What Grinds My Gears – Vol. 1 Blog Companion Post

There’s a kind of rot you can smell if you hang around long enough. Not literal trash — no, that gets picked up. I'm talking about cultural rot. The kind that grows under LED lights and influencer hashtags. It creeps in while nobody’s looking… because nobody *is* looking. They’re all staring down at their damn phones.

This first volume of *What Grinds My Gears* isn’t some noble crusade. It’s not an anti-tech manifesto. It’s a punch to the ribs of everything that’s been bugging me — and Seth — about the slow, silent decay of real experiences in a digital hell loop.

We kicked it off with the phone zombies — not because we’re above it, but because we’ve *seen* it. The room’s on fire, the band’s bleeding soul into the mic, and half the crowd’s lit blue like a row of refrigerator doors. It’s gross. It’s everywhere. It’s become normal. And that’s the damn problem.

Flip the angle and it’s no better. A sea of glowing rectangles raised high like digital torches — blocking views, blinding the moment. Some are live-streaming the show, some posting it to their stories, desperate to prove they were *there* instead of actually *being* there. Meanwhile the folks behind them? Can’t see a damn thing. Just flashes, arms, and screens in the way of the thing they *paid for*.

It’s not presence — it’s performance. And it’s killing the connection between the artist and the crowd, one post at a time.

And guess what? A *lot* of artists feel the same. That’s why some of them — Jack White, Tool, Yeah Yeah Yeahs — have taken real steps to lock phones away at shows. Not because they’re trying to control you. But because they’re trying to **free you** from the constant urge to film instead of feel. And even then, fans complain like babies. Like they can’t survive two or three hours without proving to the algorithm that they existed.

Seriously — you paid for the ticket. You made the effort to be there. So *be there*. No one needs your blurry Instagram Story. What they need is an actual memory.

Then there’s the “Support Local” lie. Everyone loves to say it. Print it on a shirt. Stick it on their stories. But when it’s showtime? The only people in the room are the bartender, the band, and someone texting their ex under the glow of a bar light.

And don’t even get me started on art theft. You pour hours into a piece, only for someone to repost it like it came from the void. No credit, no context — just a vibe to be harvested. If real art ain’t free, why do so many act like it should be?

This series is built for those of us who still give a damn. Who go to the show to *feel* it. Who still see value in work that wasn’t pre-digested by an algorithm. It’s angry, it’s ugly, and it’s not always “brand friendly” — but it’s real. And if that makes someone uncomfortable?

Good.

We'll be back for Vol. 2.

Unless they shut us down first.