Indies & Majors
Broken Social Scene w/ Feist
The Grand Ballroom November 9th, 2005
by David Gulbis

I understand one thing here, on the floor of the Grand Ballroom, amidst bushels of chattering young people in tight quarters, below luxurious crystal chandeliers and golden-rimmed balconies, standing on ground usually reserved for tables and chairs seating couples who hold glasses of champagne, also crystal (and possibly Cristal). These are couples who kiss every time curious, mischievous little nephews and nieces bang their water glasses with spoons and wide-eyes and little developing brains that don't quite understand the gravity of love but understand one thing, the one thing I understand now: this is enormous. The lights dim and the horns hum, as the dozen or so members of Broken Social Scene slowly take the stage. The six horns are playing a single note softly, like an orchestra tuning, but they serve the purpose of a trumpeted declaration: we are here, we have arrived, we are welcome.

In 2002, Arts and Crafts records was born, releasing AC001: Broken Social Scene - You Forgot it in People. A new, tiny label from Toronto sent out promo CDs, one of which reached Ryan Schreiber, a writer for Pitchforkmedia.com. He liked it. He gave it a positive review. But of course, you already know this. Because you read that review, you became curious, and you bought that CD. You and 90,000 others. You all know the story - how they got bigger and bigger, their songs on soundtracks and the radio. How they continued work on separate projects: Stars, Do Make Say Think, A Silver Mt. Zion, Apostle of Hustle, Metric, Feist (who opened the show and quite nearly stole it). And how they've just recently released their self-titled fourth (counting B-sides collection Beehives and re-release of Feel Good Lost) album. You, the general public, know all this. And that, readers, is sort of my point.

Let's start a little earlier with a painfully brief history of independent music. In January 1979, Greg Ginn started SST records to release the music of his band Black Flag. Upon its (relative) success, several other people started doing the same thing: Ian MacKaye and Dischord Records in 1981, Jonathon Poneman and Bruce Pavitt and Sub-Pop Records in 1987, Slim Moon and Kill Rock Stars in 1991 - each releasing the music of themselves or their friends, documenting their community and distributing it to, eventually, the world. But even during this early indie boom, independent labels often functioned either as modest earners for difficult (or in some cases, mediocre) bands or as launch-pads for talented acts to get their start. The examples are numerous, Sonic Youth leaving SST for Geffen, Nirvana leaving Sub-Pop for Geffen, Green Day leaving Lookout for Reprise, and so on. The cycle still continues today - most recently, Death Cab for Cutie left Barsuk for Atlantic, and Modest Mouse recently signed to Epic.

Indie labels offer more to bands in certain respects (creative freedom, community, soul-retention), but there is one thing they could not and still cannot compete with -- big corporate money. Majors offered not just more money for the artists, but much more money for promotions, enough money to plaster your face on billboards, buses, magazine covers, any and everywhere imaginable. It was sort of assumed that being on a major equated with being successful, and being on a indie label meant keeping your day job. But presently, the almost cliché idea of getting signed by a major and making it rich has become a little less innocent. The industry is on shaky ground, not just due to file-sharing but also due to accusations of contracts that are unfair to the artist (for more on this, read the article by Steve Albini entitled "Some of Your Friends are Already This Fucked"). Big name artists like Destiny's Child are suing their labels, claiming that despite their success, no money (ok, let's be honest, not enough money) is coming their way. So, what's a young, talented band supposed to do?

One of many guitarists sneaks through the thick of people on stage, strumming a gentle but familiar chord pattern. The lights flash bright and the band dives into "KC Accidental." If I were a stagehand, or even a member of the band, I would tell you how amazing it was to see the entire crowd bouncing up and down, but I'm in that crowd, and I'm too busy dancing to notice. Broken Social Scene sounds colossal, even bigger than on record. The band pours through an exhausting set full of the more accessible songs on You Forgot It In People and the new album. The down-tempo groove of "Cause = Time," the drum skitter and lush harmonies of "Fire Eye'd Boy," the smooth dance party that is "Hotel" - it all sounds as fresh and crisp live as fast food claims to be. Feist comes back on stage for an impassioned and immaculate take on "Almost Crimes;" the crowd is silent, holding their loved ones during "Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl." And one thing that I notice, even among the chaotic swirl of a dozen instruments, is that it all feels very practiced, very rehearsed. The band is tight, yes, but additionally, the various members all know their places as they exit and return to the stage. This is not a casual show, this is a full production, this is a presentation, this is special, this is important, this is enormous. Because at this point, it's bigger than the band - it's about independent music. The Grand Ballroom is sold out. Dozens of kids wait outside, begging for tickets. All for a little (okay, big) band from Toronto on an indie label. Interpol, the Arcade Fire, Bloc Party, Iron & Wine, the Postal Service, Broken Social Scene - all on indie labels. We are here, we have arrived, we are welcome.