How Music Works (37 page)

they may have dreamed of sharing their work. An audience can be your fam-

ily members or anonymous passersby on the street; just because you’re not

booked in a club or concert hall doesn’t mean you’re not a musician. Even

conceptual artists and musicians who decided that to merely
think
about making something was enough—Yoko Ono, John Cage, and Sol LeWitt all

made works that consisted solely of sets of instructions—have almost always

documented their acts and presented them to their peers.

Many of us who do seek validation dream that we will not only have that

dialogue with our peers and the public, but that we might even be compen-

sated for our creative efforts, which is another kind of validation. We’re not talking rich and famous; making a life with one’s work is enough. So let’s

assume that you want to be a professional and get paid—although most of all

you want to get your music to others’ ears—then how does that work? Mak-

ing great stuff is only half the battle.

When I was younger, it appeared to me that the whole process by which

music got to my ears happened by magic. I’d hear a new band or a singer who

seemed to have come out of nowhere expressly to blow my mind. It seemed

to me as if my friends and I had “discovered” them. I wasn’t aware of marketing—at least not the marketing of music. I was aware of celebrities shilling 204 | HOW MUSIC WORKS

for cigarettes, laundry detergents, and cars on TV and radio, but I didn’t know that cool music was being marketed in the same way. I must have felt that

there existed a Republic of Peers and like-minded individuals who somehow

got wind of what cool stuff everyone else was up to.

Now everyone has at least some understanding of the fact that they are

being marketed to. Sometimes we still believe we have magically “discovered”

something, but more often we are vaguely aware that someone made an effort

to bring that artist or music to our attention. When I first noticed these hidden forces at work, I felt a little disillusioned. Realizing that something I really liked had been sold to me felt like some part of my free will had been usurped.

I began to question the whole idea of free will and personal agency in my likes and dislikes—were they all manipulated according to someone else’s plan? If

we can do the mental gymnastics, separating this pragmatic knowledge from

our enjoyment of music, then ideally this awareness of marketing campaigns

might not spoil our enthusiasm.

My friends and I now have a better understanding of the fact that our

tastes are always changing, that some musicians no longer seem relevant

while others, in retrospect, seem prescient. We realize that there is an ebb and flow to what we are emotionally involved in, that there are no absolutes.

But for a while the music business seemed like a utopian parallel universe.

As music fans and bystanders, we saw Elvis riding in a gold Cadillac, we

saw Sting recording in a French château, we saw the Capitol Records build-

ing in LA shaped like a tower of 45s, and we heard the stories of lives lived in excess—drug binges, TVs thrown from hotel balconies, embroidered nudie

suits and painted Rolls Royces. We heard stories of Bruce Springsteen labor-

ing in studios for more than a year on
Born to Run
, or D’Angelo haunting Electric Lady for four years to make
Voodoo
. Pragmatism seemed beside the point; the music world was about other things. Those tales of profligate spending

and interminable recording sessions in expensive studios are almost unheard

of now for the majority of artists, mainly for budgetary reasons. The music

world then seemed glamorous and extravagant, and the practicalities of mar-

keting and distribution seemed beside the point when one thought of the

glory and the lifestyle. Much of that has changed.

Flaunting a luxurious lifestyle is now mainly the provenance of hip-hop

artists, few of whom tour extensively—so someone must be buying some

records if that’s what pays for those bottles of Cristal, those music videos, those DAV I D BY R N E | 205

grills and chains. Or else their record companies feel that fronting the money for such things is a wise long-term investment. Many of those artists have cleverly diversified into perfumes, restaurants, shoes, and clothing; if music sales decline, if there are less and less profits from CDs, profile and income can presumably be maintained in other ways, like having your own line of perfume.

Over the years, I too have increasingly spent time working in forms that

are not exclusively musical—art, books (like this one), films, and DVDs. None of those bring in anywhere near the income that a perfume deal would, or so I imagine—I really missed the boat in that department. With any extra-musical

pursuit, my general financial rule is simply to try not to lose money; if a project covers costs and expenses, that’s acceptable. One project is not supposed to bankroll another, though that ideal is hard to maintain. For me, diversifica-tion is about seeking out ways of stretching creatively. Diversity is not a business decision; it’s a way of staying interested, alert. Though I don’t want my creative decisions to be guided by profit and marketing—a motivating criteria that inevitably ends in disaster—I also don’t want to be blissfully ignorant of budgets and business.

There’s an adage often directed at easy-come, easy-go types: the musician

who doesn’t attend to his or her business pretty soon doesn’t have any busi-

ness. Decades ago, I took that warning to heart, and before signing to a record label I read books like
This Business of Music
. My limited research didn’t guarantee all that much in the way of wisdom, and the lawyers who were hired to

protect our baby band didn’t really do much to guarantee us a truly fair deal.

Although our initial record contracts weren’t so great, to their credit, they did the best they could under the circumstances. At least we didn’t do anything truly disastrous. In subsequent years we made an effort to learn a little each time out and make course corrections. Some business decisions I deeply

regret; though I was never coerced, I was often told a given situation was the best I could hope for at the time. That line has been used to justify a lot of predatory deals, but I got off lightly. I have managed to incrementally improve my legal and contractual situation over the years, to avoid repeating mistakes and to protect myself. I’ve worked with companies big and small, and I’ve

even owned my own record company.

That label, Luaka Bop, still exists, though I’m no longer involved in running it. Our first release was in 1990. I think one year in the early aughts I actually saw some income from the company, but the rest of the time, although it was

206 | HOW MUSIC WORKS

hugely fun and the music we released was inspirational, it was also a drain on my time and finances.

I’ve also tried working without any record company at all. The
Everything
That Happens
collaboration with Brian Eno was self-released, though various companies were involved in the distribution of the physical CDs. The
Here Lies
Love
two-disc collaboration with Fatboy Slim came out through Nonesuch, a subsidiary of Warner Music Group. I have released music through indie labels like Thrill Jockey, and I have manufactured CDs of remixes and dance scores

and sold them on tour at the merch table. I have, at one time or another, tried almost every form of music distribution.

These days, I tour every few years, and I no longer see it as simply a loss

leader for CD sales. Touring used to be thought of mainly as a type of mar-

keting—a way to get the public to buy more records by generating press and

building an audience. It does do that, but it can also be a source of income and a creative endeavor all on its own. We’ve been told the old lie that losing money on tour is okay because you can make it up in record sales, but

that really doesn’t hold true for everyone anymore. Performing is psychologically and physically enjoyable for musicians, so cash is not the sole attraction.

Sadly, that means it’s relatively easy to tempt us to perform for peanuts. Being a musician is a good job, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay to go broke doing it.

I’ve made money and I’ve been ripped off (well, I’ve signed lousy contracts).

I’ve had creative freedom and I’ve been pressured to make hits. I have dealt with diva behavior from crazy musicians and I have seen genius records by wonderful artists get completely ignored. I love music. I always will. It saved my life, and I know I’m not the only one who can say that. If you think success in the world of music is determined by the number of records sold, or the size of your house or bank account, then I’m not the expert for you. I am more interested in how people can manage a whole lifetime in music. Is that possible? And if so, how?

What is called the music business today, however, is nothing like what I

researched before signing that first contract. In fact, the music business is hardly even in the business of producing music anymore. At some point, it

became primarily the business of selling objects—LPs, cassettes, CDs in plastic cases—and that business will soon be over. Tower Records closed in 2006, and Virgin Megastores shut their doors in 2009. Borders declared bankruptcy

in February 2011, and HMV in the UK closed a massive number of branches in

2012. They’re not coming back; this is not a “downturn.” The few indie stores DAV I D BY R N E | 207

that have survived have staffs that are knowledgeable, and they love the music and the musicians whose work they sell. I stopped by a record shop in Nashville not too long ago where the staff picks are all worth considering, and I heard a band play there in the afternoon. Beers were passed out. I bought some records. But even those shops have to sell a critical mass of goods to pay the rent, so who knows how long such wonderful outlets will be around.

This changing landscape is not necessarily bad news for music, and it’s not

necessarily bad news for musicians, either. There have never been more opportunities for a musician to reach an audience, and that is what we have always wanted to do. Music, as far as this book is concerned, is the end, and as we have seen, the devices that deliver it come and go. Almost none of the myriad ways of currently making an audience aware of your work existed when I accidentally found myself with a music career. Though the current situation is rife with new possibilities, the industry itself is less flush with money, so you have to learn how to navigate some treacherous waters.

Lenny Waronker used to run Warner Brothers Records with Mo Ostin.

I talked to him recently on the phone about their philosophy back when I

signed with that label.

The music business was not as profitable then. It was run by entrepreneurs, and often the records they put out were based on their taste. Ahmet Ertegün was one, and Norman Granz, who specialized in jazz, was another. They were proud that the records they put out reflected their own taste. We at Warner had a philosophy. In the late sixties and early seventies, we could see that good songwriters learned as they went—one got a sense of their growth. They might not get it the first time around, but it might happen for them on their next record. So we tried to simply sign what we thought were the best artists. Artists who had an aesthetic. We eventually realized that what was important was our roster rather than our records. And sometimes what was right, what clicked, was also a good record. It was a bet, and sometimes you could bet on quality. It was a time of anything goes, artistically.

We signed unsuccessful artists who made good records, and we eventually realized that these artists drew other artists (some of whom were successful) to the label.

Randy Newman, Ry Cooder, Van Dyke Parks, and Van Morrison were on the label, and other artists wanted to be on the label because they were there.

208 | HOW MUSIC WORKS

I remember Seymour Stein saying that he managed to sign Madonna

because Talking Heads were on Sire Records at the time. Those days are gone

for major labels, but smaller companies still follow some of that philosophy, though their finances and logistics might be different.

Take a look at this graph.

DOLLAR AMOUNTS OF UNITS SHIPPED—

IN BILLIONS (1980 to 2010)

18

15

12

9

6

3

0

81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98

06

08 09 0 1

198019

19 19 19

19 19 19 19 19

19 19 19 19 19 199920002001

19

2003

2002

2004

19

20

2005

19

2007

19

20 20 201 201

CD/CD single

Cassette/Cassette single

LP/EP/Vinyl single

Download album/single

Wow. That looks pretty scary. See how much money CDs were bringing in

at their peak? No wonder some bad decisions were made. Some say this pic-

ture depicts a dire trend. The fact that Radiohead left EMI not so long ago and debuted its 2007 album
In Rainbows
online, and that Madonna defected from Warner Bros. to sign with Live Nation, a concert promoter, are said to signal the end of the music business as we know it. Actually, these are just two examples of how musicians are increasingly able to work outside of the traditional label relationship. There is no single way of doing business these days. There are, in fact, six viable models, by my count, which I will review in this chapter. There are probably more, and one can mix and match, but these give a picture of the array of options. Having a variety of business choices is good for artists: it gives us more ways to make a living. And it’s good for audiences, too, who will have the opportunity for more—and more interesting—music to listen to.