A Note from the Author

First off, I know there's a lot of hubris behind the title. To even think about drawing comparisons between this and George Orwell's landmark eponymous essay is bold, to say the least.¹ Yet, here we are. To quote Paul Westerberg about The Replacements naming their third studio album Let It Be, this is my way of saying "nothing is sacred," a motto that, to an extent, remains at Boxcar Collective's core to this day. (However, that is not to say that this is a complete middle finger to the late author, as I do like to believe that we strive to emulate a number of Orwellian ideals.) Nevertheless, in honor of this esteemed underground publication celebrating its second anniversary, it only seemed fitting to explain the provenance behind why I helped start it in the first place. So, here goes.

We ardently strive to avoid the common "indie for the sake of indie" pitfall that beleaguers many of our sister sites. What I’m trying to say is that—for example—there's absolutely no denying that Hendrix is the guitar's Einstein, if not its Edison. I mean, how many artists can you quantify in a Jesus-esque B.C./A.D. fashion? Examining music history and evolution, one can discern clear "pre-Jimi" and "post-Jimi" eras, and not just in rock & roll. So, to claim that Hendrix is "overhyped" or "too mainstream" is frankly just bullshit. The indie and punk communities in particular tend to indiscreetly cannibalize their most popular, just look at respective poster children Mac DeMarco and Green Day. Success happens for a reason, and just because you can quit your day job doesn't make you any less of an artist or a musician. Accordingly, bands don't end up on Boxcar Collective simply because you probably haven't heard of them. I wholeheartedly support every artist I have covered—and will cover—for this publication as some of the most capable and compelling figures at the forefront of innovation in modern popular music.

That being said, there’s a reason why we only cover small artists. I think it's important for outlets to exist that explicitly cater to the little man, the dark horse. Over the years, talking with various artists and reading up on music history has taught me that it's a dog-eat-dog world, and making it in the industry often takes more luck than skill. However, bands that enter the conscience of the DIY media—referred to here as the collective of the blogosphere, college radio, and print zines—usually have a much better chance of getting picked up by a major or large independent imprint. Really, though, there's just nothing quite like showing somebody that Berklee School of Music band with only two singles on Spotify. It becomes a personal connection, a means of bonding, and Boxcar Collective offers a chance to do that on a much larger, more accessible scale. We’ll never exactly define "small" (for some, even Grammy-nominees like Phoebe Bridgers or the Black Pumas are still "underground"), nor will we excommunicate ourselves from artists on majors. I think it’s an asinine divide: small, major-backed boutique labels, like the Elektra subsidiary Roadrunner Records, have significantly less influence in my opinion than a large indie like Rough Trade or Sub-Pop.

In the now-chic spirit of fetish nostalgia, we call ourselves a "zine", which is really just an antiquated (read: pretentious) way of saying that we are dedicated to the underground and by design a limited-readership publication. This naturally begs the age-old question of "Why?" Why create a site that literally loses money everyday, just for it to potentially sit around in some dusty corner of the Internet? Why become one of the literally thousands of music blogs collectively vying for annual readership that falls well below what Pitchfork and Rolling Stone get in a week? Really, a desire to be different, to do things better. One day, I was reading Pitchfork, and they were just absolutely ripping into an album that I, to be honest, very much enjoyed. (If my memory serves, I believe it was FIDLAR's Too.) Part of what upset me wasn't so much the negativity itself, but rather the flawed reasoning behind it. Many of the essential claims as to why the album was "uncompelling" were in fact the very reasons why I enjoyed it so much. At that moment, I realized that I wanted to create a music site that I would want to read, void of all the negativity, gate-keeping, and dick measuring that has come to plague the industry. I think of music criticism as a symbiotic endeavor, a means to uplift music from those artists that have touched me personally. In that vein, I firmly believe my responsibility is to explain the most significant and noteworthy aspects of a song or album and allow the readership, armed with that knowledge, to make an informed opinion of their own accord.

Thus, Boxcar Collective is a passion project in the purest sense, a soapbox to scream my freewilled personal opinions out into the ether. If you've ever spent time with me, I think it becomes obvious fairly quickly that I'm obsessed with music, and I like to talk about it. A lot. Just like the guy at a party who won't shut up about the time he did shrooms, I'm the guy who won't shut up about the album he just bought on vinyl. At first, it's a bit endearing being friends with "the music guy", but after a while it's just plain irritating. Somewhere around the thousandth unsolicited musical factoid, usually something like

Did you know that the Arctic Monkeys' debut full-length Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not was inspired by "angry young man" Alan Sillitoe's novel Saturday Night and Sunday Morning?

or maybe even

Andrew Savage actually envisioned "Almost Had to Start a Fight/In and Out of Patience" as two different songs, but they were combined on the record [Wide Awake!] at the insistence of producer Danger Mouse (Brian Burton).

most people have long reached the point of "Oh god, please make it stop." As a fairly self-aware person, I realized I needed to find another outlet for my rambling, largely self-indulgent musical musings. I'm sure that most of my friends would rather get a lobotomy than be subjected to an ad nauseum debate about the merits of Michael Azzerad's thesis regarding the "Nirvana Effect". Can't say that I blame them.

In that vein, I think the question of "why I write" ultimately becomes a question of "why I listen". For me, music is essential. There is no other singular artistic form that is so expressive, so versatile, so encompassing. Like an old friend, it is there to interpret in times of confusion, to listen in times of frustration, to accompany in times of loneliness, to comfort in times of despair. Whether it's struggling with the common tasks of adulting ("I don’t blend in at PetSmart / And that truth remains for the Wal-Mart / 'Cause in either case they say to me, / 'What the fuck is lost in Aisle 3?'"), dealing with the all-too-common post-breakup anguish ("Oh, why did I do that? / Why does everything collapse / Even when it's glued together"), or even grappling with anxiety and questions of the unchangeable components of self ("It never leaves me, just visits less often / It isn't gone and I won't feel its grip soften / Without a coffin"), music has always been there to provide solidarity and clarity, knowing just what to say in simple yet deeply perceptive terms.² I'll never be able to fully do justice to its impact with mere words, but I have an anecdote that might help. 

Late one night my friend and I were talking about music, and the conversation naturally shifted to my favorite album, Parquet Courts' Wide Awake! It's a piece that is close to my heart, both figuratively and literally, yet interestingly I always fumble with how to best explain its overwhelming personal significance. Maybe because it's just such a dense listen, both thematically and instrumentally, or maybe because my emotional ties are so strong that I can no longer take a step back and see the forest from the trees. I don't know. Regardless, I went with my typical fallback, "Why don't we just listen to it?" So, I queued up the record on my turntable, and we sat on the floor of my room in that perfect spot where the highs and mids from the bookshelf speakers meet the bass from the subwoofer, reading the lyrics and liner notes. It was an intimate moment, being able to share something like that, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. And really, that's why I write: to help other people form the same personal connections with the music they consume.

Thanks for a great two years. Here’s to many more.

Cheers,

Zack

Footnotes

1. For those who haven’t read George Orwell’s "Why I Write", its well-written, succinct prose provides a fascinating look into the passions and impulses behind one of the greatest intellectual writers and countercultural icons of the twentieth century. Check out the original, unedited version as it appeared in the Summer 1946 edition of Gangrel here.

2. In order of appearance, the lyrics were pulled from Sidney Gish’s "Imposter Syndrome", Modern Baseball’s "Broken Cash Machine", and Parquet Courts’ "Human Performance". (If you’re like me, then you probably ignored the footnote and ran a Google search of the lyrics, but I figured I’d add this anyway for thoroughness.)