September 29th, 1999
Despite long odds and reams of horror stories, the primary goal for an astounding number of aspiring musicians is a major-label record deal, which is usually perceived as the key first step toward realizing a dream of stadium tours, expense accounts, MTV, and the many other well-publicized benefits of rock 'n' roll stardom. In every city, dozens of bands regularly mail out painstakingly assembled media kits and demos, sending them blindly to whatever record-company addresses they can find in hopes of being "discovered." The ones that play the game successfully usually get the opportunity to hawk their wares at one of countless industry conventions, ranging from poorly attended upstarts in cities too numerous to mention to the established giants, South By Southwest (every spring in Austin) and CMJ (every fall in New York City).
The conventions themselves tend to be of primary interest mostly to those who fancy themselves media and music-industry insiders, with panels at which professionals discuss the mechanics of virtually every related profession, but CMJ also works as a tidy microcosm of the way music finds its way to consumers.
Marketed and generally seen as the "hippest" of the industry conventions—the initials are short for College Media Journal, with an emphasis on college radio—CMJ provides more than its share of surreal music-marketing moments. From Glenn Danzig signing autographs to promote a new album (check out that Rob Zombie-esque cover art!) to a bevy of emaciated models handing out fliers for a Milla Jovovich concert ("Will you be at the show?"), passers-by get to witness marketing at its most audacious.
This predictable see-our-band/sign-our-band/buy-our-albums marketing orgy was muddled somewhat in 1999 by the distracting presence of dozens of companies with names ending in .com. In the past, the most visible exhibitors wanted to give conference attendees CD samplers and band T-shirts; at CMJ 1999, they handed out little more than business cards and boring conversations about how acts can use web sites and services to be seen, heard, and signed. The focus of the festivities seemed to have shifted from, "How can I get signed?" to the even more nebulous, "How can I use the Internet to get signed?"
But regardless of the abundant and optimistic tech-speak and business talk, those who looked closely could see the downside of the industry at every turn. One panel discussed the roadblocks that stand in the way of Low Power Radio, one of the few conceivable ways to break the pattern of corrupt, monopolistic, homogenous corporate control of the airwaves. Another panel, a lively and articulate group that included Cristina Martinez from Boss Hog, talked about the pros and cons of industry mergers and downsizing. (Imagine how lively and articulate the group might have been had it included its scheduled moderator, erstwhile The View co-host Debbie Matenopoulos. Talk about your surreal images.)
But the sights most indicative of the music industry's cruel nature came during the hundreds of CMJ-sanctioned, heavily publicized concerts at the end of each day. While their initial goal is no doubt to expose fans to a wide array of unheard music (though the emphasis has admittedly shifted to already-signed acts), CMJ and its counterparts almost always devolve into monkey-see-monkey-do hype, with journalists, fans, and radio types clamoring for a look at the biggest, most newsworthy names. The result is long lines at some shows—virtually everyone in attendance, including those who actually had to shell out 400 of their own dollars for a badge, was turned away at a club at least once—and empty rooms at others. Imagine being in a band, getting your first shot at an industry festival, and staring out at an empty room because Gay Dad is playing across town.
Ah, Gay Dad. It takes a band led by a member of the fickle and fad-conscious British press (Cliff Jones of The Face and MOJO) to come up with a sound this calculatedly false. An empty construct built of glam tantrums, boring Britpop, and bad hair, Gay Dad kept its audience waiting a whopping 70 minutes—a big no-no when your crowd has seven other shows to see that night and isn't innately excited to see you—before cranking out a notably uninspired 35-minute set. What followed symbolized everything that's right and wrong with music festivals, not to mention the music industry in general.
Shortly after Gay Dad made its exit, and two-thirds of the crowd filed away in a collective disgruntled shrug, the excellent Dutch band Bettie Serveert made an unassuming entrance and launched into an elegant, riveting set. Seeing the hype of the moment—the Band Of The Century for the week ending Sept. 18, 1999—followed by the hype of the moment from 1993 was eye-opening to say the least. And while the difference in crowd size between the two shows said a lot of unfortunate things about fleeting fame and commerce vs. quality, it also showed that 1) bands can survive even if their mammoth hype doesn't pay huge commercial dividends, and 2) those attending CMJ can get into great shows if they seek out once-overhyped acts whose hype was actually justified. It was disappointing to see trip-hop chanteuse Dot Allison's crowd leave before a characteristically magnificent performance by The Spinanes' Rebecca Gates (there goes 1999 vs. 1993 again), but those who stayed surely appreciated the mesmerized, cell-phone-free silence of the smaller audience.
The fact that Gay Dad's backlash has virtually preceded its hype (the next night, Bis' cranky singer referred to "that prick from Gay Dad") is a pretty good indication of how long the band will last. Besides, the survivors were the story at CMJ, right down to keynote speaker Ice T, who celebrated his new deal with Internet-savvy upstart Atomic Pop and proclaimed that his former labels "can eat a bowl of dicks." Ice T may not be at the top of his game commercially—among his next projects is a role in Leprechaun 5—but who would you rather hear give a 30-minute lecture, him or that prick from Gay Dad?
- Comments