• Skittles-colored nightmares Blood on the Dance Floor

The best rule of thumb for gauging youth culture’s health at any given time is to measure how incomprehensible its most beloved pop stars are to the average responsible adult. A guy in a giant mouse head making tracks that sound like a bunch of computers yelling at each other? That’s a sign of good health. An analingus-obsessed rapper with a blatant disregard for the standards by which music is generally judged “good”? Seems about right.

Not all of them are something a responsible adult would want to get behind. One of the more impenetrable recent musical phenomena (to Olds, at least) is “scene” culture, which began with hardcore’s affluent white teenage fan base and postmillennial haircuts, then combined (or even replaced) the aggressive guitar music with aggressively sugary pop and swapped out the radically progressive politics for a nihilistic strain of hedonism with a nasty misogynistic streak that seems to be the result of suburban kids giving rap lyrics a naively straight reading.