System of Love EP by The Swimming Pool Q's- MP3 Album
Jeff Calder's Personal Archive > Living By Night in the Land of Opportunity: (9) > Living By Night Section 6
At any moment in the music business almost nothing can happen.
-Show-biz axiom
To a lot of people I am an enigma. The enigma is enveloped in a paradox, and the whole thing is totally surrounded by a paradigm.
-Kal Rudman
Kal Rudman publishes the "Friday Morning Quarterback," a music industry tip-sheet. Like all the Kal Rudmans of this world, Kal is talking about Kal. It's a self-portrait in gobbledygook. As a description of a big record company, however, Kal's enigma/paradox/paradigm becomes coherent. A record company is an institution shrouded in a dense fog that obscures all standard operating procedures. In short, almost no one knows what is going on, or what to do to make something go on.
The people who make things like "hits" happen are the master navigators. They always find their way to The Fog Machine. Then they turn off The Fogger and go Top Five. Then they turn the fogger back on just to make it tough for everybody else. In the presence of these people I'd reccomend a powerful grease solvent. On the other hand,
they are just the few. They know how to get the job done, while the rest of us just float around. By the time you figure out how to get the job done, the firm wants you to take a long rest. Then they take back the keys to the company car, and your invitation to the annual picnic gets lost in the mail. Yet, when you were unknowing-before the
undoing-you managed to get part of the job done: The Record Deal.
Making a record, like making a film, costs a lot of money. Unless you have controlling stock in Raytheon, you'll need The Big Record Deal to make The Big Record. Understanding The Big Record Deal, though, is quite simple. You get money to make a record. If itsells a lot of copies ("moves units") you'll make some money (maybe)
and get to keep making records. If it doesn't move units you won't get to make either. If you are with a major record label you will have to sell lots of records. Major labels are not patrons of the arts.
Just to get the record deal, however, you need money to make a "demo tape" and , subsequently, to "shop the deal." This is where a means-to-an-end philosophy becomes necessary. If your band is any good at all it won't have a penny by now. That means somebody's parents have to come up with a credit card. Of course, not many recording
studios take American Express, but you'll need plastic to shop the deal, so you might as well start chiseling early.
The demo tape is your first ploy. In theory, a person at the record company's A&R Department (A&R stands for Artist & Repertoire; they're talent scouts) hears the demo tape and, if he likes it, he signs you to a "deal," a recording contract. Just getting an A&R person to listen to a tape is an achievement. The exception to the demo tape process is The Buzz Factor. An artist may have a "bib buzz": hype generated by media or phenomenal grass-roots ground swell that catches industry czars by surprise. If a band has a big buzz it can sometimes go straight to the deal and obviate the demo tape.
The demo tape takes a lot of work. You need someone outside the band who can give you serious musical advice. He can't just stop by the rehearsal and tell you that everything is fine because everything is never fine. Locating someone capable of giving you the help you need is especially difficult in the provinces, but let's say you get
lucky and find someone who really cares about your music.With that person's help you choose the best three or four songs, tear them apart, excise the self-indulgent parts and reassemble them. The tedium of this is always enhanced by a high-frequency whining emanating from the musicians involved. Once the alterations are made, the band plays the songs in front of audiences until the players aren't thinking about
the alterations anymore.
Eventually, preparations for recording are complete except in the area of high finance. Here's where The Anti-Mogul steps in. He offers to bankroll the demo session. In return, if you fail to get the record deal, he'll release the songs on his small label. If you get the deal you pay him back the money he's sunk into the project, plus a
profit. A handshake occurs, and you cross your fingers behind your back. Then you book studio time and cut your demo. The recording session goes well, perhaps because you're prepared, for a change. It's important to keep the fall-back strategy with The Anti-Mogul in motion, so you shoot a picture for the record jacket cover and "master"
the tapes-the final steps before pressing the record. Meanwhile, you're about to run up even a bigger bill with American Express shopping the tape.
Once you get beyond the petty, pointless humiliations, shopping the deal can be fun. First, you can't care whether you're accepted or rejected. Once you attain this carefree state you'll project an air of confidence that will impress record company executives into
thinking they might be missing something unless they give you some time. Second, you need to find someplace to go shop the deal. That's easy since there are only two marketplaces, New York City and Hollywood. Third, remember that you can learn everything you need to know about the music business in five minutes because (a) nobody knows anything, and (b) all you need is a telephone. The skills at connivance that you've mastered dealing with nightclub owners must come into play now, because it's time to penetrate The Fog.
At the major record labels the secretarties are the custodians of Fog. They're in place to prevent you from reaching the inner sanctum of the A&R Department. Secretaries are like the sphinx, and the answer to their riddle is to know their names. But now do you get them? Armed with the name of the A&R person you wish to contact, simply call the main switchboard at the record company and ask for the secretary's name. This may require a minor ruse: "Good afternoon, this is Jack Tandy again. I was just speaking with Johnny Starmaker, and I'm supposed to call back some info the secretary by five o'clock. I'm embarrassed to say I can't quite recall who they said to ask for." The switchboard will be happy to give you a name just to get you off
the line.
It's necessary now to give yourself a little pep talk. Say to yourself, "Remember, I'm the artist. Without me there would be no music business." After you've repeated this delusion, call back the record company, ask for the secretary, and say you're returning Johnny Starmaker's call. The secretary falls for the gambit, puts you on hold, and buzzes Johnny, who's in the middle of some mid-morning catastrophe and is in such a state of wild confusion that he can't remember whether he called Jack Tandy or not. So he picks up, and you slip your foot in the door of the inner sanctum.
"Johnny, this is Jack Tandy with [name of band here]. I'm going to be in New York on April 1 for a few days. We've got a great new demo I'd like to send you, and if you like it maybe we could grab a cup of coffee." Johnny thinks he's heard of the group, remembers something about and Indie album and says, yeah, fine, call a week
before you come and anything else he can think of to get you off the phone. You say the demo tape will be on his desk tomorrow and ask "Is there a priority code I should put on the envelope?" He gives you the secret code that will get the tape right to his desk and not into the pile of a thousand cassettes on a table across his office.
Now you're in business, and remember: there's no business without you. After you've finished with Johnny Starmaker, call the other New York record companies and pull the same stunt, only this time let it slip that you're meeting with Johnny on April 1. This is a
quick way of sowing seed in the hot soil of the A&R mind. Can't let Starmaker get a leg up! Of course, I'll meet with Tandy!
Get the demo tape, first album, and press clips in the air as soon as possible. Book your flight with Mom and Dad's American Express card. In the week prior to April 1 make your final follow-up calls- "Just making sure everything is okay for the meeting, I hope
you like the tape," et cetera. Be sure to extract the name of each A&R person's California counterpart (and secretary) before you get dumped off the phone. Then pull the earlier telephone routine at the Hollywood companies, making sure you mention their New York oppositesby their first names as a reference, leaving a little leeway in your
tone just in case they hate these people.
-Show-biz axiom
To a lot of people I am an enigma. The enigma is enveloped in a paradox, and the whole thing is totally surrounded by a paradigm.
-Kal Rudman
Kal Rudman publishes the "Friday Morning Quarterback," a music industry tip-sheet. Like all the Kal Rudmans of this world, Kal is talking about Kal. It's a self-portrait in gobbledygook. As a description of a big record company, however, Kal's enigma/paradox/paradigm becomes coherent. A record company is an institution shrouded in a dense fog that obscures all standard operating procedures. In short, almost no one knows what is going on, or what to do to make something go on.
The people who make things like "hits" happen are the master navigators. They always find their way to The Fog Machine. Then they turn off The Fogger and go Top Five. Then they turn the fogger back on just to make it tough for everybody else. In the presence of these people I'd reccomend a powerful grease solvent. On the other hand,
they are just the few. They know how to get the job done, while the rest of us just float around. By the time you figure out how to get the job done, the firm wants you to take a long rest. Then they take back the keys to the company car, and your invitation to the annual picnic gets lost in the mail. Yet, when you were unknowing-before the
undoing-you managed to get part of the job done: The Record Deal.
Making a record, like making a film, costs a lot of money. Unless you have controlling stock in Raytheon, you'll need The Big Record Deal to make The Big Record. Understanding The Big Record Deal, though, is quite simple. You get money to make a record. If itsells a lot of copies ("moves units") you'll make some money (maybe)
and get to keep making records. If it doesn't move units you won't get to make either. If you are with a major record label you will have to sell lots of records. Major labels are not patrons of the arts.
Just to get the record deal, however, you need money to make a "demo tape" and , subsequently, to "shop the deal." This is where a means-to-an-end philosophy becomes necessary. If your band is any good at all it won't have a penny by now. That means somebody's parents have to come up with a credit card. Of course, not many recording
studios take American Express, but you'll need plastic to shop the deal, so you might as well start chiseling early.
The demo tape is your first ploy. In theory, a person at the record company's A&R Department (A&R stands for Artist & Repertoire; they're talent scouts) hears the demo tape and, if he likes it, he signs you to a "deal," a recording contract. Just getting an A&R person to listen to a tape is an achievement. The exception to the demo tape process is The Buzz Factor. An artist may have a "bib buzz": hype generated by media or phenomenal grass-roots ground swell that catches industry czars by surprise. If a band has a big buzz it can sometimes go straight to the deal and obviate the demo tape.
The demo tape takes a lot of work. You need someone outside the band who can give you serious musical advice. He can't just stop by the rehearsal and tell you that everything is fine because everything is never fine. Locating someone capable of giving you the help you need is especially difficult in the provinces, but let's say you get
lucky and find someone who really cares about your music.With that person's help you choose the best three or four songs, tear them apart, excise the self-indulgent parts and reassemble them. The tedium of this is always enhanced by a high-frequency whining emanating from the musicians involved. Once the alterations are made, the band plays the songs in front of audiences until the players aren't thinking about
the alterations anymore.
Eventually, preparations for recording are complete except in the area of high finance. Here's where The Anti-Mogul steps in. He offers to bankroll the demo session. In return, if you fail to get the record deal, he'll release the songs on his small label. If you get the deal you pay him back the money he's sunk into the project, plus a
profit. A handshake occurs, and you cross your fingers behind your back. Then you book studio time and cut your demo. The recording session goes well, perhaps because you're prepared, for a change. It's important to keep the fall-back strategy with The Anti-Mogul in motion, so you shoot a picture for the record jacket cover and "master"
the tapes-the final steps before pressing the record. Meanwhile, you're about to run up even a bigger bill with American Express shopping the tape.
Once you get beyond the petty, pointless humiliations, shopping the deal can be fun. First, you can't care whether you're accepted or rejected. Once you attain this carefree state you'll project an air of confidence that will impress record company executives into
thinking they might be missing something unless they give you some time. Second, you need to find someplace to go shop the deal. That's easy since there are only two marketplaces, New York City and Hollywood. Third, remember that you can learn everything you need to know about the music business in five minutes because (a) nobody knows anything, and (b) all you need is a telephone. The skills at connivance that you've mastered dealing with nightclub owners must come into play now, because it's time to penetrate The Fog.
At the major record labels the secretarties are the custodians of Fog. They're in place to prevent you from reaching the inner sanctum of the A&R Department. Secretaries are like the sphinx, and the answer to their riddle is to know their names. But now do you get them? Armed with the name of the A&R person you wish to contact, simply call the main switchboard at the record company and ask for the secretary's name. This may require a minor ruse: "Good afternoon, this is Jack Tandy again. I was just speaking with Johnny Starmaker, and I'm supposed to call back some info the secretary by five o'clock. I'm embarrassed to say I can't quite recall who they said to ask for." The switchboard will be happy to give you a name just to get you off
the line.
It's necessary now to give yourself a little pep talk. Say to yourself, "Remember, I'm the artist. Without me there would be no music business." After you've repeated this delusion, call back the record company, ask for the secretary, and say you're returning Johnny Starmaker's call. The secretary falls for the gambit, puts you on hold, and buzzes Johnny, who's in the middle of some mid-morning catastrophe and is in such a state of wild confusion that he can't remember whether he called Jack Tandy or not. So he picks up, and you slip your foot in the door of the inner sanctum.
"Johnny, this is Jack Tandy with [name of band here]. I'm going to be in New York on April 1 for a few days. We've got a great new demo I'd like to send you, and if you like it maybe we could grab a cup of coffee." Johnny thinks he's heard of the group, remembers something about and Indie album and says, yeah, fine, call a week
before you come and anything else he can think of to get you off the phone. You say the demo tape will be on his desk tomorrow and ask "Is there a priority code I should put on the envelope?" He gives you the secret code that will get the tape right to his desk and not into the pile of a thousand cassettes on a table across his office.
Now you're in business, and remember: there's no business without you. After you've finished with Johnny Starmaker, call the other New York record companies and pull the same stunt, only this time let it slip that you're meeting with Johnny on April 1. This is a
quick way of sowing seed in the hot soil of the A&R mind. Can't let Starmaker get a leg up! Of course, I'll meet with Tandy!
Get the demo tape, first album, and press clips in the air as soon as possible. Book your flight with Mom and Dad's American Express card. In the week prior to April 1 make your final follow-up calls- "Just making sure everything is okay for the meeting, I hope
you like the tape," et cetera. Be sure to extract the name of each A&R person's California counterpart (and secretary) before you get dumped off the phone. Then pull the earlier telephone routine at the Hollywood companies, making sure you mention their New York oppositesby their first names as a reference, leaving a little leeway in your
tone just in case they hate these people.