And so, phase four of my 12-step, foolproof plan for world domination commences. Wait … is it four or five? … lemme think … start podcast … convert basement into radio and performance studio … get Pluto reclassified as a dwarf planetoid … obtain mannequin … gain notoriety as a cultural visionary, thereby obtaining a crystal hockey puck … yeah, phase five!
Yes, it was an honor getting an award from an organization that, while certainly not your enemy, never really had a kind word to say about you in public, and made more than a few snarky quips in private (yeah, the feeling is mutual, so no foul). It was weird being called a “visionary,” which is usually synonymous with “we don’t really understand what this person does, but it seems vaguely positive, so here’s a crystal hockey puck.” It was definitely not as surreal as getting roasted by my friends last month. However, it was very cool that NUVO thought of me, considering our long and tumultuous history of publicly ignoring each other and privately bitching about each other for the past decade.
Indy In-Tune wasn’t born out of triumph. It crawled out of the basement during one of my lower points in life. I had the gear, too much free time, and a desperate need to start a podcast that nobody asked for, because nobody knew what a podcast was in 2006. The early shows weren’t great. Mics buzzed, bands mumbled, I rambled on way too much. The downloads were anemic, and I’m pretty sure half of them were me testing the button on the website.
The void was kinder than silence, however, and eventually, it echoed back.
The secret wasn’t me. It was the underground network: promoters, bartenders, bookers, sound guys, and bands who flat-out refused to let the city forget itself. We had Ben Cannon, sidekick extraordinare and master at getting bands to do things against their own interest. Amy Foxworthy, who could turn “hey, go check out this band,” into a mandate to return a 5000-word description of the evening. Nick Wengler, part sound man, part chaos agent, and a man who seems to live for hauling equipment around and stringing cables across a stage. And the venues. Melody Inn, with its sticky floors and cigarette ghosts. Locals Only, where you could catch a folk trio, a metal band, and a DJ set all in the same week — assuming the soundboard didn’t catch fire. Birdy’s, where every band swore “never again,” and yet every band came back when asked to do a Podconcert for Indy In-Tune. We weren’t glamorous. We weren’t profitable. But we were alive.
So this is my big moment. Someone decided Indy In-Tune was visionary. Naturally, I tried to deflate my ego by bringing an entourage in formal dress — the kind of move that screamed “I will make you regret this and never give me an award again.” My crew, on their own, turned the ceremony into a rock show, adding extra screams and applause every time my name was mentioned. It was half performance art, half sabotage. I wanted to stay underground because I thought being underground made us relevant. In reality, it turns out you don’t get to choose your adjectives.
Here’s the uncomfortable confession: Indy In-Tune will never break out. It was niche, fragile, and always one flaky hard drive away from an untimely death. Most of the city has no idea we exist. Those who do often don’t care. Plenty of streams barely cracked 20 listeners, and half of those were people waiting for their set to get name-dropped.
Through all that, I’d like to think we matter, though. We matter to the bands who heard themselves on “radio” for the first time, even if the “station” is a PC in the corner of a suburban basement. It mattered to bartenders who saw their rooms busy on a Monday night in the summer that should’ve been dead. It mattered to the handful of us who refused to believe Indy was just a nice place to take a dump and grab a tenderloin while your tour bus takes you from Cincinnati to Chicago.
That’s the paradox of being a “cultural visionary nobody listened to.” You don’t get the crowd; you get fragments, and only a few people who see the pattern you’re trying to leave behind.
