Well I Went to School in Olympia
Decentralised subculture, nostalgia, Riot Grrls, and why the Internet is good actually.
1
Contemporary alternative subculture is under siege. Everywhere I look, I am told that creativity doesn’t exist like it once did. True Y2K is the pinnacle of fashion status. A band on TikTok with five hundred followers say they’re bringing back 90s grunge. Print media is dead, we say, intellectualism is dead, and so is community, radical movements, and, while we’re at it, we proclaim art and music to have passed away years ago too. We will never get back the alternative scene of the past, never return to the good old days of pre-Internet. In our nostalgia, we condemn the youth to a never-ending attempt to recreate and regurgitate our own past. The giants of alternative music grow ever larger as we leave floundering the fresh work that speaks to the youth.
In our worship of the structure of previous communities, we fail to move forward in our own creativity. Music, especially, becomes increasingly self-referential to previous musicians, genres, even to particular songs. I couldn’t name a single fresh movement that does not ultimately function as an attempt to return to history, a cheap play on nostalgia. Forty years later, we are still attempting to replicate the feel of the pioneers of the shoegaze genre (of which I am also guilty), and we refuse to distinguish ourselves against the original shoegaze movement, rejecting the label of nu-gaze with no reason besides our own snobbery. Of course, it is productive and natural to draw inspiration from those previous greats. What we do, though, is suppress new creatives by uncritically hailing the past.
What we seem to miss most of all is the concept of the centralised music scene. The most pertinent example is that of the community in the college town of Olympia, Washington, thriving throughout the early 1990’s. Here, the legendary Kathleen Hanna birthed the riot grrl movement, revolutionising the punk subculture against misogyny. Here is where we found seminal indie projects including Team Dresch, The Microphones, Bratmobile. Carrie Brownstein writes with much affection in Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl of her decision to move to Olympia to participate in the thriving music scene and to ultimately form Sleater-Kinney. The scene was so prominent within American subculture that Live Through This features a tongue-in-cheek criticism of the community. Perhaps a British equivalent is the Rigg Beck retreat, or ‘the purple house’ in Cumbria, where KatieJane Garside began writing and recording material that would eventually become the foundation for Queenadreena. We see the formative years of shoegaze largely taking place in Reading, from whence bands like Slowdive and Chapterhouse hail.
Now, movements in music are increasingly scattered across cities, and across the globe. There is no single scene that is comparable to that of Olympia – although music and arts scenes invariably are home to a great amount of talent, artists no longer seem to operate together within a local context, instead opting for the global reach of the Internet as a faux third place. I disagree with the popular discourse that third places (as coined by Ray Oldenburg) are disappearing. Coffee shops, bars, libraries, parks and music venues continue to thrive across the UK. What’s changed, though, is the accessibility. We are all too familiar with the cost of living crisis, and as the effects of gentrification run rampant, leaving the house becomes a luxury. Public transport is inefficient and of poor quality. Even free spaces such as public libraries are designed with a wash of hostility in their designs, favouring anti-homeless architecture over a welcoming environment.
So teens and young adults, ever-resourceful, turn to online spaces as a supplementary third place. Perhaps for a while it was novel. Particularly in the days of MySpace and Tumblr, the Internet felt like a boundless resource for creativity and self-expression. This rendition of online subculture complemented the real-life alternative scenes with pride, as the role of the fanzine was taken by personal blogs with figures like Molly Soda shaping the internet landscape, and as the Arctic Monkeys became the first indie band to rise to fame online. When we reminisce on the alternative subculture of the 2010s, the immediate reaction is to discuss the social media of the time. We do this even before music is brought up, before fashion, literature, cinema. Looking at cult movies from this era such as I Believe in Unicorns, Letterboxd reviews proclaim that “This movie is a Tumblr post”. It is an oversight to claim that the Internet has not played a defining role in the development of subculture over the past fifteen years. It has more than earned a nuanced critical analysis.
Our most grave mistake is conflating this decentralisation of thought with a deficiency in community. I accept that there are negative aspects to a wholly online community – research finds that communicating solely through text messages cannot create satisfaction in interpersonal relationships – but in light of the inaccessibility of third places, moving online seems to be a more fulfilling reaction than allowing subculture to become fully gentrified. Online, we are untouchable. We mould our communities even more so than before around mutual interest and passion. Maybe the Internet will not save us, but there is nothing that has democratised thought and art, and therefore subculture, like the Internet has.
2
The last hurrah of online subculture took place during the Covid-19 pandemic. Although the effects of a mainstream audience flocking to engage with alternative culture were ultimately shallow and detrimental, it sparked an online ethos quite unlike anything that had come before. The most interesting phenomenon emerging from this era was a renewed interest in zines, with a focus on collaboration and creative output. Independent online publications run by teens such as All My Friends and The Star Collective provided a creative sphere which could exist solely for young creatives, democratising literature and publishing for young people. Although the zine movement was brief (most of these publications became defunct at the end of lockdown), it was monumental for young writers and artists, including myself. Not only was this movement inspired by the largely non-fictional zines popular across subculture in the 80s and 90s, but with its focus on collaboration, literature, and artwork, it pushed the boundaries of what a zine could be.
Now, though, online subculture is reevaluating itself, particularly in its relationship with consumerism. As the lockdowns came to an end and, with it, the wave of interest in alternative culture died out, ruminations on the state of the Internet particularly with relation to third places, consumerism, and anti-feminism are swallowing online alternative communities. With good reason, of course – for the most part, discussions I see are poignant, nuanced, and necessary. The proximity of alternative subculture with leftism makes these conversations ever more critical, and discourse surrounding the limitations of the apparatus in which we function is something that must continue if subculture is to survive online.
At the root of many of these issues, I find a unique intersection of the pressure to conform with the intense desire inspired by the Internet to feed an individuality complex. This, I feel, is the only online element that has the power to truly destructively tamper with subculture. On one hand, there is a constant pressure to purchase the latest viral product, to partake in the Internet’s latest inside joke, and so on. But as the object of desirable conformity becomes too widespread, influencers and other online cool kids dispose of the object immediately and in its entirety. Naturally, the influence of capitalism is unsubtle in these situations, as consumerism becomes paramount in online communities, but I wonder if there is an element of exclusivity at play here. To unify is only attractive when it is specific and singular. Once a trend becomes too widespread, it is discarded. The object is no fun when millions of people can participate. It becomes mainstream and overused, losing its initial meaning and signification within its community of origin. Because of this, uniqueness is always paramount online. There is nothing that can generate social capital here like the untainted self, and this fetish of individualism erodes community ideals.
The Internet is not particularly conducive to keeping things for oneself, leading to the bleeding of communities into one another in a way that threatens the identity of the involved groups. This is unique to online subculture, as separate subcultures are thrown together by nonsensical algorithms, creating a strange (usually aggressive) exchange of practices and beliefs held by the groups. One must be expectant of a clash at any given time, and, as such, online creators remain unceasingly on guard. As different subcultures are increasingly pushed together, certain flagging techniques and signifiers become obsolete. In the never-ending hunger for individuality, flags are greedily co-opted into the mainstream, losing their meaning and violently removing meaning from a community signifier. What could be more detrimental than this?
I see this as reflective of an online cultural longing for real community. Flags and signifiers are captured as a falsely identified source of community, rather than as a symptom of it. Again, consumerist rhetoric is at play here, selling the belief that the key to belonging is held within a purchasable item rather than in shared ideals. As people become desperate under the alienation of late-stage capitalism, we are willing to grasp at any straw that may provide them with an ounce of satisfaction. We fail to understand that flags exist as a result of community, rather than the other way around. In doing so we fail to connect the grief we feel over the loss of community with insipid consumerism, instead stopping at the apparatus through which consumerist rhetoric runs rampant – the Internet.
3
We are uniquely unforgiving in discourse surrounding the Internet, and incredibly pessimistic. Rarely do I hear a voice pronouncing the online world to be a force for good, and I don’t believe this is because the Internet is all-round evil. Of course, the air is always full of tragedy and we are assailed daily by the pain of others. It’s no wonder that the zeitgeist is so consumed by irony. More than anything, it manifests as the violent attack of youth culture on itself. All anybody wants to talk about, including denizens of the Internet, is the damage of which it is capable. Young people are clawing at the walls of their own sphere as disgust with the state of the world pervades but refuses to become productive. Nothing is good enough anymore. Nothing will ever be good enough. It is hard to not to hate what appears to be good when the figures that were supposed to lead you have been revealed (with comical frequency) to be betrayers and con artists.
The destructive reaction of youth culture to itself is reminiscent of that of a victim of abuse. I see my peers enacting this expectant wild-eyed search for a shred of evidence that any element of culture wants to harm them. Simultaneously, they take comfort in those harmful places, reliving and remaining complicit in violent cultural systems. Constantly vigilant, while failing to break out of the cycle to enter a place where we understand we are safe. I wonder if people see this in me, too, criticising here on Substack as though everything is suspicious. Is there any hope left?
No - I am not so cynical as to believe that this is all there is. We spiral for now, but our symptoms can be treated.
What we cry out for now is community, and the fact that this yearning to belong continues throughout society is what brings me hope. We have proven that there is no killing the wanting. Now, then, all we must do is take action, and continue to take action.
4
Soon I hope we can come to acknowledge that the Internet is a powerful force that has yet to be fully realised, particularly within subculture. Within our discourse we fail to mention how young the Internet is – we are only the second generation to grow up beside it, and as such we have surely come nowhere near understanding the full extent of possibility that comes with an online realm. We consistently refer to the present as the ‘dark ages’ of the Internet, and still we fail to understand that we have not yet shaped the online sphere to function as a force that can successfully facilitate subculture and community action. All hope cannot be lost already, because we have barely even begun to dream. I agree with the argument that the Internet is a dangerous place, a breeding ground for bigotry, a depraved place infested with consumerist rhetoric. I refuse to believe that’s all it can be, and all it can ever be. We have to believe that there is more – that we deserve to ask for more. We have to give in to the hope for revolution.
I wish also for the outright snobbery surrounding the Internet to cease. From older generations proclaiming that it is futile to attempt to connect with the youth due to their Internet addictions. From my peers and other young people who refuse to dream of something better. Romanticising a bygone pre-Internet era is wholly counterproductive, embodying a pseudo-revolutionary pseudo-intellectual stance and promoting wallowing in dissatisfaction. Although it is necessary to appreciate and remember the past, particularly within subculture, there is no need to condemn the present manifestation of culture and subculture in order to do so. For the future to have direction, we must accept that the present has weight. Understand that in twenty years, we will reminisce on the days of our Internet, however much poetry we believe the current state of subculture lacks.
We conveniently forget that the past was painful too. An easy scapegoat is the Internet, the faceless modern evil that dictates our sorry lives. Alternative subculture is particularly guilty of this, hailing the past as an ideal to which we must return. I find this romanticisation particularly insipid in light of having been one of the youngest attendees at a Heavenly gig in January, during which the crowd – the indie scene of the past, reunited – disrespected one another with misogynist attitudes. Everything was not wonderful in the nineties. In the current era of dying movements and increasing isolation, we make beautiful the scenes of the past, and in doing so, we alienate ourselves from the present, failing to learn from the history of subculture.
I know I do not ask too much in my plea for an extension of a welcoming hand from the communities of older generations operating within subculture. I know this because of the work done largely in radical archival spaces, such as the 56A Infoshop in Elephant and Castle.
Here is one of the few places I have seen that is able to commemorate the past without fetishising it. It’s a deeply historical space, no doubt, particularly within anarchism and subculture, having roots in local squatting and anti-gentrification movements and housing a wealth of texts and information from books to zines. Certainly, this space has served as a centre for leftist movements, perhaps a more political equivalent to that of Olympia or the Rigg Beck retreat. The Infoshop’s proximity to leftist movements leads to the collision of the personal and political in a unique and passionate way, implicitly strengthening one another. As such, its focus on community action becomes paramount.
Even more than history, it has heart, and the dedicated volunteers keeping it running are more than eager to pass these movements into younger hands. Attending a series of workshops run by the Infoshop for young people, it became clear to me that this generational divide within subculture that is marked by the great wall of the Internet is nothing more than superficial. There were no rose-tinted glasses in sight. No pretension surrounding discussion of the Internet, no unfounded nostalgia for movements past. Although subcultural history is rightly revered at the Infoshop, the onus remains on moving forward.
Returning to Olympia, where the seeds of the Riot Grrls were sown, I feel nothing but marvel for the longevity of this movement. Thirty years later, and it retains relevancy. Of course, there is something sinister here – has women’s place in subculture changed so little over this time that we must continue to return to this movement over and over? – but equally, I see something incredible. The movement has had three recognisable waves, each distinct from one another. What astounds me is that each wave is able to remain relevant to its current context while also maintaining a relationship with its conception in the nineties. Its ethos continues to be recognisable, despite the drastic changes in aesthetics, sounds, even ideology.
Something I admire about Riot Grrl is that it never thinks it’s too good for its time, engaging with the culture of the time. Second-wave Riot Grrl in the mid-2010s saw the forever iconic Dazey and the Scouts include a line referencing ‘Netflix and chill’. Later, second- and third-wave band Destroy Boys would greatly widen their audience on TikTok in 2020. There is something very present about Riot Grrl that resonated with me deeply, and encouraged me to investigate subculture further. Having been revived over and over, you would think the movement would eventually become stale, but it never has. Kathleen Hanna’s recent world tours with Le Tigre and Bikini Kill, as well as her upcoming book, still feel relevant, which is a feat. Riot Grrl is interested in improving conditions for women and girls now, not thirty years ago. To do this, they renounce arrogance and snobbery and embrace the current state of subculture in all its flawed online glory. And the music just keeps getting better.
5
The Internet has not killed subculture yet, and I don’t believe it’s going to. We have not ruined subculture beyond recognition. Our fatalism isn’t going to save us from our isolation.
This is especially the case because everything is still here, and it’s waiting for us. All we have to do is contribute a little time and a little compassion. While we mourn community, it sits quietly in the next room hoping that we may stumble upon it and smile. I cannot say this enough times. Everything is still here. Everything is still here. Please take it while it is still here.
Everything is not as it used to be, but the nature of subculture and of community is not to remain static anyway. We should expect the fluidity of the counter-culture as times change, and we must utilise the tools we have available to us. If we want to progress (and we must progress), we need to find a way to work with major technological advancements such as the Internet rather than rejecting it in some last-ditch holier-than-thou attempt to return to the old scene. The Internet offers us an expansive, democratic space to express art and discuss politics. The mass international exchange of thought is a beautiful thing, particularly for subculture.
We can’t, and shouldn’t, be constantly returning to the past. Our generation is grieving freedoms that were stolen from us, even down to our right to leave our homes. The only thing that will save us now is community. To find this, we must dedicate effort to the cause of building it, and we must do it now. Reminiscing on the good old days will not fulfil you. Action will. Remember that joy is radical. Find it in what is already here – not in what was long gone before you were born.
What do you do with a revolution? We can do so much.