They keep saying it like it’s a diagnosis, like a doctor lowering his voice: There’s no good new music anymore. As if the patient is culture itself, lying flatlined under a white sheet, while the rest of us are supposed to nod solemnly and accept that the last real song was written sometime around when they were sixteen and emotionally combustible. This is nonsense, of course, the laziest kind of nonsense, the kind that requires no listening, no leaving the house, no risk, no sweat, no awkward eye contact in a half-lit room where the band is setting up next to a stack of amps that smell like beer, ozone, and promise.

New music is not dead. It’s just not coming to you. It’s not ringing your doorbell or algorithmically tucking itself into your ears while you scroll. It’s happening out there, in rooms that require pants and presence and a willingness to be changed, even slightly. And that’s the real problem: new music demands participation. It demands that you show up.

The great (boy, would he hate that sentiment) rock critic, Lester Bangs, understood this instinctively. He knew that music wasn’t an artifact to be archived, but a live wire, something that crackles when bodies gather, and sound hits air, and something unpredictable happens. The excitement of new music isn’t about novelty for novelty’s sake; it’s about the shock of recognition when you hear something you didn’t know you needed until it’s already inside your head, rearranging the furniture.

Going out to see local music—real local music, not brand-approved “scenes” packaged for export—is a civic act. It’s how communities remember they’re alive. You walk into a bar, a VFW hall, a coffee shop after hours, a basement with questionable wiring, and suddenly you’re part of a temporary republic founded on volume and intent. You’re standing next to people who live where you live, who work the jobs you know, who are writing songs not because it will scale, but because it has to come out. That matters. That changes things.

The need for new music isn’t abstract. It’s psychic. It’s the need to hear someone else articulate the same confusion, joy, dread, or stubborn hope you’re carrying around without a language. No documentation, just a real human need. When people say nothing is exciting being made anymore, what they’re really saying is that they’ve stopped being curious about other people’s interior lives. They want the old songs because the old songs already agree with them. New music argues back, it’s the packaging/re-packaging of human feelings in new bottles.

And that argument is healthy. It keeps culture from calcifying into a museum gift shop stocked with endlessly remastered memories. Live local music reminds us that art is a process, not a product. Bands miss notes. Lyrics change. Drummers (guitarists, bass players, etc.) quit. Someone forgets the bridge and laughs. These imperfections are not flaws; they’re evidence of life. They’re proof that the thing you’re witnessing hasn’t been fully decided yet.

The positive consequences ripple outward. You support a venue, which supports staff, which keeps a place open where people can gather without a screen between them. You give musicians a reason to keep writing, to keep rehearsing, to keep believing that the hours spent hauling gear and arguing about tempos aren’t insane. You create informal networks—musicians meet other musicians, shows lead to collaborations, friendships form, ideas cross-pollinate. This is how scenes happen, not because someone declares one into existence, but because enough people decide that showing up matters.

Local music also recalibrates your sense of scale. Not everything needs to be monumental to be meaningful. A great song played for forty people can hit harder than a festival set swallowed by branding and distance. There’s an intimacy in local shows that can’t be replicated: eye contact with the singer, the thump of the kick drum in your sternum, the shared glance when a chorus lands just right. You don’t leave as a consumer; you leave as a witness to something that you cannot quite describe.

And let’s be honest about the frustration. The claim that nothing compelling is being released now is often a cover for disengagement. It’s easier to blame the times than to admit you’ve stopped listening actively. The world didn’t run out of ideas; you ran out of patience. Meanwhile, musicians are still out here folding genres into new shapes, writing songs about now—about precarity, community, grief, humor, survival—with tools and influences that didn’t exist twenty years ago.

If you want excitement, you have to seek it out. You have to court it. You have to risk boredom, risk disappointment, risk being wrong. That’s the deal. New music doesn’t owe you greatness on demand; it asks for your attention in exchange for the possibility of revelation.

So go out. Stand in the back or press up front. Clap awkwardly. Buy the record/CD/download/tape. Talk to the band. Argue with your friends about what you heard. This is how culture stays porous and human. This is how a town sounds like itself instead of a rerun.

The future of music isn’t missing—it’s tuning up, waiting for you to get off the couch and walk through the door.