AUSTIN--Saturday at SXSW finds everyone hungover, exhausted or partially
deaf, but good spirits abound. The very fact that so many people are willing
to subject themselves to this sort of abuse is an encouraging sign for the
state of the music industry. It doesn't matter if a band is big or small,
signed or unsigned: if no one's interested in the music then the equation
doesn't work out.
Some of the more interesting panels Saturday centered on activity that
doesn't necessarily directly affect the average music listener. Nevertheless,
discussions focusing on the publicist/journalist relationship and the
producer/label relationship were interesting glimpses behind the
multi-billion-dollar curtain of modern music-making. From Alan Light (editor
in chief of Spin) to Jerry Harrison (former Talking Head and popular
producer), all panelists observed some significant changes in the music world
that have altered the way they do business.
For starters, all but the most dedicated fans seem to be treating music as
disposable, buying records for the hits and then forgetting the band once its
time in the sun has passed. This certainly hampers the development of new
acts; when follow-up records fail to sell as many copies as the smash debut,
a band in the current environment could very well be dropped without a second
chance.
Also, the rise of new media such as the Internet--however prominent--has yet
to evince any revolutionary approach to music marketing; major labels often
see the Web as (at best) mere clutter or (at worst) as a threat, causing them
to further withdraw behind a cloak of control that leaves in the lurch fans
looking for access to their favorite groups. As several publicists pointed
out, there may be more media outlets than ever before, but record sales
remain stagnant, indicating the existence of some other gap in the chain of
communication from seller to buyer.
But no matter what industry folk feel are pressing issues, the most important
lesson that can be taken from the SXSW experience is that the relationship
between artist and fan supersedes most financial considerations. And as long
as songwriters keep making music that matters--music that listeners
appreciate--then the industry will maintain a sense of equilibrium between
art and commerce.
Case in point: Josh Rouse and Johnny Dowd. Rouse is a young, baby-faced
songwriter from Nashville whose music hardly fits in the Music City mold.
Closer to Paul Westerberg than Merle Haggard, Rouse's melancholic anthems
have gained him an ever-growing reputation for quality. At a capacity
showcase (Austin takes its fire codes seriously, and doors are frequently
opened and closed several times throughout the course of a single night as
people come and go) Rouse played for a roomful of apt listeners, all of whom
seemed to realize they were getting an early and intimate peak at a new
songwriter who surely has many strong years ahead of him.
Current Ithaca, New York, native Johnny Dowd, on the other hand, has been
around for quite a while, but he didn't begin to make music until he was in
his late forties. Yet Dowd's performance at the Ritz Lounge was hardly the
work of a middle-aged man easing his way into a new career. With a wit as
skewed as his disturbing songs, Dowd acted like someone half his age, roaming
the crowd during his guitar solos, bumming a cigarette off of a stranger
standing nearby, and chastising a passerby for walking out early. Like Tom
Waits had he abandoned his alternative piano man persona and gone straight
for the strange stuff, Dowd raised Hell with the diabolically pure powers of
rock 'n' roll.
Neither Dowd nor Rouse is going to get played on the radio anytime soon. Dowd
in particular, with his Captain Beefheart wail, isn't even remotely bankable,
and few radio stations would be willing to risk such an unknown quantity as
Rouse. But in both cases those present could see and hear clearly the talent
on hand, an opportunity that could only occur outside the realm of the
industry that as a whole implicitly excludes them. No doubt dozens of similar
encounters were occurring in many of Austin's dozens of clubs, as artists
both known and unknown were able to interact directly with curious crowds.
Thus SXSW ultimately exists for the benefit of the music lover, people who
still get a thrill seeing their favorite act in concert or experiencing
something unfamiliar. It doesn't really matter whether the hundreds of bands
down in Austin had anything new to say or any new way in which to say it.
What's important is that thousands of people where there to support it.
They call Austin the Live Music Capitol of the World because there are dozens
of venues to accommodate touring and local acts, and there are dozens of
venues because the people of Austin pack them year round. As long as the
listeners are there to support the music, live music will never die. SXSW is
just one massive week-long affirmation of the mutual love between musician
and fan.
BYPASSING
THE INDUSTRY