Indie has become trite, and is gasping for its last breath. As much as I appreciate the ideals of a completely self-deprecating culture that prides itself on being eco-friendly, economically stable and socially forward, the musical angle has grown exceptionally stale. Chillwave is dead, noise pop is cliche, and post-rock should only be left to Mogwai. So here’s a few suggestions to revitalize a purposefully half-dead genre:

Pitchfork, change your rating system. How the hell do you even find an album’s appeal to be within four decimal places? Was there a rating algorithm that I didn’t get the memo on? Some more established institution use stars, microphones, or even single-digit numbering systems to rate music, so if need be, adopt an even kitschier symbol — possibly kittens or pentagrams.

Artists, your thin, wraithlike body doesn’t look good in anything American Apparel makes. Your videos with girls wearing gold mesh bodysuits, and you in deep V-necks does not make me want to listen to your music. As distracting as cleavage is, man-cleavage is even more so, and not for the same reasons.

If you’re not Animal Collective, don’t try to be Animal Collective. As much fun as it may seem to be wrapping yourself in foil, rolling on the floor of a small club, and screaming into a microphone over an orgy of computer dial-up sounds, it doesn’t look that way. It makes me concerned for you, despite my complete apathy for anyone who thinks that buying a synth makes them a musician.

Cassettes died for a reason, so don’t resurrect them. I understand vinyl — I relish it for its quality and tangible nature. However, if you’re going to ironically release a mix tape on a cassette, the 4-year-old in me will want to pull the tape from its sad plastic casing and laugh in your face. Then 4-year-old me will probably scream for chocolate milk until it is in my hands. You improbably have a Bandcamp page — turn your band into a brand, be quirky and smart, and pitch digital singles through that.

If you’re at a show, stop looking like you’re at a funeral. Bobbing your head and tapping your foot doesn’t count as enthusiasm, and if you know the words, sing to them. Granted, this is all kind off hard to do at something like a Sigur Ros show (if this is the case, and you can sing in Icelandic, feel free to show off), but the effort is appreciated by the artist. I know you don’t want to scuff up your synthetic leather wingtips, but you’re young, at a show, and probably drunk — so dance.

— K.C. Libman is a senior studying ecology and evolutionary biology. He can be reached at arts@wildcat.arizona.edu.