There is an odd shift in the local indie scene since the world-as-we-know-it returns to normalcy, since the restrictions are no longer as strict, since bands can plan their way to book shows, since fans can finally attend physical shows and no longer watch their favourite bands perform through the screen. 

But two months into the new year, the local music scene is still in a hazy state: international bands erase Malaysia off their list and those who were actually interested were met with cancelled and postponed shows. Some local organisers are running their shows to different tunes; delaying big-scale festivals and changing venues at the eleventh hour, some even dare to disappear without a trace, leaving fans waiting for years for their ticket refunds. 

In an attempt to shift the disappointment, people are succumbing to tribute gigs. The gist is rather simple and probably requires the least amount of effort: Gather the most available bands who can perform fan favourite songs of artist(s) from nostalgic eras and build the hype around this so much to the point performers are barely known for their individualistic identities but rather the popular songs they perform.

Of course, tribute gigs and concerts have always been around. Tribute bands have been making money off imitating artists who are no longer active or dead, and people are willing to pay to see them perform. The distinct difference though, these bands are fully aware of their identity as an artist, even as derivative ones. The current emergence of tribute gigs in the scene, however, is seemingly in search of something more meaningful; a place in the crowd’s heart, a way to celebrate the scene, and exposure to bigger (business) opportunities — all while performing other people’s songs to a crowd barely fascinated to hear theirs.

Let’s take Malam Galau Indonesia as an example.

Malam Galau Indonesia has a straightforward selling point; a tribute show dedicated to classic and modern Indonesian hits, anything that was released from the early 2000s and charted on local radio is guaranteed a spot in the setlist – think Sheila On 7, Radja, Nidji and others. The second show – organised just two months apart from the first – was such a hit that the organiser claimed the website crashed when tickets first went on sale, thanks to the 10,000 people queuing online to secure their tickets. 200 people bought theirs in the first 30 seconds, and the show immediately sold out. It flooded the internet with an overwhelming case of FOMO. Those who failed to secure tickets share their misery on TikTok and Twitter, begging the organiser for a bigger venue, for an interstate tour. Those who succeed requested their dream setlist but not their dream acts — who cares about the performers anyway? And all their wishes came true, as the success of Malam Galau Indonesia propelled its merchandise, one sold-out show in Johor Bahru at an indoor stadium that can fit 2000 pax and even spawned its own copycat. 

Another example is Run For Cover Fest. Set in Penang, the festival claims to be “the biggest cover bands festival in Malaysia”, ready to entertain fans with covers of legacy pop punk/rock bands such as Green Day, Paramore, Blink-182 and more. And then there was Taylor Swift. What does Taylor Swift — an artist known for an army-like fanbase who would fork out money for anything Swift-related — have in common in the sea of pop-punk music? One could only scratch their head and wonder.

The thing is, it’s difficult to point your finger towards the consumers for loving nostalgia; it’s the internet’s beloved possession anyway. Everybody on the internet apparently is in their “healing” era and that’s a good enough reason to spur a money machine. Anything that reeks of the smell of your first love, the understanding of your loneliness, and the innocence in your adolescence can easily drive people to jump on the bandwagon, even when they’ve never been to a gig before. 

But tribute gigs strip away the identity from bands who are still seeking it, from bands who are still on the quest for their true, original sound, especially when they are years away from making their debut album. After the show, people remember the bands based on their cover songs, not their original work. For many who never made the effort to educate themselves after the show, they will always remember the bands as “the band who covered my favourite band’s songs.” If your audience struggles to name the performers after a tribute gig ends or if you have to request the crowd to follow the bands on social media after the show to prove that your tribute gig is making a positive impact, then truthfully your idea of celebrating the scene is a pretty superficial one.

Sometimes there is so little authenticity added to the cover songs, there is so little anticipation for what comes next because the songs are so popular that the crowd memorises every single word. But two to three covers later, when it’s time to perform their original songs, the bands are met with disdain. “We came for the original artist, not for you,” were some of the cries on social media after the show. And we haven’t talked about the credibility of the bands to perform the songs, possibly opening a can of judgements from the original artists’ die-hard fans.

Many of the justifications of tribute gigs come from odd standing points, from a stance that only brought more questions than not. If we want to celebrate the scene, why do we have to cover international songs, old hits while compromising the artistry of emerging local talents? Why do we give platforms to other people’s crafts while ignoring our own? Why do artists like Hindia – someone with one debut album as a solo artist that was released in 2019 – included in the tribute gigs setlist? If we nurture new talents by asking them to cover popular music in the name of celebrating the scene then maybe the scene doesn’t need to be celebrated. Maybe the scene needs to be saved.

Do we need tribute gigs for people to discover new bands? It’s such a lame excuse and for the lack of better judgment, an ignorant observation of how music discovery has brutally changed thanks to the streaming era and even worse since TikTok. It’s already a gamble to organise small gigs with a lineup of bands people have never heard of and hope people would buy the tickets just to discover new music; it’s even more distressing to see these bands paid to cover popular hits in exchange for temporary social media hype. It’s crushing to see tribute gigs held so consistently, at bigger venues where international acts perform, with fans who would fight just to secure the tickets, when on the other side of the corner, small bands helplessly promote their music and gigs on social media, small organisers slide into DMs and random comment sections to sell tickets, just to end up performing in a near-empty hall.

Tribute gigs feels corporate, ingenuine and easily succumb to the masses’ needs. To take orders from the masses and depend on their hype-driven desires instead of what benefits the scene, feels like a perplexing trend to persist in an era where the ecosystem of the local indie scene is feeling the painful and gradual progress to rise again post-pandemic. The event organisers, the fans who boast their ticket-securing skills on TikTok, the YouTubers who vlog the shows, the ticket servicing business and resellers who capitalise off the hype — nearly everyone involved is benefiting from this trend. Everyone but the scene itself. For as long as tribute gigs ride on the nostalgia wave with an excuse to celebrate the scene, which only makes sense from a capitalist standing point, we’ll continue remembering small bands for their song covers, not their original work. In the economy of tribute gigs, the scene is always at loss.