A song written at Wesleyan in 2005 as a deadpan parody of the rock-star fantasy spent the next twenty years becoming the most efficient delivery vehicle for that fantasy in pop. The production didn’t fail the irony. It made the irony unkillable.
A federal radio quota, a small Toronto label, a Montreal recording studio in a former garment loft, and a juried prize designed to ignore sales numbers, four pieces of infrastructure that turned a mid-sized country into the gravitational center of English-language indie. The pieces still exist. The result no longer does.
The city has the venues, the schools, the rent and the reputation. What it does not have is geography, a single arts ministry, or a stable bylaw. A diagnosis of why the most-mythologized indie scene in North America still spits out a handful of breakouts per decade.
The single that made R.E.M. globally famous is also the gravity well that kept them from escaping mainstream expectations. A diagnosis, not a takedown.
