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A New Breed of Anti-Wealth Protest Music: Why We Need More of It

[Warning: Though no profanity has been written into this article, many of the songs discussed in this article feature lyrics that contain profanity. Listener discretion is advised.]

During my last semester as an undergrad at Indiana University, I took a course titled The Music of Bob Dylan taught by the great Glenn Gass. The class changed my life. As we moved through Dylan’s discography—from Bob Dylan (1962) to Modern Times (2006)—I gained a more nuanced understanding of the intersections of revolution, social progress, and art. Though Dylan’s relationship with protest music is complicated, his early albums nonetheless help set a standard for anti-establishment songwriting: protest songs can (and perhaps should) be profound, pointed, and unbending. Consider these lyrics from “With God on Our Side,” Dylan’s 1964 folk ballad about the dangers of religious justifications for militaristic action:

But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we’re forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God’s on your side

Protest music has evolved since Dylan released The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan (1963) and The Times They Are a-Changin’ (1964). Folk is no longer the standard-bearer for socially conscious music. (Arguably, hip hop and rap have taken up that mantle.)

But I want to offer a new subgenre of protest music for consideration:

the pop-adjacent anti-wealth anthem

And—though you may roll your eyes at it today—there is one song that perfectly epitomizes this genre: “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis.

Before I explain the countercultural artistry of “Thrift Shop” and similar songs, I want to acknowledge the long history of poignant, socio-politically relevant protest music. What follows is a brief, non-comprehensive overview of protest music by decade and topic. I encourage you to explore these important songs. Then we’ll return to Macklemore and others.

Pre-1960 Protest Songs

Protest Songs from 1960s

Protest Songs from 1970s

  • “Big Yellow Taxi” by Joni Mitchell – environmental destruction
  • “Don’t Go Near The Water” by Johnny Cash – environmental destruction
  • “Ohio” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young – governmental corruption, violence, militarization
  • “Hurricane” by Bob Dylan – racism, racial profiling
  • “Imagine” by John Lennon – materialism, xenophobia, exclusivist religion
  • “Inner City Blues” by Marvin Gaye – wealth disparity, socio-economic injustice
  • “Man in Black” by Johnny Cash – economic injustice, mass incarceration, war
  • “You Haven’t Done Nothin’” by Stevie Wonder – governmental corruption, systemic racism
  • “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye – police brutality, systemic racism

Protest Songs from 1980s

Protest Songs from 1990s

  • “Burn Hollywood Burn” by Public Enemy – racism in Hollywood
  • “Changes” by 2Pac – systemic racism, police brutality
  • “Killing In the Name” by Rage Against The Machine – systemic racism, police brutality
  • “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill – sexism, misogyny, homophobia
  • “Testify” by Rage Against The Machine – governmental manipulation, oppression
  • “The General” by Dispatch – war, violence
  • “To the Teeth” by Ani DiFranco – gun violence
  • “What it’s Like” by Everlast – poverty, socio-economic injustice, sexism
  • “Youth Against Fascism” by Sonic Youth – fascism, racism

Protest Songs from 2000s

Post-2010 Songs About Racism

Post-2010 Songs About Sexism, Misogyny, and/or Reproductive Rights

Post-2010 Anti-Orthodoxy, Anti-Establishment, and/or Anti-Corruption Songs

Post-2010 Pro-LGBTQ+ Songs

A Spotify playlist of all these songs can be found here.

Now back to our new breed of protest music: the pop-adjacent anti-wealth anthem.

If you search for Dubai on Tripadvisor today, you might see a description like this:

Dubai is often described as a city of “ubiquitous glitz” that “lives and breathes a sense of possibility and innovation.” Some even call it the “most luxurious city in the world.”

But what Tripadviser likely won’t tell you is that Dubai is part of the “most unequal region in the world” in regard to income inequality. In Dubai, migrant workers are manipulated into working in arguably harrowing conditions for extremely low wages—and their behind-the-scenes work is allegedly used to keep Dubai’s public-facing reputation as one of glamour, luxury, and wealth. (Side note: There are undoubtedly many wonderfully compassionate and socially conscious individuals who live in Dubai. This commentary should not be used to villainize the people of Dubai. Dubai’s systemic inequality is the focus here.)

Dubai is an intriguing case study of a more widespread problem: fantasies of wealth that perpetuate systemic inequalities and social injustices. We see this everywhere. From Silicon Valley entrepreneurs embracing bro culture (the “Tech Bro“) to the dark side of glossy social media influencing. From the crypto-obsessed “bro-economy” (the “Finance Bro“) to the insidious “Prosperity Gospel” and all of its various forms. Or, if nothing else, just think of that guy you know who wears khaki shorts, a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and a TAG Heuer watch—and who spends his time sending unsolicited messages to folks on Snapchat while listening to Joe Rogan and/or Andrew Tate. The common thread: socio-economic elitism bolstered by visions of financial grandeur.

Money is one of the most divisive topics today—a fact that is readily apparent in America’s divided reaction to the arrest of Luigi Mangione. According to a 2024 Pew Research Center survey, economic issues (inflation, healthcare affordability, and the federal budget) are at the top of the public consciousness.

As scores of young men and women hustle forward with hopes of wealth and luxury, income inequality and wealth disparity plague the nation. One important solution is to target the super-rich through policy and satire. But another partial solution is to convince the masses that a lifestyle of extreme wealth, glamour, and luxury is overrated. Often, the pursuit of visible displays of wealth occurs at the expense of socially conscious action, so changing the minds of wannabe Finance Bros and glamour-obsessed influencers could reinvigorate America’s push toward socio-economic justice.

Enter Macklemore.

Macklemore’s 2012 song “Thrift Shop” took thrifting to the top ten of the Billboard Hot 100. It also “topped the R&B/Hip-Hop Songs chart for fourteen consecutive weeks” and “set a record on that chart as the first song to reach two million streams in a single week.” And it contains lyrics like this:

Coppin’ it, washin’ it, ’bout to go and get some compliments
Passin’ up on those moccasins someone else has been walkin’ in
Bummy and grungy, **** it, man, I am stunting and flossin’
And saving my money and I’m hella happy, that’s a bargain, *****
I’ma take your grandpa’s style, I’ma take your grandpa’s style
No, for real, ask your grandpa, can I have his hand-me-downs? (Thank you)

In an era of luxury-chasing consumers and extreme wealth disparity, this is a protest song. Macklemore glamorizes the non-glamorous, and he actively criticizes the type of superfluous consumerism and luxury that operate in contrast to a socially and environmentally conscious lifestyle. Intentionally or not, Macklemore is protesting the perceptions of wealth and luxury that perpetuate poverty and inequality. In a world of Finance Bros, Macklemore is a proud pop-music thrifting king, which is pretty damn countercultural. If you consider economic powers to be as potentially harmful as religious powers, then Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop” is just as socially relevant as Dylan’s “With God on Our Side.”

And Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop” isn’t the only song that challenges the status quo of extreme-wealth hustle-culture glamour. Below are additional songs that represent this new-ish era of anti-wealth protest music.

“Victoria’s Secret” by Jax (2022)

God, I wish somebody would have told me when I was younger
That all bodies aren’t the same
Photoshop itty bitty models on magazine covers
Told me I was overweight
I stopped eating, what a bummer
Can’t have carbs and a hot girl summer
If I could go back and tell myself when I was younger
I’d say, “Psst!

Jax’s “Victoria’s Secret” is an upbeat condemnation of absurd beauty standards pushed by men in the fashion industry. The chorus points a finger directly at men who profit off of the insecurities of women: “I know Victoria’s secret / And, girl, you wouldn’t believe / She’s an old man who lives in Ohio / Making money off of girls like me.” Many artists and activists have criticized greedy fashion companies, but few of those critiques have featured as many catchy verses and memorable beats as Jax’s pro-women anthem. Les Wexner, the businessman who made Victoria’s Secret what it is today, is worth $7.9 billion. Jax’s song protests how Les Wexner made his wealth. And the song’s message apparently resonated with many: the song reached number 35 on the Billboard Hot 100.

“Royals” by Lorde (2013)

But every song’s like
Gold teeth, Grey Goose, trippin’ in the bathroom
Bloodstains, ball gowns, trashin’ the hotel room
We don’t care, we’re driving Cadillacs in our dreams
But everybody’s like
Cristal, Maybach, diamonds on your timepiece
Jet planes, islands, tigers on a gold leash
We don’t care, we aren’t caught up in your love affair

“Royals” came out the same year as “Blurred Lines,” Robin Thicke’s horrifyingly sexist and dangerous song that dehumanizes women (“Tried to domesticate you / But you’re an animal”) and trivializes assault (“I hate these blurred lines / I know you want it”). The music video for “Blurred Lines”—which is just as stupid as the song itself—features Robin Thicke, T.I., and Pharrell Williams dressed in expensive clothes and standing/dancing awkwardly behind models in lingerie. In many ways, “Royals” is the antithesis of “Blurred Lines”: Lorde’s song is a pop-music critique of extravagant displays of wealth and status. Robin Thicke seems obsessed with looking powerful and elite, but that “kind of lux just ain’t for” Lorde and her listeners. (Plus, her music video is infinitely better than the rubbish Thicke’s crew made.)

“Here” by Alessia Cara (2015)

Excuse me if I seem a little unimpressed with this
An anti-social pessimist, but usually I don’t mess with this
And I know you mean only the best
And your intentions aren’t to bother me, but honestly, I’d rather be
Somewhere with my people, we can kick it and just listen to
Some music with a message, like we usually do
And we’ll discuss our big dreams, how we plan to take over the planet

Alessia Cara’s “Here” does not challenge wealth in the way that “Thrift Shop” and “Royals” do, but it nonetheless operates as a commentary on the type of lifestyle that favors expensive thrill over connection. The song is not anti-party or anti-Type-A (though it certainly doesn’t celebrate those things); instead, it is an anthem that celebrates introspection (“we’ll discuss our big dreams”), genuine connection (“Not in this room with people who don’t even care about my well-being”), and independence (“I’m stand-offish”). Consider the non-speaker characters in Cara’s song: a boy “who’s hollerin’,” a girl “who’s always gossipin’ about her friends,” a boy “who’s throwin’ up / ‘Cause he can’t take what’s in his cup no more,” and a girl who is “talkin’ ’bout a hater” (despite the fact that she “ain’t got none”). Now imagine those characters in the wealthy sections of Dubai or in an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and you’ll understand why Alessia Cara’s “Here” is an anti-wealth protest song like “Royals.” The song’s speaker is a “little unimpressed” with glam-chasing lifestyles and “can’t wait ’til we can break up out of here.” Same, Alessia Cara. Same.

“Thicker Than Dust” by K.Flay (2014)

I’ve got a brand new passion, we found a whole new way to see
Might spend a whole night smashing, wait for the blowback patiently
World never seemed like a fair place, bad people got the nicest things
Same s**t playing on the airwaves, naked girls, diamond rings
All my life been a good kid, so what I got a broken car
Moved my shit out of Brooklyn, laughed out loud, fell apart
Money’s overrated, sex ain’t hard to find
We’re not in love, since when is that a crime

“Thicker Than Dust” comes from K.Flay’s debut album Life as a Dog. Most songs on this album are brilliant, and many of them examine the nuances of camaraderie. But “Thicker Than Dust” provides are more biting commentary: this song directly criticizes traditional expectations of wealth and success. K.Flay doesn’t hold back: “F*** living life in an office” she sings before wondering about the nature of existence (“we look better with the stars out, waking up to go to sleep again”). The song expresses no interest in extreme glamour; in fact, K.Flay’s lyrics actively dismiss it. The song even takes some jabs at music that glorifies wealth: “Same sh*t playing on the airwaves, naked girls, diamond rings.” (Looking at you, Robin Thicke.)

Need for More

The pop-adjacent anti-wealth protest genre is still fairly small, but we need it now more than ever. For every K.Flay, there is a Finance Bro ready to talk about wealth on a podcast. It’s been over ten years since “Thift Shop” was released, and the world could benefit from another upbeat reminder that tunnel-visioned views of wealth, status, luxury, and glamour are overrated—and maybe dangerous.

Know of any other anti-wealth songs? Let us know!

Ben Boruff is a co-founder of Big B and Mo’ Money. Read more at BenBoruff.com.

Bonus Song

“Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” by Good Charlotte (2002)

Lifestyles of the rich and the famous
They’re always complaining, always complaining
If money is such a problem
Well, they got mansions, think we should rob them

My Complicated Obsession with Shark Tank

Don Delillo’s Cosmopolis is a vexingly slow-paced and pedantic critique of capitalism told from the perspective of a 28-year-old multi-billionaire as he rides in his high-tech limousine through downtown Manhattan to get a haircut. The protagonist’s journey is peppered with visits from business associates and high-level employees, including his “chief of theory” Vija Kinski.

In one scene, Kinski offers the multi-billionaire some advice on the nature of wealth:

The concept of property is changing by the day, by the hour. The enormous expenditures that people make for land and houses and boats and planes. This has nothing to do with traditional self-assurances, okay. Property is no longer about power, personality and command. It’s not about vulgar display or tasteful display. Because it no longer has weight or shape. The only thing that matters is the price you pay. Yourself, Eric, think. What did you buy for your one hundred and four million dollars? Not dozens of rooms, incomparable views, private elevators. Not the rotating bedroom and computerized bed. Not the swimming pool or the shark. Was it air rights? The regulating sensors and software? Not the mirrors that tell you how you feel when you look at yourself in the morning. You paid the money for the number itself. One hundred and four million. This is what you bought. And it’s worth it. The number justifies itself.

For the super-rich, the value of wealth eventually transcends money. $20 billion. $50 billion. $100 billion. $5 quintillion. What does it matter? Because at some point, everything becomes accessible, so the act of acquiring feels less like a purchase and more like a gesture—a reminder of the fact that you can. A symbol of one’s transcendence from practical consumption to something else entirely.

Consider Chef Raffaele Ronca’s $5,000 cheesecake.

When I mention this dessert—which contains freshly imported vanilla beans and three shots of a 200-year-old cognac that costs $2,500 a bottle—to my high school students, they respond with understandable questions: Does it even taste good? Is it better than the Cheesecake Factory? Is it worth $5,000?

But those questions miss the point, right?

No cheesecake is worth $5,000. But the taste of the cheesecake is not the point. Even if the cheesecake tastes wildly better than its affordable counterparts, the taste of the cheesecake is still not the point. The exclusivity is the point. Chef Raffaele Ronca is not creating a culinary experience: he’s creating a conditional experience—and the condition is that you have $5,000 to casually spend on dessert one evening. And if you do have $5,000 to spend on a fairly small, one-time experience, then “spending” isn’t really the right word. It’s not a purchase in the same way that a family purchases a car or a student purchases pencils or a mother purchases baby clothes. If the cheesecake had a price tag of $10,000 or $20,000 or $100,000, some wealthy foodies would still buy it. Because it’s not about the taste or the ingredients. Because the act of acquiring the cheesecake is the victory. Because, as Vija Kinski says, “The number justifies itself.”

And this dynamic—the gap between extreme wealth and the rest of us—is part of my problem with Shark Tank.

An official ABC description of Shark Tank describes it as a “business-themed unscripted series that celebrates entrepreneurship in America.” Shark Tank is labelled as a “culturally defining series” that gives “people from all walks of life the chance to chase the American dream and potentially secure business deals that could make them millionaires.” And the producers promise radical change for individual entrepreneurs: “Whichever way the wheeling and dealing may go, many people’s lives will be better off – because they dared to enter the unpredictable waters of the Shark Tank.”

But Shark Tank is, ultimately, just a televised ode to capitalism and wealth disparity. Shark Tank is to American capitalism what the Hunger Games are to Panem’s violent social hierarchy.

Consider the basic premise of Shark Tank: a group of wealthy investors—Mark Cuban ($6.86 billion net worth in 2024), Kevin O’Leary ($400 million), Daymond John ($350 Million), Robert Herjavec ($300 million), Lori Grenier ($150 million), and Barbara Corcoran ($100 million)—hear pitches from entrepreneurs and decide in real time whether or not to invest. Shark Tank viewers are reminded every episode that the investors use their own money to make deals with entrepreneurs, meaning that the handshake deals made on the show presumably lead to legally binding contracts (at least some of the time) in which one or more multi-millionaires join the companies as stakeholders.

These deals lead to real money, and the investors benefit. In its first ten seasons, Shark Tank had “222 episodes, 895 pitches, 499 deals, $143.8m worth of invested capital, and nearly $1B in company valuations.” And as of 2023, the top eight successful products that received deals from Shark Tank investors earned a combined $1.2 billion in sales. The seven products that received deals during their episodes—Robert Herjavec invested in the Bouqs three years after the company appeared on Shark Tank—were offered an average of a $157,000 investment in exchange for an average stake of 18.9% in the company. (Not to mentioned that each Shark is paid approximately $50,000 per episode.)

The only individuals to consistently benefit from the show are the Sharks, so Shark Tank is really about rich folks getting richer. The Sharks undoubtedly profit off of their investments, and they do so while helping only a small handful of entrepreneurs with their businesses. A Forbes analysis of Shark Tank highlighted the frequency of deals dying after the credits roll: “. . . an analysis of 112 businesses offered deals on seasons 8 through 13 of the show reveals that roughly half those deals never close and another 15% end up with different terms once the cameras are turned off.” Here, the mirage of a good-natured show where “many people’s lives will be better off” begins to fade.

Shark Tank is a spectacle in which the wealthy profit off of the ideas of the non-wealthy, and the rich investors are portrayed as heroes for bothering to show up.

The show bottles capitalism in its most unregulated form—get money however and whenever possible—and sells it raw. “Ambition,” “power,” and “social mobility” in big letters on the package.

That’s the appeal.

Shark Tank is entertaining as hell because of its unapologetically glossy portrayal of American ambition and greed. It’s The Kardashians with investment portfolios. It’s Bling Empire with equity negotiations. It’s Billions without Paul Giamatti. Shark Tank is about the Sharks, not the entrepreneurs, because many middle-class Americans watch shows about wealthy Americans for some of the same reasons we watch documentaries about serial killers: we want to stare at the “other,” the person who is distinctly not us—but who, with a couple fantastical twists of fate, could be us. We are morbidly fascinated by the person for whom property “no longer has weight or shape” due to their extravagant wealth.

The Sharks, like the customers of Chef Raffaele Ronca, are playing a different game than the show presents. This is not a show of veteran entrepreneurs helping new entrepreneurs; no, Shark Tank is a show about the super-rich playing with the lives of non-rich individuals. For most of the guests who pitch their ideas, receiving $50,000 to $500,000 would be world-changing. For most of the Sharks, that money is nothing. It’s a number that yields a result. It has little practical value beyond the impact it has on the narrative of the episode, which is both the appeal and the problem of the show.

Shark Tank is troublesome because the show’s editing and advertising paint a picture of gallant investors who have agreed to bless normal folks with their advice, but the show is just a machine designed to benefit the rich judges—both financially and reputationally. American Idol has a similar gimmick, but American Idol is less problematic because 1) an American Idol judge’s personal wealth is not a fundamental element of the show and 2) American Idol has not made a spectacle of a weighty and often closed-door financial proposition. Singing competitions are inherently spectacular; data-oriented investment pitches are not.

Imagine a reality show in which cameras followed families as they applied for personal loans. We’d hear their stories, and we listen to the suit-and-tie bankers as they weighed the potential risk of approving loans for certain families. Sometimes, the banker would discover a flaw in the family’s application—unstable income or a wavering credit score due to medical debt—and the well-dressed banker would admonish the family for their sloppiness before stamping “DENIED” on their paper. I imagine the show would be called something simple and alliterative like Bank or Bust.

Shark Tank is more Bank or Bust than it is American Idol.

For the super-rich, the value of wealth eventually transcends money. So watching Kevin O’Leary mock a low-budget entrepreneur from Ohio feels icky. It’s punching down in its worst form. It’s the opposite of eating the rich: Shark Tank—as its name implies—is about the rich eating you.

It’s human nature, I suppose, to be intrigued by shark attacks. What’s weird is when we start rooting for the sharks.

Ben Boruff is a co-founder of Big B and Mo’ Money. Read more at BenBoruff.com.

Indie/Alternative Music in Blockbuster Films

The “Yes Man” soundtrack heavily featured Eels (via IMDB.com)

Recently, theaters (and not just the artsy theaters) have offered experiences similar to those gained from chilling in a store’s alternative music section for two hours. This phenomenon is not new, but the status of independent and alternative artists in big-name films has shifted. Now, songs from such artists are highlighted as climactic-moment songs or as songs in movie trailers instead of being relegated to background music for on-screen moments of contemplation.

Before I continue, I offer a disclaimer: I have no education or background that makes me particularly qualified to discuss independent or alternative music. Read this post as one would read the comments section of a YouTube video (approach it with vague interest and hints of cynicism). To eliminate semantically driven debate over “indie” and “alternative,” I will use the labels given to these artists by third parties such as iTunes and Last.fm.

The growing phenomenon of alternative music in blockbuster films first gained my attention when I rented Yes Man (2008) on pay-per-view. The film’s soundtrack heavily features the brilliant music of the Eels. (The only other group on the soundtrack is Munchausen By Proxy, a fictional band featuring Zooey Deschanel and Von Iva.) Eels contributed a total of nine songs to the movie, including “Sound of Fear” and “Flyswatter.” And Yes Man isn’t the only movie to use the Eels’ music: the group also has soundtrack credits on movies such as Shrek the Third (2007) and Shrek 2 (2004). Other artists such as Eddie Vedder and Belle and Sebastian have benefited from the popularity of blockbusters as well. Eddie Vedder provided the music for Into the Wild (2007), and Belle and Sebastian’s music appeared in Forgetting Sarah Marshall (2008). The O.C. has used or featured music from Sufjan Stevens, Imogen Heap, Beck, and Modest Mouse. And Bon Iver, Death Cab for Cutie, Grizzly Bear, Muse, OK Go, and St. Vincent, among others, all have tracks on the New Moon (2009) soundtrack. And, recently, Florence and the Machine was featured on Glee (a wonderful episode).

New Moon via IMDB.com

So what does this mean? Nothing, really, except that indie-loving movies such as Juno (2007), Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist (2008), and (500) Days of Summer (2009) no longer have a monopoly on the use of independent and alternative music. Now, moviegoers are just as likely to hear their favorite independent artist in a film featuring Robin Williams as they would in a film starring Michael Cera. And, given how much Cera’s particular brand of teen angst is starting to annoy me, I consider this a welcome change.

Now, for those of you who are still skeptical about your favorite independent or alternative artist ending up in a blockbuster, consider this trailer of It’s Kind of a Funny Story (2010) featuring “Oh My God” by Ida Maria. Regardless of how you feel about the movie, you must admit that Ida Maria’s song fits this preview beautifully.

Review: Newsies (1992)

Newsies via IMDB.com

Have you ever wondered what it’d be like if Batman and the President of the United States from Independence Day sang a song together?

Or, have you ever wondered what it’d be like if the cast of High School Musical found themselves in the late 19th century with nothing more than a pack of newspapers, some cigarettes, and hearts of gold?

Or, have you ever wondered how news traveled before the Internet?

Newsies, a film starring Bill Pullman and a young Christian Bale (among others) and directed by the guy who brought you all three High School Musical films, will tickle your inspiration and dazzle your dance shoes. When the cost of selling newspapers goes up, a ragtag group of newsboys go on strike. And, in a display of true patriotism, they voice their social concerns in the form of song and dance.

But their jazz hands quickly turn to brass knuckles when the authorities and Joseph Pulitzer come after them. In some fight scenes reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin movies, the newsies struggle for their independence (day).

Though there are a number of storylines running throughout the movie (a love plot, a bromance plot, a New Mexico plot, and a teen rebellion plot), and though any of those storylines could have led the audience to the victorious finale, I choose to believe that the newsies were led to victory by only two things: dancing and Gov. Theodore Roosevelt. In fact, had Gov. Roosevelt showed up earlier, the newsboys wouldn’t have had to practice parkour all around New York, and Crutchy wouldn’t have had a run-in with the fuzz.

But, Roosevelt didn’t. And the newsies did.

It all worked out in the end though. The guy gets the girl, the newsies get a better price for the papers, and the citizens of New York finally get to know what the heck is going on in the world.