While TikTok trends appear in and out of our feeds like phantoms, the “indie scum” is resurrected from the cultural crypt, masquerading as Gen Z’s rebellion against the sanitized, post-pandemic mainstream—or so it seems. Loosely defined by offbeat music taste, oversized stuff, and lo-fi, digital photography, this supposed revival points to Gen Z’s yearning for the early 2000s—a simpler time, perhaps. However, it would just be the wrong word. In fact, it’s almost impossible to create a meaningful image of the original indie scum. Like Daniel Ray from Quietly writes: “Indy slop is “back back back” according to NME. Except it isn’t. Because it never existed in the first place.
Tracing its origins, indie sleaze echoes the alternative music and fashion scenes of the 1970s and 1980s, specifically taking cues from the world of glam rock. This era was characterized by a social atmosphere that rebelled against the rigid norms of previous generations, promoting a culture of freedom and self-expression. Musically, this was a time when rock artists began to experiment with electronic sounds, leading to the emergence of new genres. To reflect this, indie sleaze combined a traditional punk style with hints of glamor and indulgence, tying distorted guitars – the soundtrack of angst – to high-profile celebrity culture – or, depending on who you ask, indie sleaze was defined by the occasional use of ecstasy , smudged eyeliner and pounding electronic tracks.
Whichever view you subscribe to, the essence of indie scum remains elusive. His musical beats ranged from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Strokes to Cobra Starship or the lesser known Jeffree Star tunes. The futile attempt to define the core sound of indie slush—a style that inherently rejects strict boundaries—reflects a fragmented cultural memory.
The chronology of indie slop is equally ambiguous. Some argue that it evolved as a post-grunge response to Y2K, while others limit it to the crisis-inducing period between 2006 and 2012. Additionally, its icons are diverse. Some hail The Libertines’ Pete Doherty as the quintessential indie grime, while others point to Paris Hilton’s nightlife as the true arbiter of style. Despite their alleged connection to this movement, I can’t help but think that Doherty’s favorite bombshell would give Hilton night terrors.
Before the age of algorithms, discovering independent dirty artists was almost a ritual. Rooted in cities like New York, London and Berlin, the genre thrives in countless underground clubs and bars. In New York, venues like the Bowery Ballroom and CBGB became legendary for showcasing up-and-coming bands. In London, venues like The Electric Ballroom and The Underworld served as hubs where fans and artists mingled, sharing ideas and styles. Attending concerts in cramped, sweat-drenched rooms and engaging in passionate discussions created organic growth and formed the backbone of the indie sleaze ethos.
However, identifying a single view of indie sloppiness has proven tenuous at best. This contradiction is further compounded by Gen Z’s unprecedented access to music through platforms like Spotify and Apple Music, which allow young people to choose stylistic elements at will. The days of discovering independent artists through genuine engagement with local music scenes seem long gone.
This shift calls into question the once integral exclusivity and underground nature of indie sleaze. It’s a paradox – these platforms expand the reach but dilute the original niche nature of the movement. This shift is crucial, especially since it comes just a decade after some pointed to the trend’s initial decline, indicating Gen Z’s deeper longing for connection in a transient, Internet-dominated era.
The so-called indie sleaze revival is becoming less about a specific cultural moment and more about a generation’s quest to connect with a past as diverse as their interpretations of it. It holds up a mirror to a generation’s struggle for cultural cohesion in a horizon broadened by the endless scrolling and democratization of music and fashion. As such, indie slush becomes less of a revival and more of a nostalgic patchwork—a patchwork of memories and styles that resist a single narrative.
strike out
St. Lewis
Screenwriter: Cam Reo
Edited by: Emily Bekes
