The Music Business Is Broken, and Everybody Knows It
Stuck in a system that only benefits a select few, the music community is struggling to even imagine viable alternatives.
Back in 2016, documentarian Adam Curtis released HyperNormalisation, which opened with the following words:
We live in a strange time. Extraordinary events keep happening that undermine the stability of our world. Suicide bombs, waves of refugees, Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, even Brexit. Yet those in control seem unable to deal with them, and no one has any vision of a different or a better kind of future.
Sound familiar?
Curtis, whose body of work is admittedly filled with similarly bleak films, explained the concept behind HyperNormalisation in an article for AdBusters:
“HyperNormalisation” is a word that was coined by a brilliant Russian historian who was writing about what it was like to live in the last years of the Soviet Union. What he said, which I thought was absolutely fascinating, was that in the 80s everyone from the top to the bottom of Soviet society knew that it wasn’t working, knew that it was corrupt, knew that the bosses were looting the system, knew that the politicians had no alternative vision. And they knew that the bosses knew that they knew that. Everyone knew it was fake, but because no one had any alternative vision for a different kind of society, they just accepted this sense of total fakeness as normal.
This framework can obviously be applied to all sorts of different situations, the most troubling of which tend to be geopolitical and macroeconomic in nature. Yet even when the stakes don’t quite reach the level of potential fascist takeovers, large-scale wars and / or societal collapse, the idea of hypernormalization—yes, I’ve switched to the American spelling—is still relevant. Swap out the words “Soviet society” for “music industry” in the passage above, and Curtis’ words start to look a whole lot like a description of the contemporary music landscape.
The notion that the music industry is fundamentally “broken” has been advanced so many times that it now verges on cliché. Yet the situation on the ground continues to deteriorate. Streaming dominates the music economy, paying most artists a pittance as it brings in billions for the major label, global pop stars and, of course, the platforms themselves. (Writer Liz Pelly wasn’t wrong when she described streaming as an exercise in “systemic grift” during a recent First Floor interview.) Actual sales revenue long ago fell off a cliff, and though the much-hyped vinyl “revival” is regularly touted as a reversal of that trend, a cursory look beneath the hood shows that it’s largely fueled by needless major-label catalog reissues and multiple editions of Taylor Swift albums. Meanwhile, vinyl production costs remain sky-high and even established independent artists and labels routinely struggle to sell a few hundred copies of their latest releases.
Live shows were supposed to provide artists with a financial lifeline, but in the face of rising travel costs and profit-maximizing corporate promoters—who not only oversee what are effectively monopolies in many major markets, but also frequently demand a percentage of on-site merch sales—it’s no wonder that so many musicians have cut back on touring. It doesn’t help that audiences increasingly expect some sort of dazzling, over-the-top (i.e. expensive) audio-visual experience, and even when artists do manage to make the numbers work and hit the road, the ongoing closure of clubs and festivals means that there are fewer places for them to actually play.
Making any of this (e.g. streaming, sales, touring) even remotely feasible also requires some level of effective promotion. That used to involve angling for press coverage, but the music media has been so thoroughly gutted during the past 15 years that its ability to move the cultural needle—or even give artists a moderate promotional boost—has largely evaporated. In truth, the relationship between publications and artists has in many ways been almost completely reversed, with media outlets now desperately hoping that the artists they’ve featured will help drive traffic and engagement by re-posting that content on their own channels. Is said content any good? In a media economy where success is determined by clicks, likes, follows and other superficial metrics, it largely doesn’t matter.
Those metrics apply to artists as well, and with bookers and brands (i.e. two of the only remaining potential sources of significant income) frequently basing their decisions around follower counts and who’s managed to go viral, musicians’ livelihoods have become increasingly dependent on their marketing savvy. In the crowded free-for-all that is social media, attention is the most important currency. The artists who can attract and, most importantly, sustain it are now at a distinct advantage, even when the “how” of their methods has little or nothing to do with their actual music.
None of this is news of course, and similar screeds have been written countless times before. As with many other facets of the economy, the music industry only appears to be truly working for a small cohort of individuals and corporations at the very top of the pyramid. Everyone else is hanging on for dear life, and while they’re technically free to voice their complaints—and might even gain some social currency for doing so—nothing seems to change. Take the streaming issue; thanks to Liz Pelly’s Mood Machine book, Spotify is currently experiencing yet another round of terrible press, one that specifically calls into question the ethics of its business practices. That should affect their bottom line—and perhaps prompt other streamers to alter their own behavior—but Spotify’s stock price has been soaring for more than a year now, and actually reached a new all-time high earlier this month after the company reported that 2024 was its first-ever profitable year.
Adding another level of intrigue, that disconnect between the discourse and Spotify’s financial performance is unlikely to stem the tide of streaming critiques, at least as long as conversations around the issue continue to stimulate engagement. Resistance to the system, it seems, has been co-opted by the system itself, and is now used to help fuel the machine. Curtis expressed a similar sentiment in HyperNormalisation:
Even those who thought they were attacking the system—the radicals, the artists, the musicians and our whole counterculture—actually became part of the trickery, because they, too, had retreated into the make-believe world, which is why their opposition has no effect and nothing ever changes.
Thinking about the electronic music realm, there is no shortage of artists sounding the alarm. Earlier this month, Berlin-based ambient / experimental artist Ben Bondy—a key member of the ever-expanding (and enticingly hazy) West Mineral Ltd. / 3XL universe—dropped a release called uncut gems on Bandcamp. A collection of B-sides and rarities from his k2dj alias, the seven-track offering came with only a smattering of additional information about its actual contents, but when the release went live on Bandcamp, the email notification that went out to all of Bondy’s followers on the platform included the following words:
raising some funds for myself since this past year's been so tough with money. I know it has for everyone, and thank y'all so much for the endless love and support. can't express how much it means to me.
love you (beyond words)-k2dj
It’s a tender message, and one that will likely resonate with many struggling artists. There was a time when making these kinds of public pleas for assistance would have been taboo, but that stigma has largely disappeared in recent years, to a point where it’s now become commonplace for musicians, producers and even DJs to flat-out ask the public for direct financial assistance. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but the frequency with which they appear does lay bare just how challenging the musical landscape has become, even for critically acclaimed and seemingly established artists.
Just one day before Bondy posted uncut gems online, 3XL founder Shy (a.k.a. Special Guest DJ) added Total Annihilation Beach, a 2023 EP from his caveman LSD alias that was first released via the Isla label, to the 3XL Bandcamp profile. The reason why? According to the notification email his followers received, it was to “help cover a lot of dentist costs.” Over in Paris, house and techno producer Jaymie Silk is currently in the midst of releasing a trilogy of EPs called Missing Tracks. Only the first two installments have dropped so far, but as he explained on Instagram, the series was precipitated by the recent burglary of his apartment, in which he lost two computers and seven years’ worth of unfinished and unreleased tunes. Rather than simply sinking into despair, he collected various demos that he’d previously emailed to friends, and is now releasing them via the Missing Tracks EPs, knowing that the project files—and his ability to properly finish the tunes—are likely gone forever.
Silk’s posts about the burglary and Missing Tracks have generated lots of likes, but looking at the paucity of user icons in the “supported by” section of the Missing Tracks Bandcamp pages, that social media engagement has not translated into much concrete financial support. The Bandcamp pages for Ben Bondy’s uncut gems and Shy’s Total Annihilation Beach tell a similar story.
These are just a few recent examples, and though it would be a stretch to say they adequately represent the whole of electronic music, they do share some key traits—and highlight some rather concerning trends. While none of the artists in question would qualify as full-blown stars, none of them are unknowns either. They’ve all received a fair amount of critical praise and press attention, and have all done a fair bit of touring as well. In other words, they’re working artists with some level of name recognition, and despite the apparent endorsement of the industry and electronic music’s chattering class, the genre’s broader ecosystem is failing them.
In recent years, music and culture circles have been rife with talk about how important it is to reshape the status quo and find concrete ways to support artists. Yet it seems that the vast majority of consumers—including people who would self-identify as fans of musicians directly asking for assistance—are either unable or unwilling to put their money where their mouth is. Solidarity between artists and consumers has always been something of a mirage, but it does appear to be on a downswing at the moment.
Fatigue is likely a factor in that. After seeing dozens, if not hundreds, of public pleas from artists asking for help, consumers—and even fans—will naturally start to tune them out. (Also important: In a time when seemingly every creator, publication and service has switched to a subscription model, it’s even harder for the average consumer to shell out additional money for a one-off donation, particularly when the ask doesn’t revolve around some sort of life-and-death disaster.) And when it comes to bigger-picture problems, whether that’s the streaming economy, merch cuts, venue closures or some other systemic issue, fighting for change is flat-out exhausting. Although participating in those battles may reliably generate some online likes and other virtual pats on the back, the work tends to be pretty thankless in the real world. Nobody gets a prize for being virtuous, and when progress on a particular issue appears to be virtually nonexistent, most people will eventually surrender to the status quo, resigning themselves to the idea that nothing can be done.
That sense of resignation appears to be rather widespread at the moment, particularly as the alarming actions of the US government have underscored the idea that we all have much more important things to worry about than the health of the music ecosystem. That idea is not wrong, but with the general public in something of a dazed stupor—and most likely seeking a bit of relief from the insanity they’re seeing every day on the newswire—the folks at the top of the music pyramid are ready to cash in on consumer malaise.
Spotify is perhaps the most prominent example, and though its most recent earnings report—the one that caused the company’s stock price to surge—was mostly focused on touting profits and the platform’s “user experience,” it also included a smattering of the usual doublespeak about “connecting fans, creators and art in new ways” and “helping creators grow, monetize and connect with fans.” At this point, it’s beyond hard to believe that Spotify—which, by the way, last month hosted a Trump inauguration brunch and donated $150,000 to his official inauguration ceremony—cares one iota about the well-being of artists (or, in the company’s preferred parlance, “creators”). Musicians know this. Consumers know this. Labels, both major and independent, know this. Politicians know this. Spotify itself knows this. Yet the platform—and the wider streaming system—marches on, and nobody seems capable of even imagining a workable alternative.
The same could be said for all sorts of music industry practices. Most musicians and DJs don’t like documenting their every move online and creating a constant stream of content to appease the algorithm, but they don’t feel like they have any other choice. Most of them would also prefer to devote more of their touring schedules to smaller, more intimate venues with passionate, clued-in crowds, but playing at soulless megaclubs and one-size-fits-all festivals is a much more realistic way to pay the bills. (To his credit, Barker did suggest a potentially rewarding alternative to the stranglehold that DJ culture currently has on dance music when First Floor interviewed him last week, and given the relative rarity of genuinely novel ideas in that circuit, his enthusiastic proposal felt particularly intriguing.) In the journalism sphere, most publications would surely rather focus on highlighting new artists and writing interesting stories than chasing brand partnerships, churning out clickbait and devoting their limited resources to disposable short-form video content for social media, but the latter model is the only one that feels even potentially viable at the moment.
That’s just a partial list, but the closer one looks at the contemporary music industry, the more the whole thing feels like a manifestation of the “this is fine” meme.
Earlier this month, Resident Advisor co-founder Paul Clement put up a post on LinkedIn. The main focus was the company’s search for a CFO, but he also used the opportunity to crow about the publication’s success, citing its year-on-year “exponential growth,” touting its “profitable, cash-positive” status and boasting that the “business is not built on questionable foundations, running on fumes like many of our competitors do.” Clement may be entitled to celebrate his wins, and perhaps his assertions are designed, at least in part, to push back against the persistent chorus of aging grumps who like to grouse that “RA is dead.” Anyone who’s been paying attention already knew that the company was most definitely not dead, but Clement’s nonetheless decided to word his post in a way that might be described as having some serious Daniel Ek energy.
Whatever one thinks of Resident Advisor’s editorial content—and, for what it’s worth, it’s often pretty good these days—what Clement fails to mention is that the entire operation is built upon a foundation of ticket sales and brand collaborations, both of which are major potential conflicts of interest. Sure, it’s allowed RA to create a financially successful model, and a platform that many consumers—including the ones with reservations about how the company conducts business—find incredibly convenient. But it also rests upon an ethical minefield, one in which the production of quality, uncompromised journalistic content isn’t the first priority, or even the second. A music media landscape full of Resident Advisor clones not only wouldn’t be feasible—not everyone can profitably sell tickets—but it wouldn’t be healthy either.
So what’s the solution? I don’t know. Nobody does, and that’s the problem. It’s easy for me to sit here and lob darts at RA and other publications, many of which are just as cozy with brands. First Floor, in constrast, is financed entirely by reader subscriptions, and while that leaves me seemingly untainted by the influence of corporate sponsors and other potentially nefarious forces, the newsletter is also published via Substack, a tech platform that’s not only fueled by venture capital, but also grants a home to far-right authors whose politics most definitely do not line up with my own. I also post First Floor content on Instagram, which has an even spottier track record. Why? Because these platforms are relatively easy to use and have robust user bases. First Floor may be a passion project, but it’s also my livelihood, and while there are certain lines I won’t cross, ensuring the newsletter’s viability, for better or worse, requires adjusting to the media ecosystem at hand.
It’s often said that “there is no ethical consumption under capitalism,” and the word “consumption” could easily be swapped out with “journalism,” “content creation,” “art practice” or pretty much any other term that applies to a financialized creative endeavor. Writers, editors, publishers, artists, musicians, DJs, producers, label owners, distributors, publicists, promoters, bookers … few people in any of these positions have truly clean hands. Grappling with that reality is hard, and it’s why most people—including those directly impacted by the vagaries of the music business—ultimately capitulate to the system as it stands. It may be corrupt, it may be enriching only a select few, it may not be good for the health of music culture and it may not be feasible in the long term, but it’s familiar, and it’s populated with everyone you know. It’s “normal,” for lack of a better word—or hypernormal, as Adam Curtis might say—and going along with the charade is a lot easier than going against the grain.
Shawn Reynaldo is a freelance writer, editor, presenter and project manager. Find him on LinkedIn and Instagram—and make sure to follow First Floor on Instagram as well—or you can just drop Shawn an email to get in touch about projects, collaborations or potential work opportunities.