The enterprising editors here at The Minaret asked me to think about what current musical artists are most likely to be considered “golden oldies” in the next 40 years. Well, first I pictured an 80-year-old and kickin’ Eminem, which gave me a good chuckle for a minute or two. Then my irrepressible cynicism reasserted itself. I’ve got to say that the music industry, in its current state, is not on a good track for producing many multigenerational artists. It’s never been harder to be a musician, because musicians are forced to operate within a music industry that stifles progress in an effort to make its existence necessary.
When my band, Hat Trick Heroes, showcased for major labels in Los Angeles in 2006, we felt like we were riding a wave of inevitability. Guitar Hero had just become a big hit, and record labels seemed to be going into a frenzy for rock’n’roll acts. There was suddenly money in guitar-driven rock music. Hat Trick Heroes modeled itself after guitar bands like Led Zeppelin, The Who and The Stones, and we felt good about our chances in Hollywood. We had a new manager, David, who set up the showcases. He even pulled a few strings to get us featured in a tastemaker magazine as a “hot act” to watch.
A couple bands similar to us had recently gotten signed. One in particular, Wolfmother, a Black Sabbath-tinged power trio from Australia, had a connection with one of the A+R agents David had hooked us up with. We saw a trend rising, and thought ourselves lucky for seemingly playing the right kind of music at the right time. Little did we know that we weren’t latching onto an organic musical trend but entering a world of tastemakers looking to concoct the next “rock revolution” from the top down. Which isn’t revolution.
We showcased for more labels than I can remember. Some A+R agents seemed really hot on signing the band, others didn’t like us much and all embodied LA’s signature insincerity. Nonetheless, optimism followed us back to Tampa. When we heard nothing further from the labels, their silence was deafening.
About a month later we found that one of the A+R guys that almost signed us got fired. Less than a year later, many of the people we had showcased for had been fired or moved around. So had we been signed, we would have either been tossed out along with yesterday’s trends or stuck in bureaucratic limbo. (The ultimate demise of Hat Trick Heroes took four more years: four long, hard, but fun years.) The shakeup put us in the strange position of being thankful that we had not been signed.
I bring my own band into the discussion only to show that the music industry is in disarray. Labels are no longer in the business of developing young artists. The message for bands: do it yourself.
What happened? The digital age happened. It destroyed the physical product that record companies rely on. William Gibson notes that “copies are no longer cheap but free and flow freely available.” He also says, “A new regime of digital technology has now disrupted all business models based on mass produced copies, including the livelihood of artists.”
In response, labels turn to their “golden oldies” for help. That’s why, for the past five or so years, the top grossing tours have mostly been long-established acts: Green Day, U2, Madonna, Dave Mathew’s Band, et. al. It’s as if no new bands rise to replace them. And notice that for the last decade, rock music seems to come in contrived movements: Remember the “The” bands for the early-2000s? (The Strokes, The Hives, The Vines…) Or the explosion of pseudo-emo bands like Taking Back Sunday or Hawthorne Heights? Each “movement” is short-lived precisely because it’s contrived by A+R agents searching for the next Nirvana in a desperate attempt not to get tossed aside.
And it seems that labels have forgotten the lessons that Nirvana and the Seattle grunge explosion should have taught them. A strong presence of independent labels made the late-80’s and early-90’s Seattle music scene special. The upstart Seattle-based label Sub Pop Records, in particular, played a pivotal role in developing many of the bands that would make 1991 “the year that punk broke”—Nirvana, Soundgarden and Mudhoney. Nirvana’s often forgotten first album, Bleach, was released by Sub Pop in 1989.
A label like Sub Pop allowed Nirvana the space to develop their craft in a way major labels, in their search for instant hits, or what a later Nirvana song dubbed “radio friendly unit shifters,” would never allow time for. I suspect that a major label would have seen a record like Bleach as a failure: it’s a decent record, but a listen back reveals a distinct lack of hit potential. But Bleach acted as the stepping stone to Nevermind (1991), which, as we know, became so influential that labels are still trying to mimic its success.
However, it seems that they don’t even understand how Nirvana was allowed to build into a band that could produce an album like Nevermind.
In late-80’s Seattle, lots of bands were isolated from major label orthodoxy; instead they grew out of a culture of nurturing and development. And what did we get? The last significant musical explosion. (If you want to know how utterly transformative grunge was, ask an ex-80’s hair-rocker. They’re still scarred from being made passé overnight.)
Labels have protected their old, obsolete business model by enforcing outdated copyright laws; if copies are worthless, what good is a copyright? Then, they’ve begun taking cuts from areas of the artists’ income that they’ve never dipped into before: touring and merch. In 2005, Korn became the first band to relinquish a piece of touring and merchandising in exchange for money up-front when they signed with Virgin Records for $25 million.
As part of the deal, Virgin took a 30 percent share in Korn’s licensing and ticket sales. For Korn, the deal minimized their risk during an uncertain period for album sales.
However, it doesn’t represent a practical model for developing artists and actually takes away from the one still-profitable aspect of being a musician: the live show. Again, established acts are protected, at the expense of younger artists. This artistic hegemony can’t sustain itself forever. Eventually, the old label model will completely give way. The cracks have long-since been apparent.
A few years after the LA showcase fiasco, Hat Trick Heroes briefly signed with Combustion Music, a publishing company in Nashville, Tn. Combustion dealt mostly in country music publishing, a still profitable musical enterprise. One of their biggest artists was Carrie Underwood; every time you hear “Jesus Take the Wheel” on the radio, Combustion makes a buck. But they had also gotten into the business of developing a few rock bands, their biggest success story being Kings of Leon.
The entirety of Kings of Leon’s first album, Youth and Young Manhood, was co-written by Angelo Petraglia, a Combustion songwriter. Kings of Leon has blossomed into a worldwide smash, and it didn’t happen overnight, as the saying goes. Now, big company buyouts of smaller enterprises like Combustion threatens this niche, too.
The music industry’s model is terminal. It’s time to think about what should replace it.
Or we could imagine an elderly Lil Wayne. I’m sure his tattoos will look funny with his shriveled skin hanging down his bony arms. As will those ridiculous tear-drop tattoos under his eyes, which will probably stretch-out to look more like beached whales than tears. Except the cheap laughs will subside. And by the time Lil Wayne’s skin hangs, the music industry that pumps out “golden oldies” may no longer be with us.