Crushing Stupidity
How the music industry cuts its own throat, and stifles its artists.


Yesterday I had a bizarre moment.....  I had a TV beer ad that i didnt know about brought to my attention that used a song of mine.

This was because of an old EMI licence from 5 years ago- they had 5 years of rights to the track, so EMI signed it off and trousered the loot. Seems nobody thought to tell me. Nice, huh?

Anyway, this got me thinking about my experiences with adverts using my music.

Now for those of you who are outside this industry, this is basically how it works. An ad agency in.. lets say the U.S.A... hears about an artist. This artist has a buzz... they are up and coming- the agency likes this buzz, and thus likes your song for a certain ad. They mock it up and show the ad to the client. The client loves it. Everybodys happy. An offer is made, your publisher calls you- you got the ad! Hooray! Papers are signed. The ad guys go out to celebrate- they just made a lot of money. The clients Creative Dept celebrate- they have a great new ad, with a hip song on it- hooray! They go out to celebrate- maybe with the Ad guys- who knows. They also just made a lot of money.

The publishers are happy- a hefty fee has landed in their account- they've made a lot of money! Lets celebrate!

Far away from California or NYC, a musician calls his friends- I got the ad! Lets celebrate!

But wait - theres something wrong here- the artist has no money yet to celebrate... OK, well thats not so bad- surely, like every single other party involved, the artist can invoice for the money- and in 30 days- hooray! Celebrate!

WRONG. The musician, the lynchpin of this big deal, the deal that is the cause of so much celebration, may have to wait up to a year and a half to get paid.

Nobody else does- from the teaboy on the ad shoot to the cleaner in the ad agencys office, the lawyers, the ad men, every other individual connected with that moment of business will be paid in a sane, normal timeframe.

ONLY the musician is subject to this extended delay- why is this?

Its to do with accounting cycles, corporate disregard for the artist, and a simple bank interest scam.

You see, 30 days or so after its all signed off, the US branch of your publisher collects the dough. Then it holds the money in its  bank account for 6 months until its next payment cycle comes around. Why is this? Because they say so. Thats it- because they say so. Because in the music industry, back in the mists of time some clever accountant had a stroke of genius- you can imagine him shaking with excitement as he presented it to the board...

"I had a simple idea boys, and its going to make us a lot of money- from now on, we dont pay every month, like every other business on earth- we will only pay twice a year. And this is why- because we keep every penny of every big earning employees wages for SIX months at a time- can you IMAGINE the interest we'll make?? And if anyone wants to know why we do this... then the reason is this- because we say so!! "  (STANDING OVATION FROM THE BOARD)


Now in the pre-computer era, with Dickensian shelves of mammoth ledgers full of tiny cramped handwritten figures, and no way to transmit complex information swiftly, human minds had to understand the thousands, millions of transactions necessary for a big business to survive. SO back then it may have been reasonable to delay payment for a month, two months, maybe on occasion for 6 months- whilst your accounts department beavered away, trying to catch up with the never-ending landslide of information.

But we have computers. We've had them a long time. So thats not the reason. A transaction involving a million complex variables can be done in a thousandth of a second.

Theres no real reason for this bi-yearly payout. Its totally abitrary. Its just because they say so. Can you imagine if you tried that?

YOU: "I'll pay my rent in six months"
LANDLORD: "Why?"
YOU: "Because I say so".

(CUT TO SHOT OF FILTHY MAN IN CARDBOARD BOX)

Anyway, I digress- 6 months after they receive it, the artist gets paid, and THEN he can celebrate, right? Hooray!

WRONG- then your publishers US division pays its UK branch. Who instead of making a couple of micro-second calculations to deduct their cut and paying through- hold it on their account until the next payment cycle. The only possible reason? 6 more months of interest for the company! Hooray!

Now a year has passed.. its payday, surely? It MUST be payday now! Hoora...

WRONG- the UK branch of your publisher pays your publishing agent. Your agent also keeps it in his account for 6 months- the smaller fish have learnt from the big sharks over the last decades, and because the big sharks say its OK, the smaller fish has learnt a wonderful trick called the 'payment cycle'. He gets 6 months interest. Why? Because... zzzzzzz

So a year and a half later, the artist finally gets his money.

Now dont get me wrong- its fucking great to get money from an ad, they pay well and its better than most jobs I've had. But heres where the stupidity kicks in: the music business is struggling, so they greedily hold on to their interest to maximise profits. Meanwhile they struggle to find funding for smaller artists- who frequently, buzz or not, are given two singles and if those rocket into profit- possibly an album to prove themselves, and a cripplingly small budget to tour and present themselves. Tour support is crucial- lets say you are a little band with a buzz about them, offered a 30 date support tour for a big international band- that costs a lot of money- staff, roadies, petrol, tour buses, catering ,band wages, flights, hotels... record companys simply wont invest that level of money any more. So you CANT take this opportunity. You have to let it float away. Most artists, given the funds to invest, would seize that moment and self invest.

Now- that initial buzz moment- when a tune catches the zeitgeist and people react- is the moment when an artist NEEDS MONEY THE MOST- to tour, to MAXIMISE the potential of that moment, to pay for the costs of equipment, a studio to work in, the funds to build on that crucial fucking split second when opportunity is there. And at that moment, some lucky artists get a further break- they get an advert- so in one stroke of luck - their exposure goes sky high AND they have the funds to hurl themselves into touring.

Lets recap- everything is now in place- the buzz is there, the music is good, the exposure is sky high, the advert pays the artist enough to money to tour with anyone, to INVEST in that moment.

And what does the current set-up do? It takes that money away for a year and a half.

In a nutshell then:  So many musicians work like dogs for years to get to the point where they start to break through, then stall from lack of funds. The few that self-generate the funds to continue past this point have those funds suspended until after the crucial moment passes.

Its a typical self-defeating piece of music industry stupidity, based on a cheap swindle, stemming from a mindset that prizes short-term profit over longer term strategy.

Both the fact the aforementioned beer advert was 'green lit' without my knowledge, and my main point- that its regarded as ethically acceptable for the musician to be paid last in order to maximize profit- are down to a deeply inbred fault in music industry culture- and are symptomatic of the patronising stance of the corporate music industry towards the artists they live off:


The artist is seen as a disposable commodity, easily replaced and transitory- and as such can be used up quickly and casually disposed of like any other cheap replaceable resource.




NJW
Berlin 2009

thats it, i mean it. the tide turns here.

and the same goes for LMFAO and ROFL.


enough.



Update August 18th 2008:

Amount of friends that jokingly used LOL in a message to me: 12.
Amount of friends immediately and permanently blocked: 12.

Who was it that talked about achieving enlightment through 'the long slow derangement of the senses'? Or words to that effect... it was Rimbaud.

Thats exactly the kind of literary soundbite that mistakenly got me all worked up when I was a wide-eyed teenage suburban sucker. I embraced advice like that wholeheartedly, and immediately used it as an excuse to take/drink everything I could get my greedy little claws into. Suddenly I was not an annoying teenage drunk- I was following a rich literary tradition. Those pointers of rebellion became massive flashing signposts to me, and I have been careering off in various random directions ever since. Thanks a lot Rimbaud. You asshole.

Well after my twenty years of richocheting around various blurry situations, I can report that there is one sure outcome from attempting 'the long slow derangement of the senses'. Hands up if you can guess what it is.... thats right - derangement. What a surprise. The quote came back to me earlier today as I lay zombified in my bed, wishing I had not been out on a 10 day session... and it occurred to me if I had known certain information as a teenager, then I could have taken a more rounded view of the quote (not that it would really have made any difference to me).

Heres some disturbing background info. Rimbaud was only 15 when he knocked out that famous quote. So the 'long slow' bit has to be factually somewhat of an exaggeration- he was a total bookworm at school, top in all of his subjects, and once won a prize for an essay self-titled 'Why I Want To Be A Capitalist'. He certainly wasnt knocking back absinthe after choir practice. So, for 'long slow derangement', please substitute 'I just tried my first hashpipe'. Rimbaud only followed his rebellious blueprint for two full years, and at the end of that year he got so paranoid he iost the plot and (a) actually went and got his friends mum and begged her to save them, and (b) then got the police to arrest his lover/best friend for being out of it, and (c) gave up drink, drugs, and writing forever. And then he JOINED THE ARMY (!)

Shortly after he became an arms dealer in Africa. Rimbaud never wrote poetry again.

And thats the afterstory that all the beat poetry bores and the jim morrison bores dont want to tell you- so I suggest that the aforementioned Bohemian maxim should now come with a built-in disclaimer:

"One must achieve visionary power through the long slow derangement of the senses (but only for two years, and please dont overdo it or you might flip out completely, set the police on your mates, join the army, and never do anything creative again)"

MISSION TO MOSCOW
HUGE, DUSTY, ROARING, FREEZING, SCOWLING, SINGING, DRINKING.

A CONTINUOUS TRAFFIC JAM, BIG FURIOUS MEN HUNCHED OVER THEIR STEERING WHEELS, POUNDING THE HORNS OF THEIR TINY DECREPIT CARS. AT TIMES THE AIR IS RANCID WITH EXHAUST.

A CAREFULLY CONSTRUCTED SANDY BEACH IN AN ANCIENT ARCHED CELLAR, WHERE PALE HIPSTERS IN CHEAP IMITATION RAYBANS DRANK WARM VODKA SHOTS FROM PLASTIC CUPS, THEN DANCED BAREFOOT IN THE SAND, DIGGING IN THEIR TOES.

I READ IN THE MOSCOW TIMES THAT THE FIRST STARBUCKS OPENED RECENTLY IN MOSCOW. THOSE WHO COULD AFFORD IT ON OPENING DAY CAME AND BOUGHT THEIR DE-CAF SOY LATTES. OTHERS QUIETLY SLIPPED IN AND STOLE ALL THE TOILET SEATS FOR THEIR HOMES.

AND THE CIGARETTES, EVERYWHERE, IN CABS, SHOPS, IN ELEVATORS, BARS AND CAFES, IN AIRPORTS, ON TRAINS, A WHOLE NATION WITH WHITE SMOKE RUNNING FROM ITS MOUTH. THE DRAINS, THE CORNERS OF STEPS, THE CRACKS IN THE PAVEMENT, ALL OVERFLOW LIKE ASHTRAYS.

I KEPT WONDERING WHY KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN HERE HAD DISPENSED WITH THE IMAGE OF THE COLONEL, AND INSTEAD USED THE IMAGE OF A SMILING CHICKEN IN A CHEFS HAT. I EVENTUALLY REACHED THE CONCLUSION THAT COLONEL SANDERS LOOKS TOO MUCH LIKE LENIN.

FOR NEARLY AN HOUR MY TRAIN TO THE AIRPORT PASSED THROUGH ESTATES BUILT ON A SCALE THAT MADE THE SINKHOLES OF BRITAIN AND THE PROJECTS OF NEW YORK APPEAR QUAINT AND INSIGNIFICANT. A STARK PROCESSION OF SLABS, EACH ONE A STACK OF A THOUSAND LITTLE CUBES, EVERYBODY GRIMLY EQUAL. BETWEEN THESE GIANTS THE GROUND IS SCRUB, AND DOTTED WITH LITTLE FIRES OF JUNK, AROUND WHICH MEN STAND APART AND SOLEMNLY DRINK. SOME STAND ALONE AMONGST THE TREES AT THE EDGE OF THE RAIL TRACKS, AND WATCH THE TRAINS PASS. ALL OF THESE MEN ARE HOLDING A BOTTLE OR A CAN, NONE APPEAR TO HAVE AN EXPRESSION.

HAVE I PAINTED AN UNPLEASANT PICTURE? - DONT GET ME WRONG- I PREFER THIS PLACE TO LONDON, THIS PLACE HAS A LIFE THAT LONDON HAS LOST, THIS PLACE FEELS A LITTLE UNHINGED, DANGEROUS. AND IT FEELS LIKE ITS CHANGING- EVERYTHING IN MOSCOW IS A LITTLE FUCKED, BUT THE SKYLINE IS BRISTLING WITH CRANES AND CONSTRUCTION. LONDON, HOMOGENISED, OVERPOLISHED LONDON, WITH ITS CHARACTERLESS STREETS OF AMERICAN CHAINS, ITS RULES AGAINST SMOKING, RUNNING, BALLGAMES, CHEWING GUM, PUBLIC DRINKING, HAS LOST SOMETHING.

BY COMPARISON, AS A CITY LONDON SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN NEUTERED

"I always said, 'Hey, you can have whatever rules you want — I'm going to have mine. I'll accept the guilt. I'll pay the check. I'll do the time.' I chose my own way"

SOME MISERABLE/CRAZY/DRUNK EUROPEANS


GOGOL - DIARY OF A MADMAN. If you enjoy this, look for THE OVERCOAT/THE NOSE (short stories, in most collections of his work.) 'Diary' is a dark and subtly comic fable of a man losing his mind.

DOSTOYEVSKY- NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND. Essential. If you have not read this, read it soon. A similiar theme to the Gogol story. A chance to get right inside the mind of a meticulously created loner. An outsider classic.

Those two are on most sophomore hipster reading lists. Some of the following are a little more obscure...

MARCEL AYME- THE WALKER THROUGH WALLS (1932). French author, and sadly currently out of print in English.... you have to find this book through second-hand specialists, try ebay. Strange strange STRANGE short stories, principally written during the 1930's by an absurdly talented young writer who eventually drank himself to death. Examples- a happy and successful circus dwarf who is ruined when he suddenly grows to full height on his 35th birthday.... a shifty underworld character who is horribly embarassed/shunned by his peers when he grows a halo.. a crazed alcoholic who awakes in a world of talking wine bottles. In fact i have to re-read this book, it blew me away a few years ago. I found mine when I stopped to look in a crate outside a book shop, and there were scrunched up ripped-out pages all over this box.. i read one and it was so well written and strikingly odd that i spent about 20 minutes finding every page and making sure i got the whole book. I tried to find another copy since.. like I said, hard to find. Worth it though. Good luck.

KNUT HAMSUN-HUNGER (1890). One of my all time favourites. A pitiless story of a proud young artist who is literally starving to death in the middle of a city through poverty, but cannot lower himself to beg, steal or ask for help. A the book progresses he descends into a hallucinatory state... predictably, its got a deeply depressing climax. The book is bleak but utterly worth it. Again, a classic. Written in a style so clear that it seems fresh and modern.

PAR LAGERKVIST- THE DWARF (1944). This writer went on to win a Nobel prize for literature. This is his best book ( in my personal opinion). Its the story of a murderous dwarf, kept as a court favourite by a rennaisance prince... sort of a human pet, lives in his own tiny little apartment in the kings place, has a little suit of armor just like the kings etc etc. In secret this figure of fun is proud of his size, and considers himself a member of an older , superior race to mankind. He is actually a fearless, contradictory psychopath, skilled ith the manufacture of lethal poisons. A great unmade movie.

NABOKOV- DESPAIR (1936) This novel is based on a simple idea which many authors have tackled- a man meets his exact double.....and I shall not spoil it by going any further into it. Nabokovs first classic. If you enjoy this then you must also read: JAMES HOGG-THE PRIVATE MEMOIRS AND CONFESSIONS OF A JUSTIFIED SINNER (1824), and DOSTOYEVSKY- THE DOUBLE. I could happily ramble on at length about dualism as a literary theme- but I wont.

Now to cross the Atlantic for our second and final part..(cue stock footage of Big Ben, a 70's jumbo jet taking off, then we cut to a shot of the statue of liberty, and then...)

SOME MISERABLE/CRAZY/DRUNK/DEPRESSING AMERICANS


Firstly, anything by Poe. ANYTHING. He's one of the all-time greats. A drunk, a dreamer, and a desperate failure during his life. He lived briefly in England as a little boy..I used to live by a church which he wrote about once...little Edgar would run past it on dark winters evenings because its appearance scared him. I have to agree it still looks pretty horrible now.

JIM THOMPSON- Basically, just read all of his books. Regarded by many, many great American authors as a sort of Pope of underground writing. Memorably nicknamed the 'Dimestore Dostoyevsky'. I think this guy was one of the most raw, darkly funny and most honest writers of all time. An unflinching spotlight shining straight on the darkest corners of human nature. THE KILLER INSIDE ME is so good. Its the story of an amiable 'good old boy' doofus of a deputy sheriff in a small cutesy rural town- who is really a total psychopath. A sort of blood splattered Jimmy Stewart giving you a cheerful monologue as he commits various horrible murders. Hilarious/grim. Read this book first, then read POPULATION 1280, also by Thompson.

CHARLES WILLEFORD- BURNT ORANGE HERESY (1967). This guy also gets dumped in the crime section of most bookstores. His novels are very loosely crime novels- and like Thompson, theres normally a murder, or a criminal central character. But they are writen with a deadpan cool that elevate this way above the genre pulp that bookstore clerks are trained to shelve him with. This story is about a greedy art critic obsessd with trying to track down the worlds greatest painter, who supposedly lives as a hermit deep in the alligator infested Florida swamplands.

Okay... arm-ache kicking in...

JOHN KENNEDY TOOLE- A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES. I read this book in my teens and I have been on about it ever since. Toole was a struggling young writer who killed himself after multiple rejections by publishers (whether it was because of these rejections is a matter for conjecture... it certainly cant have helped). His indefatigable mother then went round and round the publishing houses for 11 years with his manuscript- and got nothing but rejections. For ELEVEN years. Eventually a publisher with a fresh perspective read it -after being told by a senior editor to not bother. The publisher read it- loved it- published it- and it won the Pulitzer Prize for literature. Well done Mrs Toole. He/she deserved the Pulitzer. The central character is a classic piece of comic writing- Ignatius P. Reilly, an overweight pompous self-proclaimed genius in his 30's who still lives with his mother. Ignatius is suddenly forced to leave home and confront what he perceives as a decadent, dangerous and idiotic world.

And finally, my absolute favourite American novel of the last decade:

J. ROBERT LENNON- MAILMAN. A neurotic, good natured small town mailman and his gradual descent into oblivion. Seriously funny at times, but so sad that I feel a little depressed even remembering the experience of reading it.
A real heartbreaking masterpiece.
Please buy this book tomorrow.

There. Thats it. I didnt even attempt to do the miserable crazy drunk depressing English writers. I'll maybe do that another time. NJW

"...but behind their desperate activities lay always, it seemed to me, immense and unacknowledged boredom - the dead-weight of material things worked up into Gods, that only bored their worshippers more and worse and longer".

Any idea who this is?


Nathan
Too much time on his hands
East London

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."