The villagers stand at the gates wielding pitchforks and flambeaus. The bloodlust and conviction in their eyes is unmistakable. They will either breach these walls or die trying. Down with the gatekeepers! The Marxist spirit is with them. They all sing, each mouth singing a different song. And yet when you listen, it's not a marketplace din that you hear, but a beautiful heavenly choir, each song a separate note in a spontaneously coordinated orchestra. That's all they ever wanted to do. Sing. This time, no record label will stop them. Their voices will be heard and the ancient powerhouses that ruled over them shall be stripped of all their power. The proletariat demands to be fed.
The walls don't come down. These foundations run too deep. A deeper moat is being dug even as they revolt. Dejected and tired, they speak among themselves and say, "Let's just go and sing, who will stop us? We have singers, instrumentalists, producers, marketers, videographers, and technologists among us. Heck, we even have the means to congregate and exchange our wares among each other." And so they disperse, fired up. But the spirit never leaves them. You can still hear it echo, spreading the gospel, one indie record at a time.