The End of the Trend: How the ‘Revival’ of Indie Sleaze Highlights Our Lack of Cultural Cohesion
As TikTok trends float in and out of our feeds like phantoms, 'indie sleaze' is being resurrected from the cultural crypt, masquerading as Gen Z's rebellion against the sanitized, post-pandemic mainstream – or so it seems. Loosely defined by fringe music taste, oversized anything, and lo-fi, digital photography, this alleged revival points to Gen Z's longing for the early 2000s —a simpler time, perhaps. However, simple would be the wrong word. In fact, it’s almost impossible to conjure a meaningful image of the original indie sleaze. As Daniel Wray of Quietus writes, “Indie sleaze is ‘back back back’ according to NME. Except it’s not. Because it never existed to begin with.”
Tracing its origins, indie sleaze echoes the alternative music and fashion scenes of the 1970s and ‘80s, specifically taking cues from the world of glam rock. This era was characterized by a social atmosphere that rebelled against the stringent norms of previous generations, fostering a culture of freedom and self-expression. Musically, it was a time when rock artists started experimenting with electronic sounds, leading to the emergence of new genres. To reflect this, indie sleaze married traditional punk style with hints of glamour and indulgence, tying distorted guitars – the soundtrack of angst – to high-brow celebrity culture — Or, depending on who you ask, indie sleaze was defined by casual ecstasy use, smudged eyeliner, and bumping electronica tracks.
Whichever view you subscribe to, the essence of indie sleaze remains elusive. Its musical heartbeats ranged from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Strokes to Cobra Starship or the lesser-known tunes of Jeffree Star. The futile attempt to define the core sound of indie sleaze – a style that inherently rejects rigid boundaries – reflects a fragmented cultural memory.
The timeline of indie sleaze is equally ambiguous. Some argue it evolved as a post-grunge response to Y2K, while others confine it to the cringe-inducing period between 2006 and 2012. Moreover, its icons are diverse. Some hail Pete Doherty of The Libertines as the quintessential indie sleaze figure, while others point to Paris Hilton's nightlife escapades as the true arbiter of the style. Despite their purported connections to this movement, I can’t help but think that Doherty’s beloved bowler hat would give Hilton night terrors.
Before the age of algorithms, discovering indie sleaze artists was almost ritualistic. Rooted in cities like New York, London, and Berlin, the genre thrived in a myriad of 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 gigs in cramped, sweat-soaked rooms and engaging in passionate discussions created organic growth and formed the backbone of the indie sleaze ethos.
However, identifying a singular view of indie sleaze has proven unstable at best. This discord is further complicated by Gen Z’s unprecedented accessibility to music via platforms like Spotify and Apple Music which allow young people to cherry-pick stylistic elements at will. The days of discovering indie artists through real engagement with local music scenes appear long gone.
This shift questions the once integral exclusivity and underground nature of indie sleaze. It's a paradox—these platforms expand reach, but dilute the movement's original niche essence. This change is crucial, especially as it comes just a decade after some pinpointed the trend's original decline, indicating Gen Z's deeper yearning for connection in a transient, internet-dominated era.
The so-called revival of indie sleaze thus becomes 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 expanded by endless scrolling and the democratization of music and fashion. As such, indie sleaze becomes less a revival and more a nostalgic patchwork—a mosaic of memories and styles that resist a singular narrative.
Strike Out,
St. Louis
Written by: Kam Reo
Edited by: Emily Bekesh