697. Bourdieu, P. (1990[1980]). The Logic of Practice. Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press. Boyd, J. (2010). Producing Vancouver’s (hetero)normative nightscape. Gender, Place & Culture: A Journal of Feminist Geography, 17(2), 169-189 Boyd, J. L. (2008). Dancing out of place: Geographies of performance and Vancouver’s independent nightlife. PhD Thesis, University of British Columbia, Vancouver, Canada. Brenner, N., & Theodore, N. (2005). Neoliberalism and the urban condition. City, 9(1), 101-107. DOI: 10.1080/13604810500092106. Bryman, A. (2004). The Disneyzation of Society. New York: Sage. Burke, P. (1995). The invention of leisure in early modern Europe. Past and Present, 146, 136–50. Calafat, A. & Juan, M. (2004). Health and safety problems in recreational nightlife in the Island of Mallorca. International Journal of Drug Policy, 15(2), 157-162. DOI: 10.1016/j.drugpo.2003.08.002. Chatterton, P. & Hollands, R. (2003). Urban Nightscapes: Youth cultures, pleasure spaces and corporate power. New York: Routledge. Costa, P. A., & Davies, M. (2012). Portuguese adolescents’ attitudes toward sexual minorities: Transphobia, homophobia, and gender role beliefs. Journal of homosexuality, 59(10), 1424-1442. DOI: 10.1080/00918369.2012.724944. Costa, P. (2013). Bairro Alto revisited: reputation and symbolic assets as drivers for sustainable innovation in the city. DINAMIA-CET Working Paper 2013/14. DOI: 10.7749/dinamiacet-iul.wp.2013.14 Cressey, P.G. (1932). The Taxi-Dance Hall: A Sociological Study in Commercialized Recreation and City Life. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Crivello, S. (2009). Torino di notte: Politiche urbane, consumo e dinamiche spaziali nel playscape della città. Archivo di Studi Urban e Regionali, 22, 99-120. DOI: 10.3280/ASUR2009-095006. Cunningham, H. (1980) Leisure in the Industrial Revolution 1780-1880. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Czarniawska-Joerges, B. (2007). Shadowing and Other Techniques for Doing Fieldwork in Modern Societies. Copenhaghen: Liber AB. Drummond-Cole, A. & Bond-Graham, D. (2012). Disneyfication of Downtown Oakland: Business Improvement Districts and the Battle for Public Space. Race, Poverty & Environment, 19(1). Retrieved from: http://reimaginerpe.org/node/6937. Eckersley, R. & Reeder, L. (2006). Violence in Public Spaces. Explanations and Solutions. Retrieved from http://www.australia21.org.au/pdf/Violence%20in%20public%20places%20report.pdf. Erenberg, L.A. (1986). From New York to Middletown: Repeal and the legitimization of nightlife in the Great Depression, American Quarterly, 38(5), 761-778 Farrer, J. (2011). Global Nightscapes in Shanghai as Ethnosexual Contact Zones. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies-- Special Issue: In and Out of Asia: The Cultural Politics of Talent Migration, 3(5): 747-764. DOI: 10.1080/1369183X.2011.559716. Farrer, J. & Field, A. D. (2015) Shanghai Nightscapes: A Nocturnal Biography of a Global City. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Filipe, C. (2012). Barulho nas ruas e bares do Bairro Alto e Cais do Sodré vai ter rédea curta Retrieved from http://www.publico.pt/local/noticia/barulho-nas-ruas-e-bares-do-bairro-alto-e-cais-do-sodre-vai-ter-redeacurta-1566036. Fowler, D. (2008) Youth Culture in Modern Britain, c. 1920—c. 1970. From Ivory Tower to Global Movement - A New History. New York: McMillan. França, J. A. (2013). Lisboa, História Física e Moral. Lisboa: Livros Horizonte. Frith, S. (1983). Sound Effects: Youth, leisure and the politics of rock’n’roll. London: Constable. Galhardo, J. (2014) As desigualdades, fontes de dinâmicas urbanas no centro histórico de Lisboa. Cadernos Metrópole, 32, 513-536. DOI: 10.1590/2236-9996.2014-3210. Gerbod, P. (1989). Un Espace de Sociabilité: Le Bal en France au XX Siècle (1910-1970). Ethnologie Française, 19(4),362-370. Grazian, D. (2008). On the Make. The Hustle of Urban Nightlife. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Grazian, D. (2007). The Girl Hunt: Urban Nightlife and the Performance of Masculinity as Collective Activity. Symbolic Interaction, 30, 221–243. Doi: 10.1525/si.2007.30.2.221 Gwiazdzinski, L. (2009). Chronotopies-L’événementiel et l’éphémère dans la ville des 24 heures. Bulletin de l’Association de géographes français, 86(3), 345-357. DOI: 10.3406/bagf.2009.2679. Gwiazdzinski, L. (2005). La Nuit, Dernière Frontière de la Ville. La Tour-d’Aigues: Edicions de L’Aube. 121 122 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Hadfield, P. & Measham, F. (2015). The outsourcing of control: Alcohol law enforcement, private-sector governance and the evening and night-time economy. Urban Studies, 52, 517-537. DOI: 10.1177/0042098014554540. Hadfield, P., Lister, S. & Traynor, P. (2009). ‘This town’s a different town today’ Policing and regulating the night-time economy. Criminology and Criminal Justice, 9(4), 465-485. DOI: 10.1177/1748895809343409. Hae, L. (2011) Dilemmas of th Nightlife Fix: Post-Industrialization and the Gentrification of Nightlife in New York City. Urban Studies, 48(16), 3444–3460. DOI: 10.1177/0042098011400772. Hannerz, U. (2003). Being there... and there... and there! Reflections on multi-site ethnography. Ethnography, 4(2), 201-216. DOI 10.1177/14661381030042003. Hannerz, U. (1980). Exploring the City: Inquires Toward an Urban Anthropology. New York: University of Columbia Press. Hannigan, J. (1998). Fantasy City. New York: Routledge. Hedlund, J.H. (1994). If they didn’t drink, would they crash anyway? The role of alcohol in traffic crashes, Alcohol, Drugs and Driving, 110(2), 115-12 Homel, R. & Clark, J. (1994). The prediction and prevention of violence in pubs and clubs. Crime Prevention Studies, 3, 1–46. Hughes, K., Morleo, M. & Bellis, M. (2008). Alcohol, nightlife and violence: the relative contributions of drinking before and during nights out to negative health and criminal justice outcomes. Addiction, 103(1), 60-65. DOI: 10.1177/0886260509340549. Keall, M.D., Frith, W.J. & Patterson, T.L. (2004). The influence of alcohol, age and number of passengers on the nighttime risk of driver fatal injury in New Zealand. Accident Analysis & Prevention, 36, 49-61. DOI: 10.1016/S0001-4575(02)00114-8. Kloosterman, R. C., & Van Der Leun, J. P. (1999). Just for starters: commercial gentrification by immigrant entrepreneurs in Amsterdam and Rotterdam neighbourhoods. Housing Studies,14(5), 659-677. Knafou, R. (2012). Les Lieux du Voyage. Paris: Le Cavalier Bleu. Koslofsky, C. (2011). Evening’s Empire: A History of the Night in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lee, R.M. (2000). Unobtrusive Methods in Social Research. Philadelphia: Open University Press. Lefebvre, H. (1991[1974]). The Production of Space. Blackwell, Oxford, UK. Lesjak, M., Juvan, E., Ineson, E.,Yap, M.H.T & Podovšovnik-Axelsson, E. (2015). Erasmus student motivation: Why and where to go? Higher Education, 70(1), 1-21. Doi:10.1007/s10734-015-9871-0 van Liempt, I. (2015). Safe nightlife collaborations: Multiple actors, conflicting interests and different power distributions. Urban Studies, 52, 486-500. DOI: 10.1177/0042098013504010. Lister, S., Hobbs, D., Hall, S. & Winlow, S. (2010). Violence in the night-time economy. Bouncers: the reporting, recording and prosecutionof assaults, Policing and Society, 10(4), 383-402. DOI: /10.1080/10439463.2000.9964851. Malet-Calvo, D., Nofre, J. & Geralde, M. (2016). The ‘Erasmus Corner’: Gentrification, emotions and place-making of a nightlife spot in Bairro Alto (Lisbon, Portugal)”. Leisure Studies. (in press). Malheiros, J., Carvalho, R., & Mendes, L. (2012). Etnicização residencial e nobilitação urbana marginal: processo de ajustamento ou prática emancipatória num bairro do centro histórico de Lisboa?. Sociologia, Revista da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto. Número temático: Imigração, Diversidade e Convivência Cultural, 97-128. Retrieved from http://ler.letras.up.pt/uploads/ficheiros/10010.pdf. Malnig, J. (Ed.) (2008). Ballroom, Boogie, Shimmy Sham, Shake: A a social and popular dance reader. Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Marrus, M.R. (1974). The Emergence of Leisure. New York: Harper Torchbooks. May, R. (2015). Urban Nightlife: Entertaining Race, Class, and Culture in Public Space. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. McRobbie, A. (1984). Dance and social fantasy. In A. McRobbie & M. Nava (Eds.), Gender and Generation (pp. 13061). Basingstoke: MacMillan. Mendes, L. (2014a). Da gentrificaçao marginal enquentao movimento urbano crítico: Evidências empíricas de um bairro histórico de Lisboa, Bairro Alto. Revista Iberoamericana de Urbanismo, 9, 29-46. Retrieved from http://www.riurb.com/n9/09_02_GoncalvesMendes.pdf. Mendes, L. (2014b). Gentrificação e políticas de reabilitação urbana em Portugal: uma análise crítica à luz da tese rent gap de Neil Smith. Cadernos Metrópole, 32, 487-511. DOI: 10.1590/2236-9996.2014-3209 Mendes, L. (2011). Cidade pós-moderna, gentrificação e a produção social do espaço fragmentado. Cadernos Metrópole, 26, 473-495. DOI: 10.1590/14765. Mendes, L. (2006). Nobilitação urbana no Bairro Alto: análise de um processo de recomposição socio-espacial. MA Thesis, University of Lisbon. Retreived from: http://repositorio.ul.pt/handle/10451/1741; accessed on 02/09/2015. Morris, S. (1998). Clubs, Drugs and Doormen. London Police Research Group, Crime detection and prevention series paper 86, Home Office. Nofre, J. (2013). Vintage Nightlife: Gentrifying Lisbon downtown. Fennia, 191 (2), 106–121. DOI 10.11143/8231. Nofre, J., et al. (2016a). Exploring nightlife and urban change in Bairro Alto, Lisbon. City & Community (in press). Nofre, J., Malet-Calvo, D., Cassan, A. & Wodzinska, S. (2016b). Club Carib: A geoethnography of (self-)seduction in a dancing bar of Bairro Alto. Social & Cultural Geography (in press) Peck et al. (2008). The relationship between blood alcohol concentration (BAC), age, and crash risk. Journal of Safety Research, 39, 311–319. DOI: 10.1016/j.jsr.2008.02.030. 3.2. The disneyfication of the neoliberal urban night Pétonnet, C. (1982). ‘L´observation flottante. L’exemple d’un cimetière parisien. L´Homme, 22(4), 37-47. PUNHAB (1997) Diary of the Portuguese Republic, 2nd Serie, no. 238, Declaration n.º 263/97. Ribeiro, J. (1982). Cosmovisão Frágil, Destaque. Retrieved from http://fragil.luxfragil.com. Roberts, M. & Eldridge, A. (2009). Planning the Night-time City. London: Routledge. Roberts, M. & Townshend, T. (2013). Young adults and the decline of the urban English pub: issues for planning. Planning Theory and Practice, 14(4), 455-469. DOI: 10.1080/14649357.2013.845683. Robinson, C. (2009). Nightscapes and leisure spaces: an ethnographic study of young people’s use of free space. Journal of Youth Studies — Special issue “Young people, class and place”, 12(5), 501-514. DOI: 10.1080/13676260903081657. Rodrigues, W. (2010). Cidade em transição. Nobilitação urbana, estilos de vida e reurbanização em Lisboa. Oeiras, Portugal: Celta. Ruas, S. (2014). Moradores do Bairro Alto lançam petição contra o Park por causa do ruído. Público. Retrieved from http://www.publico.pt/local/noticia/moradores-do-bairro-alto-lancam-peticao-contra-o-park-por-causa-doruido-1635024. Shaw, R. (2015). ‘Alive after five’: Constructing the neoliberal night in Newcastle upon Tyne. Urban Studies, 52, 456470. DOI: 10.1177/0042098013504008. Shaw, R. (2010). Neoliberal Subjectivities and the Development of the Night-Time Economy in British Cities. Geography Compass, 4: 893–903. DOI: 10.1111/j.1749-8198.2010.00345.x. Simpson, H.M., Mayhey, D.R. & Warren, R.A. (1982). Epidemology of road accidents involving young adults: Alcohol, drugs and other factors. Drug & Alcohol Dependence, 10: 35-63. Søgaard, T. F. (2014). Bouncers, Policing and the (In)visibility of Ethnicity in Nightlife Security Governance. Social Inclusion, 2(3), 40-51. DOI: 10.17645/si.v2i3.34.. Stahl, G.. (1976). Youth Subcultures in Post-War Britain. London: Hutchison. Straw, W. (2015) The Urban Night. In M. Darroch & J. Marchessault (Eds.), Cartographies of Place: Navigating the Urban (pp.185-200). Montreal, Quebec: McGillQueens University Press. Talbot, D. (2011). The juridification of nightlife and alternative culture: Two UK case studies. International Journal of Cultural Policy, 17(1), 81-93. DOI: 10.1080/10286631003695547 Talbot, D. (2004). Regulation and Racial Differentiation in the Construction of Night-time Economies: A London Case Study. Urban Studies, 41(4). DOI: 10.1080/0042098042000194160. Thornton, S. (1995). Club Cultures. Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge: Polity Press. Tulumello, S. (2016) Reconsidering neoliberal urban planning in times of crisis: Urban regeneration policy in a dense space in Lisbon.Urban Geography, 37(1), 117-140. DOI: 10.1080/02723638.2015.1056605. Tutenges S. (2009). Safety problems among heavy-drinking youth at a Bulgarian nightlife resort. International Journal of Drug Policy, 20(5): 444–446. DOI: 10.1016/j.drugpo.2008.11.004. Vale, S. (2009). A cultura como regenerador urbano? O caso do Bairro Alto. On the W@terfront. The on-line magazine on waterfronts, public space, public art and urban regeneration, 12, 39-58. Retrieved from http://raco.cat/index.php/Waterfront/article/view/218824. Veblen, T. (1899). The Theory of the Leisure Class. MacMillan, New York. Webb, E. J., Campbell, D. T., Schwarts, R. D. & Sechrest, L. (2001). Unobtrusive Measures: Nonreactive Research in Social Sciences. Chicago: Rand McNally. Weed, M. (2005). Meta-interpretation: A method for the interpretive synthesis of qualitative research. Forum: 6(1). Retrieved from: http://www.qualitativeQualitative Social Research, research.net/index.php/fqs/article/view/508/1096. Williams, R. (2008). Night spaces. Darkness, deterritorialization, and Social Control. Space & Culture, 11(4), 514-522. Willis, P. (1990). Common Culture. New York: Open University Press. 123 124 3.3. Sensing the City – mapping the beat. Analysing (affective) rhythms of music-making in Wellington and Copenhagen Katie Rochow 1 Abstract Music-making in the city constitutes and is constituted by a plurality of urban rhythms, which affect the diurnal, weekly and annual experience of place and shape the musicmaker’s “pathways” through the city. This paper is dedicated to present a way of capturing, understanding and interpreting the multifaceted rhythmical layout of urban spaces. It will do so by introducing a rhythmanalytical methodology, which draws on participant generated photographs and mental maps as analytical tools in order to provoke compelling depictions of musical activity in the city. Based on current ethnographic fieldwork in the urban spaces of Wellington (Aotearoa/New Zealand) and Copenhagen (Denmark), this paper proposes a fruitful technique of experience and experiment, that seeks to recognize the interwovenness of socialities, atmospheres, object, texts and images in people’s everyday lives and in this way affords opportunities for attending to the multiple rhythms underlying music-making in the city. Keywords: rhythmanalysis, affect, photography, mental-mapping, music-making. What I am presenting today is based on my doctoral research, which examines the (affective) relationship of music-makers to their local urban space. In particular it is concerned with the ways in which the musicians’ ‘sense of place’ affects the way they participate and engage in local musical activity. I chose independent music-making in Wellington (New Zealand) and Copenhagen (Denmark) as case studies in order to work through a set of conceptual frameworks and research methods, which can more adequately describe how a sense of place is evoked through a complex array of changing rhythmic processes that characterise everyday life in the city. In the course of my project, music-making is described as made up of an inter-related set of actors, affects, materialities, and social relations that come together in the complex unfolding of the city. Urban places are part of infinitely complex spatial networks (Massey, 1995). They are ceaselessly (re) constituted out of their connections, the “twists and fluxes of interrelation” (Amin and Thrift, 2002, p. 30) through which “multiple networked mobilities of capital, persons, objects, signs and information” (Sheller & Urry, 2006, p. ix) are brought together to produce a “particular, but ever-changing, complex mix of heterogeneous social interactions, materialities, mobilities, imaginaries and social effects” (Edensor, 2012, p. 3). Those rhythmic mixes create what David Seamon (1980) calls “place ballets”, an accumulation of repetitive events expressed through everyday life regularities that involve interactions between people, and interactions between people and their urban environment — any kind of movement that evolves from physical space, people, nature and time. These regular patterns of flow make up a concatenation of rhythms which drive human activity and affect the formation of the city’s ambience, its textures, its atmospheres, and, more importantly, its affective charge. Music-making in the city therefore constitutes and is constituted by a plurality of rhythms, which affect the experience of place and shape the musicmaker’s (affective) relation to their urban environment. In order to capture, analyse and understand the multiple rhythms underlying the musicians’ sense of place in Wellington and Copenhagen I developed a rhythmanalytical methodology which 1 Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand. E-mail: k.rochow|at|gmail|dot|com. 125 126 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 seeks to recognise the interwovenness of socialities, atmospheres, objects, texts and images in people’s everyday lives and in this way affords opportunities for attending to the concrete, physical reality of urban spaces as well as other less tangible, less readily apparent but no less significant affective aspects associated with music-making in the city. This rhythmanalytical methodology draws on various terms and concepts that offer useful provocations to think differently about how to approach music-making in the city. Key among these is Henri Lefebvre’s (2004) notion of rhythmanalysis. For Lefebvre “everywhere where there is interaction between a place, a time and an expenditure of energy, there is a rhythm” (Lefebvre, 2004, p. 15). In order to understand the complex rhythmical reality of the city, he introduces the idea of rhythmanalysis. Rhythmanalysis offers a way to think about the temporal choreography of a multitude of practices in the everyday. It provides an analytic lens from which to examine the interrelation of space and time by means of two different modalities of the repetitive: linear and cyclical rhythms. While cyclical rhythms stand for the cosmic, worldly or natural, linear rhythms are imposed structures, originating from human activity or social practice. This rhythmical divide neglects however the less visible, affective rhythms, intensities, moods and atmospheres which present themselves in urban spaces without actually being present. Similar to Raymond Williams’s (1977) “structure of feeling”, affective rhythms are “social experiences in solution”. They “don’t have to await definition, classification, or rationalization before they exert palpable pressures” (Williams, 1977, p. 132–133). They don’t have an inherent meaning or semantic message as they “pick up density and texture while they move through bodies, dreams, dramas, and social worldings of all kinds” (Stewart, 2007, p. 3). Yet, those rhythms are crucial to the way in which attachment (or detachment) to a place gains its affective charge. In order to capture the concrete as well as the more absract rhythms that constitute the musicians’ everyday life in the city, I used a unique medley of qualitative methods, including participant observation, serial interviews, photo-elicitation and mental mapping. For the purpose of this paper, I will focus only on the latter two: photo-elicitation and mapping. Prior to the first in-depth interview I asked each musician to draw a map of their “personal Wellington” or “personal Copenhagen”. This task was unexpected for most respondents, as I did not mention it before the first meeting in order to avoid any cognitive engagement with their urban environment prior to the mapping exercise. Instead, I aimed at stimulating what Kathleen Stewart (2011) refers to as “atmospheric attunement” — an ‘attunement of the senses’ that would bring attention to the charged atmospheres of everyday life and in this way allow the musicians to sense out and consider more fully the multiple rhythms, valences, moods and affects constituting their musical environment. As such, the idea behind this arts-based approach to mapping is to move beyond the conventional use of maps as a graphic means for representing places. Rather those subjective drawings create an opportunity for a non-verbal articulation of lived experience in the form of “descriptive detours” (Stewart, 2011), which enables a consideration of the concrete materiality of the city as well as the more elusive aspects that shape the music-makers’ everyday lives. After the mapping exercise, the musicians were given a disposable camera and the task to take photos of their ‘musical environment’ over the course of three to five weeks. Again, the instructions were purposely left “open” in order to avoid setting up the everyday as an object of analysis, which then had to be ‘represented’. My aim was to think about photos as something other than just representations. Here I want to draw on Henri Bergson’s (1988) claim that an image is a “certain existence which is more than that which the idealist calls a representation, but less than that which the realist calls a thing” (Bergson, 1988, p. 9). This implies that an image is not merely a representational snapshot nor is it just a material thing. Rather, images can be understood as “resonant blocks of space-time: they have duration, even if they appear still”. They are “blocks of sensation with an affective intensity” and “make sense not just because we take time to figure out what they signify, but also because their pre-signifying affective materiality is felt in bodies” (Latham and McCromack, 2009, p. 253). 3.3. Sensing the City – mapping the beat. Analysing (affective) rhythms of music-making in Wellington and Copenhagen Hence, if an image is a certain existence somewhere between a representation and a thing, so also is a rhythm. The relation between rhythm and image is not one involving a relation between object and representation. Rather, those photographs may be useful in displaying valences, moods, sensations and tempos of the “affective force fields” surrounding the musicians in their urban space (Stewart, 2011). Therefore, instead of providing quantitative content for tables, charts or diagrams, such images can capture or expose the dynamism of embodied movement and the affective tonalities present in certain moments and places. In this way, participant generated photographs facilitate the development of another way of looking, a means of unfixing and altering the perspective, providing a technique for thinking through the complex and multi-faceted array of everyday life rhythms and atmospheres. An intensive content analysis of the photographs and maps revealed different people, places, objects, events, interactions, atmospheres, fluxes and flows — a complex range of multi-scalar temporalities that make up a concatenation of rhythms, which in their varied ratios, serve to bind the music-makers to their urban space. In order to capture the spatial expression of those rhythms, I grouped them according to dominant spatial attributes. From a macro social and spatial perspective there are three primary categories of urban rhythms: social, spatial and affective rhythms. These categories can be further divided into sub-groups. Social rhythms are divided into socio-cultural and political rhythms; spatial rhythms into urban materiality and nature; and affective rhythms into ordinary affects and atmospheres. The category social rhythms consist of various social events, activities, practices and traditions as well as institutional and governmental dynamics; spatial rhythms encompass the concrete, physical reality of the city including urban nature, seasonal and annual cycles, and affective rhythms are composed of ordinary affects, sensibilities, valences, moods and sensations that constitute the charged atmospheres of the everyday. Social, spatial and affective rhythms can further be distinguished by their intensity and their direction. As such, certain maps and photographs were dominated by particular rhythms such as the strong appearance of natural rhythms on various drawings from Wellington. Here, the most frequently drawn object was the natural harbour including the vast coastline, the hills and the surrounding native bush, which often took up half of the entire map. Even though the city of Copenhagen is graced with numerous lakes, parks, canals and the ocean as well, natural rhythms were far less dominant and took up a rather small part of the maps. Instead, the musicians drew roads, streets, bridges or cycle lanes that permeate the city, connecting different buildings, objects and places. Some of those roads cross the local border, indicating the “bridge to Sweden” or a “highway out of the city”, which expands the confined cityscape and points towards a global drive and direction. This “global direction” was reinforced by the frequent depiction of airplanes or the airport on the Copenhagen drawings, as well as the appearance of a globe, a world map, the airport or mobile media devices on the musicians’ photographs, which illustrates their desire for movement and connectivity on a global scale. Following Doreen Massey (1994) the increasing degree of mobility and the geographical stretching-out of social relations constitutes a sense of place which “includes a consciousness of its links with the wider world” (1994, p. 155). For this reason, I want to argue that this “outward” direction of urban rhythms points towards an “extroverted” sense of place. In contrast, the main direction of urban rhythms for Wellington’s music-makers is directed “inwards”, towards the local musical community. This is illustrated by the depiction of community houses on the drawings and photographs (these are private spaces or shared flats, mostly occupied by local musicians who regularly host concerts and public events), as well as the frequent appearance of people, social gatherings and events, which highlights the dense network of cooperative links between local musicians and demonstrates the significance of community and collaboration. The centrality of community for Wellington’s music-makers suggests a sense of place, which is rather “introverted”. As such, the direction of urban rhythms indicates if a sense of place is introverted or extroverted. However, those directions are not mutually exclusive; rather, an individual’s sense of place always includes “inward” as well as “outward” looking rhythms. 127 128 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 As such, the rhythmanalytical methodology presented here engages with the full complexity of musical practice and the polyrhythmicity of everyday life. Using visual based methods provided an opportunity to write theory through “descriptive detours”, a way to account for some of the more elusive aspects that shape the way local music-makers “sense out” and “make sense of” their urban environment. The combination of cartographic and photographic methods allowed me to better attend to an affective register that is often overlooked in studies of music-making. As such, making visible the everyday lives of music-makers, as they themselves document and reflect upon them, provoked a deeper analysis of those social, spatial and affective movements and moments, the fixity and flow which orchestrates musical activity in the city. To this end, the rhythmanalytical methodology developed here, served as an analytic lens for sensing the city and mapping the beat in Wellington and Copenhagen. References Amin, A., & Thrift, N. (2002). Cities: Reimagining the Urban. Cambridge: Polity. Bergson, H. (1988). Matter and Memory. New York: Zone Books. Edensor, T. (2012). Geographies of rhythm: nature, place, mobilities and bodies. Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing, Ltd. Latham, A., & McCormack, D. P. (2009). Thinking with Images in Non-Representational Cities: Vignettes from Berlin. Area, 41(3), 252–262. DOI: 10.1111/j.1475-4762.2008.00868.x. Lefebvre, H. (2004). Rhythmanalysis: Space, Time and Everyday Life. London ; New York: Bloomsbury Academic. Massey, D. (1994). A Global Sense of Place. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Seamon, D. (1980). Body-subject, time-space routines, and place-ballets. In A. Buttimer & D. Seamon (Eds.), The Human Experience of Space and Place (pp. 148–165). London: Croom Helm Ltd. Sheller, M., & Urry, J. (2006). The New Mobilities Paradigm. Environment and Planning A, 38(2), 207–226. doi.org/10.1068/a37268 Stewart, K. (2007). Ordinary affects. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Stewart, K. (2011). Atmospheric attunements. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 29(3), 445–453. doi.org/10.1068/d9109 Williams, R. (1977). Marxism and literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 3.4. Songs for Cassateves (2001): A shared strategy between U.S. independent filmmaking and underground music scenes Maria Teresa Soldani 1 Abstract 1991 was indicated by Dave Markey and Thurston Moore as “the year punk broke” in a film that documented the European tour of some indie bands: in 1991 “punk broke out” as a mass phenomenon of consumption, and, contemporaneously, was “broken, it should be fixed”, in reason of a damaged underground identity (Moore, 2011). This paper explores how Justin Mitchell’s DIY documentary Songs for Cassavetes contributed to fix the status of the so-called “American indie underground” (Azerrad, 2002). Mitchell portrayed with b/w 16mm film the shared milieu of the DIY scenes, as the K Records with Calvin Johnson in Olympia-WA, the community-based activity of the Make-Up in Washington-DC, plus several indie acts interviewed in all-ages venues. Furthermore, the film displayed the map as a key-tool for visualizing such scenes. This convergence between independent filmmaking and DIY spaces and practices suggested a way to restore the image of the underground scenes. Keywords: alternative/indie rock, undeground music scenes, independent filmmaking, 1990s, DIY. 1. 1991: The year punk broke It is a well-known fact that in the 1990s many U.S. indie2 bands as R.E.M. and Nirvana broke through the charts worldwide. They came from such music scenes as Athens, GA and Seattle, WA, where, at first, they were produced by independent labels as I.R.S., Sub Pop, and SST Records, and, afterward, signed with the majors. Early 1991 the iconic indie band R.E.M. topped the no. 1 position in the U.S. and U.K. charts with the seventh record Out of time (Warner Bros.); later in the year, Nirvana’s second record Nevermind (DGC) came out and reached the no. 1 position in the U.S. Billboard 200, as well as in other national charts, definitely labelling grunge music3. From now on, those bands will be considered co-opted by the mainstream apparatus, and their position in the context of the underground scenes will be criticized and considered problematic (see: Azerrad, 2002; Kruse, 2003). In light of this, Azerrad considered the year 1991 as the end of an era for the “American indie underground” (2002, pp. 3-11). These music releases were strictly connected with the production of films and videos — made on, or by those bands — which contributed to the completion of their artistic image and identity. Considering all these aspects, 1991 was also indicated by filmmaker Dave Markey and Sonic Youth’s member Thurston Moore as “the year punk broke” in a film that documented the European tour of some of those bands in the summer of the same year. Most of the acts that appeared in the movie already left their indie label for joining a major (i.e., Sonic Youth, Nirvana, Dinosaur Jr., Mudhoney). “In 1991” — Moore explained — “punk broke out”, as a mass 1 University of Pisa, McGill University, Italy. E-mail: mt.soldani|at|gmail|dot|com. According to Holly Kruse, I will use the expression “indie music” to include different terms that refers to quite the same genre in a specific music culture, such as college rock, alternative rock, indie pop-rock (see Kruse, 2003, pp. 613). 3 No. 1 position in U.S.A., Canada, Finland, France, Portugal, Sweden; No. 2 position in Australia, Austria, Norway, New Zealand, Spain, Switzerland; No. 3 position in Germany and Netherlands. 2 129 130 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 phenomenon of consumption, and, at the same time, “it was broken, it should be fixed”, since its underground identity was considered damaged (20114). Between 1991 and 1992 Markey screened 1991: The year punk broke, produced with the financial support of DGC, and Reality 86’d, a tourdiary of Black Flag’s extensive live activity in the U.S. self-produced with Dez Cadena. In 1992 Sonic Youth published “Dirty” (DGC), their best-selling record to date. They smashed MTV with two videoclips: “100%” — directed by indie filmmakers Tarma Davis with Spike Jonze and played by the skateboard star Jason Lee — and “Sugar Kane” — directed by visual design artist Nick Egan and played by Sassy Magazine star Chloë Sevigny — in which the band is performing in New York City during a “Grunge Collection” fashion show designed by Marc Jacobs for Perry Ellis. 2. American independent cinema and indie music Holly Kruse started her thorough study on independent music scenes identifying this moment as a turning point in the history of indie music, a chiefly oral history made by the scenes’ members: Recurrent in narratives of indie pop/rock is the conscious geographical and ideological positioning of the ‘peripheral’ local sites and practices of indie music production. As, in the late 1980s and early 1990s, forms of indie music became part of the commercial mainstream, narrative histories of indie music marked the moment as a time of the genre’s decline (2003, p. 1). In order to fully understand the U.S. film context of the 1990s in relation to such music subjects, I will make reference to other relevant indie productions. In the midst of the decade, Doug Pray produced and directed the documentary Hype! (1996) on the popular alternative rock scene of Seattle, a debut film independently produced and distributed by Lions Gate, a prototypical “minimajor”. By the initial sequence, the movie connected the U.S. Northwest area and its landscape, as well as the city life and its pace, with the careers of regional musicians. Among them appeared well-known acts such as Soundgarden, Mudhoney and Nirvana — jumped from the local indie Sub Pop to the majors A&M, Reprise/Warner Bros, and DGC — as well as underground personalities as Calvin Johnson, founder of the trio Beat Happening and the label K Records, and the band Some Velvet Sidewalk, all members of the DIY scene of Olympia, WA. Hype! was focused on the complex representation of “grunge” and its exploitation, still dealing with how a peripheral place became a central stage, and with the problematic relation between alternative and mainstream. As an indie film, Hype! adopted a production model in which the operational phases and the creative aspects were conducted by an independent company, while the distribution and the promotion were operated by a mini-major. In 1996, when Hype! was presented at Sundance Film Festival and released in cinemas, Justin Mitchell started the self-funded documentary film project Songs for Cassavetes, with the aim of framing the actual status of the U.S. indie underground scenes. The shootings were made between 1996 and 1997 using b/w 16mm films, then the footage was edited for another two years; due to the complex and expensive process behind the making of a movie with analog films, Songs for Cassavetes was presented in 2001. In the same years, Jem Cohen was completing the film/video Instrument (1999-2001), a definite portrait of the band Fugazi that described their key-role within the contexts of Washington, D.C., and the American underground scenes. Instrument covered a long time period, from 1987 to 1998, and included not only Cohen’s shootings, but also found footage collected from the scenes’ members and new Super-8 footage shot by the crew and band’s members during an international tour. Following Fugazi and Cohen work ethic (see Savlov, 1999; Sinker, 2001, pp. 2-19, 174-181; Azerrad, 2002, pp. 376-410), Instrument was fully self-funded, mainly through the band’s Dischord Records. 4 Last view: 12 September 2016. 3.4. Songs for Cassateves (2001): A shared strategy between U.S. independent filmmaking and underground music scenes Songs for Cassavetes were neither a biographical film made with collected materials, as Instrument was, nor was it a diary film on the life on tour of those bands, such as The year punk broke and Reality; similarly to Hype!, it developed the storyline through a choral narration within the city and its scene, but enclosed a different strategy, which was working to “fix” the “broken” status of that “American indie underground” by strengthening an operational convergence between filmmaking and music scenes. A strategy that started by a title that tributed John Cassavetes, widely considered the archetype of the American independent filmmaker. A strategy that, in the U.S. indie cinema of the 1990s, was adopted by DIY filmmakers as Cohen or Sadie Benning when they decided to create non-fictional forms, since those forms may be considered “primary” forms. So references to early, experimental, documentary, and direct cinema became the bases for the works of those filmmakers. They explored the amateurish approach of the first wave of U.S. vanguards to produce and distribute DIY films and videos within the contexts of the independent music scenes and cinema, such as Cohen with C-Hundred Film Corp. in Athens, a production label founded in 1987 by the filmmaker Jim McKay and R.E.M.’s singer Michael Stipe, and Benning with the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, UT, which in 1992 hosted the screenings of her early videos in the New Queer Cinema Panel. Just to frame the context of the 1990s, some successful indie movies were Singles (1992) by Cameron Crowe — set in Seattle during the grunge era, while starred and scored by musicians as Chris Cornell (Soundgarden) and Paul Westerberg (Replacements) — Clerks (1994) by Kevin Smith and — Sevigny film debut’s — Kids (1995) by Larry Clark and Harmony Korine. These fiction films, which involved the extensive use of contemporary indie music, were basically conceived by autonomous labels and distributed by majors. From the 1990s such hybrid production model will be widely adopted in the American independent cinema, and will lead towards an operational framework defined as “Indiewood” (see King, 2009; King, Molloy & Tzioumakis, 2013). 3. U.S. independent music scenes and Songs for Cassavetes As Will Straw pointed out in a prominent essay in 1991, in the alternative rock culture many practices coexist within the same geographical location of the scene, where time is stratified by enacting different strategies, such as the simultaneous use of multiple styles. Within the positioning in the urban space of the scene, the ongoing practices of “cross-fertilization” and “differentiation” in the present time become the core of the music productions. Furthermore, as Barry Shank put it, in the scene the venue is elected as the primary place because it enables the process of identification between performers and audience through the expression of “sincerity”, “in a carnivalesque atmosphere” where the club functions “as a cultural synecdoche” (1994, pp. 15-18). As outlined by Kruse, in the independent music scenes the concepts of “identification” and “identity” are central and establish a dialectic between “us”, the members, and “them”, the others, where “we” are the “outsiders” (2003, pp. 5-6, 119). The terms “authentic” and “authenticity” constantly occurred in the narratives of the scenes’ members, particularly in connection with the idea of “selling out”. These discourses attempt to trace the spaces of such scenes by questioning where those “blurred boundaries” between independent and mainstream actually are compared to “problematic” indie bands such as R.E.M., Sonic Youth, and Nirvana (2003, pp. 14-24, 121-138). Let’s get back to the film. Songs for Cassavetes is a choral narration made up by the interviews taken by the members of the underground scenes of Olympia, Washington, D.C., San Francisco and Los Angeles, CA: the bands PeeChees, Tullycraft, Memy’s Dress, Make-Up, Hi-Fives, SleaterKinney, Further, Some Velvet Sidewalk, Unwound, Dub Narcotic Sound System; the owners of the club Jabberjaw in L.A., of the K Records, and of the YoYo Studio in Olympia. All the interviewees are musicians and active members in the scene as producers of records and fanzines, as well as promoters of clubs and concerts. The movie collected these recordings together with the shots of the live performances of the bands mainly in all ages venues, leaving the filmic space to the “insiders” of the independent scenes. In comparison with Kruse’s empirical study and theoretical 131 132 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 framework, every tool of such scenes is filmed and mentioned — i.e., records labels and sites of distribution as radio, video, retail, live venues, fanzines and music journalism — following the ideas of “locality” as “geographically” and “socially defined” (2003, p. 113), as well as of the intrinsic conjunction between “locality and interlocality” (2003, p. 137). Thus, key features of the independent scenes highlighted in the movie are “interconnectedness” and “cooperation” (Kruse, 2003, p. 125-136). In addition to this, every DIY place and space is chosen by Mitchell to be paradigmatic of the “peripherical local sites and practices of indie music production and consumption in opposition to the ‘centers’ of mainstream music production” (Kruse, 2003, p.1). By this consideration, we should take into the account the absence of any mention to Seattle, nearby Olympia, from the film, and interpret it as a problematic issue. If Hype! established the main viewpoint from Seattle, and its choral narration represented many different regional musicians — from Olympia and Bellingham, WA, too — Songs for Cassavetes didn’t deal with such a contested “alternative rock” context — the newest “mainstream center” — in order to present only consolidated facts and structures connected to the underground music scenes. 4. A shared strategy between underground scenes and independent filmmaking In line with a filmmaking strategy that basically works to create a sort of objectivity, we may start noticing that in Songs for Cassavetes the director/interviewer is purposely a silent presence, who never participated with his voice to the discussion in any forms (e.g., voice over), this way embodying the spectator’s viewpoint. A guiding role in mapping this underground is covered by Calvin Johnson, the internal narrator, whose interview connects each topic and band. The initial sequence of the film, made up by two parts, is Mitchell’s mission statement in musical and filmic terms. The first sub-sequence opens with two title cards: the text “a Breadcrumb Trail presents” / “an all ages film by Justin Mitchell” appears on a freeze frame shot in a concert venue, from behind the stage, while non-diegetic jazz music is playing. These title cards declare that we are going to watch an all ages DIY film self-produced by an independent filmmaker, a film that tributes Cassavetes’ legacy and his filmmaking debut Shadows (1957-1969). The rest of the subsequence shows the indoor spaces of K Records through a series of four images, two establishing shot with a slow zoom and two panning shots, which recall the techniques adopted in Andy Warhol and Paul Morrissey’s music film Velvet Underground and Nico: A Symphony of Sound (1966) and in Michael Snow’s experimental film Wavelength (1967). These images move from the DIY spaces (the studio and the label) to the DIY media (studio equipment and records), while Johnson’s voice over explains the background before the 1990s turning point: Things were just so tight and compressed in the 1980s, and peoples’ attitudes, they’re so geared towards the mainstream and what the mainstream was (…) This nebulous mainstream (…) And it’s just the Reagan era, things are so conservative there was no crossover, what we were doing the underground and then there was Huey Lewis and the News, nothing in between, and it would never would occur to us that what we were doing, that anyone in that world would be interested in what we were doing, we weren’t interested in what they were 5 doing. It was completely separate. In the 1990s all that changed . The sub-sequence closes with the title card “Songs for Cassavetes” on another freeze frameshot of a dark concert venue, while the soundtrack reproduces some distorted noise recorded from a live performance. This transition brings to the second sub-sequence, in which every band is presented with a title card impressed on a brief scene of them playing live on stage, while the non- 5 An official transcription of the film was never published. This version was kindly provided by Allison GrimaldiDonahue. 3.4. Songs for Cassateves (2001): A shared strategy between U.S. independent filmmaking and underground music scenes diegetic insert of the song “Pop Songs Your Boyfriend’s Too Stupid to Know About” by the Tullycraft, an indie band from Seattle, is playing over. This intro is a declaration of the authorial intents based on the choral narration of differentiated acts (bands’ name and images), the creation of DIY artifacts for the dissemination of indie music (K Records studio and distribution storage), the centrality of performance in music and of the all-ages venues, and, lastly, the tribute to a leading independent filmmaker (Cassavetes), as well as to nonfictional film forms (experimental cinema). The film proceeds portraying the shared milieu of the DIY scenes “at work”: the K Records with Johnson and the YoYo Studios in Olympia, the political community-based activity of the Make-Up in D.C., the cultural activities of Jabberjaw in L.A., Lookout! Recordshop in Berkeley, CA, plus several indie acts interviewed and filmed live in the venues with their audience (e.g., Peechees, Hi-Fives, Sleater Kinney, Unwound). So most of the film contents are an expression of the independent music scenes “recurring” topics, here briefly summarized in the order in which they are presented in the documentary:  the dialectic between underground and mainstream;  the idea of “us” and “them” (“the other”);  “us” as the “outsiders” compared to the mainstream world, as well as the “insiders” of the underground scenes;  a chronology of indie music: rock’n’roll music “before” and “after” punk;  the celebration of the amateurish approach;  underground as a self-sufficient and community-based context;  the establishment of an underground independent network;  “taking hold of the media, taking control back from people, who had sort of become a monopoly in a lot of ways” (Johnson: Cool Rays, Beat Happening, The Go Team, Dub Narcotic Sound System, and The Halo Benders’ singer and guitarist; K-Records owner; International Pop Underground Convention’s organizer);  no interest in being “popular”, rather in “do it by myself” and “follow your own path” (Al Larsen: Some Velvet Sidewalk’s singer and K Records’ co-owner);  the idea of a common strength within the underground scenes;  life “on the van” means that “people welcome you”, “you get into the backdoor of the communities” (John Denery: Hi-Fives’ guitarist and singer), “you get to meet people, see the world, and it’s a great opportunity” (Sara Lund: Unwound’s drummer);  the visualization of the scenes through the images of the city-maps as “us”;  feminism and women in indie music, plus the relation with fanzine and music journalism (Molly Neuman: PeeChees, Frumpies, and Bratmobile’s drummer; Riot Grrrl’s zine founder; Lookout! Records owner);  mainstream media work against the interconnectedness of the scenes: “they try to take us out of context and act as if we are not part of a larger community or musical environment”, “our record and our success and our failures have everything to do with our community” (Carrie Brownstein: Sleater-Kinney and Excuse 17’s guitarist and singer);  “your responsibility as an artist” (Corin Tucker: Sleater-Kinney and Heavens so Betsy’s guitarist and singer);  DIY records as media that circulate within the underground network: “We’re not manufacturing products to be consumed. We are documenting artistic expression and we’re making it available to people interested in it and experiencing it” (Johnson);  “selling out” means loosing “togetherness” and “connection”, as well as feeling exploited when, before, things were done together and reciprocally within the underground context (Chris Imlay: Hi-Fives’ guitarist and singer); 133 134 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3  the visualization of the mainstream through the images of the corporations as “them”;  all ages shows;  aging as an issue to solve. So the core of Songs for Cassavetes are the productive spaces of the DIY cultures, spaces in common and shared by different scenes that are located in a trans-local network, in which the bodies are collectively inscribed in the present moment. The movement becomes a crucial factor, and it enables to leave traces: of the bodies in a specific local space, the scene, as well as of the bodies’ movements on the geographical space of the network, during the tours and due to record selling. As Straw pointed out: A scene resists deciphering, in part, because it mobilizes local energies and moves these energies in multiple directions — onwards, to later reiterations of itself; outwards, to more formal sorts of social or entrepreneurial activity; upwards, to the broader coalescing of cultural energies within which collective identities takes shape (2004, p. 412). The filmmaking process of Songs for Cassavetes may be reconducted to two “modes of representation” that define how such documentary communicates with the spectator, as they are outlined by Bill Nichols in Representing Reality (1991). First of all, it is set “the observational mode”, in which the filmmaker is an “invisible presence behind the camera to take paradigmatic form around an exhaustive depiction of the everyday”. This modality highlights the idea of “cinema of ‘present-tense’ representation” where “the presence of the camera ‘on the scene’ testifies to its presence in the historical world; its fixity suggests a commitment or engagement with the immediate, intimate, and personal that is comparable to what an actual observer/participant might experience” (Nichols, 1991, p. 40). This mode is mostly adopted during the live music scenes, when the interviewed bands are playing on stage and the camera is shooting them from the audience. According to Nichols, in this framework “recurring images or situations tend to strengthen a ‘reality effect’, anchoring the film to the historical activity of time and place and certifying to the continuing centrality of specific locations” (1991, p. 41). The “observational mode” presents the contents of the filmic representation as “real” events, given facts that avoid any interferences with the objectivity agreed between who sees and what is seen. Several aspects of the filmmaking in Songs for Cassavates underline another key-modality, “the interactive mode”, in which “the filmmaker need not be only a cinematic, recording eye” and the “images of testimony or verbal exchange and images of demonstration” are stressed (Nichols, 1991, p. 44). Even if Mitchell’s voice is not present in the editing, his “face-to-face” presence is assumed by the characters that are talking directly to the camera, or chatting with each other. This mode is crucial to give the film protagonists those authentic personal voices of the underground. As Nichols pointed out, in the interactive documentaries “textual authority shifts toward the social actors recruited: their comments and responses provide a central part of the film’s argument. Various forms of monologue and dialogue (…) predominate”, while “issues of comprehension and interpretation, as a function of physical encounter, arise (1991, p. 44). A key-tool adopted in Songs for Cassavetes is the interview in the form of “pseudomonologue”, which stresses “the visible presence of the social actor as evidentiary witness and the visible absence of the filmmaker (the filmmaker’s presence as absence)” (1991, p. 54): The pseudomonologue violates the dictum ‘Don’t look at the camera’ in order to achieve a more immediate sense of being addressed by the subject. The psudomonologue makes the viewer the subject of the cinematic address, erasing the very mediations of filmmaker/subject/viewer that the interactive mode accentuates. (…) The sense of bodily presence, rather than absence, locates and holds the filmmaker to the scene, even when masked by certain strategies for interviewing or representing encounter. Viewers expect conditional information and situated or representing encounter (1991, p. 54-56, emphasis on text). 3.4. Songs for Cassateves (2001): A shared strategy between U.S. independent filmmaking and underground music scenes Lastly, we should take into the account that there is a unique image in the film in which Mitchell established a “reflexive mode”, when Tucker of the Sleater-Kinney talks about the “responsibility of the artist”. Apparently out of context, this single shot of the sound recordist and the interviewer seated on the street in front of Tucker is inserted at this point of the film’s argument — still quoting Nichols — “to prompt the viewer to a heightened consciousness of his or her relation to the text and of the text’s problematic relationship to which it represents. (…) The sense of vicarious transport into the historical world doubles back on the trail of representation itself” (1991, pp. 6062). In short, we may synthesize that the “objective mode” makes the independent scenes visible and and the underground network as a fair and open possibility to produce music and art by using the DIY tools, media and means; at the same time, the “interactive mode” stresses the feelings of encounter and togetherness between the scenes’ members and the film crew, while a “reflexive” image remembers that we are active viewers in front of the film. Finally, we cannot forget that those contents should be put in relation with a “bigger picture”, which are the historical, economic, social and cultural aspects that affect our daily life. The film closes in a circular way: PeeChees’ drummer talks about the critical aspect of “aging”, and leads towards the quote of Cassavetes read collectively by a member of each band one at a time: My films are expressive of a culture that has had the possibility of attaining material fulfilment while at the same time finding itself unable to accomplish the simple business of conducting human lives. We have been sold a bill of goods as a substitute for life (…) (…) In this country people die at the age of 21. They die emotionally at 21, maybe younger. My responsibility as an artist is to help them past 21. - John Cassavetes Even if the end credits terminate, Mitchell lets the final song — “Spectacles” by the D.C.’s indie band Chisel — running on a black screen, in order to create for the spectator a transition from the film to real life conducted solely by the music. 5. Tools for an audiovisual history of the indie underground: Mapping and self-narration Cassavetes’ quote gives final evidence of the mutual alliance between independent filmmaking and underground scenes established. The film recalls a sketched chronology — “before and after punk”, “before and after the co-optation” — to re-establish an original identity for the U.S. underground music scenes and gives a representation of them as “authentic”. As Kruse outlined: In indie music culture, the debate over authenticity was part of a larger struggle over the meaning of indie music. For many indie music scene participants, certain entities seeking to define the music (major labels, retail chains, large-scale promoters) were understood to be less ‘authentic’ than others (independent labels, non-chain retailers, small clubs) contesting the same terrain. Mainstream popularity was sometimes expressly avoided by many scene participants who wish to define themselves by their difference from the mainstream. (…) Chronology is an important framework for the narrative, especially as it charts the significance of the music’s movement from the margin (when it was ‘authentic’) to mainstream recognition (its moment of perceived decline as artists and institutions ‘sell out’) (2003, p. 14). Therefore, references to the past are part of the validation process of the such scenes. Particularly, the link with Cassavetes connected the film to a tradition of independent cinema that possibly skipped the New Hollywood and the “half-co-opted” indie cinema of the 1990s mainly associated with the alternative rock: a filmmaking strategy that comes back to the field of reality — its primary “location” — and includes practices of hybridization and experimentation, in account 135 136 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 of a history of works that includes the amateur city films of the 1920s, Maya Deren avant-garde films, Jonas Mekas’ diary films, and cinema-veritè movies as Cassavetes’ Shadows and Faces (1968). At the same time, the narratives of the musicians, in the scene as well as in Songs for Cassavetes, are centred on “a sense of place” that is “significant to them”, where those “culturally and economically marginal localities and local spaces” become lively scenes in an underground network (2003, p. 14, emphasis in text). Thus, the filmmaking strategy in Songs for Cassavetes is entailed in the intrinsic connection among indie music identity, locality, and interlocality, and in the crucial relation between place and memory. This filmic self-produced representation and mapping of such DIY places and spaces at the end of the 1990s suggested a way to “fix” a damaged underground identity, restore the image of those independent scenes, and preserve their authenticity. By the same token, in Songs for Cassavetes different map images of the cities where each scene is located became a key-tool, both to “visualize” the traces of the scene’s members, as well as to “enable” the existence of a trans-local network. As they are recalled in Instrument and used in Songs for Cassavetes and American Hardcore (2001-2006), these maps make such underground scenes visible, going over their “iconophobya” for any mediatic representation that might be out of their control — a concept connected with the visibility of the scenes, as outlined by Straw during the K.I.S.M.I.F. Conference 2014 (2015, pp. 410-411). According to Teresa Castro (2008), in many contemporary films a “mapping impulse” is present as a way of outlining an autobiographical narration, about “myself” and “us”. An impulse that broadly characterized many types of U.S. narrations since, as the literature scholar Gerry Reaves puts it, in the “American identity: the personal is the geographical” (2001). As pointed out by Andy Bennett, the relation between cultural memory and emotional geography is crucial to understand such music phenomena (see upcoming: Bennett & Rogers, 2016). In his plenary lecture at the beginning of the K.I.S.M.I.F. Conference 2016, Bennett outlined how the relation between “DIY music scenes and memory” is:  locally situated within translocal connections;  fostered and maintained through locally situated network of production, performance and consumption;  inscribed with a sense of belonging that often links successive generations of scenerests over time;  part of micro-histories of specific urban and regional locations that often exist only in collective memories of those involved. At the core of new studies on the 1990s music culture, as Catherine Strong’s insightful book on grunge (2011), the relation between memory and music has become the key, in most of the documentary films produced from the mid-2000s, to explore the DIY underground scenes of the 1980s and 1990s, and create the audiovisual history of indie music. A few significant titles are: Tim Irwin’s We Jam Econo (2005) on the band Minutemen; Steven Blush and Paul Rachman’s American Hardcore (2006) on the U.S. hardcore scene; Scott Crawford’s Salad Days: a decade of punk in Washington, DC 1980-90) (2015) on the DIY punk scene in D.C. To conclude, as well as Shadows, Songs for Cassavetes is a celebration of present time, and of the vital activities of the underground music scenes. Its excitement for the “togetherness”, the “connectedness”, and the “doing by yourself” — and ourselves — is the antidote to a wider poetics, in the independent cinema of the 1990s, of loneliness, violence, and death, and to the possible exploitation of such traumatic visions that are, at first, produced by independent film companies. In a culture that looked to be centred on the idea of the “corpse”, as noted in a provocative way by Hal Forster (1994), this small movie shows how such bodies are more than alive: they are active actors that may inspire changes and influence personal and collective daily life. 3.4. Songs for Cassateves (2001): A shared strategy between U.S. independent filmmaking and underground music scenes References Azerrad, M. (2002). Our band could be your life: scenes from the American indie underground, 1981-1991. New York City, NY: Little Brown and Company. Bennett, A. & I. Rogers (Eds.). (2016). Popular music scenes and cultural memory. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Blush, S. (2001). American Hardcore: a tribal history. New York City, NY: Feral House. Cassavetes, J. (Director), & M. McEndree, S. Cassel (Producers). (1957-1959). Shadows [Motion picture]. USA: Lion International Films. Cassavetes, J. (Director & Producer), M. McEndree & A. Ruban (Producers). (1968). Faces [Motion picture]. USA: Walter Reade Organization, Continental Distributing. Castro, T. (2008). Economies du Referent 3. ‘The Mapping Impulse’, on the Cartographic Reason of Contemporary Images. Cinéma & Cie. International Film Studies Journal, 10. 41-50. Clark, L. (Director), C. Woods, L. Blake, M. Chambers, C. Konrad, P. Panzarella, C. Vachon, G. Van Sant & L. Zalaznick (Producers). (1995). Kids [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: Guys Upstairs, Independent Pictures, Killer Films, Shining Excalibur Films & Miramax. Cohen, J. & Fugazi (Producer & Director). (1999). Instrument [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: Dischord Records. Crowe, C. (Producer & Director), R. Hashimoto, K. Curtis, R. Chew & A. Linson (Producers). (1992). Singles [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: Atkinson/Knickerbocker Productions & Warner Bros. Foster, H. (1994). Cult of Despair. The New York Times. 30 December 1994. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/1994/12/30/opinion/cult-of-despair.html. King, G. (2009). Indiewood, USA: where hollywood meets independent cinema. London & New York City, NY: I. B. Tauris. King, G., C. Molloy & Y. Tzioumakis (2013). American independent cinema: indie, indiewood and beyond. Abingdon: Routledge. Kruse, H. (2003). Site and sound: understanding independent music scenes. New York City, NY: Peter Lang. Markey, D. (Producer & Director). (1992). 1991: The year punk broke [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: We Got Power Films, Sonic Life & Geffen Pictures. Markey, D. (Producer & Director) & C. Dukowski (Producer). (1991). Reality 86’d [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: We Got Power Films. Mitchell, J. (Producer & Director) & M. Miranda (Producer). (2001). Songs for Cassavetes: an all ages film [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: Breadcrumb Trails Films. Moore, T. (2011). Part Two — 1991: The Year Punk Broke, Screening @ Flywheel 4/11/2011. [Video published on YouTube by aburningboat (private user)]. Retrieved from http://youtu.be/JpPCpct0w84. Nehring, N. (2003). Jigsaw Youth versus Generation X and Postmodernism. In Ulrich, J. MacAllister & A. L. Harris (Eds.), GenXegesis: essays on alternative youth (sub)culture (pp. 59-78). Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press & Popular Press. Nichols, B. (1991). Representing reality. Issues and concepts in documentary. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Nirvana (1991). Nevermind [CD]. Santa Monica, CA: DGC Records. Pray, D. (Director), S. Helvey, L. Dutton & P. J. Vogt (Producers). (1996). Hype! [Motion picture]. USA: Helvey-Pray Productions, Cinépix Film Properties & Lions Gate Films. Rachman, P. (Producer & Director), S. Blush & K. Haynes (Producers). (2006). American Hardcore: The history of American punk rock 1980-1986 [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: AHC Productions, Envision Films & Sony Pictures Classics. Reaves, G. (2001). Mapping the private geography: autobiography, identity, and America. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. R.E.M. (1991). Out of time [CD]. Burbank, CA: Warner Bros. Records. Savlov, M. (1999). Walking the Straight Edge. The Texas Documentary Tour: Jem Cohen and Fugazi. The Austin Chronicle. 3 September 1999. Retrieved from http://www.austinchronicle.com/screens/1999-09-03/73737. Sinker, D. (2001). We owe you nothing. Punk Planet: the collected interviews. New York City, NY: Akashic Books. Smith, K. (Producer & Director) & S. Mosier (Producer). (1994). Clerks. [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: View Askew Productions & Miramax. Sonic Youth (1990). Goo [CD]. Santa Monica, CA: DGC Records. Sonic Youth (1992). Dirty [CD]. Santa Monica, CA: DGC Records. Snow, M. (Director & Producer). (1967). Wavelength. [Motion picture]. Canada & U.S.A.: Michael Snow. Straw, W. (1991). Systems of articulation, logics of change: communities and scenes in popular music. Cultural Studies, 5(3), 368-388. DOI: 10.1080/09502389100490311. Straw, W. (2004). Cultural Scenes. Loisir et société / Society and Leisure, 27(2), 411-422. DOI: 10.1080/07053436.2004. Straw, W. (2015). Above and below ground. In P. Guerra & T. Moreira (Eds.), Keep it simple, make it fast: an approach to underground music scenes, vol. 1 (pp. 403-410). Porto: Universidade do Porto — Faculdade de Letras. Strong, C. (2011). Grunge: Music and Memory. Farham & Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Warhol, A. (Producer & Director). (1966). Velvet Underground and Nico: A Symphony of Sound. [Motion picture]. U.S.A.: Andy Warhol Films. 137 138 3.5. Overflowing days. Flows and routes in/of the Portuguese urban culture Susana Januário1 and Paula Guerra2 Abstract This research — beginning in 2017 — has as main objective understanding a whole set of agents/events/demonstrations/artifacts/fruitions which have been acting as producers/ translators/commutators/transmitters of “new” Portuguese contemporary urban culture. They are overflowing artistic, social and territorial borders, which gives them uniqueness in the current processes of reconfiguration of identities. This implies an approach of a set of “actors/settings/scenes” that have been developing activities since the beginning of XXI century in the different cities of the country with particular impact at the crossroads of arts, territories (local, global and translocal) and identities, whose interventions constitute themselves as relevant cultural agents in a perspective of glocalization. We are considering cultural and social spaces with a local basis, which are territorially embedded and with a significant identity nature, whose processes and dynamics will provide a new dimension to explore Portuguese culture, once overflowed to other territories and dimensions (international, for example). Keywords: scenes, creativity, territories, arts, translocal. 1. Background What is Portuguese culture today? Such question is a profoundly complex one, in an ever-changing flux, and which might only merit a response through the use of an interpretative lens which mixes sociology, cultural studies and anthropology. In this project, we intend to bring to light a myriad of new agents, events, manifestations, artifacts and fruitions which have developed as producers, translators, commuters, and transmitters of contemporary Portuguese urban culture (Silva, 2017; Silva & Guerra, 2015; Silva et al., 2015 and 2013). This is the vague and partial answer to the previous question, but no doubt brings us several elements to start constructing an answer — as recent researches have shown the existence of immanent structures of “actors”/”environments”/”scenes” which have developed with their activities since the beginning of the XXI century in the various cities of the country, in particular in what refers to the mix between arts, territories (local, global and translocal) and the identities in which they operate. As intrinsically cultural as they are, cities have always served as crucial poles of creativity, innovation and artistic effervescence. Various routes have been pointed to justify that relation. First up, several economic justifications have pointed to cities as fulfilling a minimum demand (and supply) to warrant these activities (whether market mediated or not), as well as noted the existence of a critical mass which is brought together in cities through resource accumulation (economic, social, artistic, technologic). A second route to explain this has been to note that city concentration makes possible the use of economies of scale and scope to reduce costs and increase marketability, as well as develop an “atmosphere” which promotes the clusterization of such activities. One last branch of explanations point towards the specificity of lifestyles and ways of living in an urbanmetropolitan environment, which leads to profound structural changes in the values and social practices of the individuals in such contexts, and which contribute to these processes of urban concentration. These include processes of individuation, liminarity and greater mobility, lower social 1 Faculty of Arts and Humanities, KISMIF Project, University of Porto, Portugal E-mail: spjanuario|at|gmail|dot|com. Faculty of Arts and Humanities, Institute of Sociology, University of Porto, Griffith Centre for Cultural Research, KISMIF Project Coordinator, Portugal. E-mail: pguerra|at|letras|dot|up|dot|pt; mariadeguerra|at|gmail|dot|com. 2 139 140 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 control barriers, and the search for distinctive logics of identity statement, which tend to be transitional, reflexive and plural. These approaches have been particularly important in Portugal since the opening up of the country to media and mass culture in the early 1980’s, and have been more specifically felt in Lisbon and Porto. In this sense, cities are centres of economic development, concentrating crucial activities of the development of complex productions which require more resources, as well as technical, technologic, professional and knowledge based means, not to mention markets and cultural services. As they concentrate social groups that are more educated and younger age groups, this tends to reinforce the cities’ roles as cultural hubs, as these groups are more culturally active and dynamic. Embracing cosmopolitism, multiple modalities of everyday life styling and the diversity of urban cultures, they lead to the production of specific demands, and feed into the circles and informal networks which characterize the worlds of more specialized cultural production and creation, whether traditional or avant-garde. Cities have likewise served as stages of political strategies oriented to transform culture into a decisive trump in terms of interurban competition (Throsby, 2001; Zukin, 1995). To these general aspects one could add other factors, such as the strong territoriality of the means of providing or enjoying cultural activities, which are prone to complex structures of production and consumption based in symbolic knowledge (including here realities such as cultural and creative neighbourhoods, or other territorialized clusters of cultural activities), situations in which the “environment” effects and the lived atmospheres are often crucial to their vitality. The mechanisms of territorialisation of cultural activities have been widely debated in the more recent decades, whether in terms of concentration economies or urbanization, in terms of intelligibility of institutional logic, or even the rhetoric figure of the ‘creative cities’ which together point to what has been called cognitive-cultural capitalism (Becker, 2007, 1984; Bourdieu, 1996). It is in this context that we propose a “new” approach to Portuguese cultural which stems from the transformations which have operated in the country in the last decade: (i) the valuing of initiatives which are based on relational and artistic density and which are associated with the clustering of agents in urban space; (ii) the valuing of size, seeking to foment the existence of a critical mass of cultural agents, to achieve a minimum of demand and supply of cultural forms; and (iii) the diversity and heterogeneity of the means, resources and markets in which those agents operate. All of this facilitates and empowers the processes of concentration of these activities in the urban space, allowing the agents to reduce the friction of distance and to minimize the costs of transaction, joint exploration of scale and scope economies, and maximization of positive externalities in the exploration of image and symbolic meanings of place. It is all these aspects which lead to the crucial importance of urban environment to these activities, and which can be seen in: (i) the formal and informal trade and the way in which these are established (products, tacit knowledge, information, technologies, productive resources, etc) and the relations of reciprocity associated to it; (ii) the new possibilities and markets, which only the size, density, diversity and heterogeneity of these spaces allow (giving new experiences, greater notion of risk, etc.); (iii) the specific mechanisms of collective learning, as well as accumulation and diffusion of cultural, knowledge and innovation capital; (iv) the multiple expressions of social and relational capital, of the strategies of legitimation, reputation and the possibilities of direct contact with cultural mediators, as well as the processes of creation of specific collective identities. 2. Overall and specific goals The core goal of this project is the explanation and understanding of a myriad of activities, agents, events, manifestations, artefacts and fruition, which have made themselves visible through networks of producers, translators, commuters and transmitters of a new contemporary Portuguese urban culture. This entails, as we have noted, an approach to a myriad of “actors”/” environments”/”scenes” which have been active since the beginning of the XXI century in several 3.5. Overflowing days. Flows and routes in/of the Portuguese urban culture cities of the country, specifically in the way their crossing of arts, territories and identities (Crane et al., 2002). Their territorial interventions — whether local, global or translocal in scope — take on a particular importance in the promotion and publicizing of Portuguese culture (Bennett & Peterson, 2004; Chaney, 1994; Straw, 1991). As such, these actors and scenes take form in cultural and social spaces, which play identity and social roles in defining the territories and territorial aims (national or international for instance), and which open up a new flank through which to explore Portuguese culture (Jürgens, 2016). Through this main goal, we can now suggest a series of relevant and paradigmatic cases of these new forms of urban culture dynamics: Maus Hábitos, Zé dos Bois, Jardins Efémeros, Preguiça Magazine, Barreiro Rocks, and Laboratório das Actividades Criativas [Creative Activities Lab]. These are paradigmatic in as much as they bring together a widely distinct array of characteristics and dynamics between culture, arts, and territory, in a complex, mutating and singular way. These are not solely cultural or artistic actors, but “environments” and “scenes” which unite actors, events, manifestations, artefacts, audiences and programming. They are contemporary cultural elements of great importance, as they show that contemporary culture includes other dimensions beyond the well known and studied — that is, as cultural, artistic, symbolic and territorial/transterritorial identities. They are overflowing, as they break the standard identity, disciplinary, thematic and artistic borders that these areas impose (Costa, 2002; Fortuna & Leite, 2009; Pais, 2010). The approach to these cases will be developed firstly taking into account the importance that territory and territoriality take on as structuring elements of action and existence in culture. This can be seen in three levels: from a locative point of view, that is, of the importance of the proximity of others (distance reduction and agglomeration); from a synergetic point of view, as it relates to being with others (joint advantages in economy and urbanization); and from a territorial point of view (recognizing the specific dynamics of territory in terms of the relations established between them) (Campbell, 2013). A second analytical dimension is the recognition of the importance of structuring in the production of size and critical mass, relational density, heterogeneity of agents and artistic practices, importance of access to circuits of mediation and gatekeeping, importance of proximity and access to spaces of sociability and conviviality, and the functioning of an “artworld”, as well as the crucial reticular nature of agents and arts practices. It will be likewise interesting to identify some crucial aspects of the functioning of the respective artworlds, simultaneous to agglomeration, and which have been noted for their structuring of spatial organization: on the one side, the importance of “per project” work, intermittent, without formal ties, and its impacts on the requirements of territorial agglomeration; on the other, the dissolution of the boundaries of work/leisure, creation/fruition, production/consumption, life/anesthetization and its spatial implications (Karpic, 2007; Thornton, 2009; Santos, 1988). On a third level, it matters to understand the specific functions of each case. It is important to identify and develop a cartography of the functions which will take place in each case: spaces of transmission, formal and informal, information (gathering and providing of information over activities, work opportunities, competence enhancement, etc); spaces of experimentation and exploration of new possibilities of creation/production/consumption/fruition; spaces of construction of new artistic reputation; spaces of socialization, conviviality and sociability; spaces of networking and integration into certain artworlds; spaces of collective accumulation of knowledge; spaces of construction of a common identity and self-acknowledgement. The symbolic questions of place identification of each space in the matters of reputation are particularly interesting — and it should provide a great challenge to note whether the reputation of a given space derives from its participants or vice-versa. In this we will attempt to produce a cartographic image of each of these symbolic spaces of the city. In an interrelated way, it matters to understand if these cases have contributed to the reconfiguration of identities, as we believe that artefacts and urban forms which create meaning, as much as they relate to the expression and celebration of identity and the values of a given place (Guerra, 2013, 2015). 141 142 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 3. Methodology, evaluation indicators and results to be achieved The project will systematically address six paradigmatic cases of “new” Portuguese culture transhipment (Burawoy, 2000): Zé dos Bois Gallery, the space Maus Hábitos, Barreiro Rocks and Jardins Efémeros festivals, Preguiça Magazine and the Laboratório de Actividades Criativas association. The Zé dos Bois (ZDB) gallery in Lisbon is an initiative of a group of artists, as a way to nourish a place where they could produce and disseminate their work, a possibility which otherwise would not exist. It is self-defined as a structure of experimentation and exploration, a multidisciplinary space open to different artistic manifestations (editing, architecture, dance, films, visual arts, jewellery). As a locus of experimentation and research, with a performance spectrum quite wide and always looking for an intersection of different artistic languages, the activities of the ZDB are not limited — as the gallery name could wrongly suggest — the mere display of objects. In addition to a regular program of exhibitions of different artistic expressions (most recently with a strong focus in the visual arts), which “escape” to the institutional circuit and commercial art galleries, the ZDB is also known and recognized by the experimental music concerts, improvised and electronic that, once again, are not easily found in large auditoriums or large theaters in the capital Lisbon. In parallel, since 2001, ZDB also promotes annual residencies for artists that have contribute to transform it in a space of content creation, experimentation and reflection, especially in the field of visual arts. With regard to music, the ZDB has been also working as an experimental place for Portuguese bands like Cool Hipnoise, Space Boys, Los Tomatos, Terrakota, Manta Rota, Dead Combo and Loosers. There is still place for the theatre, dance and other performances as well as cinema — all imbued with an alternative logical. It is also important to note the specific interventions of the ZDB — collective authorship and those which are generally situated between performance and installation — and also the continual educational services, that are targeted every for children (800 every year), with the main objective to teach them to read, to interpret and to development a critical perspective on contemporary art. Maus Hábitos is a space guided by the modernity and by the desire to introduce cosmopolitanism in the city of Porto, through their cultural promotion. Since discovered by its director, in 1999, the guiding objective of its action is to transform this place in an artistic creation space, open to different forms of art, and able to cast culturally the city. Figure 1: Zé dos Bois. Source: Retrieved from www.zedosbois.org. 3.5. Overflowing days. Flows and routes in/of the Portuguese urban culture Figure 2: Maus Hábitos. Source: Retrieved from www.maushabitos.com. Mostly, the primary aim of this challenge was precisely to provide a place for artistic projects that had no place in other contexts and to spread at the same time the concept of recycling. It is therefore necessary to note the importance of the visual arts, photography, visual and performing arts, that was most felt at the beginning, but now continues to fulfill the Maus Hábitos’ agenda in order to promote new national and international artists, as well as partnerships and exchanges between them. Therefore, most of the divisions of this “house” are occupied by temporary exhibitions. It is also important to underline the training aspect of space, where they have on a regular basis been held several workshops relating to different artistic areas. Leiria’s Preguiça Magazine is much more than a simple blog. It is an informational and relational convergence of urban culture space located in this city, but also now in Coimbra and Marinha Grande, and with the desire to develop a national and transnational scope. This is not only an informative space, but space of opinion and experience about the Portuguese urban culture in its global aspect. It is not a magazine limited to music, but it also focus the consecrated and emerging arts from all over the national and international territory. It is a magazine that converts itself into a “scene” when it organizes several events as concerts, exhibitions, DJ sets, alternative fairs and book launches. It has markedly virtual existence, but also real in the context of these events. Held in the city of Barreiro since 2000, Barreiro Rocks festival is considered one of the most charismatic festivals in Europe. The public and critics are unanimous to refer to an “unique environment”, the quality of the program and the involvement of the local community and musicians as differentiating factors of this event. It results of sociability, conviviality and the association of a young people group around the Hey Pachuco Association. It is a festival that operates in various artistic disciplines (music, films, literature, exhibitions...) and in recent years has been nominated for several categories of Europe for Festivals, Festivals for Europe and Portugal Festival Awards. 143 144 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 3: Preguiça Magazine. Source: Retrieved from preguicamagazine.com. Figure 4: Barreiro Rocks. Source: Retrieved from https://pt-pt.facebook.com/barreirorocks/. The Municipality of Barreiro supports Barreiro Rocks and it is programmed and produced by Hey, Pachuco! Cultural association. At present, Barreiro Rocks is much more than a festival, it is a programming and cultural and artistic space production in Barreiro that involves continuous programming in different spaces from the musical, photographic, videographer points of view. It is also synonymous of cultural intervention and artistic residency, recording studios, and of a “scene”: the Barreiro one. The Jardins Efémeros festival exists since 2011 and happens in the historical centre of the city of Vies in the month of July. It brings together a focused programming and production in various artistic fields from the sound, dance, theatre, cinema, visual arts and architecture. It is assumed as a “multidisciplinary cultural activities, with a strong experimental and contemporary language” program. Pausa Possível, a non-profit association, is behind this; its purposes are: (i) to development activities, whether practical or theoretical, in a sense of artistic and cultural interdisciplinary sharing, within regional, national and international contexts; (ii) to development programming, focusing on coordination of different areas at the level of creation, dissemination and artistic and/or academic research; (iii) to create and to disseminate programs and/or activities to promote education and social cohesion; (iv) to development programs and/or activities aimed to the rehabilitation of urban areas and the preservation of identity and to the appreciation of the tangible and intangible heritage. Figure 5: Jardins Efémeros. Source: Retrieved from jardinsefemeros.pt. 3.5. Overflowing days. Flows and routes in/of the Portuguese urban culture Figure 6: LAC — Laboratório de Actividades Criativas. Source: Retrieved from www.lac.org.pt. Since 2001, LAC has become an artistic host structure — unique in the western Algarve, which annually allows hosting approximately 20 individual and collective projects, in areas as diverse as music, painting, sculpture, and/or other alternative projects of non-commercial nature. At the same time, LAC promotes exhibitions, performances, concerts in order to promote the resident artists, but also as a result of the partnerships with different entities. At the level of training, it develops annual courses with dance activities, Artistic Expression, Creative Writing and it promotes workshops and technical workshops in various artistic fields. LAC promotes research within the artistic fields, providing access to the Documentation Center that is available in its installations. Thus, this project will approach systematically paradigmatic cases of “new” Portuguese culture transhipment. The methodological approach of these cases is of an intensive nature using procedures that enable the convergence of specific analyses (programming, spaces, the artistic fields, creators of the works, critics, public) for the analysis of Portuguese culture contemporary through the prism of overflowing character identities, arts and territories (Adorno, 2003; DeNora, 2011; Jameson, 1991; Jauss, 1990). From the in-depth study of these cases, including the analysis of its history, development of processes and evolution, territorial and social interconnections processes (exploitation of their capital and networks in which they operate), their agendas (actions, interventions, territoriality levels, etc.), it is intended to understand how they constitute in cultural agents in a given territory (and with a relevant nature identity) and implementing local borders and gain prominence in the national and international “radar” (Margolis & Pauwels, 2011; Melo, 1994). The work developed implies in the activation of a plurality of techniques of sociological research towards all programming developed dynamics, co-production, production, training and enjoyment developed during the project implementation year: the ethnographic direct observation, analysis and research documentary (this reported to the last five years of activity), the collection of images and sounds, conducting in-depth interviews, mapping and network analysis, etc. This work will provide diachronic and synchronic information about the programming, thematic, networks of actors and partnerships, relational capital, spaces and territories, the methodologies, the logics of communication, the statement strategies, scope and reputation, and identities and fruitions inherent in each case under consideration. 145 146 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 References Adorno, T. W. (2003). Poesia lírica e sociedade. Coimbra: Angelus Novus. Becker, H. S. (2007). Telling about society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Becker, H. S. (1984). Art worlds. London: University of California Press. Bennett, A.; PETERSON, R. A. (eds.) (2004). Music scenes: local, translocal and virtual. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1996). As regras da arte. Lisboa: Editorial Presença. Burawoy, M. (2000). The extended case method. In M., Burawoy et al. (Eds.), Ethnography unbound: power and resistance in the modern metropolis. (pp. 271-300). Berkeley: University of California Press. Campbell, M. (2013). Out of the Basement. Youth Cultural Production in Practice and in Policy. Montreal & Kingston/London/Ithaka: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Chaney, D. C. (1994). The cultural turn: scene-setting essays on contemporary cultural history. London: Routledge. Costa, P. (2002). As atividades da cultura e a competitividade territorial: o caso da Área Metropolitana de Lisboa. (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Instituto Superior de Economia e Gestão, Lisboa. Crane, D.; Kawasaki, K.; Kawashima, K. (Eds.) (2002). Global culture: media, arts, policy, and globalization. New York: Routledge. DeNora, T. (2011). Music-in-action: Selected essays in sonic ecology. Surrey: Ashgate. Fortuna, C.; Leite, R. P. (Eds.) (2009). Plural de Cidade: Novos Léxicos Urbanos. Coimbra: Almedina. Guerra, P. (Ed.) (2015). More Than Loud. Os mundos dentro de cada som. Porto: Edições Afrontamento. Guerra, P. (2013). A instável leveza do rock. Génese, dinâmica e consolidação do rock alternativo em Portugal (19802010). Porto: Afrontamento. Jameson, F. (1991). Postmodernism or the cultural logic of the late capitalism. London: Verso. Jauss, H. R. (1990). Pour une esthétique de la réception. Paris: Gallimard. Jürgens, S. V. (2016). Instalações provisórias — independência, autonomia, alternativa e informalidade. Artistas e exposições em Portugal no séc. XX. Lisboa: Sistema SolarDocumenta. Karpic, B. (2007). L’économie des singularités. Paris: Gallimard. Margolis, E.; Pauwels, L. (Eds.) (2011). SAGE Handbook of Visual Research Methods. London: SAGE. Melo, A. (Ed.) (1994). Arte e dinheiro. Lisboa: Assírio & Alvim. Pais, J. M. (2010). Lufa-lufa quotidiana. Ensaios sobre a cidade, cultura e vida urbana. Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais. Thornton, S. (2009). Seven Days in the Art World. London: W.W. Norton & Co. Santos, M. L. L. (1988). Questionamento à volta de três noções (a grande cultura, a cultura popular, a cultura de massas). Análise Social, XXIV(101-102), 689-702. Silva, A. S. (2017). Art beyond context: a sociological inquiry into the singularity of cultural creativity. In A., Bennett, P., Guerra (Eds.), DIY Cultures and Underground Music Scenes. London: Routledge. Silva, A. S.; Guerra, P. (2015). As palavras do punk. Lisboa: Alêtheia Editores. Silva, A. S.; Babo, E. P.; Guerra, P. (2013). Cultural policies and local development: the Portuguese case. Portuguese Journal of Social Sciences, 12(2),195-209. DOI: 10.1386/pjss.12.2.113_1. Silva, A. S.; Babo, E. P.; Guerra, P. (2015). Políticas culturais locais: contributos para um modelo de análise. Sociologia, Problemas e Práticas, 78, 105-124. DOI: 10.7458/SPP2015783796. Straw, W. (1991). Systems of articulation, logics of change: communities and scenes in popular music. Cultural Studies, 368-388. DOI: 10.1080/09502389100490311. Throsby, D. (2001). Economics and culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zukin, S. (1995). The Culture of Cities. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. 3.5. Overflowing days. Flows and routes in/of the Portuguese urban culture © Chris Low THEME TUNE 4 | Walk together, rock together: Dilemmas of materiality, historicity, aesthetic, pop rock technologies in the contemporaneity 147 148 4.1. Erratic diversity: Failure as feedstock creative Carlos Eduardo Soares (Caeso)1 Abstract This paper seeks to approach failure as a strategic resource for innovation, taking into consideration its propensity to serve as a means to deviate from the norm, and what is it that instigates artist and public towards the exploitation and appreciation of such practices in an artistic point of view, with special emphasis towards technic and technological subjects, but not restricted to it. In this way, examples are presented in order to illustrate how such approaches have already produced results among our daily experience, as well as a historical perspective of normativity in art. Keywords: failure, normativity, art, technology, diversity. 1. Introduction Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible. Frank Zappa, 1971. The exploitation of technological errors and failures has been a common feature in the arts for more than 50 years (Kelly, 2009; Iazzetta, 2009). With a wide range of references quoted by its practitioners that go from artistic avant-garde movements to political activism, the works inscribed among these practices, which include the unusual usage and customization of technological gadgets, software/hardware hacking and the whole DIY culture, might act towards building a better understanding of the man-machine relation and the influence of the medium in the everyday life, viewing this reality where the physical and the virtual begin to merge as one with a much more critical eye. As the black box which is technology (Flusser, 1985) is opened, the user has access to its core, and even though not necessarily knowing precisely how to operate it, messing around with it constantly leads to a wide variety of unexpected results, thus allowing for a greater understanding and appropriation of both medium and process, opening doors towards the different, the new. The deviation from the norm presents itself as an alternative to progress (Zappa, 1971); the error becomes essential: the flaw is a synonym to innovation. In this presentation I won’t be going into details regarding defining the concept of the failure or other erratic creative approaches, nor onto analyzing specific repertoire and practical matters related to it, as there is a good number of works already that delve into such matter. What I’ll try to do in this lecture is to cast a light upon some of the different approaches to failure in art as to what is it that instigates producer and public towards the appreciation of the error and the flaw in such condition, failure, in special those related to technological matters, the man-machine relationship. The questions that arises from these practices are as many as they are diverse, but this presentation will focus mainly on three different basic aspects that can be recognized among these practices as art, which constantly permeate each other in this appreciation process, and which cannot be easily separated from one another: the fetish for the perverted use of the tool; the aesthetic interest in the produced material; and the poetics inherent to the failure. 1 Universidade Federal do Estado do Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. E-mail: caeso.mus|at|gmail|dot|com. 149 150 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 2. Tradition and normativity In a collection of contemporary art writings named Failure (2010), that being the central subject, Le Feuvre, the organizer of such publication, begins her introduction with: Uncertainty and instability characterize these times. Nonetheless, success and progress endure as a condition to strive for, even though there is little faith in either. All individuals and societies know failure better than they might care to admit — failed romance, failed careers, failed politics, failed humanity, failed failures. Even if one sets out to fail, the possibility of success is never eradicated, and failure once again is ushered in (Le Feuvre, 2010, p. 12). Art has, traditionally and in a general sense, always been an ever-ending quest for perfection, about getting it right, about achievement through learning the techniques and producing according to the norm: about building a masterpiece that cannot be perfected any further (Le Feuvre, 2010). But, as Le Feuvre puts it as she goes on, artists have long realized the utopia of such task, turning their attention towards experimentation and eventually even failure itself as a means of rethinking the world and evading the dogmas established through normative practices (Le Feuvre, 2010). Ever since the figure of the artist managed to separate itself from that of the artisan, which produces according to demand (Dereziewics, 2015; Blunt, 2001), in the eyes of society, the possibility to explore the novelty, for experimentation, became a reality. After all, there is no demand for something we can’t describe or predict until it’s actually done: it is not an option until that option actually exists. Why then produce according to the norm if there was a whole world of possibilities left untouched? What would the better novelty be? Well, if we consider that society, our culture and even the educational system of most areas tend to be quite normative, we can probably understand why one would think that such systems have already been refined to perfection. And “perfection offers no incentive for improvement” (Whitehead, 2001, p. 57). We are taught what is “right” and how to reproduce it in the same “righteous” way, but there is no point in perfecting something which is already a closed system in itself. All the same, accidents happen, for better or for worse, intentional or not. But the true difference for which will be the case, in special for an artistic piece, lies on the way we choose to interpret it. Was it not the case, we would probably only have figurative visual artworks and tonal/modal instrumental and vocal music. Was it not the case, we wouldn’t have penicillin, as that would have been discarded as a contaminated bacteria colony. Was it not the case, we wouldn’t have guitar distortion, champagne... You get the idea. The thing is, it seems that several cases of discoveries, inventions, innovations, arises from an accident or a failure that, instead of being simply rejected, went through a different appreciation process. One that instigates curiosity, promoting a different approach towards a different situation. As Cascone puts it, regarding mainly digital productions: Indeed, ‘failure’ has become a prominent aesthetic in many of the arts in the late 20th century, reminding us that our control of technology is an illusion, and revealing digital tools to be only as perfect, precise, and efficient as the humans who build them. New techniques are often discovered by accident or by the failure of an intended technique or experiment (Cascone, 1999, p. 13). 3. Technology, society, power and progress Since the 1950’s, the western world has seen a particularly different reality arise. Technology became a fetish as it had seen several conjecture changes in the post war era. The boom of science fiction productions fed the minds of many, allied with customization and DIY cultures that were 4.1. Erratic diversity: Failure as feedstock creative already becoming a more common practice, for example in the whole amateur radio and vehicle customization cultures (Iazzeta, 2009). Iazzeta points out that: Part of the fascination exercised by atomic and space technologies reflects clearly the positivist conception of belief in progress and in the infallibility of science. And the more complicated the results of this progress, the bigger the feeling that some advancement was achieved. This scientific esotericism, instead of creating some sort of insecurity towards that which cannot be comprehended, had the opposite effect of disobliging the individual of understanding the behavior of these technologies and, mostly, of realizing the context in which they were 2 produced (Iazzeta, 2009, p. 107). In art, this technological fetish would develop in two ways. One which would deify technology and have it used as a symbol for progress, and another, radically opposite, which would criticize it and act towards destroying the aura of perfection built around it, opening the black box (Flusser, 1985) which technology had become, several times through destruction itself. Events such as the Destruction in Art Symposium and the manifestos written by Gustav Metzger, the festival’s organizer, puts such approach as a “programmatic effort to confront destructive processes in society as well as the dialectic of destruction and creation in art” (Stiles as cited in Kelly, 2009, p. 129). Would a broken piano create new and unique piano sounds or would that be not a piano anymore, but something new? These deconstructive and sometimes destructive approaches, which recognize in artistic movements such as Dadaism and Futurism their predecessors, begin to be systematically incorporated in artworks in the 1960’s (Kelly, 2009). Noise, unpredictability and loss of total control over the process and product are part of this approach which understands man not as dependent of machines, but in a more symbiotic relationship with it. It understands that this technology is nothing more than a product and reflection of man itself (Iazzeta, 2009). As Kelly puts it: “Statements such as ‘technology changes the way we see’ miss the social and cultural significance of technologies and the way the social and the cultural shape the manner in which we use the technologies themselves” (Kelly, 2009, p. 27). 4. Failure in art This perspective of empowerment of the human as an opposition to the deification of technology is the point where artists begin to grow interest not for the magic of technology, but for its errors, flaws, misuses and several other situations where this aura is broken through new and unintended uses. Iazzeta points out that “[t]he fetish around technology has roots in its connection to some dimension of power”3 (2009, p. 24). That is made clear for example in marketing strategies applied by the music industry which consists in constantly trying to associate its production to the latest technologies and, consequently, with the idea of progress, of novelty (Iazzeta, 2009) — new and better/new is better. This power, on the other hand, is also constantly taken in an oppressive way. The power that establishes the patterns, the possibilities and the limitations. The machine, as a mediation device that is frequently dealt with as an artificial interactive life form, dictates what we can and cannot do based on what it does and what it does not understand. “Technology has no intuition, reflexivity 2 Back-translation from the original: Uma parte do fascínio exercido pelas tecnologias atômica e espacial espelha claramente a concepção positivista de crença no progresso e na infalibilidade da ciência. E quanto mais complicado o resultado desse progresso, maior a sensação de que foi realizado um avanço. Esse esoterismo científico, ao invés de criar algum tipo de insegurança em relação àquilo que não se pode compreender completamente, teve o efeito inverso de desobrigar o indivíduo de entender o funcionamento dessas tecnologias e, principalmente, de dar-se conta dos contextos em que elas eram produzidas. 3 Back-translation from the original: O fetichismo em torno da tecnologia tem raízes em sua conexão com alguma dimensão de poder. 151 152 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 or ability to know if something ‘looks right’, yet the purpose of machines is to increase efficiency beyond the ability of the human hand” (Le Feuvre, 2010, p. 18). But, unlike humans, when it is not capable of comprehending something, it is the user who is taken as necessarily wrong. There is a reason why so many monitor screens were smashed, why so many computers have been punched, kicked and slapped, why so many cell phones were thrown at the wall: the malfunctioning device; the cheap and poorly built equipment; the terribly programmed software; all the bugs and glitches; all the incredibly annoying situations where an user simply finds himself trying over and over again to do something simple and logic that the equipment simply won’t understand and/or allow it, with no clear explanation. The cause/consequence relationship is separated by the abyss of alienation of the process. These situations, which most people have already experienced themselves, this transposition of the maddening bureaucracy into the mediation devices, are some of the ones who motivate this kind of destructive approach. The fetish for the perverted use of the tool lies in a sort of soul cleansing vengeance against the machine, forcing it into failure and then exploiting it in an aesthetic way, a sort of sadist delight in torturing the machine as this authoritarian entity that has been dictating the rules for so long. As an inversion, the oppressed becomes the oppressor. All of this also a metaphor to the wide variety of violence and oppression suffered in the contemporary society, a.k.a.: The System. The mentioned aesthetic exploitation, on the other hand, goes through a different path. Driven by a great deal of affective memory and associations of semiotic order from several everyday elements grouped into radically different contexts, the aesthetic appreciation of the failure is closely connected to Marcel Duchamp’s ready-made concept as something that had already been designed and existed prior to its artistic approach/use, existing as an artwork, therefore, based mainly on a different perspective towards the same object/subject, many times even through some kind of nostalgia (Moradi, 2004). There is genuine and considerably general aesthetic interest in a great amount of material produced from failures. Interest enough to justify building largely commercial tools, available to the average user, that generates outputs that follows such aesthetic orientation. Failure generates material that could not have been intentionally produced by man without an enormous amount of work to simulate a process that might still look like a simulation, rendering distinctions, for example among glitch practitioners, between glitch proper, produced through actually glitching a technology, and glitch-a-like, which exploits sampling and plugins that were already built for the purpose of appearing to be glitches (Oliveira, 2014, 2016). Presenting and consuming a sensorial production that, was it not for this different perspective and/or context would still be an unaesthetic material, creates a whole new world of possibilities for any given medium. The idea of focusing the attention from the foreground to the background, reveals the blind spot of our perception which is the result of a constant process of filtering of the undesirable elements, these being unexplored. The abstraction process to which we are constantly induced teaches us to see only what is intended, as Iazzeta points out about the early days of phonography: As any illusionism spectacle, it was about making the public concentrate in that which was interesting (the fact that a machine could reproduce quality music) and let the clues (in this 4 case, the reproduction noises and distortions) that it constituted an illusion escape (Iazzeta, 2009, p. 91). 4 Back-translation from the original: Como todo espetáculo de ilusionismo, tratava-se de fazer com que os espectadores se concentrassem naquilo que era interessante (o fato de que uma máquina podia reproduzir música de qualidade) e deixassem escapar as pistas (nesse caso, os ruídos e distorções de reprodução) de que aquilo se constituía em uma ilusão. 4.1. Erratic diversity: Failure as feedstock creative As the accident that suddenly reveals new possibilities, failure in art opens new doors, specially due to the fact that it tends to produce something different in content every time. “The inevitable gap between the intention and realization of an artwork makes failure impossible to avoid” (Le Feuvre, 2010, p. 12). The loss of total control over process and product is a reality here. Chance and luck play an important part, and when dealing with technology, part of the sense of authorship should also be directed to the machine, the tool, and by consequence, to its programmer, designer, assembler, engineer, etc. No idea was born out of a single person. The user/agent might play an active role in the production but the result is also due to a much more active intervention of the medium, even tough, for several artists, the process, or even the tool itself (Cascone, 2001), has become the message. The poetics inherent to failure seems to be that of revealing a hidden world we were made blind to. When failure is released from being a judgemental term, and success deemed overrated, the embrace of failure can become an act of bravery, of daring to go beyond normal practices and enter a realm of not-knowing. (…) When the conventions of representation are no longer fit for purpose failure can open new possibilities (Le Feuvre, 2010, p. 13). References Blunt, A. (2001). A Posição Social do Artista [The social position of the artist] In Teoria artística na Itália, 1450-1600 (pp. 70-82). São Paulo: Cosac Naify. Cascone, K. (2001). The Aesthetics of Failure: “Post-Digital” Tendencies in Contemporary Computer Music. Computer Music Journal. 24 (4), 12-18. DOI: 10.1162/014892600559489. Deresiewicz, W. (2015). The Death of the Artist and the Birth of the Creative Entrepreneur. The Atlantic. Retrieved from http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2015/01/the-death-of-the-artist -and-the-birth-of-thecreative-entrepreneur/383497/ Flusser, V. (1985). Filosofia da Caixa Preta: Ensaios para uma futura filosofia da fotografia. São Paulo: Editora Hucitec. Iazzeta, F. (2009). Música e Mediação Tecnológica. São Paulo: Perspectiva. Kelly, C. (2009). Cracked Media: The Sound of Malfunction. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Le Feuvre, L. (Ed.) (2001). Failure (Documents of Contemporary Art). London: Whitechapel Gallery, Cambridge: The MIT Press. Moradi, I. (2004). Glitch Aesthetics. (Unpublished BA dissertation). School of Design Technology, The University of Huddersfield, Huddersfield. Oliveira, R. A. A. (2014). Comparações estilísticas entre Yasunao Tone, Oval e Alva Noto. Paper presented at the XXIV Congresso da Associação Nacional de Pesquisa e Pós-graduação em Música (ANPPOM). Anais. São Paulo: Anais da ANPPOM. Retrieved from http://www.anppom.com.br/congressos/index.php/24anppom /SaoPaulo2014/paper/view/2962 Oliveira, R. A. A. (2016). Glitch Music. (Unpublished master’s thesis). Universidade Federal de Juiz de Fora, Juiz de Fora. Whitehead, C. (2001). A intuicionista. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras. Zappa, F. (1971). Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Vm6_5j8gXM 153 154 4.2. Resistance patterns of a tattooed body Cihan Ertan1 Abstract The body is not merely a physical and biological entity. As far as it is personal, it has also social, cultural, and political aspects. Thus, the body is at the core of social interaction. It, either temporally or permanently, can be altered and modified through variety of practices such as garments, piercing, tattoo etc. Tattoo as a body modification provide individuals a unique way to produce their own meanings within the process of social interaction. Resistance is one of the prominent meanings being produced actively by tattooed body of individuals not only by means of the image inscribed onto the body but organizing, managing, and performing of a tattooed body within a given social interaction as well. Keywords: the body, body modification, tattoo, resistance. 1. Introduction By locating the body at the core of the argument and considering it as an effective means for resistance, the main focuses or questions of this paper are that how can tattooed bodies be considered as a site of resistance?, what is the relationship of tattooed bodies with diverse hegemonic cultural discourses?, and how do tattooed bodies challenge these discourses when they aim to resist or even not aim to resist? In order to do so, the findings obtained from in-depth interviews conducted in Turkey with 70 tattooed people who have tattoos on diverse parts of their bodies will be analyzed. It should be stated that this paper focuses only on the scene of mainstream consumption of tattoo as a popular cultural text. By mainstream consumption of tattoo, it is meant, but not merely limited with, the people who are not heavily tattooed but instead who have few tattoos which have primarily aesthetic meaning. Whether the tattoos of the individuals in this study are few in number and/or they merely reflect aesthetic purpose, the significant point to that paper is the ways tattooed people organize, use and/or present their bodies in varieties of interactions of everyday life through which they would able to produce their own meanings. As Storey (2014, pp. 81-94) suggested, consumption is not a linear process in which individual consumers “programmed” to consume in a passive manner; there is also a process in which individuals choose what they consume and how they consume by which they produce alternative meanings closely related to political dimension of everyday life. Besides this, consumption of popular cultural texts such as garments, ornaments, hair styles, tattoo, piercing, music, books, movies etc. are at the very heart of the production of meaning in everyday life (Fedorak, 2009) providing individuals with means through which they represent themselves to others and interact with society as a whole in the form of participating, belonging, entertaining, resisting etc. 2. Tattoo: Political voice of skin It can be argued that there are varieties of resistance practices which may occur in different forms depending on its target and scope; and it can be performed by means of using various objects and/or individuals’ own bodies as well (Hollender & Einwohner, 2004). There are abundant studies manifesting that how some mundane practices such as hair style, body building, body adornment, 1 Düzce University, Turkey. E-mail: cihanertan1|at|gmail|dot|com 155 156 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 apparel, body hairs, fatness can actually be read as resistance (Carr, 1998; Martin & Gavey, 1996; Weitz, 2008; Synnott, 2002; Sweetman, 1999a; Sweetman, 1999b; Bell, 1999; Cooper, 2013). All these body of works have taken attention of resistance studies to everyday practices of individuals, broadening the understanding of resistance. Resistance is not about only producing alternative challenging discourses with spoken words, but about reinforcing this counter hegemonic discourses by means of concrete body practices or objects. Thus, the body itself constitutes a primary space one may utilize to resist. Tattoos on one’s own body can be seen as an embodied resistance since it is the concrete form of the opponent discourse toward cultural hegemonic discourses. These concretism is particularly important for resistance because it both makes the resistance more visible and thereby more influential (Lilja, 2009). Hardt & Negri (2001, p. 216) suggested that the body practices such as piercing and tattoo, which enable to modify the bodies radically, are the signs of that “normal” or traditional ways of life, which contain traditional sexual life, family life, work discipline, etc. is being refused or resisted through body. As Vinthagen & Johansson (2013, p. 18) indicated, the intention of a certain practice is not necessary or mandatory for resistance; what is significant to determine resistance is “only the potential of undermining power”. A tattooed body itself can be considered as a resistance or a challenge regardless of the intention lying behind getting tattooed. For, it is contrary to the traditional body form which is thought pure and intact. Therefore, marking the smooth body with tattoo is a resistance to the dominant body image itself because it is to weaken the hegemonic discourse on the body and subvert the power relations in which individuals experience their everyday life. Besides, tattoo can also be the symbolic representation of individuals’ rebellion which signifies, for instance, a certain way of life, type of music, especially rock music for some interviewees. For example: I have been interested in music since I was a child, especially rock music. Majority of them had tattoos (...) I always wanted to get tattooed (...) It wasn’t important what it is; I did want a tattoo. I’m not feeling that I belong to the tattoo culture but it is directly related to the rock music which is a rebellion or resistance for me (Interviewee 6, Male, 30). Thus, tattoo might be the mediate signifier of the opponent expressions of individuals which can be either towards the mainstream and popular tastes or towards the economical inequality and the socio-cultural organisation. It can be seen that tattoo and being a tattooed person represent a symbolic signifier which points to critical and defiant thoughts of people. For instance, one of the interviewees links his tattoos to a certain type of music and life style which contradict the social formations based on economy and policy. I think that it has been an impact on my life when I listened to ‘Imagine’ from John Lennon. It says: ‘Imagine all the people living life in peace. Imagine no possessions. I wonder if you can...’. I believe I can do that and I live by adopting as a principle of that money isn’t that much important, peace precedes money (...) There is no rule, no limit, there is only my own rules in a world I created (...) (Interviewee 10, Male, 35). It can be stated that tattoo might be the symbol of the opponent discourse towards the regulative, normative, and the dominant cultural discourse on the body (Fenske, 2007) which constitutes, with the concept of Berger and Luckmann, “objective reality” of society (as cited in Dreher, 2016, p. 54). Tattoo, as an interviewee pointed, can be considered as a rebellion, an objection, and a resistance oriented an external control mechanism upon the body of individuals, and also it can be thought as the indicator of possession of the body by individuals. 4.2. Resistance patterns of a tattooed body No one can constrain me. My mother doesn’t want me to get more tattoos but I anyway will get more anyway (...) I have a principle that if there are someone in my life bringing problem, trying to restrain me, depriving me of something I like (...), I’ll reject him/her. Because there is only me (Interviewee 11, Male, 27). As mentioned, no matter of which motifs are being inscribed on the body, having a tattooed body can alone be considered as a resistance because it contains a rebellion pattern toward normative structure of society. Tattoo symbolizes the liberation of individual from social confinements becoming concrete and finding its expression through the body (Johnson, 2006). Having tattooed or a lifestyle represented through tattoo is substantially resistance oriented, because the practices and visibility of a tattooed body in public space contradict and conflict with social status quo (Bell, 1999). One of the interviewees conceives tattoo as a representation of resistance to the disciplining and oppressive power on his body. The body, in this context, takes place at the center of the tension of the interactional relation between individual and the structure, and it is also a tool for individual to ‘handle’ that tension. As one of the interviewees pointed, “(…) majority of my relatives don’t like and approve my tattoos. But, you see, I do not care, it is my body and my decision after all.” (Interviewee 28, Male, 23). The person who gets tattooed manifests his/her own initiative on the body besides getting the body inscribed with permanent marks. In general perspective, this can be considered as the expression of a challenge toward the boundary drawn around social body. Tattoo on the skin is at the heart of the constant struggle with power groups of social life which are influential on the body. Nevertheless, tattoo is a symbolic representation of freedom and rebellion. At that point, it is not necessary to transform the body radically and visibly. Individuals construct an alternative expression of a discontent or resistance through their tattoos although tattoos on the body are not completely open to the gaze of the others. The body are being rendered an area through tattoo in where the obstacles preventing individual to express him/herself are eliminated. In this context tattoo can be read as a revolt text. For instance, one of the interviewees, suggesting that his interaction with his father is based on dominance and he is not being enabled to express himself, has embodied the resistance to that domination and built his symbolic representations over against the oppression through his tattoos. From the statements of the interviewee, it can be seen that this resistance through his tattoos is not only limited to the oppression within his family but it is also toward social repressions in general: My political view is contrary to my father’s. He is a right-winger, and espouses liberal system (…) Thus, I got ‘treble clef’ on my left arm, as the reflection on my body that of I am opposed to him, in order to signify that I am left-winger. Whenever there is a dialogue between us, he’d say that ‘how do you think like that? Why do you think that way? What the hell is that?’ (…) I should have done something so as to get out of the atmosphere where I couldn’t express myself. Therefore, this time I got ‘pegasus’ on my left arm, the symbol of freedom. If you noticed, (pointing at Joker tattoo on his upper arm) it is a joker gritting his teeth. The reason that this joker is nervous is that I am nervous about something (…) It shows that I am reactive to certain things (…) My struggle for freedom against the things repressing me revives in my tattoos (…)” (Interviewee 37, Male, 27). As is seen from the statement of the interviewee, tattoo is a symbolic representation of resistance oriented toward a given oppression. The interviewee above stated that he got his tattoos nonvisible parts of his body but it doesn’t remove its resistance characteristic. It can be seen that the reason of that he got his tattoos on the nonvisible part of his body stems from the control of individual body, in other words from visibility strategy. That strategy, in a sense, is a tactic in everyday life through which individual exhibits his accordance to the norms in public space in terms of the body and, thus, he constitutes a space to represent his own resistance and opponent discourse. In this context, symbolic representation of resistance through tattoo can maintain its 157 158 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 opponent meaning although it is not being exposed explicitly within the interactions of everyday life. This reminds us public transcript and hidden transcript distinction made by Scott (1990). From that point, while the discourse that subordinated people engender in the presence of dominant is public transcript; the offstage discourse, on the other hand, that is beyond the direct view and gaze of the power constitutes hidden transcript. Hidden transcript, in this context, “is thus derivative in the sense that it consists of those offstage speeches, gestures, and practices that confirm, contradict, or inflect what appears in the public transcript” (Scott, 1990, p. 4). From this perspective, tattoo may preserve its feature of being symbolic resistance expression even if it is hidden and close to the gaze of others. Further, it is being sometimes deliberately concealed as a strategy for being able to produce challenging discourse despite the socio-cultural restrictive interventions from family, kins, school etc., public in general. Sometimes I roll up my t-shirt’s sleeve to have that tattoo visible (…) However, I wear shirt when guests come to our house in order not to explain about my tattoos. When my father’s friends come to us, they’d definitely ask about my tattoos and wouldn’t approve them (Interviewee 2, Male, 22). I am not having tattoos on visible parts of my body since I work as a government official. If I were not so, I would have had bigger and more beautiful tattoos (…) (Interviewee 27, Female, 37). Here again, we can see both that even if the intention of having a tattoo is not motivated by being resistant, the organization of tattooed body within the broader social structure comprises a negotiation with power relations, and that it is not significant for a tattooed body being visible to be deemed as resistance; what is important is everyday practices, tactics or strategies of tattooed people by which they are able to get by disciplinary power of social structure. (…) It is something like, ‘dress decollate but don’t display it completely’. My tattoo is on a place (lower arm) which can be seen easily but it can also readily be concealed (…) I am a person living in the midst of sociality so I have to care about the others. Sometimes, you may have to disguise the tattoo on your hand (…) It is like, for example, you like beard on your face but it is not convenient for you job; you have nothing to do about it and you shave it but you grow your beard or moustache on weekends (Interviewee 11, Male, 27). There are some kind of everyday practices that contain in themselves resistance features although they cannot be seen so when they are looked at superficially. These are; coping, survival technique, and accommodation or avoidance and they should be considered as combinations or components of the strategy that provide individuals with floor on which they perform their resistant practices, rather than treating them as choices (Vinthagen & Johansson, 2013). In the context of tattooed body, these strategies of coping, survival techniques, accommodation, and avoidance are also important because they provide a tattooed person with breathing space; they make them invisible while they are still in negotiation with power, keep them from social sanction while they are still inconsistent with the hegemonic social order. Thus, it can be suggested that resistance has a contextuality. This contextuality involves the ways individuals adopt in order to produce or not to produce the meaning that is counter hegemonic. As an interviewee asserted, “Tattoo is not being approved if you are in a serious and formal situation, in an important place (…) I need to get my tattoos concealed in that cases.” (Interviewee 3, Male, 30). It can be seen that individuals would activate a control and prevention mechanism on social outcomes of individual action. Here, two sociologically significant points come into prominence. Firstly, tattooed body of individual is the object of social discipline. In other words, social structure has an influence on the form of the body, how to take care of it, how and to what extent to shape it, how to be represented within a given context, and also it is likely that the bodies seen “inappropriate” may be subjected to a sanction. Secondly, it seems that individual is in a negotiation with this social discipline on the body. Individual develops some kind of strategies and 4.2. Resistance patterns of a tattooed body tactics in order to handle and cope with this social discipline. These tactics or strategies indicate and involve the concealment or covering of tattoos in some public spaces in presence of power. This strategy of concealment of some tattooed people doesn’t mean neither that they submit to dominance of power relations or that they are in a collaboration with power. It can be acknowledged that there seems to be a collaboration; however, collaboration in itself here is a significant part of the everyday strategy of people (Ortner, 1995). To resist a given system requires, almost everytime, to seem being in a collaboration with it and actually it is the creative way of the resister to appear as if she follows the logic of power which it is conceptualized as accommodation (Vinthagen & Johansson, 2013). Tattoo, in addition to this, can become a symbolic representation of ideological positioning through which an individual is able to present him/herself to others within the conflict organizing around different life styles, thoughts, ideologies etc. As is seen from the example below, tattoo constitutes an alternative way for individuals to express themselves in public space. Within the frame of this alternative public representation manner, even the visibility strategy deployed on tattoo as regard to conditions can alone comprise a resistance pattern. For, having a tattooed body always bears the potential of being a target of social reactions and stigmatization; therefore, by making visible of tattoos in public space one may confront and challenge this reactions and stigmatizations. Here, there is a resistance which finds its expression merely through a tattooed body rather than what motifs are being inscribed on it: (…) one day, a woman insulted me in a supermarket saying ‘profane’. She said that ‘the world has gone from bad to worse because of the people like you!’ (…) I’d reveal my tattoos in public rather than concealing them. Further, I want to expose them deliberately more than concealing in the presence of conservative, puritanical, religious people who disapprove of tattoos. (Interviewee 16, Female, 26). On the other hand, tattoo, for some individuals, is a direct way of expression of their opponent discourses and political view concerning some political issues such as power, inequality, economical policies etc. The body becomes a space in where social structure and order is being criticized by means of tattoo. It is also significant that this kind of critical and opponent expression through tattoo provides individuals with an alternative channel which mediates people to participate social issues by manifesting their societal discontentedness. One of the respondents, who has a tattoo saying “F**k The World” on his nape stated that he uses this tattoo as if it is a “board”. He pointed out that he expresses his challenging attitudes against resource allocation and inequality in terms of accessing to social benefits: I wanted my tattoo to be visible (…) It is a very beautiful world. Travel, eat, drink (…) But what shall I do with all of these when I am not able to reach them (…) I would only see beauties that I can experience. The beauties that I can’t experience are still beautiful but they don’t make not much sense to me. One tourist would come and tell you that ‘What great country you have. Why would you like to leave it?’. I admit that it is beautiful but you can live that beautiful but I can’t. I am a bird here inside the golden cage, nothing more. You’d come here for ten days, swim, go to pool; it is heaven for you but for me (…) Come and see our hospitals (…) Yes, there are some beauties. We are in a world that is beautiful but also ugly (Interviewee 41, Male, 24). It can be suggested that two types of resistance patterns emerge concerning resistance through tattoos. Firstly, directly resistance which carries its message directly towards its target and that message is open, easy to understand, and not implicit. This kind of resistance through tattoo may comprise some images of written words and symbols inscribed on the body that intend to say what it wants to mean straight forwardly. Secondly, indirectly resistance whose meaning is both limited to and resides in holder of tattoo, thereby not easy to grasp, highly symbolic, and sometimes its intention is not even to resist. However, people can utilize their tattooed bodies in order to produce 159 160 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 counter hegemonic discourse to resist some social settings such as conventional cultural norms about the body, cultural domination on the individual body and, restrictive mechanisms of society. 3. Conclusion Tattoo as a body modification and a kind of body adornment should not be considered simply as a consumer text which is being consumed by individuals free from meaning. Rather, tattooed bodies produce actively meaning through tattoo while consuming it and resistance is one of the outcomes of that producing consumption practice. This resistance pattern of tattoo is at the core of the individual body and the public body debate. Because an individual body that is having tattooed often contradicts with public body which produces hegemonic disciplining discourse concerning individual body. Thus, it can be claimed that a tattooed body is inherently resistant since it fights back traditional body discourse and therefore undermines it in some degree. Resistance through tattoo also depends on context in which a tattooed body perform. On the one hand, the body may be tattooed with the intention of being resistant and the motifs may be chosen accordingly; on the other hand, one may have tattoos regardless of being resistant but in certain circumstances she may be using her tattooed body in order to fight back normative cultural expectations. References Bell, S. (1999). Tattooed: A Participant Observer’s Exploration of Meaning. Journal of American Culture, 22(2), 53– 58. DOI: 10.1111/j.1542-734X.1999.2202_53.x Carr, C. L. (1998). Tomboy Resistance and Conformity: Agency in Social Psychological Gender Theory. Gender & Society, 12(5), 528 — 553. DOI: 10.1177/089124398012005003 Cooper, C. (2013, May 1). What is a Fat Activist? Retrieved from http://obesitytimebomb.blogspot.com.tr/2013/05/the-basics-what-is-fat-activist.html Dreher, J. (2016). The Social Construction of Power: Reflections Beyond Berger/Luckmann and Bourdieu. Cultural Sociology, 10(1), 53–68. DOI: 10.1177/1749975515615623 Fedorak, S. (2009). Pop Culture: The Culture of Everyday Life. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Fenske, M. (2007). Movement and Resistance: (Tattooed) Bodies and Performance. Communication and Critical/Cultural Studies, 4(1), 51–73. DOI: 10.1080/14791420601138302 Hardt, M.; Negri, A. (2001). Empire. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Hollender, J. A.; Einwohner, R. L. (2004). Conceptualizing Resistance. Sociological Forum, 19(4), 533–554. DOI: 10.1007/ s11206-004-0694-5 Johnson, F. J. (2006). Tattooing: Mind, Body and Spirit. The Inner Essence of the Art. In Sociological Viewpoints, Vol. 23 (pp. 45 –61). Lilja, M. (2009). Theorizing Resistance: Mapping, Concretism and Universalism The New Feminist Concepts of our Time?. Resistance Studies Magazine, 1, 3–19. Ortner, S. B. (1995). Resistance and the Problem of Ethnographic Refusal. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 37(1): 173–193. DOI: 10.1017/S0010417500019587. Scott, J. (1990). Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. New Heaven: Yale University Press. Storey, J. (2014). From Popular Culture To Everyday Life. London: Routledge, Taylor & Francis. Sweetman, P. (1999a). Anchoring the (Postmodern) Self? Body Modification, Fashion and Identity. Body & Society, 5(2–3), 51–76. DOI: 10.1177/1357034X99005002004 Sweetman, P. (1999b). Only Skin Deep? Tattooing, Piercing and the Transgressive Body. In M. Aaron (Ed.), The Body’s Perilous Pleasures: Dangerous Desires and Contemporary Culture (pp. 165–188). Edinburg: Edinburg University Press. Synnott, A. (2002). The Body Social: Symbolism, Self and Society. London: Routledge, Taylor & Francis. Vinthagen, S.; Johansson, A. (2013). Everyday Resistance: Exploration of a Concept and its Theories. Resistance Studies Magazine, 1, 1–46. Retrieved from http://resistance-journal.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/VinthagenJohansson-2013-Everyday-resistance-Concept-Theory.pdf Weitz, R. (2008). Women and Their Hair: Seeking Power through Resistance and Accomodation. In C. Malacrida; J. Low (Eds.), Sociology of the Body (pp. 314–321). Canada: Oxford University Press. 4.3. Carioca1 youth, their cultures and media representations: Searching for roads to a research2 Cláudia Pereira3 Abstract This work intends to present some opened issues about an investigation which has been developed by a group of researchers from Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro (PUC-Rio), named “JUX — Juventudes cariocas, suas culturas e representações midiáticas” (“Carioca youth, their cultures and media representations”). The purpose of the investigation is to do fieldwork to observe and describe some youth subcultures from Rio de Janeiro presuming that Advertising reinforce a kind of youth representation which only shows rebel (but controlled) traces of what it actually means and that is much more than just this. This is a research in progress and this article points to some possible methodological and theoretical roads to be made. Keywords: youth subcultures, representation, advertising, skate, carioca. The aim of this work is to discuss some still opened issues about an investigation which has been developed by a group of researchers from Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro (PUC-Rio), named “JUX — Juventudes cariocas, suas culturas e representações midiáticas” (“Carioca youth, their cultures and media representations”). So this is a research in progress and we are thankful to KISMIF 2016 for having been a wealthy place to present some possible methodological and theoretical roads to be made. First, it must be explained how youth cultures studies are linked to our concerns about the process by which social representations of our values, practices and beliefs in the media are constructed, more specifically in advertising. Then there will be presented the Research Group of which the author is the present leading, and the brand-new project with more opened questions to be explored than answers to be given by now. Let´s begin with the main theoretical concepts that this work is based on. As was said, the concerns are addressed to the construction of social representations of the values, practices and beliefs of our society in the media, mainly in advertising. By social representation it is understood, as Serge Moscovici (2011) has once explained, the phenomenon of turning into “familiar” what is “unfamiliar”, maintaining the “consensual universe” of society in safe. In other words, the social representations are the ideas, concepts and images given by interaction and by our daily conversations, and also by the media in order to guarantee the necessary social cohesion and harmony. The “work of representation” of Stuart Hall (1997) is also important to understand social representation as a constructionist system, a process that results in “maps of meanings”. Nevertheless, it is in Moscivici theory where we take one of the central arguments of this work. We are interested in searching for when and how the social representations come to transform “unfamiliar” into “familiar”, specifically in the media, in a prescriptive way. Moreover, it is intended to observe how advertising deals with this process of symbolic construction, since its space is only possible if there is a minimum agreement between people of the same society about what is being 1 “Carioca” is the word for the people of the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Research supported by Faperj — Fundação Carlos Chagas Filho de Amparo à Pesquisa do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (Bolsa Jovem Cientista do Nosso Estado). 3 Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro (PUC-Rio), Brazil. E-mail: claudiapereira|at|puc-rio|dot|br. 2 161 162 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 said and figured. Advertising is where the “consensual universe” lives at its most expressive way and seems to be the rule for the effectiveness of the significance of the message. In KISMIF 2015, the author has presented a work entitled “Punk representations in advertising: impurity, stigma and deviance” which was dedicated to observe what exists on the fringes of social standards, what transgresses, which to a certain extent represents danger to what is normative. By exploring these media representations as a communication phenomenon, more specifically analysing the way in which the construction process of these images, ideas, beliefs, consumption practices thought categories and classification systems occur, I seek to observe what doesn’t necessarily fit into what could be considered the norm, conventional or at best agreeable, for an advertising campaign. How does advertising concur with what is not beautiful or ‘normal’, within the normative and hegemonic patterns present in the media? What are the symbolic limits of a narrative based upon the representations of a ‘perfect world’, of a ‘happy ending’ and of beauty? (Pereira, 2015). Now we need to extend this approach to some other youth cultures, or subcultures, presuming that the media reinforce a kind of youth representation which only shows rebel (but controlled) traces of what it actually means and that is much more than just this. On the other hand, we have Advertising as the most important narrative of consumption, according to Everardo Rocha, a Brazilian anthropologist. For Rocha (2000), strongly influenced by Mary Douglas and Baron Isherwood´s book World of Goods (Douglas and Isherwood, 2004) consumption is a system of significance and a system of classification, while Advertising is the place where those significations and classifications are shaped by persuasive and pedagogic images, discourses and ideas. Advertising is the place where the world is perfect, where nobody dies, where everyone is happy and where there is only beauty and all the good things. According to Rocha (2000), Advertising is a game of mirrors where we can find the values that rule our society, which is called by the author a “society of dreams”. And, finally, we have youth. As we understand, youth is an advertising concept, an idea more than a phase of life. Youngsters are taken as a reference for our culture, they are aspirational to any one of any age and they rule the society of consumption, pointing out to what we have to dress and to listen to, how we can get happiness and work at the same time, where we have to go out to, how we are supposed to have fun. But as well as they are a reference, can also be a threat. Youth subcultures always mean resistance, some of them hardly, some others softly. The subculturalists share particular codes, from the way they wear to the slangs they use to express themselves, that can never make sense to other people. And they are commonly innovative and trendsetters. But all of them, at their very beginning, are in some way “unfamiliar” to the establishment. And there is no possible “unfamiliarity” to the maintenance of harmony and interaction between social actors, according Moscovici. What is unfamiliar has to become familiar, anchoring it in something or some fact already known in the past and objectifying it in a concept, image or idea at now. That is how the media and particularly advertising represent youth subcultures. By analyzing the advertising that uses youth subcultures as an appeal, we can find paths to reveal a lot about our society, since we live in a culture that idealizes a normative youth lifestyle. And that is what we intend to do in our research. In January of the current year, we have started up the Research Group mentioned before. The aim of this group is to construct a kind of map of the city of Rio de Janeiro from the point of view of the local youth cultures — or subcultures. We have chosen Rio because it is a very emblematic place in Brazil to think about the relations between the urban space and the social inequality, the uses of the body and youth as a symbolic capital, the occupation of the city by some youth cultures in the recent years, among other reasons. We believe that the representations of carioca youth in the media are more likely to global patterns than to local specificities. Moreover, we believe that very much of the resistance that features the subcultures is simply subsumed when being 4.3. Carioca youth, their cultures and media representations: Searching for roads to a research represented, considering the perfect world of advertising. The “unfamiliar” becomes “familiar”, neutralizing what could, in a certain way, threaten the necessary “consensual universe” of our daily interactions in society. But in this process of turning the unfamiliar into familiar, there is too much to be ignored. What is silenced by the representation of a young subculture in advertising can only be heard by the fieldwork. In other words, what the media shows by stereotypes is only a shadow of a rich source of alive signs, material cultures, values, codes, practices, norms and ideologies produced and reproduced by the youngsters — or, we may say, the subculturalists. We believe that it is mandatory to observe the culture in action to go further in analyzing its representations in Advertising. Also we believe that Rio is passing by a visible moment of growing occupation: we see groups of young people gathering around bars, the ones we call “pé sujo” (in bad English, “dirty foot”), downtown streets at night, skate bowls, favelas parties, so on and so forth. We will do the fieldwork through an ethnographic approach, drawing a symbolic map of Rio de Janeiro and then we will compare our observations with the corresponding advertising representations of the youth subcultures. Moreover, we want to explore the concept of subculture, revising it, and the notions of space and place, as does Ross Haenfler (2014), in “Subcultures: the basics” and other authors before him. But there are still a lot of questions to be explored: how are subcultures nowadays? Do subcultures exist? How does the inequality of the city of Rio contribute — or not — to the empowerment of some demonstrations of these cultures? Is there resistance to the establishment? How does it happen? What kind of resistance is this? What is to be authentic in a connected and globalized society? As it was said, this is a work at its beginning. British subcultures are good to think about our questions, in terms of comparison, not only because we have found in Cultural Studies the main concepts of our discussions, even considering the context of them at CCCS, but mainly because their global influence in such scenes, as music, fashion and urban cultures, is still very strong. We have also some Brazilian scholars observing and writing about pop culture, as funk for example, where we can find some of our concerns. By now, what can be introduced here to the reader are the impressions of the first ethnographic immersion of our group in the field. We have decided to choose five youth subcultures or scenes to be observed. The first one is the skate subculture. In Rio, we have a space known as Praça XV. It is a historical square in downtown, a set of ancient buildings, some of them are museums or governmental offices. In 1997, a group of young skateboarders occupied the recently modernized Praça XV square which offered excellent conditions for them. But in 1999 the mayor banned the skate practice there. The police acted against them all the time. So they decided to organize a collective named COLETIVO XV (or I LOVE XV — ILXV) and since 2011 the skateboarders are allowed to use the square without repression. If you walk by Praça XV any time, you will see some obstacles that are usually used by the practitioners. They are not fixed in the ground, but remain there. On Wednesdays and Sundays they meet at that spot. We went to Praça XV on June 26th when they were still celebrating the Skateboarding Day (Figure 1), which has been on the 21st. We arrived by 3pm and observed all the actions that were taking place in I LOVE XV party: street style competitions, a band with a DJ, a small market-place selling T-Shirts and other stuffs made by local producers, a photo exhibition, a skate poems exhibition and a lot of kids, teens and youngsters, and some adults, skating all around. 163 164 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 1: Skateboarding Day at Praça XV. Credits: Raphael Medeiros. There was beer, food, marijuana, music, fashion, bikes in a vivid and friendship interaction between generations, genders, natives and outsiders — more natives than outsiders. From this immersion, we noted that: (1) girls wear like boys to feel included in the group although they are concerned with their beauty (FIGURE 2); (2) politics is an interest of them; (3) there are some visible values reinforced by the presenter in the microphone and by the ethos of the skateboarders like mutual respect, politeness, sustainability, authenticity, DIY, among others; (4) for them, skate is a lifestyle and not a sport; and (5) “skate posers” are not welcome. These are the first impressions we had. We will soon attend to an I LOVE XV meeting that takes place weekly in a very emblematic cultural circus tent called Circo Voador (Flying Circus in English) which is part of the musical scene of the city since the 80´s. Moreover we will go to three other places in Rio where we can find skateboarders in action: Maracanã, Madureira and Barra da Tijuca. We will interview practioners, producers and local leaders. But of course one of the main concerns of our group now is about the analysis of the occupation of the square by the skateboarders. The theoretical approaches of space and place are the core of the discussions we can do about Praça XV: how does a subculture turns a space in a place, considering place as a geographic space where there are conflicts, interaction, social flows, political and cultural demonstrations and so on? For the comparison between what we have seen till now in fieldwork and what Advertising shows, we can already observe the representations of gender, specifically femininity, where the dominance of masculinity is emphasized not only by the clothes girls wear, but also by gestures and a kind of incompatibility between skate and women´s universe (Figure 3). Another approach found in the media representations of skate subcultures is from the perspective of lifestyle. Anthony Giddens (2002, p.79) defines lifestyle as “a more or less integrated set of practices that an individual embraces not only because these practices fulfill utilitarian needs, but because they give material form to a particular narrative of self-identity”4. 4 From the original in Portuguese edition: “um conjunto mais ou menos integrado de práticas que um indivíduo abraça, não só porque essas práticas preenchem necessidades utilitárias, mas porque dão forma material a uma narrativa particular da auto-identidade”. 4.3. Carioca youth, their cultures and media representations: Searching for roads to a research Figure 2: Skateboarders girls. Credits: Raphael Medeiros. Figure 3: Brazilian advertising — Bauducco Cookies and gender representations. Source: Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mm-LK96GzDw. In Advertising, skate lifestyle is objectified by a particular material culture, such as clothes and equipment’s. Sometimes it seems that there is an effort to represent this lifestyle in a “clean” way, as Figure 4 demonstrates in the comparison between an ad and a real situation registered during the fieldwork. 165 166 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 4: Skate as lifestyle and material culture (Advertising on the left, fieldwork image on the right). Source: Retrieved from http://www.script.net.br/Taco-Previsao-do-final-desemana.Photo by Raphael Medeiros. It is possible to find some other common representations of skate subcultural values such as authenticity and even political engagement in Advertising. And finally we are convinced that the traditional ethnography — with participant observation and fieldnotes — is a better way to understand the carioca youth subcultures than the flanêrie methodology that has been adopted by some scholars in their researches about musical and cultural scenes. After skateboarders, we intend to go inside other subcultures and scenes, just like carioca funk, electronic raves, LGBT parties, hipsters and rockers. Acknowledgements: I am deeply thankful to all members of our research group (JUX) for all the contributions that resulted in this work. Funding: Faperj — Fundação Carlos Chagas Filho de Apoioi à Pesquisa do Estado do Rio de Janeiro — Bolsa Jovem Cientista do Nosso Estado. References Douglas, M.; Isherwood, B. (2004). Os usos dos bens. In M., Douglas, & B., Isherwood, O mundo dos bens: para uma antropologia do consumo. Rio de Janeiro: Editora UFRJ. Giddens, A. (2002). Modernidade e identidade. Rio de Janeiro: Zahar. Haenfler, R. (2014). Subcultures: the basics. New York: Routledge. Hall, S. (1997). The work of representation. In S., Hall (Ed.), Representation, cultural representation signifying practices. London/Thousand Oaks/New Delhi: Sage/Open University. Moscovici, S. (2011). Representações sociais: investigações em psicologia social. Petrópolis: Vozes. Pereira, C. Punk representations in advertising: impurity, stigma and deviance. In KISMIF 2015 — Book of Proceedings, 2015. Retrieved from http://ler.letras.up.pt/uploads/ficheiros/14041.pdf. Rocha, E. (2000). Totem e consumo: as dimensões da magia e o discurso publicitário. In Revista Alceu, (1), 18-37. Retrieved from http://revistaalceu.com.puc-rio.br/media/alceu_n1_Everardo.pdf. 4.4. Depressive Suicidal Black Metal and borderline personality disorder: A journey into the depths of emptiness José Filipe P. M. Silva1 Abstract This paper aims to realize a psycho-ontological analysis of the Depressive Suicidal Black Metal (DSBM) subculture and subgenre in comparison with the contemporary literature and diagnosis of the “Self” in terms of psychological and psychiatric anomalies categorically defined as Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). Thus, stating DSBM as an extremely complex musical style — featuring an overall monotonous sound, long and repetitive distorted guitar riffs, occasional keyboard usage and an overuse of sadly mourning voices — and the emotional unstableness, inconsistency and intense fear of abandonment patent in patients diagnosed with BPD, I will demonstrate that both creative/artistic and mental/health vectors are in fact intimately related as well as they can be somehow a “parasitic” vehicle to each other: this means that DSBM musicians and listeners would possess a natural/genetic predisposition for BPD and BPD individuals would have a certain attraction for this particular subgenre of Black Metal. Keywords: bpd, dsbm, emotion, ontology, psychopathology. 1. The journey begins… Black Metal is usually said to be born with the 1982 Venom’s album “Black Metal”. That album had the particularity of serving as kind of stylish glue which approximated a group of bands with similar sonorities which were back then more labelled as Speed or Trash Metal than Black Metal per se. That was the case of Mercyful Fate, Bathory, Hellhammer, Celtic Frost, Kreator, Bulldozer, Death SS or Sodom. This historical period is commonly known as the First Wave of Black Metal and lasted until the early nineties, when the Second Wave — the True Norwegian Black Metal Wave or the Satanic Black Metal Wave — emerged through the sound of Mayhem, Burzum, Darkthrone, Immortal, Emperor, Carpathian Forest or Gorgoroth. We shall note that the main differences between the two Waves were not so much in the musical composition (which tried to take into the extreme both instrumentalism and lyricism, making truly raw and brutal music through fast guitar picking with heavy distortion, fast drum tempos and blast-beats as well as shrieking voices), neither in the anti-gregarious, anti-religious or anti-Christian propaganda (Bathory, for instance, did it over and over again during the eighties), but especially in the ways they showed their discontent: the adoption of pseudonyms inspired in Jew-Christian demonology, the Church-arsons (see the iconic case of Varg Vikenes, Burzum’s mastermind), their general public proclamation as neo-Nazis, Pagans or Satanists and, particularly, the crimes, murders and tragedies they were associated to. 2. Dark days in Norway Here, we must refer Øystein Aarseth (also known as Euronymous, Mayhem’s founder, lead guitarist and a legend within the scene) and his homicide by the hand of Varg Vikernes and, even more important for the emergence of the particular sub-genre of Depressive Suicidal Black Metal (DSBM), 1 Institute of Philosophy of the University of Porto, Portugal. Email: josefsilva|at|live|dot|com|dot|pt. 167 168 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 the suicide of Per Yngve Ohlin (Mayhem’s Swedish vocalist since 1988, otherwise known as Dead). Per was an extremely depressive person who was frequently cutting himself during the shows and smelling rotten carcasses he used to found in a forest nearby Mayhem’s rehearsal house. Euronymous once said about him (Eide, 1987): “I honestly think Dead is mentally insane. Which other way can you describe a guy who does not eat, in order to get starving wounds? Or who has a T-shirt with funeral announcements on it?”. Dead’s suicide in 1991 achieved such a psycho-ontological status within the scene that many bands had offspring from his personal tragedy, trying to dig deep in matters of existentialism, namely through messages and actions of self-mutilation, suicidal behaviour/invitation, substance abuse (both alcohol and drugs), splitting and disturbed stage identities (which are expressed from minimal corporal movements to exacerbated moments of ecstasy) and the overwhelmingly presence of (in practical terms) “negative” emotions — such as guilt and anger of life — and “negative” personality moods, as anxiety and depression. 3. An aside on existentialism In a philosophical vocabulary, existentialism defines a search for the fundamental parts of one’s own existence, for the meaning of life. Although there are obviously many different ways of interpretation for philosophical existentialism, including phenomenological, scientific, religious and anti-religious perspectives (e.g. Kierkegaard, Heidegger, Nietzsche, Sartre, and many others), the key-point of all of them is pretty simple: to understand the roots of every single part of the human’s sphere, actions, beliefs, urges and motivations. Thus, DSBM simply takes it into the most blackened caves of the human mind, into the depths of emptiness. And that work is made through some bands such as Suamanucaedere (“to kill oneself by his own hand” in Latin), Werther, Nocturnal Depression, Shining and Make A Change…Kill Yourself. 4. Shining, Nocturnal Depression and Make a Change…Kill Yourself Before we get into a psychiatric analysis of the prevalent factors of this particular sub-genre and sub-culture and seek for possible correlations with the Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), we shall underline what is the real purpose of the DSBM according to its performance, this is, its musicians’ statements and the lyricism involved. In fact, Niklas Kvarforth — Shining’s vocalist — seems to agree with Dead’s legacy and this self-destructive status of DSBM. He shouts it loud and clear during an interview to Black Terror Magazine (2001): Of course we support suicide. Shining supports all that is negative in this bastard world of ours. We have a couple of cases in the past with people whom have ended their lives under the influence or partially under the influence of our work and of course this is true blessing indeed, yet we pray for increased numbers of fatalities. These disturbing words of Nicklas — who deeply wishes people to commit suicide under his musical influence — have their perfect resonance in several Shining’s lyrics, such as “And Only Silence Remains…” from the album “Within Deep Dark Chambers”. We can listen: Hate me/Complete patterns known as shameful/Cut me deeper than/Hate me/And collect the twelve daggers of infinity/Follow to my paradise/Fulfil yourself, harass yourself for me/And follow to my paradise/Cut yourself, a productive code to manipulate the holiness/And share your pains/Your pains. Also Nocturnal Depression’s “Nostalgia” from “Nostalgia — Fragments of a Broken Past” shows up a similar message. They sing: 4.4. Depressive Suicidal Black Metal and borderline personality disorder: A journey into the depths of emptiness And once again despair is kissing me/With her cold ghostly lips/My own destruction is leading me to my grave/That I digged for many times/And once again I’m becoming a spectral thought/Forgotten, sad, miserable shit/As I fall into the black spheres among lonely memories/You’ve broken us, piece by piece/The score of my soundtrack is written by blood/Music of suicide written in red/I did it myself, my wrists are also opened/And my tears, it’s cascading/Everything has been lost behind us (…). A final example from Make A Change…Kill Yourself homonymous album from 2005, where is wondered: Is life just another test to prove me wrong?/Is this never-ending struggle just another lie?/Are these shitty feelings just another fairytale of happiness?/Are these scars real or just another open wound?/Are these people real or just ghosts in the wind?/Is this a fork or a knife? The blood seems real/This knife seems to kindly touch my skin/This is dying, not living/This is the border between life and death/Only death is real/Strangle me. Stab me to death/Only death is real (…). According to these examples, self-mutilation (mainly through cutting), the blood-loss as well as suicide thoughts seem to represent a kind of escaping catharsis from mundane life. Life seems to be wrong and an error from which one must escape. Shining’s lyrics keep repeating the words “cut” and “follow to my paradise”; Nocturnal Depression’s insist in the idea of open wrists, blood and loss; and Make A Change…Kill Yourself — in a very Burzumish nihilistic overview — keeps questioning about facts of life (like it was a test, a never-ending struggle, a lie) with the “knife” appearing once again — like in Shining’s example — as a main-protagonist of the story. 5. A psychoanalytic aside The question is what the knife is, and why is it so quoted. At a first look, one could argue that is merely a simple object that can be found basically everywhere for those who want to commit suicide or cut themselves. It’s a kitchen object; it’s a quotidian object. One can buy it in the supermarket at tops, or find it in the trash. However, if we try to figure it out from a psychoanalytical (not yet psychiatric) point of view, it might represent another thing. Freud argues the knife might be a fetish, a psychological substitute for the repressed sexual urges — the libido — and the supervenience of a “death drive” (Todestrieb) over a “life drive” (Lebenstrieb) is not just a symbol of rebellion against those who raised the suicidal/self-harming individual (like parents or school) but also a way of releasing all the tension generated. In fact, and according to Freud (1993, p. 232), “there is a strong renouncement of the ego’s affirmation” in suicidal individuals, and this means they have the inclination to succumb to their “id” (Es) contradictive wishes. The id is the deepest part of our minds, the place where all energies and wishes are found in total anarchy. Now that we have stated DSBM as an extremely complex musical style featuring an overall monotonous sound, long and repetitive distorted guitar riffs, occasional keyboard usage and an overuse of sadly mourning voices, as well as its sub-culture as essentially a sub-culture of emotional unstableness (both for musicians and listeners), we will relate it to the BPD in matter of inconsistency and intense fear of abandonment. 6. BPD symptoms Thus, according to the DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) from the American Psychiatric Association (APA), a BPD is a “pattern of instability in interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity” (APA, p. 645) which begins by the early adulthood and is presented in a variety of contexts. This manual says that an individual has to comprehend at least five-out-of-nine criteria in order to be classified within this particular psychiatric category (see APA, p. 663): (1) he must show frantic efforts to avoid reality or imagined 169 170 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 abandonment; (2) possess a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating states of extreme idealization and devaluation (the periods of numbness and ecstasies we referred); (3) have his identity disturbed, as a markedly and persistently unstable self-image; (4) demonstrate impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially selfdamaging (as alcohol or drug abuse, depraved sex or reckless driving); (5) show recurrent suicidal behaviour, gestures, threats or self-mutilation; (6) have affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (like long-lasting anxiety or irritability); (7) have chronic feels of emptiness; (8) have inappropriate and intense anger; and (9) possess stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms — Freud would call it an “ego-splitting” or an “ego-division” (Ichspaltung). 7. DSBM encounters BPD Considering some of the material presented before about the lyricism and ideological thought of some the main bands of DSBM, one can easily understand why it seems pretty obvious that both musicians and listeners which belong and share this particular sub-culture might suffer from mental illnesses and, in particular, from BPD. It is true that we don’t present any statistical material or empirical data in order to prove our hypothesis, however the reason for that is very clear; in fact, those musicians like Nicklas — or Dead before him —, as well as the fans of the scene would hardly be able to compromise themselves with a complete psychiatric evaluation. Besides that, it is also very important to mention (again, without statistical data) that the different agents of DSBM still constitute a small group, a minority, among the Metal universe and even the Black Metal sub-genre (we see it through the number of gigs, festivals, albums or simply public resonance, which is barely none). Another crucial fact is that we must not misunderstood the hypothesis and consider that all individuals whom suffer from BPD must enjoy DSBM; in fact, there are individuals mentally insane in every single musical spectrum (for instance, Kurt Cobain and Amy Whinehouse also harmed themselves with drugs and alcohol, clearly showing patterns of mental and affective unstableness and generic feelings of emptiness — or even the Japanese vocalist Kyo, from the Experimental Rock-Metal band Dir En Grey, whom keeps cutting himself during the shows or also the Australian Justice Yeldham, a live audio artist whom crushes large sheets of glass with his face all through his performances). Thus, we don’t have here exactly a causal relation but somehow a certain predisposition. When we think about Suamanucaedere’ song titles as “Coagulated Blood” or “To Forget” from their single album “Mortem Sibi Consciscere” (from the Latin “death knows itself”), or Werther’s “A Night of Drugs, Misanthropy and a Violent Death”, “Senseless Sickening Life”, “Walking Through the Depths of Sadness and Hate”, “In the Valley of Death…I Can rest” and “The Final Letter of the Young Werther” from their 2012 EP “The End” or even the single “The Fall of Man” — where they used a supposedly EVP recorded by the Spanish occultist Germán de Argumosa —, we can perfectly understand what their motivation is, even without listening the songs. DSBM has an obvious message of death, which somehow contrasts with its Norwegian roots, like Darkthrone’s or Burzum’s ontological nihilistic questionings that were very far away from simplistic suicide invitations. In fact, Gylve Nagel — Fenriz among the scene, Darkthrone’s vocalist — used to say that Black Metal is supposed to be “all cold” (Aites & Ewell, 2008), a hyperborean musical style. Vikernes also adopted both a message of rebellion (especially during his first demos) and introspection (with particular emphasis on his “Filosofem”, from 1996, and the albums released after his parole in 2010). Even Mayhem, where all of this started through the morbid personality of Dead, preferred to adopt more an anti-Christian position and callosity than a self-harming motivation and style. 4.4. Depressive Suicidal Black Metal and borderline personality disorder: A journey into the depths of emptiness 8. And only emotion remains… In order to conclude this paper, we shall repeat that the emotional unstableness, inconsistency and intense fear of abandonment which are patent in patients diagnosed with BPD can work somehow as a mirror for the personality of the individuals belonging to the DSBM scene, especially for the musicians. The existence of certain common patterns among them — as the case of self-harming, suicidal behaviour/invitation, substance abuse and disturbed identity — combine themselves into peculiar experiences of intense grief followed by an urge of immediate relief from the emotional pain, promoting them an ontology of void, of pure emptiness. This doesn’t mean, however, that every person which experiences DSBM musicality must be a potential suicidal; one can easily listen to those band and simply ignore their lyrics — in fact a huge quantity of them are barely perceptive. Nevertheless, for those who play it, like Shining’s vocalist, the subject is very real — and, because of that, very dangerous. References Aites, A. & Ewell, A. (Directors). (2008) Until the Light Takes Us [motion picture]. USA: Variance Films. American Psychiatric Association (2013), DSM-5. Arlington: American Psychiatric Association. Black Terror Magazine (2001). Kvaforth Interview. Retrieved from: http://www.shiningband.tripod.com/interviewsblackterror.html. Interview with Euronymous. Morbid Magazine, 8. Retrieved from: Eide, R. (1987). http://web.archive.org/web/20090309083020/http://www.thetruemayhem.com/interviews/previous/euromorbidmag8.htm. Freud, S. (1993). Zur Selbsmord-Diskussion. In Obras Completas, Vol. XI. Buenos Aires: Ammorortu Editores. Make A Change…Kill Yourself (2005) Chapter IV. On: Make A Change…Kill Yourself [CD]. Sweden: Total Holocaust Records. Nocturnal Depression (2000). Fragments of a Broken Past. On: Nostalgia-Fragments of a Broken Past [CD]. Romania: Sun & Moon Records. Shining (2000). An Only Silence Remains. On: Within Deep Dark Chambers [CD]. Sweden: Selbstmord Services. 171 172 4.5. Digital, electronic, visual and audio: Digital fabrication and experimentation with musical instruments from do-it-yourself to new business models Julianna Faludi1 Abstract Digital fabricators print musical instruments, they explore the ways of creating music in the intersection and beyond of digital and electronic. They also explore how visual and audio meet, either by visualizing music or developing solutions connecting visual expression to music perception and production. Anybody can transgress the blurred borders of creators and consumers of content in the digital arena. I invite taking a glance at the world of digital fabrication to understand the relationship of experimentation from the angle of rapid digital development affecting the music scene and what we perceive as relationship of audio-visual-digital. This paper takes stock of the strands in experimentation with musical instruments and sounds by maker communities and entrepreneurs. Keywords: digital fabrication, makers, musical instruments, DIY, experimentation. 1. Introduction Industrial societies in times of scarcity, austerity and even during vast mass production were fabricating things, and finding solutions domestically, manually and in community. This search for accessible ways to solve problems may shift swiftly toward entrepreneurship creating new business models, and survival paths within the local economy. Design in times of scarcity and austerity turns toward self-reliant and self-sufficient forms of production, thus from industrial toward industrious as put by Bianchini and Maffei (2013), and Maffei, (2014). Maker communities create scenes of experimentation nested locally in (post)industrial cities, and bring physically together enthusiasts with interdisciplinary background. The pool of knowledge, ideas, and solutions, then is shared globally connecting makers that reveal codes, projects and experience open access. Urban scenes, like fablabs and community spaces for makers host experimentation that raises variety in the landscape of design, food (Faludi, 2016), natural sciences and so forth. If we claim that the underground is the space for experimentation with meanings, forms of expression, and tools of production in relation to the mainstream, thus for finding a counter-definition to one’s identity and sharing it with a community, then we might look at the world of fablabs and makers as the underground of design. Design-driven companies prefer inhouse closed systems of innovation, or open forms in the permeability-sense of openness (Chesbrough 2003). In case of lack of capacities, companies acquire innovation and design from a well-defined third party: A Knowledge-Intensive Service-Provider in the area of innovation and design, or a partner, e.g. supplier executing the assigned projects based on the core design concepts defined by the company (Faludi, 2015) for well-defined projects and solutions. Meanwhile, designers produced by higher education institutions might find themselves as frustrated would-be car designers that design toothpaste tubes instead of cars (Anderson, 2012). Moreover, design-driven industries create meanings for a global language read by the masses, and the high-end consumer. They target emergent and to-be-created markets on a wide geographical scope, thus they prefer a global portfolio of designers (Dell’Era & Verganti, 2010). Desktop 1 PhD, Corvinus University Budapest, Media, Marketing, and Design Communications Department, Institute for Media and Marketing, Hungary. E-mail: faludisociology|at|gmail|dot|com. 173 174 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 technologies, however, democratize design rendering it ever more accessible. Given that the channels of distribution, production and design are already gone on-line, and there are viable and emerging business models connected to desktop technologies to serve markets arranged on the internet, the quest of the new industrial revolution is being argued in the overseas context of NorthAmerica (Anderson, 2012; Greshenfeld, 2012). Industrial revolutions are induced by and foster at the same time new channels of distribution, market, agents, technology of production, business models; rejuvenate old ones and give birth to new industries. It would stretch the limits of this paper to seek for an answer in broader terms, instead I give an overview of how desktop technologies made us to rethink the design and manufacturing musical instruments. Nonetheless, the main line of argumentation is structured around the connection of the DIY and maker culture, I intentionally grab examples from a wider scope to nest them into the larger discourse of industry dynamics and innovation. Thus, creation of sounds, music and the tools for that are as much of interest, as the new perception of the interplay of audio, visual and digital. In sum, this paper focuses on instruments constructed in the intersection of digital, audio and visual design, creating new experience of perception of music creation. Specifically, I take examples to give an overview of experimentation with 1) hacking to create sounds, music and interaction, 2) connecting audio, visual and digital experience created with Arduino for educational purposes, 3) additive technologies, thus 3D-printed instruments grabbing cases from makers, makers turning into entrepreneurs, and a high-end architecture company. 2. From DIY to entrepreneurs The do-it-yourself (DIY) ethic was prevalent for punk’s making music, instruments, and so forth, creating the music scene beyond the industry. Dick Hebdige (1979) illustrates the DIY ethic it when talking about the funzine, Sniffing Glue the following way (Hebdige, 1979, p.112) “the definitive statement of punk’s do-it-yourself philosophy — a diagram showing three finger positions on the neck of a guitar over the caption: ‘Here’s one chord, here’s two more, now form your own band’”. Punks built, and hacked instruments for expressing individuality, and freedom, assembling things roughly, and casually. In times of austerity solutions to everyday needs are more prone to be developed from accessible materials and tools made by the users. The possibility of building instruments stresses accessibility to music, to membership in a collective action for those with poor capabilities. The rough and casual solutions also emphasized the meanings behind the DIY ethic, like working-classness that was shared among punk subcultures (Hebdige, 1979). Meanwhile, makers experiment for the sake of experimentation of accessible design favoring functionality, simplicity, valuing ergonomics, sustainability or easy-to-assemble over exploring the l’art pour l’art of forms and shapes and technology. This later is more in the realm of the discourse of art and design, or art and technology induced by companies creating the spectacle for boosting consumption of (new) technologies and innovative products. Getting back to the DIY objects signaling the value of working-classness (Hebdige 1979), makers can be said to share the image of techiness, and values of being creative, entrepreneurial, curious and experimental. I do not argue however, that there is classness being communicated here, as makers come from a global pool of professionals, designers, or creators from any background (or job). Digital fabricators seem to fill in a void of technology and everyday needs not met by mass production, and to explore fields not explored by the industries creating a global playground. However, they do not seem to share a class-consciousness to be expressed by radical means of communication or collective action. I argue that makers shall not be considered as subculture, in the sense of being attributed as deviant from a shared culture (Hebdige, 1979). Using the notion of scene for explaining the configuration of an identity that can be taken off and put on by entering a music scene as suggested by Bennett and Peterson (2004, p. 3) seems to be more applicable. Digital fabricators often hold nine-to-five jobs or can be home-wives, home-husbands, or freelancers in domains not directly 4.5. Digital, electronic, visual and audio: Digital fabrication and experimentation with musical instruments from do-it-yourself to new business models related to their activity as makers. Moreover, they share very different identities. Everyday users enter the scene of makers to live out their creativity or simply to find solutions to emerging needs within a community. The DIY ethic is often referenced as something more than just being merely soaked into the low-income and no-money reflection of production. It is rather about overcoming the boundaries and limitations of the big labels. DIY serves for the bottom-up arrangement of institutions needed for creating the music scene by producing own T-shirts, (fan)zines, records, tours, etc. Music scenes, thus fed by fans turning into entrepreneurs, or sustained by collectives, etc. are an emerging DIY industry. This active role in scene creation is participatory, inviting members into creation. Selfreliance of the DIY ethic also gave a voice for proclaiming of anti-establishment political statements and of social movement (like the Riot Grrrl movement: Schilt, 2004; Moore & Roberts, 2009). 2.1. Hacking and making Digital fabricators share the DIY ethic in the technological realm, being connected to hacking: thus creating from something that already exists by turning it into something new. The basis for hacking can be an object, a product of mass-production that might be simply worn-out or something that has lost its meaning in the ever-changing context of fast consumption induced by swift technological change and fetishism (see later). The object goes through the process of “purification” and renewal, as hacking opens for new meanings and functions to be attached. The hacker freed from the encapsulation of function and aesthetics of the mass-produced experiences embrace the empowering and liberating DIY ethic. These objects (old phones, typewriters, or industrial machines) serve as mementos of the speeding circuit of production in the fetishism of technology. Meanwhile, digital objects (phones, tablets, computers, etc.) have become a prolongation of ourselves, our embodied perception of the world, a body part that is physically not incorporated (yet). Electronic circuits are the mediators between connecting the environment and our digital selves, where Arduino (Genuino from 2016 in Europe) providing the electronic hardware serves as a platform for all experimentation (and numerous examples of entrepreneurships raising). Audio HackLab is a makers’ lab (as cited in FabLab of Turin, Italy) exploring sounds, noises, and sonoric interaction of objects and people, transforming the sounds of our environment into sounds that can be perceived by humans with the help of electronic circuits. Hacking for connecting older machines with the digital, gives these objects rebirth in the world of connectedness. In this domain, Audio HackLab has chosen the Harsh Noise Generator once produced (from 2012 to 2014) by HNG Kinetic Laboratories for innovating on, and giving it multiple functions connected to an Arduino circuit. Once the HNG served for literally generating analog noise for constructing sounds and music, with the frequency and density of the noise varied by one button or the other. These were handmade instruments as Kinetic Laboratories, emergent from making things, manufactures handmade devices for mixing and generating sounds. The description on how to construct a HNG by ourselves is fully published open access on the website of the Kinetic Laboratories, and is not licensed, for anybody can contribute, innovate or even commercialize on it. The choice for hacking the HNG is not arbitrary, as the Harsh Noise Generator as simple as it opens the path for wild experimentation, for e.g. with software producing rhythm and noise, out of which something of a new genre emerged (the Bytebeat software played with Arduino giving birth to Crowd, a piece of music): the interesting thing is that Crowd, like bytebeat music in general, is a piece of rhythmic and somewhat melodic music with no score, no instruments, and no real oscillators. It’s simply a formula that defines a waveform as a function of time, measured here in 1/8000 of a second ((t<<1)^((t<<1)+(t>>7)&t>>12))|t>>(4-(1^7&(t>>19)))|t>>7 (Retrieved from http://canonical.org/~kragen/bytebeat/). 175 176 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Bytebeat due to its simplicity allows for many contributions and variations in constructing bytebeat music (follow the above source for more information) with formulas. Figure 1: Harsh Noise Generator. Source: Retrieved from http://kinetiklaboratories.blogspot.hu/p/harsh-noisegenerator.html The DIY of hacking, and constructing is well supported by simple elements like electronic circuits, printed elements, downloadable files and software. Emerging products of experimentation turn their creators into entrepreneurs, and those providing the elements and circuits for these products, easily turn into platforms. Forerunners like Google, Etsy, or Youtube successfully created platforms inviting communities to innovate and build their businesses on. In the long run platformleaders are capable of controlling the industry by opening up entry points for innovation and for other businesses through standards defined by the platform leader (Gawer & Cusumano 2008; Baldwin & Woodard, 2009). In the world of internet of things and robotics, spare parts, circuits and other elements serve for constructing solutions, where Arduino is a platform for makers and entrepreneurs providing floor both for experimentation, play, and emerging business. The case of Music Ink illustrates how a project that redefines the concept of music making based on an Arduino electronic circuit, is on the way on turning into an exciting product. 2.2. Connecting sound, touch and visual experience Music Ink reconceptualizes in a tender way how sound production, or an orchestra can be experienced and taught to children. Music Ink2 is one of the most exciting projects on the basis of an Arduino board, by Riccardo Vendramin and Gilda Negrini. It connects audio and visual and digital experience tapping into the heart of how we understand interaction with a musical instrument. Kids paint the instruments with electronically conductive ink the way they imagine them, then the drawings are connected to the electronic circuit for producing sound: and converted into melodies played. This digital and painted orchestra does more than just visualizing music: by drawing in any desired shape, sounds are disconnected from the traditional perception of an instrument (here is a video on how it can be used in class: https://vimeo.com/59478964). Music Ink is to be available soon as a product, it has an app for converting the sounds made into music, moreover, it also invites for further exploration on its functions. Makers turn into small entrepreneurs at a glance, selling their products on choice: thus products can be 1) purchased the way they are, 2) given the option to be constructed DIY with open access files with all the possibility to play with the design, 3) be purchased on e-markets with the option to be personalized. 2 http://musicink.co/ 4.5. Digital, electronic, visual and audio: Digital fabrication and experimentation with musical instruments from do-it-yourself to new business models Figure 2: Music Ink. Source: Retrieved from musicink.co. I find it important to distinguish customization from personalization in the context of brands wildly providing (now even turning annoying) option of customization to widen the market, where modularized products are fine-tuned by mix and match of the elements by the consumers. Thus, the very stage of making the product more appealing is given in the hands of the consumer, while the elements are mass-designed and mass-produced. Customized products are often launched and communicated as products of co-creation (Chesbrough, 2011), however there is no element of “togetherness” or creation in the process of assembling from pre-designed elements of a welldefined architecture of a mass product. Personalization on the other hand adds the note of creation or giving that personal final touch to the design, which is then produced (printed) individually coming down right from the desktop. Personalization is also said to create a “market for one” (Anderson, 2012), while the tools allowing for personalized design and production are available on a wider market. The DIY-ethic of the downloadable solutions, and simple, modular and adjustable design of open access empowers the users to personalize their creations. Desktop technologies create a scene for playing with shapes and prints converted into files and then printed objects, as musical instruments for example. 3. Modularity, musical instruments and printing Creating instruments merges traditional design and new technology. On the one hand, they are created to match long-lived standards to meet requirements of sound, tones, touch, and spare parts, as strings of guitars. On the other, it involves both the acoustics and aesthetics of design, where the interaction of computers and instruments give its own specific configuration of the outcome. New instruments enter the scope of music adapted to various genres that come to forth in specific time periods. Plastic has revolutionized industries in many ways, from cutting-edge technology of the 1960s toward the cheap production for the mass markets from the 1980s to today. Plastics and electronics brought about a range of novelties in instruments and genres, if one thinks of only a guitar: from acoustic toward an electronic bass guitar. The interplay of traditional forms and concepts with new shapes and combinations is present in all the examples illustrating experimentation with printing musical instruments. Amit Zoran (2011) describes how standardization during the years on one hand had optimized the qualities of the instrument for the trained player, and simplified the production, on the other he warns of the risk of getting closed into a specific evolutionary path not allowing for adopting new designs. Musical instruments are complex systems, thus they constitute subsystems, and elements that are combined in a given hierarchy (Simon, 1962). Elements rely on each other and are bound 177 178 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 together: the more integral the system is, the more difficult it is to break it into separate elements and subsystems. The more modularized a system is, the more clearly it can be broken into parts that can be substituted. We know from scholarship that modularization is at hand for solving complex problems (Baldwin & Clark, 1997; Langlois & Robertson, 1992). Printed artifacts can be integral ones, but many times these are elements that need to be combined, so as constructed at the end to get the artifact. For printed spare parts, they need to be assembled, and very often fineworked upon to finalize them. As mentioned above, a combination of simple elements with clear architecture (so as, the rules of design of the elements following Henderson & Clark, 1990, Baldwin & Clark, 2000) allows for room to experiment on, give away some parts to the users for DIY and to personalize. Business models emerging from digital fabrication sell both integral artifacts, but large interest is around selling spare parts, and selling the tool (printer) for creating spare parts that are needed randomly (a broken lamp in a home environment, or a mold for spare parts in an industrial environment), as well as modular products. Musical instruments are made of elements that are later fused together. In this case, modular design is at play when parts can be printed individually, and simple CAD-files are shared. In sum, modular design of an artifact thus creates possibilities to adjust the printed parts, to create mix and match of fixed elements and customized/ personalized ones. Also, 3D-printing is important in the production of rather complex parts, that cannot be reached with subtractive technologies: For prototyping 3D printing can be used for almost anything, be it simple or complex, just because it allows you to test your ideas quickly (but, if you are 3D printing a square, or some other very simple 2D shape, you may seriously want to consider some other way of making it (like laser cutting it instead, or even cutting it by hand, for example). But, for real manufacturing of sell-able products, it’s important to use 3D printing only in those areas where it really adds value, like incredibly complex parts, parts that need to be customized for every 3 user, light-weighting of parts, part consolidation, etc. (Olaf Diegel ). Additive technologies above the accessibility of design and exploration of new shapes for prototyping, also feature the process of iteration, thus a constant trial-and-error of the prototype adjusted to the desired function, standard or adaptation to a specific style. By opening up the design (backed by modularization) a community can enter the iteration: improve the prototype, then share the recipe: the CAD-file, the tutorial, etc. This brings about the legacies of the DIY ethic being participatory in its ultimate self-reliance and democratic nature of creating a collage of contributions of anybody willing to enter. In contrast, industries having their interest in communicating their innovativeness and cutting-edge technology rather rely on in-house development of the desired product and shape (closed innovation). The forthcoming examples illustrate that simple and modular design of printed musical instruments favors sharing and, while a more integral design or complexity of shape can be reached with a larger investment (e.g. in machines) and closed innovation. Instruments of the Monad Studio4 (forthcoming) based on additive technology, thus adding material and not subtracting for achieving the desired shape makes possible for forms as with no other technique. They play with the “complexity of the forms (…) the violin or any of these instruments, is closer to the complexity that you find in nature in structures like roots of trees” (Eric Goldemberg5 founder) of organically integral artifacts. Radical innovation requires integral systems to be developed or innovated on (Henderson & Clark, 1990), where a company interested in radical solutions might want to invest in radical solutions developed in-house with a closed team of experts invited. 3 Retrieved from http://www.odd.org.nz/sax.html. Retrieved from www.monadstudio.com. 5 Retrieved from https://www.entrepreneur.com/video/245600. 4 4.5. Digital, electronic, visual and audio: Digital fabrication and experimentation with musical instruments from do-it-yourself to new business models And this is the domain where the fetish of technology can flourish. By demonstrating the lyrics of the forms stretching the limits of available technology while pushing the industry toward newer fields to explore is inducing the discourse on the boundaries of art and design, artisanery and technology that can be read as the ritual path from nature to culture of Levi-Strauss (1978). It seems that technological fetishism, induced by companies having their interest in producing and selling machines is putting its way through in the design created by enterprises communicating their values of high-end technology, quality, innovativeness. If looking at the broader field, there is a paradox between the accessibility of design and the fetish of technology represented by the 3D-printed artifacts. My examples here stress this tension of discourse. Technological fetishism however, in these cases has nothing to do with the fantasies about control over nature (Harvey, 2003), rather it is brought about from the perspective of forms: where an organic shape can be reached, the parallel with nature is expressed here. As such, it moves toward the concept of technology as spectacle for consumption, where the consumer is a “passive spectator of the spectacle” (Harvey, 2003, p.17) in the fantasy production of the companies enhancing the “the lust for the new, the fashionable, the sophisticated” (Harvey, 2003): In this, the fetish of technology, the lust for the new, the fashionable, the sophisticated, has its own role to play within populations at large. The production of this fetish is promoted directly through fantasy production, using advertising and other technologies of persuasion, in particular that aspect that reduces the consumer to a passive spectator of spectacle. 4. Printed instruments 4.1. F-F-Fiddle F-F-Fiddle 6is an electric violin, created with a desktop printer by David Perry, mechanical engineer and designer, who claims that within his OpenFabPDX: “I help people make things real, manage open source projects, and enjoy using 3D printers to make functional, beautiful objects”. The violin is available for download open access and is easily printed with a FFF-type 3D-printer. How to manufacture, assemble and design it, is also shared, as well as the estimated price of individual manufacturing (250 USD). This violin is an ongoing project, while the shared version is the result of the 8th iteration round, where improvements overwhelmingly focus on playability. The license under the Creative Commons Attribution Non-commercial Share Alike allows for noncommercial use, where anyone can innovate on the design given it is open: shared with all, and paternity is indicated. The aesthetics of design of the violin is functional and playful questioning the traditional assumptions of a violin’s shape. However, classical violin was the starting point for feeding the CAD-file with dimensions and shapes. What 3D-printing adds is the possibility to customize the chin and shoulder rest positions, and an internal wire-routing. The violin is printed in 3 parts, and spare parts (like strings, truss rod, tuners, pick-up, plug) are added. The ideation phase7 of the violin was done in cooperation with an industrial designer, Dan Nicholson. The whole design process, research, ideation, design, prototyping is shared on the blog8. On how he got to printing a violin David claims9: (…) I’ve always wanted to make a violin, but I thought I’d wait until retirement — the barriers to entry for that kind of craftsmanship are so high. Then, in early 2013, I bought a 3D printer. Suddenly I had this robot that could make complex, accurate parts that I modeled on the 6 Retrieved from http://openfabpdx.com/fffiddle/. Retrieved from http://openfabpdx.com/2014/10/22/you-can-make-anything/ 8 Retrieved from http://openfabpdx.com/blog/ 9 http://openfabpdx.com/2014/10/22/you-can-make-anything/ 7 179 180 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 computer. All I needed to do, then, to make a violin, was to design and model it on the computer and print it out (22/Oct/2014). Figure 3: OpenFabPDX: F-F-Fiddle. Source: Retrieved from http://openfabpdx.com/fffiddle/ The the OpenFab PDX, LLC behind the F-F-Fiddle project, is a digital design manufacturing and consulting firm focusing on low-cost digital solutions, the services of which range from developing new products and projects to raise productivity in existing businesses. Being open source (it was launched on thingiverse 24/March/2014), F-F-Fiddle has inspired further prototypes (there are 28 made and published since). The Electric violin10 designed by Firecardinal (Rafael) is based on six printed parts, and can be found on thingiverse11 (this violin has been made and published by seven makers). He claims to be inspired by the Elviolin12 of Stepan83, whom later owns his inspiration to “(…) the project F-F-Fiddle for idea of the violin printing” (Stepan83). 4.2. 3D guitars Downloadable design of various 3D-printed guitars is available for example on thingiverse, where one of the most important concerns is the playability of these instruments. The most liked guitar is maker Sergei22513‘s instrument. Sergei225 himself has launched seven guitars: acoustic and electric, where his most recent one is a travel guitar (printed with MakerBot Replicator) along with the amplifier: made of a long list of spare parts to be printed and then assembled, licensed under CC non-commercial. Other companies have also entered the scene, as the long-known Fender that uses 3D-printing for creating guitar bodies, and custom guitar parts14. 4.2.1. ODD Guitars designed by Olaf Diegel In the entrepreneurial domain Olaf Diegel, design engineer, and professor at the Lund University (Sweden), has created a series of spectacular guitars, where the printed bodies take on shapes that 10 http://www.thingiverse.com/thing:767536 www.thingiverse.com 12 http://www.thingiverse.com/thing:745940 13 Retrieved from http://www.thingiverse.com/thing:1708396/ 14 Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plAjJKJTlxA 11 4.5. Digital, electronic, visual and audio: Digital fabrication and experimentation with musical instruments from do-it-yourself to new business models could never be achieved with a traditional mold. ODD guitars can be purchased easily, and they illustrate a wide range of designs to be accustomed, or personalized upon request. The guitar itself is made up of traditional components, and fabricated ones (CNC, and laser-cut), other add-ons that shall be purchased and used for assembling with the printed body that is made with the Selective Laser Sintering technique (where thin layers of nylon powder are fused in the correct locations of a particular slice of the component. Further layers are spread on top until the process is completed). The color is reached with a special dying technique that allows for no two shades to be the same. The sound is defined by the material of the body, and can be checked here by Nadav Tabak playing the guitar15. Figure 4: Olaf Diegel: the Hive-B model. Source: Retrieved from http://www.odd.org.nz/hivecolour1.jpg The Hive-B model above (in Figure 4) has insects within the body of the instrument. About the traditional shape of the classical instrument and the future of 3D-printing: (…) what’s important to me, is not to see it as replacing conventional manufacturing, but to be a complementary technology to traditional ones, and to use it only when it truly gives us an advantage. My guitars are a good example of this: the bodies are 3D printed, which allows me to do incredibly complex shapes that could not be otherwise manufactured, but the necks and wooden cores are CNC machined, the bridge is cast, the plastic bits are injection molded, the inlay work is done with laser cutting and engraving, etc. Olaf also prints many other spectacular instruments: like Atom, the 3D-printed drum kit. The Saxophone16 Olaf created on the invitation of the 3D systems, one of the largest companies. Introducing the first iteration in a short video, he claims17: 15 Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=3&v=MWa8sEgpOrM Retrieved from http://www.odd.org.nz/sax.html 17 Retrieved from http://www.odd.org.nz/sax.html 16 181 182 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 I am not a sax player, so be amazed by what 3D printing is capable, rather than by how my awful sax playing might be. And, yes, a couple of the notes are slightly out of tune because of air leakages. The next iterations will be perfect, I promise! (…) One of the reasons I was keen to undertake the project was to show that 3D printing can be used for applications beyond trinkets, phone cases, and jewelry. Note that there is nothing wrong at all with those, but I want to explore real-world applications for more complex products that go beyond single component/ single material/ single manufacturing method. Figure 5: Olaf Diegel: Saxophone. Source: Retrieved from http://www.odd.org.nz/saxassemblysmall.jpg. 4.3. Monad Studio Eric Goldemberg and Veronica Zalcberg, architectural designers, run a multifaceted architectural studio with various projects from landscape to urban plans, from buildings to art installations. In collaboration with Scott F. Hall, musician, the studio has launched a series of unique musical instruments exploring how violins and guitars can be perceived and reformulated in shape, sound and conception. These instruments are radical not just in their aesthetics, but also in their approach to sounds, and components used: one-string travel guitar, two-string piezoelectric violin, 1-string piezoelectric monoviolonciello, small and large didgeridoo (these are part of the ‘MULTI’ sonic installation), suggesting the: “new conception for violin core functionality” (BBC18), as the functionality of these instruments do not defer from the original. The strings are reduced strings into one and two, while the instruments are meaningfully nested into the system attached to a sonic wall (see below) that also creates a sonic environment: an experiment questioning the visual and sonic experience (3D show NY concert here19) with a traditional approach to performance. The concerts serve events presenting advances of 3D-printing technology around the world, promoting the aesthetics of design and sound, inviting the audience into the fantasy of cutting-edge technology. Behind developing the instruments was: 18 19 Retrieved from http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20150330-the-weirdest-musical-instruments Retrieved from http://www.monadstudio.com/MULTI-Sonic-Installation-3D-Printed-Instruments 4.5. Digital, electronic, visual and audio: Digital fabrication and experimentation with musical instruments from do-it-yourself to new business models Our desire to create unusual instruments emerged when we realised the aesthetic and technical issues we were facing as architects did not differ much from those of musicians and 20 composers” (Eric Goldemberg ). The instruments follow the rhythm of aesthetics of the buildings and art installations of the studio’s creations: layers, very detailed, diagonal connections within the system of aggregated modules, aggressive penetration into the space and questioning the given structures and interactions of human and object. In an interview Eric Goldemberg and Veronica Zalcberg claim that the forms were inspired by nature: “strange roots grow over other trees and become one with the host” (the Guardian21). Instruments thus communicate the aesthetics and values of the Monad Studio in an organic manner, widening the scope of the audience reached, and also enhancing its communication to those that are familiar with the studio’s work. Figure 6: Monad Studio: MULTI Sonic Installation. Source: Retrieved from http://www.monadstudio.com/MULTI-Sonic-Installation-3DPrinted-Instruments. 5. Conclusions Experimentation with shapes and sounds of 3D-printed musical instruments by makers and emergent entrepreneurs can be interpreted by the ethics of do-it-yourself for its casualty of design, and strive for stretching the limits of own-produced objects and solutions with desktop technologies. Moreover manufacturing-by-yourself is an option created by open software and hardware accessible to all. However, the limits of the potential of 3D-printing are constantly being explored as for manufacturing only parts that show considerable complexity can be reached by additive technology. This need to be spectacular enough to invest in and be worth of manufacturing. It is worth to note that printed instruments in fact are not fully printed yet, as they need to be assembled using spare parts. Shapes of these musical instruments usually derive from the classical and traditional dimensions and concept of the instrument but through the process of iteration and the possibility of adding unseen complex shapes gives floor to wild experimentation for high-end companies in the realm of technological fetishism. Furthermore, electronics and 20 21 Retrieved from http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20150330-the-weirdest-musical-instruments Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2015/apr/30/revamping-violin-3d-printer 183 184 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 interaction design give further possibilities for hacking, and redefining the concepts of making and designing sound, the perception of the relationship of sound and instrument. Hence experimentation also shifts toward creating new goods, markets and scenes. References Anderson, Ch. (2012). Makers. The New Industrial Revolution. New York: Crown Business Baldwin, C. Y., and Clark, K. B. (1997). Managing in the Age of Modularity. Harvard Business Review. Baldwin, C. Y., and Clark, K. B. (2000). The Power of Modularity. Design Rules, Part I. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press Baldwin, C. Y., von Hippel, E. (2011). Modeling a Paradigm Shift. From Producer Innovation to User and Open Collaborative Innovation. Organization Science, 22(6), 1399-1417. DOI: 10.1287/orsc.1100.0618. Baldwin, C. Y., Woodard, J. C. (2009). The Architecture of Platforms. A Unified View. In A., Gawer (Ed.), Platforms, Markets and Innovation (pp. 19-44). Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishing Ltd. Bennet, A. and Petersen, R. A. (2004). Introducing Music Scenes. In A., Bennet, R. A., Peterson (Eds.), Music Scenes: Local, Translocal and Virtual. Nashville, Tennessee: Vanderbilt University Press. Bianchini, M., and Maffei, S. (2013). Self-Made Design From Industrial Toward Industrious Design. Ottagono, 257, 210. Retrieved from https://www.academia.edu/3793255/AUTOPRODUZIONE_DALL_INDUSTRIAL_DESIGN_ALL_INDUSTRIOUS _DESIGN Chandler, A. D. Jr. (1977). The Visible Hand. Managerial Revolution in American Business. Harvard: Harvard University Press. Chesbrough, H. W. (2003). Open Innovation. The New Imperative For Creating and Profiting from Technology. Harvard: Harvard Business School, Massachusetts Chesbrough, H. W. (2011). Open Services Innovation. Rethinking Your Business to Grow and Compete In a New Era, Jossey-Bass: San Francisco Dell’Era, C., Verganti, R. (2010). Collaborative Strategies in Design-Intensive Industries. Knowledge Diversity and Innovation. Long Range Planning, 43, 123-141. DOI: 10.1016/j.lrp.2009.10.006 Faludi J. (2015) KIBS in: Innovation Patterns in the Design-Driven Industries. Opening Up the “Made in Italy”. (Unpublished Doctoral Dissertation), University of Trento, Italy, Corvinus University Budapest, Hungary Faludi J. (2016a). Printing Edible Solutions: Going Beyond Chemistry and Art. Cooks as Code-Writers? Manuscript presented at the EASA conference 2016, Milan, Universita di Bicocca. Manuscript submitted for publication. Faludi J. (2016b). Kitchen…. Manuscript submitted. Gawer, A., Cusumano, M. A. (2008). How Companies Become Platform Leaders, MIT Sloan Management Review, 49(2), 28-35. Retrieved from http://sloanreview.mit.edu/article/how-companies-become-platform-leaders/ Greshenfeld, N. (2012). How to Make Almost Anything. The Digital Fabrication Revolution. Foreign Affaires, 91(6). Retrieved from https://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/2012-09-27/how-make-almost-anything. Harvey, D. (2003). The Fetish of Technology. Causes and Consequences, Macalester International: 13(7). Retrieved from http://digitalcommons.macalester.edu/macintl/vol13/iss1/7 Hebdige, D. (1979). Subculture. The Meaning of Style. London: Taylor and Francis E-Library. Henderson, R. M. & Clark, K. B. (1990). Architectural Innovation: The Reconfiguration of Existing Product Technologies and the Failure of Established Firms, Administrative Science Quarterly, Special Issue: Technology, Organizations, and Innovation, 35(1), 9-30. Langlois, Richard N., Robertson, Paul (1992). Networks and Innovation in a Modular System. Lessons from the Microcomputer and Stereo Component Industries, Research Policy, 21, 297-313. doi:10.1016/00487333(92)90030-8 Lévi-Strauss, C. (1978). The Origin of Table Manners, Mythologique. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press Maffei, Stefano [2014]: Artisans Today. Understanding Contemporary Innovative Processes Between Design, New Forms of Creativity and Design, in Addition to the Development Production Models. Design e Artigianato per il Trentino [DEA]. Moore, R, and Roberts, M. (2009). Do-It-Yourself Mobilization: Punk and Social Movements. Mobilization 14(3), 27391. Retrieved from http://mobilizationjournal.org/doi/abs/10.17813/maiq.14.3.01742p4221851w11?code=hjdmsite&journalCode=maiq. Moran, I. P. (2010). Punk: The Do-It-Yourself Subculture. Social Sciences Journal, 10(1). Retrieved from http://repository.wcsu.edu/ssj/vol10/iss1/13 Schilt, K. (2004). ‘The Riot Grrrl Is…’ The Contestation over Meaning In a Music Scene. In A., Bennet & R., A., Peterson (Eds.), Music Scenes: Local, Translocal and Virtual (pp. 115–130). Nashville, Tennessee: Vanderbilt University Press. Simon, H. A. (1962). The Architecture of Complexity. Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 106(6), 467482. Zoran, A. (2011). The 3D printed Flute: Digital Fabrication and Desing of Musical Instruments. Journal of New Music Research, 40(4), 379-387. DOI: 10.1080/09298215.2011.621541. 4.6. From CBGB to Forever 21: the Ramones T-shirt and it’s representations on the mainstream Lívia Boeschenstein1 and Cláudia Pereira2 Abstract This paper analyses the rock band t-shirts as an element that claims a certain identity in contemporary culture and analyses the symbolic transitional phenomenon about this issue. Focusing on the study of tshirts that display the name, related elements and the logo of punk band The Ramones, due to its strong presence in the popular culture and also because of the symbolic transition phenomenon. The Ramones T-shirt migrates from its original cultural place: beginning in the subcultural scene and then becoming a generic item diluted by the mainstream. To guide this reasoning, it will be used theories about the styles, subcultures and youth culture by Hebdige (1979); about material culture from an anthropological perspective by Miller (2013) and Appadurai (2008) and the notions of social representations from Moscovici (2011) will be presented to help understanding the ways of using the Ramone’s T-shirt as a representative element of a fashionable style. Keywords: subcultures, punk, social representations, deviance, material culture. 1. Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee, Tommy The stage names of the four young boys of the Ramones’s original formation are stamping logo of the punk rock band The Ramones. Created by Arturo Vega, a designer who were friends with the band and also their roadie, the logo emphasizes their pride of being North-American by reuniting traditional elements. According to the design creator, the figure is an anti-thesis of the typical chaotic, spontaneous and explosive character of the punk, the logo is, as he says, “authoritarian, militarist, ordered and projects potency”3. Arturo Vega made a redesign by appropriating the United States president’s official seal, usually used in presidential correspondence and official documents and transforming it. From the American bald-eagle Vega has ironically designed and distorted the logo so it could express not only the nationalist pride of the band but also criticizes the North-American militarism. In one of the eagle’s claws, the bird holds a baseball bat and in the other one it holds an apple tree branch — communicating that the Ramones were as much Americans as a genuine apple pie. The arrows of the original shield are now at the top of the eagle’s head. Around the bird, instead of the official inscription, lays the names of the four band members, intercalated and underlined by stars as the Figure 1 shows. Born in 1974, in New York, formed by four boys from the Queens, in their twenty’s years old, the Ramones were a band which main goal was to have the most fun they could have and to play some music somehow different of what they knew at that time4. The songs were authorial, composed by fast chords and last less than two minutes long. The live concerts were considered to be impressive in terms of excellence of its fast execution5. The clothing the boys wore at the live 1 Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro — PUC-Rio. E-mail: liviabstein|at|gmail|dot|com. Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro — PUC-Rio. E-mail: claudiapereira|at|puc-rio|dot|br. 3 Retrieved from http://smoda.elpais.com/articulos/la-camiseta-de-los-ramones-mas-famosa-que-su-musica/912 — accessed on: 07/23/2016. 4 Retrieved from http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/endofthecentury/legacy.html. 5 Retrieved from http://www.goldminemag.com/article/bookshelf-go-on-the-road-with-the-ramones-tour-managermonte-melnick. 2 185 186 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 presentations became the band’s uniform: black leather jackets, old skinny jeans, tiny t-shirts, Keds shoes and sunglasses. Their first concert happened at the Performance Studios6 only for a few friends, but soon their presentations started to happen at the iconic CBGB’s stage with a growing frequency. The gigs at CBGB’s were successful not only because of the Ramones and its first fans, but the fame of the underground music bar came from many others punk rock bands that became famous years later such as The Talking Heads and Blondie. The audience that crowded the small place for concerts were composed also by music critics, producers and other relevant music market personalities that made the ideal scenario so the Ramones could reach their spotlight. Figure 5: Comparison of the US Government’s official seal (left) and the band logo (right). The Ramones band played for more than twenty years with an enormous amount of internal fights, personal problems, psychological and drug issues, political disagreements and a few band members replacements. Officially extinct in 1996, the Ramones changed the history of world’s pop music, influencing even the most recent generations and types of rock bands. They showed to the world that the punk is branded with rebellion — revolting against the conventions, causes and ideologies — but to express this feeling you didn’t need to smash guitars nor hotel rooms, make trouble with your fans or the media. The only thing you needed to have that punk position was the freedom feeling and the will for rebellion, both elements that boosted their songs, according to their former drummer and former producer Tommy Ramone7. During their twenty-two years on the road, the Ramones made more than two thousand and two hundred all presentations (frequently sold out) all over the world8. At the movie documentary “End of the Century”9, directed by Jim Fields, Monte Melnick, their ex-manager and responsible for the tours, points that the band were like “the Beatles of Latin America”, that’s because of the collective hysteria that used to happen whenever they came to the South America. The band have played in Brazil, crowding all the Maracanã Stadium in 1991. In Argentina, their fans sold out the forty-five thousand tickets available for the concert and more: they have followed the band and worshiped as the Ramones have never seen before. At their homeland, where half of the concerts took place, the behavioral and musical impact were also big. The band stands out on rocks history not only for its innovative 6 Retrieved from http://archives.jrn.columbia.edu/2010-2011/panicnarrative.com/2010/10/ramones-play-live-for-thefirst-time-in-1974/index.html. 7 Retrieved from http://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/music/tommy-ramone-the-ramones-originaldrummer-and-driving-influence-dies-at-62/2014/07/12/1c430c8c-0a04-11e4-8a6a-19355c7e870a_story.html. 8 Retrieved from http://whiplash.net/materias/curiosidades/153806-ramones.html. 9 “End Of The Century — The Story Of The Ramones”. Directed by Jim Fields, USA, 2003. Digital version. 4.6. From CBGB to Forever 21: the Ramones T-shirt and it’s representations on the mainstream factor and its longevity, but also for its good relationships with other bands colleagues — the Ramones were known for being an easy-going band. Their musical simplicity, being strongly compromised to never disappoint their fans, the humble songs and the will of having fun above all the matters made the Ramones an icon of the punk rock and world music history. 2. The rock band T-shirt Just as every social group, the rock fans have a series of symbolic elements for identification and construction of identity: various behavior styles, haircuts, color palettes, accessories, clothing, etc. Among those indexes of belonging that are part of the material culture, the T-shirt printed with a band or an idol is an important item, almost mandatory. The designs vary: photos of the musicians, album covers, cool designs, logos, and even stylized versions, created by professional designers, that bring elements such as lyrics or cartoons that matches with the band theme. These prints may communicate different things: a musical style they enjoy, fondness for a time or “phase” of a particular band, attest their presence in a remarkable show, etc. There is also its own encoding which is recognized within the subculture, by its own members, working as elements that prove some authenticity (independent manufacturing, legitimate brands scene and clothing traditionally associated with rock styles) or, on the other hand, may denounce its origins such as being manufactured by some luxurious or expansive designer label. Concentrating good efforts on studying the objects that compose a material culture will help with the understanding the operation of a particular group through a perspective that not only prioritizes matters of kinship, religion, social divisions, etc., but also looks directly at the things. For Miller (2010), the stuff acts passively in exchanges, rituals, homes, and bodies, additionally it performs a powerful agency above the individuals, acting in different levels of influence and straightly on the daily activities; and there’s also the possibility that stuff interacts in a pervasive way with the society members in which both are. Arjun Appadurai (2008) studies the meaning of merchandise that things have along their social life; or how some specific thing, at some point in its social life, acquires the status of goods. The status is not an eternal and enduring state because depends entirely on the cultural and social context in which it is. The commodification of this commodity-thing operates from a certain temporal, cultural and social factors, and thus, according to the market context, the symbolic values of a merchandise that are perceived and attributed by people. As it circulates around certain groups, societies, a certain era and around the world areas, the stuff goes in and out of the merchandise status, shifting the symbolic value attributed to it. For example: the today’s “super in”, “fashionable” stuff might be considered “valuable”, “out”, “rare” or “vintage” in a few years from now. On the same way, a thing, such as a piece of paper with some lyrics and a set list written on it that belongs to some small and new band that plays in NY underground rock bar might suddenly become a highly valuable merchandise. In this sense, Igor Kopytoff (2008) indicates that the production of goods should not be just an economic activity to produce things, but should also be a cultural and cognitive process — because, beyond the materiality production, things need to be culturally produced and treated according to their historical, cultural, social and political contexts. A commodity, taken from its original context, is likely to suffer decommodification, losing its status of merchandise. But it is also possible that this thing can be recommodified, if reinserted in another context that gives it some sense. From this perspective, we can go for a more detailed analysis of the cultural biography (Kopytoff, 2008) of the thing which this article aims to analyze: band T-shirts, specifically, Ramones’s. Johan Kugelberg (2006) has published a study about vintage rock band T-shirts, in which he analyses the value contained in the accumulated historical time by the shirt considered to be “authentic” — one used, frayed, torn, with sweat marks and stains from unknown origins. For the author, these marks tell us stories, comparable to war scars. In other cases, the piece is distinguished by having been purchased in a past concert — the T-shirts sold during specific band tours or concerts. According to Kugelberg, the vintage value is in the historicity, that which is not 187 188 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 manufacturable and which adds itself with the use or with the passage of time. These objects end up becoming rare items, not replicable and that arouse the interest of collectors. Some shirts are sold for thousands of dollars because they were bought at a past concert, considered historical, having the date and the name of the tour printed on it. In order to reconstruct the path that led to this symbolic configuration, Kugelberg tells a brief history of the use of the T-shirt in Western customs. The author draws attention to the fact that until the mid-twentieth century the shirt was considered a “underwear”, so it should only be used under the shirts with collar and buttons. After World War II, however, the Great Britain has experienced a decade of rationing of various goods, including items of clothing, in particular button shirts. Around this time, there was in stocks of English shops in large quantities, plenty of T-shirts worn by soldiers under their uniforms. Until then considered indecent for use in public, t-shirts, as they are called not only in English but also in Portuguese, because of its shape like the letter “T”, began to be sold as part of main clothing and casual. At the same time, also became popular military pants with side pockets, made of thick fabric, and boots, both marketed not as pieces of military uniform, but as clothing for use in the daily casual life. Still according Kugelberg, these items were appropriated and reinterpreted, again, for the first youth movements that began to popularize between the United States and England: among bohemians Jazz Young Englishmen, or between the American beat generation. The resignification process of a commodity is only possible because the goods have symbolic and social meanings, i.e. the construction and creation of a (new) meaning depends entirely on the cultural context in which it is inserted, and may vary from one group to another, from one culture to another, from one season to another. This symbolic traffic is facilitated, and sometimes driven by the advertising discourse, the fashion system (Barthes, 2009) and by the media that owns the means of transmission of messages and meanings, allowing the arrival in several layers of consumer society (McCracken, 2003). Analyzing the appropriations process, reappropriations and assigning new meanings, Brown (2007) uses the term “culture circuit” (p. 67) to explain this cycle. That is, the commercialization made by manufacturers leads to commercialization made by consumers and thus resets and forms the sub-cultural goods, so that it is reaffirmed as such. The reappropriation and recommodification of something produced for and by the mainstream is able to strengthen the significance of its subcultural sense. 3. Subcultures and re-signifying processes In an iconic study about subcultures, Dick Hebdige (1979) does a symbolic analysis of its styles, codes, rituals, etc. For the author, it is through the distinctive rituals of consumption, through the composition of a style that the subculture reveals its own identity and communicates to society their meanings so far restricted. The band T-shirt is just one of the possible components of a particular subcultural style. According Hebdige, however, this is not a simple mechanical acquisition of symbolic goods: one of the cultural traits of these groups is the symbolic appropriation and reinterpretation of goods — illustrated phenomenon by certain features of the punk movement. An example of this happened when Johnny Rotten, the Sex Pistols band’s singer, cut out a black plastic garbage bag and put it as a shiny leather vest. Another example was the way punks started to use diaper pins not to hold tissues, but as earrings in their ears. An even stronger case for resignifying act was when they started to wear clothes with Nazi swastika, emblem of the greatest trauma of the twentieth century. The purpose was not to declare membership or sympathy to National Socialist ideology, but to make an impact, blasting a culturally established meaning, trample a taboo and show complete indifference to a symbolic and social convention of the mainstream. This fact already shows how committed was the movement with an ideal of transgression, as they intended to affirm the non-conformity and refuse everything belonging to the dominant 4.6. From CBGB to Forever 21: the Ramones T-shirt and it’s representations on the mainstream culture or “mother culture”10 (Hodkinson, 2007). This dynamic given between subculture and the mainstream is a two-way route for the appropriation and reinterpretation processes can happen in two ways. A subculture can cut a good or a symbol of their original context, but the mother culture can also get hold of typical subcultural elements and present it to its mainstream audience as a massive consumer good. In this second case, there is almost always a neutralization or “domestication” of hostile meanings to the prevailing order. Besides punk, other subculture that has a strong presence as a global movement is heavy metal. In the “Global Metal”11 film documentary (2008), the researcher and Canadian anthropologist Sam Dunn examines its impact on youth culture development in areas that are outside of the US and European circuit: China, India, Israel, Iran, Brazil, among others. The movie shows that a subculture can form globally, with characteristics and behaviors that vary and adapt to the local system of interdictions and prescriptions without losing some original features. The movie shows that the Metalheads remain united as subcultural movement by a shared interest, and one of the main means of communicating this common belonging is a metal band T-shirt. In the movie, the anthropologist goes to Rock Desert Festival, the Middle East’s largest rock festival in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, which is the meeting of the main bands of the genre and the reunion thousands of metalheads coming from various territories, which form a subcultural kind of global chain. Even in the most remote areas and living under very strict policies that forbids the use of non-religious or non-traditional robes, metalheads cultivate and maintain their interests through the internet, social networks and through the illegal download of music. For participants of a subculture like this, the band shirt works in any territory as a possibility to communicate and also to identify another participant who shares the same taste in music, the common ideologies and/or same values. According to Brown (2007), the band T-shirt is of great importance in subcultures, it is a well manufactured, distributed commercially, but high symbolic value, because as commercially mediated item, allows for distinction and identification of participants anywhere. The author, in his case study of the metal T-shirt and new approaches to subcultural merchandise, highlights the significant weight that the band T--shirt gained over the 1990’s. When the physical media — LPs, CDs, cassette tapes — became scarce, the shirt becomes the sign which materializes the musical tastes of the individual bearing it. These characteristics of the symbolic object are not fixed, and changes according to the social context (Douglas & Isherwood, 2009). A T-shirt of a band may, in the case of ultra-Orthodox regimes under some of the respondents live, represent a direct affront to the values and current policy. Placed the possibility of global communication range of a subculture through style, it’s possible to go back and think about the band tees massively produced to reach the largest possible number of fans and ordinary people. Once manufactured on a large scale, the rock’n’roll band T-shirt, once produced only in small quantities for the tiny local merchandising, has neither the rarity or historicity or even the “scars” provided by the real vintage object and its history. This value of the “scars” of the original object, acquired throughout his life and recognized among connoisseurs, is what McCracken (2003) entitled of “patina”. This is a physical property of the material culture that “consists of small signs of age that accumulate on the surface of objects” and “experience a gradual shift away from its original intact condition” (McCracken, 2003, p.54). According to the author, it’s like the marks of time forge a new and unique surface greatly appreciated, a symbol and visual proof status. 10 Punk, like any subculture, has symbols and objects that belonged originally to the culture in which they were its participants: the “mother culture”. It is necessary to qualify the term “sub” in this context. Subculture here must be understood as a group that has a common set of cultural practices that differs from what the most conventional or mainstream do. The subculture should not be understood as something inferior, but as a social group with practical and specific symbols of their particular niche. Concept used by Hodkinson (2007). 11 “Global Metal”. Directed by: Sam Dunn, Scot McFayden. CAN, 2008. Digital version. 189 190 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 All this trajectory of symbolic goods is observed in the object of analysis of this article. Originally subcultural, the T-shirt of the band Ramones currently among the most sold and famous in the world12. They left the small shops of punk and underground scene and are now displayed by celebrities of various styles, breaking completely with the social barrier that separated previously punks and fans of the band of those who were not part of authentic punk movement or of the underground scene. The shirt with shield and band name was popularized as a diffuse symbol, currently associated in the fashion world to a “rocker style”13 as said by the very language of the fashion industry bloggers. It no longer means the punk itself, but acts as a social representation of a style of clothing inspired by what is meant by “rockers”. The concept of “social representation” is, according to the theoretical Serge Moscovici (2011), a meaning built and understood collectively and shared massively given to a particular idea or object. The Ramones T-shirt can be interpreted as the social representation of what the mass culture or conventional mainstream society and understand as rock or rock culture. In the following section, we will see how the celebrities, who are behavior references in the consumer society, played an important role in the process of popularization of shirts band, and specifically the Ramones T-shirt. 4. From punk to pop In 2013, the clothing store Renner, one of the biggest player in the Brazilian fast fashion market, launched a collection of clothes that followed the so-called “rocker style”: the pieces had tacks, prints chess, pins, spikes, dark shades, varnished fabrics imitating leather, tears, cuts, etc. The Tshirts, even pajamas14, had stamps and drawings of skulls, guitars, names and logos of bands such as AC/DC, Rolling Stones, Guns’n’Roses and of course the classic one from the Ramones. The latter was the only band whose picture was in non-stylized print, with the logo of the band printed without notable changes. Later that year, weeks before the Rock in Rio (one of the biggest music festivals in the world, which took place in the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) was given the highest peak search for the term “Ramones shirt” (it was searched by the Portuguese term camiseta Ramones) on Google. When searched on Google Trends15 platform, a search tool that shows the most searched trends keywords, searches for the Ramones T-shirt surpassed other popular bands T-shirts such as Slayer, AC/DC and Iron Maiden also quite popular among Brazilian rock fans. Progressively, the T-shirts themed by the New York punk quartet began to appear in fashion blogs or in posts that featured the “rocker style” or tutorials that teach how to use the band’s tee keeping the some fashionable sense. References used to exemplify the look are the celebrities that combine the shirts with other compositional elements of a style well fitted. In addition to Renner, other large networks of fast-fashion around the world have launched their versions of the shirt, such as Forever 2116, H&M17, C&A18 and Primark, which came to create a fact sheet19, a kind of 12 The El País Newspaper’s article: ¿Es la camiseta de los Ramones más famosa que su música? Retrieved from http://smoda.elpais.com/moda/es-la-camiseta-de-los-ramones-mas-famosa-que-su-musica/ 13 According to the blog Oficina Chic (Chic Workshop): Retrieved from http://oficinachic.blogspot.com.br/2013/03/ramones-tee.html 14 Retrieved from http://www.estilorenner.com.br/2013/09/rockn-roll-na-hora-de-dormir/. 15 The research covers the period in which the amount of search terms reached the sufficient volume for the measurement. It starts from January 2007 to date. Retrieved from http://goo.gl/EtUizZ. 16 Retrieved from http://www.forever21.com/product/product_oos.aspx?br=f21&category=top&productid=2000136163. 17 Retrieved from http://www.hm.com/us/product/34001?article=34001-D. 18 Retrieved from http://www.cea.com.br/pijama-estampado-branco-8097296-branco/p. 19 Primark’s official website withdrew the information on their blog about the fact sheet, due to the very high number of criticisms made by the music community and fans to the store. However, the London news portal on the rock world “Louder Than War” released the full text at: http://louderthanwar.com/primark-issue-a-fact-its-to-accompany-theirrange-of-rock-nroll-shirts. 4.6. From CBGB to Forever 21: the Ramones T-shirt and it’s representations on the mainstream information for didactic purposes, gathering basic data on band illustrating the shirt so that outsiders to the subculture avoid constraints if asked about wearing it. According to an interview for the Spanish newspaper El País, Arturo Vega, the designer himself and creator of logo, estimated that the sale of the Ramones T-shirts is vastly superior to the albums’, since, according to Vega, the shield became a fashionable brand that is even used by people, celebrities or not, that are completely unaware of the existence of the band. So the logo appears to communicate some element of authenticity, irreverence or rebellion often associated with the “rocker style”. The celebrity culture is a known phenomenon and widely studied in contemporary society. Celebrities are often seen as special or spectacular beings that inhabit a dream world. The stars receive special attention, cultivate unusual attitudes, launch own fashions, create behavior trends and seems to be forgiven for their eccentricities and megalomania. The sections of the news portals that are dedicated to publish news about the famous people are one of the most lucrative entertainment channels of journalism20. The news is read by not only fans, but also for the wider public, as they are seen as a form of light and instant pleasure. No wonder that websites that gather gossip and paparazzi photographs, such as TMZ21, Perez Hilton22 and Ego23, the most popular in Brazil on celebrities and gossips, have a large number of unique accesses24, advertisements of various segments and are highly profitable. Such media personalities are present not only in news, reports and advertisements, but also in social networks, in which they show stuff of their everyday life: outfits that quickly become reference, behavior and habits that are shared and copied almost instantly. According to the theory of anthropology consumption Grant McCracken (2005), when a celebrity appears using a particular item, it gives a new meaning to the object that it becomes more or less valued by the society and by their internal subgroups. This phenomenon of reassignment of value of a particular object from the association with a famous person is what McCracken calls “celebrity endorsement”. This endorsement can be given from the moment a celebrity uses (or say) some object that is shown on the paparazzi photographs, by publishing it for public viewing on their social networks, for advertising, for news or news reports. With this in view, it is possible to assume that the popularization of Ramones T-shirt followed this same pattern. If in the past the celebrity appearances were less frequent and restricted to certain public events, recently the circulation of information has become noticeably more intense and accessible, with a massive display elements of day-to-day: the daily clothes, the intimate habits, the foods, among others. This phenomenon came with, as was to be expected, a movement of heavy criticism from members of the original subcultural movements, with frequent accusations of inauthenticity, lack of loyalty to the ideology and ignorance of the punk scene. The critical movement also has a vocabulary and categories of accusation, being common the appearance of terms such as “fashion victims” and “posers”. These critics also frequently point out “contradictions”, i.e. the simultaneous presence of different subcultures elements or even antagonistic — the combination, for example, a punk rock band shirt with accessories or designer items, hair brushed, high heels or the belonging to a social class or to a very pop musical lifestyle (Figure 2). 20 Retrieved from http://www.forbes.com/sites/marketshare/2013/05/24/the-30-most-popular-celebrity-gossip-sitesand-why-big-brands-love-them/. 21 Retrieved from http://tmz.com. 22 Retrieved from http://perezhilton.com/. 23 Retrieved from http://ego.globo.com/ . 24 Retrieved from http://www.trackalytics.com/website/tmz.com/ , http://www.trackalytics.com/website/perezhilton.com/ and http://anuncie.globo.com/redeglobo/sites/entretenimento/ego.html. 191 192 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 6: From the left to the right: The heir Paris Hilton; the Brazilian pop-funk singer Anitta; Niall Horan, from the boy band One Direction. The Ramones T-shirt, ressignifyed, no longer symbolizes the punk movement, behavioral motivations and original policies, and has little to do with the raging cry of the poor suburbs of London or New York, but it seems to be vague sign of a rebellion contained scheduled and framed establishing a stylistic contrast to the clothing brand and good behavior provided by conventional society. It is an item for some style composition that is available on the market. At the same time is accepted by the mainstream and provides a subcultural association that enjoys some prestige in society. Another perspective is that of a resignifying practice. As mentioned above, just as the punk ressignifyed, attributing new meanings to normal stuff, conventional goods for their own social standards, the fashion ressignifies what was seen as the object of a subculture and absorbers it in their own mass culture standards. Thus outsiders to punk dress shirts Ramones can be perceived negatively by subcultural members, but at the same time are well received by those who are completely out of subcultural context, and partially or completely unaware. For the general public, the pattern of the Ramones is now appreciated as diffuse allusion, already with its entirely neutralized original significance (Figure 2). Acknowledgements and Funding: This paper was realized with the financial support of the FAPERJ — Fundação Carlos Chagas Filho de Amparo à Pesquisa do Estado do Rio de Janeiro — as part of the research funding sponsorship “Jovem Cientista do Nosso Estado” to which we are thankful. References Appadurai, A. (2008). Introdução: mercadorias e a política de valor. A vida social das coisas: as mercadorias sob uma perspectiva cultural. Rio de Janeiro: Eduff. Becker, H. S. (2009). Outsiders: estudos de sociologia do desvio. Rio de Janeiro: Zahar. Brown, A. (2007). Rethinking the subcultural commodity: the case of heavy metal t-shirt culture(s). In P., Hodkinson; W., Deicke (Eds.), Youth Cultures: Scenes, subcultures and tribes (pp. 63-79). New York and London: Routledge. Douglas, M., Isherwood, B. (2009). O mundo dos bens: para uma antropologia do consumo. Rio de Janeiro: Editora UFRJ. HEBDIGE, D. (1979). Subculture: Meaning of Style. Florence, KY, EUA: Routledge. Hodkinson, P. (2007) Youth cultures: a critical outline of key debates. In P., Hodkinson, W., Deicke (Eds.), Youth Cultures: Scenes, subcultures and tribes. New York and London: Routledge. Kopytoff, I. (2008). A biografia cultural das coisas: a mercantilização como processo. In A., Appadurai A vida social das coisas: as mercadorias sob uma pespectiva cultural (pp. 89-121). Rio de Janeiro: Eduff. 4.7. Tracing back lipstick. Glam narratives in popular history Mara Persello 1 Abstract The glam subculture has been around for more than forty years now. The world has changed, politically, economically, technologically. Still, glam rock has managed to survive and spread, developing and adapting to changing times, transforming, but not losing its peculiarity. Its narratives, nonetheless, had to be incessantly reworked in order to maintain a general coherence. Aim of this paper is to give an example of some of the variations glam went through in the past forty years, and propose a textual semiotic analysis, as a way to interpret subcultures in their diachronic development, in order to retrace those narrative connections which helped the genre survive. Basing on the assumption that history, and particularly the oral history of subcultures, is the result of communicative negotiations, I sustain the hypothesis that the task of narrative constructions is to rearrange the oral history of a subculture over and over again, in order to adapt to a changing situation and to maintain a presence, through a cultural strategy which recalls Gramsci’s idea of a war of position. Keywords: glam rock, narrative analysis, semiotics, war of position. 1. Looking for traces Everytime a subcultural phenomenon gets interest from the so called mainstream, the members of the subculture feel somehow in danger: it happens when a collection of memorabilia is shown in an institutional context. It happens also to many underground bands, who have to face the disreputable accusation of having “sell out”, as soon as they gain some commercial success (Daschuk, 2011); and it happens when the presence of t-shirts with logos of bands of acknowledged subcultural value in the retail stores of multinational clothing companies causes reactions and discussions (Boeschenstein, infra). The constant threat for a subculture of sinking into the anonymity of the mainstream has a structural reason, because the confrontation with the mainstream marks the birth of subculture, as well as its possible feared death. A subculture develops its own identity dissociating itself from some idea of mainstream, building up its distinctiveness while creating an enemy: it is therefore vital for the boundaries between “us” and “them” to be as clear as possible. Subcultural presence in institutional contexts is a reason for concern, what is feared is a deprivation of identity, history and meaning. This weakness in the subcultural construction, its conscious subordinate position, and the constant threat of commodification, have been observed by scholars, too: for the members of CCCS, as long as the resistance is expressed only symbolically, it will not bring any remarkable social transformation, Sub-cultural strategies cannot match, meet or answer the structuring dimensions emerging in this period for the class as a whole. So, when the post-war sub-cultures address the problematics of their class experience, they often do so in ways which reproduce the gaps and discrepancies between real negotiations and symbolically displaced ‘resolutions’. They ‘solve’, but in an imaginary way, problems which at the concrete material level remain unresolved (Hall, Jefferson, 1976, pp. 47-48). 1 University of Potsdam, Scuola Normale Pisa, University of Applied Sciences, Hamburg, Italy, Germany. E-mail: mpersello|at|Hotmail|dot|com. 193 194 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Later, post-subculture scholars stressed the ephemeral and mainly aesthetic and emotional character of the subcultural experience even more, to the point of negating its function in the construction of an identity (Maffesoli, 1988), and proclaiming the death of classical subcultures, dissolving in an abstract, mobile and invisible essence of personal choices (Clark, 2003), or in a range of merely stylistic variations (Polhemus, 1994). Nonetheless, the theoretical conclusions of scholars pronouncing the death of subculture don’t fit the everyday experience, where subcultures still exist. Not only through 50-year-old punks or metalheads, but also through gothic, metal and punk teens, whose number is greater now than in the past. Is it then that subculture is dead, because its authenticity has been silenced by a shallow commercial exploitation of its symbols, or through institutional appropriation, or are there some strategies at stake, that make it possible for new members of subcultures to extract some meaning out of them? Somewhere in punk, in metal, in glam rock, too, there has to be some trace of message left, perceptible enough to permit newcomers to rely to it. 2. Theoretical background The items on show in any Hard Rock Café around the world are part of a marketing strategy for sure, but they still have the status of symbols. Symbols are signs conveying mythological meaning on a connotative level (Barthes, 1957). A myth is a narrative configuration connecting a series of events in a coherent story, and it is subject to variations in time and space, in order to adapt properly to slightly different situations (Lévi-Strauss, 1977). Summing it up with an example, the importance of Rat Scabies’ leather jacket on display at the British Library in London these days is mostly in the letter next to it, signed by its owner, referring to the garment as a “piece of my history”. And as long as there is a story to be told, these objects will not lose their meaning. Moving from a synchronic description to a diachronic perspective, and from a particular semantic object — Rat Scabies’ Jacket — to a history behind the piece, it becomes clear that an object is subject to virtually endless interpretations. To maintain its ‘punkness’, Rat Scabies’ jacket needs a story. Focusing in particular on glam, to distinguish between mainstream and subculture becomes even more complicated, as glam never actually opposed to any kind of mainstream values, it just professed alienation. Still, it did (and does) through a very peculiar mythology. Glam means escape, theatricality, daydreaming, and fun (Hebdige, 1979; Auslander, 2006; Waldrep, 2000; Chapman and Johnson, 2016). It did in the 1970s and it does now. But in order to constantly maintain these same semantic elements in the glam narratives, there have been a great deal of changes in the way the narratives have rearranged them. We would tend to believe that the cultural memory doesn’t change, that those founding historical events that form our identity resist the strain of time. The truth is, says Lotman, that memory generates and reproduces the past for the purposes of the present (Steedman, 2004, p. 84). The intriguing question, then, is why subcultures have to change, and how they do it. A subculture generates from some simulacrum of mainstream, from some appointed image of an enemy, it uses its signifiers, gives them new connotative meanings suggesting new interpretations. The subcultural way is another way of telling the story, diverging from the shared truth, and suggesting another truth. After this operation of identification of the other and of the self has been made, a subculture has to operate in order to maintain and reinforce this separation. The mainstream/opponent plays the connotative game, too: mainstream can take the stories told by the subculture and use them to mean something different: they can become a trend, a juvenile expression of fun, they are limited and neutralized. The re-connotation creates another level of truth, basically casting doubts on the honesty of the subject telling the story. When mainstream exposes subcultural histories, then, it undermines the power of the subcultural subjects, based on their capability to manipulate narratives in order to keep “real” (Fox, 4.7. Tracing back lipstick. Glam narratives in popular history 1987). This battle to conquer the status of the trustworthy storyteller takes place inside the text, because “the textual structures are constructed to present themselves as related to the subjects that created them” (Fornäs, 1995, p. 274), so it is the text that needs to be analyzed. Looking closer at the way a text is arranged, semioticians describe two concurring elements: semantic isotopies, and a plot in which they are arranged. For Greimas (1970), semantic structures are virtually open-ended (and the connotative game can virtually go on forever), it is the story that “locks them up” (clôture) in a meaningful construction, some kind of plot, that represents a “powerful means for making sense of life” (Lotman, 1990, p. 170). In the case of subculture, the plot helps select the relevant events in order to maintain a distance and a distinction from its appointed enemies and with the goal of perpetuating a subcultural coherence through times and trends. The connotative re-interpretation of the mainstream/opponent opens up the narration and sets free the semantic elements, practically destroying the subcultural history. The countermove of the subculture must be to rearrange, again, its distinctive semantics in a “closed” story; this new story needs to be slightly different from the original one, in order to re-contextualize those elements that the narration of the counterpart loosened. The semantic isotopies of a subculture alone, in fact, don’t tell much about it: once we identify heavy make up as a characteristic of glam, then we can go as far as including Lady Gaga and her spectacular use of her image in this subculture (Lenig, 2010). Conversely, if we consider the isotopies in the general economy of a closed story, we recognize a stable glam worldview through time and space. Every semantic element is subject to virtually endless connotation. The story has to develop to give them a stable form. It is in the story that the isotopies are rearranged to maintain a coherence in time, and actually, the more things change, the more they stay the same (Greimas, 1970, p. 117). 3. From the starman to the glitter in the gutter Glam rock has been barely defined as a subculture until the very recent past (Chapman, Johnson, 2016). Given its initial huge success, scholars considered it at first a shallow teens’ trend (Taylor, Wall, 1976). Glam started big, in the early 1970s (Auslander, 2006, p. 152; Chapman, Johnson, 2016; Waldrep, 2000). Marc Bolan gained the first position in England in 1971, with the album Electric Warrior. David Bowie delivered The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars in 1972. Bolan was singing about cosmic dancers and dandies, Bowie about starmen and homo superior (Hunky Dory, 1971); in the US Alice Cooper suggested teenagers to get out and run wild in outer space (Love it to Death, 1971). The target of the glam music was a new generation of smarter young people, whose limit was far beyond the sky. This smart generation wanted to have fun, dance, reach the stars. And they started by dressing like that: silver jumpsuits, glitter, high heels, make up and everything shiny they could put hands on. The plan was to celebrate life as an endless party, and if you were not handsome enough to dress up like David Bowie or the New York Dolls, you could still rely on the monstrous variant of the homo superior: Alice Cooper and Kiss (the Demon, the Starchild, the Spaceman, the Catman) contributed the glam imagery with horror movies, theatricality and superheroes. Glamour was a very egalitarian way of refusing categories: under the makeup, one can be bourgeoisie or working class, boy or girl, rich or poor, straight or gay. The powerful tools of makeup and dress could transform social reality, and the result was not artificial, but the true truth. Dressing up let everybody express themselves for whom they have always wanted to be, for whom they had always been (Dyhouse, 2010). The theatrical space that glam rock produces through image and performance frees people from their social constrictions (Branch, 2012), and brings them to a place where they can celebrate life and beauty. This glam interpretation of life is not far from what the consumerist society has been promoting and promising, and in this sense glam is following the path of mod (Hebdige, 1979), and showing 195 196 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 that if resistance goes through a semiotic guerilla (Eco, 1973), the deviant interpretation of the mainstream message can be an hyper-interpretation, as well as a plain opposition. At the end of the 1970s, punk prefers the plain-opposition strategy: there is no future and there is nothing to be happy about. Punks state that performatively, and Goths confirm it representatively. Those who prefer a more subtle and joyful way of showing disagreement, move to the disco scene, where Bee Gees warn the Dancing Queens (Abba) that they “should be dancing” in order to “stay alive”, and if the Monday to Friday routine is disappointing, Tony Manero can show his true self as king of the dance floor at least on a “Saturday night”. Alice Cooper, Kiss, and popular music stars wearing makeup, keep appearing in the charts, every now and then. There are hints and allusions here and there in the second half of the 1970s, but it is eventually in a peripheral corner of western culture that the elements of 1970s glam are rearranged with the punk and Goth influences that came in the meantime, to a coherent and mature new updated way of doing glam. Hanoi Rocks are a band from Finland, they formed in 1979 and released four albums between 1981 and 1983. Singer and guitar player, Michael Monroe and Andy McCoy, reinterpret the duo Johansen/Thunders of New York Dolls, who themselves had been a distorted reflection of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards (Klypchak, 2016). Hanoi Rocks reinterpret make up and androgyny, mixing it with the nihilism and nostalgia of the late 1970s. They combine the fun of glam with its darker American interpretation — Alice Cooper, New York Dolls and the punk New York scene. And the first reference to the New York punk scene is in the name: Hanoi Rocks refers to the song Chinese Rocks written by Dee Dee Ramone and Richard Hell, the song talks about heroin addiction; it has been covered from the Hearbreakers, a band formed by the former New York Dolls guitar player Johnny Thunders. As about Hanoi Rocks’ lyrics, star men or superheroes are nowhere to be found, and even if the plan is still to celebrate the party, now the darkness surrounding the venue is well perceived. Andy McCoy, who writes most of the lyrics, does a fine work in balancing happiness and sadness, anger and desire, in songs like Tragedy, I can’t get it, Dead by Xmas. They describe themselves as strange boys, wrecks, desperados, tramps. This tales of debauchery are designed to get over the artful dandyism of David Bowie and Marc Bolan, and adapt it to postpunk times, mixing it up with the creepy figures of Alice Cooper’s nightmares, to get to the estranging experience of the construction of the social self, a funny figure between dreams and nightmares, “a prima ballerina on a Spring afternoon, changing into the wolf man, howlin’ at the moon” (New York Dolls). There is still a lot of partying going on, but the glam people is warned that it is hard work: “I wake up in the morning and I feel the pain in my head, if it’s rest I need I’d rather be dead”. The eternal party, the great escape, has changed location: the enthusiasm for the moon landing has cooled down by now; some other imaginary place has to be found, a far away land where party is the rule, not the exception, a Mystery City. The escape-isotopy of Hanoi Rocks includes fast cars and Raquel Welch, coca cola and beauty magazines, and seems to look west to the promises of the American dream, and its glam scene. The promising career of Hanoi Rocks ends abruptly in the very moment they reach the place they had been longing for in their lyrics, in 1984: Los Angeles. Alice Cooper and Kiss had functioned as a link from the 1970s glam to the 1980s for Hanoi Rocks, from far away Finland, and for Mötley Crüe, too. Other than Hanoi Rocks, Mötley Crüe operate at the very centre of the glamour world, in Los Angeles. Their look stresses less on androgyny and tends more to a form of Kiss-related machismo. What Mötley Crüe were offering to their audience in the early 1980s was pure dirty fun, following in the footsteps of Kiss with threatening lyrics and bad attitude, and their work helped build up a new glam scene, somehow mixed with heavy metal, that exploded in the second half of the 1980s. The last years of the 1980s have been the era of the Los Angeles glam rock scene, with bands like Poison, Mötley Crüe, Guns’n’Roses getting to the top of the charts. Glam got its second chance 4.7. Tracing back lipstick. Glam narratives in popular history and, slightly revisited, with much more feminine looks counterbalanced by much more machismo, became huge again. Los Angeles is the place to be, who needs the Moon, when you can live in Babylon (Faster Pussycat). It seemed like the dreams could come true, bands were gathering from all over the world to Los Angeles with the only simple plan of becoming rock stars. In the early 1990s, after seeing thousands of bands looking the same, and the streets of Los Angeles invaded by Mötley Crüe wannabes, record companies had had enough. The interest and ears of the music industry moved to Seattle, where a myth was constructed as a perfect opposition to glam joy: the city where it always rains versus sunny California, thrift store stained clothes instead of glittering costumes, greasy and messy hair instead of grand combing, depressive lyrics instead of consumerist dreams: grunge was born. Even when discussing the same topics, the approach couldn’t be more opposite: Mötley Crüe’s bass player processed his experience of a drug overdose writing lyrics like “Skydive naked from an aeroplane, or a lady with a body from outerspace. My heart, my heart, kick-start my heart. Say I got trouble, trouble in my eyes, I’m just looking for another good time”, while influential grunge band Alice in Chains desperately recall the memory of the dead friend Andrew Wood (singer of Mother Love Bone, died of heroin overdose in 1990) in the song Would?, and while Ratt titled their fourth album Reach for the sky, Alice in Chains again described the feeling of being “down in a hole, feeling so small”. The Seattle bands, the Seattle sound, were addressing the dirtiness, hopelessness and cruelty of this world; grunge was presenting itself as “real” and pointing its finger against the lie glam was telling the world, mocking the Jesus Christ Pose (Soundgarden) of the glam wannabe-rock stars onstage. The glam days were over. Grunge was the real deal, telling truth as it was, and its interpreters were the most authentic poets of desperation the mayors could present. When grunge became mainstream, the problem became serious: it wasn’t an intestine war between subcultural worldviews anymore, it was cutting out glam from the peaks of commercial success and mainstream recognition it wanted to reach. For the first time glam lost its love/hate relation with the mainstream (“Those uptown ladies on 5th Avenue, It’s like I hate them but I want them too”, used to sing Hanoi Rocks) and was confronted with the accusation of being a lie. The accusation of not being “real” affected the very subjects of the glam narrative, and forced them to survive on a new battleground, that of the subcultural ethics of authenticity. The isotopies of glam had to be rearranged to show that they were real, that they truly engaged in what they professed, that fun was a serious thing. The Zeros, Trash Brats, Guttersluts, and a whole new wave of glam at the beginning of the 1990s were there to show that glam is way of life: these new bands arranged to the lack of success (glam was out, for the first time in twenty years, and the association between fun and success had to be revised), and admitted candidly that being losers is not a reason to stop partying: the Los Angeles based band Mistakes titled their first (and actually obscure for the charts) album, Dressed for Suckcess, the cover of the Orphan Punks album Running with scissors portrays a boy wearing a blanket like it was the mantle of a superhero, showing that it’s not what you have, but what you long for, that makes you big; the Guttersluts suggested to reach the needed amount of money to live the party life through a combination of “beg, borrow and steal”. In Europe, the Dogs D’Amour sang ballads to girls that “used to be pretty once”, while Michael Monroe (ex-frontman of Hanoi Rocks) protests that he is Not fakin’ it. Glam was real, fun was a credo and party a way of life, to the point that glam could present its martyrs, and there is no better way to give a proof of authenticity, to connect texts and subjects, than to tell the story of those who succumbed while fighting for the cause: people who died while trying to reach the perfect party through drugs, like Billy Murcia and Johnny Thunders of New York Dolls, for example. Maybe the best martyr figure is that of Razzle, the drummer of Hanoi Rocks, who came to Los Angeles to die in a car accident provoked by the singer of the most successful glam metal band of 197 198 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 the USA: Mötley Crüe. In 1984 Hanoi Rocks were touring the United States for the first time, and their dream of being a successful band was about to become true. In December they were hosted by Mötley Crüe in Los Angeles. Vince Neil took a ride in his brand-new car with Razzle, they had an incident and Razzle died. There are many tragic and violent deaths in the history of music, but this one in particular has gained an enormous meaning in the glam mythology. It consecrated Hanoi Rocks as the pure and real soul of glam, the poor young talented small-town boys with a head full of dreams who were about to make it but succumbed to the cruel laws of fake glamour, the Icarus flying too high, too close to the sun. The event of Razzle’s death was known, but it did not become part of the glam mythology until the 1990s. In the 1980s, glam celebrated the sunny side of life and the shadows of tragedy didn’t fit in. Razzle, as well as the biography of debauchery of the New York Dolls, were introduced in the glam strategy as a proof of the authenticity of the scene, creating the basis for a new subcultural selfconsciousness. The story of Hanoi Rocks rearranged in a slightly different plot the legend of glam: glam was still presenting the homo superior described by Bowie, but it was now stressed that those special people were at danger in a world of banality and brutality. They came from the suburbs, from the underground, they had pure hearts but dirty faces, and in this sense, they were authentic, and success and fame were only logical conclusions to their superiority. This approach to the glam story is well represented in the opening scene of the 1998 movie Velvet Goldmine. A child, maybe ten years old, is beaten by his classmates, and his mouth bleeds: he uses the blood as if it were red lipstick, while a voiceover identifies him as a future rockstar. This new interpretation of the glam myth exemplifies what Förnas described as authenticity: textual structures relate to the subject, explain and form the glam identity. From here on, glam never recovered the success it had in the 1970s and 1980s. The fact of dealing with a new subcultural status made it smaller, but stronger. The myth of the misunderstood talents applied particularly well to the situation of the Italian glam scene, which was never big, not even in the golden days of the international success of this genre. In the late 1980s, following the legend of Los Angeles as the place to be, two Italian bands even tried to move to California, Nasty Licks form Turin and Laroxx from Padova, while the Udinebased band Helloween were said to have good contacts with the American glam scene. None actually have been able to record a whole album, but this possible connection with Los Angeles gave them — like to all those glams who just visited the city in those years, actually — some aura of stardom. When Los Angeles lost its power of attraction, later generations of glams adapted their expectations to the new glam authenticity: Hollywood Killerz stated in an interview, that they didn’t have any plans for their musical career, they were just trying to have “as much fun as possible,”2 and Lester Greenowski celebrates his tour van: “All day long stuck in a van / Every night I’ll give you everything I can / Plug my guitar and ready to go / No first class hotel, no French Bordeaux / Do you wanna party? Do you wanna dance? / Do you wanna make it? / Here’s the time to take your chance! / My life’s a party every day! / Let’s start a party / And if It’s hard to be on top / Come try the bottom, where you couldn’t stop!” The New York singer Jesse Malin, after asking himself in 1994, in the dark days of grunge, if he, being a glam fan, was to be considered “blessed or diseased”, titled a solo album Glitter in the Gutter. The idea of finding a piece of dream in the windows of glamorous shops, on the streets of Los Angeles, or, at least, in the gutter; of interpreting the fact of being outsiders as a sign of distinction; of celebrating life through debauchery, are all ways of rearranging semantic elements into a story that celebrates fun as the ultimate goal. New generations of glams build on the narratives rearranged in the near past, so for example Andrea, member of the new Italian glam band Silver Addiction, wears a tattoo of the 1998 Vevet Goldmine version of David Bowie, as interpreted by the actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers. In order to 2 Trash’n’Crash 8 (2000, p. 22). 4.7. Tracing back lipstick. Glam narratives in popular history ground their glam identity in a glorious past, Biters in 2015 sing “I wanna be Ziggy Stardust, I want that make-up on my face, I’m so tired of the 9 to 5”, well aware of the fact that a Rock’n’Roll Loser has no place to go when the party is over. There are a few members of the glam subculture who are in their late forties now, some of them keep making music, some grounded a label, others run a record store or a concert venue. And they do it for a younger generation, glam people who were born in the early 1990s. The history of culture is fixated on the “new”, but there are a lot of old things that still go on, there are people who created a worldview and lived it out, and are passing that over to younger people, negotiating their values in a changing world but keeping a coherent construction to motivate their values and beliefs. Subcultures like glam may be invisible to those looking for the next big thing, but they don’t disappear, because, as the Biters sing, dreams don’t die. 4. War of position Subculture is a different point of view on things: a subculture doesn’t create meaning from nothing; it takes what is available in the mainstream and attaches new meanings to it. In a way, subculture operates through connotation (Barthes, 1957). Every subcultural connotative move is followed by a countermove of the mainstream, which reappropriates the connoted meanings through a further connotative move. A synchronic description can’t go any further, and has then to pronounce the death of a subculture through its commodification. But a diachronic one can show that subculture is going to do the next move, and the game is not over yet. Subcultures and mainstream keep fighting for the control of the meanings: between subculture and mainstream takes place a war of position. The notion of war of position is briefly outlined in Gramsci’s Prison’s Notebooks. Gramsci uses it as a metaphorical expression, opposed to the war of movement, to reject the idea that social change is possible in short time. Consistent with the importance he gives in his work to hegemony, Gramsci points out that the distribution of power is more of a cultural, than of a material matter, and that in order to reach hegemony the proletariat has to engage in a war of position which comes before the conquest of politic power (Gramsci, 1975, p. 802. Q.6 (VIII) § 138). Hall goes a step further in the direction showed by Gramsci, and welcomes the construction of a new cultural order: if you can only get hold of the economy, you can move the rest of life. The nature of power in the modern world is that it is also constructed in relation to political, moral, intellectual, cultural, ideological, sexual questions. The question of hegemony is always the question of a new cultural order. (…) To construct a new cultural order, you need not to reflect on alreadyformed collective will, but to fashion a new one, to inaugurate a new historic project. (Hall, 1987, p. 21). This brings us closer to the subcultural field: the creation of new meanings through connotation operated by subcultures could be a form of handling of some effect in undermining hegemony; for sure, it underlines a particular way of managing conflict, wholly operated on a cultural level. Eco talking about cultural guerilla commented that: Il Potere non si origina mai da una decisione arbitraria al vertice ma vive di mille forme di consenso minuto o ‘molecolare’. Ci vogliono migliaia di padri, mogli e figli che si riconoscano nella struttura della famiglia perche un potere possa reggersi sull’etica dell’istituto familiare; occorre che una miriade di persone trovi un ruolo come medico, infermiere, custode, perche un potere possa reggersi sull’idea di segregazione dei diversi. (…) Le nuove forme di guerriglia contestativa tendono invece a vulnerare il sistema mettendo in crisi la rete sottile di consensi che si regge su alcune regole di convivenza, se si sgretola questa rete, si ha il collasso. Questa e la loro ipotesi strategica. (Eco, 1983, pp. 197-198) 199 200 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Eco, as a conclusion, states pessimistically that such a multifaceted power is impossible to defeat, but maybe it should be pointed out that the hegemonic social system itself is not a central and static power, but changes slightly while adapting to new interpretations. This can be seen, pessimistically, as a form of neutralization, but it can also be interpreted as the acceptance of new incoming ideas, an improvement in the distribution of power. Ultimately, cultural participation is a form of empowerment anyway (Hall, 1987, p. 21). With the concept of hegemony, Gramsci expressed the idea that power systems are not relations between a subject and a passive object, but always build on the presence of at least two subjects, the ones who rule and those who accept the rules. So we have to recognize that even if subcultures don’t seem to obtain smashing results when it comes to gaining power, at least they find some way to operate on a cultural level, becoming subjects who don’t accept the positions they are given. The power systems are too strong and complex to be turned upside down over night, but the awareness of their own capability of making culture enables subcultures to keep fighting a war of position that brings slowly but inevitably, for the better or for the worse, to social change. 5. Conclusions A diachronic perspective is the only way out from the theorization of the death of a subculture, because it enables the scholars to track the changing structure of the myth. Semiotics have been accused of being essentially structuralism, but the interaction between semantic and syntax in the construction of a myth is an object in incessant development that can be followed using the tools of textual analysis. Subcultures actively interact with mainstream culture, they need a simulacrum of mainstream to define themselves and while creating different worldviews they contribute to the creation of a new mainstream, too. This short paper suggest to include some tools of the semiotic analysis in order to understand better the cultural aspects of change. A semiotic understanding of subcultural production can be the beginning of a project to collect the history of subcultures through their own narratives, and help focus on the cultural strategies in use to gain and maintain power in a war of position. This can help understand how hegemony works, what can be done, how it is possible to turn from objects of power to subjects of social responsibility in everyday life. References Auslander, P. (2006). Performing Glam Rock: Gender and Theatricality in Popular Music. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Barthes, R. (1957). Mythologies. Paris: Seuil. Branch, A. (2012). All the Young Dudes: Educational Capital, Masculinity and the Uses of Popular Music. Popular Music, 31(1), 25-44. DOI: 10.1017/S0261143011000444. Chapman, I., Johnson, H. (2016). Global Glam and Popular Music: Style and Spectacle from the 1970s to the 2000s. London: Routledge. Clark, D. (2003). The Death and Life of Punk, The Last Subculture. In D., Muggleton, & R., Weinzierl (Eds.), The PostSubcultures Reader (pp. 223-236). Oxford: Berg. Daschuk, M. D. (2011). The significance of artistic criticism in the production of punk subcultural authenticity: the case study of Against Me!. Journal of Youth Studies 14(5), 605-626. DOI: 10.1080/13676261.2011.559215. De Gallier, T. (2016). Dude looks like a lady: The power of androgyny in metal. Retrieved from http://teamrock.com/feature/2016-02-12/dude-looks-like-a-lady-the-power-of-androgyny-in-metal Dyhouse, C. (2011). Glamour. Women, History, Feminism. London: Zed. Eco, U. (1973) Il costume di casa. Milano: Bompiani. Eco, U. (1983) Sette anni di desiderio. Milano: Bompiani. Fornäs, J. (1995). Cultural Theory & Late Modernity. London: Sage. Fox, K. J.(1987). Real Punks and Pretenders: The Social Organization of a Counterculture. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 16(3), 344-370. DOI: 10.1177/0891241687163006. 4.7. Tracing back lipstick. Glam narratives in popular history Gramsci, A. (1975) Quaderni dal carcere (1929-1935). Edizione critica dell’Istituto Gramsci. Torino: Einaudi. Greimas, A. J. (1970). Del Senso. Milano: Bompiani. Hall, S., & Jefferson, T. (Eds.) (1976). Resistance through Rituals. Youth Subcultures in Post-War-Britain. Birmingham: Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies. Hall, S. (1987) Gramsci and Us. The questions raised by a jailed Sardinian during the last war cast light on Thatcherism and the crisis. Marxism Today June 1987, 16-21. Haynes, T. (1998). Velvet Goldmine. US, UK: Miramax. Hebdige, D. (1979). Subculture. The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge. Klypchak, B. (2016). All those wasted years: Hanoi Rocks and the transitions of glam. In I., Chapman, & H., Johnson (2016). Global Glam and Popular Music: Style and Spectacle from the 1970s to the 2000s. London: Routledge. Lenig, S. (2010). The Twisted Tale of Glam Rock. Santa Barbara: Praeger. Lévi-Strauss, C. (1977) La Voie des masques. Paris: Plon. Lotman, J. (1990). Universe of the mind: a semiotic theory of culture. London: Tauris. Maffesoli, M., Foulkes, C.R. (1988). Jeux De Masques: Postmodern Tribalism. In Design Issues, 4(1/2), 141-151. Polhemus, T. (1994). Streetstyle: from Sidewalk to Catwalk. London: Thames and Hudson. Sassi, M. (2011). Ruolo dell’intellettuale e guerra di posizione: da Gramsci a Carlo Giuliani, ragazzo. Carte Italiane 2(7), 51-67. Retrieved from: http://escholarship.org/uc/item/10k085xh Savage, Jon (1998) Divine Decadence: Memories of Glam. Gadfly Magazine 10. Retrived from: http://gadflyonline.com/home/index.php/divine-decadence-memories-of-glam/#sthash.lqkaOW9P.dpuf Steedman, M. D. (2004). State Power, Hegemony, and Memory: Lotman and Gramsci. Poroi, 3(1), 78-102. DOI: 10.13008/2151-2957.1045. Taylor, L., and Wall, D. (1976). Beyond the Skinheads: Comments on the Emotional Role and Significance of the Glam Rock Cult. In G., Mungham, & G., Pearson (Eds.) Working Class Youth Culture. London: Routledge. Waldrep, S. (2000). The Seventies: The Age of Glitter in Popular Culture. London: Routledge. 201 202 4.7. Tracing back lipstick. Glam narratives in popular history © Chris Low THEME TUNE 5 | Sheena is (almost) an aging punk rocker: Careers, gender and aging in musical scenes 203 204 5.1. ‘Old punks don’t die, they stand at the back’… and make radio: 1990s anarcho-punk and the continuation of DIY values in contemporary radio practice Charlotte Bedford 1 Abstract The accessible, Do-It-Yourself (DIY) nature of radio technology lends itself to innovation and activism (Douglas, 1999, p. 357), contributing to its status as the “epitome of alternative media” (Waltz, 2005, p. 36). Radioactive International is an online radio station providing over 1750 hours of free, on demand, alternative radio and hosting almost forty independently produced programmes from around the world. Developing from the 1990s Dublin anarcho-punk scene, it remains grounded in the DIY ethos of anticapitalist freedom of expression. Radioactive International is one example from a growing number of DIY radio programmes and formats produced by original participants of 1980s and 1990s anarcho-punk, now in their forties and fifties. This research draws on interviews with individual producers to explore the links between punk and radio amongst older DIY activists. Making radio is considered as a natural extension of ongoing multiplatform DIY punk practice, demonstrating a lifetime commitment to DIY politics and values. Keywords: alternative media, radio, DIY, punk. 1. Introduction The accessible, Do-It-Yourself (DIY) nature of radio technology lends itself to innovation and activism (Douglas, 1999, p. 357), contributing to its status as “the epitome of alternative media” (Waltz, 2005, p. 36). Radioactive International is an online radio station providing over 1750 hours of free, on demand, alternative radio, and hosting almost forty independently produced programmes from around the world. Developing from the 1990s Dublin anarcho-punk scene, it remains grounded in the DIY ethos of anti-capitalist freedom of expression. Radioactive International is one example from a growing number of DIY radio programmes and formats produced by original participants of 1980s and 1990s anarcho-punk, now in their forties and fifties. There are clear parallels between the evolution of radio and punk culture. As Sue Carpenter states in her account of pirate radio involvement in the United States, both are concerned with issues of individual freedom, expression and identity (2004, p. 164). Equally, the history of both was shaped by DIY practice to bypass and counteract institutional, commercial and corporate control. Yet there is a lack of academic study which establishes an explicit link between the two. Through interviews with individual producers, this research explores the relationship between punk and radio for a particular generation of DIY activists. This focus on the ways they talk about their motivations and participation recognises the performative function of discourse, as governing the way “a topic can be meaningfully talked about and reasoned about” (Hall, 1997, p. 15). For all involved, making radio is considered as a natural extension of ongoing multiplatform DIY punk practice, including fanzines, music production, and political activism, demonstrating a lifetime commitment to DIY politics and values. It presents a snapshot of radio practice that illustrates the enduring ability of DIY activists to adapt new technologies in order to share ideas and music, expand existing networks and maintain independent control of production and distribution. 1 University of Adelaide, Australia. E-mail: charlotte.e.bedford|at|adelaide|dot|edu|dot|au. 205 206 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 2. DIY radio The radio discussed here stems from the 1980s, a pivotal time for both punk and radio activism. To provide a background to the activity, it is useful to establish the historic subversive credentials of the medium before connecting current DIY online radio to alternative and radical media theory. The history of radio is “the history of the fight by everyday people to gain access to the airwaves” (Coyer, 2007, p. 111). The political and cultural significance of the medium has been recognised since its inception. Following its emergence during the First World War, governments and industry were quick to harness and regulate radio to inform public values, opinions and tastes. Conversely, early practitioners and radical theorists including Bertolt Brecht, Walter Benjamin and Theodore Adorno explored radio’s possibilities for building a public sphere (Hartley, 2000, p. 155). Rather than existing as a one-sided instrument of distribution, Brecht recognised radio’s potential to actively engage citizens in public life, with the ability to become “the most wonderful public communication system imaginable” (1979 [1932], p. 25). Brecht’s utopian vision of two-way communication may not have been fully achieved, yet the development of radio production and distribution technologies shows the ongoing shift toward more participatory models. Radio is undergoing a dramatic transformation in the digital era, redefined through the growth of online distribution and increasing affordability of production technology. Yet where media democratisation is most often attributed to the digital revolution, the adaptability and accessibility of radio technology has defined its history. It has remained relatively affordable to make, transmit, and listen to, contributing to its enduring position as the most pervasive and democratic media worldwide (Hendy, 2000). Yet David Hendy highlights the challenges in theorising radio, complicated by the ever-increasing quantity and range of activity, including the rapid expansion of online radio. The dynamic, fast pace of change makes it difficult to pin down and categorise effectively, “it changes too quickly to let us ‘see’ it properly” (Hendy, 2000, p. 5). As Susan J. Douglas argues, radio’s ability to reinvent itself so frequently means that corporate control can never grasp it completely (1999). The ability to bypass and counteract corporate, commercial and governmental control is central to DIY values and practice. Similarly, the rapid concentration of global commercial media power has led to a proliferation of media produced outside of the mainstream. Mitzi Waltz provides an analysis of alternative and activist media, connecting its contemporary growth and significance to an increase of corporate media ownership, reducing the range of voices heard within the mainstream. Where mainstream media “has never been more in thrall to corporate power, and has never been less trusted by its readers and viewers”, media outside the mainstream has markedly increased (Waltz, 2005, p. 1). Whether despite, or because of this, alternative and activist media continue to flourish, “opening cracks in the mass-media monolith through which strange flowers grow” (Waltz, 2005, p.x). DIY online radio fits within the broadest categorisation of alternative media (Atton, 2002) whilst also connecting to theories of activist (Waltz, 2005) and radical media (Downing, 2001). Chris Atton’s arguably definitive theory of alternative media encompasses all cultural forms of independent production. Where the product of mainstream media supports and reinforces powerful and influential elites through representations which marginalise and disempower other groups, alternative media is a response that begins to redress the balance of power through facilitating alternative values, opinions and frameworks. The social, cultural and political value of alternative media lies in the ability to challenge the symbolic power of media institutions. Atton focusses on the texts themselves whilst also acknowledging the principles of organisation, production and social relations through which they are created, an approach that is “as much concerned with how it is organised within its socio-cultural context as with its subject matter” (2002, p. 9). The approach helps to frame a diverse range of non-mainstream, non-commercial practice and output. Yet where the ‘alternative’ label is a broad one, radical media theory is a useful addition 5.1. ‘Old punks don’t die, they stand at the back’… and make radio: 1990s anarcho-punk and the continuation of DIY values in contemporary radio practice for exploring the counter-hegemonic aims of DIY punk radio. Where Atton primarily focusses on the discourses created through alternative media, John Downing prioritises the processes through which they are produced. He uses case studies to demonstrate the extent to which social movements organise media that challenge traditional authority patterns and disrupt the political order. Content is not necessarily explicitly radical or activist in nature, instead social movements constitute an active form of audience, expressing “oppositional strands, overt and covert, within popular cultures” (Downing, 2001, p. 3). Discussion of alternative, activist and radical media theory demonstrates that cultural production outside the mainstream is difficult to categorise. Furthermore, such attempts to attribute normative labels to countercultural movements can be counter-productive, undermining their subversive potential. Ian Glasper highlights this risk in his history of early anarcho-punk, recognising that definitions can “leech away much of its power by stuffing it into a neat pigeonhole, where, once classified, it can be more easily controlled” (2006, p. 6). Instead, the aim here is to understand the motivations and meanings of making radio in the terms of the producers themselves. All participants link their cultural production to initial involvement with 1990s anarcho-punk, a social movement based on DIY values, political activism and diverse musical genres. These principles continue to be reflected in the contemporary radio produced, content that is defined by punk values and ethics rather than a specific music genre. 3. Background & scope The focus of the research stems from my own involvement. I was a member of the 1990s anarchopunk scene as a fanzine producer, gig promoter and ska-punk band member, and DIY politics and values have continued to be a major influence throughout my life. Now as a radio producer, teacher and researcher specialising in alternative and community media, I identified a growing number of online radio programmes developing from 1990s anarcho-punk. I became interested in the link between older punks and radio, and what it indicates about DIY and radio practice today. It is a reflexive research position which complements the study of alternative media, a field which can never be definitive or fully comprehensive. As Atton argues, all instances of independent cultural practice can only be considered in relation to historical, cultural, economic and political context (2015, p. 9). Instead, he calls for reflexive engagement through direct involvement and active participation which provide opportunities for “critical thinking that is situated in the real world” (2015, p. 10). The focus on the way that DIY punk radio producers talk about their involvement recognises the subtle ways in which language not only orders perceptions, but how it makes things happen, showing how language is used to “construct and create social interaction and diverse social worlds” (Potter & Wetherell, 1987, p. 1). The result is not only to catalogue a variety of production methods and formats but also to explore some of the complex and changing meanings around DIY, punk and radio from the perspectives of those involved. Radioactive International provides a useful starting point for understanding the ways in which punk networks are engaging with radio. I start by outlining the origins and evolution of the station before discussing common themes identified through the accounts of individual radio producers. Radioactive International shows include Freedom Fry Hi/Fi, produced independently in Philadelphia, United States; The Hope Show and Easy Snappin’, produced independently in Dublin, Ireland; and The Liquidizer, broadcast live on 100.5 WOWfm community radio station in South Australia. In addition, programmes uploaded on Mixcloud help to demonstrate the diversity of platforms and practice throughout a wider punk radio network. These include Under the Pavement, broadcast live on ALLFM96.9 community radio station in Manchester, UK; and Radio Weirdo produced independently in Plymouth, United Kingdom. Methods vary from a small team at a local community radio station to a single producer using a laptop at home, demonstrating the diversity that is a key feature of DIY practice. As Kevin Dunn argues through his study of DIY record labels, this diversity 207 208 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 “is part of what distinguishes it as a mode of production from corporate mass production” (2012, p. 222). 4. Anarcho-Punk & free radio beginnings Radioactive International is described as a freeform online radio station which hosts over forty shows from around the world including Ireland, United Kingdom, United States, Australia, Canada, Spain, Netherlands and Norway. Radio producers subscribe to an open platform and upload audio to the live stream through a Wordpress Content Management System, with each show archived for on-demand access. Over 1750 hours of free, independent radio shows are combined with live broadcasts from gigs and events including Conflict and Subhumans at the Button Factory, The Rockin Road Festival, and the GGI Festival in Mayo. The principles of independent organisation, production and distribution define the station more than musical style and genre with content ranging from punk, metal, ska, reggae, trance, alt-country, northern soul, blues and jazz to historical and political recordings. Editorial freedom is central, there are no formats, playlists or genres that participants have to adhere to. Instead, involvement is determined by the main rule of “no fascists, racists, sexists, homophobes or religious presenters” (radioactiveinternational.org). Radioactive started as a FM pirate station in July 1992, broadcast from a flat in Dublin’s north inner-city. The station was born out of the city’s anarcho-punk scene and a frustration with the lack of punk and alternative programming on other stations. The beginnings of the pirate station are inextricably linked to live music and directly supported through benefit gigs by bands such as Striknien D.C. and Stomach. As early broadcaster and current Production Co-ordinator, Jo Greene highlights, music and the DIY punk ethos brought people together, “I was going to a lot of gigs in Dublin, but of course none of this music was being played on the radio. Radioactive was a way of giving people a voice, you didn’t need a qualification or a job title to share your love of music and ideas” (18.12.2015). Founder and Technical Co-ordinator, Dónal Greene, connects the Radioactive story to the joint influences of anarcho-punk and the free radio movement (23.07.2015). He refers to early experimentation with Citizens Band and pirate radio during the 1970s and 1980s and identifies his involvement with anarcho-punk in the late 1980s as a turning point, when one particular anarchist pamphlet grabbed his interest. Radio is My Bomb — a DIY Manual for Pirates (1987) was the manifesto of the free radio movement of the time. Where Dónal already had the technical expertise, he cites the guide as a major influence on the development of Radioactive, “What got me was how radio could be used to organise communities and disseminate ideas and ideologies (…) the pamphlet inspired me to build a station that gave the airwaves to the people that don’t get represented by the mainstream media” (23.07.2015). The title of the guide is taken from a quote by Chantal Paternostre, a Belgian anarchist from Radio Air Libre, a pirate radio station in Brussels. She was arrested on 15 August 1985 and reportedly answered “radio is my bomb” to charges of arson and bombing. After more than a year, most of which in solitary confinement, the charges were dropped and she was released (1987, p. 1). Together with practical information, the guide presents a range of political activist radio stations operating across the globe. Formats and operational models are varied and content is defined by political ideas, with stations described variously as “anarchist”, “activism”, “far-left”, “anti-fascist”, “feminist” and “radical” (1987). Radio is My Bomb sets out to encourage and network like-minded people to set up their own stations, calling for a “new wave of local pirates” using radio as a two-way means of political participation. This idea draws on Brecht’s early recognition of the potential of radio (1979 [1932]). Rather than existing as a one-sided instrument of distribution, he considered radio as an opportunity for building a public sphere and for promoting the development of civil society, allowing direct contact with the people whilst bypassing the ideological apparatuses of the state (Hartley, 2000, p. 155). The free radio movement extends this vision, not only bypassing, but directly opposing commercial and governmental control. Radio is My Bomb makes a clear 5.1. ‘Old punks don’t die, they stand at the back’… and make radio: 1990s anarcho-punk and the continuation of DIY values in contemporary radio practice distinction between a countercultural free radio movement and the more commercially driven music pirates and community stations of the time, whose aim was to achieve mainstream legitimacy. Instead, focus was on giving a voice to the voiceless, “to see ethnic radio, women’s radio, tenants, unions, anarchists, community groups, old people, prisoners, pacifists, urban guerrillas, gays, straights and of course every possible variety of musical entertainment” (Hooligan Press, 1987, p. 2). The accounts of Radioactive founders and participants demonstrate a clear link between the collaborative and countercultural aims of both the anarcho-punk and free radio movements (Dónal Greene, 23.07.2015). In 1994, Dónal Greene published an update to the free radio manual, Radio is Our Bomb (www.dojo.ie/active/bomb.htm) which demonstrates the importance of alternative knowledge-sharing within DIY communities (Hemphill & Leskowitz, 2012). The guide includes updated and extended technical instructions to arm radio activists with the tools to create independent stations (1994). In encouraging participation, it stresses the importance of building networks of like-minded people whilst the addition of “our” to the title emphasises the collective principles of DIY punk radio. The late 1980s and early 1990s was a pivotal era for anarcho-punk and marked a time of experimentation in anarchist free radio which has paved the way for alternative media projects today. The interdependence between alternative media and social and political movements is rarely explored (Dowmunt, 2007, p. 10) and examination of the links between free radio and anarchopunk are particularly relevant for the understanding of contemporary DIY punk radio practice. Both were based in anti-capitalist protest and direct action, including hunt saboteurs, squatters and travellers rights, the free party movement, road protests, and anti-fascism (McKay, 1998). These shared political beliefs and values were more defining than specific music style and genre. As Glasper states, “bands were bound together more by their ethics than any unwritten musical doctrine (…) influences taken from everywhere from meandering folk via raging hardcore to arty noise and back again. ‘No rules!’ was the only real mantra, after all” (2006, p. 9). Digital production and broadcast technologies are constantly adapting and becoming increasingly accessible. This dynamic, fast pace of change makes radio difficult to pin down and categorise effectively, leading to challenges in understanding the future of radio as it adjusts, embraces the internet and continues to generate a new language and narrative (Gazi, Starkey & Jedrzejewksi, 2011, p. 17). The Radioactive story illustrates this “technical insurgency” (Hendy, 2000, p. 5), with Dónal Greene outlining an ongoing process of experimentation leading to the launch of the online service. Radioactive International was facilitated by developments in web audio for programme distribution, combined with the increasing accessibility of digital recording, editing and file-sharing techniques for individual producers. The democratisation of media and communications is primarily attributed to such technological developments and the growth of the internet. However, DIY punk practice shows that the technology is the tool, not the cause of independent cultural production. The qualities of collaboration, creativity and resourcefulness have long driven the innovative use of available technologies. For instance, 1950s skiffle music is recognised as an early DIY movement and precursor to 1970s punk (Spencer, 2008; McKay, 1998) with people in the post-Depression era US adapting available domestic objects, from washboards to broomsticks, to get together and play music. Similarly, the technological experimentation and innovation that has facilitated the development of Radioactive International is driven by collective political, musical and social aims. During the pirate FM broadcasts, the internet was in its infancy, slow, expensive and difficult to access. Yet the station is described as ‘seizing’ the technology to spread the word beyond Dublin (Dónal Greene, 17.08.2015). Rather than one-way promotion, the website is described as a communication tool for encouraging involvement, and emails from bands quickly began to come in from around the world with music sent in soon after. For Radioactive, the internet represented an opportunity to build on the established practice of sharing information, ideas and music through 209 210 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 independent DIY networks. It is presented as an extension of the existing use of letter writing and distribution catalogues such as Book Your Own Fuckin’ Life. The FM broadcasts ended in 1994, yet Dónal outlines a process of ongoing experimentation, with participants recognising new technology as the future of broadcasting for small independent radio stations due to low setup costs, no need for transmitter antennas or studio equipment, no legal and license issues, and easier listener involvement (17.08.2015). The station’s experimental approach to technology is described in the same terms as tape-sharing, used to further punk DIY aims of free access and distribution. However, the ideas were often too early for the technology. In 1995, the process of encoding wav files to real audio format was slow and complex, taking two days to process one hour of audio. Keen to explore the potential of online audio, Radioactive made the significant investment of £1000 to upgrade the station’s computer and released an album online by Kilkenny band, Engine Alley (Billboard Magazine, 28.10.1995). As the internet was too slow for streaming, individual tracks were available to download then play for free. By 2010, web access and capacity had advanced dramatically and a pop-up internet station was set up to support the growing anti-austerity movement, representing the continued political and countercultural aims of free radio. For Radioactive, recordings of marches, rallies and speeches represented an abundance of content to agitate for mass protests (Dónal Greene, 17.08.2015). The station ran automated, with the latest content played on loop. Whilst it failed to gain momentum, it is recognised as a trial for the current format, “It gave me a great insight to how easy it would be to put a station together online with no central point or need for constant maintenance or weekly meetings. With that, the idea of Radioactive International was born” (Dónal Greene, 17.08.2015). The launch of Radioactive International was based on the continued collective aims of DIY punk producers, facilitated through combined factors of technical development and experimentation together with the continued creativity and enthusiasm of the people involved. Production Coordinator, Jo Greene, describes the first reunion of the original Radioactive station in 2012, “they were still the same people (just a bit greyer!) still with the same passion for music and ideas” (18.12.2015). The reunion included consultation on the idea of presenters making programs at home on laptops and uploading them to a central point on the internet. The idea was enthusiastically received with fifteen presenters joining within a week. The station was launched shortly after, in mid-September 2012. Forty shows went to air over the first two weeks, quickly building to thirty a week soon after, with programmes uploaded from across the globe by 2016. The collaborative, co-operative approach which framed the initial pirate station, continues to drive the development of the online service, described as, “a collective of like-minded people who are passionate about their music, art and politics, sometimes we like to mash it all up and sometimes keep it separate” (radioactiveinternational.org). 5. DIY radio producers These collective values are a continual theme throughout the accounts of individual DIY punk radio producers, irrespective of station or programme. As well as making radio, participants listen to and share each other’s shows, stressing the importance of discovering music and connecting with likeminded people through real networks. As long-standing fanzine producer and co-presenter of the Under the Pavement radio show, Richard Cubesville states, “punks get radio” (18.12.2015). People who like obscure or marginalised music appreciate coverage through mainstream or conventional media, “my interest in DIY punk was greatly fuelled by its total lack of coverage on TV, radio and in the press (…) there is a questing spirit to go out and find music” (18.12.2015). Each of the accounts reflects this view, directly linking radio with finding and sharing new music. This is combined with an enduring connection to the medium of radio, which is discussed as central to their initial introduction to music and discovery of punk. Most responses explicitly trace this back to the role of BBC Radio DJ John Peel in the development of punk. Whilst he represented the establishment BBC, his show gave a platform to punk and alternative artists that acted as a 5.1. ‘Old punks don’t die, they stand at the back’… and make radio: 1990s anarcho-punk and the continuation of DIY values in contemporary radio practice gateway, “John Peel has a lot to answer for — he made radio a vehicle for introducing a large audience to obscure and DIY music. Part of what we do is in that tradition — hardly anything we play comes from major labels and much of what we do is rooted in the local DIY scene” (Richard, 18.12.2015). In each case, radio programmes are described as an extension of wider DIY punk participation and production including bands, distros, promotions, and particularly fanzines. Richard has produced long-standing DIY fanzine One Way Ticket to Cubesville since the 1980s and both radio co-hosts have written fanzines over the years, demonstrating an enthusiasm and innovation which “complements radio very well” (18.12.2015). The connection between fanzines and online radio is further illustrated through The Hope Show which provides an ideal example of the digital evolution of multiplatform DIY practice. The programme was an early addition to Radioactive International, produced by Dublin’s Hope Collective. Starting from the initial aim of bringing bands to play in Ireland in the late 1980s, the Hope Collective grew throughout the 1990s with a collaborative approach to putting on gigs, “the idea of the gigs was that we were people not promoters, and the bands and audience were equal. At our gigs there were no supports, just people helping out” (hopecollectiveireland.com). Document: a Story of Hope (2002) outlines the history of the collective with contributions from, amongst others, Dick Lucas (Subhumans & Citizen Fish), Boz (Steam Pig & Yurt) and Andy Moor (The Ex & Dog Faced Hermans). Stories for almost every gig from the early days, are combined with vegan recipes, reflecting the role of music as inextricably linked to DIY politics and lifestyle, “Hope’s ethos was to provide good music for the greatest number of people at the lowest price possible and to always remain outside of the corporate structures. It pioneered an independent, selfsupportive ethos at a time when the ambition of most Irish musicians was to sign to a major-label for the maximum amount of money available” (Hope Collective, 2002). The gigs continue, and The Hope Show on Radioactive International supports the Hope fanzine and a blog, Musings on Music, Books and Life which cites punk as a central reference point in a collection of posts on politics, music, football, books, blogs and movies, “it has made a lasting impression on us and has helped shape our lives. We want to share some experiences and document a cultural movement” (Hope Collective, 2016). The Hope Show presents online radio as one format within a wider collection of multi-platform content to share music, politics and events, demonstrating the ways in which DIY communities are utilising digital production and internet technologies. David Hemphill and Shari Leskowitz (2012) identify a growing range of radical knowledge-sharing within DIY communities of practice, including skillshares, open-source media, fanzines, and pirate and internet radio shows. The study demonstrates the increasing need for alternative information-sharing to counteract the concentration of commercial media power. However, where the Radioactive story demonstrates an historical process of creative independence and political activism, Hemphill and Leskowitz participants suggest that such developments are “new”, “there are lots of people who are waking up to the fact that if we need a real alternative media, it’s something we are going to have to do for ourselves (…) they have real freedom to share with their community in a way that’s not mediated at all by the Establishment” (2012, p.13). The aims and practices that underpin DIY punk radio predate the internet and digital production technology. Instead, activity illustrates the resourceful, adaptive nature of DIY production, combining traditional and new technologies in a constant process to bypass commercial and corporate control. DIY communities display a blend of enthusiasm and scepticism about the internet (Hemphill & Leskowitz, 2012) which is demonstrated through the varying range of responses in relation to radio online. Producers acknowledge the ease and accessibility of the internet as providing a low-cost and immediate platform for radio, with the ability to post and listen for free, at any time, from anywhere in the world. Yet issues of access and corporate control remain, through surveillance, smart advertising and endless unedited material. As Richard Cubesville argues, “Power is Power — much of what people listen to is as mainstream and insipid as it always was” 211 212 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 (18.12.2015). The internet may have increased access to more content, yet major labels and mainstream media still dictate the majority of listening, “the desire to explore and to innovate didn’t begin with the internet — I discovered a world’s worth of punk music through leftfield radio shows, fanzines and tape trading” (Richard, 18.12.2015). DIY punk radio producers agree on the benefits of online radio distribution, but responses equally value the immediate connection of live, traditionally broadcast radio (Tommy Easy Snappin’, 4.8.2015; John Spithead/Liquidizer, 16.11.2015; Richard Cubesville, 18.12.2015). This is illustrated through the example of the programme I co-produce on community radio. The Liquidizer format is heavily based on listener contributions through social media, and the ability to interact and connect with real networks of like-minded people is a key feature. For co-presenter, John Spithead, producing live radio is comparable with the experience of playing gigs in the 1990s, but without the exhausting touring, tedious rehearsals and late nights (16.11.2015). Now older, and with the need to balance work and family lives, radio provides an accessible and low maintenance means of creative production and participation. In addition, the content and style of DIY punk radio celebrates the lo-fi aesthetic of analogue pirate radio, as reflected in the names of Radioactive International shows, including Tunes from the Kitchen; Crap on the Radio and Suburban Superheroes — Soiled by Cheap Spanish Wine. Rather than indicating low quality, it demonstrates an active rejection of “professionalism” and the slick production values of commercial broadcasting. For producers, the freedom from specific format, playlist or genre is central, valuing the “chaotic”, “rough” qualities of programmes, “Guests have a lot of time within the show to express themselves — musicians have more or less free rein to play for however long they want, whereas interviews are slow and often go off on tangents. All in all it lives up to our strapline, ‘Anarchy on the Airwaves’” (Richard, 18.12.2016). Making radio is viewed equally as creative production and social activity, with online content discussed in terms of connecting with existing and new contacts. Examples include Richard Cubesville’s account of discovering Spanish band, Accidente, playing their music and interviewing them on the radio show and flying out to Barcelona to see them play live. In addition, contact through The Liquidizer programme in Australia led to Irish and UK punks originally involved in the 1990s meeting up at 2013 Adelaide Punx Picnic and establishing new networks across the globe (John Spithead, 16.11.2015). Radio is discussed in collective, participatory terms relating to extending a global network of collaborators. Kevin Dunn identifies this as a central feature of DIY punk record labels in a way that is equally relevant to radio, “through their activities, they continue to inspire others to produce while providing a powerful apparatus: the informal yet vibrant global DIY punk network outside the direct control of the corporate music industry” (2012, p. 234). Such networks have always been a central feature of DIY communities, creating alternative means of sharing music and ideas whether through fanzines, distros or tape-sharing. Online radio is an extension of this practice, utilising new technologies to encourage open access and participation. 6. Conclusion This paper presents a growing movement of DIY radio online among a particular generation of producers, originally involved in 1980s and 1990s anarcho-punk. It considers punk radio as alternative media, an approach which emphasises the principles of organisation, production and social relations through which they are created (Atton, 2002: 9). The range of radio practice discussed shows that amateur and non-professional media producers “establish their own alternative frames of participation, political power and creativity” (Atton, 2015: 1). For those involved, the DIY punk values that underpin the activity are more significant than the technological developments that have facilitated online radio production and distribution. The digital revolution is most often credited as democratising media participation leading to a proliferation of usergenerated content and amateur production. Yet as alternative media theory and punk radio practice shows, the history of radio is characterised by DIY activism to bypass governmental and 5.1. ‘Old punks don’t die, they stand at the back’… and make radio: 1990s anarcho-punk and the continuation of DIY values in contemporary radio practice capitalist control. An historical analysis of the Radioactive journey from pirate to online radio illustrates the ongoing process of innovation and countercultural potential of DIY punk radio, continually developing and adapting technologies to circumvent the governmental restrictions of analogue radio. For all participants, the relationship between radio and punk is clear, recognising it as an affordable, accessible and immediate means of giving people a voice (Thomas, 19.01.2016). As a generation growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, they describe an instinctive connection with the medium of radio that relates back to their initial discovery of punk and alternative music. Now in their forties and fifties, online radio provides a flexible and low-maintenance platform that can be easily balanced with multiple work, family and social commitments. Each individual DIY radio producer links their current activity to the impact of original anarcho-punk involvement and its continued influence in an ongoing process of creative, political and social participation. “Although today’s capitalist system can easily appropriate and assimilate messages and symbols, it is far more difficult to appropriate the ethos that is at the heart of DIY punk culture” (Dunn, 2012, p. 234). The evolution of online punk radio demonstrates the enduring relevance of this ethos to a generation of independent producers. DIY is considered as a lifetime practice, with radio presented as an extension of wider cultural production driven by the principles of freedom, collaboration and anti-capitalist activism. This snapshot of contemporary radio practice illustrates the continued resourcefulness, creativity and innovation of DIY networks to maintain independent control of production and distribution, irrespective of age. References Atton, C. (2015). Routledge Companion to Alternative and Community Media. Oxon: Routledge Atton, C. (2002). Alternative Media. London: Sage Publications. Brecht, B. (1979 [1932]). Radio as a Means of Communication: A talk on the function of radio. Screen, 20(3-4), 2428. DOI: 10.1093/screen/20.3-4.24. Billboard Magazine (28.10.1995). Nielsen Business Media Incorporated. Carpenter, S. (2004). 40 Watts from Nowhere: A Journey into Pirate Radio. New York: Simon & Schuster. Coyer, K., Dowmunt, T. & Fountain, A. (2007). The Alternative Media Handbook. London & New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. Cubesville, R. (18.12.2015). One Way Ticket to Cubesville & Under the Pavement. Email Correspondence. Dowmunt, T. (2007). Introduction. In K., Coyer, T., Dowmunt & A., Fountain (Eds.), The Alternative Media Handbook. London & New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. Douglas, S. J. (1999). Listening In: Radio and the American Imagination - from Amos ‘n’ Andy and Edward R. Murrow to Wolfman Jack and Howard Stern. New York & Toronto: Random House. Dunn, K. (2012). “If It Ain’t Cheap, It Ain’t Punk”: Walter Benjamin’s Progressive Cultural Production and DIY Punk Record Labels. Journal of Popular Music Studies, 24, 217–237. DOI: 10.1111/j.1533-1598.2012.01326.x. Gazi, A., Starkey, G. & Jedrzejewski, S. (2011). Radio Content in the Digital Age — the Evolution of a Medium. Bristol: Intellect. Glasper, I. (2006). The Day the Country Died: A History of Anarcho-Punk, 1980-1984. London: Cherry Red Greene, D. (23.07.2015 & 17.08.2015). Radioactive International. Email correspondence. Greene, D. (1994). Radio is Our Bomb. Retrieved from www.dojo.ie/active/bomb.htm. Greene, J. (18.12.2015). Radioactive International. Email correspondence. Hall, S. (1997). Representation: Cultural Representation and Signifying Practices. London: Sage Publications Hartley, J. (2000). Radiocracy — Sound and Citizenship. International Journal of Cultural Studies, 3, 153-159. DOI: 10.1177/136787790000300202. Hemphill, D. & Leskowitz, S. (2013). DIY Activists: Communities of Practice, Cultural Dialogism, and Radical Knowledge Sharing. Adult Education Quarterly, 63(1), 57-77. DOI: 10.1177/0741713612442803. Hendy, D. (2000). Radio in the Global Age. Cambridge: Polity Press. Hooligan Press (1987). Radio is My Bomb — a DIY Manual for Pirates. Retrieved from https://libcom.org/files/radio-ismy-bomb-part-1.pdf Hope, N. (25.1.2016). The Hope Show & Hope Collective. Email correspondence. McKay, G. (1998). DiY Culture: Party & Protest in Nineties Britain. London: Verso. Potter, J. & Wetherell, M. (1987). Discourse and Social Psychology — Beyond attitudes and behaviour. London: Sage Publications. Radioactive International (2015). Retrieved from http://radioactiveinternational.org/ 213 214 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Rash, T. (4.8.2015). Easy Snappin’, The Freebooters & Nappyrash. Email correspondence. Spencer, A. (2008). DIY: The Rise of Lo-Fi Culture. London: Marion Boyars. Spithead, J. (16.11.2015). The Liquidizer & Spithead. Interview. The Hope Collective (2016). Musings on Music, Books and Life. Retrieved from https://culturie.wordpress.com/about/ The Hope Collective (2002). Document: a Story of Hope. Retrieved from http://www.hopecollectiveireland.com/ Thomas (19.01.2016). Freedom Fry Hi/Fi. Email correspondence. Waltz, M. (2005). Alternative and Activist Media. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. 5.2. You never know: An exploration of the difficulties in music career development when engaging with record labels Christina Ballico 1 Abstract Becoming a full-time career musician is fraught with challenges and uncertainties. This paper discusses the real-world challenges of trying to develop a music career in relation to musicians’ engages with record labels. It places a particular focus on the experiences of musicians from the indie pop/rock music scene in Perth, Western Australia. This local scene attracted significant national attention from the mid1990s through to the late-2000s, with a plethora of artists courted and signed to varying recording contracts. This paper reflects on the challenges of developing and sustaining a music career in relation to the myriad of internal and external factors that influence the ways in which record labels engage with, and market, musicians and their music to audiences. Keywords: music careers, record labels, music commodification. 1. Introduction Signing, developing and marketing music to audiences is a risky business. For record labels, who sit at the crossroads of music development, marketing and audience engagement, they constantly work to mitigate this risk by continuously signing new artists, and re-evaluating the fortunes of those already on their rosters. In doing so, they look to the future and the past all at once: the success and fortunes of artists is not known until they engage with audiences, but, at the same time, historical popularity and marketing trends are considered when determining which artists to sign, prioritise and market, and how to do so. Such factors inevitably impact upon the ways in which musicians who engage with record labels can and cannot develop full-time music careers. Considering the risk with which record labels operate, and the ways in which this impacts musicians who choose to engage with them, this paper reports on the experiences of five indie pop/rock groups from Perth, Western Australia. These groups gained the attention of national and international record labels in the mid-late 1990s and early 2000s, with their experiences providing a useful case study through which to explore the challenges of engaging with record labels due to the high level, and unexpected nature of, the interest in their music. This paper works to bridge the gap between prior research into the nature of musicians’ careers and the recorded music industry’s structure and functioning. Previous research into music career development and sustainability has encompassed a range of economic scoping studies (Throsby 2007, 2010; Throsby and Zednick, 2010, 2011), examinations of the notion of labour in music and the broader arts sector, and the ways in a broad range of artists navigate multiple roles consecutively and concurrently in order to sustain a full-time creative career (Le et al., 2014; Lingo et al., 2013; Menger, 1999; Morgan et al., 2013; Teague and Smith, 2015). In addition, work has been undertaken analysing the patterns of migration for musicians wishing to pursue full-time musical employment (Bennett, 2010), and the ways in which musicians make career related decisions based on the experiences of their peers (Ballico, 2015). A range of literature has also examined the structure and functioning of the recorded music industry, including the ways in which 1 Research Fellow, Queensland Conservatorium Research Centre, Griffith University, Australia. E-mail: c. ballico|at|griffith|dot|edu|dot|au. 215 216 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 it engages musicians and their music in its pursuit of profits (Bishop, 2005; Jones, 2002; Stahl, 2011; Wikstom). The data drawn on for this paper is from a PhD level project examining indie pop/rock music activity in Perth, Western Australia. This project examined music making culture as well as career, business, and sector development in relation to the lived experiences of 48 interviewees (25 musicians, and 23 industry personnel) who were directly involved with the creation and dissemination of indie pop/rock music from Perth between 1998 and 2009. These interviewees were chosen based on the researcher’s prior knowledge of the sector (gained through several years’ experience in a range of local music related roles ranging from community radio announcing, music journalism and blogging) as well as knowledge accumulated during data collection. Key to this research was the ways in which these musicians have and have not developed careers in light of an increased interest in this local scene. This interest came from a combination of national and international record labels, as well as media outlets. Musicians of varying level of success and recognition were included, with a combination of those who had carved out sustaining careers, to those who were still trying to, or had previously attempted to so. Research interviews were undertaken over a two-year period (2010–2012) and were semistructured in nature. A broad set of base questions were used as a guide while also allowing for a natural flow of conversation between the researcher and interviewee. Interviews were undertaken at a range of locations including in cafes, offices, pubs, and on occasion, the homes of interviewees. A small number were also undertaken over the phone and via email. Most interviews lasted an average of 45 minutes, with the maximum duration being two hours. Verbatim transcriptions were produced by the researcher for each interview, based off audio recordings for those that were done in a face-to-face or over-the-phone manner. These transcripts thematically analysed in relation to the topics discussed and the ways in which they related to the project’s broad questions regarding career, business and sector development. Framed within the theories of music as a form of creative capital and commodity, this paper first provides an overview of these theories before examining the structure of the recorded music industry within global and national contexts. The paper then delves deeply into an analysis of the lived experiences of the five groups, in relation to engaging with and being marketed by a range of record labels in the mid — late 1990s and early 2000s. This analysis focuses on a range of internal and external factors that influenced the decisions made by record labels when deciding to work with these groups, and in turn explores the impacts these decisions had on the musicians in question. 2. Music as form of creative capital and a commodity Creativity is not an economic activity, however, as Howkins (2002, p. 1) explains, it “may become so when it produces an idea with economic implications or a tradable product.” Even so; the point at which an idea becomes a product — and as such becomes capital — can be hard to define. As Howkins, (2002, p. 199) goes on to point out, capital, as defined by economists, is “something which is not, or not only, valued for current use but as an investment for the future”. Capital is “stock; it is stable; it has longevity.” The main types of capital have historically been monetary (financial capital) and buildings and equipment (physical capital). Creativity can be considered capital because “it results from investment, which the owner may increase or vary; and it is a significant input to future creativity and creative products” (Howkins, 2002, p. 211). Investment in creativity can be financial and non- financial. Financial investment can range from investments in the development of creative products (such as advances paid by record labels to musicians), the purchasing of products and services to assist in the creative process (such as musical equipment, the services of producers and recording engineers as well as studio time), to the investment made when marketing a product to audiences. From the perspective of musicians, financial investment can also include the de facto investment made when choosing a lifestyle which 5.2. You never know: An exploration of the difficulties in music career development when engaging with record labels favours creative pursuits over full time paid employment, working in lower paying jobs due to a passion and desire for making music, or by accepting a lower (or completely forfeiting a) profit margin in order to support music production (Throsby, 2007). An important component in developing a music career is being able to manage the process through which creativity, through music, becomes capital. When creativity is converted to capital, it gains most value “when it is managed and made purposive” (Howkins, 2002, p. 212). That is, by managing and giving creative capital a definite purpose, it has a much higher chance of gaining value — whether that is financial value or value through its enrichment of culture. This is in contrast to creative capital that is unmanaged and exists without a purpose. As Negus and Pickering (2004, pp. 57–58) explain, creative products such as songs undergo a process “whereby they are made commercial — and this is why modern economies employ so many people in marketing, publicity and public relations. Their aim is to connect the work of cultural producer with the lives of consumers.” As Attali (1985, p. 185) similarly comments, in order for music to be seen as capital, it has required that the: Labour of the creation and interpretation of music (…) be assigned value (...) and it was necessary to establish a distinction between the value of the work and the value of its representation, the value of the program and that of its usage. The assigning of this value is a critical to the process of turning music into a commodity. Following along in this process is the need to understand the way in which the music is to be marketed to audiences, and the best audiences to market to. Broadly, the marketing of music sees it be constructed as an “experience good”, with which “there is great uncertainty about how consumers will value a newly created product short of producing the good and placing it before them” (Caves, 2000, p. 2). Due to these market uncertainties, record label executives provide a critical function, essentially acting as the “gatekeepers” or “tastemakers” of the music industry. These labels can be of a “major” or “independent” nature, and form the basis of the commodified music industry. 3. The structure of the recorded music industry: Global and national contexts With a value of $US 15B, the international recorded music industry comprises “major” and ‘independent’ record labels. Over the last decade or so, these majors have condensed from five, (Sony, Universal, Warner, EMI and Polydor), to four (Sony, Universal, Warner and EMI), and now three (Sony, Universal and Warner). This sector of the recorded music industry has been responsible for 75% of the world’s commercial musical output since 2004 (IFPI, 2016; Bishop, 2005, p. 443). As at 2009, more than 4000 artists were signed to these labels across the globe, with tens of thousands more artists signed to independents, some of which are aligned with the majors (IFPI, 2010b, p. 6). The primary distinction between majors and independents is whether they form part of a media conglomerate. Importantly, and in line with changes that have occurred within the broader media and entertainment industries, the structure of this sector has undergone tremendous changes over the last two decades. This is due in part to the buyouts and mergers mentioned above, but also as a result of a changing media and music consumption landscape. One constant despite these changes, however, is the continuing importance of signing new artists and releasing new records. In order to sell and market music and related products is at the heart of how they generate revenue. Recorded music forms the basis of the music industry, acting as a promotional tool on radio and television, with CD sales traditionally being the way through which labels recoup their costs. This model has shifted in recent times, particularly with the development of “360 deals” — in which labels recoup their costs not only through record sales, but also through live ticket sales and 217 218 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 merchandise (two ways musicians would traditionally generate most of their income) — however, record labels continue to provide connections between musicians, media and audiences, all the while continuing to invest in new artists and associated outputs. This continued investment is viewed to be risky as “only a minority of the artists developed will be commercially successful in a highly competitive market” (IFPI, 2010a, p. 6). Arguably, the more control these multi-national corporations maintain, the higher chance they have of influencing who succeeds within the music industries (Jones, 2002). Knowing how to recognise and nurture talent is a key element to succeeding in the music industry. It requires record labels “to read the consumer market and identify how different sorts of music might work for different audiences” (Market Equity, 2002, p. 15). Record labels bridge the gap between musicians and music consumers. This space is also filled with a multitude of media, retail outlets and live music venues through which music is marketed and distributed. Essentially, the role of the music industry workers employed by/ operating through the labels is to finance, develop, market and distribute music to consumers (Borg, 2008, p. 172). The capacity of labels to undertake these aspects of music production and dissemination is underpinned by the size, structure and underlying characteristics of the label (Wikstrom, 2009). Artists can be signed to recording contracts, which can range from “full service” — where the label is entirely responsible for financing the development, marketing and distribution of music products — to contracts under which the label is only responsible for one component of the financing, recording, distribution, marketing and/ or touring component. Based predominantly in Europe, the international recorded music industry has regional and national offices which have a degree of autonomy in the signings and marketing of acts within these place-specific markets. This multi-layer aspect to their businesses is important due to local, regional, and international flows in music taste and popular consumption trends which influence the decisions made by record labels in the signing of artists and the marketing of music to audiences. The Australian music industry operates as an extension of the international music industry with all major labels having offices in Australia. These regionally-focused offices are responsible for distributing international product within the Australian and New Zealand music markets, while also working with acts specific to this region. These labels can also negotiate the promotion and marketing of Australian artists and their releases within international contexts. Beyond this sector, Australia is also home to a strong market of independent record labels. Importantly, local, regional and international trends in music popularity and consumption influence the signings that occur within different territories. Such flows of popularity influenced a shift in focus from the Australian labels, who started to look to Perth as a viable talent pool. This led to a peak in interest around the local scene. More broadly, a shift in the popularity of alternative music within the Australian market further influenced the signings and market positioning of groups from Perth who could fill this niche. Overall, while the popularity of, and interest in, Perth music within the Australian market has spearheaded its integration into the broader market, but even at times of peak interest, this dynamic remains at the mercy of broader popularity trends. Record labels have traditionally acted as the “tastemakers” of the music sector (Frere-Jones, 2010), while also providing musicians with finance, marketing nous and access to distribution channels, that in turn facilitate their music connecting with audiences. In the last two decades, however, the role of record labels has shifted. This shift has occurred as a result of technological advances which have made it easier and cheaper for musicians to record, promote, release and distribute their music themselves, while also changing the ways in which audiences pay for and consume music. As a result, the ways in which musicians are invested in, and in turn, how the labels — particularly the majors — recoup this investment has shifted. Historically, record labels would recoup their costs through the sale of records, with artists making their profits predominantly through performing live and selling merchandise. Nowadays, however, shifting revenue streams have led to the development of a “360 model” (or multiple rights deal) in which labels take a percentage of profits from all of an artist’s revenue streams (Stahl, 2011). 5.2. You never know: An exploration of the difficulties in music career development when engaging with record labels As IFPI (2012, p. 11) explains, only a small number of acts signed to major labels will achieve significant success. While there is some conjecture as to the investment versus success ratio, recent estimates are around one in five, having increased from one in ten a decade ago. While this success rate may have increased, it is important to understand the shifts in the way in which record labels make money, which have likely resulted in a decline in the number of acts they are investing in. It is this risk that results in artist development being highly mediated, with the record industry largely concerned with the controlling and exploiting of musical products (Wikstrom, 2009; Stahl, 2011). Attempting to have control over a market can see labels keeping acts on their roster which they have no desire to market to audiences but do not want to risk having another label having success with them; placing a higher emphasis on acts within their roster which they believe will make a profit; and deciding to release acts from their contracts once they feel they are no longer likely to succeed commercially. As Jones explains this process often leaves artists and their managers in the dark: Record company intermediaries are continuously reassessing the likely fortunes of their signed acts for the very basic reason that they never have sufficient resources to give each act the same degree of support and attention. Consequently, they operate on a system of ‘prioritisation’, but it is a system largely hidden from the view of the act, and as far as possible, from the act’s manager. While record labels can take control over acts in terms of marketing, they can also influence decisions as to where the artists record. Such decisions are based on the anticipated goals of marketing the band, as well as the amount of money the label are willing to invest in recording. Another reason control is so important in the music industry is because of the position of music production as part of the copyright industry. In order to work to a strategy, and to position acts within the market in a way they see fit, record labels must control as much as they can across the spectrum of artists’ outputs (Jones, 2002, p. 150). This includes owning rights to the music created, the distribution channels and to the ways in which artists are marketed (Jones, 2002, p. 15). The reason this control is critical to the record labels as it can help mitigate the uncertain nature of the sector. As Caves (2000, p. 146, emphasis in original) explains: Nobody knows, but the maker and retailer work in great uncertainty about demand for the individual creative product (…) [there] is a small problem of selecting and dealing in small quantities of the infinite variety of close-substitute products. To this end, the uncertain nature of the processes of music commodification requires musicians to believe “that the relationships they enter into with intermediary figures will result in their own successful commodification” (Jones, 2002, p. 153). A combination of their desire to pursue music, which is often informed by their own music tastes and fandom, coupled with being in the dark about the commodification process makes acts “operationally disempowered” in this process, leaving them vulnerable (2002, pp. 153-154). Regardless of trustworthy relationships within the music industry — and specifically between musicians, their managers and label representatives, the operation and prioritisation principles can result in intra-label competition due to a lack of equality within record company departments (Jones, 2002, p. 154). In short, while an act may sign with a record label, and be fully supported by the employees assigned to them, label employees outside this core group can still influence how an act is developed and marketed, and may choose not to invest the level of resources required to bring the act to market prominence. This can be due to pressure to achieve other sales targets, or to make a particular impression within a particular market. The result of this intra-label competition can range from changing release dates of records in order to focus on other, more high profile acts; to a label’s sole focus being placed on one, or a small group of, acts which they believe will generate the most profit. The result for lesser known acts, and acts at a critical developmental stage, is that they can be left unsupported and in limbo. 219 220 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 A further complication of the music commodification process is the competition which exists when a musical product engages with distribution and promotional channels beyond the label’s control. The reason for this relinquishment is due to the uncertain market forces in which labels try to position musical acts. This degree of uncertainty is evident in the levels of success as well as the shifts in music consumption trends and has implications for both labels and musicians alike, as they cannot feasibly control how they are received by the market. This is what makes trying to develop a full-time music career so challenging. 4. The realities of trying to forge a music career: Challenging and uncertain For the musicians interviewed for the research reported on here, some have been able to forge lasting full-time careers, while others were still hoping to, and for some, their priorities shifted away from wanting a music career, to undertaking to non-musical work, with creating and performing music reverting to a hobby. In some instances, the shifts away from pursuing music were further influenced by broader personal decisions such as deciding to “settle down” (such as getting married, starting a family, and purchasing real estate) or from being exhausted and “burnt out” from trying to succeed at a music career. The five group case studies all experienced difficulties in being able to develop and sustain a full-time music career, specifically in relation to their experiences of engaging with record labels. When reflecting on their early aspirations, most musicians spoke of their early engagements with the local live scene. Watching other local acts perform, and particularly those who were attracting the attention of the national media industry and record labels, while also building audiences beyond the state, created a strong sense of immediacy and belief that it was a music career was viable. This shift in attitude, which also went hand in hand with a positive attitude toward being able to pursue such a career from Perth was significant to the ability for the local sector to continue to develop To this end, the achievements of members of the local music scene influenced what the musicians hoped to achieve, and the paths they believed they needed to take in order to do so. More broadly, these career desires were also influenced by global trends and attitudes towards success, which, at the time, were heavily weighted toward being signed to major labels, either directly, or by one of their established subsidiaries. As these musicians started seriously pursuing their musicianship, their desires to continue doing so were also influenced by their experiences of engaging with the national industry, with their experiences engaging with record labels being particularly influential to how they would continue to feel toward wishing to pursue a full-time music career. Musicians often spoke of a sense of naivety when it came to attracting the attention of the national music industry, and particularly when dealing with record labels. With the increased interest in Perth music unexpected, and with the attitude that signing with the majors, in one way or another, was the pathway to a lasting career, musicians occasionally found themselves in what Jones (2002) terms “operationally disempowered”. This disempowerment ranged from being contractually bound to labels they did no longer wanted to be signed to, being the subject of intralabel competition (for example in cases where other artists where being prioritised over them in terms of release schedules), and being marketed in a way they, the media and audiences were uncomfortable with and non-receptive toward. In some instances, the levels of success achieved by other acts would influence the expectations placed on Perth musicians to reach similar thresholds. It is also important to understand that while this increased interest further encouraged the continued signing of Perth acts, it did not result in similar levels of success and/ or recognition for all concerned. Nor did it leave them immune from inter-label competition in attempts to capitalise on success achieved and broader interest in Perth music. For example, Turnstyle were signed to the independent label Spunk, a relatively new label in the mid-late 1990s. At the time, the label accessed distribution services through the larger 5.2. You never know: An exploration of the difficulties in music career development when engaging with record labels independent, Festival. Vocalist for the band Adem Kerimofski (pers. comm.) recalls how, once the group had started to achieve success, Festival were trying to circumvent Spunk and sign the group directly: Spunk were the people putting out or records, but, they were distributed by Festival so, once we sort of started getting a bit popular, Festival I think, wanted a little (pauses) little finger in the pie. So, but, we always had our allegiance with Spunk and we had a couple of run-ins with people from Festival, which weren’t that pleasant and that we didn’t really want to work with them. The relationships between labels by way of distribution and financing can be prohibitive to artists being able to record with particular producers and in particular ways. For example, to return to the band The Fergusons, who ended up signed to Dew Process, a label that received funding through EMI in its early days, their debut album was refused funding as Dew Process could not get approval from EMI to provide the band with the funding they requested for their album. Reflecting on this experience, which also came at a time they had started to lose momentum, the band members explain (pers. comm.): Nistelberger: We didn’t get to do the album because it was going to be too expensive. Joyce: Look I think it was [the producers] recording (…) He came to us and said ‘This is how I record’ and we’re like ‘that’s perfect’. Beadon We got along with him so well. Nistelberger: We got along with him really well but, the problem was his price. [The] record company were just like ‘no chance that we’d spend that much money on a band that hasn’t released an album before.’ Beadon: And at that stage we’d lost all of our momentum as well [and] it just went from there and then it came to a full halt. Without the funding to record the album, coupled with a loss of momentum due to the illness of one of the band members, the Fergusons disbanded shortly thereafter. In other cases, the ability for artists to continue to build traction with national audiences can be influenced by changes to label personnel, which is common in cases where labels get bought out. For example, having originally signed to Festival-Mushroom Records, Red Jezebel are a band that found themselves on the roster of the major label Warner Music’s following a take-over of Festival-Mushroom in the mid-2000s. This resulted in the band going from being signed to an independent label to being involved with a major instead. The tension of this was exacerbated by the departure of key label employees in whom Red Jezebel had confidence. For the band, this meant that industry members who supported them were no longer with the label, which in turn meant the group were no longer a priority in the release schedule. They found the release date for their album How I learned to stop worrying was being repeatedly pushed back. The group’s bassist, Mark Cruickshank (pers. comm.) explains what this experience was like for the band: The writing was on the wall that they weren’t gonna put any effort into us (...) From what I gather it became quite clear that there wasn’t much point staying with them (...) I mean it was all quite amicable but, yeah it was just quite clear there was no point being with the label (…) And they wanted to push us really hard too. Like when they were hot they were really hot and when they were cold they were really cold (laughs). Like they were wanting to go hard, like they were just really expecting lots and lots of touring and we all had [day] jobs and that so it was a little bit freaky. Due to this lack of interest and support from the label, the group negotiated out of their contract and released their second record in 2007 independently, with distribution through the label MGM. Nowadays the band perform sporadically in Perth, have not undertaken a national tour 221 222 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 in nearly a decade, and while they have released a third album in the last 12 months, are largely inactive. In other cases some acts can be signed with the label having a particular aim in regards to how they are to be marketed and the success they are expected to achieve. For example, the band End of Fashion where signed at a time in which there was a particular focus on Australian music having an impact in the US market. As examined in Ballico (2012), the band were signed to the Australian arm of EMI, with the hopes of having the band make significant inroads in the US market. This rationale influenced the approach to their recordings (being sent to the US to work with a wellknown producer), the way in which they were marketed (as “the next big thing”) and the way in which the Australian arm of EMI interfered with the bands ability to sign distribution and/ or licensing deals with EMI arms that did not cover the US market. As the band did not achieve success for EMI US, they were blocked from being able to sign with regional offices around the world who were interested in them. Interest from labels is not enough of a guarantee, however, that one will become a successful musician. The ways in which these experiences play out are influenced by the broader popularity trends that occur in the market in which the music is to be marketed, the other acts that the label is pursuing or has already signed with, and in cases where inter-label competition sees artists having to navigate competition between the organisations themselves. These experiences can undoubtedly influence musicians continued abilities and desires to pursue being a full-time career musician. Another facet of label engagement is when it is not expected that an act will recoup costs and therefore will be released from their contract. The Avenues were a group closely associated with several very high profile local acts through various creative and personal links. Through a combination of these links and touring nationally with other higher profile Perth bands, they were able to slowly build a national fan base and become known to national media. They signed a deal with Rubber Records, an independent label based in Sydney, who, with the consent of the band and their management, decided to give away one of their songs, Slow moving, for free online. This track was offered through the website of national youth broadcaster Triple j, a government-funded radio station that sits as a part of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. While largely beyond the scope of this paper, it is worthwhile noting that this station was particularly critical to the advancement of Perth music within the national consciousness and provided airplay and on-air editorial coverage for many local bands. Receiving airplay on the station was even for some artists considered a marker of having reached a certain pinnacle of success. Slow moving the most downloaded track from the station’s website at that point, and it raised the profile of the band, but also caused difficulties in creating an expectation that there was a product to sell to audiences. When the band signed with the label, they had recorded an Extended Player on which Slow moving was featured. This meant, with the song being given away for free, audiences were not inclined to purchase the EP. As the band’s guitarist and vocalist Cain Turnston (pers. comm.) says: [The label] released the EP and they did push it (...) you just can’t get any traction with something that you know, if you’re getting it for free why would people go and buy it? And EPs for all the people [that] like putting them out and they treat them like mini albums and we agonise over the artwork and ‘oh the track listing has to be thus’ and you know, treat it as a single, radio’s only gonna play one song from it. You can’t release a second single from an EP. So essentially it’s a glorified single (...) [and] if that single is given away you don’t get another bite out of it unfortunately. While this experience in isolation did not break up the band (which ultimately occurred due to continued line-up changes), the ability for the band to gain and retain traction with national audiences undoubtedly caused difficulties in the members being able to pursue music full-time. Ultimately, the band were released from their contract with the label as they were not viewed to be likely of recouping any investment made. 5.2. You never know: An exploration of the difficulties in music career development when engaging with record labels The experiences discussed here are all illustrative of the ways in which musicians’ engagement with music shifts over time, particularly in relation to their desires to continuing pursuing music as a full-time career. Significantly, for these musicians, their desires to pursue full-time music careers have been directly influenced by their experiences of engaging with record labels. These experiences have seen them be subject to a range of inter- and intra- label competition, being marketed in a way in which they were not comfortable with (and in which the media and associated audiences were not highly receptive to), and being unable to secure adequate financial support to undertake recording in a particular manner. Taken in isolation, such challenges may seem minor, but when considered in light of the commodification of music, and the ways in which musicians become “operationally disempowered” (Jones, 2002, pp. 153–154) through this process. 5. Conclusion In conclusion this paper has examined the real-world challenges of trying to develop a musical career. It has paid particular attention to the experiences of musicians who have actively attempted to develop music careers with the support of record labels. This paper has been underpinned by an examination of role of record labels in the commodification process of music as well as the notion of music being viewed as a form of creative capital. It has reflected on the challenges faced by musicians with regard to their engagement with record labels, and in turn, the internal and external factors that influence the ways in which labels engage with musicians and market them to audiences. As has been discussed, when musicians are attempting to, and become signed to labels, they can experience difficulties in developing and sustaining their careers. Interest from labels is not enough of a guarantee that one will become a successful musician. The ways in which these experiences play out are influenced by the broader popularity trends that occur within the market to which the music is to be positioned, the other acts that the label is pursuing or has already signed with, and in cases where inter-label competition sees artists having to navigate competition between the organisations themselves. These experiences can also undoubtedly influence musicians continued abilities and desires to pursue being a full-time career musician. The ways in which careers have and have not developed in relation to being signed to labels, also reflect shifts to the ways in which musicians view the viability of being a full-time career musician. As this paper has broadly explored, when musicians relinquish control in order to access the funding, distribution and marketing nous of record labels, but are not rewarded with becoming full-time musicians, or find that developing and sustaining their careers has become stressful and exhausting, they can experience a strong shift in desire away from wanting to be a full-time musician. References Attali, J. (1985). Noise: The political economy of music. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Ballico, C. (2015). The people who watch the bands are the people who are in the bands: The influence of social networks and social capital on creative and business activity in local music scenes. In In the mix: Papers from the 2014 IASPM-ANZ Annual Conference. Griffith University: Brisbane. Ballico, C. (2012). Perth bands were all the rage man!: An exploration of the roots, routines and routes of Perth music, the case of End of Fashion. In Routes, roots and routines: Papers from the 2011 IASPM-ANZ Annual Conference. Victoria University: Wellington. Ballico, C. (2011). Alive and gigging: An exploration of the role of the live music environment in the Perth indie pop/rock music industry. In Instruments of change: Papers from the 2010 IASPM-ANZ Annual Conference. Monash University: Melbourne. Ballico, C., Bennett, D. (2010). Tyranny of distance: Viability and relevance in regional live music performance. Unesco Observatory, 1(5). Retrieved from http://www.abp.unimelb.edu.au/unesco/ejournal/vol-one-issue-five.html Bennett, D. (2010). Creative migration: a Western Australian case study of creative artists. Australian Geographer, 41(1), 117-128. DOI: 10.1080/00049180903535626. Bishop, J. (2005). Building national empires of sound: Concentrations of power in the ‘global’ music market. Popular Music and Society, 28(4), 443–471. DOI: 10.1080/03007760500158957. 223 224 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Caves, R. (2000). Creative industries: Contracts between art and commerce. Harvard: Cambridge. Frere-Jones, S. (2010). The dotted line: What do record labels do now? Retrieved from http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2010/08/16/the-dotted-line. Howkins, J. (2002). The creative economy: How people make money from ideas (2nd ed). England: Penguin. International Federation of the Phonographic Industry (IFPI) (2016). IFPI global music report 2016. Retrieved from http://www.ifpi.org/news/IFPI-GLOBAL-MUSIC-REPORT-2016 International Federation of the Phonographic Industry (IFPI) (2012). Investing in music: How music companies discover, nurture and promote talent. London: Author. International Federation of the Phonographic Industry (IFPI) (2010a). IFPI publishes recording industry numbers 2010. Retrieved from http://www.ifpi.org/content/section_news/20100428.html International Federation of the Phonographic Industry (IFPI) (2010b). Investing in music. London: Author. Jones, M. (2002). Music industry as workplace: An approach to analysis. In A., Beck, (Ed.). Cultural work: Understanding the cultural industries. London and New York: Routledge. Le, H., Jogulu, U., & Rentschler, R. (2014). Understanding Australian ethnic minority artists’ careers. Australian Journal of Career Development, 23(2), 57-68. DOI:10.1177/0255761406069646. Lingo, E. L., & Tepper, S. J. (2013). Looking back, looking forward: Arts-based careers and creative work. Work and Occupations, 40(4), 337-363. DOI: 10.1177/0730888413505229. Market Equity. (2002). A study into the current state of the Western Australian contemporary music industry and its potential for economic growth. Perth: Department of Culture and the Arts. Menger, P. M. (1999). Artistic labor markets and careers. Annual review of sociology, 541-574. DOI: 10.1146/annurev.soc.25.1.541. Morgan, G., Wood, J., & Nelligan, P. (2013). Beyond the vocational fragments: Creative work, precarious labour and the idea of ‘Flexploitation’. The economic and labour relations review, 24(3), 397-415. DOI:10.1177/1035304613500601. Negus, K., Pickering, M. (2004). Creativity, communication and cultural value. Thousand Oaks: Sage. Stahl, M. (2011). Seven years to 360 degrees: Primitive accumulation, recording contracts, and the means of making a (musical) living. Triple C, 9(2), 668-688. Teague, A., & Smith, G. D. (2015). Portfolio careers and work-life balance among musicians: An initial study into implications for higher music education. British Journal of Music Education, 32(2), 177-193. DOI: 10.1017/S0265051715000121. Throsby, D. (2007). Preferred work patterns of creative artists. Journal of Economics and Finance, 31(3), 395-402. DOI: 10.1007/BF02885729. Throsby, D. (2010). Economic analysis of artists’ behaviour: some current issues. Revue d’économie politique, 120(1), 47-56. DOI: 10.3917/redp.201.0047. Throsby, D., Zednik, A. (2010). Do you really expect to get paid? An economic study of professional artists in Australia. Australia Council for the Arts: Sydney. Throsby, D., Zednik, A. (2011). Multiple job-holding and artistic careers: some empirical evidence. Cultural trends, 20(1), 9-24. DOI: 10.1080/09548963.2011.540809. Wikstrom, P. (2009). The music industry: Music in the cloud. Polity: Cambridge. 5.3. Is a music scene an unexpected area to carry out a design research? F. Nur Gürbüz1 and Çiğdem Kaya2 Abstract With the socio-economic shifts in the world such as globalization and concerns of sustainability in the twenty-first century, it has been apparent that designers should adapt to new needs, in the sense of production and consumption. Hereby design researchers are obliged to explore new research territories. One of these territories is DIY production. Searching the possible integration ways of DIY ethos with design practice through examining traditionally self-sufficient and DIYer community of independent music collectives is the spotlight of this quest. With their distinctive way of practicing and creating, independent musicians, merchandise designers and producers made it possible to implement research in DIY in independent music, a new research territory. With this aim, a number of participants, all belonging to Istanbul independent music scene were observed and interviewed for their creative processes. This paper examines the formation of a research design which tries to create a design process framework with the certain sustainable characteristics in DIY and crafter practices of a subcultural scene: independent musicians. While examining the contribution of DIY production which arouse as an alternative to mass producing and consuming society and its core values to traditional design practice, locating this research within the existing design discourse and literature is troublesome. The source texts on this particular area merely exist; definitions are not sufficient. Throughout the research period one of the many challenges was locating the almost unstudied subcultural context, in a design research framework. Despite difficulties, concepts emerging from the subcultural context, has opened many opportunities to explain valuable phenomena such as the demand of independency, self-expression, necessity to practice DIY etc. Keywords: music scene, design research, diy, creative communities, independent production. 1. Introduction Globalization and new economy leads a way of a homogenous society which consumes as a living style, but while having its best moments, DIY, the subject matter of this research also comes within this consuming society. Some people were no more satisfied with the same existence field with billions of people; tired of seeing the same commercials, wearing the same clothes, reading the same news. After all they have been blessed with infinite opportunities to choose from and now will be pleased to make some contribution by responsible consuming. The neoliberal policies insisted upon the people a common way of living, bringing a feeling of being trapped and repressed. John Thackara sees the concept as the “failure of new economy” and adds “Dotcommers promoted “anytime, any-where” over and above the here and now—and we didn’t buy it” (Thackara, 2006, p. 4). Previously, the product’s success in the market, uniqueness of appeal, global market compatibilities, value against the rivals and, etc. were more important than user’s desires. The consumer became the “user”. “User-oriented” design approaches covered up “some group of potential users, and is therefore aimed at satisfying some need, desire or economic demand” regarding the aesthetics or the modality (Palmer, 1996:3). Eventually, users’ needs became the real 1 PHD Candidate, Graduate School of Science and Technology, Istanbul Technical University, Turkey. E-mail: nurgurbuz|at|gmail|dot|com. 2 Associate Professor, Faculty of Architecture, Department of Industrial Design, Istanbul Technical University, Turkey. E-mail: kayac|at|itu|dot|edu|dot|tr. 225 226 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 focus of designing and also marketing in time. But there was still a space left untouched: what does the user think and feel about a certain product. Today’s “an ever more sophisticated, knowledgeable consumer” — is not gratified with the mainstream items available in any store; so that producers and suppliers are “seeking to create products of greater value that better meet evolving needs and desires” (Maciver, 2016). So, design researchers/designers became more active in the social exploration of the product’s lifecycle, through emotions and habits of the consumers through focus groups, observations, interviews and survey types to define the problem areas and design more meaningful products. It can also be said that the briefs from a client or the marketing department in a company focused intensively on understanding user’s needs and including users in design processes. More fair and sustainable models of consumption, production and distribution are being sought after. The environmental concerns are no longer the pink elephant in the room. Recycling or tracking for ecological agriculture is not regarded as sufficient solutions. Local strategies are seen necessary. Those new desires for being unique, sustainable and responsible, lead to the rise of late producing/consuming and community movements. Today ethical consumerism contains many levels of ethical action types: Fairtrade, Eat or Buy Locally, Keep it Local, Organic food, veganism and etc. as comprehensive examples. The impact of these movements may govern a whole city, like Slow Cities; or some products are being designed in Cradle to Cradle manner, where it allows products to transform after use and complete a full cycle of life as it was a living organism. It is also argued that the inactive consumer can become the skilled practitioner consumer creating a “meaningful use” (Gunn, W., & Donovan, J, 2013, p. 2). In this framework designers, as intermediary members of between mass production and consumption; can adapt their design practice resulting in more sustainable and responsible ways for designing new products and thus can open new dimensions of better living. Searching for more sustainable and meaningful production and consumption patterns also opens new territories to research through in design education and discourse. Design theory expanded from traditional industrial design trends and preferences through 2000s. According to Fry (2011): Change only occurs in two ways: by accident or by prefigures intent (which is de facto design). To choose means knowing how to identify, create and become an agent of change who is able to mobilize design to this end. For non-designers and designers, the potential (rather than the actual) capability of design as an instrument of change needs to be grasped. Specifically, to design against the unsustainable requires the nature of design itself to be transformed. It needs to become a re-directive perspective Therefore, we need research on new productive and creative communities to see if they would integrate to recent design practice tendencies of practitioners and “untrained designers”. So in areas yet not very well known to us as a discipline or discourse material, the first step to take must be to identify the practices, processes, actors in this area. A brief timeline of change regarding involvements of DIY and contemporary craft practices can be seen in Figure 1. Researchers, Pelle Ehn and colleagues at Malmö, have coordinated participatory design projects with subculture communities. They have been conducting “collaborative culture production” in their lab called STAGE, since 2007 (Björgvinsson, Ehn, & Hillgren, 2012a). In one project, they became the “intermediator” for a “hip hop youth organisation” belonging to a suburban, immigrant community in Malmö to have their voice heard by the mainstream media. Their outcomes were event designs, introducing new communication mediums varying from graffiti to video production. In their research they emphasize (Bjögvinsson, Ehn, & Hillgren, 2012) the importance of “design with communities” and not always ‘designers are enablers or active actors’ sometimes they are just “intermediators”. And the outcome from such kind of a research is not limited with “a product or a system design” as always expected. Their work inspires this study to be followed up with new collaborative work with the independent scene members and designers / 5.3. Is a music scene an unexpected area to carry out a design research? design researchers. Independent musicians live in a specific lifestyle, and ethos; have a unique way of existence, which makes them the inevitable focus of this study. Clark (2003) defines the roles of subcultures as: they “may serve a useful function for capitalism by making stylistic innovations that can then become vehicles for new sales”. The DIY cultures create their own economy, consuming and producing behaviour. DIY societies have never ending aesthetic commitment through multifold media; music, visual style, text, actions, products, a conscious way of consuming, their unique sharing economies and etc. Within this context, this study tries to answer two questions; what is behind scenes of DIY of production and can we adapt DIY ethos to designing? Figure 1: A brief timeline of the changes in subjects and their actors in design profession and education, as mentioned in this paper. 2. Towards method: Designers engagement with social sciences’ methods and approaches for meaningful design While the consuming society took a different turn, as shortly explained above, design profession and education also accommodated itself within these new dimensions. Design education system is consisted around industrial production, innovation, business and marketing led type of studios (Wormald & Rodber, 2008; Rothstein, 2005; Weightman & McDonagh, n.d.); aiming students to get prepared for the “professional skills” (Kiernan & Ledwith, 2014) they would need after graduation. While the design profession becomes overwhelmingly complicated covering subjects from industrial production to seeking agency to “change the world” (Papanek, 1985; Mau & Leonard, 2004; Thackara, 2005). The shifts in approaches affected the design education and research fields making design a more complex subject. To solve that we needed more sophisticated methods such as social sciences approaches. Some examples of integrating design research with social science’s approaches may be given as:  Use of Anthropology in research (observations, focus groups, quantitative or qualitative surveys, interviews and etc.)  Use of Psychology in research — such as Protocol Analysis.  Use of Linguistics — such as Content Analysis, Discourse Analyses  Cultural Probes [Design Probes] (Gaver, Dunne, & Pacenti, 1999), They state it as “a strategy of pursuing experimental design in a responsive way” (p. 22). They took 227 228 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 ‘inspiration’ from scientific methodological approaches with “aesthetical” intentions. They do analyses but not in a very formal way as in social sciences would expect.  Design Thinking It can be argued that designers have already been in the field conducting their own research especially by using “observation” as main data source. For more than a decade now, design researchers and practitioners have been formally using social science approaches and methodologies. This has become a necessity after “the borders between design disciplines have disappeared with the different areas of design extending into each other” (Kiernan & Ledwith, 2014) and design got more and more involved with communities and contemporary needs of users (Davis, 2008). In brief, the problems of the contemporary world created more complex set of questions, those required more sophisticated and detailed ways of researching. These approaches also entered the design studio classes at the same instance that they have been applied in profession. They all become useful to create more meaningful products as design practice became more user experience oriented. Similarly, Participatory Design, where every actors of a design problem comes together to develop ideas, has been part of design research and practiced mostly in the field of social innovation. Most importantly, the 20th century response to the scientification of design processes (Buchanan, 1992) was “The Design Thinking”. The systematization of design knowledge accelerated the emergence of Design Thinking principles. In the beginning of 1990’s, in professional area “design thinking” have rapidly spread from the first operation space; Institute of Design at Stanford University through international design firm IDEO (Bjögvinsson, Ehn, & Hillgren, 2012b). Design Thinking allowed both designers and design researchers to become active in an interdisciplinary field, rather than handling just the object. Design was used as an intermediary for all the stakeholders’ problems and even in organizational development. As Davis states (2008) “this paradigm shift in the focus of the design process from objects to experiences demands new knowledge and methods to inform decision-making. It broadens the scope of investigation beyond people’s immediate interactions with artefacts and includes the influence of design within larger and more complex social, cultural, physical, economic, and technological systems”. IDEO coined the term Human Centered Design (HCD) approach. They have launched website called Design Kit3 where they have published the “Field Guide for HCD” (“Design Kit,” 2015). They work with a range from commercial products such as mobile applications to social innovative projects. IDEO uses different methods derived from social sciences, but they do not name them particularly in scientific terms. For example; the sequences of gathering data from observation is defined as “hearing”; understanding, interpreting or analysing the data, throwing out the first concepts and eliminating them is named as “creating”; and, the final implementation part that includes prototyping, testing and etc. is named as “deliver” phases (IDEO, 201, p. 9). They pay attention to people’s needs, experiences and desires inside from a semi-methodological approach of their own design practice for social innovation. Social innovation projects such as Children’s Eye Care, aims “develop a scalable system for providing affordable, comprehensive eye care to families (IDEO, 2009). A project called In-Home Sanitation Solutions is developed with sanitary product manufacturing giants to design in-home sanitation solutions in the field of product design oriented research and development (IDEO, 2011). Enzo Mari is one of the first pioneer designers to expand design for social innovation and sustainability. Here, a designer is not just the action taker, but also a participant or an enabler with the participation of “end users, grassroots designers, technicians, entrepreneurs, local institutions, and civil society organizations” (Binder, T. et al., 2011, p. 191). In this research, aligned with the concerns situated in this section, social science methods were used to explore crafter ethos of DIY production in the field for improvement of traditional formal design processes. 3 Retrieved from http://www.designkit.org/ 5.3. Is a music scene an unexpected area to carry out a design research? 3. Possible benefits of new DIY craft practices for designers As stated by Thackara “sophisticated distribution and logistics systems, computer-integrated manufacturing and design, and direct marketing have changed what it means to design, produce, distribute, or sell a product or service” (2008, p. 74). In this regard, designers without fame have little room to practice and their practice may not escape labour exploitation. The DIY craft practices and local markets growing amongst them let us re-imagine a new way to learn about the grey area between objects and their making process. As a result, new type of experiences are created amongst entrepreneurs nowadays to commercialize a unique interaction with the consumer. A brand new “designer/maker/seller personality” (Figure 1) is brought up to the curious consumers life. Figure 2: Atölye Yeti at Moda, Kadıköy, Istanbul: An atelier/shop run by a designer who sells hand-made products under Yeti brand, also a seller of other hand-made designer hand-made items. Source: Gürbüz, 2016d. Producing with known sources, reuse and upcycle techniques come in hand to reduce effects on the environment can be regarded as a responsible type of making. It is possible to expand how DIY provides agency from various angles: The globalized economy demands growth all the time at every stage of production and consumption but “Certainly such growth comes at a high price: ever greater economic inequality as well as social instability” (Sennett, 2007, p. 3). In addition to this, according to Atkinson (2006, p. 5), DIY is “democratizing agency”. It gives the person “the freedom of choice” rather than fixed or assumed ways of creating and consuming (Von Busch, 2015). DIY production enables accessibility to goods by making. Self-sufficiency and independency which comes from both from the DIY literature and the original study of this paper are concepts DIYers want to reach (Hebdige, 1979; Spencer, 2008; Luvaas, 2012; Gürbüz, 2016c). But this idea does not mean that DIY is a solo job. DIY Ethos promotes collectivity and community support including virtual communities. As stated in the beginning of this article, revival in crafts and DIY is curiously researched by designers with more fair and sustainable production and consumption aims. Also there is a new market for DIY and craft products and a new consumer culture, who desires for the independent and the local. As Campbell states (2005) “craft consuming” as “authentic expression of humanity in contrast to the alienating production processes of industrialization”. Within the contemporary DIY culture, crafts bear an important existence. As Spencer (2005) defines, “crafter” taking its roots 229 230 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 from “craft” word, is a person who practices DIY activities and is a “maker”. As von Busch states; they have the attitude of “re-invention of craft” (von Busch, 2006), this approach takes the traditional craft practice to one step further, it relates with art and design. Figure 3: DIY crafters pop-up stands in DIY bazaar event in Bant Magazine’s office. Source: Gürbüz, 2014. They are creating local economies sometimes just geographically belongs to a neighbourhood or spreads to other cities by online sailing and local bazaar events. Those events are the main consuming space for DIY cultures and also a socializing place for the followers. Another important concept is ‘Craftivism’, which is politically engaged all contemporary craft practices (Black & Burisch, 2010; von Bush, 2006). Craftivism is a form of activism, typically incorporating elements of anticapitalism, environmentalism or third-wave feminism, which is centered on practices of craft — most notably knitting. Practitioners are known as Craftivists. 4. Methods and material: Participants, data gathering and processing As already stated above, this research captures a collection of empirical research strategies and approaches based on social science methods to acquire knowledge from DIY practitioners in independent bands. Thus, the data for this aim was derived from various approaches such as; semi 5.3. Is a music scene an unexpected area to carry out a design research? structured in-depth interviews, participant observation, and media resources about the interview subjects. In a very early statement, Becker and Geer defines’ Participant Observation’ as the most complete form of the sociological datum (…) That is the form in which the participant observer gathers it: An observation of some social event, the events which precede and follow it, and explanations of its meaning by participants and spectators, before, during, and after its occurrence. Such a datum gives us more information about the event under study than data gathered by any other sociological method (Becker & Geer, 1957, p. 28). The researcher’s involvement as an “insider” in the music scene that she is working on must be underlined. Since the first author is a participant of the indie music scene more than a decade she could contact the first participants through her personal involvement in the scene. Some of the participants whose work contained DIY practices were contacted through her relationship with the scene’s community. This prior involvement and knowledge helped the research design to be focused in such a complex environment. In addition to this, because the first author knew the band before, when the bands gave examples during interviews the first author was already a witness. This was an opportunity for fact check. The first interview was with a band ‘Kim Ki O’4, whose DIY and music practice had been closely observed by the first author for 10 years from the beginning of their establishment. For example, the preliminary data that Kim Ki O is a strictly DIY band comes from her prior participation and knowledge. Six semi-structured interviews were conducted up to the time of this article. The semi-structured in-depth interviews holds accounts for the foundations of the DIY initiative, explaining their significant DIY practices, their reasons to practice DIY and their views on DIY practice in an elaborative way. Interviewer (the first author) asked for referrals for snowball sampling (Biernacki and Waldorf, 1981), even though she knew most participants well enough to approach them on her own, the members of the community were polled if there were any DIY activity around the community unknown to the researcher. The interviews are not limited with only musicians, they are conducted in such fashion to involve various types of DIY production. All participants of the study belong to the Istanbul independent music scene. All of them may belong to various specific sub-scenes at the same time; such as Kadıköy Music scene, Indie Feminist music scene, Dub & Reggae scenes, DIY art & Crafts scene etc. Some examples are: a Synth pop band (Kim Ki O), a dj/producer duo (12metreküp — who built the second Dub Reggae Sound System in Istanbul), a print house (Big Baboli5, who design and craft hand-printed music posters for albums and events), an album project curated by DIY record Label and production company OffPrint6. The interviews were analysed through content analysis. Content analysis does not exactly provide the hypothetical needs of this study. Therefore, the analysis of data can be regarded as adapting linguistic domain as thematic and narrative modes to non-linguistic modes of communication such as album arts, merchandise design, sound system design, hand-made screen print textile design, and etc. supporting content analysis. In some of the cases the outcomes for the DIY practices are products or sometimes events or action models for applying DIY. Taking those outcomes and associating them with the linguistic data which is derived through interviews and observations in the field constitutes the foundations of the analysis. A thematic framework will be constructed through the analysis and assembled through literature reviews including; design, DIY, crafts, DIY, subculture studies for further research. 4 Retrieved from http://www.kimkio.org Retrieved from http://www.bigbaboli.com/ 6 The album consists of 13 songs from Replikas’ 2002 album “Dadaruhi” covered by various artists/musicians chosen by Offprint. Retrieved from https://offprint.bandcamp.com/. 5 231 232 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 4: The visualization of 12metreküp’s “levels of DIY practice”. Source: Gürbüz, 2016c. 5. Findings and further research The findings of this study indicated two characteristics of DIY practitioners in the music scene. These are “learning by trial and error” and the “lo-fi as aesthetic assets”. Lo-fi was originally a recording term, in music discipline, referencing to a lesser quality in recording, abbreviated from “low fidelity” (Garrett, 2013). Nowadays it is also used as a music genre too. In the interviews, participants use some other terms corresponding to lo-fi such as “analogue”, “low-tech”, “looking like craft”, “hand-made” (Grubs, 2016c). The owners of Offprint who self-released a tribute album for Replikas’s7 debut album Dadaruhi’s tenth year anniversary. They explain their lo-fi aesthetic choice as; Back then [during the record sessions of the album], we were under the assumption that we 8 would release this album from a known independent record company , but despite knowing that we agreed we would use an ‘analogue’ image — like using a craft paper texture in digital printing looking like hand-made- to show that this is an independent production, not an expensive one. Then we figured out we were releasing it ourselves. When in fact, we were actually doing it hand-made, we still used craft paper and hand crafted it (Kayıran & Geyran, 2014). First of all, while practicing DIY and crafts, one gains improvement on skills by doing, most of the times even by failing. Many participants in the study explained their learning process flows with many “trial and errors” they have made through time. In professional or educational fields most of the trial and error parts are secret, only can be viewed behind the scenes of a project (if it is visible to all). But in DIY production, an outcome as an error may be already used by users before the new stable one takes its place (Gürbüz, 2016c). 7 8 A renowned Turkish avant-garde rock band. Retrieved from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Replikas. Peyote Music from Istanbul Turkey. Retrieved from http://www.peyote.com.tr/peyotemuzik. 5.3. Is a music scene an unexpected area to carry out a design research? [Making a DIY booklet] was first time for both of us. The first few trials were passed by telling each other what we were doing wrong and right. We learned it by doing (Kayıran & Geyran, 2014). We can see the main reasons of applying DIY as a lifestyle in every interview. An excerpt from Kim Ki O band (Figure 5) interview shows that two women aged 32-33 are applying DIY since they were approx. twelve years old. Also they were seeing themselves living in a specific culture such as ‘Punk Culture’ (Göl & Sanaç, 2013). Ekin: Way before undergrad years, I and you [Aiming at Berna] of course were very into DIY practices. Berna: We were making our own band t-shirts while in middle school [a type of school in Turkey for youngsters at ages 12 to 14]. Applying collages. The undergrad education, both of us are from design and architecture faculties, definitely had helped to improve our skills. But we were already DIY practices way before that. We learned what to ready for a copying centre, the undergrad education made our processes lot easier and faster. Ekin: How to prepare a demo [in music], how to make a t-shirt, a sticker? Everything must be Do-It-Yourself. There was no way other. Berna: All those things we made during middle school takes root from Punk culture, Fanzine culture, Collage culture. They were never apart from the music we were listening to. They were tied together; they were the music altogether. Ekin: And yes, we spent way much time practicing DIY (Göl & Sanaç, 2013). Figure 5: An example of Kim Ki O’s DIY act: First self-released, strictly DIY album artwork and booklet, made in 2007 for more than 250 hand-made copies sold all around the world. Source: Gürbüz, 2016b. One of the main motivations behind DIY practice is “self-expression”, which always relates with “artistic expression” in every example of DIY practice in the study since the participants are all in creative businesses. “Artistic expression” breeds the desire for “autonomy”, as their main motivation. Creative process and the outcomes in any of medium, reflects the manifests, motivations and experience of the creators. In other words, a maker reflects own manifestation on 233 234 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 the work as well as the meanings created by the viewers’. Therefore, it can be argued that design gains a craft like quality in DIY practices of music bands spreads to other cities. DIY practitioners of the music scene also refer to the same relation with their work as this study shows (Gürbüz, 2016c). Their motivation is to be understood and accepted through their creative process. 6. Opportunities and casualties? Adapting a field research constructed in a music scene into design research The main aim of this research was to focus on new emerging and challenging area for design, the DIY practices. This study is focused on DIY production in music scenes. It takes the range of final outcomes, from music merchandise to graphic designs or event designs. Music Merchandises as the subject matter of this study are examples of visual communication of crafter ethos; its aesthetic manifests and declaration. In Istanbul there are many examples of DIY scenes, individual or collective craft productions (local brands, handmade or atelier production) usually presented in Pop-up sales format, Geek Bazaars, Maker movements gatherings, Vinyl bazaars, Fanzine Bazaars and etc. Besides being a “democratising agency”, providing accessing of design and slower production these visual material contains many other concepts to be identified as crafter ethos as this research proceeds. The aesthetic values of these DIY outcomes may settle in a range from lo-fi to high end according to the applier’s intentions. Still, in design discourse, the aesthetics is a very big argument topic. We start from the commonplace recognition that ‘an aesthetics of design’ is always problematic insofar as ‘design’ and ‘aesthetics’ refer to divergent traditions of understanding creative activity—indeed to different traditions of such activity—despite twentieth-century attempts to resolve divergence (both in theory and in practice) around slogans such as ‘form follows function’ (Palmer, 1996: 3). Usually matching the practitioners own self-expressive and aesthetical manifests. During the process many of the practitioners in the study were content with their most recent project. It also correlates with the self-improvement and skill gaining process to reach one’s own aesthetic standards. But before getting into action research on a subject that is still vague on the account of design studies, we should accept that is a choice of life(style). Most of the implications that are encountered during the study are not some direct intentions for product designing. As Pelle Ehn and colleagues apply for years; being able to live in a “participatory design community” (Ehn, 2014) and to conduct research within it, is possible and very stimulating for everyone in the design practice. It would be a world changing attitude for many designers and researchers. But it is not always an applicable case in many local settings -such as in Istanbul. To create and research about those types of (natural) communities for starters, you have to be close to one of it or live in it. In Istanbul there are maker communities and atelier/studio craft/design movements present. It is fair to say that; they are not yet in significant communal settings. For example, Maker Movement in Turkey is growing rapidly by organizing gatherings and fairs. As a prominent member states in his recent blog post (Aksu, 2016); they are trying to reach out to more people, especially school children and their families to ground the movements foundations. He counts the community as 50 more or less people and attendees to a public event approximately as 200. The atelier craft/design movement is developing around ‘bazaar events’ and huge sales gatherings (Figure 6) in major towns of the country. But yet we are not sure if they are becoming communities. 5.3. Is a music scene an unexpected area to carry out a design research? Figure 6: Souq Bazaar at Bomontiada of new Tekel Factory Building. 14-15 may 2016. Series of All designer (mostly handmade) couture items sales events in various parts of Istanbul. Source: Souq Bomonti at Bomontiada, 2016. Although there are available non-designer/non-maker communities of creativity which cultivate their existence into DIY practices such as independent music scenes. They are organic appliers (and the improvers) of DIY and its ethos. Performing a research inside a subcultural setting is very informative on future researches that can be conducted in creative communities and their practices. Mapping was not a crucial element in the ongoing study (Gürbüz, 2016c) at the beginning; but eventually there was a frame of the big picture of the scene setting of the İstanbul’s independent music. One of the main requirements we can borrow from an investigation of a subcultural setting is ‘mapping’ all the relationships, actors, actions such in a fashion that we would understand the cultural practice and its core operational processes. As preliminary results show (Gürbüz, 2016c) in the study connected to this paper, the design process of the DIYers does not flow strictly as design processes flow. The design processes chosen to be base mostly follow steps as; finding the problem, research, evaluation (the analysis of the research findings), generating concepts, refining concepts, design, test and implement. DIYers in this study joins the research and the implementation (usually called as test or sometimes prototyping) into same level most of the time. So, the assumptions as design processes move through linear or circular flows cannot reflect the truth at all in DIY practice. That teaches us, conventional ways of seeing “making” as a step-by-step type of action must be discarded. Fitting each other or trying to see traces of each other in their own unique flows was the most challenging thing. There are signs that the principles of DIY offer us better, more sustainable and ethical practice, which can be easily applicable into studio based education. It has been evident that the theorization of DIY ply between various disciplines and theory areas. As further research, continuation of such theorization is essential for DIY practices to become commonly applicable in design education system. The continuous flow for learning and making evidenced in this research, is essential for designers looking for ways to create massive or micro-level changes. In addition to these, this study reveals that DIY, a creative cultural system brings shared knowledge, easy accessible practice and knowledge systems which can be applicable right away in design practice. DIY independent music production is a very responsive and transitive type of practice. It has been apparent that DIY subcultures have unique systems of practices and they present rich data of approaches and application methods for design researchers for further research. 235 236 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Acknowledgements: We are grateful to the participants who spared their precious time and shared their DIY adventures with us. Also members of Bant Magazine, enabling for us to reach every archival material and information they have when needed. Funding: This article is based on research titled Using D-I-Y and Crafter Ethics in Design Practice (Project No: 37734), funded by Istanbul Technical University Scientific Research Projects Unit (ITU BAP) PhD Research Funding Scheme. References Aksu, H. (2016, August 8). Türkiye Maker Hareketi’ni çok sevdi. Retrieved from http://www.gelecekhane.com/3-yildageldigimiz-nokta-turkiye-maker-hareketini-cok-sevdi/ Atkinson, P. (2006). Do It Yourself: Democracy and Design. Journal of Design History, 19(1), 1–10. DOI: 10.1093/jdh/epk001 Becker, H. S., & Geer, B. (1957). Participant Observation and Interviewing: A comparison. Human Organization, 16, 28–32. Binder, T. el al. (2011). In K. Friedman & E. Stolterman (Eds), Design things. Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press. Buchanan, R. (1992). Wicked Problems in Design Thinking. Design Issues, 8(2), 5–21. DOI: 10.2307/1511637 Clark, D. (2003). The Death and Life of Punk, The Last Subculture. In D. Muggleton & R. Weinzierl (Eds.), The PostSubcultures Reader (pp. 223–236). Oxford: Berg. Davis, M. (2008). Why Do We Need Doctoral Study in Design? International Journal of Design, 2(3), 71–79. Retrieved from http://www.ijdesign.org/ojs/index.php/IJDesign/article/view/481/223. Design Kit: The Field Guide to Human-Centered Design. (n.d.-a). Retrieved from https://www.ideo.com/work/humancentered-design-toolkit Design Kit: The Field Guide to Human-Centered Design. (n.d.-b). Retrieved from https://www.ideo.com/work/humancentered-design-toolkit Dubberly, H. (2008). COVER STORY: Toward a model of innovation. Interactions, 15(1), 28. Retrieved from http://doi.org/10.1145/1330526.1330538 Ehn, P. (2014, December). Collective design, utopias lost and futures. Paper presented at the Design + Ethnography + Futures I: Uncertainty Symposium, Melbourne, Australia. Retrieved from http://d-efutures.com/events/uncertainty-symposium/pelle-ehn/ Fry, T. (2011). Design as politics. New York: Berg. Garrett, C. H. (Ed.). (2013). Lo-fi. In The Grove dictionary of American music (2nd ed.). New York: Oxford University Press. Retrieved from http://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780195314281.001.0001/acref-9780195314281e-5030?rskey=JWzKwJ&result=1 Gaver, B., Dunne, T., & Pacenti, E. (1999). Design: Cultural probes. Interactions, 6(1), 21–29. DOI: 10.1145/291224.291235 Göl, B., & Sanaç, E. (2013, June 11). Kim ki o — personal interview [Voice record]. (F. N. Gürbüz, Trans.). Gürbüz, F. N. (2014). DIY crafters pop-up stands in DIY bazaar event in Bant Magazine’s office. [Digital Photograph]. Gürbüz, F. N. (2016a). 2metreküp SoundSystem Levels of DIY practice [Digital collage]. Gürbüz, F. N. (2016b). kim ki o ‘s first self-released album art works and booklet [Digital collage]. Gürbüz, F. N. (2016c). Using DIY and crafter ethics in design practice: A study through the independent music collectives (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Istanbul technical University, Istanbul. Gürbüz, F. N. (2016d, June). Atölye Yeti — Moda. [Digital photograph] Hebdige, D. (1979). Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Methuen. IDEO. (2009). Children’s Eye Care. Retrieved from https://www.ideo.com/work/childrens-eye-care IDEO. (2011). In-Home Sanitation Solutions. Retrieved from https://www.ideo.com/work/in-home-sanitation-solutions Kayıran, C., & Geyran, F. (2014, June 14). Offprint — Dadaruhi Interview [Voice record]. (F. N. Gürbüz, Trans.). Kiernan, L., & Ledwith, A. (2014). Is Design Education Preparing Product Designers for the Real World? A Study of Product Design Graduates in Ireland. The Design Journal, 17(2), 218–237. DOI: 10.2752/175630614X13915240576022 Kimbell, L. (2011). Rethinking Design Thinking: Part I. Design and Culture, 3(3), 285–306. DOI: 10.2752/175470811X13071166525216 Levine, F., & Heimerl, C. (2008). Handmade nation: the rise of DIY, art, craft, and design. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Luvaas, B. A. (2012). DIY style: fashion, music and global digital cultures. London; New York: Berg. Maciver, F. (2016). Reversing the Design-Marketing Hierarchy: Mapping New Roles and Responsibilities in “DesignerThe Design Journal, 19(4), 625–646. DOI: Led” New Product Development. 10.1080/14606925.2016.1176340 Mau, B., & Leonard, J. (2004). Massive change. London; New York: Phaidon. 5.3. Is a music scene an unexpected area to carry out a design research? Papanek, V. J. (1985). Design for the real world: human ecology and social change (2nd ed.). Chicago, Ill: Academy Chicago. Rothstein, P. (2005). Rethinking design education in a time of change — risks & rewards. Innovation, 24(1), 23–25. Souq Bomonti at Bomontiada. (2016, May 15). Retrieved from https://www.facebook.com/souqkarakoy/photos/a.1425886234335978.1073741830.142321253460334 8/1729653703959228/?type=3&theater Spencer, A. (2008). DIY: the rise of lo-fi culture (2nd ed). London; New York: Marion Boyars. Thackara, J. (2006). In the bubble: designing in a complex world . Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Von Busch, O. (2015). Tasarlanacak Ne Kaldı?: Sosyal tasarım üzerine acil sorunlar. İstanbul: Puna Yayın. Weightman, D., & McDonagh, D. (n.d.). The new landscape of design: Cool hunting and other opportunities. Whiteley, N. (1998). Design for society (Repr.). London: Reaktion Books. Wormald, P. W., & Rodber, M. (2008). Aligning industrial design education to emerging trends in professional practice and industry. J. of Design Research, 7(3), 294. DOI: 10.1504/JDR.2008.024196 237 238 5.4. Amplified heteronormativity in online heavy metal spaces Tristan Kennedy 1 Abstract Research into online heavy metal spaces has shown that there exists a distinct reliance on themes of hyper-masculinity. These themes seem to reflect heteronormative assumptions about the dominance of men over women held in wider society more generally. This paper will examine the sources of some of the themes of masculinity that exist in online heavy metal spaces. A suggestion will be made that the underlying notions of patriarchy inherent in social media technologies and heavy metal culture more generally appear to come together to contribute to an amplified reliance on heteronormativity that is typified by hyper-masculine dominance in the majority of these spaces. Keywords: heavy metal, online spaces, heteronormativity, masculinity. The original presentation that I delivered at the Keep It Simple Make It Fast conference in 2016 was entitled Amplified gender binaries in online heavy metal spaces. Whether as a result of my haste or as part of an on-going thought process this title was clearly erroneous. There is nothing all that interesting about gender binaries in online space. Australian, and much of western, society is based around an idea that every citizen will fit neatly into the category of either woman or man; that is, either female or male. As we go about our day using public restrooms, buying clothes from a department store, or watching television we are bombarded with messages about fitting in to the norm of binary gender. What is interesting with regard to binary gender is that they reflect the “ideology of sexual difference (…) which serves to conceal the fact that social differences always belong to a (…) political order” (Wittig, 1992, p. 2). This political order is based on normative heterosexuality and aims to exert social control over women and men. That is, the maintaining of heterosexual men’s dominance over women. Interestingly, in online heavy metal spaces the themes that demonstrate these politics of gender seem to exhibit an amplified reliance on heteronormativity in their visibility. This paper draws on research conducted in online heavy metal spaces to contribute to a discussion of the ways in which understandings of masculinities and heteronormativity seem to be evolving as social interactions shift to technologically mediated online social spaces. In referring to heteronormativity a useful approach to borrow is that of Stevi Jackson when she discusses heteronormativity as encompassing both sexuality and gender (2006). That is, it “ (…) defines not only a normative sexual practice but also a normal way of life” (2006, p. 107). While heteronormativity is ostensibly predicated on the concept of heterosexual desire and practice it also encompasses the intersections and social divisions of gender. The effect of this conflation of sexuality and gender into a binary norm is to dictate acceptable and unacceptable social interactions by participants based on an understanding of their individual gender identity. That is, the dominance of heterosexuality seems to determine more than sexual behaviour and identity; it is a basis for the wider social order. In the case of my research it appears that the evidence of the online community’s reliance on heteronormativity seems to be written in themes of hyper-masculinity. What is interesting about a conflation of gender and sexual identities in online heavy metal spaces, in particular, is the amplified reliance on heteronormativity and subsequent emergence of 1 Flinders University, Australia. E-mail: tristan.kennedy|at|flinders|dot|edu|dot|au. 239 240 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 a hyper-masculinity. My analysis of these spaces suggests that there are two underlying factors which contribute to this visible hyper-masculinity. Firstly, heavy metal culture brings with it solid notions of masculine gender identity that can be found in the language and imagery of heavy metal culture more broadly. Secondly, the technology that is used to access online heavy metal spaces is founded on a design process which is itself based in patriarchy. It is my position that the observable themes of hyper-masculinity existent in online heavy metal spaces are due to an interference of the language and imagery and the technology in these spaces. Moreover, these themes create a framework of acceptable gender identity for all participants. These themes and their essence in language and imagery is recorded by the technology in these online spaces, contributing to the emergence of hyper-masculinity and solidifying these amplified heteronormative messages for the foreseeable future. 1. Existing notions of masculinity in heavy metal Heavy metal music and culture outside of and prior to the shift to online spaces is clearly founded in patriarchy. One of the core reasons why my interest in the sociology of gender and sexuality turned to heavy metal music in online spaces was that the language and imagery clearly demonstrated masculine dominance. As Walser suggests: “Heavy metal is, inevitably, a discourse shaped by patriarchy” (1993, p. 108). A useful way of understanding the gendered meanings offered in heavy metal outside of online spaces is through a thematic analysis of the messages of masculinity in heavy metal artefacts. My doctoral research included analysis of images from several heavy metal album covers which draw on the themes of masculinity I have observed in online heavy metal spaces. Importantly, these covers were identified by participants as being representative of said themes. In this paper I will draw on one of the album covers to illustrate my point about the representation and politics of gender in heavy metal spaces as reflecting messages of dominant masculinity. Exeloume, a Norwegian heavy metal band, released Fairytale of Perversion in 2011. This album cover features a strong male in the foreground. He has flesh covered hands with white European skin tone. His head is only a skull with no eyes or flesh. This man is wearing military inspired uniform with Nazi paraphernalia and a bloodstained blacksmith apron. Holding red hot smithing tongs he shows a sinister grin while preparing to use the tongs to perhaps molest or maim one of three semi-naked women behind him. The women in the image are tied up and appear to be panicstricken and in fear of what is to follow in this scenario. The image clearly evinces the idea of male dominance and female subordination simply through the idea that a man is in a position where he apparently intends to cause physical pain to women who are at his mercy. There is clearly a message of male dominance in the drama of the scene however one can also “unpack” the static image; the image that populates the aesthetic of heavy metal culture more generally and aligns with themes of male dominance that abound in heavy metal culture more broadly. Deena Weinstein in her key text on heavy metal music suggests that “Power, the essential inherent and delineated meaning of heavy metal, is culturally coded as a masculine trait” (1991, p. 67). She is referring to Simone de Beauvoir’s active masculine / passive feminine dichotomy from The Second Sex (1949) and highlights the masculine power to act rather than be acted upon. This is a clear masculine trait which can be seen in the imagery of the Exeloume album described above among others. The male in the foreground of the image can be seen as the active participant holding red hot tongs supposedly to inflict pain and suffering upon the helpless, tied up, and passive women in the scene. While this might be passed off as ostensibly a fantastical cartoon image of an impossibly gaunt male torturer it still clearly contributes to the themes of masculine power and privilege over women. This is one of many images which regardless of specific context tend to reflect such positioning of men and women in regards to power and tend to populate the aesthetic of heavy metal culture more generally. 5.4. Amplified heteronormativity in online heavy metal spaces In terms of a reading of the heteronormativity in this image the depiction of active, violent men and passive, sexualised women aligns with Wittig’s (1992) suggestions that the heteronormative or binary gender order is aimed at reifying a dominant political order: of men over women. Such depictions of dominant masculinity in heavy metal culture reflects Western society’s patriarchal capitalism — the aim of which is to position women at the site of reproduction as dependant, passive, and powerless. It is no surprise that heavy metal culture reflects conceptions of gender tied up in capitalist ideology. Similar messages can be seen across popular culture from Rambo to Star Wars, UFC and Australian Rules football. How this is useful is as a starting point to look at online heavy metal spaces. These and similar themes of heteronormative masculine dominance appear to migrate to the online heavy metal spaces and underpin the amplified reliance on heteronormativity that exists in the online language and imagery. 2. Existing notions of masculinity in technology Early communication through the internet was heralded as providing an exciting opportunity to meet with likeminded users to discuss the latest news and reviews of. One of the first experiences with internet communication that I had was using Internet Relay Chat (IRC) that required the use of a downloadable satellite programme to log on to one of many servers located around the world. Often, the conversation through this service was prefaced with a request for information about age, sex, and location. Upon reflection of this common request it seems indicative of a desire to imagine the gender identity of the user on the other end of the line. Sociologically speaking this comes as no surprise. Kessler and McKenna suggest, “gender attribution forms the foundation for understanding (…) gender role and gender identity” (1978, p. 2). That is, social interaction includes all sorts of cues based around language and the presentation of self (Goffman, 1949) that are most often tied to gender. It seems that, in online spaces, taking the visual cues about gender away only made our reliance on it all the more visible. Internet communication has evolved significantly since IRC based communication was the focus of social media technology. As technology evolved and internet connections became more robust and reliable more data was able to be brought into our homes. Online heavy metal spaces in this research now include much higher resolution images, videos and, audio files embedded in them as part of the sharing of imagery. Interestingly, the means of communication amongst members is still very much based on text. An image may be shared and promoted but the discussion is almost always reliant on simple text. So, although the need for the age, sex, and location question upon first contact online has all but gone, the language and imagery that is created in these spaces is still highly visible, highly gendered and recorded indefinitely. It is this indefinite recording and sharing of language that provides an ideal opportunity to observe how notions of gender online can come to be in response to interference between meanings of heavy metal music and the technology used to access the space. So what do I mean by online heavy metal spaces? Online heavy metal spaces are websites which may or may not require accounts to be held by participants where there is a platform for computer mediated communication amongst fellow fans. The topics of conversation are not always strictly heavy metal related but the overarching theme of the space and the common interest is a preference for heavy metal music (in all its forms). For a number of reasons, it is web based heavy metal communities that utilise forum style chat rooms for communication that have been the focus of my research. Forum style chat rooms offer a wealth of data for the online ethnographer. Often this data is searchable and recorded indefinitely leading to increased speed of data collection and the chronological freedom to take either snapshots of conversations or more longitudinal samples. The research carried out for this paper was conducted over the course of a three-year period which ended in mid-2016. Importantly all of the online heavy metal spaces that I observed were reliant on computer technology for access. Most of the spaces were most easily accessible through the use of a desktop 241 242 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 or laptop computer. Though no research was done into exact means of connection, discussion with participants and recent scholarship on internet connectivity (Lenhart et al., 2010) would indicate a growing trend of mobile device connections such as smart phones and tablet PCs. These devices and the software in online heavy metal spaces are technologies that share similar patriarchal foundations to technology more generally. Wajcman highlights the continued political nature of heteronormative gender in the workplace especially in regard to the development and monopolisation of new technologies by men over women (1991). The control of the technologies related to connection and especially to software design or web architecture in online heavy metal spaces reflects this trend. A clear example, and one which I choose to focus on in this paper, is the militaristic organisation of the forums on several of the online spaces in which I conducted research. This involves ranking of participants along a continuum of military insignia such as commander, lieutenant, and private. The appeal to military-like organisation has clear links with the ultramasculine imagery of the Exeloume (and many other) album covers. 3. Interference of masculinities from technology and heavy metal culture If we take that there exists a reliance on notions of heteronormative power and patriarchy in heavy metal culture more generally and that the technologies associated with these spaces also harbour patriarchal notions of dominance we can look at possible interference of meaning as per Latour’s meanings of technical mediation (1999). This interference creates a space that fosters a hypermasculinity unseen in offline heavy metal spaces. It is worth noting that in such an exploratory paper as this I choose to acknowledge but move away from Latour’s position vis a vis mastery — technology’s mastery of humans or human mastery of technology (1999, p. 180). This is in favour of an adaptation of his concept of interference in which Riis highlights a useful asymmetry — between human and non-human (2008). This asymmetry allows for my emphasis on a clear human centred and highly political bias in the interference of communication technology and heavy metal music culture in online heavy metal spaces based around gender politics. That is, it is necessary to locate men in a more active position in regard to the maintenance of hegemonic masculinity rather than the technology or heavy metal culture. Interference can simply be understood as the coming together of meanings that, together, allow new meanings to emerge. Latour uses the common adage, guns don’t kill people, people kill people (1999) to preface his concepts of technical mediation and interference. Essentially Latour takes issue with the National Rifle Association’s absolution of responsibility from the technology of the gun itself. Latour argues “that the gun adds something” (1999, p. 177) to the relationship between the owner and itself. For instance, an individual who may intend on engaging in nonlethal assault with her fists, when offered the use of a gun, may alter her intentions and fatally shoot her victim. In his description Latour touches on both materialist and, what he terms, sociological approaches to the dilemma of the gun-human interaction. That is, either the gun has all the power or meaning and controls the relationship or it has none. For my paper is it sufficient to understand the interference of masculinity in heavy metal and the technology both “add something” to the amplification of heteronormativity. So Latour’s concept of interference, or importantly, my reinterpretation of it seems initially useful in grasping a better understanding of how the meanings of heavy metal culture more generally and the patriarchy inherent in online communication technology come together to facilitate a model of hyper-masculinity. Interference in such a case would suggest that the meanings behind heavy metal music, the imagery of male dominance, violence, and oppression of women, as seen in the example of Exeloume’s album cover, have a very real effect on the creation of meaning within online heavy metal spaces. Moreover, the inherent patriarchy, adequately described by Wajcman (1991), in technology and the design of software also contributes, through interference, to the creation of meaning in these spaces. 5.4. Amplified heteronormativity in online heavy metal spaces I will focus on one of the ways I have observed possible interference of meaning related to an amplified reliance on heteronormative ideals — what I have termed hyper-masculinity. This is the militaristic organisation of the online heavy metal spaces themselves. As mentioned earlier in this paper participants, men and women, in some online heavy metal spaces are assigned ranks based on their participation (contribution to forum posts, donations, and attendance at offline events). The history of gender politics in the military is one of women’s exclusion as evidenced by Wheelwright’s acknowledgement that despite women’s crucial roles in Western military efforts, historically “female soldiers came to be regarded as aberrations of nature” (1987, p. 489). A reliance on a system of social order which overtly privileges men over women is in itself exclusionary. It is my position that the dominance of men in the design of the software, that is the inherent patriarchy in men’s monopolisation of technology Wajcman (1991) and the reliance on an exclusionary ideal of militaristic organisation is one side of the “interference coin” that contributes to an amplified reliance on heteronormativity. The other side of the “coin”, and the necessary second contributor to the interference being played out in online heavy metal spaces is the already existing themes of masculine dominance described earlier in this paper and which can be seen in the example of Exeloume’s album. These two meanings of masculinity, the messages in heavy metal culture generally and the patriarchy in technology and militaristic organisation of participants, alongside each other do not necessarily provide the basis from which to draw a notion of amplified heteronormativity. It is the interference of these two meanings that creates a new trajectory of meaning — an amplified reliance on heteronormativity. In the case of the online heavy metal spaces that I have observed it is the opportunities for men to further dominate the conversation through an apparent collective preference for masculine language. The arrangement of participants along a militaristic continuum of ranking requires individuals to be well versed in and practice the use of masculine, militaristic language in order to participate. The discussion of cultural artefacts specific to an ultra-masculine heavy metal culture interferes with or combines with the limitations of male dominated technological spaces to create an amplified reliance on heteronormativity and practice of men’s dominance over women. So there is nothing all that interesting about a reliance on binary notions of gender having followed our shift into online social spaces. The overwhelming visibility of gender in everyday life tends to be predicated on a politics of gender that assumes a natural correlation between gender and biological sex that must fit within the woman — man dichotomy. Notions of men’s dominance over women exist in heavy metal cultures more generally and can be seen in album covers that depict, often disturbing, ultra-masculine behaviours. Technology and the design of software and online spaces is also clearly a sphere of masculine dominance. An adaptation of one of Latour’s (1999) meanings of technical mediation (interference) offers one way of looking at the coming together of heavy metal culture and the technology of online spaces to create an amplified reliance on heteronormativity. A result of the hyper-masculinity that exists in online heavy metal spaces and the characteristic visibility of social interactions through recorded text based conversation is that these spaces continually reify the dominance of patriarchy that comes with an amplified reliance on heteronormativity. Acknowledgements: This paper is based on ideas presented at the 2016 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast conference in 2016. The highly valuable and friendly feedback and advice offered by many participants has contributed, in part, to my development of ideas here. I thank the organisers and other participants of this conference for an enjoyable and incredibly productive conference experience that I hope continues in the future. I would like to offer thanks to Evie Verdini Fensom for her support of my research and other pursuits. I would also like to thank Sean Kennedy whose musical talents and adventures in heavy metal music continues to be an inspiration. 243 244 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 References De Beauvoir, S. (2012). The second sex. Vintage. Elide, A., Haltbakk, O., Oien, S., Ulriksen, A., & Wahl, T. (2011). Fairytale of perversion. Exeloume, ViciSolum Productions: Stockholm. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. Garden City, NY: Anchor. Jackson, S. (2006). Interchanges: gender, sexuality and heterosexuality: the complexity (and limits) of heteronormativity. Feminist Theory, 7(1), 105–121. DOI: 10.1177/1464700106061462. Kessler, S. J., & McKenna, W. (1978). Gender: An ethnomethodological approach. University of Chicago Press. Latour, B. (1999). Pandora’s hope: essays on the reality of science studies. Harvard University Press. Lenhart, A., Purcell, K., Smith, A., & Zickuhr, K. (2010). Social media & mobile Internet use among teens and young adults. Millennials. (Millenials). Pew Research Center. Riis, S. (2008). The symmetry between Bruno Latour and Martin Heidegger the technique of turning a police officer into a speed bump. Social Studies of Science, 38(2), 285–301. DOI: 10.1177/0306312707081379. Wajcman, J. (1991). Patriarchy, Technology, and Conceptions of Skill. Work and Occupations, 18(1), 29–45. Walser, R. (1993). Running with the devil: power, gender, and madness in heavy metal music. Wesleyan University Press. Weinstein, D. (2000). Heavy metal: the music and its culture. Da Capo Press. Wheelwright, J. (1987). Amazons and military maids: an examination of female military heroines in British literature and the changing construction of gender. Women’s Studies International Forum, 10(5), 489–502. DOI: 10.1016/0277-5395(87)90003-3. Wittig, M. (1992). The straight mind and other essays. Beacon Press. 5.5. Conflicts, integration, hybridization of subcultures: An ecological approach to the case of queercore 2 Vincenzo Romania1, Fabio Bertoni and David Primo 3 Abstract This paper investigates the case study of queercore, providing a socio-historical analysis of its subcultural production, in the terms of what Michel Foucault has called archaeology of knowledge (1969). In particular, we will focus on: the self-definition of the movement; the conflicts between the two merged worlds of punk and queer culture; the “internal-subcultural” conflicts between both queercore and punk, and between queercore and gay\lesbian music culture; the political aspects of differentiation. In the conclusion, we will offer an innovative theoretical proposal about the interpretation of subcultures in ecological and semiotic terms, combining the contribution of the American sociologist Andrew Abbot and of the Russian semiologist Jurij Michajlovič Lotman. Keywords: queercore, theory, subcultural conflicts. 1. Introduction Since the foundational works of Hall and Jefferson (1975), Irwin (1977) and Hebdige (1979) the theorization about spectacular youth cultures has undergone a deep theoretical revision, regarding their relationship with locality, virtuality and translocality (Bennet and Petterson, 2004); the definition of actors involved in the art worlds (Becker, 1982); the production and reproduction of idiocultures (Fine, 1979; Kotarba, Fackler and Nowotny, 2009). Scarce attention has been paid to the conflicts, negotiations, hybridisations between subcultures. The very large sociological literature about these topics, despite its variety, has some common features. Firstly, it is partially or totally self-referential. While subcultural studies use macrosociological concept to interpret subcultural phenomena and conceptual problems, very seldom this kind of literature tries to give life to a more general approach to culture, social stratification, and identity theory. Secondly, it tends to be frequently case-oriented, focussing on the simple description of single phenomena (subcultures, scene, begs), and, in some cases, in the development of an inductive theoretical approach, more than on the explanation of plural subcultural phenomena and on the development of comprehensive and deductive models that could be applied to minorities and subcultures of different ambits. Thirdly, they tend to provide an internal look, describing a posteriori how a given subculture has born or developed through some given hybridization, while not theorizing how subcultures tend to interact between themselves, even in other senses: through differentiation, opposition, fragmentation and composition and so on. Finally, in our opinion, it tends to over-evaluate the problem of the relationship between subculture and social structures: social class, ethnicity, differences and inequalities associated to gender, sexuality, race, and ethnicity. This paper investigates the case study of a different kind of subcultural phenomenon, which can be classified as an interstitial subculture. We will focus on queercore, providing a socio-historical 1 Università Degli Studi di Padova, Italy. E-mail: vincenzo.romania|at|gmail|dot|com. Università Degli Studi di Padova, Italy. E-mail: fabio.bertoni88|at|gmail|dot|com. 3 Università Degli Studi di Padova, Italy. E-mail: david.primo|at|phd|dot|unipd|dot|it. 2 245 246 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 analysis of its subcultural production, in the terms of what Michel Foucault has called archaeology of knowledge (1969). In particular, we will investigate the self-definition of the movement; the conflicts between the two merged worlds of punk and queer culture; the “internal-subcultural” conflicts between both queercore and punkcore, and queercore and gay\lesbian music. Our empirical material will consist of lyrics, interviews, manifestos and a variety of visual material used by the global actors of queercore, through fanzines, lyrics and other supports. In the conclusion, we will offer an innovative theoretical proposal about the interpretation of subcultures in ecological and semiotic terms, combining the contribution of the American sociologist Andrew Abbot and the Russian semiologist Jurij Michajlovič Lotman. 2. A short introduction to queer history The origins of Queercore movement can be traced to the publication, on 1986, of the “J.D’s” fanzine, by G.B. Jones and Bruce LaBruce. At first, the fanzine named the musical scene as “homocore”, but soon “queer-” replaced the “homo-” prefix. This turn was justified by the will to represent the different subjectivities involved in the scene, and to clarify its political stance. Furthermore, queer is a scientific world that had a deep influence both on music an on GLBTQ selfdefinition. At the subcultural level, queercore emerged out from the Toronto’s anarchist scene as a response to the anti-queer bigotry of the local punk scene. This territorial-bound phenomenon of differentiation became rapidly recognized all over the world, labelling a variety of different musical phenomena, joined by a common emphasis on DIY culture, rude musical gestures and irony (DeChaine, 1997; see further). As Amy Spencer suggested: “those punks that were gay felt dissatisfied with the options of either participating in the hardcore punk scene or the mainstream gay scene. Neither scene was willing to accept them fully: they could either be queer in the punk scene or punk in the queer scene” (2005, p. 22). Figure 1: The logo of the queercore band No Brain Cells. In brief, queercore emerged as an interstitial space created by two concurrent forms of stigmatization (Muñoz, 2006) and turned this stigmatization in a marker of self-identization. Queercore arose not simply as a criticism per se to the Punk and the GLBTQ movement themselves, but rather as a rant against the different directions the two movements were approaching in the late 1980s. While at first they used to be considered as experimental arenas 5.5. Conflicts, integration, hybridization of subcultures: An ecological approach to the case of queercore and refuges to all sorts of people who were engaged in nonconformist behavior, more and more the main core of them became reciprocally conflicting (DeChaine, 1997). As stated by GB. Jones and Bruce LaBruce (1989), punk represented a slang word which in the Seventies stood also for passive homosexual, or catamite. As far as concerns the punk scene, queercore blamed its tendencies to be sexist and heteronormative (Spencer, 2005). On the other side, as concerns the GLBTQ movement, political activism established social spaces for non-straight people but these had quickly developed into a homogenous culture, which promoted the crystallization of queer in a series of strict rules of homonormative conduct (Du Plessis & Chapman, 1997; Duggan, 2003). Queer punks were ostracized by both those previously radical ad and accessible spaces. During 1991, Bruce LaBruce and GB Jones articulated their views to the wider punk community in an article for the popular zine Maximumrocknroll, titled “Don’t be gay, or how I learned to stop worrying and fuck punk up the ass”. After the publication of this manifesto, several people from different places began to develop new queercore zines and band. At the beginning of the Nineties these actors would have become the center of queercore movement. They didn’t share any particular geographical location. Mails and fanzines were the main means used in order to support each other and share their work (Halberstam, 2005). This growing community had its first ritual gathering event in 1991, when Steve LaFreniere organized in Chicago the first national queerzines gathering. It was named SPEW and it was intended to provide the movement an identity platform to strengthen social networks between artists and people who recognized themselves in the social, political and artistic ideals of queercore (Spencer, 2005). It starred some of the most famous queercore stars, like GB Jones Queercore band, The Fifth Column, and Vaginal Crème Davis, a black intersex, genderqueer performing artist, member of some of the most important queercore bands, like the Afro Sisters and Black Fag. This event also fostered the emergence of the US Queercore scene in 1992. It ratified the birth of the “Homocore Chicago” organization, which organized regularly queercore shows and held together diverse queer musicians by giving them a physical space in which to meet. In comparison with Canada and America, queercore emerged several years later in Europe, and at first involved almost exclusively the British scene (Spencer, 2005). The center of the British spread of the movement was the Manchester GLBTQ scene. In particular, Homocult played a key role in spreading the queercore music all over UK. In fact, this movement shared with queercore a similar critique against the standardization of the gay experiences, and used similar political actions, like the creation and distribution of radical, satirical and rude posters against straight and mainstream gay culture (Maddison, 2000). In the second half of the Nineties, many queercore bands emerged in other European countries, such as Poland, Germany, France and Spain. In Italy its spread was limited to few events of the BDSM scene, organised by the Atlantide squat in Bologna and to the musical performances of few famous Italian punks, like Helena Velena, a Transgender Activist and punk music producer. The Queercore became part of the mainstream music during 1994, thanks to Pansy Division, a Californian band formed in 1992, which released several albums with the Alternative Tentacles label. As for Black Fag, the band’s name is a parody of some iconic punk and post-punk bands (The Black Flag, and Joy Division). A similar irony in the self-definition is quite common to the queercore scene (see further). In 1994, Pansy Division were asked to tour with Green Day on the band’s tour. This event gave life to a strong debate within the queercore scene, opposing those who considered the queercore dead, as irreconcilable with the dynamics of commercialization and homogenization of mainstream music, and those who considered it a fundamental step in the legitimization and diffusion of this movement. In other terms, the process of commercial integration (Hebdige, 1979) of queercore gave life to a controversy around authenticity that is common to all postmodern subcultures. 247 248 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Figure 2: The poster of a Pansy Division live during 1993. 3. An archaeology of queercore In this paragraph, we will shortly provide an analysis of some elements of the cultural production of queercore, including fanzines, LP covers, lyrics, flyers and posters. Our target is to analyse how this musical scene created a space of self-definition and self-representation, positioning itself in an interstice between punk culture and GLBTQ community. A first relevant element is the homocore fanzine’s logo, dated 1986. The symbol represents a synthetic and explicit example of the hybridization of punk and GLBTQ subcultures: the “A” of anarchy and the infamous pink triangle are interweaved together (Jennings, 1988) in the logo. The resulting symbol should not be interpreted as simply as the overlap between two different cultural identities. Rather, queercore expresses a crucial hybridization, a continuous dialectic of identification and distinction (Simmel, 1905) between the two cultural identities; finally, a postmodern form of irony towards subcultural authenticity (Grossberg, 1992). As regards queercore lyrics structures, rhythms, styles, and performances on stage, they are largely imported and adapted from the late 70ies-80ies classic punk, as well as the DIY attitude. Analysing the fanzines, this latter aspect represents both a stylistic proclivity, and a themed issue. Another likeness with punk is the centrality given to the fanzines as tools for the construction of a non-local scene. They allow sharing opinions on lifestyle, every-day episodes regarding homopunks, discussing political issues, reviewing music and cultural products. Queercore shared also the political position of some subgenres of punk. In particular, they shared antimilitarism, anarchy and anti-capitalism with peace punk and anarchopunk. They promoted those values to a daily practice, through the boycott of multinational brands’ campaigns or through more minute strategies, as the prohibition to pay Homocore zines with checks. Their slogan was “Really, Cash is preferred. Fuck Banks!” (Jennings, 1988, p. 1), witnessing their awareness of the interlocking of oppressions. One of the most influential and foundational character of the scene, Bruce La Bruce suggested that the original spirit of punk is near to queercore. Actually, in the first-middle Seventies punk 5.5. Conflicts, integration, hybridization of subcultures: An ecological approach to the case of queercore rockers opposed hetero-normativity, and sexual delinquency was part of their performances: “playing out the role of punk in rejection of social norms. (…) This stance obviously included sexual delinquency, looking for bad trouble or wearing a t-shirt with two guys fucking on it as Sid and Johnny” (Jones & LaBruce, 1991, p. 28). Nevertheless, after La Bruce the development of punk scene homophobia, sexism ad misogyny took roots within the movement, and punk scene became the reign of machism: All you see is big macho ‘dudes’ in leather jackets and jeans parading around the dance floor/pit, manhandling each other’s sweaty bodies in proud display. The only difference is that at the fag bar, females have been almost completely banished, while at the punk club, they’ve just been relegated to the periphery, but allowed a pretense of participation (Jones & LaBruce, 1991, p.27). The whole punk scene was considered machist: those who expected to find in punk an alternative to a stagnant culture, were largely disappointed by this situation. This antimachist critique made possible some cooperation between queercore and other antimachist punk scenes, like the feminist punk of riot grrrrl. This collaboration gave life to compilations like: There’s a dick in the pi” and New women music sampler, with all-female groups, both queercore, dykecore and feminist punk. For the same attitude, hardcore and rude boys or skinhead cultures were considered the perfect enemies, i.e. the best representatives of homophobia in the punk world. For that reason, it is particularly interesting to find queercore groups inspired to Oi! scene, as the Halflings. Their language, their logo (laurels and the pink triangle) and their semiotic references are typically Oi!, and they declare to be linked to the Rash organisation4. As regards the relationship between queercore and GLBTQ, they share a common accent on sexual freedom, against bigotry and homophobia, regarding both everyday life and social and juridical oppressions. Queercore imported some slogan from the larger GLBTQ movement (i.e., “Be there and be queer” written on posters used during Fag Bash live concerts and on stickers on Ginoli’s guitar) and the massive use of pink triangle. At the same time, queercore claimed a strong differentiation from GLBTQ movement in general, because of its commercialisation and co-optation with the social order. This radical position excluded part of GLBTQ activists from participating to queercore. From a political point of view, queercore supported a more radical and hostile attitude, claiming Stonewall riots5 as a “founding myth” and fighting for a full emancipation of people: One of the issue I constantly find myself arguing over with non-punk homos is ‘unity’. A lot of people in the gay community are still espousing the idea of creating a movement solely based on sexuality. While I see the necessity in fighting common enemies like Larouche, Bush, Dannemyer, I have a hard time ignoring class, religious and goal-oriented differences for the sake of ‘unity’ (Jennings, 1988, p. 2). This radical political position produced an allegation against the capitalist turn of GLBTQ movement. Queercore accused many GLBTQ people to have become part of the “American Dream” culture, and to be complicit with the status quo. In particular, queercore considered gay bars, discos and fashion, the loci of the commercialisation of sexual identity in the everyday life. As Fenster (1993, p. 73) suggested: “to be a queer punk means having taste and style that lies outside dominant notions of what music mainstream adult gays and lesbians perform, listen and dance to”. 4 Similar “strange combinations” are The Staprest, that reuse a Mod imaginary in the construction of their punk identity and in particular, the Vespa byke. 5 Stonewall uprisings was a series of spontaneous and non-permitted demonstrations of New York’s GLBT community, against a police raid at the Stonewall Inn in Manhattan. These facts, realized in june 28 of 1969, are recognized as “the first gay pride” and became the symbol of the GLBT movements, in particular for the more radical part of them. 249 250 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 This anticapitalistic stance connects queercore to the gay shame movement, which is highly critical against the commercial development of gay prides, and claims for a return to their original riot core. Other minor actions of political positioning confirm the radicalisation of queercore ideology. For example, some queercore activists performed some vandalic spray-paintings against the Bay Area Reporter, a gay-community newspaper that has published the advertisement of a brand (Coors beer) engaged with Republican Party and conservative causes. At a linguistic level, one of the main feature of queercore is the use of a highly ironic and sarcastic language as a way to create a complex dynamic of intersection and distinction with respect to queer and punk. Queering punk means destroying any punk sacrality and using a continuous irony about its icons, myths, purposes. Wordplays and punnings are used in lyrics and some band names are realized with the explicit intention of “queering punk”. The re-appropriation of some hostile words, as fag, faggot, dyke and, in general, entire lyrics, are a sarcastic way to show discrimination and to affirm the pride to be “mutant and out of normality”, as we can see in the song Homophobia by Ugly Americans: Let’s beat up some faggots cause they really make me sick We all know it’s a men’s world And real men don’t eat dick No way! I know some funny AIDS Jokes They make me laugh like hell’ And if you don’t like niggers too 1’ll tell you a few about Sickle Cell Homophobia — homophobia Up my ass H-O-M-O-P-H-0-B-l-A (Sinister, 1985). The use of irony regarding their own sexual identities is not the only modality of semiotic subversion used by queercore activists. They also use, in a typical punk fashion, slogans of conservative politicians or conservative icons, in the visuals of fanzines, records and live performances. An example is the photo cover of one of the first numbers of Homocore, representing the picture of “an idiot Christian fascist haranguing the ‘86 San Francisco Gay Day Parade” (Jennings, 1988, p. 1). 4. Conclusions: For a theory of subcultures as jurisdictions This paper focusses on a case study of interstitial subculture, i.e. that kind of subculture emerging through the interaction, the negotiation, the conflictual dynamics between other pre-existing subcultures, and proposing an original synthesis of the former divisions and oppositions. It is a typical example of a post-subculture, produced by an original ambivalence. Its main audience, topics, aesthetics emerge from a meta-discursive reflection about subcultures and their power of identization: queercore includes elements of punk and queer and proposes an ironic discourse of mixing, hybridization and combination of them. Starting from this background, queercore, produced a proper language, proper symbols, texts, codes and rules and through them the identification of a significant international audience. Its members have in common a self-collocation or recognition both in the punk and in queer subculture, or prevalently in one out of the two. In other terms, queercore is both a subculture representing a structural division, between a queer minority and the rest of the society, and a post-subculture born by the fusion, interaction, combination of different cultural texts and backgrounds. It reflects changes occurred both in punk and in queer movement. It gives life to a completely new cultural phenomenon with its own internal logic. Its possibilities of survival depend on the capacity to individuate and answer to the specific 5.5. Conflicts, integration, hybridization of subcultures: An ecological approach to the case of queercore subcultural needs of a significant audience, independently from its contents and its sociographic composition. This allows us to affirm that more and more the question if subcultures are or are not the product of some structural division in society becomes somehow superfluous and unfitting with the great variety of subcultural expressions and the complexity of the relationship between cultural structures and historical phenomena. Given this consideration, we propose to consider subcultures in an ecological sense combining the theories of Andrew Abbot on the systems of professions (1988) and the theory of the semiologist Jurij Michajlovič Lotman about semiosphere (Lotman et al., 1975). Consistent with Lotman’s approach, subcultures can be defined as cellular semiotic spheres who frame the experience of members defining their own identity through lifestyle, representations, attitude, and values. This cellular sphere is in continuously moving, in a dynamic interaction with mainstream culture, other subcultures and a very vast and undefined quantity of textual, social and semiotic resources. Its borders are permeable but filtering: they select and transform external elements, admitting some expressions, appearances, behaviours, people, influencing and refusing others. This latter aspect represents the normative side of subcultures. Once a given subculture is formed and supported by a significant number of people, it acts like a jurisdiction, a term introduced by Andrew Abbott in order to study how a profession born and becomes legitimated through a process of differentiation from other existing professions (1988). Like a profession, a subculture gives life to a normative system of style that defines the borders of the group, the internal hierarchies, the possible interactions with other cellular systems (cultures, and subcultures) and fields of power. Finally, the jurisdiction creates a kind of spontaneous institutionalisation. As in Abbott’s model, the jurisdiction is mobile and dynamic: the process of internal and external differentiation of subcultures is relational and depending on historical, cultural, social contingencies. Its life is vulnerable and depends on public recognition and on the same reason of its specificity: the possibility of being alternative, relevant, visible, and consistent. In comparison with other existing theoretical approach, the advantage of our proposal is in considering the sociological and cultural field of subcultures dynamically. This dynamicity allows understanding the interaction between subcultures, the processes of internal and external differentiation, and various other processes of overlapping, hybridisation, conflicts. Finally, it permits us to overcome the traditional divide between structural and post-structural approaches to subcultures6. References Abbott, A. (1988). The System of Professions. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Becker, H. S. (1982). Art Worlds. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bennett, A. & Peterson, R. (2004). Music Scenes: Local, Translocal and Virtual. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. DeChaine, R. D. (1997). Mapping subversion: Queercore music’s playful discourse of resistance. Popular Music and Society, 21(4), 7-37. DOI: 10.1080/03007769708591686 Du Plessis, M. & Chapman, K. (1997). Queercore: The Distinct Identities of Subculture. College Literature, 24(1), 4559. Retrieved from http://connection.ebscohost.com/c/literary-criticism/9704025470/queercore-distinctidentities-subculture Duggan, L. (2003). The twilight of equality?: neoliberalism, cultural politics, and the attack on democracy. Boston: Beacon Press. Fenster, M. (1993). Queer punk fanzines: Identity, community, and the articulation of homosexuality and hardcore. Journal of Communication Inquiry, 17(1), 73-94. DOI: 10.1177/019685999301700105 6 This contribution presents a first theoretical proposal to the study of subcultures. Further details and a larger discussion will be provided in the next future in other contributions. 251 252 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Fine, G. A. (1989). Mobilizing fun: provisioning resources in leisure worlds. Sociology of Sport Journal, 6(4), 319-334. DOI: 10.1123/ssj.6.4.319 Foucault, M. (1969). The Archaeology of Knowledge. London and New York: Routledge, 2002. Grossberg, L. (1992). We Gotta Get Out of This Place. London: Routledge. Hall, S. & Jefferson, T. (1975). Resistance through Rituals. Youth Subcultures in post-war Britain. London: Routledge. Halberstam, J. (2005). In a Queer time and place: Transgender bodies, subcultural lives. New York: New York University Press. Hebdige, D. (1979). Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge. Irwin, J. (1977). Scenes. London: Sage. Jennings, T. (1988, December). Index page. Homocore. Retrieved from: http://archive.qzap.org/index.php/Detail/Object/Show/object_id/279 Jennings, T. (1989, September). Rude noises from the editor/censor: what the fuck is homocore. Homocore. Retrieved from: http://archive.qzap.org/index.php/Detail/Object/Show/object_id/406 Jones, G. B. & LaBruce, B. (1991, February). Don’t be gay, or how I learned to stop worrying and fuck punk up the ass. Homocore. Retrieved from: http://archive.qzap.org/index.php/Detail/Object/Show/object_id/406 Kotarba, J. A. & LaLone, N. J. (2014). The Scene: A Conceptual Template for an Interactionist Approach to Contemporary Music. In N. K., Denzin (Ed.). Revisiting Symbolic Interaction in Music Studies and new interpretive works: studies on Symbolic Interaction, volume 42 (pp. 51-68). Bingley: Emerald Group Publishing Limited. Lotman, J. M., et al. (1975). Theses on the Semiotic Study of Cultures (as Applied to Slavic Texts). In A., T., Sebeok (Ed.), The Tell-Tale Sign: A Survey of Semiotics (pp. 57-84). Lisse (Netherlands): Peter de Ridder. Maddison, S. (2000). Fags, hags and queer sisters: Gender dissent and heterosocial bonding in gay culture. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Melucci, A. (1996). Challenging Codes: Collective Action in the Information Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Muñoz, J. E. (2006). Stages: Queers, Punks, and the Utopian Performative. In D. S., Madison & J., Hamera (Eds.), The Sage Handbook of Performance Studies (pp. 9-20). Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications. Simmel, G. (1905). Philosophie der Mode. Berlin: Verlag. Sinister, S. B. (1985). Homophobia [Recorded by Ugly Americans]. On Who’s Been Sleeping... In My Bed [CD]. Tarzana: Death Records Spencer, A. (2005). DIY: The rise of Lo-Fi Culture. London: Marion Boyars Publishers Ltd. 5.5. Conflicts, integration, hybridization of subcultures: An ecological approach to the case of queercore © Chris Low THEME TUNE 6 | ‘How soon is now?’ (Sub)cultures, narratives, mobilities, influences: Postcolonial identities and geographies 253 254 6.1. Analyzing the Japanese discourse on subculture/ sabukaruchā Franziska Ritt1 Abstract Japan has its own diverse history of spectacular youth subcultures, from youth biker gangs and music centered subcultures such as Punk to fashion subcultures like gothic lolita. The usage of the Japanese term sabukaru, though derived from subculture and usually translated this way, diverges from the AngloAmerican understanding. Sabukaru tends to include aspects of general popular culture but also is a marketing category for more specialized media, overlapping with or even becoming a synonym for the much discussed field of otaku culture. Interestingly, sabukaru/ otaku culture has often presented itself as an underground culture, whilst staying tied to mass-cultural phenomena. This paper explores the usage of and the discourse on the term “subculture” in Japan, taking the existing discourse on otaku culture but also a broader understanding of youth and underground culture into account. Keywords: Japanese subcultures, otaku, Japanese popular culture, popular music. 1. Introduction: What is subculture? In Japanese everyday life, the word subculture, often shortened to sabukaru, seems ubiquitous. It appears as a category in most bookstores and libraries, who tag a wide variety of fictional and nonfictional literature — from occultism to pop-star biographies — as “subcultural”. Even the online retailer Amazon presented for some time a category for products targeting “subculture and culture girls” (sabukaru・bunkakei gāru), offering everything from musical instruments to books on photography, railways or videogames and manga (Amazon 2014: Internet). Magazines such as the pop culture magazine Quick Japan (Ohta Shuppan), the fashion and lifestyle magazine Relax (Magazine House) or art and culture magazine Studio Voice (Infas Publication) have been categorized as “subcultural magazines” (Namba, 2006, p. 161) as well. It is also worth noting, that within Japan’s recent history, there has been a wide range of cultural phenomena that would fit the definition of “spectacular subcultures” closely: Starting as early as the 1950s, there have for instance been various incarnations of youth biker gangs, more recently, different forms of street fashion have come to represent Japanese creativity abroad (Mabuchi, 1989; Namba, 2007; Kawamura 2012). Much like their counterparts in the rest of the world, Punk or gothic bands in Japan understand themselves as members of “underground-” or “sub”-cultures distinctly “different” from the cultural mainstream. They have created their own independent ecosystems of bands, record labels, specialized magazines and record shops as well as fashion labels. In 2015, the web magazine Tokyo Girls Update published a series of articles by the author and journalist Okajima Shinshi2, boldly declaring him the “next subculture leader” — without much further explanation of this title. The first installment is a conversation between Okajima and fellow pop culture-journalists Nakamori Akio and Sayawaka (pen name). The introduction opens with the statement that, “recently in Japan, the term ‘subculture’ has begun to change from its generally accepted meaning into one that is somewhat special.” It is interesting to note that Tokyo Girls Update usually covers news on Japanese pop idol groups, models and teen fashion trends for an 1 2 PhD Student, Japanese Studies, University of Cologne, Germany. E-mail: fritt|at|smail|dot|uni-koeln|dot|de. The spelling of Japanese names follows the Japanese norm: Family name first and given name second. 255 256 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 English-language audience — not exactly what one would usually associate with subculture. What the article however does not do is define the meaning of subculture. It just mentions some broad examples — Shibuya-kei3 as a music genre, the noise band Violent Onsen Geisha or rock music festivals (Okajima, 2015). The assumption that, in Japan, subculture is defined differently can not only be found in journalism or fan-discussions, but also in academic discourse. Thomas LaMarre notes in a conversation with fellow Japanese Studies scholar Patrick W. Galbraith, that Generally speaking, in Japanese discussions the emphasis often falls on subculture as ‘small’, both in terms of the number of producers and consumers and in terms of its concerns (Galbraith, LaMarre 2010, p. 367). Subculture, so LaMarre continues, in a Japanese context “could be seen as a harbinger of the end of the history and of the nation”, as opposed to the western notion where the term describes “a set of practices entailing resistance to dominant modes of understanding the world and organizing social relations.” (Galbraith & LaMarre 2010, p. 367). Anne McKnight similarly states that: The main difference is that, while Anglo-American thought sees subculture as defined by a non-normative or marginal position and likely approaches study through sociology and urban ethnography, subculture in Japan is defined as a community formed around the conventions of representations in one medium of information culture (manga, anime, heavy metal fans, and so on) (McKnight, 2010, p. 125). At the same time a definition of subcultures as spectacular, rebellious or even delinquent youth cultures is still present. The image of the members of these subcultures as rebellious, eccentric outsiders is common enough to form them into stereotyped characters in films, television series, comics, etc. This paper explores the usage and definitions of subculture in Japan since its first appearance in the 1960s, taking both sides — subculture or sabukaru as a niche within the gradually diversifying Japanese media culture, as well as subculture as a rebellious underground culture — into account. 2. Subculture and sabukaru Japanese sociologist Namba Kōji notes, that in postwar-Japan the youth subcultures, which often parallel their counterparts in other parts of the world (see also Narumi, 2010), have been usually called “tribes” (zoku)4, while the term subculture was used to describe certain genres of media content and “subculture research” in many cases referred to media analysis (Namba 2006, 2007). The term subculture appeared in the Japanese media for the first time in the late 1960s, and was originally used to describe US-American and Japanese contemporary art. A 1968 issue of the art magazine Bijutsu techō featured articles on “Camp, Hippie and Subculture”, presenting American and Japanese artists as part of what the magazine called “a new image culture” (Kanesaka 1968, p. 81). 3 The genre Shibuya-kei became popular in Japan during the 1990s. Its name derives from the Shibuya district in Tōkyō, which is known as center of fashion and youth culture and where the genre gained first popularity. It started as a revival of 1960s pop-music and soon gained the image of an extremely sophisticated taste culture, with both fans and musicians displaying an encyclopedic knowledge of music and pop-culture (Namba, 2007, pp. 297-308). 4 The suffix “zoku” can be translated as tribe. It is usually used to describe (youth-)subcultures, e.g. the media referred for example to the hippies as hippī-zoku, the aforementioned youth biker gangs have been called kaminari-zoku (thunder-tribe) or later on bōsō-zoku (reckless driving/ runaway-tribe) (Mabuchi, 1989; Namba, 2005). The term does however not in all cases refer to a youth tribe or subculture. The wealthy inhabitants of the Roppongi Hills building complex in Tōkyō became for example known as “hiruzu-zoku” ([Roppongi-]Hills-tribe) in the popular press. 6.1. Analyzing the Japanese discourse on subculture/ sabukaruchā In 1975 a special issue of the philosophy magazine Shisō no kagaku on Japanese Subculture (nihon no sabukaruchā) appeared. In the closing remarks of the issue, the founder and editor of the magazine, Tsurumi Shunosuke, refers back to American sociological scholarship for a definition of the term. He describes different subcultures as single parts of a lager, collective culture, differentiated in terms of class, ethnicity and so forth. He suggests that, when translating the term subculture to Japanese, one should speak of “back-side culture” or “hidden culture” (ura bunka) rather than compartmentalized culture (bubun bunka) (Tsurumi, 1975). A similar use — subculture as “back-side culture” — emerged in the late 1970s with the controversy surrounding Murakami Ryū’s novel Almost Transparent Blue (Kagirinaku tomei ni chikai buru), which won the prestigious Akutagawa Prize in 1977. The literary critic Etō Jun called the book “subcultural” with the intention of branding it as vulgar and far from the standards of high culture (McKnight, 2010, p. 126). Apart from such isolated appearances, the term subculture was never used widely until the 1990s, neither in academic discussions nor in the popular media. The first monograph to feature the word sabukaruchā in its title was the 1993 work Sabukaruchā Shinwa Kaitai (Deconstruction of the Subculture Myth) by the sociologist Miyadai Shinji. While the study was meant to offer a post-war history of Japanese youth culture, it did not cover any of the youth cultures mentioned before, but focused rather on media aimed at a young audience, Shōjo (girls) culture, manga, popular music and the subject of sexuality (Miyadai, 1992 [2007]). After the publication of Sabukaruchā Shinwa Kaitai the number of both academic and popular publications on the topic has been rising steadily. In the same time the abbreviated version sabukaru came into use (Miyazawa, 2014, pp. 95-105). In 2005, the pop culture and philosophy magazine Yuriika dedicated a much-discussed special issue to an alleged conflict between otaku5 and sabukaru or subculture. But even in this context, it is difficult to find a definition of the two phenomena in focus. In the foreword, the author and editor Barbora tries to define both via the different modes of consumption they supposedly entail: While otaku-like consumption is deeply interested in the collection of extremely detailed information on a certain object, sabukaru rather creates its own worlds of consumption outside of mainstream culture. Finally, Barbora however remarks that it is extremely difficult to precisely define sabukaru today simply because of the fact that a clearly delimited mainstream hardly exists anymore. Instead, Japanese popular culture seems to be diversifying constantly. Thus, he argues that, if you meet someone with certain specialized interests now, you simply accept this person as different from you, without sorting him into another subcultural group as a result of this (Barbora, 2005, pp. 10-11). In another essay in the same magazine issue, the journalist Taguchi Kazuhiro describes his journey from otaku to sabukaru. He traces his development from anime-fandom and an otaku lifestyle to the realm of sabukaru as a teenager, describing how he “graduated” from the former to the latter after he had been introduced to the music of Yellow Magic Orchestra, RC Succession and especially of punk band The Stalin. After moving from his hometown to Tōkyō, he starts to visit concerts and broadens his interests beyond music into underground film and art. With a few likeminded friends he finally starts a fanzine, which ultimately allows him to stay connected to sabukaru during his career as a writer and journalist (Taguchi, 2005). Sabukaru in this context seems to be more than an interest in specialized forms of popular culture, even if Taguchi does not seem to understand himself as a member of a clearly defined subculture. There is a continued interest in the topic, especially on a more popular level. There has been a number of on- and offline publications, interviews often nostalgic in their tone, retelling their author’s youth and their first encounters with — or decent into — sabukaru. Even Japan’s public broadcaster NHK produced a series titled Japans’s subculture (Nihon no sabukaruchā), which has just recently been extended to a third season (Miyazawa, 2014). 5 For a definition of the term see chapter 3. 257 258 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 3. Otaku and subculture In a discussion of the term subculture in Japan, it is also crucial to take the aforementioned otaku or otaku-culture into consideration, as the terms otaku and subculture/ sabukaru are closely intertwined. LaMarre, in the interview quoted above, refers to otaku as the “prime instance of subculture” in Japan (Galbraith & LaMarre 2010, p. 367). In the introduction to his well-known book Otaku: Japan’s Database Animals, originally published in 2001, Azuma Hiroki uses both terms — otaku and subculture as a certain form of media content — almost synonymously: I suppose that everyone has heard of ‘otaku’. Simply put, it is a general term referring to those who indulge in form of subculture strongly linked to anime, video games, computers, science fiction, special-effects films, anime figurines, and so on. In this book, I identify this form of subculture as ‘otaku culture’ (Azuma, 2009, p. 3). The term otaku came to be used in the late 1980s to describe young people completely absorbed in the world of their hobbies6. While the opinions on the topics are diverse, it can be said, that the otaku is still at least loosely connected to the media or genres of popular culture mentioned by Azuma. The term has also been used to describe these media or types of media content themselves as otaku-like. As the examples in the previous chapter have shown, the term is also closely connected to certain forms of consumption. The discussions on otaku have been diverse since the first appearance of the term in the early 1980s. A wide range of participants from insiders and self-proclaimed otaku to the mass media and academic researchers from a wide range of disciplines have commented on the subject. It is thus difficult, as Galbraith, Kam and Kamm emphasize, to create a coherent history out of the discourse around otaku, let alone to speak of a single otaku identity. The academic discourse has often uncritically reproduced consumers of certain media (manga, anime, video games or pop-idols) as otaku — creating an otaku identity by taking the existence of an otaku culture with a certain defined history for granted7 (Galbraith et al., 2015, pp. 7-10). The discussions on otaku as a subculture are equally diverse. Thiam Huat Kam points out the limitations of speaking about otaku as a subculture, or even as a set of similar subcultures. The topic, so Kam continues, is too complex and the groups and phenomena involved too incoherent to be classified as a subculture. Rather, he suggests, one should understand otaku as a process of labeling (Kam, 2013, pp. 41-44) Similarly the anime producer, author and self-proclaimed “otaking” Okada Toshio refers to otaku as an originally diverse group, that was through external labeling forced to forge into a collective identity (Kam, 2013, p- 155). In his 1996 book Otaku-gaku nyūmon [Introduction to otaku studies] he differentiated Japanese otaku clearly form imported, western subculture. Okada presented otaku as a uniquely Japanese form of popular culture, tracing it back to the country’s historical Edo-period and its craftsmen- and connoisseur-culture to establish its claim as the only “truly Japanese” subculture. He also suggests that the often ambiguous distinction between children and adults in Japan on the one hand is an important factor for the development of otakuculture as children and adults are allowed to appreciate the same content. On the other hand in 6 The author and journalist Nakamori Akio, who was mentioned before as one of the participants in the discussion on Tokyo Girls Update, is usually cited as its originator, mentioning the term in a column for the comic magazine Manga Burikko in 1983 to describe the visitors of Tōkyō’s biggest market for amateur-manga and fanzines. Nakamori’s writing on the group was decisively negative in tone — in his eyes, its members seemed little more than anti-social loser types. Furthermore, their interests appeared extremely narrow: they seemed fixated almost exclusively on a specific genre of (amateur-)manga. 7 The cultural critic and magazine editor Ōtsuka Eiji, who has been a prominent participant in the discourse on otaku since the 1980s, emphasizes that he himself and other students created the first writings on otaku — and otakurelated media — using an academic language in part for entertainment and in response to the ongoing public discussion. Ōtsuka thus harshly criticizes later academic writing on the topic as legitimization of a discourse, which originated in a kind of insider-joke, going so far as to call academic writing about otaku, which further stabilizes these images of otaku, meaningless or even harmful. (Galbraith et al., 2015, pp. 2-39; Ōtsuka, 2015, p. xv). 6.1. Analyzing the Japanese discourse on subculture/ sabukaruchā this view it becomes less clear, against what a subculture could rebel without a clearly delimitated parent culture and thus subculture in his view is little more than an empty, superficial imitation of western fashion (Okada, 1996, pp. 214-231). Patrick Galbraith and Thomas LaMarre suggest referring to otaku in terms of a fan culture, rather than subculture. Other scholars however speak of the importance of “subcultural cred[ibility]” (Ito, 2012, pp. xvii), clearly presenting otaku as a subculture: Even as otaku culture is recuperated by elites and the mainstream, and as the terms ‘anime’ and ‘manga’ have become part of a common international lexicon, otaku culture and practice have retained their subcultural credibility. In Japan, much of manga and anime is associated with mainstream consumption; otaku must therefore differentiate themselves from ippanjin (regular people) through a proliferating set of niche genres, alternative readings, and derivative works (Ito, 2012, p. xvii). What renders otaku relevant for the discussion of subculture in Japan, apart from the ongoing academic discourse on the topic, is also their relative continuous media presence. Otaku appeared in various roles and with various sometimes contradictory images, often presented as symptomatic for the problems of Japan’s youth as a whole. On the other hand they appeared as representatives for the global interest in Japanese popular culture. They have also frequently been juxtaposed to other subcultures, as for example Taguchi’s essay on otaku and sabukaru shows. 4. Subculture and pop-idols While it is thus not easy to define otaku as subculture, it is also almost impossible to talk about subculture in Japan without mentioning otaku. As for example the Yuriika special issue shows, otaku is in many cases the initial point for discussions on the topic. In some cases these images of a more traditional subculture form have also been juxtaposed to otaku — or more broadly — the Japanese notion of subculture described above. An interesting phenomenon in this context are pop-idols, who have seen their first boom in the 1980s but continue to play a central part in the Japanese media landscape due to the ongoing success of groups like Perfume, AKB48 or Momoiro Clover Z8 (Galbraith & Karlin, 2012). Idol-groups are not sold based on their musical quality or the image of a glamorous super-star lifestyle. Rather, the fans are encouraged to follow the journey of a “typical girl next door”, who makes her way into the world of music and entertainment almost solely by hard work and based on her unique character. Looks behind the scenes form a central part of the idol’s presentation, so that the producers and managers of the groups are in many cases as well known as the performers (Aoyagi, 2005; Ōta, 2011). While these groups are omnipresent in the music charts and on television, they are at the same time considered part of otaku culture — or sabukaru. Aoyagi Hiroshi describes idol otaku as fans who follow their favorite groups with a considerable investment of time and money: As for idol otaku, extensive consumption encompasses acts such as the elaborate collection of idol goods, frequent attendance at idol concerts as well as fan conventions, and taking part in voluntary support groups. Devoted idol otaku publish their own newsletter and magazines as ways of exposing their knowledge about, and their dedication to, their idols (Aoyagi, 2005, p. 205). 8 While in this paper I talk solely about all-female idol groups, male idol groups equally successful and present in Japanese media. The maybe most prominent talent agency in Japan, Johnny & Associates, has continued to produce successful boy groups since the 1960s, with groups such as SMAP or Arashi belonging to the best-selling artists of all time in Japan. These groups have however seldom been discussed in context of otaku culture, although they have their own particular fan culture, whose usually female fans also refer to themselves at times as jannīzu-wota [Johnny’sotaku]. For discussions of male idol groups and their fans see Darling-Wolf (2004), Nagaike (2012). 259 260 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Idol-fans — or otaku — bring glowsticks to the concerts and perform choreographies called wota-gei (otaku-dance). They also present themselves as “connoisseurs” as Aoyagi Hiroshi puts it, setting themselves apart from casual fans, often favoring lesser known performers over those, who enjoy mainstream success (Aoyagi, 2005, p. 215; Xie, 2014, pp. 78-79). AKB48 are named after Akihabara, a district of Tōkyō that has become well known as a center otaku culture and “youth performing ‘otaku-ness’ for the cameras” (Galbraith, 2010, p. 212). It has also been marketed as a shopping destination to Japanese and international tourists interested in otaku and media that are usually connected to otaku. What fuels the image of groups like AKB48 as an otaku-group even more is a marketing strategy that caters mainly to super-fans who are willing to buy hundreds of copies of a CD or DVD to receive bonuses such as meet and greets with their favorite members or posters. Furthermore, CD purchases may allow them to vote on minor decisions regarding the group’s future direction, for example on which of its members should stand in the limelight in the next music video. An interesting recent spin on the pop-idol concept are groups like BiS (Short for Brand-new Idol Society). On the one hand, these self-proclaimed Anti-Idols present themselves as part of Idol and thus otaku culture9. On the other, they also make use of a more “traditional” image of subculture. Their band-logo quotes the famous Ramones one, and their T-Shirts bear the slogan “Cash from Idols” a clear reference to the Sex Pistols’ well-known “Cash from Chaos”. These kinds of allusions do not end with the group’s merchandise or their visual image. The group’s first, independently released music video became an internet sensation by filming the members running stark naked through a forest. The group’s manager, Watanabe Junosuke, has been compared to Malcom McLaren in interviews. Watanabe claimed to have taken some inspiration for BiS from the Sex Pistols’ marketing strategy while adding that his group was unfortunately not too likely to make it to the front pages of the tabloid papers like them (Munekata, 2016, pp. 155-156). Musically, the group moves freely between more traditional idol-pop and punk, often in collaboration with wellestablished artists. The latter provide not only new musical ideas, but also ensure that the group retains its image as an authentic underground band. Their arguably most debated work was an album produced in collaboration with the internationally renowned noise artists Hijokaidan. In addition creatives from entirely different genres such as DJ, producer and designer Nigo also expressed their admiration for the group. The group’s image could easily be pushed aside as no more than a marketing gimmick designed to set them apart in an overcrowded and gradually shrinking music market. I believe that there is however more to the phenomenon than this. BiS’ combination of bubblegum pop and sub- or underground culture is remarkable in that it both gathers a relatively large audience interested in idol pop groups and has won over other fans who had not been interested in this kind of music and music marketing before. BiS appeared in Idol magazines as well as in music magazines focusing on punk, and took part on both idol festivals and alternative music events. On the one hand, they gave concerts in small live venues, such as the Shinjuku Loft, a club which is closely associated with punk and underground music in Japan. On the other hand, the group’s last concert before they temporarily broke up was held in Yokohama Arena, one of the largest concert venues in metropolitan Tōkyō. 9 A similar term “underground idols” (chika aidoru) has also frequently been used. Apart from groups like BiS, who combine pop and more extreme music genres, “underground idol” is used to describe idol-groups or artists, who are not backed by a large talent agency or record company. Underground idols are often self-produced or work with smaller independent labels. In many cases these groups depend on a handful of loyal fans to survive as an artist (Galbraith, 2016). Interestingly, AKB48 also uses a similar image of a few passionate followers, who carried the group from the beginning of their career to the point of being one of Japan’s most successful music groups as a central part in their self-presentation (Xie, 2014). 6.1. Analyzing the Japanese discourse on subculture/ sabukaruchā 5. Conclusion — Sabukaru and underground culture In 2012, the musician and author Ōtsuki Kenji published a book under the title Sabukaru de kuu (Getting by on Subculture). It is a humorous collection of suggestions on how to survive without a day job, only by doing the things you really like to do. The cover blurb recommends the book to “all idiots who are incapable of a normal life” and to everyone who cannot get up early, is neither attractive nor good at studying, or cannot even imagine wearing a necktie in summer but who nonetheless wants to spend a happy life (Ōtsuki, 2012). Everything one needs to achieve this are, as the blurb continues, 15000 yen, passion and self-study. Later in his book he continues to stress the difference between sabukaru and subculture. For him, sabukaru has not much to do with Beatnik-culture, Timothy Leary, Counter-culture or Hippies — the examples he uses to illustrate the difference between the two terms. Sabukaru, so Ōtsuki, is lighter, less serious than subculture and hard to define. In the book, he illustrates sabukaru by pointing to his own career, which involves everything from musical activities to writing books or occasionally appearing in magazines or on television — in other words everything except huge ambitions and a “normal” lifestyle. If we look back on the underground-but-pop-idols from the beginning of this paper, we find some similarities to Ōtsuki’s definition of sabukaru. Idols are no glamourous pop-stars — neither do idols, such as BiS, try to be fully accepted as underground musicians. Their self-presentation appears rather as a collage of influences, quotations and parodies, making it a game for the audience to spot every reference. The group appeals to idol-otaku — much of their media presence is not too different from other idol groups — while at the same time their fans can nevertheless understand and present themselves as fans of Punk or other underground-music. Ricky Wilson, the manager of the “Japan’s first occult-infused idol unit” (Kracker, 2014) Necronomidol also mentions another aspect of the fandom surrounding such in-between groups in an interview with the English-language newspaper The Japan Times. He stresses the close connection of the fans as supporter of the group. At a metal show you never wear the T-shirt of the band (you’re seeing); it’s shallow. But at underground idol events you would want to show support for the unit. Strength in numbers; it’s your gang colors (Kracker 2014). These examples illustrate the borders between sabukaru — connected to the consumption of certain media and specific genres of popular culture — and more traditional subculture, as characterized by a sense of nonconformity and non-normativity, the “most common narrative about subcultures” according to Ken Gelder (Gelder, 2007). To sum up what I have tried to show: Japanese underground idol groups — among other creatives — skillfully make use of the differences and overlap between these two concepts existent in Japanese cultural discourse today. This renders the ongoing discussion on Japanese subculture, both on a popular and an academic level, an interesting field for further studies; even more so as different (youth) subcultures continue to play a vital role in Japanese popular culture today. The dynamic interplay between the notions of subculture and sabukaru that I have explored in this paper may well present a fruitful approach for such future research. References Amazon.com (2014). Sabukaru・bunkakei gāru [Subculture and culture girls]. Retrieved from: http://www.amazon.co.jp/%E3%82%B5%E3%83%96%E3%82%AB%E3%83%AB%E3%83%BB%E6 %96%87%E5%8C%96%E7%B3%BB/b?ie=UTF8&node=3065490051. Aoyagi, H. (2005). Islands of eight million smiles: Idol performance and symbolic production in contemporary Japan. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Azuma, H. (2009). Otaku: Japan’s database animals. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Barbora (2005). Materiaru wārudo wo tōku hanarete [Far away from the Material World]. Yuriika, 37(9), 10-11. 261 262 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Darling‐ Wolf, F. (2004). SMAP, sex, and masculinity: Constructing the perfect female fantasy in Japanese popular music. Popular Music and Society, 27(3), 357-370. DOI: 10.1080/03007760410001733189. Galbraith, P. W. (2010). Akihabara: Conditioning a Public “Otaku” Image. Mechademia 5(1), 210-230. DOI: 10.1353/mec.2010.0006. Galbraith, P. W., & Lamarre, T. (2010). Otakuology: A dialogue. Mechademia, 5(1), 360–374. DOI: 10.2307/41510981. Galbraith, P. W., & Karlin, J. G. (2012). Introduction: The mirror of idols and celebrity. In Galbraith, P. W., & Karlin, J. G. (Eds.), Idols and celebrity in Japanese media culture (pp. 1-32). Palgrave Macmillan UK. Galbraith, P. W., Kam, T. H., & Kamm, B. O. (2015). Introduction: ‘Otaku Research’ Past, Present and Future. In Galbraith, P. W., Kam, T. H., & Kamm, B. O. (Eds.), Debating otaku in contemporary Japan. Historical perspectives and new horizons. London, New York: Bloomsbury Academic. Galbraith, P. W. (2016). The Labor of Love: On the Convergence of Fan and Corporate Interests in Contemporary Idol Culture in Japan. In Galbraith, P. W. Editor & Karlin, Jason G. Editor: Media Convergence in Japan. New Haven: Kinema Club. Gelder, K. (2007). Subcultures: Cultural histories and social practice. London, New York: Routledge. Ito, M. (2012). Introduction. In: Okabe, Daisuke; Tsuji, Izumi (Eds.), Fandom Unbound: Otaku Culture in a Connected World. New Haven: Yale University Press. Kam, T. H. (2013). The Anxieties that Make the ‘Otaku’: Capital and the Common Sense of Consumption in Contemporary Japan. Japanese Studies, 33(1), 39–61. DOI: 10.1080/10371397.2013.768336. Kanesaka, K. (1968). Wakudeki he no izanai: Kyanpu to hippī·sabukaruchā [An Invitation to lose yourself: Camp, hippies and subculture]. Bijutsu techō, (294), 81–96. Kawamura, Y. (2012). Fashioning Japanese subcultures. London, New York: Berg Publishers. Kracker, D. (2014): Idol-pop act Necronomidol is taken to the dark side. The Japan Times online. Retrieved from: http://www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2014/10/28/music/idol-pop-act-necronomidol-taken-dark-side/. Mabuchi, K. (1989). “Zoku”tachi no sengoshi [A post-war history of the “tribes”]. Tōkyō: Sanseidō. McKnight, A. (2010). Frenchness and transformation in Japanese subculture, 1972‐2004. Mechademia, 5(1), 118– 137. Miyadai, S. (2007). Sabukaruchā shinwa kaitai: Shōjo, ongaku, manga, sei no hen’yō to genzai. [Deconstruction of the Subculture myth: Transformation and current state of girls culture, music, manga and sexuality]. Tōkyō: Chikuma Shobō. Miyazawa, A. (2014): NHK Nippon sengo sabukaruchāshi [NHK The post-war History of Japan’s Subculture]. Tōkyō, NHK Shuppan. Munekata, A. (2016). Watanabe Junosuke: Aidoru wo kurieto suru [Watanabe Junosuke: Creating Idols]. Kobe, Shuppan Works. Nagaike, K. (2012). Johnny’s Idols as Icons: Female Desires to Fantasize and Consume Male Idol Images. In P. W. Galbraith & J. G. Karlin (Eds.), Idols and Celebrity in Japanese Media Culture (pp. 97–112). Namba, K. (2006). Sabukaruchā gainen no genjō wo megutte [Notes on the status of the concept, “Subculture”]. Kwansei Gakuin Daigaku Shakaigakubu, 101, 161–168. Retrieved from http://ci.nii.ac.jp/naid/110006484728/ Namba, K. (2007). Zoku no keifugaku: Yūsu·sabukaruchāzu no sengoshi [Genealogy of the Tribes: A post-war History of Youth Subcultures]. Tōkyō: Seikyūsha. Narumi, H. (2010). Street Style and Its Meaning in Postwar Japan. Fashion Theory, 14(4), 415–438. DOI:10.2752/175174110X12792058833816 Okada, T. (1996). Otaku gaku nyūmon [Introduction to otaku-studies]. Tōkyō, Ohta Shuppan. Okajima, S. (2015): Tokyo Idols’ Update by Next Subculture Leader, Shinshi Okajima. Retrieved from: http://tokyogirlsupdate.com/shinshi-okajima-subculture-vol2-20150752192.html. Ōtsuka, E. (2014): Foreword: Otaku culture as ‘conversion literature’. In Galbraith, P. W., Kam, T. H., & Kamm, B.-O. (Eds.), Debating otaku in contemporary Japan: Historical perspectives and new horizons. London, New York: Bloomsbury Academic. Ōtsuki, K. (2012). Sabukaru de kuu: Shushoku sezu sukina koto dake yatte ikite iku hoho [Getting by on sabukaru: How to live without a day job only doing what you like to do]. Tōkyō, Byakuyashobo. Ōta, S. (2011). Aidoru shinkaron: Minami Saori kara Hatsune Miku, AKB 48 made [Evolutionary theory of the idols: From Minami Saori to Hatsune Miku and AKB48]. Tōkyō: Chikuma Shobō. Taguchi, Kazuhiro (2005). Ore to sabukaru [Me and sabukaru]. Yuriika, 37(9), 152-158. Tsurumi, S. (1975). Henshū·kōki [Afterword of the editor]”. Shisō no kagaku 254, 156. Xie, W. (2014): Japanese ‘Idols’ in trans-cultural reception: The case of AKB48. Virginia Review of Asian Studies, 16, 74-101. 6.2. The social meaning of accelerated noise in speedy capitalism 1 2 Ion Andoni del Amo Castro , Arkaitz Letamendia Onzain and Jason Diaux González 3 Abstract In this work, we study the parallelism between the acceleration of the rotation of the Capital and the hastening of the rhythm of music. The modernity was the time for the development of Total Artworks, able to reflect the essence of their unhurried time. Beethoven could be considered as an example of it: the era of Total Sound. When the 20th century began, Italian futurists perceived the arrival of noise like a form of art; they claimed for the velocity, the energy and the rush of the industrial city. Progressively, the rhythm of the music becomes more accelerated. On the second half of the century, electronic, punk, and industrial music makes explicit the noise (and the speediness) of their own time. But this noise aspires to be sound, even if lack of communication is what it wants to communicate: the Sound of Noise. Today, accelerated capitalism of the 21st century turns into the fragmentation of the historical time, and together with its postmodern logic, the cultural products get empty: the era of Total Noise. As a result, nowadays, the social meaning of music is not about differentiation or strong construction of group (sub)cultural identities. Now its main function is that of sharing, providing a common language for sociality. Keywords: capitalism, music, noise, acceleration, subcultures. 1. The essence of modernity and total sound 1st Premise: Total Art, art which captures the essence of its historical age; works of art which reflect their periods’ profound, defining characteristics. What type of sounds may appear in connection with this premise? In order to examine this idea, the first task is to look at the conceptualisation of essence: is there an essence to our developed world? If there is, what are its principal characteristics, ones which can be reflected in specific works of art? In order to develop this premise, we are going to take the configuration of the modern world, as conceived in Europe, as our starting point. From the end of the 18th century onwards, the world created by the combination of industrial capitalism and nation states gave rise to a distinct, revolutionary essence (Bergeron, Furet and Koselleck, 1969). With a completely new structure, it was a revolutionary way of organising the world in political and socioeconomic terms. The birth of a new world, the delivery of a new society, total art and total musicality can be distinguished between and shown to be different: Total Sound. In Jean Paul Sartre’s words, there is liberating action before essence, action which, in fact, defines all human beings’ existence: so it is active action which defines essence (Morey, 2015). Therefore, humans are ontologically linked with freedom even if throughout our lives, in practice, that freedom is not real in many areas. When applied to socio-cultural groups and to peoples, an active subject’s liberating action must also be an action which can create a renewed essence; in that respect, it may be linked with a particular historical, collective political revolution such as the French Revolution; an event which gave birth to total essence, made possible by the liberating action of the people. The sounds of this revolutionary event must be as large as the situation itself. 1 University of the Basque Country, NOR Research Group, Spain. E-mail: ionandoni.delamo|at|ehu|dot|eus. University of the Basque Country, PARTE HARTUZ Research Group, Spain. E-mail: arkaitz.letamendia|at|ehu|dot|eus. 3 University of the Basque Country, Department of Sociology II, Spain. E-mail: jason.diaux|at|ehu|dot|eus. 2 263 264 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Total historical events have made total music possible, a part itself of the renewed (and, in this case, modern) essence. It can be suggested, therefore, that the French Revolution (a total collective action) formed and gave shape to the modern world and the birth of this new historical essence. The idea of the people’s sovereignty prevailed over traditional aristocratic power, the yearning to spread ownership to different sectors of society, becoming an organizing power. The idea of the nation, was well as its messianic political side, tried to include different social classes in the transformational project of the renewed state (Bergeron, Furet and Koselleck, 1969). Ideally, what we have here is a heroic, revolutionary, transformational project; a total historical essence which forms heroic personalities and works of art. An example of total artistic expression at this level is a distinctive musical hymn, Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony4, the Heroic Symphony. Published in 1806, it expresses this historical model and total essence’s musicality, creating Total Sound. Initially, the symphony’s title was a homage to Napoleon: the idealised model of a liberator and revolutionary, the personified essence of a hero (total historical personality). Shortly afterwards, Napoleon — with his militarist, expansionist nature — became an imperialist tyrant for many European countries and people. Beethoven soon became aware of this transformation and swiftly removed Napoleon’s name from the title of the symphony5. However, the personality’s ideal heroism and epic quality can be heard in the music’s tonality: a complete, total sound which is brought to us about a new essence, a new spirit. As with human beings, it seems that freedom will not become real in the transformation of modern history, either, to the extent to which the roots of a revolutionary historical period rot. In Adorno and Horkheimer’s words, the liberating project of the Enlightenment which has its roots in the essence of Modernity can take us to tyranny and mass alienation. In fact, a period configured by artistic expression which neither reflects nor criticises the essence of the period, as has happened with the mass culture industry (Adorno and Horkeimer, 1994). A distinct total essence which is at the opposite extreme from individual and popular emancipation, and which offers fascism, can be imposed in this situation of mass consumer alienation. In Beethoven’s case, the essence born from the beginning of the modern, revolutionary world was to make profound, heroic melodies possible (total works of art). From this perspective, it is in the Heroic Symphony itself that Romantic music is born, and it can be seen as the artistic correlation of a total historical creation. The unavoidable reality in the world at that period was to be shown through emotions, feelings and intuition, and Romantic music was to reflect those emotions. As was to happen later with modern art, the objective was to reflect eternity, show time and its elusive nature (Harvey, 1988). The transformation of a revolutionary era was to be expressed through total emotions and whole, powerful symphonies: the complete sound and artistic expression which announces the arrival of a new age. A deep, thrilling emotion, emotion which is created in the face of a new age and essence. The Heroic Symphony reflected that total sound, with its slow rhythm and progression (heroic rhythm and essence). For the moment, we are in the period previous to technical reproduction, as Walter Benjamin puts it. Beethoven’s was a time in which whole musical pieces mattered: they were not divided up into smaller parts, but played live with their slow rhythm and dominance of everything. Choral works: we are still in the period of auratic musical works of art which express “the here and now”, a unique existence, which cannot be technically reproduced (Benjamin, 1989). Throughout the 20th century, as industrial techniques began to be used in the world of music, pieces of music’s slow, progressive rhythms started to speed up, and whole works began to be cut into shorter pieces. Progressively, along with the arrival of faster capitalism, music began to take 4 The symphony can be heard by clicking on this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbGV-MVfgec We have taken this data from Wikipedia (27/08/2016). Retrieved https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sinfon%C3%ADa_n.%C2%BA_3_%28Beethoven%29 5 from 6.2. The social meaning of accelerated noise in speedy capitalism on the accelerated speed made possible by industrialised noise (which humans, by themselves, cannot achieve), and pieces of music began to be broken up. The slow rhythm and tonality associated with total sound were weakened in this situation. At the same time, as the 20th century advanced, the revolutionary nature of the West was not apparent and, along with that, the idea of its essence was weakened. Contrasting each other, on the one hand the model of active, free people and countries (which may be defined as renewed total essence); on the other hand, the reality of the passive, alienated mass, meek people who have only been transformed in order to consume (Adorno and Horkheimer, 1994). Along with that, the ideal of the progress of Modernity has also been wounded. Total works of art — works of art which are profound, critical, which go down to the roots of the age, expressions of collective and individual reflection on people’s place in the world and (self) reflections on the historical situation — will have difficulty in resisting the oncoming devastation. Starting with the destruction of the First World War, throughout the 20th century the lineal upwards evolution of modern ideal has been broken, and this has had direct influence on artistic expression (Hobsbawm, 2003). This meant that the heroic tonality and slow, gradual, progressive, complete rhythm of music (which follow the model of the Heroic Symphony) had no chance of surviving in the wounded, broken-up and accelerated world of the future. The accelerated industrial noise model is part of the modern ideal, with the distinguishing characteristics which the Italian futurists saw in it and used expressively. The superficial anti-essence with no depth in terms of expression, and connected with the acceleration of the rotation of capital, has yet to arrive; this configuration will arrive when general social time accelerates and is split up and, consequently, it will have a direct impact on expressiveness in works of art and music. In this context, a distinguishing characteristic of the 20th century can be examined: are changes taking place in a social time which are so fast that they can hardly be digested? Are individuals’ sensual and selfconscious experiences taking place in a period which is overflowing? Can total art (total sound) be produced in this context? These reflections and doubts lead us to our second premise. 2. The sound of noise Theoreticians of totalitarianism have argued the need to forbid subversive noise because it emphasises the need for cultural autonomy and promotes differences; an interest in maintaining tonalities, the prevalence of melody and distrust of new languages, codes and instruments is common to all regimes of this nature (Leónidas Martín Saura, 2006, p. 18). 2nd Premise: If total sound is imposed in an era in which total essence (revolutionary total action) is not imposed, this may lead us to totalitarianism. Together with the criticism and rupture of lineal, progressive modernity, harmony becomes noise. The acceleration of capitalism brings the sound of noise (fractured works of art) with it, along with expressiveness which is able to express its contradictions. The words we say are also accelerating. Modernity itself brought a contradiction with it, the position of popular culture: The Enlightenment believes that the people who must be appealed to in order to legitimise a secular, democratic government are also the bearers of that which reason wishes to abolish: superstition, ignorance and turmoil. Because of this, in Martín Barbero’s words, a complex system has been developed ‘with abstract inclusion and specific exclusion’. The people are of interest in order to legitimise bourgeois hegemony, but are irritating because of their lack of culture (García Canclini, 2001, p. 197). High culture and popular culture. Modernity introduced this dichotomy. High culture is the only one which is considered to be culture, the only legitimate culture. Culture was an area for dividing classes. In Europe, in particular, this mechanism has long been in place (Bourdieu, 1999). In the world of music, classical music and tonality are the paradigm of art music. 265 266 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 The Romantics, in fact, realised that very quickly. They held onto that contradiction and tried to develop it: politics and daily life, culture and life (García Canclini, 2001). They bought back popular culture and music. In the 19th century, Fréderic Chopin and Franz Listz expressed an interest in popular music. This increased at the beginning of the 20th century: Debussy with Balinese music; Manuel de Falla submerged himself in Iberian folklore; Igor Stravinski got involved with the essence of Slavonic rituals and took them into classical music; Béla Bartók collected popular melodies from the streets, squares and church festivities (Kyrou, 2006). In this very attempt, however, popular culture was abducted, made a myth of with people-nations, with its messianic politics; marginalisation, complicity and domination were wiped out (Martín-Barbero, 1993). Anarchists and Marxists broke down the Romantics’ cultural ideology: they politicised the concept of the people, emphasising the results of history and signs of oppression and struggle. From different perspectives and with different ideologies, the three thinkers of ‘suspicion’ (Freud, Marx and Nietzsche) denounced that behind the formation of the modern spirit a historical process of unusual violence and barbarity was also hidden, incorporating and internalizing social structures, cultural norms and sensual contexts which were alienating, extremely cruel and repressive. These three writers, in their turn, feed (and sometimes in a highly contradictory way) cultural modernism’s sensibility and tout court protest (Casanovas, 2012, p. 47). In fact, in cultural terms the break was going to be deeper, more radical and total. This started happening after 1848, it being difficult to keep up the Romantics’ mystical approach: The bourgeoisie’s pacts with the aristocracy after the 1848 revolutions were the perfect expression of their fear of continuing to be judged by revolutionary ideas at a time when increasingly organised popular forces were appearing on the historical scene, aware of their own revolutionary force and their interests, which were antagonistic to those of the bourgeoisie. Many artists and intellectuals were trapped by this contradiction and reacted against their class origins, distancing themselves from social conservatism and bourgeois pragmatism (Casanovas, 2012, p. 36). During the First World War, the bourgeoisie lost its innocence once and for all. The Enlightenment’s progressive dreams and promises; the Romantics’ heroic, popular, nationalist epics; all of that was destroyed in a giant trench in France. The vanguards at the start of the century — Dada, Constructivism and Futurism — destroyed all types of mystification: cultural, national, existentialism… Total works of art can bring totalitarianism with them: the Dadaists would say that all the Western culture only serves for you to die in a trench with a book by Goethe in your backpack. Attack the culture, destroy the art. Duchamp: good taste is art’s greatest enemy. Limitless creativity, drunkenness, madness, spontaneity, the absurd music of syllables and words, it was all undone and put together again every night in Zurich’s Cabaret Voltaire. Dada. Western culture was no more that a gigantic farce, brought about by the bloody slaughter of the First World War in Europe. It had to be destroyed, to start from zero; because, on the stairway to the heaven of Art, a single copy of Faust was of greater importance than the million people who had died for it to carry on being published (Marcus, 1990). After a period of madness and upheaval, governed by bandits who had destroyed the whole of Europe, art had to take on the healthy task of dismantling itself, it had to get rid of what remained of a blood-thirsty civilization, and rid individuals of a Western cladding which had made them accomplices of barbarity. (…) Art was of no value: life was much more interesting (Granés, 2011, p. 43). For the Russian Constructivists, the 1917 revolution was the opportunity to create a new society and being. They made their proposals and experimentation known while Lenin was alive. Destroy museums, libraries and all types of academic institutions. The Futurists saw new technology as the utopia for a new society: machines, movement, a starting point. And some of 6.2. The social meaning of accelerated noise in speedy capitalism them believed that war could be the way to “relaunch” culture. In 1913 Luigi Russolo applied Futurist ideas to music in his famous essay L’arte dei Rumori: Ancient life was all silence. During the 19th century, with the invention of machines, Noise was born. Today, Noise is triumphant and dominates the feelings of people. (…) The art of music looked for and found, firstly, the purity and sweetness of sound, later on amalgamating different sounds, although taking care to caress the ear with soft harmonies. Today the art of music, which is becoming gradually more complex, is trying to amalgamate the most dissonant, strangest and harshest sounds for the ear. We are getting closer and closer to sound-noise. This evolution of music is in parallel to the multiplication of machinery, which helps man in all areas of life. (…) We futurists have a deep love for the harmonies of the great masters and have always enjoyed them. Beethoven and Wagner have affected our nervous systems and hearts for many years. We have now had enough of them and enjoy ourselves much more by combining, if possible, the noises of trains, combustion engines, buses and shouting crowds, than listening, for example, to the Heroic or Pastoral symphonies once again. (…) So we are sure that by choosing, coordinating and mastering all sounds we will enrich people with a new, unexpected voluptuosity. Although noise’s characteristic is to send us brutally back to life, the Art of Noise must not be limited to imitative reproduction. Its greatest power to move emotionally is acoustic pleasure in itself, which artists’ inspiration will know 6 how to extract from the combined noises. 1937. John Cage starting composing Construction In Metal: gamelands, metal sheets, brake pads… In 1948 Pierre Shaeffer created concrete music, and Pierre Henry soon joined him, later to be joined by others: Luc Ferrari, François Bernard Mâche and Bernard Parmegiani. They do not play pianos, they break them; a comb or a file, metal sheets, springs, industrial waste. The 1960’s: La Monte Young, the Fluxus group, John Cale and The Velvet Underground… Noise, continual music, repetition (Kyrou, 2006). And their influence. The Krautrock movement in Germany in the 1960’s, the children’s of Karlheinz Stockhausen. Can, Neu!, Faust, Tangerine Dream and Kraftwerk. Rock and electronic instruments, plus Eastern and African sounds; sounds from machinery, robotic dances. England in the 1970’s, Throbbing Gristle and Cabaret Voltaire: “industrial music for industrial people”. And the explosion at the end of the decade: punk. In England, the Basque Country… Keep it simple, make it fast; Simple noise, sharp words; the crisis of capitalism, denial and rupture, asking for neither permission nor forgiveness; savage, strong, direct, provocative, immediate, spontaneous, existential; abolishing the boundaries between audience and music. Do It Yourself! More than trash bags or torn shirts, punks wore Adorno’s morbid rash; they inked or stenciled it over themselves in regular patterns. As Adorno’s prepared corpses, more consciously prepared than he could have imagined, they exploded with proofs of vitality — that is, they said what they meant. In so doing, they turned Adorno’s vision of modern life back upon itself: Adorno had not imagined that his corpses might know what they meant to say (Marcus, 1990, p. 74). The working class musical sub-cultures after the Second World War — Teddy Boys, Mods, Rockers, Skinheads and Punks — expressed cultural contradictions. There was a double articulation: on the one hand, with their parent’s working class culture; on the other, with the mass culture. In this way, contradictions were going to be “magically” resolved on the symbolic level. They were going to be the symbolic resistance to the bourgeois culture, helping young people to construct their everyday spaces in which they would have the possibility to construct their own autonomy, self-esteem and subjectivity (Hall and Jefferson, 2006; Hebdige, 2004). On the other side of the ocean, the spirit of the sound system, brought from Kingston in a suitcase, was going to mutate on the marginalised streets of The Bronx: Hip-Hop. They were also the mad years of Disco music in New York: the desire for hedonism, pleasure and fame. 6 Retrieved from http://www.uclm.es/artesonoro/elarteruido.html (26/08/2016). 267 268 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 On the polluted shores of Lake Huron, in Detroit, surrounded by the sounds of the automotive industry, a trio of black men — Juan Atkins, Kevin Sauderson and Derrick May — created new Electronic sounds at the end of the 1980’s: Techno music. This was to be taken forward by a second generation: Carl Craig, Kenny Larkin, Richie Hawtin. And by Mad Mike and Jeff Mills’ Underground Resistance: noises for creating interference in the system. At the same time, and in connection with them, in Chicago, House music rose from the ruins of Disco, a minimal revolution in a drum machine. It spread to Europe at the end of the 1980’s at raves and free parties, bringing life to industrial wastelands. In some pirate areas, Techno became radical, getting down to the skeleton of its rhythm and noise: Hardcore. Then some Hip-Hop Djs put breakbeat effects into Hardcore and Breakbeat rhythm was born. Between 1991 and 1994 Breakbeat rhythm became Jungle and, later on, Drum’n bass (Kyrou, 2006). Along with the development of club culture, Sarah Thornton (1995) saw the way to surpass structural — class — determination. Turning high culture and Bourdieu’s cultural capital around, the style and its sub-cultural capital were to give young people the opportunity to escape from their parents’ class characteristics, something like classlessness. Sub-culture capital was to be considered cool, participating in underground tastes’ legitimacy, differentiated from mainstream tastes. The influence of the media can be seen in these mechanisms (Muggleton, 2010). Adorno said that the period of technical reproduction brought with it the death of the aura of works of art (Adorno and Horkheimer, 1994), submerged as he was in cultural pessimism. He hated jazz, he was probably physically sick the first time he heard Elvis Presley, and there can be no doubt that he would have thought the Sex Pistols to be a return to Kristallnacht if he had not had the fortune to die in 1969 (Marcus, 1990). Benjamin, on the other hand, started from another point of view: forms of perception, along with the sensorium which brings changes with Modernity. Within great historical spaces of time, along with the whole existence of human groups, the way and manner of sensory perception change, which means that we are dealing with uncovering the social transformations which found their expression in these changes of sensibility (Benjamin, 1989). For Benjamin, ‘experience’ is above all a question of ‘tradition’; in other words, that which enables the restoration of a personal and collective ‘counter history’ in the human sensorium (in both collective and personal settings), making sense in the context of isolated, atomized experience in current capitalism (Casanovas, 2012, p. 23). In fact, the new sensibility which is approached along with the death of the aura of total works of art makes use of and enjoys works of art. This new sensibility brings petitions with it, the abolition of discrimination and privileges. And dispersion: the image of diversity and collage are the mechanisms of these new forms of perception. In this new Sensorium there is another important ingredient, derived from Baudelaire: pleasure from being with people, many people (MartinBarbero, 1993). Noises against tonality, against high music. Cultural autonomy, the democratisation of music and culture; the noise-sounds of daily life; do it yourself. Noises, speed. An opportunity for homology: along with the acceleration of the rotation of capital, social time, the rhythm of music, too, have become faster. The basis for Industrial Music, Punk and Electronica is the noise (and speed) of the age. Now noise is the essence (or semi-essence; not a strong essence, not a total one, but a split one). But, at the same time, these noises want to become sound, communicating the lack of communication of their age as well. The sounds of daily life, novelty and improvisation. The noisesounds of industrial society. Technological utopias and dystopias. The shouts of revulsion or rage, or escape. Or, in sub-cultures, an expression of the structural contradiction of young working class people. Noise brings sound. 6.2. The social meaning of accelerated noise in speedy capitalism 3. Total noise? 3rd premise: Strengthened capitalism and its post-modern cultural logic promote division, things being used and thrown away, the breaking up of cultural products. Therefore, the social meaning and sensory sensibility of music change. Following the crisis of the 1970’s, which influenced the Punk explosion, the new phase of capitalism which developed over the following decades split up Fordist companies by introducing sub-contracting, increasing profit rates and weakening trade union power at the same time. PostFordism and the Schumpeter competitive State model were imposed (Jessop, 2008). Uniform markets and mass products appeared saturated, and from now on, globally segmented markets and personalised products were to be developed. Production cycles also accelerated, getting shorter and shorter, deepening the processes of acceleration and rupture. The cultural logic of this new phase of capitalism was going to be the post-modernism (Jameson, 1995); it is based on acceleration and rupture too. The sensibility of Post-modernism was developed by the avant-garde (Dada and Situationism), and Punk itself, and, of course, Hip-Hop and Electronic music: the collage, combining things in different ways. In fact, post-modernism includes many of the ideas, images and sensibilities put forward by cultural criticism. Except for one: the criticism which the avant-garde makes of the mercantile process, and people’s selfmanaged cultural movement in practice. In this neo-liberal phase, in fact, processes of assimilating commercialisation increase in all areas of cultural production, putting the independence and semi-autonomy of culture at risk (Bourdieu, 2011). The logic of global capitalism prevails: buy, use and discard. The sensibility brought by the rotation of capital and relativist post-modern discourse (pix & mix), leads to the loss of value of cultural products. The development of means of transport and ICT have helped to further all of these processes. They have been particularly influential in music during the 21st century (Del Amo, Letamendia and Diaux, 2016). In fact, the Internet has changed social ways of acquiring music, making them more individual, with no need for social relationships or personal networks. That is to say, in previous times obtaining music involved creating personal relationships: in record shops, pubs, swapping records or friends recording them… Often social groups based around music were set up in subcultures and neo-tribes. It is true that exchange does take place using today’s new technology, but this does not involve the intensity and feelings of personal relationships. Some other technological developments had a great influence on the process of rupture: Spotify and MP3 formats are now the most common ways of listening to music, above all amongst young people (Andrés, 2013; Fouce, 2009). In this way, the narratives and discourses which records have are split up. Some other things which records had have also been lost: covers, photographs, texts… All things which made it possible to go beyond music, providing information about the group and its context. Due to this, the song is now the basic musical cell. We come across isolated, heterogeneous musical passages, put in sequence on Playlists, or ground down by DJs. Loose songs. And the most listened to. Although the Internet is a giant archive of music, it seems that we listen more and more to music that we already know (Álvarez Monzoncillo and Calvi, 2015). In other words, classic songs, or re-workings of them (Reynolds, 2013), or ones promoted by the media (Álvarez Monzoncillo and Calvi, 2015). Which people can sing together at parties and festivities (Del Amo, 2014). In the age of ultra-connection, music seems to us to be disconnected: loose songs, snatched from their general contexts. The full logic of capitalism: take and mix, use and throw away. Has this acceleration and division reduced the value of music, converted it into total noise? Be that as it may, these new ways of use, and the importance of the songs most listened to, also provide a new way to share, telling us about a new sensibility. Total sound tried to show the essence of its age, the heroic dream of a new, free society, liberating revolution, lineal development. After that, and also against it, noises denounced the 269 270 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 nightmare of total sound, and took the sounds of everyday life and industrial society, combining art and life. While noise-sounds were often heroic, showing a new sensibility, the sensibility of making culture the people’s. In fact, they expressed structural contradictions with regard to working class sub-cultures. Or noise-sounds might have been the way to surpass structural classdeterminations, turning high culture around and developing sub-cultural capital. There is no heroism or petition in total noise. Music is something to be used and discarded, in the full logic of capitalism. The mechanisms of the new ways of perception which Benjamin pointed out — dispersion, multiple images and collage — are still, when taken to the extreme, the most accelerated and the most divided. But current sensibility maintains a factor which Baudelaire and Benjamin stressed: the pleasure of being among people. That is the main characteristic brought by today’s sensorium: sound, turned into noise, is, above all, a path to socialize. The noise made up of single, disconnected songs, famous songs and familiar songs also offers the possibility of (re)connecting, singing together, being together. References Adorno, T. W. and Horkheimer, M. (1994). Dialéctica de la ilustración. Madrid: Trotta. Monzoncillo, J. M. Á and Calvi, J. (2015). Music consumption in Spain: From analogue to digital in the shaping of music. International Journal of Music Business Research 4(2): 27-46. Retrieved from https://musicbusinessresearch.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/volume-4-no-2-october-2015-monzoncillocalvi.pdf Andrés, S. (2013). Del cassette al spotify: universitarios, hábitos e identidades musicales. Universidad de La Rioja. Bergeron, L., Furet, F., and Koselleck, R. (1969). La época de las revoluciones europeas, 1780-1848. Madrid: Siglo XXI. Benjamin, Walter (1989). La obra de arte en la época de la reproductibilidad técnica. Discursos interrumpidos I. Buenos Aires: Taurus. Bourdieu, P. (1999). La distinción: criterios y bases sociales del gusto. Madrid: Taurus. Bourdieu, P. (2001). Contrafuegos 2. Por un movimiento social europeo. Barcelona: Anagrama. Casanovas, M. (2012). Organizar el rechazo: Vanguardias culturales y política revolucionaria. Izquierda Anticapitalista. Del Amo, I. A. (2014). Party & Borroka. Jóvenes, música(s) y conflicto(s) en Euskal Herria. Transformaciones identitarias a comienzos del siglo XXI (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). UPV/EHU, Lejona, Vizcaya. Del Amo, I. A., Letamendia, A. and Diaux, J. (2016). ¿El declive del significado social de la música?. Revista Crítica de Ciências Sociais, 109, 11-32. DOI: 10.4000/rccs.6189. Fouce, H. (2009). Prácticas emergentes y nuevas tecnologías: el caso de la música digital en España. Fundación Alternativas. García Canclini, N. (2001). Culturas híbridas. Estrategias para entrar y salir de la modernidad. Barcelona: Paidós. Granés, C. (2011). El puño invisible. Arte, revolución y un siglo de cambios culturales. Madrid: Santillana. Hall, S. and Jefferson, T. (Eds.) (2006). Resistance Through Rituals: Youth Subcultures in Post-war Britain. London, New York: Routledge. Harvey, D. (1998). La condición de la posmodernidad. Investigación sobre los orígenes del cambio cultural. Buenos Aires: Amorrortu. Hebdige, D. (2004). Subcultura. El significado del estilo. Barcelona: Paidós. Hobsbawm, E. (2003). Historia del Siglo XX, 1914-1991. Barcelona: Crítica. Jameson, F. (1995). El post-modernismo o la lógica cultural del capitalismo tardío. Barcelona y Buenos Aires: Paidós. Jessop, R. (2008). El futuro del estado capitalista. Madrid: Catarata. Kyrou, A. (2006). Techno Rebelde: Un siglo de músicas electrónicas. Madrid: Traficantes de sueños. Marcus, G. (1990). Lipstick traces: a secret history of the twentieth century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Martín-Barbero, J. (1993). De los medios a las mediaciones. Comunicación, cultura y hegemonía. México: GG Mass media. Martin Saura, L. (2006). Introducción a la edición española. In A., Kyrou, Techno Rebelde: Un siglo de músicas electrónicas (pp.13-18). Madrid: Traficantes de sueños. Morey, M. (2015). Foucault y Derrida. Pensamiento francés contemporáneo. Valencia: Batiscafo. Muggleton, D. (2010). From classlessness to clubculture. A geneaology of post-war British youth cultural analysis. Young 12(2): 205-19. DOI: 10.1177/1103308805051322. Negus, K. (1996). Popular Music in Theory: An Introduction. Cambridge: Polity Press. Reynolds, S. (2013). Retromanía. La adicción del pop a su propio pasado. Buenos Aires: Caja Negra. Thornton, S. (1995). Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge: Polity. 6.3. Hindrances and enhancements to sub-cultures: An analysis to observe the effects of self-organised musical activities onto the finished creative product Simon Paton1 Abstract With the continuing lack of dependence for the traditional record industry, musicians are looking for new and innovative ways to release their recordings so that their messages can be heard. The culture of self-organised art is one that creatives use as an outlet. With so much emphasis on the culture, outsiders may gather the impression that the ideals of the people involved are more significant than the finished product itself. We must ask if the finished product becomes secondary to the scene: Does the environment that inspires artists to create shape how people judge the aesthetic of their work? This research observes practitioners who have benefitted from creating and promoting within this idiom. It will focus on the interviews of selected practitioners of self-organised art, analysing how they approach obstacles such as time limitations and lack of funding resources and exploring the relationship between the culture and the finished creative product. Keywords: performance, DIY, aesthetic, creative product. 1. Introduction The world of DIY culture has been something of a sanctuary for artists, musicians, actors and performers, who otherwise may not have initially had their work acknowledged by traditional media outlets. It has also provided opportunities for many creative people starting out. Sometimes, however, the quality and value of the work depends upon the approval of the gatekeepers of the DIY scenes. Often, when the work is presented to the scene, it’s worth can be overlooked because of the contributions the individual has (or has not) already made to the scene and community. I have been fascinated and influenced by DIY culture for some time and formed many bonds with fellow practitioners with similar interests. In 2012, I imported my interest in this culture into academia. For my master’s dissertation, I researched house gigs and compared the performing mentality of those shows with those of more formal performances. In doing so, I noticed that despite how much I have embraced this culture, I often felt the cultural product was dwarfed by the ideals of the scene. This posed an interesting dilemma: How beneficial can the scene really be — not just career-wise but also creatively — when it prevents the artist from flourishing? As the rock band McLusky once sang: “what’s the point of do it yourself when it looks so shit”2? The writer Christopher Small echoes a similar issue with regards to musical performance and the creative process, but in a more formal way: The presumed autonomous ‘thingness’ of works of music is, of course, only part of the prevailing modern philosophy of art in general. What is valued is not the action of art, not the act of creating, and even less that of perceiving and responding, but the created art object itself. Whatever meaning art may have is thought to reside in the object, persisting independently of what the perceiver may bring to it. (Small, pp. 4-5). 1 2 Independent Researcher, United Kingdom. E-mail: s.paton.bass|at|gmail|dot|com. McLusky (2004) You Should be Ashamed, Seamus. 271 272 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 To investigate these theories about art, perception, and the creative process further, I interviewed several people whom I considered to be my peers about what it means for them to be DIY and how they can separate the work from the ideals. These interviews were selected with specific criteria in mind. Each person I interviewed had to be actively involved in DIY culture as both a performer — either playing in bands or solo artists — as well as work in some capacity as a practitioner. For this paper, I personally define a practitioner as someone working to support the scene outside of performing — whether this be promoting gigs, writing about music, curating festivals/all-dayers, owning a record label or any other activities relating to these disciplines. To fully satisfy the questions the research asked, a dual perspective was required and needed contributors that had experienced both sides of DIY culture. Though genre wasn’t considered as part of this criteria, one lucky co-incidence of the interviewees was that they all played different styles of music. Coming from disciplines of alt folk, avant-jazz, post-rock, post-hardcore and art rock showed how this culture affects these seemingly unrelated scenes and is thus able to draw parallels with these contrasting yet complimentary viewpoints. These scenes are all UK-based, with three practitioners being based in London, one in Glasgow and one in Eigg. Keeping it UK-based was also not intentional; however, due to the existing connections of this writer, the UK was a natural first point of reference. As far as I am aware, none of the scenes I write about are connected with each other; this was intentional as I wanted to see if these groups thought in similar ways despite not having direct links with anyone else. 2. Choice verses necessity In order to conduct this research, I asked each participant a uniform set of questions. The first question asked how these people got involved in DIY culture to start with, particularly how much of their attitude and interest was dictated by choice and how much by necessity. This expressed a need to belong to a certain subculture, with many of the musicians acknowledging that the way they adopted DIY values was through a mixture of a need to present their work in this way against a decision to. With several creators not seeing how their work fit within the traditional, conventional, and orthodox attitudes of the commercial music industry, promoting themselves within a DIY context provided a useful outlet for sustaining a creative lifestyle. Many of the practitioners I interviewed still see DIY as the heart of what they do. One such example, Johnny Lynch, founder of Lost Map Records, curator of Howling Fling festival, and a songwriter who makes music under the name Pictish Trail says: “That sense of being compelled to (…) create drives the practical side of things — the music is always the motivation” (Appendix 1). The impulses of DIY can be instinctive, as promoters Upset the Rhythm point out: “When I put on my first show, I don’t think I realised it was a DIY event at all (…) I certainly didn’t think it would lead to a decade long pursuit.” (Tipton as cited in John/Owl, p. 16). This need for self-organisation enables the DIY community to release recordings without the dependence on other people. For example, Black Flag guitarist Greg Ginn formed the record label SST simply due to his impatience with their label at the time. As Clinton Heylin notes in Babylon’s Burning: From Punk to Grunge: “In fact, they spent most of 1978 waiting for Greg Shaw at Bomp to issue their single ‘Nervous Breakdown’ (…) [These experiences] drove Ginn to finally put the EP out himself, forming SST Records for the very purpose” (Heylin, p. 543). In addition, the documentary “Salad Days” features an interview quote from Jenny Toomey (Simple Machines Records) who claims “99% of independent record labels that are ever started is because you’ve got somebody in a band whose band isn’t yet good enough to be on another record label so if you want that record to come out, you better put it out yourself” (as cited in Crawford, 2014, 7’42”). The experiences from SST and Simple Machine Records prove the need and the opportunity to self– release records, due to the lack of interest in other potential distributors. This platform is still important to many musicians and performers as this need to distribute material continues to exist, 6.3. Hindrances and enhancements to sub-cultures: An analysis to observe the effects of self-organised musical activities onto the finished creative product especially when other companies may be reluctant to release work due to the inexperience of the performers, the chance of the music becoming unfashionable, or the unprofitable nature of the product. The other side of the coin is the idea of pursuing DIY by choice. Out of all the available outlets to present work, why do people choose this one? In his book, DIY Too, Robert Daniels questions this view by looking at people from more privileged backgrounds and asking if they really need to use DIY outlets or are they using it as some sort of pose. “I have a working class chip on my shoulder and resent those more privileged and opportune than me when they DIY (when they don’t need or care to). I resent the luxury of the rich to ‘play’ poor” (Daniels, 2015, p. 18). This creates a friction between dedicated members of the community and those who may see DIY culture as a stop-gap. It can feel as if it’s a look they’re trying to emulate with no real interest in what’s actually going on, particularly if they are people that don’t have a direct link to that particular scene. This is reflected by Holy Roar founder Alex Fitzpatrick: “In an ideal world, it should always be necessity. But we live in a Western capitalist society where sub-culture and youth culture is forever appropriated by larger business in order to appear ‘cool’ or ‘dynamic’“ (Appendix 4). With publications such as NME3 writing about and romanticising DIY culture, there is a real concern that the culture created turns into a marketing project by larger and more profitable entities. Both of these areas relate to each other in how the creators want their work to be perceived. While no one stated outright that they went to DIY culture by choice, a few of the practitioners did say that the reliance on self-organisation went together with the choice of artistic and aesthetic presentation. However, people such as Lynch claim that it has always been a necessity, “now more than ever” (Appendix 2); due to the non-profit mentality shared by several people within the scene, traditional outlets are less likely to be interested in covering severely niche work. 3. Time management and funding I also considered the relationship between the ethos and the product by examining external hurdles caused directly by the DIY aesthetic, such as time and financial organisation — areas that several members of the recording industry had not needed to consider before. The time management process can certainly be an issue for the creative. For starters, there is often a tug of war between administrative tasks battling for time against the creative process. Cath Roberts, jazz saxophonist, member of Sloth Racket and co-founder of the jazz/experimental night LUME, notes: Because of the nature of the work involved in running LUME (i.e endless admin), it would be easy to let it take over all available time and headspace, leaving nothing for actual artistic practice. So time management is very important — and for me, making sure that LUME is always in service of my creative goals (Appendix 2). The problem with spending countless hours on practitioner methods is that one’s own artistic merits can tend to be overlooked. Kenny Bates, guitarist/vocalist of post-rock band Bianca as well as promoter and founder of record label, Good Grief, recalls one such example of this and wrote about his experiences: I think most folk know I’m the label guy too so [using the label] wouldn’t work for my music! The biggest impact being a DIY label/promoter guy has on my music though is that it eats up 3 Retrieved from http://www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/diy-roundtable-politics-money-and-how-it-works-in-britainin-2014 [Accessed 26/08/16]. 273 274 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 all my spare time when I have a release or big show on the cards, so I don’t get the chance to 4 write and play as much as I want (Appendix 3) . While the limited time can sometimes focus artists, it can also leave them with less time to create, which leads to just as many musicians drifting away from the project. Despite several artists being able to juggle their work alongside outside factors such as day jobs and family commitments, many other artists are dependent on pursuing their artistic endeavours on a full time basis. As such, the work could potentially suffer and therefore not hold up to the standards of the creator. In my own experiences, I have abandoned various projects and compositions completely due to not dedicating enough time to the development of said project and eventually losing interest in the work itself. Because of this, I have missed opportunities to document these projects within the time I conceptualised them. As with the aforementioned time and geographical restrictions, the issue of finances is yet another potential barrier that artists may be unable to overcome. Many of these projects are selffunded with non-profit intentions. Despite this, because several artists understand how hard resources are to come by, external funding is seen as less of a taboo than it perhaps has been in the past. For instance, bands such as Best Coast have been happy to endorse projects that were afforded to them by brands such as Converse,5 arguing that they can get capitalism to work for them and support other exciting ventures they may have going on. In his doctorate thesis, the musician, artist and academic Andy Abbott notes that “even when those spaces of non-capitalism are formed they risk eventual recuperation and co-optation. The process of DIY and autonomous activity is never completely beneath the radar or able to go unnoticed by capitalism” (Abbott, p. 63). These remarks relate to Daniels and Fitzpatrick’s comments and criticisms about DIY culture being a possible stop-gap for image-conscious performers until an offer with more prosperity is proposed. Ultimately, performers using DIY culture as a potential gateway rather than an authentic commitment to the scene is something that cannot be overly-criticised. People being attracted to the aesthetic but unwilling to take on the struggles long term is understandable problematic. Outside of co-operations and brands, there are many other musicians who are undertaking projects with the use of government funding. Cath Roberts, for one, successfully applied for Arts Council and grant funding for her event — the Luminous Festival in South London — which was an all-day gig focused on showcasing avant-garde jazz from both national and international bands.6 As far as I’m aware, most of my interviewees self-funded their projects, either through earnings from an unrelated day job or money saved from profits from previous work. A lack of funding has caused many ambitious projects to be compromised or, worse still, abandoned entirely. Therefore corporate or government funding is one of the ways that projects can materialise. Currently, the main issue with applying for funding is its potentiality to be another unnecessary hurdle to overcome; in Roberts’ experience, it meant more time on paperwork and less time on creating the work itself. Conversely, many DIY scenesters have enjoyed the challenge of creating with limited resources. For several of them, this is one of the appeals of DIY culture in the first place. 4. Community and enhancements 4 It should also be noted that since the interview took place, Bianca announced their intentions to disband due to a relocation by one of the band members. This discovery felt relevant to the issues surrounding time management because of the external factors brought on to interfere with the project. Their announcement can be found https://www.facebook.com/biancayouidiot/photos/a.205561439594703.1073741824.104963219654526/6473819 75412645/?type=3 [Accessed 19/08/16]. 5 Retrieved from http://exclaim.ca/music/article/best_coasts_bethany_cosentino_talks_converse_collab_with_kid_cudi_vampire_weeke nds_rostam_batmanglij [Accessed 24/08/16]. 6 Retrieved from http://lumemusic.co.uk/2016/06/06/26th-june-iklectik-lume-festival/ [Accessed 23/06/16]. 6.3. Hindrances and enhancements to sub-cultures: An analysis to observe the effects of self-organised musical activities onto the finished creative product Community is one of the biggest appeals about the scene. Due to the emphasis of the scene, many practitioners have started using terms such as “Do It Together” (Baker as cited in Daniels, 2014, p. 31) or as Derek Sivers coined “Decide It Yourself”, adding, “I think many musicians have accidentally interpreted this as ‘Do It ALL Yourself’” (Sivers, p. 26). This togetherness is echoed by many of the practitioners I asked, including Cath Roberts, who explained: “If I describe what we do as DIY, I’m more talking about the fact that LUME is artist-run” (Appendix 2). Performing in front of a likeminded audience brings romantic imagery of a comrade-type atmosphere. For several artists, having these people around is vital to encouraging growth, developing skills, building confidence and improving ability within what, to many, is seen as a safe space. Simone Gray, vocalist of post-punk band Teenage Caveman and founder of experimental music night DIM, reflects this by saying: “I wouldn’t have been able to start DIM without the support of my friends” (Appendix 5). She goes one step further by adding “[The DIM scene] are very vocal supporters of each others’ work and getting their approval is the only approval that matters to me. That’s success”. More specifically, she adds: “The intersectional feminist punk scene has provided my band with a vital support network” (Appendix 5). With the works often created for the community, a question begs whether these products would even exist without them. In DIY One, Hannah Nicklin notes: “DIY, in my opinion, is the best alternative there is, because it’s by definition grown and shaped as a certain place to fit and make room for the people that want to live in it” (Nicklin as cited in Daniels, 2014, p. 89). She also acknowledges the problems of this mentality too: “There’s a criticism of both these theatre and music DIY spaces — that they can be unscalable, insignificant, hard to find, and cliquey” (Nicklin as cited in Daniels, 2014, p. 91). Despite this, the influence of peers can bring out the best in people. Johnny Lynch puts it: “Being part of a collective, and being actively involved in putting other people’s music out, it’s those things that inspire me to make music” (Appendix 1). Bates expands on the attitudes of these communities: “Sure, getting a run of CDs and t-shirts together with no help is ‘doing it yourself’. But DIY culture is more than that” (Appendix 3). From what I gathered, the practitioner aspects can be seen as extensions of the work. We can see how it compliments, enhances and marks it as a document of something that belongs to a particular scene. In his book, Storm Static Sleep, Jack Chuter includes an interview he conducted with the band Maybeshewill about their additional practitioner work, such as “the record label Robot Needs Home, the merchandise company Robot Needs Merchandise and the tour transport hire service Robot Needs Vans” (Chuter, p. 262). Band member John Helps explains how these activities relate to their musical output: “I try and find stuff that I can do alongside [the band] that compliments it...If you go home [from tour] to something that you really love doing, then there’s not really a problem with it” (Chuter, p. 263). These activities have helped integrate them into a particular scene and most people agree that these two areas compliment each other well and are very compatible. Lynch writes: “I don’t do these things to compare my success/failure with other artists, but rather to be part of something that is about celebrating the joy of music” (Appendix 1), while Fitzpatrick adds: Are we DIY practitioners to an extent because of the type of music we support and release, thereby hindering our chances of reaching a wider audience? Or do we champion DIY ethics/aesthetics because that model and framework helps further our artists more than if we pretended to be something we are not (e.g. a corporate/major entity)? (Appendix 4). By giving it a context, it can lead to a compelling back-story for the work. Due to the new information we are given about this particular project, it can draw people in and lead new audiences into new works. With this, the scene grows as new people desire to present works within it. As Lynch says: “It gives it a story. People love a story” (Appendix 1). 275 276 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 5. Conclusion My findings found that despite the differences in genres and scenes, several parallels emerged between these practitioners, particularly how the scene dominates their work and creativity. All five of them admitted that their respective communities were a big part of their creativity and how indebted they all felt in support of their networks. In a way, they were almost co-dependent on these networks that they helped to create. Notable differences did emerge, such as the ways each of them saw their careers progressing. In this regard, Fitzpatrick and Lynch were the most interesting to observe. Despite their similar level of commercial success, the relationship between their current work and the DIY aesthetic contrasts. Both Lynch and Fitzpatrick have been known to deal with the music industry in a way that the other three participants, to the best of my knowledge, have not. Despite this, Fitzpatrick is more willing to talk about his experiences of working within the music industry than Lynch is. The other three participants had mixed views on expansion. Roberts valued the ever-growing avant-jazz community because of their ability to “share ideas and move the music forward” (Appendix 2). Bates expressed openness for this as well, saying: “There is a definite growing interest in this area of music though, and the acts I work with do get approaches from more open-ended events” (Appendix 3). Meanwhile, Gray’s need to “provide a nurturing alternative to many of the gigs/nights/exhibitions that seem unfriendly or elitist” (Appendix 5) appears to be the main priority with her practitioner work. Overall, the participants noticed how the role of the practitioner supports the performer and vice versa. This reciprocal relationship helps to understand and empathise with both the organization and performance elements of shows. Gray in particular notes how she is “much more punctual when (…) turning up for soundchecks” (Appendix 5) for gigs she performs. Scenes are created and then established for the artists to access a network; when fully immersed, the comrade mentality is just as important as the actual work. Creating it for and with a community of likeminded individuals is what stimulates the work in a lot of cases. As Cath Roberts says: “I think it’s really important to find a circle of collaborators who can share ideas and move the music forward” (Appendix 2). There are many cases where the two go hand in hand. This goes back to the previously mentioned aspirations of DIY communities, where the motivation can bring the best out of the contributors. For example, in an interview I conducted with guitarist Chris Sharkey for the music website “TV is Better,” he says: “It’s not a very nice feeling to think that you’re in a vacuum (…) The scene is really, really important. Not just for the validation, as I said, but, also just for the fact that you feel like you’re part of a team or feel like you’re part of a movement and that’s a very inspiring thing (…) If that wasn’t there, I would probably be still doing it but I’d probably be finding it more 7 difficult” . Lynch puts it like this: “Being a musician these days means being both practitioner and performer (…) The release of a record, the strategy that goes around a record going from the musician to the fan, is a part of the creative process — it’s all about having original ideas” (Appendix 1). Kenny Bates also writes: I get that there are some people who just have a huge heart for people and for music and would like to put their skills to use within the DIY community since they’re not musical themselves. That’s a beautiful thing and these people are really important, invariably very passionate promoters. I do think the best promoters, venue bookers, labels etc. are run by musicians, though (Appendix 3). These quotes show the importance on not only being a performer in the scene but what else can be contributed outside of that to progress the culture and keep it moving forward. 7 Retrieved from http://tvisbetter.co.uk/cameo/si-patton-meets-chris-sharkey [Accessed 14/06/2016] 6.3. Hindrances and enhancements to sub-cultures: An analysis to observe the effects of self-organised musical activities onto the finished creative product We must remember that ultimately, these spaces are created for communities to present work to each other and in hopes of developing an audience out of that. Through that, the work becomes attached to the scene and the work is the thing that gives the community its identity. Most of the bonds I feel I have made in these communities have been through these similar interests — not only the same music but ones with the same values that I possess. It is a place to develop ideas and as Gray writes: “I’ve learned everything I know by making lots of mistakes and following my instincts” (Appendix 5). This trial and error process is a big part of practitioner work. One must wonder if the ideas these artists present would have come to fruition in the first place had it not been for the scene. Acknowledgements: Thank you to Agata Kubiak and Nico Rosario. References Abbott, A. (2012). Radical Resonances: Art, Self-organised Cultural Activity and the Production of Postcapitalist Subjectivity; or, Deferred Self-Inquiry of a Precarious Artworker, 2008-2011 (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of Leeds, Leeds. Chuter, J. (2015). Storm Static Sleep: A Pathway Through Post-Rock. London. Function Books. Daniels, R. [Ed.] (2014). DIY (Do it Yourself). University of Chichester. Daniels, R. [Ed.] (2015) DIY Too. University of Chichester. Heylin, Clinton (2007). Babylon’s Burning: From Punk to Grunge. London. Penguin Books. Owl, B., St. John, R. [Ed.] (2014). Don’t Make A Scene: A Field Guide to putting on DIY gigs. DMAS001. Sivers, D. (2007). How to Call Attention to Your Music. Unpublished ebook [Online] Retrieved from sivers.org Small, C. (1998) Musiking: The Meaning of Performing and Listening. Hanover. Wesleyan University Press. Websites Bianca Bianca. Retrieved from (2016) https://www.facebook.com/biancayouidiot/photos/a.205561439594703.1073741824.10496321965452 6/647381975412645/?type=3 [Accessed 19/08/16] Lindsay, Cam (2010) Best Coast’s Bethany Consentino Talks Converse Collab with Kid Cudi and Vampire Weekend’s Retrieved from Rostam Batmanglij. http://exclaim.ca/music/article/best_coasts_bethany_cosentino_talks_converse_collab_with_kid_cudi_vam pire_weekends_rostam_batmanglij [Accessed 24/08/16] Lume Music (2016) 26 June @ Ikletik: LUME Festival. Retrieved from http://lumemusic.co.uk/2016/06/06/26th-juneiklectik-lume-festival/ [Accessed 23/06/16] NME Blog (2014) DIY Roundtable: Politics, Money and How it Works in Britain in 2014. Retrieved from http://www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/diy-roundtable-politics-money-and-how-it-works-in-britain-in2014 [Accessed 26/08/16] Paton, Si (2013) When Si Paton met Chris Sharkey. Retrieved from http://www.tvisbetter.co.uk/si-patton-meets-chrissharkey/ [Accessed 20/05/16] Films and Audio Crawford, Scott (2014) Salad Days [DVD] McLusky (2004) The Difference Between me and you is that I’m not on Fire. Audio CD. Too Pure. Pure154CD Appendixes Appendix 1: Personal interview with Johnny Lynch (musician with Pictish Trail, Silver Columns, founder of Lost Map Records and Howling Fling Festival). Via email. Commenced: 26/04/16 Appendix 2: Personal interview with Cath Roberts (musician with Sloth Racket, founder of LUME). Via email. Commenced: 21/05/16 Appendix 3: Personal interview with Kenny Bates (musician with Bianca, founder of Good Grief Records). Via email. Commenced: 18/05/16 Appendix 4: Personal interview with Alex Fitzpatrick (musician with Cutting Pink with Knives, Pariso, founder of Holy Roar Records). Via email. Commenced: 24/05/16 Appendix 5: Personal interview with Simone Gray (musician with Teenage Caveman, founder of DIM). Via email. Commenced: 28/05/16 Contact Simon Paton for a transcript of the Appendixes 277 278 6.4. Of goths and salmons: A practice-basedeExploration of subcultural enactments in 1980s Milan Simone Tosoni 1 Abstract The present paper explores, for the first time, the Italian appropriations of British goth in Italy, and in particular in the 1980s in Milan. Adopting a practice-based approach and a theoretical framework based on the STS-derived concept of “enactment”, it aims at highlighting the coexistence of different forms of subcultural belonging. In particular, it identifies three main enactments of goth in the 1980s in Milan: the activist enactment introduced by the collective Creature Simili (Kindred Creatures); the enactment of the alternative music clubs and disco scene spread throughout northern Italy; and a third one, where participants enacted dark alone or in small groups. While these three different variations of goth had the same canon of subcultural resources in common (music, style, patterns of cultural consumption), they differed under relevant points of view, such as forms of socialization, their stance on political activism, identity construction processes and even the relationship with urban space. Yet, contrary to the stress on individual differences typical of post-subcultural theories, the Milanese variations of goth appear to have been socially shared and connected to participation in different and specific sets of social practices of subcultural enactment. Keywords: goth, subculture, enactment, practices, canon, scene, 1980s. For academic research, the spectacular subcultures (Hebdidge, 1979) in the 1980s in Italy are essentially uncharted waters (Tosoni, 2015). Yet, the topic deserves much more sustained attention. Some of these spectacular youth expressions, in fact, emerged in Italy as a peculiarity of the country, and are still almost ignored in the international debate. Most notable is the case of the Paninari who arose in Milan in the early 1980s and soon spread all over the country. They were known for their exasperated celebration of the consumerist and hedonistic mainstream culture of those years, flaunted by a rigorous selection of very expensive brand name clothes2 (Muscau, 2009). Other youth cultures, like Italian punk or goth, represented in turn the local appropriation of canons of symbolic resources (music, style, fashion and other forms of cultural consumption) deriving mainly from the U.K. (Bottà, 2012; Persello, 2016), and usually intercepted through mainstream and independent media. Nevertheless, in this process, those canons were negotiated, revisited, and imbued with new and specific meanings deriving from the local contexts of appropriation. As a consequence, in Italy these youth cultures presented elements of originality that in large part still remain to be described. As a contribution to fill this gap, this paper will focus on goth — or “dark”, as goth has always been known in Italy — in Milan and its hinterland from 1982 to 1992, and it will present a synthesis of the main results of a three-year research project3, carried out with Emanuela Zuccalà, and recently published in the first monographic work on the topic (Tosoni & Zuccalà, 2013). 1 Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, Italy. E-mail: simone.tosoni|at|unicatt|dot|it Paninari were celebrated in the song “Paninaro” by Pet Shop Boys, originally released in 1986 as the B-side of the single “Suburbia”. The video of “Paninaro” showed examples of the typical Paninaro outfit and the iconic places in Milan where they used to gather (see https://youtu.be/ov7riaL5Fbw, last accessed 10/1/2016). 3 The research project was carried out from 2010 and 2013 and is based on the life histories of 24 subjects chosen with criteria of typological variation among those who participated in the dark subculture by gender, years of participation in the scene (first or second half of the 1980s), role in the scene (DJs, organizers, musicians or simply participants), place of residence (Milan or hinterland). The interviews lasted from three to six hours, and were carried out in one or more sessions. The research also included a collection of photographic documentation of the 1980s and of material artefacts (such as fanzines, brochures, leaflets, demo tapes) that were also used as stimuli for the interviews. 2 279 280 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 In the chapter that follows I will illustrate, as the most relevant finding of the research, how at least three different forms of subcultural belonging coexisted in Milan: the activist enactment launched by the collective Creature Simili (Kindred Creatures); the enactment of the alternative music clubs and disco scene spread throughout northern Italy; and a third one — typical of, but not exclusive to, the Milanese hinterland — where participants lived the experience of subcultural belonging alone or in small groups. While sharing the same canon of subcultural resources (music, style, patterns of cultural consumption), these variations of dark differed under relevant points of view, such as forms of socialization, stance on political activism, forms of identity construction and even their relationship with urban spaces. Borrowing a concept from the field of Science and Technology Studies, we will refer to these variations as different enactments of dark, an enactment being the process in which something is put in the world through a specific set of social practices (Lien & Law, 2011, 2013). In fact, the objectives of this paper are also methodological. Neither the subculturalist emphasis on the internal coherence and homogeneity of a subculture, nor the post-subculturalist stress on participants’ individual differences are in fact fully adequate to approach the Milanese dark. In the second chapter I will clarify how a practice-based approach, with a linchpin in the concept of enactment, is better suited to make visible and describe the different forms of subcultural belonging described in the first chapter. A few final remarks will indicate some of the main questions arising from an enactment approach that the analysis of the case study on Milanese dark will leave, out of necessity, unanswered, as well as some of the directions for further research that are more urgent in order to extend the approach to other forms of subcultures and post-subcultures. 1. Enacting dark in Milan (1982-1992) The 1980s are known, in Italy, as “the years of riflusso” (flow back) (De Michele, 2003; Mudu & Piazza, 2016): under the pressure of the terrorist drift adopted by part of the movement and of severe repression by the state, the experience of the radical movements of the previous decade came to an end (Ginsborg, 2003). At the same time, a new culture of hedonism took shape, celebrating the neoliberal values of private realisation and success, and of wealth, leisure and rampant consumerism. This quick and widespread disengagement from politics, and retreat into the private sphere, profoundly transformed the country not only under social, cultural and political points of view, but also at the level of everyday life, especially in the larger cities. As Mudu and Piazza (2016) write: By the end of the 1970s, the presence of the radical left in public spaces, squares and streets — as well as semi-public spaces as bookshops, cinemas and bars — decreased until it had almost disappeared entirely, thus leaving a new generation of activists, students, proletarian youths and unemployed, mostly young people between 16 and 25 years, with almost no spaces or links to previous experiences (p. 112). Milan was a paradigmatic example of these tendencies (Foot, 2001). On one hand, in fact, the city had already undergone an intense process of deindustrialization, assuming at the same time a leading role in sectors like fashion, finance, design and advertisement. Thanks also to the private media empire of future Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi (Statham, 1996), that in the city had — and has — its headquarters, Milan became the symbol of the celebration of optimism, wealth and leisure that started characterizing the mainstream culture of the Italian 1980s. On the other hand, the crackdown on all countercultural forms of expression was dramatically changing everyday life in the city, as pointed out by one of our interviewees: Milano was changing. It had become difficult to move freely in the city because it had become obvious that we would have been stopped and controlled by the police one, two, three, or even four times. It was the beginning of what has been called ‘riflusso’: people locked themselves up in their homes, political engagement started to fade, and everybody started to 6.4. Of goths and salmons: A practice-basedeExploration of subcultural enactments in 1980s Milan live their own life (…). Younger people, who had not lived the 1970s, felt the burden of the on-going repression, but were unable to give it a political interpretation. They simply lived it 4 as a limitation of their freedom (Angela, F). It is in this context that new and spectacular forms of youth expression made their appearance in the city, some of them assuming a position of open conflict against the on-going socio-political processes: this was, in particular, the case of militant punk, but also of a first enactment of dark, characterized by its engagement in political activism: the one initially introduced and promoted by the Creature Simili collective. 1.1. Creature Simili and activist enactment of dark “Creature Simili” — a term that could be translated as “Kindred Creatures” — was the name used by militant punx5 of the anarchic squat Virus to address the darks that hung out at the squat, and came with a sort of derogatory flavour. Punx were intent on pointing out that the darks might be similar to them, but they were not “real” punk. In their eyes, in fact, they were politically ambiguous since they shirked the rigid line of frontal political contraposition and resistance that the squat had chosen, and pursued through intense activist activities, like leafleting, public protests, and occasional clashes with the police. Moreover, all the cultural activities of the squat — such as meetings and assemblies — were rigidly politicized; all mandatorily addressing issues related to resistance to the on-going repression, anti-fascism, and defence of the squat and of other “freed spaces”. The policies in respects to what could be performed on the Virus stage were a clear example of this cultural approach: all the bands that were invited to play at the squat (like Wretched and Negazione) addressed in their lyrics the same political themes that were of concern to punx, and could not perform if they did not participate at the political activities of the squat. Other issues did not receive much attention, including those that were held as crucial by Creature Simili: issues related to identity and self-expression, to the body and to sexuality. In the same way, while punx could privately “indulge” in forms of expression like art, literature or theatre, these activities were by and large perceived as not relevant for the political struggle, and therefore dismissed as of secondary relevance when not forms of political disengagement. While identifying with the anarchic political beliefs of the squat, Creature Simili found this cultural line too suffocating and inadequate to address the new existential concerns that were arising at those times and that they took into primary consideration: concerns related to identity and to the struggle for self-determination in a society where the neoliberal values of advanced capitalism had become mainstream. Conversely, they found these anxieties resonating deeply within the post-punk music that was coming mainly from the U.K. at that time, and with the cultural resources that post-punk music was deeply intertwined with: from French existentialism and the historical avant-garde, to the theatre of Antoin Artaud and novels by Kafka. People from the Virus were not very interested in those things. They wanted a band to be politically engaged, so all you heard talk about were bands like Crass, Flux of Pink Indians, Anti Cimex: anarchic bands, that had many experiences in common with them. Punx were interested in music, but above all in politics. Of course, if you talked with people from the Virus, they knew who Siouxsie and the Banshees, Joy Division, Killing Joke or Bauhaus were. But they didn’t fit that much with their way of seeing things: Bauhaus never sung about anarchy, squats, or protests against nuclear power or war (Roy, M). Some events exacerbated these divergences, like the harsh protest against the Italian band CCCP in February 1984, when the band was invited to play at the Virus by Creature Simili and was 4 All the reported excerpts of interviews are taken from Tosoni & Zuccalà, 2013, and translated by the author. The x in “punx” is the way in which these militant anarchic punks marked their difference from other forms — enactments — of punk. 5 281 282 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 heckled by the punx6. The group left the squat, created a new collective, and officially called it by the same name that the punx used to address them, Creature Simili. In any case, leaving the squat did not imply political disengagement. The new collective kept participating in the political activities of the Virus, and started to organize others of their own. They called them “mental attacks”: sorts of situationist actions performed on Saturday afternoons in the main commercial streets of Milan, aimed at sensitizing people to problems like the lack of noncommercial spaces for cultural production. The enactment of dark introduced by Creature Simili had a very important role in shaping the experience of subcultural belonging not only in Milan and in Northern Italy but also all over the country. Since 1982, in fact, Quelli di Amen (The People of Amen) — a relevant group within Creature Simili — published Amen, the first and most important Italian dark fanzine. Amen was distributed all over Italy in more than two thousand copies, and each issue included a tape of Italian post-punk bands. As was typical of this enactment of dark, the editorial line of the fanzine included music along with political issues related to religion, homeland and nationalism, sexuality and gender: [We devoted a lot of] attention to sexuality (...), to the urgency of getting rid of the archaic legacies of the past (...), [to] transgender, homosexuality, self-determination (...). At that time, we thought that Amen was more an anomaly than an integral part within the dark scene, but I realize now that for many people we were a point of reference. We were so surprised to sell so many copies and receive so many letters (Angela, F). By 1984, thanks to their political activities, Creature Simili had a reputation within what was left of the radical left of the city, barely hit by the on-going repression. After some failed attempts to occupy a space in the city, they obtained, along with some activists from the Virus, a permanent and independent space within Leoncavallo, at that time the most important squat run by Autonomia Operaia (Autonomism) (De Sario, 2012). At Leoncavallo, in fact, Quelli di Amen had successfully organized several post-punk gigs since 1982. This space, called Helter Skelter, soon became one of the most important points of reference for the dark scene of all of Northern Italy and Switzerland. The cultural line proposed by Helter Skelter was once again characterized by the same radically politicized and activist stance that had already been typical of Creature Simili and Amen. At the same time, Helter Skelter organized, in addition to political actions, cultural activities of international notoriety with bands, artists and filmmakers invited from all over Europe. This experience, that among other things would introduce cyberpunk in Italy, lasted until 1987 when it came to an end (due to an internal crisis within its organizing group), together with the enactment of dark it promoted. 1.2. Enacting dark at Hysterika The end of the Helter Skelter experience didn’t imply the end of the first dark-wave in Milan since the enactment of dark they proposed was not the only one in the city. A second relevant one had in fact emerged in 1983-1984, in the alternative music club scene that had spread all over Northern Italy and had its centre at the Milanese disco, Hysterika. As punks had initially looked down on Creature Simili, Creature Simili looked down on people enacting dark in this different way, considering them posers, and dismissing them as interested only in fashion and in what they held as the most superficial aspects of the subculture. At the beginning, we kinda laughed at them, because it seemed just fashion to us: something very superficial (Nino, M). 6 For more on the incident, see (Tosoni, 2015b). 6.4. Of goths and salmons: A practice-basedeExploration of subcultural enactments in 1980s Milan For Creature Simili, in fact, “authenticity” and subcultural belonging had to be certified with coherence between cultural consumption (a specific canon in the fields of music, movies, theatre, literature, and art), style and involvement in activist practices. On the contrary, for the participants at the alternative music club scenes, those practices were not relevant to enact dark, even if many of them may have been politically active on a personal level: The problem was that we were non-politically active, as they used to say: we didn’t go around putting up posters; we didn’t organize concerts. We did participate at demonstrations: many of us did. But we didn’t participate as a group (Sergio, M). People involved in this second enactment of dark had, in fact, a completely different take on politics. Dismissing any hope of changing a society that characterized the radical movement of the 1970s, for Creature Simili (and for punx), active political struggle assumed an ethical value in itself, and became a relevant aspect of identity: as we have stated, it certified authenticity. For the people at Hysterika, on the contrary, if the social and political tendencies of the 1980s could not be contrasted, there was no point in paying the high personal price of political activism under the harsh repression of the early and mid-1980s. Resistance had to be carried out through identity politics, and at a cultural level. One of our informants summed up this position very clearly: If there’s no choice, I will do what I have to do, but don’t ask me to believe in all of this, and to be what you want me to be (Sergio, M). Yet, this silent refusal to adopt the new values of consumerism, success and wealth had to be publicly exhibited through visual shock provoked by clothes, makeup and hair styles: it was the “semiotic guerrilla” already described by Hebdidge (1979) for punks in the UK. Especially by women, this shock factor was a way to refuse and deconstruct the gender stereotypes promoted by television and other media at that time: I didn’t wear makeup properly. It would be more correct to say that I drew stuff on my face: spiders, bats, spider webs. I wore miniskirts, torn stockings, and big long shirts that completely hid my body. And of course, smeared lipstick. I didn’t care that people found me ugly, unattractive and not feminine at all. If being feminine meant being that [other] way, then I preferred not to be classifiable at all (Sara, F). This sort of identity politics overheated the relevance of fashion and style, and of urban spaces (in particular, the city center) as a sort of theater: a stage where one could show off their refusal of mainstream values. Not surprisingly, within this enactment, style was by far more spectacular than in the politically activist one. For Creature Simili, in fact, urban space was more a space for political action than a stage where to be seen. Consequently, for this second enactment of dark, posers were those who changed their style depending on the occasion, shifting to a conventional way of dressing to avoid conflict, for example, with teachers or employers: since aesthetic assumed an ethical value, a chameleon attitude was deprecated as a sort of betrayal. Admittedly, in this enactment of dark, the way of dressing also changed depending on the situation: especially in discos and clubs, attended on a regular basis, clothes were more sophisticated and, especially for women, also more openly seductive and sexualized (Brill, 2008). In a way that was completely unknown within the enactment of Creature Simili, being able to dress properly, with taste and creativity, was actually a way to gather “subcultural capital” (Brill, 2007), gaining a reputation within the scene. Botched attire could even imply marginalization from the group: 283 284 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 There were differences in style, but in any case style mattered. I remember these guys: we called them ‘the prodigies’ for their look, because, in our opinion, their style was very coarse. 7 In our view they were kinda (…) boorish, because of their style, basically (Paola, F.). The same applies to the ability to show refined competencies in terms of cultural consumption, especially in music. Once again, always being up to date and in the know about niche bands inside the post-punk canon was an important way to gain a reputation: All of us listened to The Cure, Bauhaus, Joy Division, and Sisters Of Mercy. The first band that made you take a qualitative leap was the Virgin Prunes. Older people listened to them. They were more extreme; the genre started to change. I remember one time I was talking with a girl about them and she told me, ‘You know, I thought you were a newbie, but I was wrong...’ So, to convince her that I was not an idiot, I had to talk to her about a certain kind of music, make her understand that, even if my hair was backcombed, I was not just (…) The Cure, you know. And later I behaved like that with other people when Industrial came out. Listening to that kind of music meant that you were less an idiot than other people, because you couldn’t stop at the music from 1982, 1983, 1984. You had to move beyond (Sergio, M). Hysterika closed in 1992, and this date could also be symbolically regarded as the end of this second enactment of dark. Even if in the 1990s new clubs would open in Milan and its hinterland, dark would be enacted in a new and different way: practices performed in urban spaces — like socializing and “shocking” — would become less relevant; a strict coherence in style would become less mandatory, as aesthetic and ethic would progressively lose their close connection; dark would become mainly a club culture, and the stylistic hybridization with fetish would hypersexualize clothing. Many of the people who in the 1980s had brought the alternative music club scene to life would move to the new techno rave scene, either as participants or organizers. 1.3. Enacting dark alone Along with these two, the interviewees report a third enactment of dark, even if in this case it did not have a proper scene — if not mediated. Dark, in fact, was also enacted alone, or in small groups of people, not infrequently belonging to different subcultures. This way of living the subculture was typical of, but not exclusive to, the small towns neighboring Milan. In this case, subcultural belonging — the feeling of being part of a broader symbolic community — was not sustained by the daily participation to large groups of people (like what happened in the other two enactments), but mainly through cultural consumption: There were people who owned so much stuff — vinyl records, books, clothes — and the desire to accumulate was important. It was something new and different from the previous cultures. It was the construction of a personal world, to be furnished piece by piece, and the longing to create a sort of shelter that was not immediately conflictual (Roxie, F.). Of course, music played a key role, even if this didn’t imply attending music clubs: the practice of going dancing was not relevant to enact dark; when it was not openly refused as too frivolous. On the contrary, concerts where attended with religious enthusiasm as a sort of rite during which the community, otherwise only symbolic, became temporarily embodied: I was almost fifteen and I didn’t go dancing in dark clubs, so attending a concert was something essential and unique (…), it meant feeling part of a community, of a movement. When everybody was singing the lyrics of a song by The Cure together, and I was among them, I could finally feel that it was not only me, secluded in my room, obsessively listening to Faith and Pornography. It was a sort of liberating rite (Sara, F). 7 This excerpt is quoted directly from the source interviews and does not appear in Tosoni & Zuccalà (2013). 6.4. Of goths and salmons: A practice-basedeExploration of subcultural enactments in 1980s Milan Some of these concerts were organized by Quelli di Amen — and at a later point by Helter Skelter at the Leoncavallo squat: The artworks [we used to advertise our concerts] were very targeted, and so we discovered a whole universe of isolated people dressing in black. You could really feel that these people had found a situation in which they could recognize each other. For the first time, we saw so many people that probably had a lot in common, and that had developed their interests in a way that was defiladed, intimate, segregated in closed spaces: they had undergone a sort of transformation in their own private sphere, with gothic literature, H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe as milestones, but not overlooking the Italian Scapigliatura movement, romanticism, and decadent poets. (…) It was very surprising to see so many people sharing a common identity (Angela, F). In any case, the explorations of the subcultural canon were deep and systematic not only in music, but also in theatre, literature, art, and cinema, often chasing the lavish homages and quotations that could be generously found in post-punk band lyrics. Reading fanzines was also very important, and some of them were published regularly — sometimes in very few copies — by “isolated” darks themselves. In this respect, these darks cannot be regarded as those subjects who, addressing hip-hop and grime Todd Dedman (2011) calls “peripherals” (those who limit their participation to the subculture to superficial forms of consumption), and who he distinguishes from “purists” (those who shape the subculture more actively). This enactment of dark had, in fact, its own peripherals and purists, since isolated darks often had very refined and articulate competencies in terms of cultural consumption and were often very active in the DIY production of music and fanzines. In any case, publishing and reading fanzines was not the only form of mediated communication sustaining this form of subcultural belonging: writing letters all over Italy to a vast network of pen pals (whose addresses could be found in those same fanzines and magazines) was a practice of primary importance, and somehow it anticipated the role that the Internet would play years later, (Hodkinson, 2003): (…) I started putting ads in music magazines, looking for pen pals, to find people that might somehow be similar to me. I exchanged letters with so many people (…): sometimes it looked like my mailbox was about to explode! (…) I met some of them in person, but many wrote to me from far away, even from Sicily (…). I understood that many of them were isolated, just like me, and we all dreamt about London (…). One of my pen pals even became my first boyfriend: we exchanged letters for two years before seeing each other for the first time! Then, later on, I created my own fanzine: Settimo Senso (Donatella, F). Finally, this last enactment of dark had the same identity politics and the same strategy of visual shock performed in public spaces in common with the alternative music clubs. In many cases, it was expressed in the small towns neighbouring Milan, where enacting dark in public was harder since it carried the risk of verbal and sometimes even physical violence. Not surprisingly, isolated darks were therefore the ones that criticized more fiercely, as a sign of inauthenticity, the camouflage of style that, as we have seen, was also deprecated in the music club scene. Isolated and music club darks also shared the same hangouts in Milan — pubs, music shops, clothes shops — that those who lived out of the city reached by train every Saturday afternoon to find the subcultural goods that could not be found in their hometowns. 2. Conclusions: For an enactment approach in the study of subcultures (and post-subcultures). In his pivotal work on UK goth in the 1990s (Hodkinson 2002), Paul Hodkinson attempts “to rework [the concept of] subculture (…) through indicators of group ‘substance’, including shared identity, commitment, distinctiveness and a degree of autonomy with respect to spaces and networks.” 285 286 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 (Hodkinson 2016, p. 634). Dark in Milan in the 1980s satisfied all these criteria: yet, it still presented internal variations that wouldn’t be adequately addressed without more fine-tuned methodological guidelines. The approach we have proposed here has its linchpin in a derivation of the concept of “enactment” from the field of STS, where it was introduced to deal with issues of sameness and difference. As its proponents John Law and Marianne Elisabeth Lien sum it up, adopting an enactment approach implies two key moves: We do without the assumption that there are goths out there with a definite form, in existence outside the practices in which they are being done. That is the first move. And then, here’s the second, it follows that since those practices aren’t the same, different and multiple goths subsist in different and multiple worlds (Law & Lien, 2013, p. 366). Actually, the authors are referring to salmons, not goths, but the point I am making here is that what works for salmons will also work for goths — and other subcultures (or post-subcultures). Addressing youth cultures in terms of enactments implies, in fact, a focus on the specific social practices in which a subcultural canon is put into play — going dancing, consuming, being politically active and so on and so forth. Helping tackle relevant internal variations of a subculture is not the only advantage of this perspective: as we have tried to demonstrate, attention to the performative aspect of each practice may also help to gain a more subtle understanding of the forms of subcultural belonging than other traditional semiotic approaches. We have seen, for example, how in all the described enactments, style and clothes can be regarded as forms of “semiotic guerrilla”. Yet, attention to the performative aspects of clothing allows us to describe how “dressing” may vary from social practice to social practice, and how attire in a disco may differ from the clothes worn to socialize (or shock) in urban spaces. Finally, methodological attention centred on practices may help to circumvent the present frontal contraposition (Blackman, 2005; Bennet, 2011) — or even the stalemate (Woodman & Wyn, 2015) — between subculturalist (Shildrick & MacDonald, 2006) and post-subculturalist approaches (Muggleton, 2000; Bennet 2015) to youth cultures. An enactment approach, in fact, does not imply a stress on the stable, coherent and communitarian character of youth identity suggested by the concept of subculture. And at the same time, it does not imply the stress on fragmented and individualist forms of identity construction and on individual variations (Hesmondhalgh, 2005) advocated by concepts like neo-tribe (Bennet, 2005), or lifestyle (Miles, 2000) — but actually also by alternative approaches to performativity (Wood, 2003; Driver 2011). On one hand, in fact, a subculture may be enacted in several different ways, maintaining distinctiveness in case of internal fragmentation. On the other hand, each practice that constitutes an enactment, as well as each enactment as a distinct set of practices, has a social and supra-individual character, transcending the specificities of individual practitioners (Schatzki, 1996). This intermediate level between the collective-communitarian and the individual may represent a fruitful common ground both for subculturalist and post-subculturalist approaches. Yet, an enactment approach opens several theoretical questions that the specificity — and the limitations — of the present case study on darks in Milan in the 1980s has inevitably left unanswered, but that cannot be avoided if the approach has to be extended to other subcultures and post-subcultures. At least three of them seem particularly urgent: First of all, more research is needed on the relationship between subcultural canons and subcultural enactments. Goth, in fact, is characterized by a canon that is particularly stable (Hodkinson, 2002). Yet, the relationship between an enactment and a canon is always of mutual shaping: in an enactment, a canon is always put into play, restated, but also renegotiated. Addressing other youth cultures could help through the observation of alternative — and more dynamic — forms of this relationship, as well as addressing the historical transformations of these cultures. 6.4. Of goths and salmons: A practice-basedeExploration of subcultural enactments in 1980s Milan Second, the relationship between the social level (of the enactments) and the individual level needs further exploration. In our case study, we have shown how some practices are inseparably linked to an enactment, while others — held as not relevant — are delegated to the individual choices of the practitioners: for example, political activism is an integral part of the first enactment, while it is regarded as a non-essential individual choice in the other two. At the same time, we have seen how, even in their non-subcultural practices, subjects are requested to have coherence in style. Addressing other forms of youth cultures may help researchers observe different forms of integration between the participation in subcultural practices and the individual level, and to complement the ways in which the individual level is generally addressed — that is, through a focus on attributions of meaning, on motivational structures and on different levels of commitment. Finally, in the present case we have shown how each enactment is connected to particular places: some of them in an exclusive way, others shared with other enactments — serving therefore as a common ground and points of contact and circulation between all the enactments. Addressing other cases of youth culture may help to go beyond the specificities of the case study, achieving a better understanding of the relationship between enactments, scenes, material places and places mediated by computer communication — or by other media. References Bottà, G. (2012). Articulating Punk in an Industrial City: Turin and the Collettivo Punx Anarchici in the early 1980s. United Academics Journal of Social Sciences, 2(12), 34-48. Bennett, A. (2005). In Defence of Neo-tribes: A Response to Blackman and Hesmondhalgh. Journal of Youth Studies, 8(2). DOI: 10.1080/13676260500149402. Bennett, A. (2011). The post-subcultural turn: some reflections 10 years on. Journal of Youth Studies, 14(5), 493– 506. DOI: 10.1080/13676261.2011.559216. Bennett, A. (2015). Australian Subcultures: Reality or Myth? In S. Baker, B. Robards, & B. Buttigieg (Eds.), Youth Cultures and Subcultures: Australian Perspectives (pp. 11–20). Farnham: Ashgate. Blackman, S. (2005). Youth Subcultural Theory: A Critical Engagement with the Concept, its Origins and Politics, from the Chicago School to Postmodernism. Journal of Youth Studies, 8(1), 1–20. DOI: 10.1080/13676260500063629. Brill, D. (2007). Gender, status and subcultural capital in the goth scene. In P. Hodkinson & W. Deicke (Eds.), Youth Cultures: Scenes, Subcultures and Tribes (pp. 111–128). Park Drive, Abingdon: Taylor & Francis. Brill, D. (2008). Goth Culture: Gender, Sexuality and Style. London: Bloomsbury Academic. De Michele, S. (2003). I magnifici anni del riflusso. Come eravamo negli anni ottanta, Venezia: Marsilio. De Sario, B. (2012). Cambiamento sociale e attivismo giovanile nell’Italia degli anni Ottanta: il caso dei centri sociali occupati e autogestiti. Cahiers D’études Italiennes, (14), 117–138. DOI: 10.4000/cei.416. Dedman, T. (2011). Agency in UK hip-hop and grime youth subcultures — peripherals and purists. Journal of Youth Studies, 14(5), 507–522. DOI: 10.1080/13676261.2010.549820. Driver, C. (2011). Embodying hardcore: rethinking “subcultural” authenticities. Journal of Youth Studies, 14(8), 975990. DOI: 10.1080/13676261.2011.617733. Foot, J. (2001). Milan since the Miracle. City, Culture, Identity. Oxford and New York: Berg. Ginsborg, P. (2003). A History of Contemporary Italy: Society and Politics 1943-1988. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan. Hebdige, D. (1979). Subculture, the Meaning of Style. London: Methuen. Hesmondhalgh, D. (2005). Subcultures, Scenes or Tribes? None of the Above. Journal of Youth Studies, 8(1), 21–40. DOI: 10.1080/13676260500063652. Hodkinson, P. (2002). Goth: identity, style, and subculture. Oxford, New York: Berg. Hodkinson, P. (2003). ‘Net.Goth’: Internet Communication and (Sub)Cultural Boundaries. In D. Muggleton & R. Weinzierl (Eds.), The post-subcultures reader (pp. 285–298). Oxford, New York: Berg. Hodkinson, P. (2016). Youth cultures and the rest of life: subcultures, post-subcultures and beyond. Journal of Youth Studies, 19(5), 629–645. DOI: 10.1080/13676261.2015.1098778. Law, J. & Lien, M. E. (2013). Slippery: Field notes in empirical ontology. Social Studies of Science, 43(3), 363–378. DOI: 10.1177/0306312712456947. Lien, M. R. & Law, John (2011). “Emergent Aliens”: On Salmon, Nature, and Their Enactment. Ethnos, 76(1), 65–87. DOI: 10.1080/00141844.2010.549946. Miles, S. (2000). Youth Lifestyles in a Changing World. Maidenhead: Open University Press. Mudu, P. & Piazza, G. (2016). Not Only Riflusso: The Repression and Transformation of Radical Movements in Italy between 1978 and 1985. In K. Andresen & B. van der Steen (Eds.), A European Youth Revolt: European Perspectives on Youth Protest and Social Movements in the 1980s (pp. 112–126). London: Palgrave Macmillan UK. 287 288 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3 Muggleton, D. (2000). Inside Subculture: The Postmodern Meaning of Style. Oxford: Berg. Muscau F. (2009). The City Boutique. Milan and the Spaces of Fashion. In J. Potvin (Ed.), The Places and Spaces of Fashion, 1800-2007 (pp. 139–153). London, New York: Routledge. Persello, M. (2016). Peripheral subcultures. The first appropriations of punk in Germany and Italy. In P. Guerra & T. Moreira (Eds.), Keep it Simple, Make It Fast. An approach to Underground Music Scenes. Vol. 2 (pp. 93– 98). Porto: Universidade do Porto. Schatzki, T. R. (1996). Social practices: A Wittgensteinian approach to human activity and the social. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Shildrick, T. & MacDonald, R. (2006). In Defense of Subculture: Young People, Leisure and Social Divisions. Journal of Youth Studies, 9(2), 125–140. DOI: 10.1080/13676260600635599. Statham, P. (1996). Berlusconi, the Media, and the New Right in Italy. The Harvard International Journal of Press/Politics, 1(1), 87–105. DOI: DOI 10.1177/1081180X96001001007. Tosoni, S. (2015). Subculture giovanili: un fenomeno tutto da studiare. Vita & Pensiero, 3, 114-119. Tosoni, S. (2015b). Not Real Punx, but Kindred Creatures (Creature Simili): Enacting “Dark” in Milan, Italy. Paper presented at the KISMIF Conference, Porto (Portugal), July 2016. Tosoni, S.& Zuccalà, E. (2013). Creature Simili. Il Dark a Milano negli anni ‘80. Agenzia X: Milano. Wood, R. T. (2003). The Straightedge Youth Sub-Culture: Observations on the Complexity of Sub-Cultural Identity. Journal of Youth Studies, 6(1), 33–52. DOI: 10.1080/1367626032000068154. Woodman, D. & Wyn, J. (2015). Holding it All Together: Researching Time, Culture and Belonging After ‘Subcultures’. In S. Baker, B. Robards, & B. Buttigieg (Eds.). Youth Cultures and Subcultures: Australian Perspectives, (pp. 43–52). Burlington, VT: Ashgate. 289 290 6.4. Of goths and salmons: A practice-basedeExploration of subcultural enactments in 1980s Milan 291 Special thanks to Chris Low for allowing us to use his photos. His work can be found at: www.facebook.com/chrislow.ph0t0s www.flickr.com/photos/chrislow www.chris--low.tumblr.com www.instagram.com/chris__low + Forthcoming Photo Exhibition: http:// redgallerylondon.com/event/yours-tokyo-punkjapanarchy 292 Keep it Simple, Make it Fast! An approach to underground music scenes 3