Urban Dictionary defines hipsters, that most ambiguous division of individuals, as "a subculture of men and women that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter."
Loathe though I am to admit it, I am a hipster through and through. Not in the visual sense of tweed blazers and coke-bottle Buddy Holly glasses and not in the behavioral sense of discussing philosophy over chai tea. I am a hipster in the sense that I love indie culture so much that I am relatively clueless about most things mainstream.
I like to think that we each have an extraordinary bond with a musician, a bond in which we feel as though the musician's lyrics are the stories of our lives. This bond enables us to feel as though that musician is singing for one person and one person alone.
However, I wonder at those who claim that the likes of Katy Perry and Lady Gaga have direct lines to their heads and hearts. What do Katy and Gaga, in all of their stylized melodrama, know about the ache and effort and exaltation of real life? How can pop stars, who at times become the mouthpiece for songs written by others, be considered genuinely heartfelt? I can think of no genre more sincerely confessional than indie-rock and no musician more understanding of the way that humans stretch and struggle and strive than Conor Oberst, the Bob Dylan-esque troubadour of the twenty-first century.
Bright Eyes, Oberst's current musical vehicle, has spoken to me for years with lyrics that seem lovely and secret and just for me. But coming to college has revolutionized my perception of that feeling of disconnection so characteristic of Oberst's lyrics. In "Tourist Trap," Oberst sings, "The road finally gave me back, but I don't think I'll unpack ‘cause I'm not sure if I live here anymore."
Similarly, in "Landlocked Blues," he claims, "I feel more like a stranger each time I come home." Now more than ever before do I understand the manner in which Oberst feels wrenched in multiple directions — upon returning to my hometown, I find it effortless to fall back into the rhythms of life as I once knew it, but such regularity is tainted by the knowledge that there exists another world at DePauw, turning and spinning and going on despite my absence.
Bright Eyes has created, to me, the songbook of the human condition. Oberst sings of uncertainty and indecision, of growing up and growing apart, of love and longing and everything in between. Critics call Oberst reedy-voiced and pretentious, but Bright Eyes' music is about finding what you can, be it a geographic location or peace of mind, whenever and however you can find it. It's about hope and optimism, about searching for belonging and acceptance in an incomprehensible world, and about never ceasing to look until you've found what you're looking for. Bright Eyes has chronicled something that we all can understand: The search for identity.
There exists a bit of contemporary wisdom asserting that those who claim to be hipsters are not true hipsters. I think that society has lost the idea of hipsters as individuals passionate about underground culture and instead replaced that idea with the image of chain-smoking, glasses-wearing, tea-drinking, posturing pseudo-intellectuals. What's so wrong with being passionate and choosing to filter the world in a certain slant of light? Is there something wrong with carving a niche into pop culture in order to foster a connection with it? If pop culture hipsterdom is wrong, then I'd rather not be right.
