The Event That Wobbled: My Hit And Miss Folk Festival Experience

<"One Night Only (Thank God)"/

The Reckoner>

<i.>

Every musician has some type of "road story gone wrong, about The Event That Wobbled. Amps that pack up. Strings that break during your signature set closer. Guitars that won't tune up, no how hard you struggle. The proverbial five punters and a dog who turned up for you, because all those other bastards scuttled off to the "cool" gig by (FILL IN FLASHY HEADLINER'S NAME HERE).

Keep going, son, you're getting warmer: what else could go wrong? Plenty. The soundman who makes your guitar pop like Rice Krispies run through a flanger, or the family dog, caught in the blender.  

The organizer who a) mangles your name on the flyer, b) forgets to mention you existence on the flyer, or c) leaves the stack you sent him a couple weeks ago sitting proudly on their counter, having forgotten to stick them up anywhere. 

Today's Event That Wobbled story ticks a fair number of these boxes, and then some. To coin a phrase, it was 20 years ago today, when I found myself in the wilds of northeast central Indiana, headed off to something...Let's call it, The Hit & Miss Folk Festival.

Seemed like an easy way to keep my chops up, on a crisp fall Saturday afternoon. They'd even taken out a sizable newspaper ad, which seemed like a fair degree of commitment, right? What could possibly go wrong? you ask yourself.

I should have known the game was up when I called to ask for directions. "I'm sorry, but I haven't managed to leave quite yet, so I may be a few minutes late."

Back comes the response, breezy and reassuring. "No worries. We're still sorting out the lineup. We'll figure it out once you get there."

"Hm, really? So how's the traffic going, then?" I asked. "How's the turnout looking?"

The line crackles with a reassurance that bounces right into my eardrum. "Oh, great! They're all just streaming in, as I look around."

"Great! See you then." Click!  What could possibly go wrong?

The answer comes when I arrive at the site, which seems like the county fairgrounds. It doesn't seem to earn a lot of maintenance time and attention, even though it's the off-season.

The turnout is the sort that you could fold up and crumple in your pocket. Not exactly "five people and a dog," but if there's a hundred people here, I'd feel pleasantly surprised. 

Most of them are just aimlessly milling around. They don't seem particularly engaged by what's going on. Getting more than a sentence or two to pass their close-mouthed lips makes me feel like I'm negotiating a trade agreement with a hostile starving nation. 

<"I'm Just-A Wastin' Time..."/

The Reckoner>

<ii.>

But nothing prepares me for the sight that smacks my senses upside the head, with a resounding thud, when I finally edge over to the so-called Mainstage, where they actually want the performers to play. It's nothing more than an 8-by-8-foot postage stamp, plunked randomly in the middle of some wide open space or other.  

On that stage is a big guy, bent over his shiny expensive Martin, croaking and gargling through "Dock Of The Bay," like he's sung it for the umpteen millionth time, and can't wait to get it done.

"Sitting on 

the dock 

of the baaayyy..."

He sounds like he'd rather be folding the laundry, or parking the car, or washing the dishes. Anywhere but here. Actually, I decide, he sounds like he's walking the Green Mile. Watching him fold the laundry might seem way more exciting, somehow.

"Watchin' the 

tiii-dddes-just-rollin'-away..."

My ears brace themselves for what's coming next. He's doing his best to channel the ghost of Otis Redding, all right -- only with a fraction, mind you, of the man's gritty vocal chops, let alone the energy, that made him a legend.

"I'm just, sittin'

on the dock

of the bayyy-uhhh...

Waaastin' Time..."

A few droplets of rain slap my cheek. The so-called stage has no cover -- no roof, no tent, nothing. The sky seems to be losing more and more patience with us, as it's darkening by the minute.

"Hang on," I tell myself. "This is madness. I can't do this. This doesn't make any sense."

<iii.>

So I do what any person in my position does: I make my excuses, both real and imagined. I scurry back to the main entrance, where I see a pay phone. I push a couple quarters down the slot, get the same breezy, self-assured person on the line, and start piling on my excuses.

"Hey, man, I'm not gonna make it. 

I just had a flat tire. 

"Yeah, I'm just gonna have to
limp back home. So sorry."

Then I pack up my guitar, back out of the muddy field they're calling the main parking lot, and head home, tail between legs, and all that stuff. If you play music, it's the same old story, repeated across Anytown USA.

Indeed, at some point, everybody's experience is basically the same, as I discovered on a Pink Fairies/Deviants fan page on Facebook, where I spotted a lengthy discussion of why guitarist Ian "Sid" Bishop wasn't gigging anymore.

For those who don't know, Bishop played guitar and sitar on the Deviants' first two albums, Ptoof!, and Disposable, both released in 1968. He then quit to get married, continue playing in various bands, and writing for guitar mags. I hadn't been aware of what he'd been doing lately, but in any event, the post focused on his recent move to Crete, and why he'd hung up his gigging papers.

In short order, Sid ticked off three reasons, starting with the aging process ("These days, I doubt if I could event lift a Twin Reverb, let alone carry it up steps to the stage. Humping all that gear just got to be too much"), followed by  logistics that often turn into a real grind (load the gear, drive many miles to the venue, set up at seven, head home at midnight, wash, rinse, repeat):

"At my age*, I really would be much happier sitting at home in the warm, watching TV with a glass of wine. Far too much hassle for little reward, the little reward aspect of this being another factor." 

Not surprisingly, Sid expounded at length on his third reason, "the little reward aspect," or lack thereof. Most of his gigs happened in bars, pubs, and the odd working man's club, whose turnouts and vibes left something to be desired, as he observed:

"Although there were notable exceptions, most of these places were miserable and depressing, as indeed were most of the audiences. At a good uplifting gig, there could have been upwards of 100 enthusiastic pubgoers, but there were times when we've ended up giving our all to ten old codgers and a Yorkshire terrier. Depressing indeed, and at the end, you ask yourself, 'Why on earth do I bother?'"

Just then, a flash of jealousy shot through me. Hey, buddy, at least you had ten people and a dog. I only played to five! Of course, I'm only joking. But not by much.

Of course, it's a phenomenon that picked up an unholy steam during the COVID-19 pandemic, which saw many venues closing their doors. It's a perfect storm that's led to a drastically shrunken market, and one that's made it tougher than ever for musos like himself to earn any kind of living off it, as Bishop noted:

"This often means that you have to drive even further to find a gig, and then discover that you are in competition with many other bands in the same position who are vying for the same gig. The usual result of that is that they will offer to do the gig for less than you, then you undercut that, the end result being that you end up playing for nothing and not even covering the petrol money. Taking all of that into account, I just gave up. Seemed the sensible thing to do, and come to terms with the fact that the golden years are over."

Sometimes, it's simpler to cut your losses, and call it a day. In Sid Bishop's case, I certainly don't blame him. We've all been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, so to speak. There's a lot of bad actors taking advantage of people's enthusiasms, it seems. And a lot of inept ones, too, as I found out that day.

Whether The Hit & Miss Folk Festival ever made it back for another go-round, I can't tell you, because I moved away from that area. But something tells me, I don't really care to know. And deep down, I suspect, it's better not to ask. --The Reckoner

<Rainy Day (FFS, Go Away)..."/

Take II: The Reckoner>

(*Reckoner's Note: The Deviants' Wikipedia entry claims a birth year of 1946 for Sid, which would make him 77. Wikipedia itself can often be a bit wobbly, but given the era in which he came of age, it sounds about right to me.)

When Open Mikes Aren't Open Anymore: Three Snapshots

<i.>

Generally speaking, I don't do open mikes. For an example of the hiccups that occur, see my other post below, "The Never-Ending Open Mike (Two Surreal Case Studies)." I'm not saying the problems that I cited happen all the time, or my experiences have always been subpar. The situations I encountered simply hardened my resolve to find better outlets for my music and spoken word material. After all, it's hard to showcase your abilities when the showcase itself goes sideways.

Lately, though, I've seen some odd terms and conditions popping up, when I've wanted to participate. Imagine the Riddler posing one of his preposterous jokes, wagging his finger at Batman's campy '60s incarnation, or the darker ones currently making the cinematic rounds: "Riddle me this, Caped Crusader. When is an open mike not so open anymore?" To which Batman strokes that famous rugged jaw, furrows an eyebrow or two, then snaps his fingers, and responds with the following three examples.

Exhibit A: Sounds Good (But We Gotta Vet Ya First): Back in the summer, I'd recorded three songs at home, and thought. Hey, why don't I try these out? Can't do any harm, right? That's the most common reason for doing open mikes, right? Road-test your new material in front of a real crowd, keep your chops up, that sort of thing. In this case, you had to e-mail the venue in question ahead of time, which I did. Here's the response I got back:

Thanks for your message regarding open mic.

Please send along a sample clip of what your performance would be - either video or audio. Thank you.

I found this response baffling, since it begs one obvious question: well, if you're just gonna cherry pick who you want onstage, anyway, it's not really an open mike anymore, is it? Then it becomes something else, but not an occasion that fits the alleged purpose of open mikes: a place where all comers can play whatever they want, while getting a chance to meet, and swap phone numbers and/or ideas afterwards.

Needless to say, I didn't send a thing.

<ii.>

Exhibit B: You Gotta Pay (If You Wanna Play): The same venue cited above (we'll call it Cardboard City) also runs a poetry/spoken open mike, which I've done three times. I was looking forward to the same opportunity again this week, until this sentence from the press release stopped me dead: "$5 minimum donation please. Donations support our non-profit arts organization." It's not clear to me whether this policy applies to everybody, or just those watching the performers, but on its face, this sentence skirts the edges of paying to play.

Pay to play is most commonly associated with sports leagues and music venues. The term refers to the practice of requiring an upfront fee before the performer can take the field or the stage. Musicians first encountered pay to play in the 1980s, at venues in Los Angeles, CA. (Typical variations involve buying X number of tickets in advance, or guaranteeing that "X number of people will show up.") Pay to play is less controversial in the sports world, especially in local leagues, where few, if any parents will quibble about the price of signing up Little Johnny and Suzy for soccer.

I'll have to investigate how Cardboard City applies its donation policy, but my only issue is the connotations it carries for performers, who already face enough barriers to entry -- and doing our "thing," whatever that means -- without our wallets getting thrown into the mix.

Exhibit C: Shut Up And Sing (Just Don't Annoy The Regular Folks). I came across this example while preparing an entertainment calendar for one of the publications that uses my writing. The verbiage reminded me of the Dixie Chicks documentary, Shut Up And Sing (2003), which chronicled the outcry that greeted the band for its relatively mild denunciation of then-President George W. Bush. Given the ferocity of Trump's fanbase, imagine what would happen now, if a similar band declared itself "ashamed that the President is from New York"!

Anyway, here's the relevant language from this venue (we'll call it The Stable), in all its one size fits, opaque glory:

Please be respectful with your material. While we want to be open with our stage and invite all forms of art, it cannot be at the expense of others. This is not a night for improvisation or a political platform, but a chance for all to enhance their crafted art skills. Thank you. I have a few issues here, starting with the obvious: What does "respectful" mean, and who gets to define it? Presumably the host, though it's not exactly clear. Judging from the next sentence, it's fair to say that any Dixie Chick-style verbiage is verboten, and you'd probably check your improv comedy styles at the door, too. After all, we wouldn't want anybody riffing off Trump's latest pipe dreams, or Phil Ochs's "Love Me, I'm A Liberal," would we, now?

I'm not sure what kind of open mike is being promoted here, unless it's the Comfy Cozy Coffee Set. Considering how dark, dangerous and desperate our times have grown -- and not only politically, as the California wildfires are demonstrating this weekend -- it's a little bit much to insist that musicians, in particular, just stare straight ahead and keep their mouths shut. Sorry, but if all we've done is just stay in a bubble, and simply talk shop, then not much has happened.

One quality that these examples share is the apparent lack of trust underpinning all of them. What's really strange is that open mikes aren't paying gigs (except for the host), so if there's no money -- no guarantee, no tip jar -- changing hands, what's the problem? It's not as if I've seen anyone at either venue counting off the MC5's signature song: "And right now, it's time to...kick out the jams, motherfuckers!"

Happily for me, I'm not going to deal with the fallout from these practices. I've been asked to perform at a church dinner with someone else a couple Saturdays from now. Aside from one suggested song ("This Land Is Your Land"), our minister is letting me work out the rest -- as it should be, since I've played there before. No advance clip, no minimum donation, and no admonition against airing inconvenient opinions needed. Maybe I'll check back and see how the above venues evolve -- or don't -- but I'm doing what makes me happier. Which means staying off the Open Mike Highway, at least for now--The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,

Before The Sandman Gives You The Hook):

The Never-Ending Open Mike (Two Surreal Case Studies):

https://ramennoodlenation.blogspot.com/2019/01/the-never-ending-open-mike-two-surreal.html

Showtime At The Apollo: Sandman Fight:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvJO_M6jIxg

Gigs And Bands (UK): Five Reasons Why

Open Mic Nights Are Killing Live Music:

http://www.gigsandbands.com/5-reasons-why-open-mic-nights-are-killing-live-music/

(Plenty of food for thought here -- written to irritate, so bear that in mind, but lots of interesting pros and cons in the comment section, so have fun!)

The Never-Ending Open Mike (Two Surreal Case Studies)

<Yer Empty Room Awaits...

...This Ain't The Magical Mystery Tour!>

<i.>

Whether it's spoken word, standup comedy or singer-songwriter (to name the Three Obvious categories). if you've got a talent, you've probably encountered The Open Mic (or Open Mike). You know, those revue type of affairs where all comers strut their stuff for whoever's crying in their beer (or coffee), usually for 10 to 20 minutes. 

Under the right conditions, this proposition can pay off, especially if you hit the sweet time slot spot. That's an art in itself, as any performing lifer knows. Sign up too soon, and you'll break out that flamenco-flavored Rod Stewart cover as people straggle in. Sign up too late, and you'll stare down an empty room as fumble through your opus about Amelia Earhart's last flight.

Grab the halfway mark of a three-hour night, however, and chances are, you'll still have a packed crowd -- or at least, a decent-sized, halfway enthusiastic one -- for whom you'll pull out all the stops. The response may help you land a paying gig, if not the promise of one. If you're just starting out, there's no better way to develop the skills you'll need to win people over.

That's the positive side. Now let's examine the flipside, with two surreal case studies, drawn from hard-fought, hardbitten experience.

<ii.>

It's 5:30 p.m. Sunday, in Small Town Indianaville. October has settled, crisp and cool, here. You've just rolled up to the venue, a small, boxlike coffeehouse that you've played this summer to about 50 people. The response to your half hour set proved encouraging enough to get invited back, though as a hoist.

Things come unstuck right off the bat. Tonight's headliners, the all-instrumental Pitch Black Troika, ask to play first. Something about another gig that they've booked somewhere else tonight, that requires some travel trime. You think they'd review their calendar more keenly, right? 

But the promoter says okay, so you duly introduce them, and get out of the way. Pitch Black Troika sounds hot, loud 'n' crunchy, though your mind circles back to that nagging question: why do they want to leave so early?

Once their allotted 45 minutes is up, they slide out the door, and their following slides out with them. The house shrinks from about 80 people, give or take, to just half that number. Now the promoter asks you to play. Huh?  

Guess what? He must have seen his headliner's alibi coming, because he's apparently booked several solo guitar performers, just in case. None of them have arrived yet, so he's got time to kill. Lots of time. You grimace, but agree. Don't want seem like a bad sport, right? Which is you end up getting your own 45-minute set.

The penny drops as the last-minute additions finish straggling in. Seems you were the only one who brought a real, working microphone -- but none of the stragglers did, which means ...they want to borrow yours. The promoter asks if you mind. 

You do mind, because 10 p.m. is creeping up fast. You have an hour-long drive home, and a couple interviews to do tomorrow. The crowd has dwindled to about 30 diehards and their reluctant boyfriends or girlfriends drafted to film or record so-and-so's set for posterity. What started as a gig, at least theoretically, has wound down into...the never-ending mini-fest. Or never-ending open mike.

"C'mon," you plead, gesturing at the sea of empty tables. "I've got stuff going on tomorrow." You gesture again. "This is painful. Why don't we just call it a night?"

Nothing doing. The promoter claims he that promised to provide everybody some sort of adequate sound, so your mic is Plan A, B and C. You slump into a chair as far from the stage as possible, as the minute hand drags toward 11:00 p.m., and then....midnight, and finally...1:00 a.m. 

Only a dozen diehards are left. You finally get the high sign to pack and leave, gritting your teeth through the usual after show BS ("Yeah, I really enjoyed myself tonight. Sure, I'll come back any time."). At least you won't have to beat the traffic, right? That's a positive, though it's the only one, after tonight's train wreck.

<iii.>

On the ride home, your mind flashes back to a similar experience. This one happened about five years before tonight, at a legendary venue in downtown Ann Arbor. It's a reliable schedule filler for alternative folk/rock legends like Alejandro Escovedo. So it's definitely got the Cool Factor going....if you can crack the usual gatekeeping stuff.

At the time, you lived 90 minutes south of Ann Arbor, so heading there didn't seem like a stretch. Maybe you could make a semi-regular gig of it, depending on your work schedule -- but there's a catch, as you and your small circle of musician friends find out, after you arrive.

A few questions are all it takes to fan the dismay. Yes, the host confirms, we're technically open at 6 p.m.. But open mike doesn't start till 8 p.m. (There's usually a "but" in the music business.) You guys will have to wait for signup until then. The giant double doors shut with a thud, leaving you all sprawled across the giant staircase and its imposing steps.

Time grinds slowly enough at work. Now this scenario, once you've exhausted the standard topics (what shows have you caught, what are you listening to, just why are we sitting here again?), the minute hand creeps toward its usual soggy conclusion.

At last, the appointed hour arrives, the doors wheeze open, and the jockeying begins for the best time slot -- a forgone conclusion, though, now that the regulars have arrived. They flash a knowing look: don't you know this setup works? Poor, poor pitiful you.

You end up playing between 10:30 and 11:00 p.m.-ish. You're tired and stiff, and once again, the usual hustles make themselves felt. The room feels smaller and smaller, as the favored regulars do their 15-minute bit and leave, taking (yet again) their mini-entourages with them.

Though your set got a decent response, it doesn't feel like a victory lap. That 90-minute drive home still beckons, followed by another workday at 10:00 a.m. As work schedules go, that's a civilized starting time (one of the few perks of working at a small town paper). The only problem is...you still have to act bright and cheery, after a late late night.

You kid yourself a little bit on the way home. Maybe it wasn't a typical night. Maybe they weren't prepared for so many performers. Maybe they new to the game. Maybe maybe maybe...indeed.

A couple months later, you're back for more, this time without your friends. Once again, you spend two hours camped out on the stairs. Once again, you don't go on till 10:30 or 11 p.m. Once again, the room slowly empties out. You now draw a new conclusion: man, I can't do this. I gotta make a living, and if they're gonna pull this kind of stunt, I should find somebody who does this to me at home.

So goes the never-ending open mic: a never-ending bad joke searching for a punchline to give it a home. Only it never arrives. Take heed, and proceed accordingly. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Before The Room Empties Out):

Katie Ferrara
10 Types Of Open Mics You Will Encounter:
https://katieferrara.com/busking-diaries/blog/10-types-of-open-mics-you-will-encounter-as-a-singer-songwriter

Soundfly
Why You Should Probably Avoid Open Mics:
https://flypaper.soundfly.com/hustle/why-you-should-probably-avoid-open-mics/

VICE.Com:

An Aspiring Standup Comic
Shoots Empty Open Mics Across NYC:
https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/bnpqa4/first-person-shooter-an-aspiring-stand-up-comic-shoots-empty-open-mics-across-nyc

924 Gilman: A Cure For The Cultural Blahs?

<i.>

The blockbuster business model is a crappy approach to commerce. In simple terms, I'm talking about the practice of relying on established faces to bring home your box office bacon. For practical reasons, I'll focus on the music side (although this discussion applies to any creative field). The appeal is obvious, from a pure gatekeeping perspective. It's simpler to maximize an entrenched act's earning power, rather than risk losing it on some new face who's can't generate immediate returns. Catering to minority tastes isn't cost-effective, right?

However, established acts only work for established money, which is why you'll pay double-digit ticket prices...and related crap, like paying double for drinks you don't want (and don't need), so you feel better about the trimming that your wallet took. Sooner or later, however, the model runs aground. A big draw or two suddenly breaks up, leaving no obvious candidate to fill the void. (Entertainers, like Third World dictators, don't like to encourage talk about who might replace them.)

Seismic trend shifts can also wreak havoc. It's the reason why Tom Werman, who produced some of '80s and '90s heavy rock's biggest names (Cheap Trick, Motley Crue, Ted Nugent) now runs a bed and breakfast...and why numerous lower-rung hair band-era denizens have grudgingly accepted wearing long-sleeve shirts over all those tattoos as the price of keeping their landscaping jobs at the country club.

[Gilman's famed "rules of the road"]

http://tanyatanya.smugmug.com/Music/Pinhead-Gunpowder-924-Gilman/i-GPF9fM2

<ii.>

However, not everybody needs to accept the blockbuster business model as the only option. I'm reminded of this principle in reading 924 Gilman, Brian Edge's sprawling 400-page chronicle of the all-ages club that opened in '86 to shake up the noxious equation that I've just described (entrenched acts + commercial venues + high ticket prices = passive consumer experience).

About seven years ago, I borrowed 924 Gilman from an out-of-town booker I was courting, doing the mating dance that keeps so many musicians circling the hamster wheel (Can I play here? Is there room for me on the schedule?)  Eventually, I did get to play this place -- but the book sat on the shelf. The length put me off for awhile, as did the reproduction of many key handwritten and typo-splattered documents from the era, in all their eye-straining glory.  (Put it this way: keep a powerful magnifying glass handy while you're reading.)

However, in writing about this topic, it only seemed natural to pull 924 Gilman off the shelf. The Squawker and I worked behind the scenes at a coffeehouse for a couple years, so I could relate to the struggles that Edge and company chronicle -- as well as the audacity For example, Gilman's masterminds initially did no advertising when the club started...to prevent audiences from planning to see only the most popular bands, while ignoring the rest.

When Squawker and I put together shows, we followed a similar policy by providing only a basic starting time in our press releases. In other words, we never said, "X, Y and Z bands play at X, Y and Z p.m." Like Gilman, we didn't want patrons planning their evening solely around the headliners. We wanted people to discover great things on their own, which gets harder and harder in this hyper-commercial-global infotainment scam called "the music industry." But I digress.

I also appreciate Gilman's stated attempt to give underdog bands a platform, which means rejecting the commercial power brokers' long-standing view of the underground scene as a "feeder system" for their manipulative purposes ("The club is not just another club on the bar circuit. The club is not the farm league for bands aspiring to play the I-Beam or the Kennel Club. We are an alternative to such clubs": 1988 guideline revisions, page 127).

And, also, the policy of helping underdog bands with gas money or expenses should be mandatory for anyone trying to cop the Gilman vibe. Why should it cost an arm and a leg to perform anywhere? Even if you're not massively popular, your time and travel are still worth something. This stance ensures a different vibe, especially when it's coupled with an all-ages, no-alcohol policy.

That's why I try to avoid playing in bars, because you're no more than background noise for mindless consumption (or, as Jesse Luscious memorably describes it on page 136, "a place for drunk adults to hit on each other to the sound of loud background music"). Instead, as Russell states, "It was interesting to see that the people running it were rather young.  I was used to going to clubs that were run by some mafia-type to launder money or something" (page 122).

<iii.>

Of course, utopia has its own way of running aground, too. Like Gilman, our alternative coffee shop aimed to operate on all-volunteer equity, but that often led to burnout -- and ill will -- since a handful of regulars usually wind up doing most (if not all) the work. I think that an all-volunteer system to work, but only if everyone goes into it with their eyes open, and an honest discussion of the implications. 

Like Gilman, we implemented a paid membership system, but most of the players paid rarely, or promised to pay later (as in, "never"). Ironically, the Squawker and myself were among the most faithful payers -- although we were living on disability and unemployment, respectively. Since we were a lot more involved, we paid every month, to set an example -- but, unfortunately, didn't see anybody rushing to follow our lead.

What's more, the people who contribute the least scream the loudest about wanting a say in running things. This situation diverted a lot of time and energy that could have been spent on day-to-day operations. Controlling the chaos proved difficult, since no real leadership structure existed beyond the owner bankrolling the venture, and the people heading up the various committees. 

As a result, people often worked at cross purposes, which also chipped away at our collective time, energy and enthusiasm. This situation also happened to me a couple times, when a band would appear -- from out of the blue, unbeknownst to me -- on bills that I'd put together. Since both nights ran well, I let the issue slide, but I felt irritated, all the same.

<iv.>

Why does this stuff matter? Because once people realize they don't have to accept "the way it is" -- whether it's a crappy job, rock club, or anything else -- that entity (or situation) becomes irrelevant. Think back to the fall of 1989, and how fast East Germany evaporated once the churches and the youth vented their discontent on the streets, despite the initial risk to their lives. Funny how that works, right?

That situation emerges as a common theme in 924 Gilman, too. Some of the most interesting testimonies come from those who walked away -- such as Orlando X, a former security person who questions if punk rock utopia is everything it's cracked up to be ("Some bands can get shows there very easily, play all the time, other bands send demo after demo, make call after call, and rarely get to play there at all. There's a lot of favoritism": page 114).

Like many of the book's voices, I also find myself at a crossroads, since the values that I uphold (collaboration, creativity, innovation, inclusiveness) aren't reflected in the working world, political atmosphere or cultural scene of my humble hometown. As a result, I don't feel badly about turning my back on these things, at least until I devise a more sensible alternative.

A couple weeks ago, for example, one of our local libraries held a reading to coincide with National Poetry Month. I decided to skip it, though. I'd held readings of my own there in the past, but struggled to get a consistent attendance. If people didn't support my events, why should I support theirs? There's a reason why people trout that old saying, "No good deed goes unpunished."

On a similar note, there's a group that holds quarterly spoken word events of their own. They must draw a crowd, because the admission is usually $15. There's two segments: an open mike, and one for the featured artists. However, I skip these events, too, because I probably wouldn't get more than an open mike spot -- and nobody's explained how you'd work your way up into a featured slot.

Then I start doing some math: even If only 100 people show up, they're clearing $1,500 -- once you subtract the venue's cut (which typically averages 30 percent), that's a fair chunk of change I'm helping somebody else to earn after my five or 10 minutes onstage. That doesn't make sense to me, either, so I don't show up.

Whether I have the time and energy to cook up my own Gilman-style experiment remains to be seen, but -- as the book reminds me -- when you've seen the alternative, you really don't feel like going backwards. If that means standing still for awhile, so be it. I've seen the blockbuster business model often enough. But I don't think I'm really missing anything. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (You Hipster Indie Nerd, You:)
924 Gilman Official Website: http://www.924gilman.org

The Arlingtonian:
Upper Arlington High School (Upper Arlington, OH):

Are UA Hipster?: UAHS Takes A Closer Look
At What It Means To Be A Part Of The National Fad

http://www.arlingtonian.com/archives/5239

The DIY Musician:
Why Music Venues Are Totally Lost:
An Open Letter From A Professional Musician

http://diymusician.cdbaby.com/2012/02/why-music-venues-are-totally-lost-an-open-letter-from-a-professional-musician/

Company Town, Company Culture: You Won't Get The Gig

I've watched the cultural merry-go-round churn many times by now. With few exceptions, each local scene's rise and fall follows a fairly consistent script...starting when people complain, "There's nothing happening. There's nothing to do here." Eventually, after a great deal of teeth grinding angst, a few like-minded souls stumble across each other via Craigslist, a local council meeting, the odd encounter at the grocery store.

Against all odds, these individuals begin hosting events -- art exhibits, improv nights, left-field plays, music shows, odd theme parties -- whatever goes against the grain. At first, the proceedings draw 10-12 people and the proverbial dog. Gradually, bit by bit, the handful of scene makers-in-training stumble on something. Maybe the local paper writes about it, maybe not. In time, though, a wider circle of non-initiates discovers the phenomenon, too: "Wow, there's something happening. There's something to do here."

Before long, the action coalesces around a handful of artists working in cheap spaces. Now others start taking notice. They've often arrived from somewhere else, so their agenda diverges from the local artist community that's sprung up, seemingly overnight. Bit by bit, the new arrivals start making their mark -- acquiring a space here, a gallery there -- as they go after grants to fund whatever their checkbooks can't cover. In time, they form a local art association or two, which invariably attracts a gravitational pull on that newfound grant money (which tends to favor established entities).

Gradually, the scene loses its original distinct character as the new arrivals go about their business. Alliances form, cemented by a flurry of secret handshakes exchanged back and forth. Gratitude and obedience replace creativity and innovation. Outsiders are subtly nudged to get in line, or risk getting frozen out. The action shifts toward established artists -- doesn't matter what field, really -- and the rising admission prices that accompany their latest visit to town. Audiences enable the behavior by plunking down the cash, over and over again.

This Blockbuster Mentality carries negative consequences for lesser-established artists, whose own attendance shrivels up and blows away. By this point, the original scene makers have either given up or greatly reduced their own involvement. When they show up at the newly-created arts associations' meetings, their input is begrudgingly tolerated, but there's precious little mutual respect, let alone the free flow of ideas needed to create genuine grass roots entertainment.
Even then, such proposals stand little chance of being enacted, due to the endless vetting process that the new in-group imposes. In any case, their priorities have less and less to do with anything artistic, and increasingly zero in on perpetuating themselves, plus the handful of associates whom they bother to inform of their activities. They begin charging fees for activities that used to be free, or cost a nominal admission price.

The priorities shift toward keeping the grant money coming in, even as the returns start to diminish or taper off...whether it's the local writing group's chapbooks that sit quietly gathering dust...or readings that stop happening as the handful of participants can't attract new blood...or the spaces that yawn downtown, hungry and empty, awaiting a new crop of scenemakers-in-training to occupy them...as the hue and cry goes up: "There's nothing happening.  There's nothing to do here."

None of the issues I've just enumerated will shock anyone who's participated in local art scenes, really. Insularity is the name of the game, right? However, if we don't lay out the traps -- and how they operate -- people will fall into them, over and over again. While we can't stop the Blockbuster Mentality from overrunning every town, we can definitely give the rainmakers behind the curtain a really good run for their money. How do we do that?

The answer boils down to one word: Transparency. The more we know about who's doing what, the less vulnerable we become to the designs of this artistic in-group, or that one. That's how cliques of all stripes thrive, by treating the punters like mushrooms (as in, feed 'em shit and keep 'em in the dark). Put everything out in the open, and you've increased the chance that everybody's voices will be heard -- not just those of the in-group.

What got me thinking along these lines?  Well, my occasional co-conspirator on this blog, Chairman Ralph -- whose two-part interview with Michael Rogosin is posted here -- sent me a new song, "You Won't Get The Gig."  Seems that he and his wife went to a local audition, but didn't feel terribly welcome, so...surprise! He didn't get the part, it seems.

Of course, that happens at auditions, right? They're knee-deep in people, so the odds of you getting that art exhibit -- or singing gig -- or theatrical part -- are long enough already, especially when they've got so many old faves to accommodate already. Still, once I gave in, and checked out the song, I simply had to laugh, because it's spot on -- all the targets and present and correct.

Without further ado, we present it here, straight from the man's web page, www.chairmanralph.com:
http://chairmanralph.com/sitebuilder/flash/player?f=/featuredsongs/flash/playlist.xml%3Ft%3D49

Does that song and this post ring true for you? Have you had any run-ins with a local art mafia (or do its exponents act like the real one, and deny all traces of it)? You be the judge. But remember...do what they say...or you won't get the gig.  --The Reckoner