All My Homies Hate: Unraveling the Toxic Culture of a Fading Collective

In the labyrinthine world of alternative music, few collectives capture both fervent loyalty and bitter division quite like All My Homies Hate. Born from a shared gift for dark, introspective soundscapes and underground DIY ethos, the group once united its members under a banner of rebellion and raw authenticity. Yet, beneath the surface of late-night studio sessions and tightly-knit camaraderie lies a complex narrative of internal conflict, misguided expectations, and evolving identities.

What began as a tight-knit alliance of creatives evaporated into a web of resentment and fractured trust—now remembered not just as a band, but as a cautionary tale of how homozy-minds can unravel under pressure.

The origins of All My Homies Hate trace back to 2017, when founding members joined forces in a repurposed warehouse in downtown Toronto, drawn together by a mutual disdain for commercial music and a shared obsession with experimental sonic textures. Influenced by post-punk dissonance, industrial beats, and haunting lyrical storytelling, the group quickly gained traction in underground circles.

Their 2018 EP,

Fractured Loyalties

, became an instant cult classic—minimalist, uncompromising, and fierce. But as early as 2019, cracks began to show.

<> A core tension emerged from the group’s insistence on a unified aesthetic and persona, often enforced through informal but rigid rules. Members described a culture where deviation from the “core sound” was met with quiet standoffs or outright exclusion.

One longtime collaborator reflected, “You either bent or you got left behind—not just songs, but trust.” This rigidity, amplified by opaque decision-making, bred among members a growing sense of alienation. The very traits that once fueled creativity—intensity, insistence on authenticity—became tools of control that crushed individual expression.

Over time, personal conflicts surfaced.

Creative burnout, amplified by relentless touring and recording cycles, strained relationships. Financial disagreements—rarely spoken but increasingly raw—mirrored deeper emotional rifts. More significantly, differing visions for the group’s future ignited a schism.

While some urged a return to the raw, lo-fi experimentation that defined their early work, others pushed toward polished production and mainstream viability. This ideological split was never formally declared but became an undercurrent in rehearsals and reviews, eroding the sense of collective purpose.

The turning point came in late 2021, when a viral YouTube interview with lead vocalist JAX Mercer exposed candid frustration from a key member.

In an unfiltered conversation, Mercer described feeling “used and silenced”—a desperate cry echoing through decades of creative collectives where loyalty is demanded but never earned. “We started as brothers in arms,” he admitted. “But the hell does that mean when your voice doesn’t count?” The remarks sparked a public rift, with other members issuing contradictory statements—some defending tradition, others urging reform.

The silence that followed was louder than any shout.

By mid-2022, the collective dissolved not with