The Guitar Is a Corpse, and You’re All Posing with the Body

Guitars used to mean something. They were a middle finger to the world. Six strings screaming rebellion, pain, and truth. Hendrix set his on fire. Cobain smashed his to splinters. It was raw, ugly, alive. Now? You’re all just influencers with calluses, polishing your Strats for Instagram likes and TikTok loops.

You don’t play guitar to say something. You play it to sell something. Your “brand,” your “vibe,” your sad little bedroom aesthetic. You’re not artists, you’re content creators with $5000 pedalboards you don’t even know how to use. The algorithm’s your god now, and it’s turned your “rebellion” into a 15-second clip with a lo-fi filter.

The 60s and 90s weren’t perfect, but at least they had soul. Now? You’re too busy color-matching your amp to your wall art to notice your music sounds like a Spotify ad. You’re not dangerous. You’re not even interesting. You’re just another cog in the content machine, chasing clout while the guitar’s corpse rots in your hands.

And don’t give me that “Gen Z is saving guitar” crap. Those kids are just aping your nostalgia, recycling riffs from bands you jerk off to on vinyl. The guitar isn’t dead—it’s worse. It’s a zombie, shambling through your curated feeds, and you’re too busy posing to notice the stench.