The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic (23 page)

“Selling records was how [artists] made money,” says McDonough. “With that gone, it’s just never going to be the same. It’s certainly not something that licensing music is going to remedy.” But artists, labels and managers may beg to disagree: A one-year license for an existing song by a smaller band runs from $10,000–25,000, an original composition can run $25,000–30,000. A marquee-name band, for a year-long national campaign, could get $150,000 for existing work, or up to $300,000 for an original composition for a multi-year campaign. While licensing an album cut has the potential to break an album and make a career, 30 seconds of original music pays the same as months of intensive touring—and often anonymously.

“Five years ago, more bands said ‘no,’ but even five years ago, ‘no’ was the exception,” says McDonough. “A band that turned me down five years ago just came in and played in our office last week.” There are few bands that are no longer gettable; many are eager to take whatever money is on the table. Now when McDonough goes to a band with offers of whatever the client is interested in spending, “it’s almost always ‘yes.’”

McDonough insists that getting that perfect song into that right spot is a loose science at best. For a band that is teed up for such an opportunity—like Phoenix breaking through a Cadillac commercial, or fun.’s “We Are Young” in a Chevy Super Bowl spot—it can mean significant sales and radio play, as well as fast-tracking them to the mainstream. It shows they are an even more viable partner for brands. McDonough explains that the synthesis, when a song gets people talking about a commercial, cannot be manufactured. “You can’t talk someone into, ‘Strategically, this is the right piece of music for this spot.’ The first thing people want is something that makes their commercial look great.”

Though licensing a song to an ad is lucrative for an artist, McDonough says that the benefits of this relationship are even more valuable for a client. “Eight out of ten of the most-followed people on Twitter are musicians. Nine out of ten of the most-viewed things on YouTube are music videos. What’s the value of having [a musician tweet] about something to 20 million followers? That’s more than a primetime ad buy on NBC you could spend gazillions on. And musicians are finally starting to realize that this is worth more than any song [they] could write.
That’s
money.”

For bands and artists seeking commercial dough, the point of entry into the ad-world fray can come through music houses like Black Iris, which are commissioned by ad agencies to compose songs for their clients’ campaigns. While the vast majority of music houses are standard-issue “jingle houses” that may draw upon pre-recorded libraries of music, there are approximately a dozen that posit themselves against the old stereotype. Comprising musicians who’ve come from bands in the independent music scene, they hire and/or license music from musicians who are from that same underground. Their stock is in being “music people” and their close associations—which cool scenes, producers and artists they have a connection to.

Daron Hollowell started Black Iris with two friends from Richmond, Virginia, after the demise of his band, 400 Years. Hollowell, 40, spent the early ’90s sweating it out in basement shows on the hardcore circuit. For him, the revelation of doing commercial work was what it offered artistically. “There’s the idea of writing something beautiful that somebody may never hear or [that may never] see the light of day—I don’t know if that’s any better than the other side of the scenario.” Hollowell says he still has personal music projects on the side, but, “I’m not sure I’d want to be in a band, put a record out every year and a half, and go on tour. I have freedom from that.”

Black Iris—as well as enterprises such as Heavy Duty, which boasts HAIM and Vampire Weekend producer Ariel Rechtshaid as a partner, and staff writers with songwriting credits on nine songs on Sky Ferreira’s just-released debut album—has a cool cachet with ad agencies because of its ties to certain artists with which it works closely. It can offer entry to certain scenes and sounds companies want to transact with; many of the music houses also have other creative sidelines, for others, advertising work is the sideline. Black Iris has a singles label, White Iris; Hollowell admits to using this like a business card when meeting with ad creatives.

In a dark production suite in the Black Iris office, composer Rob Barbato is recording two demos for a commercial for a major national financial institution. An agency has commissioned original demos from Black Iris (and several other houses) for the spot. Barbato works quickly, switching between finessing a twee, acoustic pop track and a terse, synthetic one with a loop that mimics a boys’ choir. After a few takes of whistling, his boss Hollowell pops his head in and interrupts—the singer they’ve hired for the spot is on her way over.

Prior to this, Barbato worked as a musician—first as a member of Darker My Love, later as Cass McCombs’ sideman, and even doing a stint in The Fall. He went to Berklee College of Music, but instead of Barbato pursuing studio work like his classmates, Darker My Love got both a recording and a publishing deal. He quickly became uncomfortable, however, with the artistic compromises that were expected in exchange for advances the band was given. At 23, living on the road was his dream; by the time 30 rolled around, he wanted stability that touring couldn’t provide and began working as a freelancer for music supervisors Beta Petrol, before coming in-house at Black Iris last year.

“Everyone is constantly asking me about it,” says Barbato of his musician friends, who are eager to commodify their songcraft at a higher rate than indie rock pays. He tries to help the ones who are genuinely interested whenever he can, but composing for commercials means being an engineer, dexterous composer and multi-instrumentalist—it’s not for everyone. Barbato, and every producer and music supervisor interviewed for this story, says the common misconception is that writing music for commercials is easy because it’s only 15 or 30 seconds of music, and musicians regard it as lesser art.

Other underground musicians are just happy to dabble—playing or singing on a demo for a spot can bring $100–200—though some older musicians and those with a particular DIY credibility still insist on keeping their names off of it. Barbato has done spots with members of bands whose names would be familiar to anyone who’s read
Pitchfork
in the last five years, who take pains to keep their corporate toil anonymous. Barbato understands that, but he’s emphatic that to differentiate between commercial music and indie rock is to draw a line that does not exist; it’s simply a matter of degrees.

“If someone in the independent-rock world thinks that this is bullshit, they should take a look at themselves. They’re doing the same thing; they’re writing albums that people stream 30 seconds of on fucking
Pitchfork
and then people are like, ‘Oh, I like your album.’”

The real difference between a preening, indie-rock band and a commercial composer is that Barbato is pulling down a low six-figure paycheck annually, and he still has the freedom to entertain purely creative pursuits like producing albums. Aside from his salary, Barbato gets royalties if his original composition makes it into a client’s spot. When he was a freelance composer, if a spot made it into a national ad, he’d net a few thousand bucks—more than he ever made playing in successful bands. Some of Black Iris’ core staff originated in the Richmond hardcore scene; almost all of its employees and freelancers—including members of Fool’s Gold, Eric Pulido of Midlake, and Andy MacFarlane of the Twilight Sad—still play and tour in bands.

Barbato is setting up the studio to track vocals with a female singer, a known-name solo artist in indie rock. She’s done demo work for Black Iris periodically and is looking to get back into it; she’s broke until her album comes out this fall. (She asked not to be identified.) Though she is signed to a prestigious indie label with worldwide distribution, she’s barely scraping by and has been saying yes to whatever opportunities arise. Today, it’s harmonizing on a bank commercial for $100 while in Los Angeles to play Coachella.

She curls up on the black leather sofa in the control room and Barbato plays her the track a few times so she can pick up the melody. “So, kind of a Shins-y thing?” she asks. He nods. The song is sweet, pretty, California folk pop, with a little ukulele. If stretched to song length, it’d be getting raves from music sites for being so instantly memorable.

Barbato sets her up with a mic in the neighboring tracking room and the singer runs through her clarion
aahs
a few times until she nails it. Barbato gets a few takes and gives her the thumbs-up. They got it.

Lunch arrives, and Barbato, Hollowell and the singer catch up over their salads. She’s put her stuff in storage, she’s trying to figure out what she’s doing with her life and her career. She’s tried her hand doing freelance composition for spots—the money for that work is better—but she admits she doesn’t fully have the knack for it; composing often involves quickly revising a piece of music several times to meet a client’s specifications. She is eager for session work like this, which is easier for her to fit into her schedule.

On her way out the door, the singer asks, “So, should I just invoice you then?”

“Yeah,” says Hollowell.

She flashes a big smile and reminds them of her availability for next week before she waves goodbye. Neither track would ultimately wind up being awarded the spot; the client ended up licensing a pre-existing track from another artist.

Beta Petrol’s founding partner Bryan Ray Turcotte is perhaps the ultimate poster child for outré artists seeking credit in the straight world. The small firm specializes in music supervision for film, TV and commercials, and Turcotte is known to be one of the foremost punk collectors in the world, having amassed a stunning amount of memorabilia, art and ephemera. On display in his office is a Cannes Lion he won for a Nike spot, as well as the original mold for Devo’s flowerpot hats.

Turcotte is author of best-selling punk-art tome
Fucked Up + Photocopied
, and the Beta Petrol office houses two employee-run labels—one issues vinyl only, the other cassettes. Turcotte’s meeting immediately prior to this interview was with Gee Vaucher of British anarchist-punk heroes Crass about a series of exhibitions Turcotte is curating with the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art. Beta Petrol’s ad-world business is tangled in its creative endeavors, serving as the money hose for artistic pursuits. But Turcotte knows commercial work is the only lifeline some bands have and sees it as a way to help keep artists going for another album, another tour.

When Turcotte started out 12 years ago, many artists considered commercial work to be gauche, but a big part of the problem, says Turcotte, was the (corporate) messenger. “They don’t know how to talk to DIY artists about what it means,” he says. “It was just, ‘We want your song in perpetuity.’” It was a natural place for Turcotte, a former musician, to serve as a go-between.

“It was an uphill battle. Some bands were not going to do it at all.” Over time, Turcotte found bands that would. Then it was a matter of working the corporate side to finesse the licensing rights, whittling terms down to what was actually needed rather than blanket licenses. The next steps were unconventional work-arounds; Turcotte would often circumvent managers, publishers, and labels—people who had a piece of the artists’ pie—in order to appeal directly to an artist about why the spot was right for them. (Turcotte once called Lou Reed at home about use of two Velvet Underground songs; the ploy worked.) And all of this was fueled by a Robin Hood philosophy that is, in its own way, punk rock.

“I got into the business to put the money where it should be—in artists’ hands,” says Turcotte.

“It was more money than we made in a year,” says Matt Johnson of Matt and Kim, a band born of Brooklyn house shows, explaining that their advertising windfall also gave them a mainstream career along the way.

Before that, the duo, who are a couple, were touring constantly and hovering around the federal poverty line. Though they had trepidation about what doing a commercial would mean, it was limited to fear of backlash from within the DIY scene of which they were a part. In 2008, they’d licensed “Yea Yeah” for a Virgin Mobile campaign; negative reaction was limited to a few Myspace comments. The following year, when Beta Petrol wanted their single, “Daylight,” for a Bacardi spot, the duo’s initial impulse was to take the money and run.

“We thought, maybe no one would ever see the ad, or even recognize the song,” says Johnson. The money would buy them a van, though it was enough to have bought them a house. They said yes, and quickly began to regard it as much of a Matt and Kim commercial as a Bacardi one. “I have a gold record for that song, and it wouldn’t be here if it had never aired.”

For some artists, taking a check from Bacardi, Pepsi or Red Bull is an easier transaction than dealing with labels in that it’s cut-and-dry—everyone knows what they’re getting.

“What artists need are resources to make music, go on tour, make videos, grow their networks and expand their audience,” explains Adam Shore, who manages Best Coast, who have soundtracked commercials for Windows, Payless and J.C. Penney (and recorded their debut album at Black Iris’ studio.) While bands need the same things they always have, record labels are at a loss for how to create revenue and provide reach. Larger deals (and larger advances) come at the expense of selling off an artist’s rights to everything—publishing, merchandising, tour revenue.

Meanwhile, a commercial sync has more reach, nominal terms and bigger paydays. If ad execs are the new A&R, then it only serves that brands are the new record labels, yet “brands can provide these better than labels ever could, at minimal cost and effort to them,” says Shore. “Plus, they don’t want to own your albums.”