I am no slave to hipsterdom, let’s get that straight. I’m about 65% dork, and I go to a dozen Mets games a year. But if I had to spit out a string of hipster bona fides, I could: I bought all the Velvet Underground records on vinyl when I was in high school, I go to foreign films and stay awake, I have for brief periods worn a soul patch (and I mean outside of my bathroom right after shaving, which doesn’t count, because otherwise I could claim to have worn a Hitler moustache), I saw REM and Nirvana in small clubs before they were well known (hell, I saw the Clash at Bond’s when I was in high school), I can’t wear clothing with logos on them. So there you have it. Was I, am I a hipster asshat? Give me the litmus paper and I’ll lick.
Still, the hipster canon is very strict. And, for the fun of it, I would like to commit the following heresies:
Patti Smith. I bought her records. Dutifully. I don’t like them. I think “Dancing Barefoot” is a good song when someone else does it. Otherwise she’s almost universally a boring songwriter and a terrible singer (and this from someone who usually likes terrible singers). Her main poetic influence is the incoherent liner notes to Highway 61 Revisited. “At heart I’m a Moslem.” What the hell does this even mean? So wear a burka and recite the Koran, then … play clarinet for Cat Stevens and stop out putting records.
Shirts with someone else’s name stitched on a pocket. Whether they were worn by the member of a bowling team or an employee of a beverage distribution company, it is all too abundantly clear that (1) that original owner is not you, (2) that person did not go out to a club on a Saturday night wearing it, and (3) you are guilty of a hipster affectation that I was tired of in 1985, more so even than cat-eye glasses, porkpie hats, Bettie Page haircuts, and overly oblique tats.
Rock bands from Japan. They’re terrible, every last one. Yes, even Shonen Knife. Yes, even if you want to pretend you’ve listened to a Boredoms CD all the way through.
Being over 40 and working in a record store. I don’t care if you founded Delaware’s first punk ‘zine or started a seminal noise-rock band. You don’t have any wiggle room to be snotty about my taste in music if you’re older than me and the employee of a record store. Just ring up the Dixie Chicks CD and check out the inside of your eyelids some other time, thanks.
Heroin. Humans love opiates. It makes you about as cool and interesting and edgy as Rush Limbaugh.
Your serve.