Farewell Indie Optimism
Last week, I watched Tokyo Police Club play their farewell tour. There was something striking about watching them on stage—four guys absolutely beaming, playing songs that defined an era of indie optimism. As they launched into tracks from Elephant Shell and Champ, I found myself transported back to a different time. A time of Occupy Wall Street, pre-algorithm Instagram, and boundless optimism.
Picture yourself on a weathered couch in Chicago's Wicker Park, nursing a warm Pabst Blue Ribbon. Your friends strum acoustic guitars on the porch as passing hipsters—sporting half-shaved heads, vegan Sauconys, and prized cassette collections—flash knowing high-fives on their way to art class.
The Millennial hipster movement of 2009-2015 marked our first glimpse of hope after the twin shadows of 9/11 and the 2008 Financial Crisis. We created a culture entirely our own—one that Gen Z now, perhaps deservingly, mocks.
With this cultural shift came a shift in indie music. The brooding introspection of Modest Mouse's "The Moon & Antarctica" and Death Cab for Cutie's "Plans" gave way to something brighter. By 2008, as Obama's "Hope" posters plastered city walls, bands like Tokyo Police Club and Ra Ra Riot were crafting exuberant anthems filled with handclaps and danceable synth leads. Passion Pit's falsetto-driven "Sleepyhead" became the soundtrack to countless college parties, while Matt & Kim's "Daylight" captured the DIY spirit of Brooklyn's burgeoning scene (even ending up in a Bacardi Commercial). Local Natives and Vampire Weekend merged world beat with college rock — invoking Paul Simon, while Arcade Fire's "The Suburbs" transformed suburban ennui into orchestral pop.
This wasn't just a shift in sound—it was a generation finding its voice. As Urban Outfitters replaced Hot Topic and fixed-gear bikes filled the streets, bands like Phoenix and MGMT scored our transition from recession-era anxiety to cautious optimism. Even as we started to recognize the inherent privilege in our thrift-store aesthetics and craft beer preferences, we couldn't help but feel that something authentic was emerging from the intersection of art, technology, and social consciousness.
I prefer to call this era the Age of Indie Optimism rather than the hipster movement. Even punk rock shed its angry skin—Against Me!'s "I Was a Teenage Anarchist" traded rage for nostalgia, while The Gaslight Anthem's "The '59 Sound" reimagined punk through a lens of romantic Americana. Titus Andronicus turned their existential anxiety into thunderous sing-alongs on "The Monitor," and The Menzingers crafted anthems about finding hope in suburban decay.
Maybe it was the perfect storm: a generation in their twenties and early thirties, old enough to be jaded but young enough to still believe in possibility. We were finally settling into careers, still unburdened by mortgages or children, with just enough disposable income for concert tickets, vinyl records, and food truck nosh. The world seemed broken enough to need fixing but not so broken it couldn't be saved. Every DIY venue felt like a community center, every vegan co-op a rebellion, every bike collective a step toward something better. The optimism of the music reflected our own—sometimes naive, often privileged, but earnestly believing in the power of community and creativity to shape a better future.
As our generation aged out and the world shifted, this sort of music lost its place. Younger generations have gravitated toward moodier sounds—trap beats and bedroom pop that capture their own, perhaps more clear-eyed view of the world. The earnest optimism of clap-along choruses and ukulele bridges can feel almost embarrassingly hopeful in today's context.
But watching Tokyo Police Club's genuine joy during their farewell show reminded me why this era mattered. Not just for its music, but for what it represented: a moment when we believed that joy itself could be an act of resistance. In a world that seems increasingly divided and digital, there's something powerful about remembering a time when we found hope in analog instruments and sweaty basement shows, in shared bikes and communal gardens.
This isn't just nostalgia—it's a reminder that optimism, even when imperfect, even when privileged, can be a catalyst for change. So maybe it's time to dust off those old records, to remember what it felt like when a major chord synth arpeggio could put a smile on your face, and to channel some of that earnest, awkward hope into whatever comes next.