How ‘Underconsumption Core’ is Quietly Starving Independent Artists –

Scroll through TikTok long enough and you’ll stumble upon it: a softly spoken twenty-something telling you to throw away half your wardrobe, refuse impulse buys, and embrace the aesthetic purity of a life stripped of clutter. The ‘underconsumption core‘ trend is everywhere on YouTube and TikTok, pitched as a cure for anxiety and a route to financial clarity in an era defined by inflation and instability. On the surface, it looks harmless, even useful. Yet scratch beneath the pastel-washed montages and decluttering diaries, and you’ll see how these curated lifestyles are reshaping consumer behaviour in ways that ripple far beyond IKEA shelving units and Zara hauls.

For musicians already walking a financial tightrope, the shift towards minimalism isn’t simply about taste or lifestyle; it threatens to cut the last reliable lifeline: merch sales. Independent touring has always been a brutal balancing act, but merch—t-shirts, vinyl, posters—has historically made the difference between a loss-making slog and breaking even. Now, in a culture where underconsumption is branded as virtue, musicians face yet another invisible hand pulling fans’ wallets away.

The Rise of Underconsumption Core & Minimalism

Minimalism as a cultural mood isn’t new. It’s been simmering since the Marie Kondo boom, but underconsumptioncore is minimalism’s hyper-online cousin. It frames buying less as both rebellion and self-care: rebellion against the wasteful churn of late capitalism, and self-care in the form of serenity through scarcity. The videos are hypnotic, often beautiful, and in many ways, they’re an understandable response to the suffocating consumer culture that shaped millennials and Gen Z.

But when this philosophy is exported wholesale into music consumption, the cracks show. Music merch is not mass-produced fast fashion. It’s often small-batch, locally printed, sometimes hand-designed. It funds petrol money between cities, helps cover Airbnb costs after venue guarantees fall short, and provides some semblance of stability in a profession defined by precarity. Yet underconsumption core sweeps it into the same bin as disposable TikTok gadgets. It’s consumerism all the same, we’re told, and therefore inherently suspect. The irony, of course, is that many of the influencers pushing this lifestyle have affiliate links hidden in their bio, monetising the very “ethical” choices they encourage.

Financial Anxiety and the New Morality of Spending

Inflation and the cost-of-living crisis have made even small purchases feel like moral decisions. Every pint, every t-shirt, every Bandcamp vinyl is weighed against bills, rent, or the looming shadow of debt. In this climate, influencers present minimalism not just as a financial necessity but as a form of purity. The less you buy, the more virtuous you are. It taps into the collective guilt of a generation that grew up with climate catastrophe, housing insecurity, and endless messaging about overconsumption.

The problem is, this morality is blunt. It doesn’t differentiate between buying a fourth H&M jumper and buying a zine at a merch table from an artist who drove seven hours to play to 30 people. Independent musicians aren’t Zara. They aren’t SHEIN. They’re part of the cultural infrastructure that keeps local scenes alive. When merch is demonised under the umbrella of “mindless consumption,” we end up erasing the nuance between exploitative global supply chains and survival-level grassroots economies.

Touring in the Age of Frugality

For artists, the costs of touring are spiralling. Petrol prices are up. Accommodation is scarcer and more expensive. Venues take their cut, promoters take theirs, and streaming royalties don’t stretch far enough to cover petrol receipts, let alone wages. Merch has historically plugged those gaps. In many cases, it’s the only reason tours happen at all.

Yet we’re now seeing a generational shift where fans, armed with minimalist mantras, hesitate at the merch desk. That hesitation is catastrophic. One sold-out t-shirt design might be the financial hinge on which an entire tour rests. Without that income, artists scale back touring, and the cultural fabric frays. Local scenes lose momentum. Fans get fewer opportunities to see bands in sweaty rooms, the very places where lifelong musical connections are made.

And let’s not forget the psychological cost. Musicians are already working within an economic structure that treats their passion as disposable. To then stand at a merch table, watch fans drift past with the justification that they’re “cutting back,” and know that the internet has reframed your survival tool as an unnecessary indulgence, is a special kind of cruelty.

The “You Will Own Nothing” Paranoia

There’s another angle here: the rhetoric that sits underneath these minimalist pushes. Phrases like “you will own nothing and be happy” were once dismissed as conspiracy theory paranoia, but they’ve seeped into mainstream discourse. Influencers wrap it in mindfulness and aesthetics, but the message aligns neatly with a system that already wants to strip us of ownership. Streaming has already redefined music as access, not possession. Spotify doesn’t sell you albums; it rents you sound. Netflix, Kindle Unlimited, cloud gaming—everything points towards a future where ownership is replaced by subscription.

Against this backdrop, the anti-merch messaging of underconsumptioncore doesn’t look accidental. Whether consciously or not, influencers are conditioning audiences to see physical ownership as a burden, an outdated indulgence. For artists, that’s a nightmare scenario.. Stripping ownership from music reduces it to background noise, devoid of a physical anchor.

Conclusion

Minimalism and the hype of underconsumption core aren’t inherently malicious. They stem from real anxieties, real frustrations with capitalism’s endless churn. But when these philosophies bleed uncritically into music culture, they risk starving the very artists who soundtrack the lives of their followers. It’s one thing to reject Amazon hauls. It’s another to flatten all consumption into the same moral category, erasing the difference between fast fashion waste and a limited-run t-shirt that funds a band’s survival.

If fans want music scenes to survive, they’ll need to see beyond the aesthetic of underconsumption. Supporting artists isn’t clutter. It’s community. It’s resistance to the idea that art should exist without material support. Independent musicians are already fighting uphill battles against streaming economics, inflation, and dwindling venues. To abandon them at the merch table under the banner of minimalism is to let algorithms and influencers decide what culture survives.

Article by Amelia Vandergast