15 f Ranting & Reeling C
ulture minister Ed Vaizey claims the arts are “pathetic” if they don’t seek private philanthropy. A grown-up must’ve told him “The
world doesn’t owe you a living, son”. And it doesn’t. But the world does owe it to itself to maintain a varied artistic diet. Previous generations believed the intrin- sic value in a culturally rich nation out- weighed any cost to the state. Vaizey and his ham-faced colleagues think it more beneficial to spend your taxes on antique chairs, bailing out corrupt banks and buy- ing water cannons to quell the protests against bailing out corrupt banks. That private education wasn’t wasted.
Musicians have been ahead of the curve in seeking alternative funding for their endeavours ever since record labels stopped writing six-figure cheques for architects of sonic cathedrals. Increasing- ly people are paying for the production of their music with crowd funding. The philanthropist in this case is you.
These campaigns are hosted on web- sites called things like PledgeKicker and DoOne. In return for financing some- one’s pipe dream a reward is promised. But for the economics to work, these incentives are often of little to no mone- tary value. It’s not uncommon to read: “For £1000 you’ll be named as an execu- tive producer in the credits.” Is there a
distinction between monetising a new relationship between artist and audi- ence, and exploiting their goodwill?
“As well as her expertise on the dul-
cimer, Jenny Fruitcup is a certified pixie. For £100 you’ll get a signed copy of the new CD plus three magic wishes (wishes may not come true in pledger’s lifetime).”
It brings into question our sense of entitlement. I’d love to see the Pyramids but I can’t afford the flights. Will you help pay for my trip if I promise that for £50 I’ll send you a handwritten postcard featuring a pharaoh of your choice?
Some projects are evidently worth- while. Contributing to a favourite artist’s creative independence, for example, might be a reward in itself. Crowd fund- ing has its place but I feel uneasy about the conceit in expecting unproven pro- jects to be bankrolled by kind intentions. There are other ways.
Bandcamp began in 2008 as a plat- form for musicians to independently pre- view and sell their work online. There’s a flexible pricing system, allowing for donations without the promise of mit- tens woven from the drummer’s dog’s hair, but with the instant gratification of a download or the slower satisfaction of a CD in the post. And you can pre-order, giving the artist advanced capital to help
with the costs. It’s a pleasingly transparent transaction.
I like rum- maging
through the site trying audio streams of things I’ve never heard before; follow- ing links and recommenda- tions and some-
times just intuition. For me this is the clos- est the digital world has come to replicat- ing the romanticised thrill of flicking through a record shop’s new release box.
Before the internet made almost everything accessible, music buying was a treasure hunt. Based on little more than an intriguing name or arresting artwork, I’d take an unknown 7" to the grumpy counter at Rough Trade and meep “Can I hear a bit of this please?” More often than not I’d go home with a new discov- ery. With Bandcamp’s amassing pages of home-grown oddities, that experience has returned – without the need for human interaction. Progress.
Tim Chipping
The Elusive Ethnomusicologist
ou’re not supposed to meet your musical heroes and if I was wondering why – some I’ve met have been brilliant – the dan- gers of doing so have just been rammed home. I’ve recently read two books about musical lives, both underlining why any fan simply must hotfoot it in the opposite direction should the object of their admiration hove into view. One made me hoot with laughter almost all the way through and the other made me cry out with advice to the contrary at practically every turn of the page.
Y
Both detail very messy and very dis- appointing meetings with musical heroes. In Mark Ellen’s touching, percep- tive, generous and hugely funny memoir Rock Stars Stole My Life! he describes a trip with the BBC to interview two of his all time heroes, Jimmy Page and Roy Harper, in the Lake District for the Old Grey Whistle Test. He couldn’t have been more excited. In a scene that might have been written by PG Wodehouse if he’d been in a late ’70s psychedelic band, we stumble upon said heroes off their faces on claret and class As and teenage girls – and deriding all before them. I don’t think I’m giving too much away to say the resulting interview, which involved a
sudden intrusion by sheep, was less than initially hoped for.
We meet tons of musicians in Ellen’s book (“There appeared to be two types of people in the world: those who liked Van Morrison and those who’d met him”) and learn how these creative souls navi- gate the choppy waters of fame and a changing business. At the end everyone including Mark is more or less standing and the future – though a journey with- out maps – is, we suspect, rosy.
With Beverley Martyn’s captivating- ly candid book Sweet Honesty: The Bev- erley Martyn Story, we really hope the future’s rosy, because though she writes unstintingly without self-pity, the past has been so painful. Knowing that she put her promising singing career on hold after two albums with John Martyn to concentrate on being a wife and mother; beaten up by him when he was drunk – which he mostly was – to become totally demoralised, ill and pen- niless, my eyes popped out of my head when I read: “Paul (Simon)… called and asked me to wait for him in New York…” She was young, beautiful, with an extraordinary voice, in America, singing and going out with the Paul
Simon, who’d recently had a hit with The Sound Of Silence. “Stay in New York, Beverley!” I shouted at the book. “He’s a bit short, per- haps, but per- fectly formed! Don’t get on the plane!”
But we all know she leaps on board to subsequently meet and marry Martyn, he back then with the looks and voice of an angel – and a head full of demons. As in Mark Ellen’s book we meet a full line- up of the great-and-the-good and the famous-and-terrible and witness the impact of music and its surrounding busi- ness on people’s lives. Beverley is a sur- vivor. She’s got a lovely new album out, The Phoenix And The Turtle, presenting us with the idea of a better future and a happy ending after all. I’m grateful to both her and Mark Ellen. They’ve met our musical heroes so, thankfully, we don’t have to!
Elizabeth Kinder
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