If you’ve arrived here looking for some red-hot music, I’ve got bad news, my friend. This post features none of that.

Instead, this post is an epic-length, self-obsessed, and likely misguided confessional. I haven’t written a drawn-out essay like this in donkey's years, and realistically, it makes no sense for me to have invested so much time and energy into this post when it’s doubtful anyone will read it, let alone make it to the end.

Still, I promise I haven’t lost the plot. At least, I’m not feeling any more unhinged than usual. This post is simply an extra-long brain fart. It’s me releasing some of the pressure – or squeezing out some of the pus.

Fair warning: I work through a lot of angst below, so if the thought of an old man oversharing fills you with dread, here’s a link to a short documentary about DIY German post-punk to watch instead.

Enjoy, mein Freund.

“I am going to make it through this year if it kills me.”

– The Mountain Goats, “This Year”.

Could Be Worse

Kia ora, crüe

Real talk: writing and then editing this post has been a total – and totally unnecessary – headfuck.

Partly that’s because I’m neurodiverse, and like many of my autistic brethren, I can talk about things that interest me for a very long time. Writing-wise, that’s come in handy over the past few decades; I’ve certainly never run out of things to say about ridiculously obscure bands. Editorially, though, it’s been a never-ending nightmare.

I tend to overwrite to the nth degree, and then I drive myself insane deciding what to trim, cut, rewrite, or leave as is. That said, the finer points of editing also happen to tickle my autistic taste buds, so I get lost in the weeds editing, too. I can’t win. My kinks are many – and often contradictory.

Point being, writing/editing this post has felt like a ceaseless fever dream. And if you think this post is long-winded, trust me, this is the abridged version – it was a lot fuckin’ worse.

Noize Zealand: In Requiem

Many moons ago, I announced on my long-dead Instagram page that I intended to write a book entitled Noize Zealand: A History of DIY Music in Aotearoa. Sadly, Noize Zealand is now dead in a ditch, and this post is a coroner’s report, explaining how and why Noize Zealand died.

(Note: I’m still going to use the Noize Zealand title for an upcoming project, but it’ll be an online venture, rather than a weighty tome.)

Recently, a couple of people emailed me to ask what was going on with Noize Zealand, and initially, this post was supposed to be a quick explanation of the book’s demise. But then – me being me – things got slightly out of hand.

I say ‘slightly’, but, in all honesty, the first draft of this post was a 17,000-word excoriation of my entire being. I’m down-to-earth and self-deprecating by default – i.e. I keep it real, but maybe a little too real. When I asked my partner for feedback on the first draft of this post, they thought it was such a brutal self-character assassination that we ended up having a nice, long chat about whether I required professional help. (I don’t. I’m peachy. But thanks for asking.)

Metaphorically speaking, I stuck a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger with the first draft of this post. It was ugly – real self-immolating stuff. But amidst all the self-flagellation, I did try to underscore that I felt underqualified and ill-equipped to write Noize Zealand for reasons stemming from my (perceived) failures as a writer.

Reasons like this:

A long history of misfires
My clichéd, third-tier skillset
A failure to capture, engage, or maintain an audience
General weirdness
No profile
No rep
No cred

Obviously, readers are the best measuring stick. You’re in a prime position to judge whether I have a clichéd, third-tier skillset. I’ve done my best over the years, but maybe my schtick simply doesn’t resonate. That’s fair enough. I’ve long suspected I’m more of an acquired taste.

Whether criticisms of my work stem from external sources or they’re a result of my own gnawing neuroses, when you factor in the stats, which confirm that less than a handful of people read my writing, you can understand why I’ve come to believe my work isn’t third-tier, as such, but it’s definitely not a top-draw attraction either.

DIY or Die

The first draft of this post explored the inner conflict between being a DIY fanatic – someone who’s primarily interested in bands that reject the machinations of mainstream music – and feeling frustrated that I can’t reach a broader audience in the non-mainstream sphere.

Angling for a higher-profile gig feels like an anathema to me. I’m a DIY-till-I-die kind of guy, and underground music’s humbler goals align with my values. I’m not searching for fame or fortune, and I don’t have any underlying Machiavellian motivations. But I am a little grief-stricken to have lost my audience. Not for myself, really, but for the bands and labels I write about. I feel like I’ve let them down in the process.

Self-Harm vs Hard Facts

The first draft of this post was more about self-harm than hard facts. Sure, sometimes I’ve felt my writing is a bland simulacrum, but I’ve also received plenty of positive feedback over the years. Eviscerating myself was an unnecessarily harsh way to summarise almost three decades of writing, even if a little figurative hara-kiri felt incredibly cathartic.

Truth is, I have written a few things that have done okay in an extremely niche corner of the internet. More importantly, though, labelling myself a failure risks offending all of the people who’ve kindly published my writing over the years.

I don’t consider them (or their blogs/websites) to be mediocre or substandard. I am, in fact, incredibly grateful for having had my work published on some of my favourite sites, alongside some of my favourite underground writers.

I know I’m lucky. Several places I’ve written for have gone above and beyond to accommodate my anxieties/eccentricities, and many places clearly valued my contributions and respected my opinion. (If you’re one of those places, thanks again, you are an absolute gem in my book.)

It’s not all been sunshine and group hugs, though.

Fuckwits and Blowhards

Some outlets I’ve contributed to have been lorded over by exploitative fuckwits who pressured me to provide more and more content while, at the same time, suggesting they were doing me a huge favour by publishing any of my writing in the first place.

Like many bloggers, I also bear the scars of being stabbed in the back – and plagiarised – by peers with more ruthless ambitions and zero ethical concerns about how to achieve them.

Once upon a time, I wrote over-elaborate articles for popular websites. However, all the behind-the-scenes scheming – and having to deal with so many overblown egos – proved profoundly depressing. It’s a lot more fun wearing a casual blogger cap. The ‘critic’ hat never quite fit.

Not the Cool Kind of Obscurity

I’m sure I could construct a narrative where others are to blame for my failures. But honestly, I’m my own worst enemy.

I am solely responsible for my fuck-ups, fiascos, and faux pas. But on the plus side, I am also responsible for all the positives that have sprung from my writing endeavours.

When I talk about failure, I’m really talking about a failure to meet my goals, which aren’t complicated or overambitious. Essentially, all I’ve wanted to do is point like-minded souls towards great music. These days, however, my ability to do that is minimal because my profile as a writer borders on total obscurity. (And I don’t mean the cool or cult kind of obscurity either. I mean utter obscurity – next step, the void.)

Just so we’re clear, no one owes me anything. No one is obligated to read a single word I've ever typed, and no one ever forced me to type a single word either. If anyone reads anything I’ve written, it always feels like a massive bonus to me. When I say that I appreciate people reading my writing, it doesn’t matter how many people that is – I appreciate the fuck out of everyone.

That said, I obviously want people to read what I write. I want the bands that I write about to sell more records (or cassettes, or downloads, or whatever), and I want more fans to attend their shows. Thus, watching my readership shrink to a single digit definitely stings.

That sting gives rise to a little cognitive dissonance. I intentionally write for a non-mainstream audience, and I have zero interest in writing about music that’s been commodified or muzzled by commercially friendly compromises. That said, I still wish more people would tune into my frequency. Cue the dissonance.

I feel bad for wanting more, and to make it worse, it makes no sense to whine about a minuscule readership when I deliberately write about obnoxious bands with small but rabid fanbases. I did this to myself. Cue more dissonance.

But here’s the thing: if you sink too far, as I have, then having no profile has consequences, especially when you’re trying to launch a project that requires engagement and support from others.

My Stinkhole

Over the years, I’ve endeavoured to cover as much homegrown music as I can. I’ve concentrated on writing for offshore outlets because I wanted to place bands from Aotearoa directly in the eyeline/earshot of international audiences. New Zealand bands deserve the attention; they’re as talented as the rowdiest bands from any other far-flung land.

I hope my writing about New Zealand music has been helpful, but obviously, it’s debatable whether I’ve helped any bands gain any new listeners. If my work has been beneficial, then I’m stoked about that. But when it came time to write a book about homegrown music, my near-invisible profile, coupled with my slow slide into oblivion, began to feel like a real hindrance.

The bands I wanted to write about in Noize Zealand simply deserve a more well-known writer to sing their praises. I felt that writing about those bands would do them a disservice, as if I would taint them with my stink.

Boom – Self-Sabotage

My rock-bottom profile isn’t surprising – I really fucked myself in that regard.

I’ve never enjoyed hustling for readers or disingenuously networking on social media. I did meet plenty of cool cats on social media, but the self-promotion aspect always felt profoundly icky. I think my operating system is simply too old for updates. I feel like I’m stuck in “for god’s sake don’t sell out” mode, when everyone else is cashing in on TikTok.

I am also an expert at self-sabotage and squandering opportunities.

Present me with a golden opportunity, and I’ll instantly assemble a wall of stumbling blocks. It could be that I have a deep-seated fear of sticking my head above the parapet. Or I might just have a fear of fear itself. Either way, I’ll pull the pin. Boom – self-sabotage.

I regularly say ‘nope’ to opportunities before giving them a fair hearing, often because they don’t perfectly align with my version of the punk rock rulebook. (And yes, I’m aware that punk’s supposed to be anarchic, but we all know there are a couple of fundamental rules and regs.) Point being, I am far too rigid. And not in a sexy way.

Most of the time, I wouldn’t explain to people offering me opportunities why I wouldn’t take them, which no doubt made me seem like a giant fucking dick – or worse, a snob. Truth is, there are reasons why I couldn’t communicate effectively, and I’d often endeavour to avoid conflict by vanishing from sight.

How Many Disorders Would You Like With Those Fries?

Back when I haunted Instagram, I’d post a picture every Saturday with my face transposed on an album cover with a PMA-heavy message below. I wanted to remind my followers to go easy on themselves. Life’s tough, so celebrate your good days and small victories.

I’ve always been open about my mental health struggles. I’ve written honestly about them because I believe candid conversations are a great way to destigmatise issues that are shrouded in prejudice and misunderstanding.

Here’s some more of that openness for you.

Over the years, I have been diagnosed with the following:

Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Social Anxiety Disorder
Major Depressive Disorder.

The complete trifecta! Lucky me.

(FYI, Complex PTSD essentially means I suffered prolonged and repeated trauma over an extended period of time. A single event can trigger PTSD. But C-PTSD arises from long-term, seemingly inescapable trauma.)

C-PTSD has pushed me to the edge several times. However, I’ve spent years in counselling, not only strengthening my mental health but also gaining a ton of valuable insight into my idiosyncrasies. Even so, after decades of proactively managing my mental health, I still experience relatively high levels of anxiety.

A while back, I was also made aware that I’m neurodivergent. That was a great relief, the final piece of the puzzle, which helped me to understand why I found interpersonal relationships challenging. It was also an eye-opener when it came to understanding how, writing-wise, I’d ended up cooking my own goose.

Neuro-What?

For a long time, I thought relentless anxiety was the root cause of all my problems, and I was immensely relieved to discover that neurodiversity helped to explain so much more.

I’ve often dodged or rejected opportunities that came my way as a means to avoid post-publication nerves. Without fail, anytime a blog or website published anything I wrote, I would feel unbearably nervous about it. My reaction to ostensibly good news – hey, that article you loved researching and writing is online – would be met by nauseating anxiety.

I don’t know why. At best, a handful of people read my writing. There’s nothing to be nervous about. But my anxiety is always out of proportion to reality. I also frequently compare my work to that of my peers, and my deafening inner critic always lets me know that my work pales in comparison.

(And then someone calls you an ill-informed cunt in the comments, and things begin to spiral.)

Often, I’ve retired projects and retreated from sight because neurodivergent burnout gets the better of me. This includes shuttering projects I’d genuinely loved writing, like a long-running column or two. I might subsequently burn a few bridges on my way out the door, but that’s never been a conscious decision on my part. I am a dork, but I’m not a prick.

I wish I’d known about neurodivergent burnout long before now. I could have explained things more effectively to peers and collaborators by using neurodivergent burnout as a clear reference point. Maybe I could have recognised its approach. Perhaps I could have headed it off at the pass.

As mentioned, I’m very appreciative of those who’ve hosted/posted my writing. Unfortunately, it wasn't until recently that I realised my interpersonal communication skills could do with some fine-tuning. Like many neurodivergent people, I am easily overwhelmed, and I’ve struggled to articulate how I feel or to advocate for myself properly. I could have been clearer, but you know, hindsight and all that.

Over the years, I have learnt to mask many of my neurodivergent symptoms, but when they pop, they pop! I have unintentionally left peers confused and confounded, and none of that has done my reputation much good.

Neuro-Whoop!

My neurodivergent tics have definitely thrown a spanner in the works sometimes, but there are also numerous benefits to neurodiversity. (Obviously, neurodiversity is a broad spectrum. I’m only talking about my experience of ASD Level 1 here.)

I’ve found that hyperfocus, deep knowledge, out-of-the-box thinking, and pattern recognition – all well-known ASD traits – combine seamlessly with music. The fathomless and enduring connection I have with music, and my ability to be transfixed – or utterly consumed by it – feels fantastic.

I was never much of an acid-head; it singed my synapses more than it opened any doors. But I didn’t really need it because music reliably changes my perception of time and space, with a sprinkling of synaesthesia to seal the deal. I’m not overstating music’s ability to alter my reality here – it’s a trip, every time.

I also love the endless nerdgasms I experience while spending untold hours exploring the minutiae and trivia associated with – insert my latest obsession right here. If you think you like reading liner notes, you’ve got nothing on me, kid.

I would never pin the blame for my failures on my mental health or neurodivergent framework. We are all the sum of many parts, and while some of my traits have caused me problems, they’ve also allowed me to view life through an often fascinating lens.

I don’t consider my mental health issues or my neurodiversity to be negative attributes; I simply navigate the world differently than others. That said, there’s no doubt those issues have, at times, undermined my confidence in several ways.

They have affected my ability to communicate how I feel, and the resulting confusion – from all parties – has shaken my foundations at various points in my life.

Writing-wise, that’s had ramifications. Reputationally, as mentioned. But there have been other consequences, too. People stop calling after a while, and I wish I could explain to those people how I felt. Trust me, it was a lot worse for yours truly. But that’s life; misunderstandings and miscommunications are rife.

(Note: Obviously, mental illness can have a devastating effect on the lives of sufferers and their loved ones. I'm speaking of my own experiences here. I wouldn’t, for a second, claim to speak for anyone else. If life’s tough for you right now, I hope tomorrow is a brighter day. I wish you well on your journey – kia kaha.)

Maybe Everything Isn’t About Me?

After all the self-recrimination and gut-punches in the first draft of this post, I took a breather and thought, “You know, maybe everything isn’t my fault?” Shock! Horror!

These days, in some circles, writing about music seems almost archaic. In the mainstream arena, blipvert influencers have replaced trusted critics, and in the DIY trenches, there’s no denying the media landscape has also changed.

In recent years, there’s been a notable culling of music blogs. Many favourites have disappeared or downsized significantly. Most people would prefer to watch YouTube hot-takes than read the thoughts of an over-the-hill hikikomori like me, and that’s perfectly understandable.

The constant demand for fresh, hyper-real content requires 24/7 monitoring and output, and reading a backwater blog like this clearly doesn’t inject red-lining levels of energy directly into your third eye. Obviously, I don’t offer a hot shot of serotonin like a pro TikToker.

Other factors come into play, too. Readers want snappier/sexier content nowadays; bite-sized yummy gummies, not epic-length wankery like this.

Change – The Only Constant

Some writers have struggled to adapt to (or accept) the changing tastes of audiences. Understandably, it can be a frustrating experience watching your relevance evaporate. If your identity is tightly bound to your writing persona, it’s likely to be an even more painful experience – some real skin-flaying stuff. However, I’ve always figured that all things come to pass, including the opportunity for old codgers like me to contribute to the conversation.

As we all know, change is the only constant in life’s perpetual whirl. I’m at peace with that. My current status – outdated, obsolete, antiquated, whatever you want to call it – feels unavoidable. I mean, it’s not ideal! And a few more readers would be lovely, thanks. But I definitely welcome younger creatives leading the conversation.

There’s no bitterness here, my friend. Fuck listening to the same old story. New voices, fresh ideas, more diversity – yes, please!

(FYI, if you do want to scan a few old-school opinions, don’t panic, nostalgia sells! There are bloggers out there writing fascinating reviews of vintage releases or in-depth articles about decades-old happenings. I dig those folks, too.)

Point being, life’s a rollercoaster, and trends can cause all sorts of personal and professional upheavals. If you don’t keep up or rejig your approach, you risk sinking into nothingness, which is where I’m currently teetering.

I probably could have avoided all of this angst if I’d just made a fucking podcast.

(FYI, I did buy a fancy podcasting mic at one stage, so if anyone’s interested...)

SKYNET, Ahoy!

Also, let’s not forget that AI has scraped the work of every music writer, whether they are an underground blogger or not. This leaves all of us in a stressful position. Generative AI knows everything about everything, and while it isn’t perfect by any means, it can still spit out the intel you require infinitely faster than I ever could. Are my peers and I wholly surplus to requirements?

(AI image assist: that scene in Terminator 2 where Sarah Connor is holding onto a chain-link fence as a nuclear blast wave hits – her body, incinerated, her charred skeleton grips the fence. Draw me that, but the fenceline is filled with ashen-faced, socially awkward bloggers instead. Most with Type 2 diabetes and a suspicious repetitive strain injury.)

Of course, I’d argue that human beings expressing their feelings about music is even more relevant in an increasingly machine-shaped world. But then, I’m not particularly plugged into the zeitgeist, and my opinion is driven more by self-interest than by any insights into what the kids really want.

AI can be a lot of fun. But it’s also downright fucking terrifying for anyone with a vested interest in the long-term survival of writing as a medium.

Be Kind to Yourself

It’s always fun to pick a scab, but I didn’t publish the first draft of this post because sometimes a scab’s a little too inflamed, and tearing the top off it could lead to a stubborn infection and a lot more pain.

The first draft of this post was a trauma dump: a violent self-assessment that listened more to my critical inner voice than examined the facts on the table. Donning a hair shirt – and then hammering nails into myself for extra masochist kicks – didn’t paint a realistic or sympathetic picture of what I’ve been chipping away at for close to three decades now.

Yes, I am responsible for the fuck-ups and failures that led me to write this post for a single-digit audience. But it’s okay to be kind to myself and also acknowledge that many complex factors led me to this destination. Some of the factors are beyond my control, such as technological innovations, the evolving media landscape, and the changing demands of audiences.

I don’t think it's being unkind to myself to confess that, after several decades plugging away, I’ve never been able to increase my readership to any notable degree. That’s a fact, not a judgment.

Still, my failure to capture or maintain an audience over time – whatever the root cause of that issue – did leave me feeling like I’d be doing any bands I wrote about in Noize Zealand an injustice. Those bands deserve the greatest chance of being seen, heard, and celebrated. I can’t help with that. Any spotlight I could point at those bands is low on batteries and rusting on its frame.

The Deserving

Initially, I felt that Noize Zealand would be a solid summation of the decades I’ve spent shouting about obnoxious music. As mentioned, I’ve endeavoured to promote (hopefully, in a scruffy, unpretentious way) DIY music from my neck of the woods. I’ve definitely had criticisms hurled my way that I’m little more than a hype-merchant. I can understand why it looks that way because there’s a lot of abysmal music I don’t write about.

Still, fair’s fair, I generally only write about music I like nowadays, so guilty as charged. I’m not sure what the punishment is, but if it has anything to do with being banished to the blogosphere wastelands, I’m well ahead of you, my friend.

Criticisms or not, it’s always been a pleasure and a privilege to holler about homegrown music. I figured I had enough background knowledge to make a start on Noize Zealand, so I gathered my tools and began constructing its framework. I sought advice from a couple of editors/authors, and I had a long list of unsung bands that I wanted to talk about. However, my creeping doubts soon turned into ominous clouds.

I know I’m not the right person to write the history of underground music in Aotearoa. But I regret not moving forward and highlighting the efforts of unsung musicians in book form. (Keep an eye out, though; I’ll be doing something similar online soon.)

Many of the musicians I wanted to write about never cared about recognition. Still, I wanted to write a warts-and-all tribute to them because so many homegrown bands have blown my mind.

My plan for Noize Zealand was to unpack formative releases from Aotearoa’s punk, metal and (the heavier end of) the nation’s experimental music scenes. In the process, I’d hoped to tell the tale of determined musicians who’ve overcome all sorts of obstacles to create music that’s punched well above its weight internationally.

I’m often in awe of local DIY musicians. They haven’t let geographic isolation, tiny audiences, or infrastructure obstacles stop them from touring, recording, and organising countless gigs via alternative networks. It’s inspiring stuff.

I’d hoped to tell the tale of small, self-sustaining scenes that sometimes feel like they are lying fallow, only to burst into life suddenly. I think a book about the history of genuinely underground music in Aotearoa is long overdue, and best of all, it’s the tale of a plucky underdog beating the odds; who doesn’t love a story like that?

Screaming, Shouting

Over the years, the punk and metal scenes in Aotearoa have received plenty of coverage. I’ve contributed a lot to that conversation – although, to be clear, I’m talking in word-count terms, not in clicks or views.

I’ve never written a trending article, and no one seeking any red-hot gossip on underground New Zealand releases has ever reached out to me. I’m not telling you that to elicit any sympathy. I’m just emphasising that external disinterest doesn’t diminish my love for local music.

(In fact, whenever I’m taking a break from writing, it’s always a local release that gets me typing again.)

I admire many local independent labels and artists, and on those days when I check the stats and discover how few people read my writing, I remain 100% motivated to scream and shout about homegrown bands. I can’t explain it; it’s just never not fun.

In the main, I’ve shouted about little-known bands. In contrast, a lot of the writing about heavier music in New Zealand has concentrated on groups that’ve attained a certain level of critical interest, or mainstream success, or they’re older bands with plenty of nostalgic currency.

That makes sense, of course. It’s called the music business, and understandably, the bulk of New Zealand’s music media focuses on bands who are doing the business.

There are still plenty of articles out there detailing the chronology of alternative music in Aotearoa, and popular local websites publish many. However, there isn’t that much interest in obscure releases from basement-level labels and bands, even if those bands and labels happen to get more positive coverage from overseas sources than many of their easier-listening peers.

Untruths, Misdirection, Turd Gateau

Insiders author some of the best coverage of non-mainstream music in Aotearoa. See the recent feature-length, omnibus-sized zine from Always Never Fun for proof of that.

Unfortunately, some of the mainstream coverage of underground music in Aotearoa tells a misleading story. I don’t mean that in any kind of conspiratorial sense; every writer’s got the details of some stories wrong, including me. A misleading story can simply emerge because the narrator isn’t well-acquainted with their subject. It’s not a crime to be uninformed. We all have stuff to learn.

Sometimes, it feels like there’s also a nationwide editorial slant in New Zealand that prefers to tell upbeat tales about local musicians. Makes sense, I guess. New Zealand is a long way from anywhere, and a positive story is a solid hook. Often, publications and articles exclude the darkest chapters from the histories of bands, and sadly, that presents a distorted account of events.

I’d hoped to avoid an overly hagiographic tone with my book. Obviously, the symbiotic relationship between musicians and writers – feeding off each other, time and again – is an age-old practice. That back and forth can be mutually beneficial, but it can also have its drawbacks when it comes to honest reportage.

I’ve been guilty of blurring that line in the past, feeling hesitant to criticise X or Y band because they seem like a decent, hard-working outfit with their hearts in the right place. Book-wise, I was definitely keen to treat the musicians within with the respect they deserve, but not with undue reverence.

It’s no secret that honesty often comes at a cost, and thus, intertwining relationships routinely test impartiality and unbiased reporting. Thankfully, I’ve never had my integrity stress-tested to any significant degree because no one wants to feed off a turd gateau like me.

Truth is, one of the reasons I’ve always enjoyed writing about underground bands is that some of them don’t care about ‘press’ coverage at all. Some of them are even actively against the idea in principle. And there’s nothing like being told to fuck off by a band you admire. Sometimes, it's made me love them even more.

Cringehard

Jokes aside, being told to fuck off (very sweetly) once or twice (or three or four times) did make me realise that a more plugged-in writer than me was required to write a history of underground music in Aotearoa.

I am cripplingly shy, so I’ve tended to hide in the shadows. No one really knows my name or my face, and that’s impacted my credibility. While I have been shouting about local music for many years, it’s still tough to get folks from a tight-knit scene to open up if you’re an unknown quantity, and to be honest, I don’t have a problem with that at all.

It can be frustrating, for sure, and banging your head against a wall gets painful after a while. But all of us have read articles written by scene tourists, and they can be wildly inaccurate. If an outside observer misrepresents your intentions or motivations, you might be wary the next time a stranger calls. Understandably so, too. Without signed-off credibility to fall back on, I really doubted that musicians who were already disinterested in (or distrustful of) media coverage would be up for talking to me.

Honest talk: a few musicians I emailed about Noize Zealand said, “...and, who are you?”. Once I (embarrassingly) explained, “Oh, I’ve been writing about underground music for a few decades”, every one of those musicians said, “...never heard of you”. And then I cringed hard, crawled up my own arsehole, and died.

I might have plenty of integrity, but that doesn’t open any doors. I used to see anonymity as a positive because it showed that I was focused on music, not on fluffing my own ego. But really, my anonymity ended up working against me.

Mr Buzz-Kill

Unfortunately, there’s not much I can do about my anonymity because it’s also been difficult for me to physically participate in ‘the scene’ or hang out before or after shows. I’m an ex-addict – or, to use person-first language, I’m a guy with a substance use disorder. I’ve been clean and sober (or in recovery, if you prefer) for a zillion years. But I find hanging out in bars and clubs to be, well, triggering.

I don’t feel like my teetotalism or drug-free life is at risk (my life is infinitely better sans the rotgut and opioids), it’s just the tendrils of my former life – the memories, associations, and reminders – that make me feel uneasy.

(Note: clean and sober does not mean clean, sober, and judgmental. You do you, sweetheart. I’m not here to preach.)

I have attended countless shows over the years, but along the way, I’ve made few lasting friendships. My shyness doesn’t help, and my social anxiety and neurodivergent alarm bells eventually forced me to stop attending shows, which I really miss, because live music is, obviously, the best of the best. My not attending shows wasn’t terrible news for anyone else, though, because I look like someone's dad who’s mistakenly arrived far too early to chauffeur them home. “Look at Mr Buzz-Kill over there, standing in the corner with his glass of fucking water.”

Punk’s often touted as a haven for those struggling with the strictures of mainstream society, and it’s a well-known refuge for the disenfranchised and dispossessed. I’ve watched peeps finding their peeps a million times – a beautiful sight, always – but I’ve had a rougher ride. That isn’t to suggest punk’s reputation for opening its arms to the marginalised is a myth. It’s simply that I’ve found it challenging to connect with people, which is very much about me, not anyone else.

I’ve got a few peculiarities. I’m just too weird. That’s about the long and the short of it. That’s why writing about music means so much to me – and that’s why, when I take an extended break, I begin to feel lost.

Writing allows me to participate and connect with fellow fans in a different but nonetheless crucial way. Sure, some of the feedback I’ve received at times has suggested my contributions aren’t necessarily welcome or even particularly literate. But the act of writing, the practice, as it were, has been an essential point of contact for me.

My idiosyncrasies have left me socially isolated (although that’s much the same for many men my age). However, writing about local bands warms my heart – no matter how noisy or nasty those bands sound – and writing has helped me find a home.

More importantly, writing allows me to remain attached to something solid when so many other connections in my life are corroded.

People Are Strange

Local music makes me feel at home, but like many homes, the underground music sphere in Aotearoa has seen its share of troubles. When I was stitching the bones of Noize Zealand together, I was committed to mentioning the ups and downs and the good and the bad, because a complete (rather than upbeat) story tells a far more honest tale. However, I quickly ran into an unexpected hurdle.

Anyone with cursory knowledge of underground music in New Zealand would know that racism, sexual assaults, misogyny, queerphobia, and a raft of other unpleasant issues have caused super-heated problems over the years.

(That isn’t a controversial statement, by the way. Nor are any of those issues unique to Aotearoa’s music underground.)

People respond differently (to put it mildly) to the issues above, and nuclear-level exchanges fuelled by different ideological beliefs aren’t uncommon. Some people endeavour to defuse such situations, and others work very hard to counter bigoted narratives. Many music fans and writers, however, are happy to set problematic issues aside, and they are very comfortable separating the artist from the art.

That’s a well-known philosophical position to hold, and I’m not going to delve into any supportive or oppositional arguments right here. Suffice to say, I feel differently because some of those issues above have affected me personally.

Sometimes I found those issues more eye-rolling than troubling. I once mentioned online that I was queer, and the guitarist from one of New Zealand’s popular metal bands slipped into my DMs to let me know I probably shouldn’t say that because… blah-de-blah-de-blah. Alright, mate, whatever – cue eyeroll.

Other situations are more confronting. For example, having been abused, I don't want to write about (and essentially be promoting) the work of known abusers. That’s generally not an issue when I’m blogging; I can pick and choose whoever I want to write about. That said, as a reclusive person, I’m not privy to many rumours, and I’ve certainly published stories or recorded interviews with musicians who turned out to be fucking horrible human beings.

Richard Cranium

Sometimes, you just don’t want to write about a dickish band member who’s spouting odious or deliberately rage-baiting rhetoric online. It’s not some kind of existential free-speech dilemma for me. By all means, exercise your rights, and then I shall exercise mine. I just don’t want to write about people who’ve wished ill will on me or my kith and kin.

Of course, the problem is, if you want to tell an honest tale, you can’t exclude all the dickheads or sideline objectionable bands. Otherwise, you’re back to telling a lie – or at least an incomplete story.

Again, I’m not pointing my finger at any other writers. Personally, I just believe that when writing a non-fiction, historical account of any subject, accuracy is crucial, and I didn’t want my name associated with a distorted story.

The truth matters, and in Aotearoa, it's 100% true that individuals who’ve committed horrific crimes or are notorious for expressing extremely spicy opinions have also produced some of the country’s most renowned underground music.

Sometimes, the truth hurts – c’est la vie.

Responsive Not Reactive

I don’t look to musicians for guidance*, nor do I expect them to be level-headed intellectuals or the bastions of anything. You want a bit of passion, fire, and danger in the music you love, right? But with that come viewpoints or actions – be they deadly serious or calculatedly provocative – that might challenge your moral compass.

(*That's a blatant lie. I govern my entire life by the sermons found in the venerated gospels of Fugazi. That’s a joke, but it’s also not.)

If a musician or band crosses the line, for me, I just don’t listen to them anymore. It’s no biggie. No drama. There’s plenty more music out there to enjoy. But it’s not the same if you want to write a truly representative story.

You can’t pretend that arseholes don’t exist, and I never figured out how to work around that issue. In the end, that was just another reason for me to set the book idea aside.

How to write about people who’ve said things I find off-putting, or done things I consider unconscionable, is something I ponder a lot. I’ve yet to reach any kind of conclusion. But thinking about it – being responsive rather than just reactive – is, I believe, a positive step. For me, that is. I’m not criticising anyone else’s preferred mode of reactivity.

The story of extreme music in Aotearoa has some grim chapters. Still, ultimately, it’s a positive tale filled with talented musicians, hardworking bands, and like-minded fans who’ve built a self-sustaining community. (Of course, there are significant challenges at present, not least New Zealand’s cost-of-living crisis, which has had a massive impact on the country’s arts scenes, music or otherwise.)

Whoever writes the definitive story of underground music in Aotearoa will need to (a) be more well-known than me, (b) have the certified credibility I lack, and (c) be confident writing about the heroes and the villains who’ve played essential roles in Aotearoa’s extreme music underground. Much like life, it’s a complex tale. But that’s where the truth of the story lies.

I wish I had the intellectual rigour to have come to a firm conclusion about how to write about flawed individuals. But I don’t. At least, not yet. But I’m thinking about it, constantly.

Why Bother Writing at All?

A million platforms are currently streaming a billion albums; how we access, assess, and listen to music has irrevocably changed. I see my role as an enthusiastic guide, someone who’s (overly) keen to help you sort the wheat from the chaff.

That said, on some days, I find myself thinking about how much the landscape of music consumption has changed, and I wonder if blogging about niche music is about to draw its last breath. (I’m very much hoping not, btw!)

I’ve wasted a lot of the goodwill associated with my writing by clinging to critics rather than embracing well-wishers. I’ve also deemed myself incapable and underqualified to write a book about a topic I’ve been covering for a couple of decades.

You might well ask why I bother writing at all.

I wish I had a noble reason for writing about noisy bands, but I don’t. I write about them because I’m a giant fucking nerd.

Like many of my dorkish/nerdish peers, I write about underground music because it allows me to directly express my gratitude to all of the DIY bands and labels that have restocked my emotional armoury over the years.

Loud music has gotten me through some indescribably tough days, and essentially, my mission statement over the past few decades boils down to this: “cheers for the tunes”.

It’s as simple/stupid as that.

Music Matters, Cuz

Many people my age have a purely nostalgic relationship with music, and that’s fine; I’m not interested in criticising how anyone incorporates music into their lives.

For me, though, music is alive in the present. My passion for music has not diminished over time, and it never leaves my mind. I’m obsessed with music. My relationship with it is forever evolving as I discover some new band or rediscover some long-forgotten LP.

I love a wide range of music, and I've been preoccupied with it since I was very young. I’ve often found that dropping a needle on a record is a more effective way to express my feelings than voicing them out loud. Long before I was ever diagnosed with a ‘disorder’, music was relieving my psychological and neurological aches and pains.

(FYI, I really don’t consider my neurodiversity to be a disorder. It’s simply another way of being. But I recognise that autism is a spectrum and labelling it a disorder enables many autistic people to access crucial levels of support.)

Music really matters. Sure, your favourite band’s not going to fix any of modernity’s intransigent issues, but they’ll definitely help to raise your spirits and offload a fuck-ton of stress. There was life before you heard the record that changed your life, and then there’s life after that, and we all know which version of life is better. Music is utterly transformative, and who wouldn’t want to shout (or, in my case, write) about that?

The world’s a mess, but music makes it better.

Praise Be

I’m not naive. I know the music business can also be manipulative and exploitative. Take punk, for example; the music industry has purloined much of punk’s original cultural capital while smoothing the genre’s edges. But that edge still exists; you just need to dig a little deeper to find it.

That’s where I come in. I want to point you towards the juicy stuff, the electrifying stuff, the stuff that sounds like a hellish cacophony but still provides a vital psychic exorcism. I want my writing to serve as a map to that destination, but I also mean for it to remind people of music’s crucial role in our well-being.

I have survived abuse, addiction, mental illness, psychiatric hospitalisation, homelessness, and abject poverty. Currently, three competing medical conditions are trying to incapacitate me. While parts of my life have been very challenging, noisy music has bolstered my resolve and raised my morale since I bought my first punk LP in 1983. That’s 42 years of rock-solid support, and I’m definitely grateful for that.

Music has often been a more reliable source of comfort to me than human interactions. So I write about it – to offer my thanks and praise. I’m not remotely religious, but music is sacred to me, even at its nastiest and most blasphemous.

The last few decades of writing have tethered me when life has sometimes felt unsteady. The ethos that underpins the DIY spirit is my bible. No gods, no masters, for sure, but the millions of words I've written about subterranean bands and labels are, basically, a long-form hymnal to independent music.

Music is as inspiring to me today as it ever was. Sure, the culture of underground music is in flux, and new technologies and creative pivots might change the shape of underground music. But that original DIY drive continues to thrum. I hear it. I know you do too.

The Cause

I don’t care if it sounds passé, but I still believe in punk’s ability to give voice to the voiceless. That belief keeps me typing, and I’m pretty sure it’s much the same for every other blogger out there writing for a subset of a subset of a subset of music fans. I’ve never had grand ambitions to be a high-profile commentator; aspiring to do so contradicts my view of DIY music’s humble goals. I just want to be an active participant, and longevity is infinitely more attractive than the heights of hipsterdom.

Unfortunately, I put my longevity at risk when I exited social media a few years ago. Mental health-wise, leaving social media was one of the best decisions I ever made. Writing-wise, it’s been a total fucking disaster. Turns out, not appearing in anyone's feed is a death knell. Whoops.

I could put a positive spin on things and say I’ve done an excellent job of distilling my audience so only the true believers remain. But given my audience is now down to a single digit, I may have overrefined things, to be honest.

Still, the mission, the cause, whatever you want to call it, feels more important than any ephemeral or egocentric rewards. I might whine about clicks, on occasion, but cachet really doesn’t matter; unless, it turns out, you’re trying to write a book!

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sadden me that I couldn’t connect more people with more rad releases. I wish I had a louder voice – is that wrong? I could have done more for the music that matters to me. And I would have loved to have shone a brighter light on more underground music from Aotearoa.

Still, doing something is a hell of a lot better than doing nothing, right?

Nincompoop Superglue

Many writers would understandably feel disheartened plugging away for a dwindling number of readers. I’ve felt that way; in fact, it’s one of the reasons I threw Noize Zealand (the book idea, at least) into a ditch.

Realistically, I just wouldn’t be able to write a music book that has a realistic chance of being read, and that realisation does feel a little ‘ouch’. However, ditching one book idea doesn’t mark the end of me typing words about music.

Music means far too much to me to simply walk away. I might take a few extended breaks now and then to recharge (or slap some metaphorical aloe vera on my burnout), but despite my failures, fuck-ups, and all of the angst – and putting aside the stress, strain, tension, anxiety, and constantly worrying about people calling me a fucking nincompoop online – I’ve had a blast writing about music. Totally worth it.

The central problem for me is that I’ve never had much confidence in my ability to express myself creatively or engagingly. I’ve definitely appreciated the positive feedback I’ve received over the years, but it dissolves in my mind fairly quickly, while the negative feedback I’ve received sticks like superglue.

I don’t think that’s ever going to change. It feels like an immovable block in my mindscape. But I find ways to work around it because the connections I make with music, and the connections we make with each other via music – however tentative – are invaluable to me.

My anxieties and confidence issues stem from years of people telling me that I was broken, defective, and worthless. I grew up in an era where people did not view mental illness or atypical individuals with kindness. No one was emphasising my humanity; instead, I was defined by my illness. I was a problem. I was to blame. And I was left shattered.

I’ve worked hard to rebuild my life and repair what damage I could. However, I still constantly worry about how others perceive me. I can’t seem to silence the voice of my inner critic, which second-guesses everything I do, including writing this and every other line I’ve ever written.

It’s a hard ask to feel self-assured in the face of indifference, and failing to secure a readership after close to three decades in the game doesn’t instil much confidence either. But while all of that might sound bleak, it’s actually very freeing.

I know none of the above is going to change, but it’s also not going to get any worse, so I might as well plough ahead anyway.

Keep on Keeping on

I’ve lived with my idiosyncrasies long enough to know them intimately. Sometimes, they can be distressing, perhaps even destabilising, but they’ll never beat me. I have music on my side, and it’s an unconquerable force.

My mental health struggles and neurodiverse framework have helped me forge a much deeper relationship with music (and art, films, and literature, etc). I often find people bewildering, but I draw a lot of comfort and, crucially, understanding, from music. Music helps me unravel my emotions and purge them when required. Music has increased my capacity for empathy. But more than anything, music has provided me with a home.

I doubt I’ll ever lose the feeling that I’ve let down the bands and labels that I wanted to support. I never managed to snag enough attention to make a difference, but I know – for a fact – that I’ve written millions of words over the course of several decades for all the right reasons. Or, at least, for the reasons that are important to me.

I have my integrity, I’ve put in the hours, and I did my best. More importantly, though, I forgive myself for fucking up. It’s time to embrace my irrelevance and continue the mission regardless. DIY’s drive continues to fuel my engine, and if I quit writing now, I’ll never know whether I could get back to double-digit viewing figures.

(Hell, maybe one day I’ll even cross that elusive triple-digital rubicon!)

If I stopped writing today, I’d lose a pivotal connection to an art form that’s expanded my mind while keeping me tethered to this earth. Music has literally saved my life. It means everything to me. Single-digit readership or not, I’ll keep on keeping on until the lights are turned off.

Noize Zealand: down but not out.

Mā te wā

Congratulations on making it to the end of this post. You are now a certified superstar. Thanks for reading, and remember, I appreciate the fuck out of you.

Noize Zealand: Down But Not Out.