Sell out! or Buy in?
What happen to Culture jamming?
Back in the day, I spent thousands of hours haunting Barnes and Noble, Borders, and the Book Den in Santa Barbara. That was before the internet, before influencers, and back when being “sold out” was a one-way ticket to eternal damnation. We’d raise an eyebrow and scoff if a band dared sell their soul to the corporate overlords. It was the worst kind of betrayal. Then, one fateful day, Led Zeppelin sold their soul for a car commercial, and everything we stood for went straight into the abyss.
I always had my trusty Canon AE-1 camera within arm’s reach, because you never knew when the revolution might need documenting. My crew was disgusted by the corporate machine, yet somehow, we’d still gather around to watch Beverly Hills 90210 with our girlfriends, clutching our beers and our irony. The hallway would be a rainbow of Doc Martens, 12 or 16 holes, a few of the crew probably should have just kept those boots on. The stench was a biological weapon in itself.
We were “Alternative” with a capital A, complete with bleached hair and Manic Panic in colors that didn’t exist in nature. Blue was my personal favorite.
There was Gabe, the younger kid of the group, who was too cool for school and happened to have a dilapidated shack in his grandparents’ backyard. It became our darkroom, back when people actually had weird shacks in Santa Barbara instead of overpriced condos. We’d spend hours in there, developing photos, chain-smoking, and listening to cassette tapes like true rebels. Every guy in the group had a ’zine back then—it was the thing to do. You’d slap together a collage of photos, random rants, and incoherent thoughts about whatever was ticking you off that week. Mine was called NAFC (No Appetite for Criticism), which—15 years later—I somehow repurposed into the name of my production company. Working for the likes of Nike and Lucky Brand Jeans, no less. If that’s not the ultimate irony, I don’t know what is. Whenever they asked what it stood for, I’d tell them, “Not A Fucking Clue.” That seemed to satisfy everyone involved.
I loved a good culture jam back then. Adbusters was awesome, calling out corporate BS with a megaphone and some spray paint. There was this whole movement dedicated to subverting corporate culture, and we were all in. Recently, I got pulled back into that world while working on my project for the IRL Mfg art show, which I uploaded to YouTube. Turns out, the response was great, and I got introduced to some old-school culture-jamming heavyweights like Negativland, EBS, and John Oswald. Who knew, right?
And now here we are.
It got me thinking—when did we, as a society, stop culture jamming and start selling out wholesale? Seriously, every single one of us is a sellout now. We don’t even blink. Everyone's racing to be an "influencer," chasing that next dopamine hit from the fresh likes, scrolling until we’re numb, while corporate America cradles us in its cold, lifeless embrace. We’ve all become perfectly content to sit here, glassy-eyed, suckling at the teat of capitalist excess.
I wonder sometimes—how would young “Alternative” Jayson from Santa Barbara respond to this dystopian mess? The one who thought Jane's Addiction was the soundtrack to rebellion? The one who'd spend hours trying to figure out how to deface a billboard without getting caught? But now, everybody’s got a camera in their pocket, and you can’t even spray-paint a billboard without some TikTok kid turning you into viral content. The noise, the sheer amount of dribble being uploaded every second—how do you culture jam that?
Take Substack, for instance. It was supposed to be the “Alternative” platform for writers, the anti-social media haven where you could escape the influencer cesspool. And now? Six months later, it’s turned into the exact same trash heap as the rest. Oh, they’re building their audience, expanding their reach, sure. And maybe one day they'll sell it off for a nice chunk of change. I get it. Everybody's got bills to pay. But here I am, the grumpy old man on his porch, shaking his fist at the clouds, wishing for a world that never existed.
So, what’s the new culture jamming now? Is it deactivating your Instagram? Living in the country, hoarding VHS tapes, and listening to cassette recordings of your teenage angst? If so, call me Bob Marley ‘cause I am jamming hard.
What do we do? It feels like corporations have squeezed the creativity out of us, beaten down the middle class, and kicked out the weirdos. Used to be, you could be strange and still afford rent. Not anymore. You’re either in line or out of luck, my friend. Cardboard box or bust.
Now, I’m not trying to be negative here—I'm on the hunt for solutions. But maybe the reality is, I don’t actually live in reality. I’m a middle-aged white guy with no kids, no mortgage, and no retirement plan. I still listen to cassette tapes, smoke a pipe, and make bizarre video art for an audience of, what, 23? Why? I like to think it’s because the people tied down with mortgages, loans for their Disneyland vacations, and the countdown to a TV-filled retirement need me to. They need to know there are still weirdos out here, fighting, laughing, crying, and living.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Love & Light
MM
EYE AND EAR HOLES