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RECORD PRODUCER CHRISTOPHERSON



Last Updated: 11/19/2009

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State: Washington
Country: US
Signup Date: 6/1/2006

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Wednesday, January 21, 2009 

Violinist in the Metro--- Wash, DC

A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.
 

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule. A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk. A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work. 

The one who paid the most attention was a 3-year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.


No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.


Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.


This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of an social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context? 


One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?

Sunday, January 20, 2008 

 (a message to bandless songwriters) 

PURSUE A CAREER IN A WAY THAT 1) SAVES MONEY 2) GETS FASTER RESULTS 3) ATTRACTS BETTER MUSICIANS 4) EARNS MORE MONEY 5) MAKES YOUR MUSIC SOUND BETTER, 6) ALLOWS MORE CAREER CONTROL 7) GETS BETTER GIGS 8) ATTRACTS INVESTORS. 

We will never know how many great songs never saw the light of day because undiscovered songwriters bought into the old school mindset: a songwriter must have a performing band before recording.

Here is an alternate approach to music, which we will refer to here as "CD before band." It has been used as a starting point for hundreds of successful artists, yet is relatively unknown to most aspiring songwriters. In a nutshell, you do things backwards: Beginning with a CD-quality recording. As a band is put together (which is easier when you have great- sounding professional music) the artist simultaneously submits to labels, radio stations, management companies, booking agents, independent promoters, publicists and local clubs.

Here are a few reasons why the "CD before band" approach saves money and gets faster results: 

1) SAVES MONEY

It's no secret that having a band costs money. If you choose to put a band together before doing serious recording, you must consider expenses on several fronts:

Rehearsal costs can be huge, and in the real world, rehearsals often occur after an 8-hour workday. With the most expensive arrangement, bands keep their equipment set up in their own rehearsal room at all times. In other situations, band practice time begins with musicians moving their equipment from a storage area into the rehearsal room itself. Often, each band member hauls equipment home after each practice session, storing it somewhere else until the next rehearsal, repeating the process each time. So It's entirely conceivable that the band members are moving drums and heavy amplifiers four times per single rehearsal (into vehicle at home, out of vehicle at rehearsal, then reversing the routine when band practice is done).

There are real costs of rehearsing a band, depending on whether you run the PA system yourself or rent it out. And don't forget guitar and bass strings and drum sticks and tubes for amps and general equipment repair and maintenance. 

Live performances are fun, but from a business perspective, shows will undoubtedly fall into the "expenses" category. Remember that after flyers and posters for each show are designed and paid for, each band member is expected to become a marketer, hyping friends and sending emails to everyone each time the band does a show.

In highly competitive environments like Hollywood or other major cities, clubs often require bands to guarantee ticket sales. If the performance contract is not fulfilled, the band pays penalty fees.

For example, a 4-member band might be required to sell 100 tickets in order to play a show. So each member must personally sell 25 tickets (when he or she isn't working their day job or rehearsing in evenings). This type of situation can be OK, but it doesn't exactly make everyone feel more creative. In fact, it can suck the fun and the team-spirit vibe right out of the band. 

As a part for their marketing campaign, many bands pay for expensive display ads or radio spots. Some clubs charge mandatory "promotion fees," to cover costs of this kind of advertising. And don't forget the often overlooked part of doing shows, finding and training a soundman who knows your material! Hint: the guy who is willing to do your sound for free is the one you don't want.

Then there is the expense and time-investment for a crew: guitars techs and drum techs. Flyers for shows require a professional photo session. Yes, everyone's sister has a new digital camera. But the picture won't project a marketable image for the band unless you have a pro take care of it for you. Here's what 90% of amateur bands don't understand: If you don't have a professional shoot your promotion photos, then you may very well be sending this message to record labels and people you wish to impress "We are beginners who do not understand the importance of image and marketing." It's about looking like the real thing to industry veterans. 

Some of the artists you are competing with will be budgeted for every possible thing, including wardrobe expenses, stage set designers, lights show costs, and there are even professional stage presence coaches. It can go on and on.  

2) FASTER RESULTS

Is the "CD before band" route more time-efficient? Yes, and for many reasons. Bands often spend 12-months looking for the right bassist or drummer! After someone with the right playing skill, attitude, goals and experience is found, personality conflicts can later surface... in a month or in a year. Long after the band has invested in the learning time required by a new band member. 

Do you want your career to bounce up and down according to other people's personal problems and adolescent dramas? Bad business formula.

3) ATTRACT PRO MUSICIANS

How much better would your original songs sound if they were played by top professionals? No industry veteran will argue with this truth: Bands with professionally produced songs attract the highest caliber players. The alternative to "CD before band"? As a bandless songwriter, the artist must sort through an ocean of local players.

Lets talk about you, as a songwriter, sifting through local musicians to put a band behind your songs.

For the moment, lets say you've been able to get the word out about putting together a band. You now face a dual objective: Weed out the flakes, and at the same time convince callers that you are their best chance of music biz success. As a bandless songwriter, you are in an awkward position. You are attempting to interest musicians in your project... despite the fact that you do not have management, financial backing, bookings, attorney, label interest or industry track record.

It's like trying to sell a car without wheels. And don't forget this: Serious players, the ones that can truly propel your career forward, have their own flake-eliminator antenna up. They are searching for a situation with the greatest potential for upward mobility and the fewest obstacles. The experienced players will ask intelligent questions:

Here are some of the questions the experienced heavy hitters will ask (remember, these are the musicians you want in your band): "Do you have financial backing? Have you attracted record label interest? Radio connections? Any booking agents or hot contacts for shows? Any connections for getting on major bills as a warm up act?

Serious musicians, i.e. the ones you hope to hire snare, will expect answers to these questions. But they are also listening for other things. Do you sound confident as you explain the situation? Do you sound like you are making it up as you go? Do you seem like the kind of person that can take your music all the way to the finish line? 

If your goal is to have a performing band before recording your CD, this will be the biggest obstacle: you do not have a recording that accurately represents your professionalism and musical vision. In the absence of well-recorded music, you will have choice but to communicate the depth and nuances of your musical vision with words.

Lets say you have an amateur demo, and you are using this to play for interested musicians. What are the chances of an amateur demo luring the very best players in the city? "Oh, all you have is a very basic demo?" may be the cool response of people you really want in your band. The beginners and players without a track record aren't so picky. The reality is that the players that are chomping at the bit to get in the band may be the ones that have trouble passing auditions. 

Serious songwriters be forewarned: For each player who has their act together, you will interview ten musicians who do not have the talent, attitude, or work style to fit your goals.

If you are dead serious about finding solid committed players, your search may feel like a "wanna be" nightmare. On the phone, everyone claims to be a professional. But which musician will cancel at the last minute because their mom can't drive them to the audition? Which musicians will schedule a time with no real intention of even showing up? Are there musicians answering ads who do not even own their own instrument? Absolutely. Will they volunteer that information? No. Because the industry thrives on hype, it's not easy to know who will ultimately be wasting your time.

These are reasons why putting together a band without the forward inertia of a professionally produced CD is time-consuming and expensive. As you can see, the road requires the songwriter to become a sort of used car salesman, requiring skillful use of smoke and mirrors. From a business perspective, it's the slow way to gather momentum, often resulting in a sea of endless expenses and obstacles.

In some ways, it's a balancing act. How many bass player and drummer auditions will the new guitarist put up with before he or she bails? 

4) EARN MORE MONEY

With the "CD before band" approach, the singer / songwriter demonstrates resourcefulness, business know-how, and the ability to write songs. That's awesome for lots of reasons. Most importantly, the record companies are focused on YOU.

Singers attempting to start their career the more traditional way, by first putting a band together, join the invisible crowd of other unsigned artists submitting demos. These artists all sincerely believe their recordings are great. They submit to radio stations, local press, management companies, concert promoters, record labels and the music industry at large. Real world example: A recent unsigned talent contest generated 40,000 entries, with online advertising only!

Also, with the traditional "band before CD" situations, the band members who rehearsed and performed prior to pivotal recordings often feel they are entitled to compensation as songwriter(s). For this reason, many bands make personnel changes (or break up!) after commercial success. Think about this aspect of the band-before CD approach: More work. More time investment. More expenses. And when you finally get to the finish line... you make less money! Why? Because the other musicians want you to write them into ongoing royalties. 

5) MORE CONTROL OF YOUR CAREER

With the "CD before band" approach, it is obviously the songwriter that put the studio and producer and music together in the first place. And in the big picture, it was you who then offered real opportunities to other players. Bottom line: Your CD made everything else possible.

So what? So the record label is focused on keeping you happy. Congratulations, your life is less about adolescent band dramas, and more about hiring the best musicians and paying them fairly. Music industry decision-makers are interested the people who write the songs! 

Because the band is about your songs, your career is less about personality conflicts, drug problems or other personal problems that create complications, slow your career down, or result in the loss of a recording contract.

Record labels often exclude non-songwriters from recording contracts. In the "CD before band" scenario, the original songwriter is the undisputed leader and propelling force behind the band. Stability is a rare commodity in this business, so if you can create that for yourself, more power to you! 

6) BETTER MUSIC

Beginning your career with the traditional band-before-CD route, your bandmates will be creating the musical parts for your songs. Those parts that will eventually be recorded... often at the expense of your original musical vision. Most aspiring musicians do not have the insight or perspective a qualified producer brings to the table. The skill level of band members can cripple a song, or take it to the next level. Without a veteran producer on your team, it's going to be up to you to know the difference.

Therefore, in band-before-CD approach, the character of your songs is the result of a vote (at best) between band members who often have little or no experience in songwriting, production or arrangement.

If you don't like the way a band member's playing is shaping your songs, you have two choices. You can do nothing and allow your musical vision to be compromised, or place a musician-wanted ad and open your door to another cattle-call. It's very important to understand the gravity of this predicament that you, as a songwriter, may find yourself in. If you don't like your bass player, you must then ask every other band member to place their careers on hold while you start from scratch searching for a new bass player. A task requiring additional rehearsals, time and money investment from the career-minded players in your band.

Also, if your songs aren't sounding right, how will you be able to identify which parts and/or bandmembers are limiting the potential of your tunes? That requires a good set of experienced ears.

Remember, by choosing to make a personnel change, you are asking exceptionally talented players who have invested a substantial investment of time and money, to put everything on hold. They may feel they are taking a step backwards because the goal of playing shows has been replaced with endless auditions and more waiting while another new member gets up to speed. 

With the "CD before band" approach as described here, each musical element is painstakingly aligned to a vision shared by the songwriter and the producer (more about session musicians later).  

 

7) BETTER GIGS 

Maybe "CD before band," should actually be called "CD before band and gigs."

Wouldn't it be cool to start playing your hometown club scene at the top? Performing for packed audiences at the hottest venues sure beats playing embarrassing off-nights in front of mom, dad, and your girlfriend. Most live music fans know that Friday and Saturday nights are reserved for the very best talent.

With most clubs, Sunday through Thursday nights are opportunities for new acts that have not yet developed a following. Bands that recorded at uncle Joe's home studio (yes it's true, all their friends think it sounds "awesome") and are trying to get an agent and radio play and press... like every other band with a recording software or a hard disk recorder. 

You, on the other hand, can arm yourself with a professional CD demonstrating the highest levels of professionalism, accentuating aspects of your talents that lesser recordings would not reveal. 

The "CD before band" approach gives you the career-advancing momentum other songwriters do not possess. Your own CD with songs and a sound that is competitive with big budget releases will change everything, and places you, in a whole different category in the minds of music industry professionals. Here's what can happen in a very short period of time:

1)   Radio stations are playing your songs.

2) Legit Artist Management in New York has asked to see the band live.

3) Two record companies have offered to help pay for a demo of your newest songs.

4) Your CD is selling at AMAZON.COM.

5) The band is developing a fan-base all over the world via MP3 song samples and it's own website.

6) For the next photo session, the band is now deciding between 3 professional photographers.

7) CD's are selling well at packed local shows.

8) Your MySpace site is exploding with 500 new friends each week. 

Sure, every band hypes club owners and booking agents. But when people in the industry hear an over-the-top CD, they EXPECT BIG THINGS TO HAPPEN.

Lets talk about a best-case scenario: What happens when local journalists, club owners, and booking agents spot a band obviously destined for the big time? They jump onboard. They want to be one of the people who helped "break the band," ...to be able to say they were "right there when it happened."

A band in this situation receives additional help on every level. Local industry professionals participate in any way they can. It's gives them additional credibility. Your bands success is one more success story for their resume. Imagine industry veterans helping to put together your band, while your CD sells online. Imagine the "snowball effect" of industry buzz ...about your songs! Your band. A careful look at virtually any major label signing will reveal a similar scenario.

8) ATTRACT INVESTORS

As far as designing your own music career, you are better off with just about any scenario short of using a record label for investment capitol. Private investors (or to put it simply, people with money) want three things: 1) ego fulfillment, 2) fun, and 3) involvement in a situation that makes them feel creative.

Financial investors want to feel important, like the rest of us. Which band is more fun to work with? ...one that gigged 5-years before getting some local airplay and good reviews, or a band that accomplishes the same in 3 months?

Put yourself in the investor's shoes. If you had a boatload of money, which band would you pick as a business investment? Which band would be the most exciting business endeavor?...The band that breaks all the rules by starting at the top, or the band that started at the bottom, kept showing up, and by default, developed a following? There is no question about it. The band with an unstoppable CD and the element of surprise is an investors dream-come-true.   

HOW DOES A SONGWRITER "GET  A BAND" IN THE RECORDING STUDIO? 

1) Professional production, 2) Expert programming utilizing MIDI and samples, and 3) Great musicians. Note: If you've heard amateur musicians playing around with MIDI, then you know how bad MIDI can sound. But in the hands of a beginner, so can Jimi Hendrix's guitars. 

In one form or another, MIDI is a tool used by every top producer. MIDI and samples can be used to create temporary building blocks. Used in this way, they are tools allowing the producer and artist to explore ideas and arrangements possibilities without the expense of re-recording drums and other parts. The result: Higher production values. Superior song arrangements. Easier on the wallet. 

As far as the "great musicians" part of the equation, session players can be an crucial part of a songwriters career launch. A typical session musician situation might go like this: A session player arrives at the recording studio and listens to your song. After working with the song for 20-minutes, the session musician records the ultimate performance.

NOTE: There is a whole world of nuances, listening skills, and playing skills required by the highest caliber radio-style productions. Musicians without these advanced skills are usually unaware that these nuances exist. Because they do not hear how professional musicians play to the finer nuances of music, they reason that they can record and play as well as the top players in their field. It's a catch- 22 situation, resulting in a great deal of confusion for songwriters putting together bands, as well as for producers opening their doors to new local talent.

Bottom line with session players: In about an hour, he will probably record better tracks than the guy who has been playing the song for a year. And from a dollars and cents standpoint, chalk another up for the CD-before band approach. How much time and money is involved with rehearsing a band for a year? And if you are keeping a band rehearsing for a year (so that you can eventually record a CD), what other substantial time and money investments would should be considered?

We don't hear much about session players because from a marketing standpoint, fans want to hear music created by "a band." Music fans don't want to think of our favorite artist in terms of business transactions, or musicians loaning their talents out at an hourly rate. But session players are a time-tested reality of the music business with an undisputed track record. Music recorded with session pros has resulted in a continuous flow of major label signings and hundreds of gold and platinum successes.

If you want to hear successful music that was created in this way... turn on the radio!

HOW MANY SONGS SHOULD BE ON A "CD?"

The music industry once frowned upon CD's (or albums) with less than 10 – 13 songs. These days, publicists, radio people and industry decision-makers welcome CD's with less tracks. Why? A three to six song release requires less listening time and is therefore easier to review. EP's are good news for songwriters because:  

1) Fewer songs means more production time for each tune, resulting in higher overall production values.

2) Fewer songs is easier on the budget.

3) Fewer songs means only the best material gets released. The weak songs don't get heard, increasing chances of commercial success and enhancing public perception.

REMEMBER: A) Impressive sales, strong production values and great songs are the necessary ingredients for generating local radio and press. B) Record labels focus on artists that are able to create momentum on their own.

When was the last time you heard a recording studio ask their clients to record fewer songs? Rather than cash in on a heap of studio hours, we'd rather know that a CD with our name on it is going make a big impression no matter where it is heard.

A producer looks at each CD as a business card. Either attracting more business or pushing it away. When a CD is extraordinary, the artists career moves forward, as does the producer who helped make it happen. It's called a resume.

The quantity-based approach to CD production is the fastest way to waste money, and it's the most common mistake among aspiring songwriters (the second most common mistake is lack of stylistic focus). With quantity as a priority, production values are compromised, and bands unknowingly suck the potential out of material. Listen to the radio. Those are songs that have been arranged and re-arranged and re-written and massaged until they sounded... like songs on the radio.

Just say NO to the voice in your head that says, "we will record every one of our 14 songs if it's the last thing we do." It's a beginner strategy, and nine times out of ten, it's a train that will crash. Instead, pick your best 3, and take those songs (and your career) to the next level. 

GREAT SONGS: CUSTOM-WRITTEN FOR YOU 

Songwriting is a part of every CD project at Christopherson Productions. A composer with a music industry track record is able to finish songs that seem to be stuck as incomplete song forms, or promising ideas that somehow fell victim to writers block. A skilled songsmith can custom compose full genre-specific songs, or partial works, depending on the needs of the songwriter. Radio programmers chose "Soul rendezvous" as the first radio single from the Lynn Maas CD "Wingless Angel." Music and melody for the song was custom composed by Christopherson for Lynn. Hear the song now at www.LynnMaas.com.

Our in-house publishing company, Cherishment Music, is administered through BMI. So if having a publishing company with a track record in both radio and national media is important to you, then submit your copyrighted material right away! 

Many happy clients have entire songs custom-written for their own CD releases. Songs written by Daniel Christopherson have been featured in major motion picture soundtracks (Warren Miller's "Journey" viewed for 500,000 in 2004), Fox Television shows, and in CD productions by Lynn Maas ("Wingless Angel" CD now receiving national airplay), Kathy Walker, Washington State Idol Contest winner Jessica Oliver, Elle Scott, Ryan Marsh, One Zillion Guitars, Laurie Solheim, Our Funeral Forgotten, Damnaged and Petra Tilotta (KLSY 92.5 FM and KOMO 5 TV Talent Search), the talented young lady who sings the National Anthem at Mariners games. 

BY DANIEL CHRISTOPHERSON COPYRIGHT 2007

Sunday, November 18, 2007 
14 SONGWRITING MYTHS: The most common misconceptions


By John Capek.

John Capek has achieved international acclaim as a composer, songwriter, keyboard player, producer, and arranger and scorer for feature films, television and platinum-selling artists such as Rod Stewart, Cher, Diana Ross, Joe Cocker, Toto, Chicago, Olivia Newton John, Little River Band, Heart, Manhattan Transfer, Bonnie Raitt and Amanda Marshall.


The Most Common Misconceptions


1. A hit song is easy to write; all you have to do is 'dumb down' and sell out.

2. It only takes a few minutes to write a song.

3. Any musician can write a song.

4. Britney Spears can't sing, Hillary Duff has no talent and Jessica Simpson is a pretender.

5. Lyrics don't matter, nobody listens to lyrics.

6. Songwriting cannot be taught, you either have it or you don't.

7. The established music industry, comprised of music publishers and labels, are in a global conspiracy to prevent my songs from being heard.

8. There is an audience for my inner pain and songs are a vehicle for my self analysis - a form of psychotherapy.

9. Il Divo, Andrea Bocelli, Rod Stewart, Michael Buble, Josh Groban and Barry Manilow are achieving their enormous commercial success as a result of some aberration or force that does not reflect what audiences actually want to hear.

10. The only reason that I am not achieving the success that I aspire to is because I do not have the right contacts, or 'can't get my foot in the door'.

11. It's OK to hate everything that's out there right now.

12. Song demos are simply demos and require only a minimum of production and performance.

13. If only the money, the time, the right singer, the right musician, a better studio, engineer or mixer, a more forgiving partner were available, then everything would be OK and success would be achieved.

14. This sound system sucks. If you could hear my song on a better system you would
like it.

-----



1. A hit song is easy to write, all you have to do is 'dumb down' and sell out.

My best friend in my songwriting is the waste paper basket and the erase button on my computer. The vast majority of great copyrights, the songs that last through the ages were written by highly skilled craftsmen and women. Songwriting is a craft as well as an art.
I and my peers spend days, weeks and months looking for the perfect combination of lyric and melody, editing, discarding and crafting what we do. The task is time consuming and meticulous. Each note and each syllable must count.

Presenting an idea in its simplest, most accessible form is not 'dumbing down'. It is in fact a Zen-like process where we as artists/crafts people want our work to be accepted by as large an audience as possible. We speak the language of song and want to be understood.

I have often marveled at how some songs and songwriters are accused as having 'sold out' to get a hit. I believe that this is impossible. 'Selling out' would imply that there is some special formula that one can follow to guarantee a hit song. If such a thing existed then, of course, everyone would be writing hit songs and making zillions of dollars.

The songwriters who have been accused of 'selling out' are following their own truths. We are not all complicated people with philosophical depths to expose or Verdi-like melodies to share. Some of us are content to write a simple sexy love song that can share a common feeling with a large audience. This is not selling out. It is actually extremely difficult to do.

The great songs of musical theater from the 1940's, written by Cole Porter and George Gershwin, have tremendous beauty in their simplicity. The early Beatles songs were simple and successful. James Blunt has spoken his truth; he did not dumb down and sell out.

2. It only takes a few minutes to write a song.

Some of my songs did in fact 'write themselves' in a few minutes. However, it took about ten years and a thousand songs to get to that point. In fact, my more successful songs have taken weeks and months to complete.

3. Any musician can write a song

Skill with a musical instrument is totally unrelated to the ability to compose a song. Many legendary songwriters had limited instrumental skills or none at all. It is said that Michael Jackson does not play an instrument, and Irving Berlin could only play in one key.
Many great classical virtuoso instrumentalists have no composition skills at all.

4. Britney Spears can't sing, Hillary Duff has no talent and Jessica Simpson is a pretender.

Most of the artists that are often considered to be 'too commercial' have developed major skills since their childhood. Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera were professional actors, dancers and singers as children with Disney's Mickey Mouse Club long before they became internationally famous. They certainly have tremendous abilities, skill and talent in all areas of songwriting and performance.

5. Lyrics don't matter, nobody listens to lyrics.

Lyrics have changed the world: consider songs like 'Imagine', 'If I had A Hammer', 'Give Peace A Chance' and 'What's Going On'. Even if we, as an audience, are not immediately conscious of lyrics, they will always have a subliminal effect on us. When they are not correctly placed, when they are not engaging, when grammar and syntax, gender and tense is not correct, and when lyrics and melody do not work together, we do not respond to the song.

6. Songwriting cannot be taught, you either have it or you don't.

I will contradict myself with this subject. I actually believe that songwriting cannot be taught academically. That means, if we dwell on the deconstruction of hit songs and analyze all of the elements, I do not believe that this will necessarily help us to write our own hit song. In fact there are only a couple of rules: 1. Don't be boring, and 2. Keep it short.

I do believe, however, that songwriting can be taught in the form of games and exercises as outlined in my book "HOW TO WRITE A HIT SONG WITHOUT REALLY TRYING".

Attending seminars and workshops is also helpful and hearing the stories shared by successful songwriters can be inspirational.

7. The established music industry, comprised of music publishers and labels, are in a global conspiracy to prevent your songs from being heard.

The industry receives thousands of demos each week. The vast majority of them are poorly crafted, boring, badly recorded and irrelevant.When I write a great song, it will find its way. The industry is in fact desperate for great songs.

8. There is an audience for my inner pain and songs are a vehicle for my self analysis - a form of psychotherapy.

Nobody is really interested in my inner pain. An audience wants to hear a good story. Human beings share their existence on this planet via the telling of stories. If that (song) story can share a commonly held feeling, then we are successful. We are, however, required to tell our stories in a concise, interesting way. That is the most challenging part of being a successful songwriter.

9. Il Divo, Andrea Bocelli, Rod Stewart, Michael Buble, Josh Groban and Barry Manilow are achieving their enormous commercial success as a result of some aberration or force that does not reflect what audiences actually want to hear.

Audiences love a great tune. They always have and they always will.

10. The only reason that I am not achieving the success that I aspire to is because I do not have the right contacts, or 'can't get my foot in the door'.

In fact, if I'm not reaching anyone with my songs, it is simply because they are not good enough. That is a painful truth. Live with that truth or live in denial.

11. It's OK to hate everything that's out there right now.

If I hate all contemporary music, it is probably time to consider another career. Having a passion and love for popular music is essential in order to move forward as a songwriter.

12. Song demos are simply demos and require only a minimum of production and performance.

With today's technology, there is no such thing as a demo. All recordings are now potential masters.

13. If only the money, the time, the right singer, the right musician, a better studio, engineer or mixer, a more forgiving partner were available, then everything would be OK and success would be achieved.

I do not send anything out into the world unless it is perfect to me. I use a self editing tool that I call the 'cringe factor'. When I listen to my work and there's a feeling of 'I wish I did this or that thing' or, 'If only I could', then it's not ready to go. I simply wait for the time and the opportunity to make it perfect.

14. This sound system sucks. If you could hear my song on a better system you would
like it.

The art of a great mix is in making the music sound good anywhere. If I am not skilled as an engineer or mixer, I work with someone who is. I test my mixes on different speakers, different systems and in the car. If the song is strong enough, the vocal performance exciting enough and the mix engineer skilled enough, my work sounds good anywhere.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007 

This is my favorite poem ever. I'll let the Buddhist Monk writer Thich Nhat Hanh introduce it:
.....................

After a long meditation, I wrote this poem. In it, there are three people: the twelve-year-old girl, the pirate, and me. Can we look at each other and recognize ourselves in each other? The tide of the poem is "Please Call Me by My True Names," because I have so many names. When I hear one of the of these names, I have to say, "Yes."

CALL ME BY MY TRUE NAMES

Do not say that I'll depart tomorrow
because even today I still arrive.

Look deeply: I arrive in every second
to be a bud on a spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with wings still fragile,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
in order to fear and to hope.
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and
death of all that are alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river,
and I am the bird which, when spring comes, arrives in time
to eat the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily in the clear pond,
and I am also the grass-snake who, approaching in silence,
feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks,
and I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to
Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea
pirate,
and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and
loving.

I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my
hands,
and I am the man who has to pay his "debt of blood" to, my
people,
dying slowly in a forced labor camp.

My joy is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom in all
walks of life.
My pain if like a river of tears, so full it fills the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open,
the door of compassion.

Thich Nhat Hanh

 

............................

 

WELL OF COURSE I AM

By Daniel Christopherson 

His mother brought him in. Ricky had been strumming his toy guitar every day, and she asked if it was too early for lessons.

 

Our beginning was tentative, although I have become accustomed to prying words out of kids in the first lesson. Ricky's wobbly fingers were unable to negotiate even the simplest one-finger chords. He was four and a half, my youngest student ever. I had him strum the strings, copying the rhythm of my playing.

When he smiled, light seemed to pour from his eyes as they alternated between his new teacher and our wildly strumming hands. As I gradually increased the speed, we clenched our teeth and exchanged growling facial expressions, racing toward a notes-flying-everywhere collision. We laughed together.

 

My favorite moment is when a child and I lose ourselves in laughter. Not at clever jokes, or someone coming "down to their level," not even smirks or giggles… real laughter … Looking each other right in the eye as we hold our stomachs. That's when you know you are buddies.

 

"Who are you trying to fool, telling me you are a beginner and then strumming like that? Are you going to give me lessons?!" We laughed like brothers finally together again.

Ricky's eyes occasionally wandering upward in his sockets. I would have panicked, but his relaxed demeanor told me there was no need for alarm.

We discussed the parts of the guitar. We played 'Simon says,' which is always a big hit. Soon Ricky was pointing to the sound-hole and bridge and tuners on his own guitar. The usual stuff you do with one of those miniature guitars guaranteed to stay out of tune through the next millennium.

 

We were together counting the strings when I noticed his confusion. His smile quickly vanished, and tears were suddenly pouring from his eyes. A terrified small voice cried, "I'll never count the strings!! …my big brothers tell me I can't think right!!!"

 

My stomach tightened as I quickly found myself mourning a child's terrible loss. I felt like the air had been knocked out of me with a 2 x 4. It was all I could do to smile while seeing the deep pain Ricky carried inside. I resorted to questions I was sure he could answer. Soon back on track, we were bobbing our heads to the rhythm of "Mr. Frog Is Full Of Hops." But the smile he gave me minutes ago was gone, tainted now by the haunt of doubt. 

"Ricky?" I had to say something.

His innocent eyes connected with mine. "Yes?"

 

"I think you are a special kid."

 

"Well of course I am," a whispered voice of reassurance left Ricky's lips as he looked downward. The announcement was so smooth that it could have passed without notice.

 

As though I had just glimpsed a ghost in the room, my mind struggled to make sense, to rewind to the wisdom of a saint before it melted like snow in the sunlight. Those aren't four-year-old words! As if God himself had uttered an immutable truth. Even as I recall the moment, it hurts to recall the agony felt by a beautiful and innocent child …over what others think.

 

Yet he was already in tow to the place where the rest of us have taken up residence. Where "who we are" becomes less important than "what we do," or what we tell ourselves careers or homes or things will get us. Where we pretend not to care about the dreams we left behind.

 

Ricky's brothers may have teased him ruthlessly, and for some, the sounds from his guitar may have been out of tune, but for Ricky… on that particular day and in that small room, the melody of his spirit was divine and unforgettable. A song for sure. A song wordlessly communicating his birthright to happiness. That we are not valuable because of what we can do or become. We are valuable because we are here.  

Little Ricky may not become a brilliant physicist or engineer, but with visible pride and joy, he could proudly demonstrate how his guitar could vibrate and clang and push out sounds as his fingers thrashed those out-of-tune strings. And he could sit with me and face his worst nightmare; that he is not as good as others say he should be.

My heart went out to Ricky, because he expressed the fear most of us endure in silence. That we are not good enough. Ricky taught me how to rise above the torture of feeling not good enough and being teased about what he could not change. "Well of course I am," was the innocent and Christ-like self-application of the love most spend our lives looking for.

Who were you trying to fool, Ricky? You were a song… long before you could count those strings. Before your little body walked into that room.

After that day, I had a dream that Ricky and I were standing before God. For some reason, I heard myself explaining that although others may think Ricky isn't good enough, he is beautiful and innocent. 

God answered, "Well of course I am!"   

Saturday, September 15, 2007 
September 2, 2007

The Music Man

Rick Rubin is listening. A song by a new band called the Gossip is playing, and he is concentrating. He appears to be in a trance. His eyes are tightly closed and he is swaying back and forth to the beat, trying at once to hear what is right and wrong about the music. Rubin, who resembles a medium-size bear with a long, gray beard, is curled into the corner of a tufted velvet couch in the library of a house he owns but where he no longer lives. This three-story 1923 Spanish villa steeped in music history — Johnny Cash recorded in the basement studio; Jakob Dylan is recording a solo album there now — is used by Rubin for meetings. And ever since May, when he officially became co-head of Columbia Records, Rubin has been having nearly constant meetings. Beginning in 1984, when he started Def Jam Recordings, until his more recent occupation as a career-transforming, chart-topping, Grammy Award-winning producer for dozens of artists, as diverse as the Dixie Chicks, Slayer, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Neil Diamond, Rubin, who is 44, has never gone to an office of any kind. One of his conditions for taking the job at Sony, which owns Columbia, was that he wouldn't be required to have a desk or a phone in any of the corporate outposts. That wasn't a problem: Columbia didn't want Rubin to punch a clock. It wanted him to save the company. And just maybe the record business.

What that means, most of all, is that the company wants him to listen. It is Columbia's belief that Rubin will hear the answers in the music — that he will find the solution to its ever-increasing woes. The mighty music business is in free fall — it has lost control of radio; retail outlets like Tower Records have shut down; MTV rarely broadcasts music videos; and the once lucrative album market has been overshadowed by downloaded singles, which mainly benefits Apple. "The music business, as a whole, has lost its faith in content," David Geffen, the legendary music mogul, told me recently. "Only 10 years ago, companies wanted to make records, presumably good records, and see if they sold. But panic has set in, and now it's no longer about making music, it's all about how to sell music. And there's no clear answer about how to fix that problem. But I still believe that the top priority at any record company has to be coming up with great music. And for that reason, Sony was very smart to hire Rick."

Though Rubin maintains that his intention is simply to hear music with the fresh ears of a true fan, he has built his reputation on the simultaneously mystical and entirely decisive way he listens to a song. As the Gossip, which is fronted by a large, raucous woman named Beth Ditto, shouts to a stop, Rubin opens his eyes and nods yes. This is the first new band signed to Columbia that he has been enthralled by, but he is not yet sure how to organize the Gossip's future. "Let's hear something else," Rubin says to Kevin Kusatsu, who would, at any other record company, be called an A & R executive. (Traditionally, A & R executives spot, woo, recruit and oversee the talent of a record company.) "We don't have any titles at the new Columbia," Rubin explains, as Kusatsu, the first person Rubin hired, slips a disc out of its sleeve. "I don't want to create a new hierarchy to replace the old hierarchy."

Rubin, wearing his usual uniform of loose khaki pants and billowing white T-shirt, his sunglasses in his pocket, his feet bare, fingers a string of lapis lazuli Buddhist prayer beads, believed to bring wisdom to the wearer. Since Rubin's beard and hair nearly cover his face, his voice, which is soft and reassuring, becomes that much more vivid. He seems to be one with the room, which is lined in floor-to-ceiling books, most of which are of a spiritual nature, whether about Buddhism, the Bible or New Age quests for enlightenment. The library and the house are filled with religious iconography mixed with mementos from the world of pop. A massive brass Buddha is flanked by equally enormous speakers; vintage cardboard cutouts of John, Paul, George and Ringo circa "Help!" are placed around a multiarmed statue of Vishnu. On a low table, there are crystals and an old RadioShack cassette recorder that Rubin uses to listen to demo tapes; a framed photo of Jim Morrison stares at a crystal ball. In Rubin's world, music and spirituality collide.

"That's why they call him a guru," Natalie Maines, the lead singer of the Dixie Chicks, explained to me in August, calling from her home in Los Angeles. Maines, who has been with the label since 1997, first worked with Rubin in 2004. "At first, I didn't know if I was down with all that guru stuff. I thought, We're making a record — I don't want to be converted. But Rick's spirituality has mostly to do with his own sense of self. When it comes to the music, he's so sure of his opinion that you become sure of his opinion, too. And isn't that what gurus do? They know how to say the right things at the right time and get the best out of you."

Kusatsu, who has elaborate tattoos on both forearms and a match stuck behind his ear, puts the CD into Rubin's wireless system. This is the fourth male singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar that Rubin has heard today. The music is heartfelt, spare, poetic. "There were a lot of girls in the audience," Kusatsu says as the track begins. Rubin closes his eyes and gently rocks back and forth. His hands are resting on his stomach, and he seems to be almost meditating. "Everything I do," Rubin told me earlier, "whether it's producing, or signing an artist, always starts with the songs. When I'm listening, I'm looking for a balance that you could see in anything. Whether it's a great painting or a building or a sunset. There's just a natural human element to a great song that feels immediately satisfying. I like the song to create a mood."

He also seeks a melody. As a kid growing up in Lido Beach, on New York's Long Island, Rubin loved the Beatles. "I never really liked the Stones," he said. "Although, I loved the Monkees — they had all the best songwriters." Through his passion for the Beatles, he became fascinated by the seductive, addictive power of songs. From the first hip-hop records he produced for L L Cool J and the Beastie Boys, he insisted on classic song structure. "Before Def Jam, hip-hop records were typically really long, and they rarely had a hook," he continued. "Those songs didn't deliver in the way the Beatles did. By making our rap records sound more like pop songs, we changed the form. And we sold a lot of records." The Beastie Boys' "Licensed to Ill" (released in 1986) went on to sell what was then an astonishing four million plus records; earlier that year, "Walk This Way," which combined Run-D.M.C. and Aerosmith, was the first crossover rap single and revitalized Aerosmith's career. Rubin masterminded both.

Whenever he agrees to produce an album, Rubin scrutinizes the songs before going into the studio. Currently, he is producing records for the hard rock band Metallica, the nerd power-pop band Weezer (it is part of his deal with Columbia that he can produce albums for acts that are not signed to the label) and the legendary Neil Diamond. At the moment, Metallica is touring in Europe, Weezer is writing a new batch of songs and Diamond has just started in the studio. Rubin works slowly — it can take him years to finish an album. "A lot of that is because of the songs," Rubin explained. "I try to get the artist to feel like they are writing songs for the ages rather than songs for an album. As they write, they come over and play the songs for me. For some reason, most people will write 10 songs and think, That's enough for a record, I'm done. When they play the songs for me, invariably the last two songs they've written are the best. I'll then say, 'You have two songs, go back and write eight more.' "

His responses are instant, specific and constructively definitive. "He doesn't even take notes," Maines recalled. "He listens with his eyes closed, presses 'pause' and then says, 'You need another chorus,' or 'There isn't enough of a bridge.' He's really precise, and you go back to work." In the early Metallica sessions, Rubin has been exacting about different drum sounds. "Lars" — Ulrich, the drummer — "will play two things for me, and I'll say, 'This one is great and that one is terrible,' " Rubin recalled. "Lars will say: 'How do you know? They both sound good to me.' Well, I just know. The right sound reaches its hand out and finds its way. So much of what I do is just being present and listening for that right sound."

Back in the library, the singer-songwriter's demo is ending. Rubin opens his eyes, blinks and says to Kusatsu: "We may have found one. Does he have any other songs I can hear?" While Kusatsu cues up the next sampling, Rubin texts an assistant on his BlackBerry. Within minutes, a chocolate protein drink is brought to him. As Rubin sips, he listens to the next track — a derivative, meandering song that drones like early Dylan without the lyric sophistication. With his eyes closed, Rubin begins to shake his head slowly. He looks disappointed. "And you wonder why people don't buy CDs anymore," Rubin says. "One song is great and the other is. . . . "

His voice trails off. As a producer or the head of a small independent label, Rubin could afford to be very particular. But Columbia, which is the home of established stars like Bruce, Beyoncé, Bob, Billy and Barbra, desperately needs a jolt of the new. It has also been years since Rubin worked with an artist who is not yet established. Since producing System of a Down in 1998, he has focused on reinvigorating the careers of Johnny Cash and producing records for well-known musicians like Tom Petty, U2 and Justin Timberlake. One of the biggest challenges of the Columbia job is to find unsigned artists and help chart their course.

"I don't know about this guy," Rubin says diplomatically. Kusatsu nods. "I don't want to make a decision for the wrong reason," Rubin continues. "The most important thing we have to do now is get the art right. So many of the decisions at these companies have not been about the music. They sign artists for the wrong reasons — because they think somebody else wants them or if they need to have a record out by a certain date. That old way of doing things is obsolete, but luckily, fear is making the record companies less arrogant. They're more open to ideas. So, what's important now is to find music that's timeless. I still believe that if an artist gains the belief of the listener, then anything is possible." Rubin pauses and looks at Kusatsu. "What else can I hear?" he asks.

This summer, Columbia Records began a program called Big Red. The company invited 20 college students from Harvard, Penn State and the University of Miami to work on various music projects. The interns concentrated mostly on the digital marketing and promotions departments in Columbia's offices in Midtown Manhattan, which are on Madison Avenue in a granite skyscraper designed by Philip Johnson.

At the end of their paid internships, the students took part in focus groups that were closely observed by Steve Barnett, Rubin's co-head at the label, and Mark DiDia, whom Rubin brought in as head of operations, as well as by other Columbia executives. The focus groups may have been the real point of Big Red — Barnett and the New York executives, especially those who had been at Sony for years, wanted to try to take the pulse of the elusive music audience. "The Big Red focus groups were both depressing and informative, and they confirmed what I — and Rick — already knew," DiDia told me afterward. "The kids all said that a) no one listens to the radio anymore, b) they mostly steal music, but they don't consider it stealing, and c) they get most of their music from iTunes on their iPod. They told us that MySpace is over, it's just not cool anymore; Facebook is still cool, but that might not last much longer; and the biggest thing in their life is word of mouth. That's how they hear about music, bands, everything."

Few of the kids knew that record companies participate only in the profits from records — that they derive no income from a band's merchandising or touring revenues. And they all thought that the Columbia logo stood for something prestigious, except in the hip-hop world. There it was deemed too commercial and corporate, but anywhere else it still represented a kind of impressive imprimatur. "Which was good news," DiDia continued. "It means we still have a brand that commands respect."

His insecurity on this point reflects the trepidation that is consuming the music business. Seemingly overnight, the entire industry is collapsing. Sales figures on top-selling CDs are about 30 percent lower than they were a year ago, and the usual remedies aren't available. Since radio is no longer a place to push a single, record companies have turned to television and movies. "High School Musical," which originated with a Disney Channel television show, was the top-selling album of 2006, and not only has "American Idol," with its 30-million-plus audience, created best-selling singers like Kelly Clarkson and Chris Daughtry, but an appearance on the show can also boost sales. When Jennifer Lopez performed on "American Idol," it was considered worth noting that her album "Como Ama Una Mujer," already out for four weeks, dipped only 7 percent rather than falling by the usual double digits. More impressively, songs that are heard on popular shows like "Grey's Anatomy" become instantly desirable. When the Columbia artist Brandi Carlile's song "The Story" was featured on the ABC show, it posted a 15 percent jump in sales and was downloaded 19,000 times in one week. Before being heard on the show, the song had been available for nearly two months without any notable interest.

"Until very recently," Rubin told me over lunch at Hugo's, a health-conscious restaurant in Hollywood, "there were a handful of channels in the music business that the gatekeepers controlled. They were radio, Tower Records, MTV, certain mainstream press like Rolling Stone. That's how people found out about new things. Every record company in the industry was built to work that model. There was a time when if you had something that wasn't so good, through muscle and lack of other choices, you could push that not very good product through those channels. And that's how the music business functioned for 50 years. Well, the world has changed. And the industry has not."

Steve Barnett, who is 55 and was the sole head of Columbia until he agreed to split his role with Rubin, was president of Epic Records, also a division of Sony, until 2005 and was well aware of the seismic shifts in the business. Barnett's corner office on the 25th floor of the Sony building is like a miniversion of the Hard Rock Cafe — autographed guitars belonging to Jeff Beck, Korn and Angus Young from AC/DC rest in their stands, and the walls are covered with vintage posters from the celebrated New York rock venue the Fillmore East. To the right of Barnett's large desk, above the framed Johnny Cash portrait, is a sign that reads, "Your Faith Needs to Be Greater Than Your Fear." "I have always believed that," Barnett told me in mid-August, "but it seems particularly relevant at the moment."

Barnett, who is English, is a sharp counterpoint to Rubin. He lives with his wife and two of their four sons in Connecticut. He has neatly parted sandy brown hair, and on the day we met, he was dressed in a blue button-down shirt, tan slacks and Gucci loafers with dark socks. Barnett is polite, careful, aware of his corporate status. Yet he supported recruiting Rubin. "My wife's father is Dick Vermeil, the former coach of the St. Louis Rams," Barnett explained. "My sons would go to training camp, and when Marshall Faulk started playing for the team, they called me and said, 'Not only is this guy a great player, he makes everyone around him better.' Of course, the Rams went on to win the Super Bowl. I think Rick Rubin is our Marshall Faulk. I knew he would change the culture here."

By the time Barnett first approached Rubin about coming to Columbia, Rubin had already decided that he would have nothing more to do with Columbia Records. This was because of the company's handling of the Rubin-produced Neil Diamond record "12 Songs" in 2005. Diamond was a hero of Rubin's, and he spent two years working on the album, persuading Diamond to record acoustically, something he hadn't done since the '60s.

"The CD debuted at No. 4," Rubin told me at Hugo's, still sounding upset. "It was the highest debut of Neil's career, off to a great start. But Columbia — it was some kind of corporate thing — had put spyware on the CD. That kept people from copying it, but it also somehow recorded information about whoever bought the record. The spyware became public knowledge, and people freaked out. There were some lawsuits filed, and the CD was recalled by Columbia. Literally pulled from stores. We came out on a Tuesday, by the following week the CD was not available. Columbia released it again in a month, but we never recovered. Neil was furious, and I vowed never to make another album with Columbia."

But when Barnett flew out to Los Angeles to discuss the job with Rubin, Rubin was intrigued. "I felt like I could be a force for good," he explained. "In the past, I've tried to protect artists from the label, and now my job would also be to protect the label from itself. So many of the decisions at these companies are not about the music. They are shortsighted and desperate. For so long, the record industry had control. But now that monopoly has ended, they don't know what to do. I thought it would be an interesting challenge."

As a kind of test, Rubin made some unusual demands. "Oh, God, I would have liked to have heard those negotiations," Natalie Maines exclaimed. "Rick knows what he's worth, and I can just hear him telling them, 'You might never see me, I may never wear shoes, you're not the boss of me.' And I'm sure they were saying, 'Whatever you want, Mr. Rubin.' I was surprised Sony made such a smart decision: someone who knows music should be running the company."

In addition to his "never wearing a suit, never traveling, never going to an office" demands, Rubin also suggested (strongly) that Columbia become the first major record company to go green and abolish plastic jewel boxes for all its CDs. "They thought about it and agreed," Rubin said. "And that made me think they would listen to me. It was also a turning point in terms of how big my reach could be. In the past, I would not normally have access to that kind of sweeping change. At Columbia, I'm able to operate on a much larger scale."

That was in late April. By August, Rubin still sounded optimistic, but a weariness had crept into his voice. "It's a big ship to turn around," he told me in the Hollywood Hills house. Simon and Garfunkel was playing in the background and Rubin was padding through the templelike rooms. "Columbia is stuck in the dark ages. I have great confidence that we will have the best record company in the industry, but the reality is, in today's world, we might have the best dinosaur. Until a new model is agreed upon and rolling, we can be the best at the existing paradigm, but until the paradigm shifts, it's going to be a declining business. This model is done."

While Columbia has made some small changes in its organizational structure, it has not instigated the kind of extensive alterations that Rubin says are crucial to the salvation of the business. Barnett is promoting the division at Columbia that sells music directly to TV, so that a network or cable show can introduce an artist to audiences the way radio once did. At Rubin's suggestion, he has also set up a "word of mouth" department, which will probably employ some members of the Big Red focus group along with dozens of other 20-somethings. The "word of mouth" department will function as a publicity-promotional arm of the company, spreading commissioned buzz through chat rooms across the planet and through old-fashioned human interaction. "They tell all their friends about a band," Barnett explained. "Their job is to create interest."

Rubin has a bigger idea. To combat the devastating impact of file sharing, he, like others in the music business (Doug Morris and Jimmy Iovine at Universal, for instance), says that the future of the industry is a subscription model, much like paid cable on a television set. "You would subscribe to music," Rubin explained, as he settled on the velvet couch in his library. "You'd pay, say, $19.95 a month, and the music will come anywhere you'd like. In this new world, there will be a virtual library that will be accessible from your car, from your cellphone, from your computer, from your television. Anywhere. The iPod will be obsolete, but there would be a Walkman-like device you could plug into speakers at home. You'll say, 'Today I want to listen to ... Simon and Garfunkel,' and there they are. The service can have demos, bootlegs, concerts, whatever context the artist wants to put out. And once that model is put into place, the industry will grow 10 times the size it is now."

From Napster to the iPod, the music business has been wrong about how much it can dictate to its audience. "Steve Jobs understood Napster better than the record business did," David Geffen told me. "IPods made it easy for people to share music, and Apple took a big percentage of the business that once belonged to the record companies. The subscription model is the only way to save the music business. If music is easily available at a price of five or six dollars a month, then nobody will steal it."

For this model to be effective, all the record companies will have to agree. "It's like getting the heads of the five families together," said Mark DiDia, referencing "The Godfather." "It will be very difficult, but what else are we going to do?"

Rubin sees no other solution. "Either all the record companies will get together or the industry will fall apart and someone like Microsoft will come in and buy one of the companies at wholesale and do what needs to be done," he said. "The future technology companies will either wait for the record companies to smarten up, or they'll let them sink until they can buy them for 10 cents on the dollar and own the whole thing."

Given the competition among record companies, the subscription model is bound to be tricky to organize and implement. One problem with iTunes is that, with some exceptions, all the songs are priced equally — a Justin Timberlake smash costs the same as an Al Jolson classic. Since a listener would, ideally, pay more for a Top 10 hit, that egalitarian system costs record companies potential millions of dollars. The opponents of the subscription model feel that making all music by all artists available for one flat fee will end up diminishing the overall revenue stream. They would also have to pool their talent, which is difficult for companies that have spent decades fighting over who signs with whom to accept. "There would have to be a new economic plan," Geffen explained. "And it would have to be equitable, depending on the popularity of the artists."

Steve Barnett is nervous about the subscription model. "Smart people have told me if the subscription model is not done correctly," he said, "it will be the final nail in our coffin. I've heard both sides of the argument, and I'm not convinced it's the solution to our problems. Rick wants to be a hero immediately. In his mind, you flick a switch and it's done. It doesn't work like that."

Barnett has other ideas, which he is discussing with Rubin. For instance, asking Columbia artists to give the record company up to 50 percent of their touring, merchandising and online revenue. This is unprecedented — even successful artists like the Dixie Chicks make a large percentage of their income from concerts and T-shirts. "Artists should never give that money up," Natalie Maines told me. "The companies are all scrambling because of the Internet, and they will screw the artist to meet their bottom line. I can't imagine Rick will go along with that."

Rubin won't say — he'd rather concentrate on honing the new model for the industry. "I don't want to waste time," he said, sounding a little frustrated. "The existing people will either get smart, which is a question mark. Or new people will understand what a resource the music business is and change it without us." Rubin paused. "I don't want to watch that happen."

One sunny day in June, Rick Rubin was trying to decide where the new Columbia Records headquarters in Los Angeles should be located. He may not want to go to an office himself, but he still recognizes the influence that a workplace can have on a staff. "I told the corporate Sony people that we have to get out of our old space in Los Angeles as quickly as possible," Rubin said as he disembarked from his Range Rover, which was parked outside a large, one-story former factory that now functions as a sound stage. "The Sony people thought I was insane. I'm also trying to get them to move out of their offices in New York. That space is tainted with the old way. And it's not an artist-friendly place — they search you when you walk in."

Rubin, who was wearing, as usual, khaki cargo pants and a white T-shirt, was trailed by two architects who had flown in from Manhattan for this meeting. He discovered these architects, Dominic Kozerski and Enrico Bonetti, when he saw a chair they designed in a magazine layout. Rubin loves research. He's always on a quest to find just the right thing, whether it be a book or a building. Recently, he hunted down the brand of water that claims to have the greatest level of purity (Ice Age); he pored over architectural manuals to determine what kind of hinge would have been used in 1923 (for his house); and when Johnny Cash was ailing, Rubin discovered a kinesiologist whom Cash credited with extending his life. And so on. Rubin has always been passionate, even compulsive, about his interests.

"From the time I was 9 years old, I loved magic," Rubin recalled as he walked around the cavernous loftlike space. "I was an only child, and I think that had a big impact on me. I always had grown-up friends even though I was a little kid. I would take the train from Lido Beach into Manhattan, and I'd hang out in magic shops. When I was 14, I had magician friends who were 60. I learned a lot from them — I still think about magic all the time. I always think about how things work, the mechanics of a situation — that's the nature of being a magician."

In high school, around 1980, Rubin started listening to a mix of heavy metal and punk rock. (He recalls buying the Germs' record "GI" and "Back in Black" by AC/DC on the same day.) "I saw the Ramones play every week," he said. "I was the only punk in my high school." Rubin paused. "I've always been an outsider. When I did magic, I was the only kid. When I worked with Johnny Cash, I was completely out of place in Nashville. And when I started Def Jam, I was the only white guy in the hip-hop world."

Although Rubin's parents — his father was a shoe wholesaler, and "my mother's job was me" — wanted him to be a lawyer, he had other ideas. In 1983, while he was attending N.Y.U., he borrowed $5,000 from his parents and recorded "It's Yours" by T La Rock and Jazzy Jay, a 12-inch single that became a local dance hit. Rubin then invented a label, calling his company Def Jam ("Def" meaning great, and "Jam" meaning music), and ran the business out of his dorm room. "The clerk at the front desk handled all the shipping," Rubin recalled.

Russell Simmons, who was then a hip-hop producer, loved "It's Yours" when he heard it on the radio. "I thought for sure that Rick was black," Simmons said. In 1984, a 16-year-old named L L Cool J (Ladies Love Cool James) sent a demo tape to Rubin's dorm room/Def Jam. "He was much better than anything else I heard," Rubin recalled. "And he still is. 'I Need a Beat,' L L's first single, was the real birth of Def Jam." Rubin did not release the track right away — he tightened up the structure, editing the rhymes so they more closely resembled verses in a song. The result is a spare, clean sound, rather than the endless repetitions of most early rap. "I thought the record would do well, and I asked Russell to be my partner at Def Jam. I did all the work from my dorm, and he did the promotion. Russell was five years older, and he was established. By myself, I was just a kid making records. He gave me credibility."

"I Need a Beat" sold 100,000 copies, and in the next year, Def Jam released seven more 12-inch records, selling a total of about 300,000 units. The major labels had ignored rap, dismissing it as a regional fad, but they took notice of Def Jam. CBS offered Rubin and Simmons $600,000 to pick four acts a year, a kind of finder's fee. "I was 20," Rubin said. "I sent a Xerox of the check to my parents. That's when this stopped being a hobby. At that point, I wanted to live the life of an artist."

By 1987, Rubin had already discovered the Beastie Boys, three upper-middle-class guys from New York City who could rap. The trio's anthemic hit, "(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (to Party!)," which was produced by Rubin, was an instant classic: the rhythms of the words form a hook that circles and loops around your brain and will not leave. The Beasties' debut album, "Licensed to Ill," was the first rap album to go to No. 1 on the Billboard chart. "And we were still in the dorms," George Drakoulias, a successful producer who worked with Rubin for a decade, told me. "Rick didn't want to leave. He got college credits for running the record company. He stayed until he graduated. And by then, he and Russell were fighting over the direction of the company."

Each had a different idea of which bands Def Jam should produce. The partnership fell apart during renegotiations for their contract with CBS. Simmons wanted to get the biggest monetary advance possible from CBS, while Rubin wanted to bet on Def Jam, take a small amount of money for the sake of independence and make most of the cash on the back-end profits. They couldn't agree, and Def Jam was split in two, an arrangement that took nearly three years to finalize.

When things went sour, Rubin flew to Los Angeles to work on the soundtrack for the film "Less Than Zero." "I never really moved here," Rubin said now, still walking around the former factory space. "I never packed and moved. But I never left Los Angeles, even though I hadn't planned to stay." He lived in the Chateau Marmont for nine months and started a new record company, Def American. Rubin changed gears: he signed the hard rock bands Slayer and Danzig and gave a record deal to the misogynist comic Andrew Dice Clay. "At every stage of my career, there have always been people telling me not to do whatever it is that I'm doing," Rubin said. "After my initial success in rap, I started making rock records, and people said, 'Why would you do this?' I made a comedy album, and they said, 'Why this?' Now people ask me, 'Why do you want to do this Columbia job?' It's always the same answer: 'I've always liked doing the stuff that I like.' I just like good music or comedy or whatever it is, and now I have the chance to bring that to a big record company. I have no training, no technical skill — it's only this ability to listen and try to coach the artist to be the best they can from the perspective of a fan."

The architects were still daydreaming about where to put the lobby and the conference room in the factory-turned-soundstage when Rubin suggested that they drive over to another potential site for the new Columbia offices. They piled into his Range Rover, which was being driven by Nino Molina, one of his assistants. In the front seat, Rubin turned on the satellite radio and Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon" flooded the car. "Where we are going could not be more different than this spot," Rubin told the architects. "In a way, this factory is like a cool, old vintage Mustang convertible and the next building we're seeing is a Rolls-Royce. In the end, they are both great and they probably cost the same money, but they are completely opposite in style." Rubin fiddled with the radio. "Every Picture Tells a Story" by Rod Stewart replaced Sinatra. "They couldn't be more different, but both work," Rubin continued.

We drove east until we arrived at the former CAA building on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. I. M. Pei designed this curvy, cream-colored travertine structure, and the most dominant feature of the space is its vast, soaring, three-story lobby. "This is a significant building," Rubin said. "How often do you get a chance to reinvent a landmark? Los Angeles doesn't have too many marquee buildings, and this is one of them."

The two spaces — one raw and full of promise and the other established and perfect for reinvention — are a neat metaphor for Rubin's divergent music tastes. "I've always been attracted to both new stuff and older stuff," he said as he opened the door to a plush screening room. "When I came to Los Angeles and started producing more, that became clearer to me."

At Def American, Rubin concentrated on a harder rock sound: Slayer's "Reign in Blood," which is considered to be a heavy metal classic, or the Geto Boys, whose rap song "Mind of a Lunatic" depicted vivid scenes of necrophilia and murder. "I just couldn't put out a record about sex with dead bodies and cutting off women's breasts," said David Geffen, whose company Geffen Records was the distributor of Def American. "I begged Rick not to put out the Geto Boys. In the end, I lost. He left and went to Warner Brothers."

Although Rubin claims that Geffen fired him, he stood by the Geto Boys: "I thought the art was good. As a fan, the Geto Boys were thrilling in the same way that a horror movie might be thrilling." In 1993, Rubin saw that the word "def" was now in dictionaries, and he decided to change the name of his company. Inspired by a documentary he'd seen about the hippie movement, Rubin held a formal funeral for Def. "When advertisers and the fashion world co-opted the image of hippies, a group of the original hippies in San Francisco literally buried the image of the hippie," Rubin explained. "When 'def' went from street lingo to mainstream, it defeated its purpose."

The funeral was lavish. The Rev. Al Sharpton was flown in from New York to deliver the eulogy, the Amazing Kreskin performed and Rubin purchased a cemetery plot and engraved headstone. The death of Def also marked a change in Rubin's career. He had never signed what he calls "grown-up artists," and he wanted to work with someone with enormous talent whose career had been eclipsed. "The first person I thought of was Johnny Cash," Rubin said now. "He was a little like this building — already a legend, but ripe for something different. I knew I could do something great with him."

In many ways, the Cash phase of Rubin's life, which lasted 10 years and produced five albums, has overshadowed all his other accomplishments. Rubin had worked intensively with artists before. When he produced the Red Hot Chili Peppers in 1991, he helped reinvent their sound by persuading them to incorporate melody and a more lyrical approach in their songwriting. The Chili Peppers defined their music narrowly — as rap infused with funk — and Rubin imagined a different quality. "My job was to break down those boundaries," he explained. "No band has to fit into a little box. I saw the Chili Peppers as being like the Beach Boys in some ways. They represented Los Angeles, a place of dreams." Anthony Kiedis, the lead singer, showed Rubin his notebooks, and the producer homed in on a poem about drugs and alienation called "Under the Bridge." He persuaded Kiedis to set the words to music, and the resulting song was a career-altering hit for the band.

Rubin installed the Peppers in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills that was rumored to be Harry Houdini's former home. It actually wasn't, but the house did have secret passageways, and the rumors of its history lingered. A studio was built, and the Peppers moved in with Rubin's personal chef at their service. As he always does when he produces a record, Rubin came and went. "I do not know how to work a board. I don't turn knobs. I have no technical ability whatsoever," he said. "But I'm there when they need me to be there. My primary asset is I know when I like something or not. It always comes down to taste. I'm not there to hold their hands and baby-sit, but I'm there for any key creative decisions."

And yet it was different with Cash. While Cash was an excellent songwriter, Rubin handpicked rock songs like "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails, "Personal Jesus" by Depeche Mode and "Rusty Cage" by Soundgarden for Cash to reinterpret. (He also suggested "Addicted to Love" by Robert Palmer, but that didn't work.) He was much more involved with every aspect of the production — from the choice of songs to the arrangements to the videos — than he had been with any other artist. Rubin and Cash also had a deep spiritual kinship: during the final months of Cash's life, they took communion together every day, even though Rubin, who was born Jewish and now sees himself as not having any specific religious orientation, should not be eligible for the holy sacraments. Even after Cash's death, Rubin would close his eyes and hear Cash's voice as he said the benediction. "It was like hearing a song that you love," Rubin said. "He was there with me."

When Cash was in Los Angeles, he often stayed at Rubin's house. His bedroom, with its view of the city, was on the third floor, and Cash would take the elevator down to the recording studio in the basement. "I was always aware of how important Cash was," Rubin said. "But no one under 40 who didn't live in the South knew much about Johnny Cash besides a few hits and his name." What seems so clear now was not obvious when Rubin began working with Cash — it was risky to reinvent a living legend for a new generation.

After Cash's death, Rubin was searching for a challenge with an even higher degree of difficulty, a greater test for his powers of listening. The Columbia job is a different kind of reclamation project, but Rubin knows that, just possibly, he could restore an entire institution to greatness. "I can imagine people coming up with brilliant, creative ideas here," Rubin told the architects as they finished their tour of the building. "But Sony has to agree. I'm not sure they realize that they are selling art. Right now they could be selling any product. That's why we have to move — we're in the art business."

For the last two years, Rubin has lived in a house in Malibu that overlooks the ocean. In a way, this house is a return to his childhood in Lido Beach, where he spent his days near the water. "It's inspirational to live out here," Rubin said as he settled into a lounge chair with linen cushions facing the sea. "You feel the rhythm of the planet more keenly. I am never this aware of sunrise and sunset when I'm in town. The daily changes of nature at the beach can be deeply affecting."

Rubin has many of his business meetings here now. The '70s architecture of the house is nondescript, but the views from every room are spectacular. There's an old, elaborately carved grand piano in the living room alongside an enormous four-poster brass bed with a striking white linen canopy. When I arrived, Amanda Santos, Rubin's fiancée, was having a private yoga session. While we sat on the terrace, a small Yorkshire terrier named Henry ran between the living room and Rubin's lap. Despite a state-of-the-art sound system, there was no music playing. Only the sound of the waves.

All this Zen calm notwithstanding, Rubin, who was drinking ginger tea, was working. "Do you know about Paul Potts?" he asked as he went to the kitchen to get his laptop. "You have to see this. It totally blew my mind." Rubin found the proper link and turned the screen to face me. The clip was from a British show called "Britain's Got Talent," a version of "American Idol." Despite its popularity, Rubin has never seen "American Idol," and he had never heard of Simon Cowell, who is a judge on both programs.

"This is insane," Rubin said enthusiastically as the clip began. In the video, an ordinary-looking middle-aged man waited nervously backstage. When he faced the judges, he told them he worked at a mobile-phone store and wanted to sing opera. The studio audience looked annoyed — they clearly wanted to hear a pop song — and the judges were cold and dismissive. No one expected anything remarkable from this dull-looking, forgettable guy.

But then Paul Potts sang — "Nessun dorma" from "Turandot." He had an improbably beautiful voice. "Where does that come from?" Rubin said as he watched. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. "I can't look at this without crying," he said. "His voice is so beautiful." When Potts finished his song, Cowell said, "I thought you were absolutely fantastic." The studio audience roared with approval, and Potts beamed.

"It's August now — that show was eight weeks ago," Rubin said. "In England, Paul Potts is already gigantic, but we are going to launch him in America. This just blew my mind."

No one could have predicted that one of the first new Columbia artists to excite Rick Rubin would have been a would-be opera singer from a televised talent contest. "I certainly didn't expect his response to be so positive," said Steve Barnett, who originally brought Paul Potts to Rubin's attention. "I was surprised and pleased that he wanted to jump on it."

Rubin has an immediate plan for Potts — he wants to test the powers of his "word of mouth" department. "I want to see if we can create interest without there being a record to buy," he said. "I've told our whole staff to send it to everyone, to tell everyone, to mention it everywhere. I want to get Paul Potts out to the world." Rubin stopped for a moment. "Although, if someone tells you how great this is, it's not as moving. It's the element of surprise that makes you interested in Paul Potts: he looks so bland, and then he sings so well. If you expect him to be great, will the clip still be great?"

The question cannot be answered. A word-of-mouth campaign, like so many possible remedies for the ills of the record business, feels forced. "I just don't know how else people will see Paul Potts," Rubin said. "And I'm really glad I saw him." He paused and looked out at the surf. "I know this sounds hard to believe, but I never had any expectations of success," he said finally. "I knew what I liked, and I didn't really care if anyone else liked it. I still never assume that anyone will like anything. But I can't imagine that they won't, either."

"Sam Cooke built this," Neil Diamond said as he greeted Rubin at ArchAngel Studios in West Hollywood on a gray afternoon in late July. "I bought the place around 30 years ago. It's not open to the public, but I let Rick use it sometimes."

Rubin smiled. "I think the Doors made their first demo here," he said as he followed Diamond down the hall, past the walls of gold and platinum Neil Diamond records, past the framed album covers and into a glass recording studio. "And now, Neil."

For the past two weeks, Rubin and Diamond had been working on new material, and Diamond wanted Rubin to hear some songs that were near completion. "You know, initially I stalked Neil," Rubin said as an engineer prepared the first track. "Yes," said Diamond, who is trim and was wearing a suede baseball hat, dark shirt and jeans. "At first, it was a little scary — I didn't know what to make of it."

A classic Neil Diamond song about the renewing power of a relationship boomed from the speakers. Diamond looked down, a little self-conscious. Rubin, eyes closed, was seated at the engineer's console with his arms resting lightly on the mixing board. When the song ended, Rubin paused, opened his eyes and said: "You really caught a good mood on that. It lived for the first time." Diamond nodded. They discussed the merits of adding strings or changing the structure so that the bridge didn't sound so much like a chorus. "Some strings might inspire you," Rubin said. "And maybe some amplification near the end. It needs a little polish."

Diamond agreed, and four more tracks were played for Rubin's opinion. He was encouraging and specific — "a little percussion element could go here," he said. Or, "Let's shorten that rolling piano." After about an hour, Rubin hugged Diamond goodbye. They agreed to reconnect in a month, after he'd written some more songs. "I'll settle in without distraction," Diamond promised. "And then I'll be in touch."

Rubin headed back to his Range Rover. In the car, he said he had some live footage of the Gossip that he wanted to show me. "I saw the group at the Troubadour, and they blew my mind," he said. "It was the best show I've seen in five years. Afterward, I met with the band. They felt stressed, and they were having trouble writing songs. The energy in the room when they were performing was so intense, and I'm not even sure how we'd get it to feel like that in the studio. So we decided to record a live show during their European tour, and we're going to release a DVD of the live album as their first release."

Rubin looked pleased. Beth Ditto, the lead singer of the Gossip, is exactly what he has been looking for since he took this job at Columbia: she is an outsize personality in an outsize body with a Joplin-esque, bluesy voice. Ditto is the kind of artist Rubin loves — unique, ambitious and open to guidance. "For a band like the Gossip," Rubin continued, "the support of a record company like Columbia is still really important. I grew up in the independent music business, and you still really need the muscle of the majors. A record company call can still get you heard like nobody else."

Rubin paused. "That's the magic of the business," he said. "It's all doom and gloom, but then you go to a Gossip show or hear Neil in the studio and you remember that too many people make and love music for it to ever die. It will never be over. The music will outlast us all."

Lynn Hirschberg, editor at large for the magazine, writes regularly about the entertainment industry.
Thursday, September 06, 2007 

Found this on the web, and this is the MOTHERLOAD collection of info about getting your music out there.

http://www.goingware.com/tips/legal-downloads.html

 

Tuesday, May 22, 2007 

As Published in the New York Times May 2007

 

...

 

Sex, Drugs and Updating Your Blog

By CLIVE THOMPSON

 

Jonathan Coulton sat in Gorilla Coffee in Brooklyn, his Apple PowerBook open before him, and began slogging through the day's e-mail. Coulton is 36 and shaggily handsome. In September 2005, he quit his job as a computer programmer and, with his wife's guarded blessing, became a full-time singer and songwriter. He set a quixotic goal for himself: for the next year, he would write and record a song each week, posting each one to his blog. "It was a sort of forced-march approach to creativity," he admitted to me over the sound of the cafe's cappuccino frothers. He'd always wanted to be a full-time musician, and he figured the only way to prove to himself he could do it was with a drastic challenge. "I learned that it is possible to squeeze a song out of just about anything," he said. "But it's not always an easy or pleasant process." Given the self-imposed time constraints, the "Thing a Week" songs are remarkably good. Coulton tends toward geeky, witty pop tunes: one song, "Tom Cruise Crazy," is a sympathetic ode to the fame-addled star, while "Code Monkey" is a rocking anthem about dead-end programming jobs. By the middle of last year, his project had attracted a sizable audience. More than 3,000 people, on average, were visiting his site every day, and his most popular songs were being downloaded as many as 500,000 times; he was making what he described as "a reasonable middle-class living" — between $3,000 and $5,000 a month — by selling CDs and digital downloads of his work on iTunes and on his own site.

Along the way, he discovered a fact that many small-scale recording artists are coming to terms with these days: his fans do not want merely to buy his music. They want to be his friend. And that means they want to interact with him all day long online. They pore over his blog entries, commenting with sympathy and support every time he recounts the difficulty of writing a song. They send e-mail messages, dozens a day, ranging from simple mash notes of the "you rock!" variety to starkly emotional letters, including one by a man who described singing one of Coulton's love songs to his 6-month-old infant during her heart surgery. Coulton responds to every letter, though as the e-mail volume has grown to as many as 100 messages a day, his replies have grown more and more terse, to the point where he's now feeling guilty about being rude.

Coulton welcomes his fans' avid attention; indeed, he relies on his fans in an almost symbiotic way. When he couldn't perform a guitar solo for "Shop Vac," a glittery pop tune he had written about suburban angst — on his blog, he cursed his "useless sausage fingers" — Coulton asked listeners to record their own attempts, then held an online vote and pasted the winning riff into his tune. Other followers have volunteered hours of their time to help further his career: a professional graphic artist in Cleveland has drawn an illustration for each of the weekly songs, free. Another fan recently reformatted Coulton's tunes so they'd be usable on karaoke machines. On his online discussion board last June, when Coulton asked for advice on how to make more money with his music, dozens of people chimed in with tips on touring and managing the media and even opinions about what kind of songs he ought to write.

Coulton's fans are also his promotion department, an army of thousands who proselytize for his work worldwide. More than 50 fans have created music videos using his music and posted them on YouTube; at a recent gig, half of the audience members I spoke to had originally come across his music via one of these fan-made videos. When he performs, he upends the traditional logic of touring. Normally, a new Brooklyn-based artist like him would trek around the Northeast in grim circles, visiting and revisiting cities like Boston and New York and Chicago in order to slowly build an audience — playing for 3 people the first time, then 10, then (if he got lucky) 50. But Coulton realized he could simply poll his existing online audience members, find out where they lived and stage a tactical strike on any town with more than 100 fans, the point at which he'd be likely to make $1,000 for a concert. It is a flash-mob approach to touring: he parachutes into out-of-the-way towns like Ardmore, Pa., where he recently played to a sold-out club of 140.

His fans need him; he needs them. Which is why, every day, Coulton wakes up, gets coffee, cracks open his PowerBook and hunkers down for up to six hours of nonstop and frequently exhausting communion with his virtual crowd. The day I met him, he was examining a music video that a woman who identified herself as a "blithering fan" had made for his song "Someone Is Crazy." It was a collection of scenes from anime cartoons, expertly spliced together and offered on YouTube.

"She spent hours working on this," Coulton marveled. "And now her friends are watching that video, and fans of that anime cartoon are watching this video. And that's how people are finding me. It's a crucial part of the picture. And so I have to watch this video; I have to respond to her." He bashed out a hasty thank-you note and then forwarded the link to another supporter — this one in Britain — who runs "The Jonathan Coulton Project," a Web site that exists specifically to archive his fan-made music videos.

He sipped his coffee. "People always think that when you're a musician you're sitting around strumming your guitar, and that's your job," he said. "But this" — he clicked his keyboard theatrically — "this is my job."

In the past — way back in the mid-'90s, say — artists had only occasional contact with their fans. If a musician was feeling friendly, he might greet a few audience members at the bar after a show. Then the Internet swept in. Now fans think nothing of sending an e-mail message to their favorite singer — and they actually expect a personal reply. This is not merely an illusion of intimacy. Performing artists these days, particularly new or struggling musicians, are increasingly eager, even desperate, to master the new social rules of Internet fame. They know many young fans aren't hearing about bands from MTV or magazines anymore; fame can come instead through viral word-of-mouth, when a friend forwards a Web-site address, swaps an MP3, e-mails a link to a fan blog or posts a cellphone concert video on YouTube.

So musicians dive into the fray — posting confessional notes on their blogs, reading their fans' comments and carefully replying. They check their personal pages on MySpace, that virtual metropolis where unknown bands and comedians and writers can achieve global renown in a matter of days, if not hours, carried along by rolling cascades of popularity. Band members often post a daily MySpace "bulletin" — a memo to their audience explaining what they're doing right at that moment — and then spend hours more approving "friend requests" from teenagers who want to be put on the artist's sprawling list of online colleagues. (Indeed, the arms race for "friends" is so intense that some artists illicitly employ software robots that generate hundreds of fake online comrades, artificially boosting their numbers.) The pop group Barenaked Ladies held a video contest, asking fans to play air guitar along to the song "Wind It Up"; the best ones were spliced together as the song's official music video. Even artists who haven't got a clue about the Internet are swept along: Arctic Monkeys, a British band, didn't know what MySpace was, but when fans created a page for them in 2005 — which currently boasts over 65,000 "friends" — it propelled their first single, "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor," to No. 1 on the British charts.

This trend isn't limited to musicians; virtually every genre of artistic endeavor is slowly becoming affected, too. Filmmakers like Kevin Smith ("Clerks") and Rian Johnson ("Brick") post dispatches about the movies they're shooting and politely listen to fans' suggestions; the comedian Dane Cook cultivated such a huge fan base through his Web site that his 2005 CD "Retaliation" became the first comedy album to reach the Billboard Top 5 since 1978. But musicians are at the vanguard of the change. Their product, the three-minute song, was the first piece of pop culture to be fully revolutionized by the Internet. And their second revenue source — touring — makes them highly motivated to connect with far-flung fans.

This confluence of forces has produced a curious inflection point: for rock musicians, being a bit of a nerd now helps you become successful. When I spoke with Damian Kulash, the lead singer for the band OK Go, he discoursed like a professor on the six-degrees-of-separation theory, talking at one point about "rhizomatic networks." (You can Google it.) Kulash has put his networking expertise to good use: last year, OK Go displayed a canny understanding of online dynamics when it posted on YouTube a low-budget homemade video that showed the band members dancing on treadmills to their song "Here It Goes Again." The video quickly became one of the site's all-time biggest hits. It led to the band's live treadmill performance at the MTV Video Music Awards, which in turn led to a Grammy Award for best video.

This is not a trend that affects A-list stars. The most famous corporate acts — Justin Timberlake, Fergie, Beyoncé — are still creatures of mass marketing, carpet-bombed into popularity by expensive ad campaigns and radio airplay. They do not need the online world to find listeners, and indeed, their audiences are too vast for any artist to even pretend intimacy with. No, this is a trend that is catalyzing the B-list, the new, under-the-radar acts that have always built their success fan by fan. Across the country, the CD business is in a spectacular free fall; sales are down 20 percent this year alone. People are increasingly getting their music online (whether or not they're paying for it), and it seems likely that the artists who forge direct access to their fans have the best chance of figuring out what the new economics of the music business will be.

The universe of musicians making their way online includes many bands that function in a traditional way — signing up with a label — while using the Internet primarily as a means of promotion, the way OK Go has done. Two-thirds of OK Go's album sales are still in the physical world: actual CDs sold through traditional CD stores. But the B-list increasingly includes a newer and more curious life-form: performers like Coulton, who construct their entire business model online. Without the Internet, their musical careers might not exist at all. Coulton has forgone a record-label contract; instead, he uses a growing array of online tools to sell music directly to fans. He contracts with a virtual fulfillment house called CD Baby, which warehouses his CDs, processes the credit-card payment for each sale and ships it out, while pocketing only $4 of the album's price, a much smaller cut than a traditional label would take. CD Baby also places his music on the major digital-music stores like iTunes, Rhapsody and Napster. Most lucratively, Coulton sells MP3s from his own personal Web sites, where there's no middleman at all.

In total, 41 percent of Coulton's income is from digital-music sales, three-quarters of which are sold directly off his own Web site. Another 29 percent of his income is from CD sales; 18 percent is from ticket sales for his live shows. The final 11 percent comes from T-shirts, often bought online.

Indeed, running a Web store has allowed Coulton and other artists to experiment with intriguing innovations in flexible pricing. Remarkably, Coulton offers most of his music free on his site; when fans buy his songs, it is because they want to give him money. The Canadian folk-pop singer Jane Siberry has an even more clever system: she has a "pay what you can" policy with her downloadable songs, so fans can download them free — but her site also shows the average price her customers have paid for each track. This subtly creates a community standard, a generalized awareness of how much people think each track is really worth. The result? The average price is as much as $1.30 a track, more than her fans would pay at iTunes.

Yet this phenomenon isn't merely about money and business models. In many ways, the Internet's biggest impact on artists is emotional. When you have thousands of fans interacting with you electronically, it can feel as if you're on stage 24 hours a day.

"I vacillate so much on this," Tad Kubler told me one evening in March. "I'm like, I want to keep some privacy, some sense of mystery. But I also want to have this intimacy with our fans. And I'm not sure you can have both." Kubler is the guitarist for the Brooklyn-based rock band the Hold Steady, and I met up with him at a Japanese bar in Pittsburgh, where the band was performing on its latest national tour. An exuberant but thoughtful blond-surfer type, Kubler drank a Sapporo beer and explained how radically the Internet had changed his life on the road. His previous band existed before the Web became ubiquitous, and each town it visited was a mystery: Would 20 people come out? Would two? When the Hold Steady formed four years ago, Kubler immediately signed up for a MySpace page, later adding a discussion board, and curious fans were drawn in like iron filings to a magnet. Now the band's board teems with fans asking technical questions about Kubler's guitars, swapping bootlegged MP3 recordings of live gigs with each other, organizing carpool drives to see the band. Some send e-mail messages to Kubler from cities where the band will be performing in a couple of weeks, offering to design, print and distribute concert posters free. As the band's appointed geek, Kubler handles the majority of its online audience relations; fans at gigs chant his online screen-name, "Koob."

"It's like night and day, man," Kubler said, comparing his current situation with his pre-Internet musical career. "It's awesome now."

Kubler regards fan interaction as an obligation that is cultural, almost ethical. He remembers what it was like to be a young fan himself, enraptured by the members of Led Zeppelin. "That's all I wanted when I was a fan, right?" he said. "To have some small contact with these guys you really dug. I think I'm still that way. I'll be, like, devastated if I never meet Jimmy Page before I die." Indeed, for a guitarist whose arms are bedecked in tattoos and who maintains an aggressive schedule of drinking, Kubler seems genuinely touched by the shy queries he gets from teenagers.

"If some kid is going to take 10 minutes out of his day to figure out what he wants to say in an e-mail, and then write it and send it, for me to not take the 5 minutes to say, dude, thanks so much — for me to ignore that?" He shrugged. "I can't."

Yet Kubler sometimes has second thoughts about the intimacy. Part of the allure of rock, when he was a kid, was the shadowy glamour that surrounded his favorite stars. He'd parse their lyrics to try to figure out what they were like in person. Now he wonders: Are today's online artists ruining their own aura by blogging? Can you still idolize someone when you know what they had for breakfast this morning? "It takes a little bit of the mystery out of rock 'n' roll," he said.

So Kubler has cultivated a skill that is unique to the age of Internet fandom, and perhaps increasingly necessary to it, as well: a nuanced ability to seem authentic and confessional without spilling over into a Britney Spears level of information overload. He doesn't post about his home life, doesn't mention anything about his daughter or girlfriend — and he certainly doesn't describe any of the ill-fated come-ons he deflects from addled female fans who don't realize he's in a long-term relationship. (Another useful rule he imparts to me: Post in the morning, when you're no longer drunk.)

There's something particularly weird, the band members have also found, about living with fans who can now trade information — and misinformation — about them. All celebrities are accustomed to dealing with reporters; but fans represent a new, wild-card form of journalism. Franz Nicolay, the Hold Steady's nattily-dressed keyboardist, told me that he now becomes slightly paranoid while drinking with fans after a show, because he's never sure if what he says will wind up on someone's blog. After a recent gig in Britain, Nicolay idly mentioned to a fan that he had heard that Bruce Springsteen liked the Hold Steady. Whoops: the next day, that factoid was published on a fan blog, "and it had, like, 25 comments!" Nicolay said. So now he carefully polices what he says in casual conversation, which he thinks is a weird thing for a rock star to do. "You can't be the drunken guy who just got offstage anymore," he said with a sigh. "You start acting like a pro athlete, saying all these banal things after you get off the field." For Nicolay, the intimacy of the Internet has made postshow interactions less intimate and more guarded.

The Hold Steady's online audience has grown so huge that Kubler, like Jonathan Coulton, is struggling to bear the load. It is the central paradox of online networking: if you're really good at it, your audience quickly grows so big that you can no longer network with them. The Internet makes fame more quickly achievable — and more quickly unmanageable. In the early days of the Hold Steady, Kubler fielded only a few e-mail messages a day, and a couple of "friend" requests on MySpace. But by this spring, he was receiving more than 100 communications from fans each day, and he was losing as much as two or three hours a day dealing with them. "People will say to me, 'Hey, dude, how come you haven't posted a bulletin lately?' " Kubler told me. "And I'm like, 'I haven't done one because every time I do we get 300 messages and I spend a day going through them!' "

To cope with the flood, the Hold Steady has programmed a software robot to automatically approve the 100-plus "friend" requests it receives on MySpace every day. Other artists I spoke to were testing out similar tricks, including automatic e-mail macros that generate instant "thank you very much" replies to fan messages. Virtually everyone bemoaned the relentless and often boring slog of keyboarding. It is, of course, precisely the sort of administrative toil that people join rock bands to avoid.

Even the most upbeat artist eventually crashes and burns. Indeed, fan interactions seem to surf along a sine curve, as an artist's energy for managing the emotional demands waxes and wanes. As I roamed through online discussion boards and blogs, the tone was nearly always pleasant, even exuberant — fans politely chatting with their favorite artists or gushing praise. But inevitably, out of the blue, the artist would be overburdened, or a fan would feel slighted, and some minor grievance would flare up. At the end of March, a few weeks after I talked with Kubler in Pittsburgh, I logged on to the Hold Steady's discussion board to discover that he had posted an angry notice about fans who sent him nasty e-mail messages complaining that the band wasn't visiting their cities. "I honestly cannot believe some of the e-mails, hate mail and otherwise total [expletive] I've been hearing," he wrote. "We're coming to rock. Please be ready."

Another evening I visited the message board for the New York post-punk band Nada Surf, where a fan posted a diatribe attacking the bass player for refusing to sign an autograph at a recent show, prompting an extended fan discussion of whether the bass player was a jerk or not. A friend of mine pointed me to the remarkable plight of Poppy Z. Brite, a novelist who in 2005 accused fans on a discussion board of being small-minded about children — at which point her fans banned her from the board.

When Jonathan Coulton first began writing his weekly songs, he carefully tracked how many people listened to each one on his Web site. His listenership rose steadily, from around 1,000 a week at first to 50,000 by the end of his yearlong song-a-week experiment. But there were exceptions to this gradual rise: five songs that became breakout "hits," receiving almost 10 times as many listeners as the songs that preceded and followed them. The first hit was an improbable cover song: Coulton's deadpan version of the 1992 Sir Mix-a-Lot rap song "Baby Got Back," performed like a hippie folk ballad. Another was "Code Monkey," his pop song about a disaffected cubicle worker.

Obviously, Coulton was thrilled when his numbers popped, not least because the surge of traffic produced thousands more dollars in sales. But the successes also tortured him: he would rack his brains trying to figure out why people loved those particular songs so much. What had he done right? Could he repeat the same trick?

"Every time I had a hit, it would sort of ruin me for a few weeks," he told me. "I would feel myself being a little bit repressed in my creativity, and ideas would not come to me as easily. Or else I would censor myself a little bit more." His fans, he realized, were most smitten by his geekier songs, the ones that referenced science fiction, mathematics or video games. Whenever he branches out and records more traditional pop fare, he worries it will alienate his audience.

For many of these ultraconnected artists, it seems the nature of creativity itself is changing. It is no longer a solitary act: their audiences are peering over their shoulders as they work, offering pointed comments and suggestions. When OK Go released its treadmill-dancing video on YouTube, it quickly amassed 15 million views, a number so big that it is, as Kulash, the singer, told me, slightly surreal. "Fifteen million people is more than you can see," he said. "It's like this big mass of ants, and you're sitting at home in your underpants to see how many times you've been downloaded, and you can sort of feel the ebb and flow of mass attention." Fans pestered him to know what the band's next video would be; some even suggested the band try dancing on escalators. Kulash was conflicted. He didn't want to be known just for making goofy videos; he also wanted people to pay attention to OK Go's music. In the end, the band decided not to do another dance video, because, as Kulash concluded, "How do you follow up 15 million hits?" All the artists I spoke to made a point of saying they would never simply pander to their fans' desires. But many of them also said that staying artistically "pure" now requires the mental discipline of a ninja.

These days, Coulton is wondering whether an Internet-built fan base inevitably hits a plateau. Many potential Coulton fans are fanatical users of MySpace and YouTube, of course; but many more aren't, and the only way for him to reach them is via traditional advertising, which he can't afford, or courting media attention, a wearying and decidedly old-school task. Coulton's single biggest spike in traffic to his Web site took place last December, when he appeared on NPR's "Weekend Edition Sunday," a fact that, he notes, proves how powerful old-fashioned media still are. (And "Weekend Edition" is orders of magnitude smaller than major entertainment shows like MTV's "Total Request Live," which can make a new artist in an afternoon.) Perhaps there's no way to use the Internet to vault from the B-list to the A-list and the only bands that sell millions of copies will always do it via a well-financed major-label promotion campaign. "Maybe this is what my career will be," Coulton said: slowly building new fans online, playing live occasionally, making a solid living but never a crazy-rich one. He's considered signing on with a label or a cable network to try to chase a higher circle of fame, but that would mean giving up control. And, he says, "I think I'm addicted to running my own show now."

Will the Internet change the type of person who becomes a musician or writer? It's possible to see these online trends as Darwinian pressures that will inevitably produce a new breed — call it an Artist 2.0 — and mark the end of the artist as a sensitive, bohemian soul who shuns the spotlight. In "The Catcher in the Rye," J. D. Salinger wrote about how reading a good book makes you want to call up the author and chat with him, which neatly predicted the modern online urge; but Salinger, a committed recluse, wouldn't last a minute in this confessional new world. Neither would, say, Margo Timmins of the Cowboy Junkies, a singer who was initially so intimidated by a crowd that she would sit facing the back of the stage. What happens to art when people like that are chased away?

It is also possible, though, that this is simply a natural transition point and that the next generation of musicians and artists — even the avowedly "sensitive" ones — will find the constant presence of their fans unremarkable. The psychological landscape has arguably already tilted that way for anyone under 20. There are plenty of teenagers today who regard themselves as "private" individuals, yet who post openly about their everyday activities on Facebook or LiveJournal, complete with camera-phone pictures. For that generation, the line between public and private is so blurry as to become almost nonexistent. Any teenager with a MySpace page is already fluent in managing a constant stream of dozens of semianonymous people clamoring to befriend them; if those numbers rise to hundreds or even thousands, maybe, for them, it won't be a big deal. It's also true that many recluses in real life flower on the Internet, which can famously be a place of self-expression and self-reinvention.

While researching this article, I occasionally scanned the list of top-rated bands on MySpace — the ones with the most "friends." One of the biggest was a duo called the Scene Aesthetic, whose MySpace presence had sat atop several charts (folk, pop, rock) for a few months. I called Andrew de Torres, a 21-year-old Seattle resident and a co-founder of the group, to find out his story. De Torres, who played in a few emo bands as a teenager, had the idea for the Scene Aesthetic in January 2005, when he wrote a song that required two dueling male voices. He called his friend Eric Bowley, and they recorded the song — an aching ballad called "Beauty in the Breakdown" — in a single afternoon in Bowley's basement. They posted it to MySpace, figuring it might get a couple of listens. But the song clearly struck a chord with the teen-heavy MySpace audience, and within days it had racked up thousands of plays. Requests to be the duo's "friend" came surging in, along with messages demanding more songs. De Torres and Bowley quickly banged out three more; when those went online, their growing fan base urged them to produce a full album and to go on tour.

"It just sort of accidentally turned into this huge thing," de Torres told me when I called him up. "We thought this was a little side project. We thought we wouldn't do much with it. We just threw it up online." Now their album is due out this summer, and they have roughly 22,000 people a day listening to their songs on MySpace, plus more than 180,000 "friends." A cross-country tour that ended last December netted them "a pretty good amount of money," de Torres added.

This sort of career arc was never previously possible. If you were a singer with only one good song, there was no way to release it independently on a global scale — and thus no way of knowing if there was a market for your talent. But the online fan world has different gravitational physics: on the basis of a single tune, the Scene Aesthetic kick-started an entire musical career.

Which is perhaps the end result of the new online fan world: it allows a fresh route to creative success, assuming the artist has the correct emotional tools. De Torres, a decade or more younger than Coulton and the Hold Steady, is a natural Artist 2.0: he happily spends two hours a day or more parsing notes from teenagers who tell him "your work totally got me through some rough times." He knows that to lure in listeners, he needs to post some of his work on MySpace, but since he wants people to eventually buy his album, he doesn't want to give away all his goods. He has thus developed an ear for what he calls "the perfect MySpace song" — a tune that is immediately catchy, yet not necessarily the strongest from his forthcoming album. For him, being a musician is rather like being a business manager, memoirist and group therapist rolled into one, with a politician's thick hide to boot.

Clive Thompson, a contributing writer, writes frequently about technology for the magazine.

  

 

Thursday, April 19, 2007 

Christopherson is a Grammy-voting member of National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences (NARAS). Internationally published BMI songwriter and producer.

While producing in Los Angeles over a 10-year period, Christopherson learned from industry veterans in studios where artists like STEELY DAN, ELTON JOHN, BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, THE EAGLES, MICHAEL JACKSON and AEROSMITH recorded.

Christopherson worked with GENE MEROS who has recorded KISS and VAN HALEN. Hollywood producer TOBY WRIGHT (ALICE IN CHAINS and THIRD EYE BLIND) mixed tunes for Christopherson at Can-Am Studios. TOM HALL, who produced QUEENSRYCHE and worked with the PAUL ALLEN GROUP, has been a part of Christopherson's production team on many occasions. In Hollywood, Daniel produced at OCEAN WAY STUDIOS and PARAMOUNT RECORDING with acclaimed producer KIM FOWLEY (JOAN JETT and ALICE COOPER), and later recorded with MATT BISSONETTE and GREG BISSONETTE (JOE SATRIANI, DAVID LEE ROTH, STEVE VAI, JIMMY PAGE).

At the L.A. Street Scene, Christopherson performed with GUNS 'N ROSES in front of 30,000 and MTV camera crews. MIKE FOSS, whose clients include NIRVANA, PEARLJAM, FOO FIGHTERS and SOUNDGARDEN, assisted with the "Automatic Girl" and "6-String Rainbow" cuts on One Zillion Guitars.

Daniel produced ROUNDABOUT, who won the "Best Seattle Band" award as voted by KISS-FM, Universal Studios in Hollywood, Nordstrom's and Gene Stout at the Seattle P-I. While engineering the Roundabout project, ERIC JANKO used the recording techniques he learned from LED ZEPELLIN engineer ANDY JOHNS.

Christopherson recently performed at EMP with LARA LAVI, whose touring credits include PETER GABRIEL, WOMAD, LIVE and PAULA COLE. Lara's songwriting collaborations include KURT COBAIN. 
 

Live radio interview on Randy Allar's legendary Fusion Show in Cleveland- WCSB. Other guests have included JOE SATRIANI, ERIC JOHNSON AND STEVE VAI and virtually every other guitar maestro on the scene today.

Daniel's original music will be featured in the new extreme sports TV show, "Core Culture," created by the producers of SHOWTIME and FOX TELEVISION, and included in
WARREN MILLER ENTERTAINMENT'S 54th annual feature ski and snowboard travelogue documentary titled "Warren Miller's Journey." Journey will theatrically tour across the United States, Canada, U.K., Australia, and New Zealand to over 500,000 people, and be released on DVD for home video and television.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007 

----- Original Message -----



From: (Music Director email address omitted)

To: Lynn Maas (email address omitted)

Sent: Wednesday, October 11, 2006 3:51 PM

Subject: RE: Wingless Angel airplay on KUNC

Hi Lynn,

            Thanks for the email.  We have received your CD "Wingless Angel", and it has been added to our music library.  Very solid recording, in fact we're playing all eleven tracks from the CD.

We do get tons of CD's in everyday, and it's refreshing to have one that stands out from the rest of them.

Thanks for the great music!

(Name omitted)

(Name omitted)

KUNC / Music Director

822 ..:namespace prefix = st1 />Seventh Street

Suite 530

Greeley, CO 80631-3945

(970) 350-0--8

Fax - (970) 378-2--0
kcdyas@kunc.org

 

Wednesday, September 27, 2006 

Category: Music

Anxious to get your CD to the local radio station? Radio stations receive as many as 250 CD's each week. They then compensate interns with free CD's (often the CD submissions from independent artists!), since they don't have resources to review that much new music. In most cases, non-major label bands that achieve radio airplay are those who understand the role of independent radio promoters.

 

This is a partial list of radio stations that have played songs written or co-written and produced by Daniel Christopherson. At the bottom find information about syndicated shows. When a syndicated radio show airs, stations in many other cities "pick it up," broadcasting it simultaneously to their own audiences. In this case, syndicated radio shows total an ADDITIONAL 495 RADIO STATIONS.

 

WWSP STEVENS POINT
WUSB STONYBROOK
WVUA TUSCALOOSA
KROQ LOS ANGELES
KCME COLORADO SPRINGS 
KCMU SEATTLE
KISS-FM SEATTLE
KFMG ALBUQUERQUE
KFMH MUSCATINE
KFMX LUBBOK
KGB SAN DIEGO
KGUR SAN LUIS OBISPO
KICT WICHITA
KJJO MINNEAPOLIS
KISS SAN ANTONIO
KJOT BOISE
KMSA GRAND JUNCTION
KNCN CORPUS CHRISTI
KOZZ RENO
KQQK BELLAIRE 
KRFA FAYETTEVILLE
KRZQ RENO
KSLC MCMINNVILLE
KSMC AORAGA
KTEC KLAMATH
KUCB VICTORIA
KWLN MEMPHIS
WAIF CINCINNATI
WARC MEADVILLE
WBAB LONG ISLAND
WBIM MANCHESTER
WBNY BUFFALO
WBYR BUFFALO
WCDB ALBANY
WCWP GREENVILLE
WDHA DOVER
WEOS GENEVA
WFBG ALTOONA
WFCS NEW BRITAIN
WGMU FAIRFAX
WHDG HAVRE DEGRACE
WHFS ANNAPOLIS
WHJY PROVIDENCE
WHMH ST. CLOUD
WHUS STORRS
WIXV SAVANNAH
WKNC RALEIGH
WKNH KEENE
WKVU VILLANOVA
WLFT EAST LANSING
WNGS WATKINS GLEN
WNYU NEW YORK
WONE CLEVELAND 
WOUR UTICA 
WOXY CINCINNATI
WPPN NEW ROCHELLE
WPYX ALBANY
WRDL ASHLAND
WRFL LEXINGTON
WRIU VALHALLA

WVVS VALDOSTA
WWUH WEST HARTFORD
WXLP DAVENPORT
WXRC HICKORY
WZMV GREENVILLE
Z ROCK (SATELLITE) 
KAJK Eureka CA 
KASU State University AR 
KAZU Pacific Grove CA 
KCLC St. Charles MO 
KCSS Turlock CA 
KGVA Harlem MT 
KMUD Redway CA 
KNON Dallas TX 
KOCV Odessa TX 
KOPN Columbia MO 
KOTO Telluride CO 
KOTR San Luis Obispo CA
KPBX Spokane WA 
KPHS Plains TX 
KRNI Cedar Falls IA 
KRUX Las Cruces NM 
KRVM Eugene OR 
KRVS Lafayette LA 
KSER Lynnwood WA 
KSYD Eugene OR 
KTTN Trenton MO 
KUFM Missoula MT 
KUNM Albuquerque NM 
KWAN Gualala CA 
KXRJ Russellville AR 
KZFR Chico CA 
KZUM Lincoln NE 
WBAI New York NY 
WBZC Pemberton NJ 
WCRX Chicago IL 
WDMT Eufaula AL 
WEIU Charleston IL 
WGDR Plainfield VT 
WIIS Key West FL 
WKCS Knoxville TN 
WKHG Leitchfield KY 
WLBH Mattoon IL 
WMBR Cambridge MA 
WNHU West Haven CT 
WNJC Sewell NJ 
WNYU New York NY 
WOPP Opp AL 
WORX Madison IN 
WRFG Atlanta GA 
WRNR Annapolis MD 
WRVO Oswego NY 
WSGE Dallas NC 
WTCC Springfield MA
WWSP STEVENS POINT
WUSB STONYBROOK
WVUA TUSCALOOSA
KROQ LOS ANGELES
KCME COLORADO SPRINGS 
KCMU SEATTLE
KISS-FM SEATTLE
KFMG ALBUQUERQUE
KFMH MUSCATINE
KFMX LUBBOK
KGB SAN DIEGO
KGUR SAN LUIS OBISPO
KICT WICHITA
KJJO MINNEAPOLIS
KISS SAN ANTONIO
KJOT BOISE
KMSA GRAND JUNCTION
KNCN CORPUS CHRISTI
KOZZ RENO
KQQK BELLAIRE 
KRFA FAYETTEVILLE
KRZQ RENO
KSLC MCMINNVILLE
KSMC AORAGA
KTEC KLAMATH
KUCB VICTORIA
KWLN MEMPHIS
WAIF CINCINNATI
WARC MEADVILLE
WBAB LONG ISLAND
WBIM MANCHESTER
WBNY BUFFALO
WBYR BUFFALO
WCDB ALBANY
WCWP GREENVILLE
WDHA DOVER
WEOS GENEVA
WFBG ALTOONA
WFCS NEW BRITAIN
WGMU FAIRFAX
WHDG HAVRE DEGRACE
WHFS ANNAPOLIS
WHJY PROVIDENCE
WHMH ST. CLOUD
WHUS STORRS
WIXV SAVANNAH
WKNC RALEIGH
WKNH KEENE
WKVU VILLANOVA
WLFT EAST LANSING
WNGS WATKINS GLEN
WNYU NEW YORK
WONE CLEVELAND 
WOUR UTICA 
WOXY CINCINNATI
WPPN NEW ROCHELLE
WPYX ALBANY
WRDL ASHLAND
WRFL LEXINGTON
WRIU VALHALLAWWUH WEST HARTFORD
WXLP DAVENPORT
WXRC HICKORY
WZMV GREENVILLE
Z ROCK (SATELLITE) 
KAJK Eureka CA 
KASU State University AR 
KAZU Pacific Grove CA 
KCLC St. Charles MO 
KCSS Turlock CA 
KGVA Harlem MT 
KMUD Redway CA 
KNON Dallas TX 
KOCV Odessa TX 
KOPN Columbia MO 
KOTO Telluride CO 
KOTR San Luis Obispo CA
KPBX Spokane WA 
KPHS Plains TX 
KRNI Cedar Falls IA 
KRUX Las Cruces NM 
KRVM Eugene OR 
KRVS Lafayette LA 
KSER Lynnwood WA 
KSYD Eugene OR 
KTTN Trenton MO 
KUFM Missoula MT 
KUNM Albuquerque NM 
KWAN Gualala CA 
KXRJ Russellville AR 
KZFR Chico CA 
KZUM Lincoln NE 
WBAI New York NY 
WBZC Pemberton NJ 
WCRX Chicago IL 
WDMT Eufaula AL 
WEIU Charleston IL 
WGDR Plainfield VT 
WIIS Key West FL 
WKCS Knoxville TN 
WKHG Leitchfield KY 
WLBH Mattoon IL 
WMBR Cambridge MA 
WNHU West Haven CT 
WNJC Sewell NJ 
WNYU New York NY 
WOPP Opp AL 
WORX Madison IN 
WRFG Atlanta GA 
WRNR Annapolis MD 
WRVO Oswego NY 
WSGE Dallas NC 
WTCC Springfield MA
 
KRVM-Eugene, OR
WLNZ-Lansing, MI
KKCR-Kauai, HI
KLCC-Eugene, OR
KUNC-Greeley, CO
KXCI-Tucson, AZ
WDIY-Lehigh, PA
WERS-Boston, MA
WERU-East Orland, ME
WUMB-Boston, MA
WEVL-Memphis, TN
WFHB-Bloomington, IN
WGWG-Spartanburg, NC
WMNF-Tampa, FL
WNKU-Highland Heights, KY
WCBE-Columbus, OH
WCOO-Charleston, SC
WEHM-Amagansett, NY
WQKL-Ann Arbor, MI
KAOS-Olympia, WA
KMTT-Seattle, WA
KSER-Everett, WA
KBCS-Bellevue, WA
KOHO-Leavenworth, WA
KRVM-Eugene, OR
WLNZ-Lansing, MI
KKCR-Kauai, HI
KLCC-Eugene, OR
KUNC-Greeley, CO
KXCI-Tucson, AZ
WDIY-Lehigh, PA
WERS-Boston, MA
WERU-East Orland, ME
WUMB-Boston, MA
WEVL-Memphis, TN
WFHB-Bloomington, IN

WGWG-Spartanburg, NC

WMNF-Tampa, FL
WNKU-Highland Heights, KY
WCBE-Columbus, OH
WCOO-Charleston, SC
WEHM-Amagansett, NY
WQKL-Ann Arbor, MI
KAOS-Olympia, WA
KMTT-Seattle, WA
KSER-Everett, WA
KBCS-Bellevue, WA
KOHO-Leavenworth, WA 


WSAM 417 US Stations 
DJ Paulie 


TABC 78 US Stations 
Shane Wilder