When I started really hanging around the Los Angeles comedy scene (appx. 2013/2014), a lot of dudes in their early 30s (ancient to me at the time) loved giving the same piece of “industry” advice. Of course, most of these men had not “made it” themselves, but they all knew the key to success. “Just make a lot of shit and put it out in the world.” It’s that simple. “You gotta just make something, get it out there and move on to the next thing,” they’d say before inevitably listing off the myriad of distribution options available to me, as if anyone younger than them were unfamiliar with the Internet. “YouTube, Twitter, Instagram, doesn’t matter. It’s never been easier! Just make something and put it online. If it’s any good, someone will see it.”
This is shitty advice.
Alas, many folks seem to have taken this faux-insider secret to heart. Quantity over quality has become the prevailing train of thought in entertainment. A need to be perceived by others as productive is far more important than crafting meaningful work (be it in a personal, political, artistic or any other sense). As such, many creatives seem to approach their chosen discipline like General Motors employees on the factory line (albeit with much softer skin and more delusions of grandeur). The goal is to create as much content as possible. Sure, they try to present it as art but make no mistake, the devoutly productive rarely make anything that elevates beyond content.
Before going any further, I’ll admit there are exceptions and nuances to this mondo-sized generalization. I even confess that I myself have cranked out plenty of shit content saying nothing. However, caveating and footnoting a screed (and make no mistake, this is a screed) makes it far less cathartic to write/enjoyable to read, no?
Anyway, why is this on my mind?
Megan Koester, who writes a brilliant, weekly newsletter, recently wrote about the ‘Why’ of writing. (If you only have time for one blog, I implore you to read hers). Essentially, I think the ‘Why’ behind most of the content populating my feeds boils down to “Why not?” To me, this is bad…
—Because cranking out content inherently feeds an evil machine. Specifically, social media corporations whose model depends on people creating content that keeps consumers on their apps so they can sell ads. Creators do not see any of that ad revenue ergo, vis a vis, concordantly, it creates an economy where artists’ work is not financially valued.
—Because, despite the ‘learn-as-you-go’ sentiment lingering behind ‘just make stuff and put it out there,’ you’re not really getting better at your discipline if you’re not taking the time to fine tune and sit with your work. So don’t give me that ‘getting your reps in’ bullshit. You can make something, show some friends and keep it to yourself (until you finally have something that’s worth sharing).
—Because, and this is the biggest one for me, the desperate need for likes and attention that drives anyone to make a video a day (or whatever like that) is inherently born out of the idea that art is a competition and any peer who gets attention for their own work is a rival. This does not foster a healthy creative scene.
I’ve been watching the Fran Lebowitz docuseries, “Pretend It’s A City,” so maybe I’m just in a curmudgeonly mood?
For the past year, I’ve blabbered at anyone who’d listen about Michael Azerrad’s Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground (1981-1991). I can’t recommend it highly enough. The book dedicates each chapter to one band, 13 in total (Black Flag, Minutemen, The Replacements, Dinosaur Jr., Sonic Youth, Fugazi, Butthole Surfers, among others). Instead of wasting 1,000 words detailing everything I loved about it, I’ll just say it’s had me reflecting on the comedy scenes I’ve been in and around for all of my 20s.
The most righteous, loveable, magnetic bands profiled in the book made their best, most inspiring work when they weren’t beholden to self-imposed productivity quotas or seeking the validation of corporate execs. Just their own truth. Sure, some got caught up in the ‘industry’ side of things, but their art suffered for it. The scene’s real heroes never encouraged up-and-comers to “just throw together an EP and put it out there.” There was a reverence for the community as much as the music. Those who created from a place of insincerity, or to get rich, got called out by their peers and the scene. Of course, sometimes the in-it-to-win-it assholes got famous/successful, but at least nobody pretended they weren’t fucking phonies. This does not happen anymore.
These bands didn’t make content. Nobody will write or talk about the content populating our feeds 30 years from now with this level of reverence. Of course, maybe I’d feel different if I were the one with a big money production deal or 150k followers, but I’m not. So instead I’m upset with myself for ever forgetting what brought me to these scenes in the first place: the communities. For thinking I should create just to appear marketable. You don’t get anything as transcendent as Double Nickles on the Dime or In on the Kill Taker if you’re trying to impress anyone but yourself and your friends. If you’re creating solely for the endgame of success, you shouldn’t be celebrated. Why should comedy be any different than punk? There’s no humanity or ethos to content. There’s just content. And fuck if I want that to be my life.