There’s a strange beauty in the absurdity of it all. Imagine a teenager, surrounded by the trappings of normalcy—a messy bedroom, a part-time job, a Christian faith—yet choosing to spend his days immersed in 400 hours of unrelenting noise. Sam Andrews isn’t just listening to Merzbow; he’s waging a quiet war against the algorithms that dictate our attention spans. What makes this particularly fascinating is how he’s turned a niche obsession into a cultural mirror, reflecting both the chaos of modern life and the stubborn human need to seek meaning in the most unlikely places.
Let’s unpack this. Andrews, 18, isn’t some reclusive weirdo holed up in a basement. He’s a regular guy who happens to have a fascination with the Japanese noise artist Masami Akita, better known as Merzbow. But here’s the twist: he’s not just listening to a few albums. He’s attempting to consume every one of Akita’s 400-plus releases, documenting his journey with a mix of dread and determination. His Instagram Reels—where he’s seen a half-million views—show him laughing, screaming, and occasionally recoiling as if he’s been shot by a subwoofer. ‘Get up, get breakfast, noise’ is his mantra, a bizarre ritual that feels like a punk-rock version of mindfulness.
Why does this matter? Because in an age where TikTok trends die faster than a meme, Andrews is doing something that feels almost prehistoric: he’s committing to a full discography. This isn’t a playlist. It’s a pilgrimage. And it’s a reminder that there’s still a place for the kind of dedication that algorithms can’t monetize. What many people don’t realize is that Merzbow’s music isn’t just noise—it’s a philosophical statement. Akita, who once raised chickens and later embraced AI art, has always been a provocateur. His work forces you to confront the void, to sit with discomfort, and to question whether the music you’re listening to is actually you.
Andrews’ project is also a commentary on how we consume art in 2025. Gen Z, often dismissed as the generation of 15-second attention spans, is using Merzbow’s noise as a weapon against the shallow content that dominates their feeds. They’re memeing about it, trolling older folks with requests to play it on Alexa, and even comparing it to K-pop. But here’s the irony: the deeper you dive into Merzbow, the more you realize that the real challenge isn’t the sound—it’s the act of staying with it. Andrews, who rates each album on a color-coded spreadsheet, calls this ‘deep listening.’ It’s a skill that’s increasingly rare in a world where Spotify’s algorithm decides what you’re ‘into’ based on 30-second snippets.
What I find especially interesting is how Andrews’ project has bridged generational gaps. His audience isn’t just teenagers; it’s a lot of 30- and 40-somethings who remember the days when discovering Merzbow required a mixtape and a cult. ‘I had a sleepover and convinced my friends to sit through Pulse Demon with me,’ he says. ‘One friend said he could hear the silence afterwards.’ That’s the power of noise—it doesn’t just assault your ears; it creates space for reflection. It’s a paradox: the louder the sound, the quieter the mind becomes.
But let’s not romanticize this. Merzbow’s music isn’t for everyone. Andrews admits that some albums, like 1996’s Merzbow Loves Emil Beaulieau, are pure tinnitus masquerading as art. ‘It’s like sitting in a dentist’s chair for an hour,’ he jokes. Yet even in those moments, he’s learning something. He’s not just listening; he’s analyzing, rating, and questioning. This is the essence of what makes him a modern critic—a teenager who’s managed to merge fandom with intellectual rigor in a way that feels both old-school and refreshingly authentic.
The bigger question, though, is whether this kind of dedication will survive in a world that rewards quick hits. Akita himself, with his veganism and AI controversies, has always been ahead of the curve. But Andrews’ project is a reminder that there are still people out there who believe in the long game. Whether Merzbow’s legacy will endure in 50 years depends on whether we can still find the patience to sit through a 10-hour album. Or maybe, as Andrews puts it, ‘people will still talk about Pulse Demon and Venereology.’ I’m not sure, but I do know this: in a world that’s always rushing to the next thing, Sam Andrews is choosing to stay put—and that’s a rebellion worth listening to.
