The Shape of Newsletters to Come
There are only a few moments of my life I remember with total emotional and physical recall. I know where I was, how I felt and recognized the “cultural” significance of seeing the music video for Britney Spears’ “...Baby One More Time” play on Total Request Live for the first time. The surreal terror I felt watching the Twin Towers fall during my first day of college. The first open-faced wave I rode at Bolsa Chica State Beach. The “oh shit” earth-stopping moment when my wife stood in front of me for the first time. The birth of my daughter. And where I was and how I felt when Dennis Lyxzén of Refused yelled, “Can I Scream?” in unison with Andy Irons throwing his tail into a Lance’s Right lip wearing a blue and white MCD rashguard in Momentum: Under the Influence. I’d never heard anything like it. Or seen anything so well-matched. These moments live in the penthouse of my overcrowded, foggy mind palace, always on display. Enshrined.
After burning the VHS tape out watching the AI part, I finally ventured out to Bionic Records in HB in my 1987 Pontiac Fiero to find this Swedish hardcore band's CD called “The Shape of Punk to Come”. It had a cool orange and blue scheme and homages to jazz and revolución — another facet of this deep worm hole was about to descend. Turns out I was about to make the discovery of a lifetime. I spent $17.99 on the disc and I am thankful for this investment every day. It unlocked more than music. Or culture. Or punk rock. It was a kick in the teeth for living. I scoured the lyrics, tried to figure out the connections made, decoded them intensely, the interconnectedness to jazz, hardcore, punk, Sweden, politics, me — why did “the classics never go out of style, yet they do. They do.”
My theory on why that video and record mean so much to me has a lot to do with the $29.99 (!) I spent on the VHS and the $17.99 I spent on the CD. My ownership of the physical media. And before I become an old guy talking about “the old timey old days” of ephemera, just remember you don’t own or place any value on what you have “free” access to. Your Spotify and YouTube account allow you to view and listen, but they don’t allow you to immerse. And own it alone. Seeing and hearing isn’t always believing. Or feeling. Information and art doesn’t want to be free.
Your Spotify account is the equivalent of a bottle of sparkling water someone gave you after they shook it up, left it in the sun for three days and said you could have it. Flat and diluted, nothing special. Free. Yours, I guess. My Refused CD was a perfectly carbonated ice cold bottle of sparkling Evian with free refills. My cup runneth over with bubbles and hydration and froth.
Somehow, the first person I ever properly interviewed was Dennis Lyxzén of Refused. He was kind, generous with his time and earnest in all his answers even though he was talking to a green kid working for a “surf mag.” Not a lot to gain, but he gave us the time. And time is money.
We’ve done Inherent Bummer for 6 years now. Got through a pandemic even. Totally free. No straightforward advertising. Never trying to pull a fast one. It’s meant a lot of moonlighting in the garage and attic, doing it because I simply want someone else to feel the enthusiasm and connection that exists between surfing, music, film, art, books and travel…I’ve been doing it for like 25 years now, but what if (and I do mean what if) we opened up the guitar case and asked you to kick in a beer's worth of coin a month for access to “the good stuff?” This and more?
What if it allowed me the time to share 25 years of surf media experience with you alone — including the esoteric (rants and raves about surf, art, music, films, the New York bars that Ozzie Wright sent me and Kai Neville to that wound up providing the soundtrack choices for Dear Suburbia) and the useful (guides to the surf world and the cities that surround them and products I’m actually using and loving). Some fun stuff (recitals of epic mag articles of the past and extended weekly interviews with the world’s most interesting personalities I can find), info on rad things worth checking out, maybe a podcast, maybe not (there’s kind of enough of those, right?).
I want you to remember where you were when you kicked in a beer can worth of nickels for the inspiration that led to your next total recall memory. Your next perfect moment. In the water. On the road. At a bartop jukebox. In the book shop. Free yourself, pay for information. Or just buy me a beer. Either way, I’ll still be doing this. But I want to do it more.—Travis Ferré
