Rotten Idols: When Our Subculture Heroes Turn Out to Be Monsters on Mosher Mag

We built altars out of record crates and ripped posters.

Tattooed their lyrics into our skin like scripture.

We screamed their names in basement shows and back alleys, believing—maybe they were different.

Maybe they got it.

But monsters don’t always wear suits and clean smiles.

Sometimes they wear leather jackets and scream with you in the pit.

Sometimes they are the pit.

We wanted icons. We got predators.

We wanted saviours. We got manipulators in eyeliner and thrift store halos.

Remember Jesse Lacey of Brand New? He built his legacy on vulnerability and pain—while preying on teenage fans behind closed doors.

Or Ian Watkins of Lostprophets—once seen as a charismatic frontman, now serving 29 years for child sex offenses too horrific to even fully comprehend.

Joel Faviere—that sweet voice from Get Scared? Arrested for possessing child pornography. Another wolf in the warped clothing of the alternative.

Jonny Craig—from Dance Gavin Dance, Slaves, and more—a voice that could break you open. But his rap sheet is longer than his discography. Scams. Addictions. Abuse allegations. Kicked out of more bands than he’s fronted.

CJ McCreery of Lorna Shore? Dropped from the band after multiple women accused him of abuse and manipulation. The frontman of a rising deathcore group—brought down by his own hands.

Jake McElfresh, aka Front Porch Step. Acoustic sadboi act. Big on Tumblr. Until underage fans came forward with screenshots and stories of grooming.

Oh! and don’t forget Austin Jones—the YouTube pop-punk crooner who built a fanbase of young girls…and then asked them for explicit videos. He’s now in prison for child pornography.

These weren’t just artists. They were pillars. People we trusted.

And then the truth clawed its way out from the shadows of the scene, and we realised the whole foundation was rotting.

You try to separate the art from the artist—but it’s hard when the songs feel soaked in lies.

When the lyrics start sounding like confessions.

And suddenly, the anthem that saved your life sounds more like a warning you missed.

You remember the merch you bought. The shows you lost your voice at. The belief that maybe, just maybe, this scene was better than the mainstream.

Then the silence. The complicity. The fanboys rushing to their defense.

This is the reckoning.

No more “but he was cool to me.” No more “but the music meant so much to me.”

No more “he was going through a lot.”

No more looking away because the guitar riffs slapped.

No more silence because the scene’s too small to burn bridges.

Let it burn.

Let it all burn if it means building something better.

Because the underground doesn’t need any more rot.

We don’t need “heroes” with groupies and NDAs.

We don’t need gatekeepers who prey under the guise of punk.

What we need is accountability louder than the amps.

We need bands that don't just sound radical, but act like it.

We need fans who don’t turn a blind eye because the breakdowns hit hard.

We need scenes that don’t protect creeps because they “draw crowds.”

To the fallen icons: We’re not your fans anymore.

We’re not your alibis.

Your legacy ends where the damage begins.

You don’t get to hide behind culture you helped corrode.

We’ll scream without you.

We’ll build new altars—uglier, louder, safer.

We’ll find new voices in the static.

Ones that don’t feed off silence.

Because the scene isn’t dead.

It’s molting.

And the new skin?

It doesn’t worship idols.

It buries them.

For the freaks, by the freaks.

Thanks for reading. Stay strange.

✦ moshermag.com