A GENERATION’S SOUL IS FOR SALE, and the house band for the apocalypse is a group of trust-fund Brooklynites barely old enough to drink. Geese, the indie-rock darlings CRITICS DESPERATELY want you to believe are saving rock, just finished a sold-out tour peddling a dangerous new gospel: that profound ARTISTIC GENIUS is born from irony, detachment, and the spoils of a “pretty good life” funded by billionaire sports teams. This isn’t a revival; it’s a CULTURAL ROBBERY, where the children of open marriages and pandemic-induced VR escapism perform “controlled hysteria” for a generation too numb to feel anything real.
Frontman Cameron Winter is the poster child for this disturbing new ethos. On stage, he screams about bombs in cars and the perils of contentment. Off stage, he MOCKS the very idea of meaning, telling journalists he “doesn’t remember” writing his most fraught songs and comparing his inspiration to a dolphin decomposing in Brooklyn’s toxic Gowanus Canal. This isn’t mystery; it’s a CALCULATED CON. The music—a raw, meandering bleed of noise—is packaged as deep vulnerability, while the artist hides behind sunglasses and deranged fibs. They are profiting from the aesthetic of pain while openly sneering at the need to feel it sincerely.
The most SHOCKING part? We are buying it. Audiences are moshing to songs about existential dread written by a 23-year-old who came of age in lockdown, his worldview shaped by virtual Russian gas stations and parental hedonism detailed in a tell-all memoir. The album “Getting Killed” is hailed as a masterpiece, but it screams a terrifying truth: our new icons have weaponized the trauma of isolation and luxury into a product, leaving fans “dazed” and “emptied out” by a connection that was never really there. We are celebrating the artistic void, mistaking a clever reflection of our own disintegration for salvation. The music isn’t saving rock and roll; it’s the final, ironic funeral dirge for a culture that has forgotten how to tell the truth.
