By Woodrow Murdock

National Music Affairs News Desk

From the scene newswire: The threat is real and imminent. Artificial turf is stacked in warehouses ready for deployment. The targets are the clover fields, dandelion patches, and all wildflowers. The goal is to sterilize scrutiny and control the spread of communicable beauty. The turf company did not respond to interview requests. Deploy a correspondent immediately.

It’s 12:48am, Wichita KS. Through the second story window of an old bungalow, I watch a car struggle through the streets bulging with monsoon floodwater. VRBOs like this dusty early 19^th century prairie home are cheap around here, as is the lifestyle. Picked clean of all meat by greedheads from Lawrence, OKC, and various other regional trend hubs. Locals are left fighting over bones to boil for broth, and to sharpen into weapons. There’s no time for the formalities of law and order. Chaos reigns supreme, and if you slip up you may not be seen again. Deleted by a fellow bone scavenger.

As the storm subsides, I step outside for a smoke. I need to clear my mind of the people I’ve spoken to all day. There is an infectious tension in the consciousness. The parting clouds have exposed the vultures circling overhead, and it’s hard to get comfortable knowing they’re watching you. As the smoke bellows out from under the covered front porch, I recall seeing these theatrics play out over the past couple decades in places like Nashville and Austin. But this is a different flavor. Fresh and aromatic. New wave, a virgin scene, battle scarred and torn from years of abuse but never plunged down the toilet of mainstream.

An underground resistance strong hold. Not by choice, by necessity. Even Sub Pop couldn’t break through the wall nearly 20 years ago. But that hasn’t stopped some from slipping through the cracks. Outside intruders, slipping by with all access passes, flaunting their “punk rock” ethos while skimming the door take. I flick ashes into a puddle, collect my laptop and walk back up the creaky stairs. As I settle back into my borrowed desk, I find myself with an overwhelming sense of urgency. Perhaps it’s just dizziness from the post smoke stair conquest. Or perhaps I am getting caught up. My rebellious soul is provoking me. Pushing me to take up arms with this unpolished gem of a scene and do all I can to protect it from being dwindled away by nit wits. What can we do to save this from becoming the next vertically integrated wasteland of gentrified artistic existence. And what if we can’t? What then? Or should I say, what now?

There are no massive financial gains currently to be had. Not even many jobs that could pay rent in a studio apartment. But that’s not the point. Cash is scarce, still the community creates. Generation after generation cycles through, working 2, 3, 4 jobs, all the time creating. Not building off bank accounts. Building off energy. Off ideas. Off experiences. All while outside interest profit off the top 40 fiends ignoring their own community, mouthbreathing their way downtown on a Tuesday to see whatever fad nerd is playing the arena.

They can have that. $500 to sit in a seat 4 miles away from the stage. Give me a dank dive with a crusty PA any day. Now I’m rambling… 2:43am… the rain has picked up. Sweeping thuds across the roof with rolling thunder echoing in the distance lulling me to sleep. Bringing me back to a sense of peace amidst the chaos. Indigenous tribes gather where the two rivers meet, not far from where I sit. This is an ancient spiritual mecca, and you can feel it every time you disconnect from the noise of the world. On the stove I have bones boiling for breakfast, and that is enough to get me through another day, another story, another sunrise and sunset. For me, that’s enough, I’m happy to be here.