In the summer of 2012, I was in a high school rock band called The Uneven. At the time I was a self-taught, clunky rhythm guitarist, borrowing my bandmate’s electric guitar. We cobbled together a handful of original songs, booked a few shows (mostly at friends’ graduation parties) and even recorded an L.P. with bootlegged ProTools.
The whole three-month experience was as meaningful as it was loud.
Flash forward to 2021. In a blast from (my) past, videos on TikTok and Instagram Reels began to appear as part of a “Midwest emo” trend, often featuring a short clip from an early 2000s TV show or movie with a character amid an overly emotive, often comically irreverent rant.
A plaid-laden, spectacled electric guitarist would be in the corner, adding a twinkly, melodic solo, making the monologue remarkably relatable. The guitar work would copy solos frequently heard in the musical genre of Midwest emo, a 1990s style that saw a resurgence in popularity during the early 2010s (coincidentally also the timing of my stint on stage).
The memes themselves began as self-aware jokes, but soon became genuinely meaningful. Something ridiculous was now poignant. Somehow, the odd combination of earnestness and bizarreness aptly captured the essence of Midwestern angst — or at least that’s what the internet suggested.
As someone from the Midwest — and a small town in rural Ohio at that — I was skeptical. Yet, something familiar about these clips made me feel seen.
And I’m not the only one who formed an odd affinity toward these videos. Take it from Garrett Kimmel, the bassist and vocalist of the Akron-based pop-punk band Northern Weather:
“[When] Spongebob [is] yelling at Patrick or fighting with Squidward … I still get chills … I felt that, man.”
As the popularity of Midwest emo TikToks grew, the trend became self-aware. Rather than borrowing audio from TV shows and movies, content creators added music to voice-mail messages from their girlfriends who were breaking up with them because they were too “Midwest emo.” Creators made tutorials on how to sound “Midwest emo,” including chords, alternate tunings and techniques to make it easier for others to join the trend.
Over several months, Midwest emo videos became an ever-evolving fad separate from the musical genre of the same name. Despite this fact, the memes spotlighted the emo rival, which had previously only garnered fans in niche circles. As far as how the internet trend reflects the actual music, musicians tend to have a positive take on the TikToks.
“It’s weird because Midwest emo has become this catch-all term for a lot of twinkling guitars. It’s become the brand name … the actual mainstream. It’s how people refer to [the genre] now, to where I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” Kevin Cappy, a.k.a. HummusVacuum, a Columbus-based pop-punk musician and internet personality, said. “If anyone wants to use it, it gives a lot of respect and credit to the artists around the area.”
“Maybe we could invent a new term: ‘twinkle core’ or ‘happy tunes,’” Cappy suggested, recognizing that the TikToks have transcended the actual genre.
Jade Winings, the founder and writer of Behind the Midwest Scene, an online music journal dedicated to covering the Midwest’s DIY scene, offers another perspective.
“When it reflects on the genre … TikTok … feels disrespectful if it’s not authentic, if you’re not living in the suburbs and you’re not crying,” she said.
In other words, not every TikToker has the lived experience to make genuine Midwest emo music.
“When you see somebody freaking out over not getting their McDonalds order and the most melancholic Midwest emo song is playing, that certainly takes away from the actual song. Whenever I’m now listening to it in my car, driving during a cloudy day, just trying to get away from it all, and that song comes up, and I have to picture somebody freaking out about the most minimal things,” Peter Shand, the drummer for Northern Weather, said, splitting the difference in opinion.
Yet, Shand recognizes the upside to the meme-ification of the genre: “It does help expose people to that music. I do hope people … dive deeper into the actual genre.”
To understand the origins of Midwest emo, we hearken back to the mid-1990s, when second-wave emo bands started to find their way out of the dark corners of basements and bars and into the mainstream.
The second wave took two primary directions. On the one hand, Blink-182 occupied the sound world of pop-punk with simple yet heavy-hitting drum and guitar riffs, catchy melodic hooks, whiny vocals, playful lyrics and plenty of teenage malaise.
On the other hand, there was Midwest emo, which had a diverse palette, drawing from various sources. American Football, hailing from Urbana, Illinois, incorporated elements of jazz, math rock and ska into their emo songs; Sunny Day Real Estate, with their Seattle connection, took cues from grunge; and The Promise Ring, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, maintained some punk sensibilities in their thoughtful textural arrangements. The lyrical content deftly dealt with depression, isolation, broken relationships, yearning for days past and small Midwestern hometowns.
Following a decade of third-wave emo, in the early 2010s, grassroots bands started to vie for a sound reminiscent of the 1990s Midwest emo. Thus, fourth-wave emo was born, and the “Midwest Emo Revival” had begun.
Musically, emo revival bands struck a balance between being DIY — with a plethora of power chords and imperfect vocals — and surprisingly technical — with complex guitar solos featuring sweeping, tapping and alternate tunings. The emo revival perfectly synthesized pop-punk and math rock.
Lyrics tended to lay bare the thoughts and feelings of the songwriter, describing their experience with love, loss, relationships, growing up, loneliness and hometowns.
Fast forward another decade, and a new generation is resonating with these themes — albeit on TikTok. Call it a “Midwest Emo Revival-Revival in Gen-Z Style,” if you will.
Given the state of the world in 2021, it’s no surprise that content creators were drawn to Midwest emo.
The feelings of isolation and loneliness prevalent in emo songs reflected the reality of COVID restrictions. Government lockdowns, social distancing and fear forced people into seclusion, increasing anxiety and depression, which in turn created the need for people to express their angst in a safe, online space.
“There’s that edge with emo [that reflects] those edgy feelings we’ve all had. The Midwest [is] influenced by the general isolation that a lot of us feel,” Winings said. “We’re sad. Let’s write about it.”
This general sense of despondency is common in Midwest emo.
“The overall Midwest ideology [is that] it’s really easy to be sad. The weather is not great; the economy is not great. You’re dealing with the fact that you should suppress your feelings and keep going. Honestly, Midwest emo and pop-punk are good outlets for that feeling when you’re supposed to be strong [but aren’t]. You can let it out,” Rob Keller, the guitarist and occasional vocalist for Northern Weather, said.
Fellow bandmate Alex Styles agreed.
“The genre capitalizes on a more melancholy feel at times. Even the happy songs don’t sound that happy,” he said.
Hayden Wolf, the drummer of the now-defunct Kent-based band Honest Abe and the Rail Splitters (H.A.A.T.R.S.) acknowledged that emo music taps into the need to express negative emotions. Still, it’s not the only reason emo is good medicine.
“Six months out of the year in Ohio, the weather sucks … But you have to just get through it. And that’s what you notice in the Midwest stuff [i.e., music],” Wolf said. “You love and hate the fact that it is so s****y. We also love the fact that you get through it.”
A frequent attribute of punk and emo music is its approachable, DIY nature. On the one hand, this accessibility makes the genre extremely playable for musical novices.
“The three of us [were drawn] to pop punk because it’s really easy to play for people that weren’t that good at their instruments,” Wolf said, describing the early days of H.A.A.T.R.S.
On the other hand, Midwest emo invites its audience into a space of trust by being unrelentingly vulnerable and direct. With words and music laid bare, listeners can immediately connect to the music on an emotional and experiential level.
To know that other people have had the same feelings about where they’re from is immensely powerful. Being seen for what feels like the first time — for the mundane to feel extraordinary — is hard to describe, but it is moving, nonetheless. That may be why the Midwest, particularly Ohio, is well-suited for the genre.
“For me, a lot of [other music] doesn’t do the same emotional stuff to me like a guy with an acoustic guitar writing a s****y song about [his] hometown [does]. [It] really touches me,” Wolf said. “Technically, it’s not great sounding. There’s not a formula to why I like it … It’s something about the Ohio-ness of me, the Midwest-ness of it … I don’t know what it is, but I can’t stop.”
As much as Ohio is synonymous with post-industrial struggle and flyover U.S.A., there is an equally powerful sense of hopefulness and a fierce pride of place.
“I truly think Ohio has the nicest, beautiful mixture of being humbled by weather, being the butt of a lot of jokes and just having that generalized Midwest politeness,” Cappy said.
Yet, there is also a healthy dose of defiance that works its way into the Ohio emo scene. Between lacking access to studios and being located in vast expanses of isolated rural areas, Ohio bands have to fight tooth and nail to gain a following. Recognizing the grit it takes to succeed, Wolf explained why Ohio emo bands combine optimism with bite.
“[When] you’re in Ohio … and say, ‘I’m going to be in a band,’” Wolf said, “you’re going to come in with an edge to be like … I’m gonna prove that I can do something.’ You have to come in with that attitude to really try and make it because it’s much harder [than in New York or Los Angeles]. You have to commit, be rebellious, be stubborn and be dumb enough to think it’s going to work. That’ll come through in the lyrics and the work ethic.”
Cappy, having recently ended a tour, reflected on the communal nature of DIY sensibilities in the Ohio punk scene.
“I’ve always been interested in punk more than any other genre of emo because there’s no community like it,” he said. “[Other genres don’t] have the same DIY spirit and the same homegrown attributes that punk and emo do. And I think a place like Ohio is the perfect pot of soil for creative people.”
