The Indie Sleaze Revival Has A Canadian Accent

In 2020, amid the uncertainty of a world paused by a global pandemic, Olivia, a Toronto-based creative, began piecing together a digital archive of a bygone era. It started modestly—an Instagram account documenting the raw, unpolished chaos of the mid-2000s cultural zeitgeist. At first, it bore different names, iterations of a nebulous project, But when she finally settled on indie sleaze, the moniker stuck. What began as a nostalgic time capsule has since snowballed into a defining cultural movement, sparking discourse, podcast episodes, and parties across the globe. Now, Olivia prepares to bring the movement home with the Indie Sleaze Holiday Party at Toronto’s The Great Hall on December 13.

“It’s been a whirlwind,” Olivia admits. “I never intended for this to take on the life it has, but it seems to have resonated with people. It’s grown beyond me.” “Indie sleaze” she admits, is a retrospective term, a label affixed to a period only once it was gone. “There wasn’t a name for it at the time,” Olivia says. “People might’ve called it indie or hipster, but those terms were either too broad or pejorative. Hipster especially—it wasn’t something people wanted to be called.”

The cultural hallmarks of Indie Sleaaze, which Olivia pegs as roughly spanning 2004 to 2012, emerged in concert with the rise of MySpace, mp3 blogs, and a grassroots explosion of self-styled artistry. It was an era that began in the mid 2000s, marked by the shift from grunge’s introspection to a more exuberant, indulgent ethos. By its peak in the mid-to-late 2000s, the scene was defined by thrifted sequins clashing with American Apparel basics, Cobra Snake’s party photos capturing unposed moments, and blog-house beats ricocheting through sweat-slicked club walls. It was a celebration of “sleaze”—a deliberate aesthetic choice that Olivia says wove together otherwise disparate genres, fashion choices, and creative outputs. 

Fun came in the form of DIY aesthetics and a thrift-store sensibility that clashed with the glossy, logo-driven styles of the early 2000s. “What I really liked about the fashion from this era is that you could thrift, and that was actually encouraged,” Olivia says. “Wearing something vintage or something from your mom’s closet or something your older sibling had…was cool.”

“If you look at NME articles from that time or magazines like Sleaze Nation, you’ll notice this recurring descriptor: sleaze,” she explains. “It applied to everything—fashion, music, personas. To me, it was, like this sort of decadence that was pervasive throughout everything.” But behind the glitter was a generation navigating upheaval. “This was post-9/11, pre-2008 recession,” she opines. “People were burned out from the introspection of the ‘90s. A lot of the music then was solipsistic, it was addressing these very big issues within the world. In the 2000’s there was a bit of a burnout. I’ve heard people call it the party after the riot.”

For Olivia, the indie sleaze movement was as much a Canadian story as it was a global one, with Toronto and Montreal standing as major cultural hubs of the era. “This is what I loved about this era—how Canadian it was,” she says. “We were really at our peak.”Toronto’s music scene gave rise to acts like Crystal Castles, Metric, and Death from Above 1979—bands that defined the sound of indie sleaze and made waves far beyond Canada. “Crystal Castles felt very new at the time,” she recalls. “Their music was mind-blowing for a lot of us, and I think it still is. It’s very influential on Gen Z right now.” Montreal, meanwhile, became the epicenter for the fashion and journalism that shaped the cultural aesthetic. “American Apparel, as much as I don’t like Dov Charney, was the fashion of the era,” she explains. “Those ads were huge.” Vice Magazine, founded in Montreal, also played a key role, functioning as what Olivia calls “the journalism du jour” of the scene.

Other Canadian artists added richness to the indie sleaze canon. “Feist roomed with Peaches, and they collaborated before Feist went on to produce her own work,” Olivia says, citing this as an example of Canada’s vibrant creative community. “You had Japandroids out of Vancouver, and a lot of Montreal acts like Grimes, who really put us on the map.” Together, the creative output of Toronto and Montreal helped Canada hold its own against cultural heavyweights like New York and London. “A lot of people think New York is the mecca,” she says, “but in my mind, technically, Montreal is right there. We had so many great bands, unique styles, and influences coming out of Canada. It was such a moment.”

As the indie sleaze revival gains traction, Olivia notes that parts of its legacy have been mischaracterized. “Some people look back and just see a sea of white straight men on magazine covers,” she acknowledges. “And I get it—there was definitely a lot of that. But that’s not the full story.”

For Olivia, the era was deeply shaped by diverse voices and marginalized perspectives, particularly from women and queer artists. She points to electroclash acts like Peaches and Ladytron, as well as trailblazing artists like M.I.A., as integral to the indie sleaze ethos. “Electroclash was very feminine and very queer in a lot of ways,” she explains. “And someone like M.I.A.? She was ahead of her time—political, genre-bending, and just so influential.”

Olivia laments that these contributions are often overshadowed by problematic figures like Terry Richardson or Dov Charney, whose association with the era has tainted parts of its legacy. “Yes, there were gross figures involved,” she says. “But there was so much more to this culture—so many artists who were pushing boundaries, who were inclusive and collaborative. It’s important that we don’t erase their impact.”

It’s no coincidence, Olivia posits, that indie sleaze has re-emerged during a period of collective upheaval. “The pandemic was our generation’s 9/11,” she says. “We were all traumatized, isolated. We lost so much time—years of being young, of connecting with people. So, it makes sense that we’re looking back to a time that felt so uninhibited.”

This nostalgia has manifested in surprising ways. TikTok has brought blog-house beats and grainy aesthetics to Gen Z, while Olivia’s Instagram has become a hub for those revisiting—or discovering—the era. But not all revivals are created equal. “There’s a performative side to it,” she acknowledges. “You’ll see people smoking indoors at a club, clearly trying to emulate 2004 New York. It’s a fantasy.”

The resurgence of indie sleaze, while rooted in nostalgia, is also shaped by the realities of the present. Olivia sees parallels between the cultural conditions of the late-2000s and today, pointing to the economic struggles and collective trauma that connect both eras. “At a time when you’re facing this financial crisis, when everything’s becoming expensive…people had to work with their recession roots,” she explains. “Not dying their hair, letting their roots grow out, and having the messy bedhead look—it didn’t have to be perfect. And actually, that was encouraged.”

The style was marked by a deliberate effortlessness, blending thrifted fashion, DIY aesthetics, and an almost tongue-in-cheek disheveled look. “People put a lot of effort into looking like they didn’t give a fuck,” Olivia says. “But I think that influenced how the style came to be.” It was a mishmash that felt organic—less about following rules and more about self-expression. “There was this encouragement of personal style,” she adds. “It’s something I hear again and again in the comments under my posts: people saying, ‘Wow, everyone had such an individual sense of style.’”

That individuality, Olivia argues, contrasts sharply with the curated, trend-driven looks often found on TikTok. “Some people are burned out on TikTok styles, where it’s like, ‘Here’s exactly what you can buy to look exactly like this,’” she observes. “I see a lot of young people today, and I think they look great, but there’s something to be said for the way people didn’t really look similar to each other back then.”

 

This sense of individuality extended to music as well, with acts like Girl Talk creating mashups that sampled wildly different genres into a single song. “It was a big motif throughout that era,” Olivia says. “And it makes sense in the revival now, because every other day on TikTok, there’s a weird mashup of songs I’d never think would go together.”

The revival’s timing feels particularly apt to Olivia, given the collective trauma of the COVID-19 pandemic. “It’s similar to 9/11 in the way it created a global ripple effect,” she explains. “People were traumatized, stuck in their homes, missing time with family and friends. A lot of people felt like they were losing those primary years of being young—meeting people, socializing. In a way, this comeback of partying and going out is about making up for lost time.”

Yet, Olivia acknowledges that the revival faces challenges. “The hardest part for the new generation is that we had the ability to have cheap fun back then,” she says. “You could go out and drink for very little or pay a small cover fee for a club. Now, ticket prices are so expensive, even just to throw a party.” She sees the rising costs as a significant barrier but believes in the importance of supporting local talent and keeping entertainment alive. “Musicians, especially working-class musicians, are really struggling right now. It’s good to support people, but it’s just a dramatically different cost to participate today.”

 

Despite these hurdles, Olivia sees promise in how younger audiences are adapting the movement for their time. “I like to see how this translates into the world of Gen Z,” she says. “It’s not about recreating the past exactly; it’s about taking what was meaningful and making it new.”

For Olivia, the upcoming party at the The Great Hall is both a culmination and a potential conclusion. “It might actually be one of my last parties,” she reveals. “As much as I’ve loved running this account and throwing events, it sort of exists outside of myself now. I don’t want people to get wrapped up in who I am, because I am not indie sleaze. I’m just someone who was able to trend forecast.”

The event, featuring DJ sets and The Brokes—a Strokes cover band—feels emblematic of the movement’s enduring appeal. “I’ve seen The Brokes live, and they really are the embodiment of the spirit of the Strokes,” Olivia says. She’s particularly excited about the intergenerational appeal of the revival. “There’s a whole new audience of kids that are finding this music and being inspired by it,” she says. “I like to see a 2024 version of how this translates into the world of Gen Z.

As Olivia steps back from the spotlight, she remains optimistic about the future of indie sleaze. “This movement isn’t about me,” she says. “It’s about the people who see something in it, who find inspiration in its chaos. I’ve done my part. Now it’s time to let it grow.”

 

The revival of indie sleaze reminds us that nostalgia often functions as both a mirror and a refuge, reflecting the tensions of the present while offering solace in the familiar. Emerging during the post-9/11 era and thriving through the 2008 recession, the original movement spoke to a generation craving unfiltered connection and creative rebellion. Its return now, in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic and escalating economic uncertainty, suggests that the hunger for spontaneity, individuality, and community remains as urgent as ever.

For one night in December, Toronto will once again feel like the epicenter of a cultural moment—a city buzzing with the glow of thrifted sequins, the pulse of blog-house beats, and a crowd ready to revel in the defiant, imperfect magic of indie sleaze. It’s a testament to the resilience of culture: what was once a messy, fleeting moment of self-expression has returned, not as an imitation, but as an invitation to reimagine and recontextualize what it means to live and create in uncertain times.

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Cody Rooney is the Editor in Chief and senior contributor at liminul.

He is a PhD candidate, digital content specialist, writer, editor, multi-media artist, and photographer.