On the Economics of Music and the Moral Dilemma of Google All Access

Hallelujah the Hills posted this Facebook status update:

FOOD FOR THOUGHT: Our last album has had 17,274 Spotify streams equaling $88.55 in revenue - If 1/3 of those streams were $1/song downloads we'd have about $6000. I point that out not to be all "waaah we could be rich" but rather to say we'd have enough funds to record a kick ass new studio album RIGHT NOW. And that's all we want to do... :)

I ended up responding with the following, partly to hash out my thoughts on Google Music All Access, partly to respond to a sense of people sneeringly responding, "You're getting paid so stop complaining" which always seem to arise in these debates.

There's the bigger problem of the shift in the economics of music, and let me note that I'm saying this as a consumer of music, not in any way a producer. This is the change I've seen and felt on my end.

Pre-streaming there was potentially a little money from album sales and airplay, but the majority of the money for artists came from touring and selling merch. Once downloading hit, people weren't paying for the music, but would buy a shirt at the show on principle to support the band. Now I find myself treating the albums like the shirts; I'll buy them at the show when I can (if the album's for sale and I haven't already bought it) to kick a few extra bucks to the band. In other words I'm no longer buying records from bands I like (or, equally problematic, from my local stores) because I can stream them.

I just signed up for Google Music All Access, $8 a month, all the expected Spotify/cloud stuff, and it does the job. It immediately recommended the new HtH album to me as well as albums that I would have had to work pretty hard to find otherwise. For $8 they were just there waiting, which is admittedly nice, as a consumer. Beyond that though, and the part that makes me worried, 3 albums I'd been looking forward to came out this month. Albums that I would have bought in the store, that I'd marked my calendar to make sure I didn't miss, but that also showed up on Google so I didn't buy them. Because I had them. For $8.

I could claim that I took the $45-60 that I would have spent on those records and plowed it back into my local scene by seeing more concerts, buying more merch, buying music not on Google, but I didn't. I used that money for rent. There is an element of the downward pressure working on all of us that's ignored by limiting these discussions exclusively to how bands make which penny where or what's the most efficient way to be a music consumer or if it's okay for artists to not make a living off their work because their work is fulfilling.

In the discussion of the economics of music lies an unspoken discussion of the economics of all our lives. We're increasingly trying to maintain a culture and lifestyle, as a nation, on a shrinking budget. Taxes aside, our collective wages are what form the capital pool that our culture draws from and with stagnant or shrinking wages, that pool is drying up. I think one of the simplest ways to make musicians--and any artists'--lives easier is to make their lives easier. Increase wages generally so there's more disposable income to support artists through crowd sourcing/shows and so that artists can survive if they take a little extra time off from their day jobs because they rely less on tour income; have universal health care and pensions so artists can leave those jobs without worrying about benefits or not worry about bankrupting the band if they break their ankle at a show; and go ahead and just have the government pay artists through increased grants, paying for public concerts, or subsidizing venues for such art.

I don't think anyone in this discussion would minimize what music is worth to them emotionally or materially so the question becomes how do we get that money into music? Alternately, a question that addresses the root issue a little more, why do we want that money in music and what do we want it to do? I want more money in music, I pay for music, because I want the musicians to keep making music, want them to be able to make a living doing what they and I both love.

Hallelujah the Hills' latest album is a collection of singles, b-sides, and non-album tracks entitled Portrait of the Artist as a Young Trash Can and is available on their Bandcamp page as are their excellent full-length albums.

Update: Tim, in an act of the most elegant timing, posts a more concise take on value and creativity.

Faceplantbook

This was supposed to be a post about how I went skydiving today. Only instead of jumping from a plane, which, is always the best option, my group of jumpers was delayed by a passing thunderstorm and then uncooperative winds that were blowing one way at ground level and, strongly, in the opposite direction half-a-mile up. We rescheduled.

I was taking pictures here and there throughout our 3-hour wait to jump and everyone kept asking to review the photos to approve them before I posted them to Facebook. Then I told them I had quit Facebook. Which surprised them. The organizer of the trip said he thought I'd defriended him. I don't find that curious--suddenly he can't contact me on Facebook, that'd be my first assumption as well. However, he never asked me about it. Not only was I going on a trip he organized to jump out of a plane, I meet with him every week as part of a workshop group. I sit and drink with this man more often than I do with almost anyone else. Yet, because he couldn't find me on his friends list to invite me to the jump whose details I'd already confirmed, he thought I'd dropped him from my list out of some unknown spite. And he never mentioned it to me.

When I initially thought about writing this "Why I Quit Facebook" post, I wondered what I could say that was new. I thought there was nothing to add to its annoying omnipresence, how every update ends up ruining something that worked, how looking at Facebook at all just makes me depressed. The thought struck me that the only thing more common than quitting Facebook is Facebook itself. Then I had that conversation and I realized that was the very reason I quit Facebook.

via Shmitten Kitten

Facebook makes us stupid in friendship, makes us stupid in our emotional connections. The site and our use of it becomes not just an interface between friends but an actual stand-in for that friendship. Our Facebook connection becomes our real-life connection. Facebook was depressing me because I didn't hear from my friends on Facebook. They didn't comment on my posts they way they commented on each other's, I'd set up events no one would come to, and couldn't get support for any of my Story Slam appearances. On top of all that, I was constantly worried I'd see my ex commenting on a friend's post or would worry about attending an event that she was also invited to.

I'm not saying any of this isn't small, petty, and pathetic, it absolutely is. I'm arguing, though, that Facebook exacerbates this, that it makes all the small hurts sting more because it's composed purely of the small things. If no one responds to my inane comments or meme references in conversation, I'll shut up; if I call around to see if anyone wants to get together next weekend and no one's available, I'll be bummed but I'll lump it; if the people whose readings, events, and competitions I support won't reciprocate by supporting me, they're not really friends*. And if I want to avoid my ex, I can avoid going to the places she'd go. I don't need to preemptively worry about running into her at an event or getting angry over her commenting on a mutual friend's marriage announcement.

Facebook, by being composed purely of these small interactions that otherwise would have no space--and would not be missed if absent--makes them seem large and significant because they are removed from any context that shows exactly how small they are, and I needed to remind myself of the context.

So for the moment I am not on Facebook (though I am on OKCupid which raises its own issues of a web interface as a stand-in for a real relationship), but I will probably return. The ubiquity of the site is a strong case for it and the sense that I'm missing out on things, that I won't be invited--even though Facebook itself exacerbated those feelings--may eventually force my surrender. Until then, I am feeling much happier without access to the site and enjoying my time a little more. And hopefully I'll be able to talk about something more interesting than not jumping out of a plane next time.

UPDATE: Forgot to include this:



*Not to imply some need for tit-for-tat, but I support these people both because I think they're talented and because I like them. For them to constantly give me the cold shoulder when it comes to my own work says something about their opinion of me as a writer and as a person.

Chris Hedges on TruthDig

Chris Hedges, "Surviving the Fourth of July"

I survive the gradual, and I now fear inevitable, disintegration of our democracy because great literature and poetry, great philosophy and theology, the great works of history, remind me that there were other ages of collapse and despotism. They remind me that through it all men and women of conscience endured and communicated, at least with each other, and that it is possible to refuse to participate in the process of self-annihilation, even if this means we are pushed to the margins of society.

He expands on the idea of meaning through art--specifically literature--that he raised in I Don't Believe in Atheists (which I reviewed here) and demonstrates why he's one of my favorite writers and why I gave that book as much time as I did. He strikes a tone in this essay that's very similar to Arthur Silber's writings (another writer who's shaped a lot of my thinking lately, especially his pieces on Iran). They share a seemingly contradictory revelry in despair. I don't say that to imply that there is any sense of revelry in their writings. The despair is palpable and born of a clear-eyed, uncompromising view of reality. To put it another way, "I have found the cure for hope and it is awareness."

But why do I saw "revelry?" Because there is hope at the heart of both writers' oeuvres and both find release through art. The despair lies in what we are, the hope in what we may be. Despite the ever-repeating histories of depravity, destruction and dehumanization, the pinnacles of beauty humanity achieves endure despite the misery. That's cold comfort, certainly as even Hedges notes:

Thucydides, knowing that Athens was doomed in the war with Sparta, consoled himself with the belief that his city’s artistic and intellectual achievements would in the coming centuries overshadow raw Spartan militarism. Beauty and knowledge could, ultimately, triumph over power. But we may not live to see such a triumph.

Who can say? Maybe we will. Maybe we can only hope to see the minor triumphs in the lives of those around us. And though Arthur thinks it's too late, we are not at war with Iran yet and as long as that is the case we can fight against it. I know this is a penny-ante blog about goofy movies you can download for free, but this post is here because you do what you can. So read through these links and then talk to your friends, talk to your family, talk to your pastor and congregation (if you have one), talk to whoever you know about the moves against Iran (here's Seymour Hersh's latest on the actions against Iran and why they're a catastrophically bad idea). When you see an article in the paper demanding military action against Iran, write to the editor. Tell your representatives that there's been enough death. Do what you can when you can. To paraphrase Richard Nelson Bolles, life is a choice between doing good and doing nothing, so do what good you can.

And to bring it back around to Hedges' finding solace in literature, here are three books. They aren't directly connected to this post, but they are good and that might make the daily vicissitudes of life a little easier to endure, and maybe that's the point after all.

• Spaceman Blues: A Love Song by Brian Francis Slattery
• Girl Meets Boy: The Myth of Iphis by Ali Smith
• The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

The songs my music player pulled up while I was reading the Hedges piece: "No Mercy for Swine" by Cherry Poppin' Daddies and "Nearer Blessed Lord" by Nina Simone.
While writing this post: "Hateful" by the Clash and "Misery and Famine" by Bad Religion.
While revising: "We Are Alive" by Paul van Dyk.

Chris Hedges's I Don't Believe In Atheists

In his new book I Don't Believe In Atheists, Chris Hedges attacks the ideology of the so-called “new atheists,” saying of Sam Harris's book The End of Faith that “His facile attack on a form of religious belief we all hate, his childish simplicity and ignorance of world affairs, as well as his demonization of Muslims, made the book tedious, at its best, and often idiotic and racist.” There's a lot of this deconstruction of the, ultimately, imperialistic and fundamentalist undertones to currently ascendant pop atheism throughout the book and it's a welcome analysis.

The problem with the book is that Hedges doesn't stick to just deconstructing the imperialist poses and intolerance of the “new atheists.” He tries to make the case for religion and in that he largely fails. It doesn't help that he makes his own facile arguments—blaming the Enlightenment for slavery and the Holocaust for example. There's also his tendency to go off on, granted, very interesting tangents, but ones that tie neither to condemnation of Utopian ideology nor his defense of a nebulous “religion” that he never really defines. For example:

“Our return to an image-based culture means the destruction of the abstract thought made possible by a literate, print-based society. Image-based societies do not grasp or cope with ambiguity, nuance, doubt and the many layers of irrational motives and urges, some of them frightening, that make human actions complex and finally unfathomable. They eschew self-criticism for amusement. They build fantastic non-reality-based belief systems that cater to human desires and illusions rather than human reality.”

Then the next paragraph:

“Believers in the Bible, as well as the Koran, were asked to embrace a hidden deity.[...] To worship God without physical representations of God made it appear as if believers were worshiping nothing. It was to give up security. It was to believe in a God that could not be seen or controlled. It was to live with paradox, uncertainty and doubt. It was to accept anxiety. To believe in this deity required abstract thinking. It made possible the moral life.”

Those are interesting points—the image-based society and the idea of God initially as an abstract—but how do they actually relate? In fact, how do they not contradict each other? Hedges criticizes “image-based societies” embracing “non-reality-based belief systems” and then, in the next paragraph, praises the Abrahamic faiths for embracing an unknown and unknowable God before they were a print-based society. How is the embracing of a “hidden deity” not exactly what he's criticizing? And while the very brief analysis of how an invisible God depended upon abstract thought, how does that make the moral life possible?

In the preface to the book he defines “spirituality” as the spiritual courage to stand up to adversity and injustice. What he calls “spirituality,” though, I call “morality,” and maybe that's what he means by making the moral life possible. He argues throughout the book in favor of empathy and empathy requires abstract thought. However that doesn't lead back to religion and certainly doesn't lead back to God. In fact the logic runs the other way—abstract thought is a prerequisite for both morality and God, but one does not require the other.

And that's the problem with his arguments for religion and thus his arguments for God in the book, they don't actually work. Hedges says, “Because there is no clear, objective definition of God, the new atheists must choose what God it is they attack. Is it the God of the mystics, the followers of the Social Gospel, the eighteenth-century deists, the Quakers, the liberation theologians, or the stern God of the patriarchs?” A fair question, but I'd say they attack the same God Hedges seems to. He repeats, constantly, that we're in a morally neutral universe, that there is no heaven or hell and we only have other people to look to for help. He denies the God of First Cause, an interventionist God and a supernaturalistic God, and pretty much any definition of God at all. So what religion, and what God, is he defending?

He's trying to defend religion as culture, history and idea. He argues that there's human wisdom in these stories and they help us understand the irrationality of the human animal—an animal capable of reason yet still ruled by instinct and the unconscious. Hedges argues that because of our irrationality, science and reason alone cannot explain or provide meaning to the human condition, but that art can. But art is not religion and he doesn't connect religion with art or explain how religion is necessary if we already have art explaining the human condition. And that's ultimately the problem with the book. It has something to say, something that needs to be said and says it well, but surrounds it with absurdities, logical leaps that don't follow and a half-hearted defense of something he doesn't seem to feel is worth defending, in fact, something he can't denounce because then what side of the debate would he be on?

To his credit, Hedges rejects ideologies that provide simple answers. It's what's allowed him to ask the hard questions of the situations he's been in and to find a deeper explanation for the human condition. But what of the drive towards the simple answers? And not just that. Why are there some people who not only consent to being ruled but want it? There are those who want a king, an emperor, the boot stamping on their face forever. What of this drive? Hedges has an extensive background in philosophies that grew out of human tragedy so it's disappointing that he puts that background to such meager use. He could ask why the “new atheists” who reject the paternalistic, authoritarian idea of God turn to cultural imperialism, a different paternalistic, authoritarian ideal, but he doesn't. He points out their basic fallacies, but not the big one, and it's that big one that's the problem.