Sold Out for Nothing

Sold Out for Nothing

I always love talking to other music heads about the issue of "selling out." Aerosmith totally sold out, probably more times than we know, and this year they really out did themselves. They recorded a "Patriot's Pepsi anthem." 

That one is a pretty obvious sell-out, but I get it. Those dudes are getting old, and they have big Ferrari bills to pay. Too bad the Pats didn't make the Super Bowl, so they could milk a few more dollars out of that song. I wonder how many week's supply of hookers and blow that earned for ole' Stephen Tyler? 

Selling out is so relative. Some guys are getting fat checks to write jingles for bubbly sugar water and sports teams, while others are getting tiny checks to sit in the corner of a fish house and pretend to be Jimmy Buffet. 

So, that's my question: is it still selling out if it's barely any money at all? Is there an amount of money that constitutes selling out? Does the money even matter? Or is it more about what you do, and what is still respectable? How do you get your music money, and can fans still accept you in the morning after? 

Would people still think NIN was cool if they found out that Trent Reznor's first gigs were Boy George tributes at a Holiday Inn?  

I'm talking about the little guys. The upstarts. The musicians down here on the street, just trying to get by. Keep on keeping on. Music is an expensive habit to support, and we all got bills to pay. As long as I can keep going, just keep doing my thing playing and writing songs. Plugging away in smoky dives, it's just another day in the office babysitting a bunch of old drunks. It beats a real job. Or does it? 

Is it more of a sell out to get a real 9-5 pushing paper than it is to put on a Hawaiian shirt and play ukelele on Saturday nights? Maybe do some "Brown Eyed Girl" at the beach bar for a couple hundred bucks? 

The whole point for the musical artist is being able to write and record and create new music and new art, and there's a moment of validation when you finally get your bills paid as a professional musician. At the end of the week I think to myself, all I had to do is play guitar, and the rent is paid. That is freakin' badass. Is it even possible to sell out when you finally just crossed that threshold into being a full-time professional? What point do you cross the line even as a little guy? 

I've done local TV commercials for fish houses and news spots at beach bars. It wasn't how I would prefer to present myself as an artist. But you get what comes to you. If I had my way, I would play on the Daily Show, but Jon Stewart hasn't called me yet... For the most part, so much of it is beyond our control. You can only play the gigs that are offered, and people hire you for specific purposes. It is very rare to find a venue that will guarantee you a fair amount of money, while at the same time allowing you complete creative freedom.

It's always strange thinking about music in that business sense. It's an emotional art form for me and very personal. The sounds just burst out in creative fits, but most patrons or benefactors, promoters and venue owners don't see it that way. They just see "products" that are purchased in markets or corporate themes and aesthetics. How I look is just an image or brand that people either identify with, or they don't. In the latter, they'll say it's weird or cheesy or a style for old people or hippies. 

"We've decided to go in a different direction" or "I don't think you would be the right fit for our crowd" or "The indie psych-folk is really catching ground in the South East regional markets" or "We're looking for something more along the lines of Adult Contemporary Pop." It dwindles the whole art form and expression into the most superficial relationship of consumers and products. Don't people care about unique ideas? Innovation? Emotion? 

The truth is, I don't really want to ask people for money, so that they can hear me play music. I want to enjoy life and express myself and my unique perspective of the human experience. I would share my music with anyone freely. But a man's got to pay his bills, and put a roof overhead, so there's a dilemma. 

So, how do you make the transition into full-time artist while maintaining your integrity? If you want to dedicate your life to your art, at some point you have to get paid for it. Or else you'll just be a bum, and you won't be able to afford the tools of the trade. Can't afford that studio time, that new guitar... Even in the new reality of prolific recording technology and digital media, microphones cost money, domain names, server space, cameras, graphic designs, computers and programs, applications, gas and transportation, rent... 

I don't really have an answer for what constitutes selling out. Maybe there isn't one. It's usually just a gut feeling response to the question of "am I ok with that?" 

It's like anything that people do for money: what is your definition of integrity, and how much is it worth to you? 

Keep it Raw or Go BIG?

Since we have been recording some new material with Between Bluffs, it has sparked ideas and conversations about one of my favorite "great debates" of the musician - how to approach producing a studio album. 

Do you stay true to what can be produced in a live setting?

Or, do you go all out and try to create something unique altogether, utilizing all the tools of recording technology?

Or is there somewhere in between?

Keep it Raw!

On one hand, they say, Keep it Raw! Keep it Real! Don't do more than what can be done live. Stick with your style and try not to deviate; that is the true form of your music and how people will experience it. Reproduce that live show of the stage as closely as possible in the studio because when a fan experiences your music at a live show, they get a certain expectation. If they enjoyed themselves enough to want to buy a CD then they get home they want and expect a similar experience. Maybe they will enjoy the translation from stage to studio, but maybe not. Can that experience on stage ever truly be translated to a studio disc? How can you capture the energy of hundreds or thousands of people together in a room vibing on some good music when you are sitting by yourself in an isolation booth trying to lay down a vocal track , staring into the black insulation foam? Maybe you record as much of it live as you can? But then are you not just doing live album? What is the point of recording in the controlled atmosphere of the studio when you are just going to basically track a live show? Why not just record the next big live show and get the fans on tape too?

Go Big!

The others say Go BIG! The studio offers you the chance to do things that you could never even possibly try to imagine doing live. Layers upon layers of harmonies that fill the void; string and horn sections you could never possibly afford to hire for every gig; collaborations with members of other bands who are way too busy to hit the road with you; imagination being the only limitation to ideas coming to fruition. But then there's that disappointment factor again. The fan who experiences your music for the first time online then comes to a live show and realizes that you don't actually have a string quartet or horn section, or group of awesome black soul singers. It's just a power trio or standard rock four piece. Maybe they are impressed at the raw transformation of the sound, and like it even better. Either way, it's not what they expected; maybe even not what they wanted.

Stuck in the Middle

Is there a middle ground? Can you capture something in the studio that is both a fair representation of the live show, but also something grand and spectacular that takes it to another level? How do you know what to emphasize and what not to in order to achieve the best of both worlds?

Butch Vig, Rick Rubin, George Martin, Brian Eno, Phil Spector, Quincy Jones all seemed to have cracked the code on making a fantastic album. They made great records that will transcend time and stand on their own, but how did those records translate to the live stage? In some cases, not nearly as well. On the other hand, bands like the Grateful Dead and Widespread Panic had spectacular live shows that never quite translated into a studio album of equal quality. It's a catch 22.

the ever pestilent question of the musician...

We sat up all night long, laughing and smoking; manifesting our nostalgia; drinking and talking. All the while, we stared into the fire as if there were nothing else in the entire world worth looking at. As if the controls of our head had been commandeered by moths hellbent on flying straight into the heart of a mesmerizing light. Luckily, no one fell in; likely because our bodies were numb and sunken deep into our chairs with no hope of ever standing back up. There was no will or apparent ability to do so. Our drunk, limp bodies and the chairs in which they sat, melted into one mindless being. Our hearts were heavy with deep, fond feelings for the wonderful moment that we were so blessed to experience together. Friends sharing life and music; fire and drink - a small microcosm of Peace and Sanity in a world of Chaos and Madness.

As the time and the alcohol progressed, the conversations grew heavier. Amidst the barrage of drunken "I love you mans" were ruminations on different human perspectives; the fallacies of stereotypes; circular questions of truth and time; the infinite spans of the universe(s); the potential in future human technologies; the meaning and purpose of life; the dangers and beauties of religion; and then more "I love you mans"...

These wonderful ponderments were interspersed with brief outbursts of idiocy in order to lighten our intellectual load. We wondered if male olympic swimmers shaved their balls? Why mustaches aren't called mouth brows? Are breast implants effective floatation devices? How exactly does corn reconstruct itself after a bowel movement? And don't you dare tell me its cellulose! Can you simultaneously believe in science and magic? Why not?

We solved all of the deepest, most pressing questions of the day. Now, we know why people do the things they do because that is the way of the world. The answer to every why? is because. Our eyes were open, though somewhat slanted. We saw more clearly and more blearily at the same time. A drunken philosopher farts from both ends, and the hot gas exuding from our mouths was equally repulsive to anything that ever came from our rears. 

I grabbed the guitar, and made a few cockeyed strums. The steel strings offered a resistance to my fingers that seemed to emphasize the slowing synapses of my brain. Do I even know how to play this thing anymore? Maybe not. I have an idea in my head, but bringing that idea forth into the world will be a painful birth. Many will suffer. Ears may bleed. This could get ugly.

"Sing one!" the voices on the other side of the glowing embers call out to me.

"OK..." I reply in reluctance.

One simply can't dilly dally on a guitar around the fire. No! A song must be played. And from start to finish too. Don't give me none of this half-assed, I forgot the words; I'm drunk; I don't feel like it bullshit. The people must be entertained! 

The search begins in the song database of my mind for an appropriate number, and the ever pestilent question of the musician pops into my brain, "Do I play what I think everybody wants to hear? Or do I play what I feel like playing right now?"

Of course, there is the third factor to consider, "What am I capable of pulling off right now with my current level of intoxication?"

It never fails. Even in the most comfortable of environments, surrounded by the closest of friends. The struggle persists between the artist and audience on the basis of motivation and purpose. Who am I doing this for and why? Is it for me? Or is it for the approval of others? What drives me to make music? Why do I think about it night and day, yearning to sing out and make noise that will rattle the earth? What is it that I hope to gain by singing songs? Approval? or Release?

"Are you gonna play one or what?" an obvious response to my extended moment of inner conflict. 

I think I'll play one of my tunes... And after the first few strums, the voices inside my head go quiet. 

"Oh," I thought. "That's why I play."