The hardest-hitting headlines from everyone’s favourite satirical scamps, The Hard Times
We straight-up love The Hard Times. Anything that takes an often much-needed swipe at the twin totems of silliness that is the music biz and the alternative scene is absolutely fine by us. Nobody does satire quite like they do. In the fine tradition of @JADEDPUNKHULK before them and the early days of Buddyhead way back when, the spirit of what The Hard Times do comes from a place of love, even if it's also baring teeth and claws. If you’ve never recognised even a little of yourself in the scathing headshots of their headlines before, you’re not looking closely enough. Or you’re in impressive denial.
Without any further delay, then, here are a bunch of times we felt the sting of those headlines that little bit deeper. Almost like they had come for us personally…
And in this case, they actually did come for us! Which is why we had to start here. No fronting, we felt pretty honoured to be sneered at by The Hard Times with this delicious slice of shade. We get it, we like Billie Joe. Maybe we like the Green Day man a little more than the average music publication does. It’s fine. We’re fine with it. Are you fine with it? Billie Joe is definitely fine with it.
Ouch. We’ve all been there. Or at least those of us who have ever had the pain/pleasure of owning a pair of these shitkicking classics has. Trve punx cred doesn’t come easy, man. Pro-tip: blister stick. Feels like a soft, soothing kiss on those gooey-scabbed heels.
Everyone knows this guy. If you’re being honest, some of you reading this have been this guy at one point or another. Sometimes remembering things can be hard in the moment. Especially once you add alcohol, emotion and the pressure of a microphone thrust into your face into the mix. It happens. All together now, ‘Blugaah-eargh-arr-aaaagh!’
And then there’s this douche. An especially annoying gig-going problem when you’re at a quieter show or a performance requiring more than mindlessly throwing horns in the air and screaming ‘Slaaaa-yeeeer!’ But who’s worse, the tireless loud talker or the smug self-righteousness of the sssh-er? Close call, that.
This is one every music journalist worth their weight in jiffy bags and plastic sleeves will recognise with a chilling shudder. Let’s be honest, most bands aren’t up to much when they’re starting out. Most bands aren’t up to much ever, but that’s besides the point. God forbid some of the precious egos responsible for that dreck ever receive constructive criticism. The truth hurts.
This dude – because it’s very much always a ‘dude’ – really came into his own in the wake of the mid-’00s smoking ban, revealing all sorts of previously hidden olfactorial horrors at shows. We’re not saying the smell of stale cigarette smoke was any better, but it would be nice to not know what your fellow gig-goers had eaten for dinner, right? Use the loos, dudes – they’re right there.
Bang – right in the kisser! It was a close call between this and the similarly bullseye-hitting ‘Reissue Reignored’ story, but the added value of this one taking down the pointless rise in fondness for a long-dead (and rightly so) format just edges it.
We could name names here, but we don’t feel like being that mean. The perpetrators know who they are. And let it be a lesson for all music fans clamouring for the reunion of bands who used to be good years ago – some things are best left in the past, no matter how much you might kid yourself that it might not suck.
This one probably explains the above, but it doesn’t excuse it. And no amount of right-on platitudes to the press will cover up the reality that more often than not it’s just about fancying a payday as the pinch of middle-age makes its presence felt.
Speaking of… anyone over the age of 30 with a fondness for the good things in life – a tipple or two, sausages, sitting around not doing much – feels this one deep down in their concerningly painful guts. Time comes for us all in the end. The sooner you let it go and admit that it’s not that new washing powder shrinking those old shirts, the better. Hit the gym or lay off the fast foods.
Again, this is almost always a guy, although there are exceptions to the rule. Go to any hardcore show (well, when they happen and it’s safe and sensible to do so again, obviously) and you’ll find this character up front wildly swinging limbs at nobody in particular while one single tear disguised as sweat works its way down their cheek.
Shoutout to all the real Gs defacing their schoolbooks and book-bags with punk-as-fuck slogans and symbols. That’ll show The Man. Do you think the makers of Tipp-Ex ever realised they’d arguably become more important to the enduring appeal of punk rock than Never Mind The Bollocks…?
If you work in music and you’ve ever approached the entrance of a gig and uttered these immortal words you’ll know the inherent, excruciating embarrassment and awkwardness of it all. There’s just no way of getting through the ordeal without looking, sounding and feeling like a massive dickhead. Perks of the job, though, innit…
We’re looking at you [insert name of your formerly-favourite band]. You may have made up for it in the years since, but that time you broke our hearts with that one release two decades ago? Fuck you, you fucking fucks! That pain isn’t going anywhere, and nothing short of coming round to our house and personally saying sorry is going to cut it, frankly.
You’ve patiently stood outside the venue in the rain for hours all day, just so that you and your friends could secure an optimum spot to enjoy the show from – not too close, slightly to the side, near the refreshments and toilets – only to be barged into and have drinks spilled on you from behind the minute the band starts. Even worse, the guilty party almost always pretends they can’t see you as they make a beeline for the front with their arms in the air, belligerently bellowing utter nonsense.
Number one: we, the paying customer, are keeping you in leather pants and Just For Men, bro. Less of the ‘motherfucker’ and please don’t insult our intelligence further than your awful music already does by pulling the oldest frontman trick in the book. Maybe the lukewarm response to your call-to-action was ‘meh’ because you’re not quite as good as you think you are? Just a thought.
This one cuts deep. Let’s be honest, most bands needn’t bother. There’s so much music out there – too much, really – and nobody has enough time on their hands to get through all of the good stuff, let alone devote precious time to the rubbish. Yet there are times as a music journalist when you just know, before hearing a single note of something, that it’s going to suck. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.
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