For a while now I’ve been playing with a site called 750words that motivates you to write 750 words every day by recording your streaks (runs of unbroken successful days) and stats (everything from words per minute to your mood and topic, cross-referenced with the local weather report). Now the same guy has started Health Month, and I’m even more intrigued by the possibilities of sites that add a game layer to real life.
I’m going back to an old topic from a new perspective: the ultimate band website. Having thought about it for a year I have a load of random ideas, but I haven’t yet put them together into a coherent structure. This is an attempt to find out what I think about band websites – an essay in the true sense.
Most bands want a website that looks cool, in the same way that they want their album art to be cool and their gig posters to be cool. Album art and gig posters have a very simple purpose: the one-way communication of a small amount of information. A website has a complex purpose: it has to be a social object1 around which people can gather and converse, a point of engagement between fan and band, and a shop (if not more). And it has to look cool.
As with all this internet stuff, there’s no single answer that will suit every band. I rarely find band websites that I think are good, but when I do it’s always because the site completely fits with the band. Pomplamoose‘s main internet presence is their YouTube channel, because they make Videosongs and that’s where their fans go to engage with them. BareNakedLadies have a full-featured website with multi-author blogs, behind-the-scenes videos, and shedloads of content2, because their fans are geeks and enjoy getting involved with all that stuff.
There’s a problem when a band doesn’t use the internet in the same way as its fans. If a band only wants to use MySpace I’m never going to notice them. If a potential fan isn’t on Twitter they are unlikely to hear about me. If a band wants to communicate by post (I’m looking at you, Islet ;) they are going to have trouble engaging with the digital geeks who want to be involved.
There’s a part of me (the wannabe rock star) that sides with the stubborn bands. I stopped playing live gigs completely last year and just played online in various weird and wonderful ways. I love the two issues of The Isness that Islet have posted to me (in the actual post – on paper). I understand that as a band you want to define the rules of engagement and make your artistic statement. I understand that a lot of bands don’t spend all their time online. I understand that maintaining an element of mystery and theatre can make for an amazing magical live show.
But there’s another part of me (the music fan) that’s only ever had really deep positive experiences with bands when I’ve been able to get past the show and find out about the people and the story behind the music. At first it was from my Dad telling stories about records in his collection. As a teenager it was through books and films about rock stars and music scenes that I’d missed by decades, and endless conversations in record shops and issues of Record Collector. Then people started posting MP3 bootlegs on forums3 and making websites about otherwise mysterious legends. Now people recommend music on Posterous, tweet Spotify playlists and the conversations about music are easier to tap into than ever before.
The old music industry model created social objects (records, magazine interviews, press releases, tabloid stories) to feed the conversation, so the artists didn’t have to. Now people want to engage with bands outside the mainstream press, and either the band creates the social objects or the fans do. A lot of bands are building websites that allow fans to create stuff, but it’s not that easy.
Jonathan Coulton fans make loads of videos, cover versions and remixes of his music, but he gave them loads of stuff first: he posted a song a week and blogged the whole thing. He also spent half his time answering email.
So why not let the fans make all the content? Because in almost all cases they won’t. Not unless the bands make way more first.
This may be the wrong question to ask, because I’m not sure they do. I certainly don’t (well, almost never), and in my straw poll of random people in pubs over the last few months nobody else did either. Let’s figure out the reasons why I very occasionally visit band websites:
Me first. Here’s what I’ve used recently to discover, share, research, listen to and talk about music (not counting my own music):
I don’t really know what other people get up to, but off the top of my head:
I’ll let this lot compost for a while and see if I can come up with anything useful, but here are my initial thoughts:
I need to have at least half a dozen more pub conversations about this before it will start to make sense. If you can help clarify any of it, or just add an example to my painfully narrow data, please comment. I’m intrigued to know what you think. ;)
I’m using the pretentious phrase “social object” in the way that music industry commentators use it, to describe an object around which social interactions happen, and without which they wouldn’t. For context, read The Song/Artist Adoption Formula on Music Think Tank. ↩
I’m using the annoyingly glib, but rather useful, internet-specific meaning of “content”. I know, it’s almost unforgivable to talk about the beautiful and unique expressions of someone’s consciousness and identity as “content”. Forgive me. I spend my days making websites and I’ve been brainwashed. ↩
At one point in 1999 I had 185 Ben Folds (Five) concert bootlegs, burned onto CDs because hard drives weren’t big enough yet. ↩
Coldplay/Keane-liking isn’t music-liking. We can’t let our ad hoc data be skewed by people with no useful opinion. ↩
I’m not saying this to show off that I knew about the album ages ago. Well, that’s not the only reason. It’s also a great example of how I got excited about an album (and an artist) before I ever heard it because of the story behind it. ↩
I believe that music is artistically valuable, culturally necessary, beautiful, joyous, human and magical. I believe that the music I make brings happiness and light to the people around me, the people who engage with it online, and of course to me.
I also believe that when people are grateful for music they will thank the musician. That might be a pat on the back after a gig, a quid in a hat, or a slice of cake. It might be a fan club subscription, a £200 gig ticket, or a yacht. But when people aren’t grateful for music there is no reason why they would thank the musician.
I don’t believe that I have a right to earn money from my music. When people are grateful for my music they offer me stuff.
Rather than leave argumentative comments all over the internet, I’m going to offer you links to some different viewpoints on the matter. All are well-argued and interesting. I don’t agree with all of them, but I think it’s important to try to see this issue from a few different perspectives.
If I work out the answer I’ll let you know. ;)
Being good at music is not interesting. It’s boring. As a musician (or any kind of artist) you need to earn people’s attention. It’s not good enough to write good songs, practise for ages and record a good album. It’s not good enough to gig five nights a week. It’s not even good enough to get signed any more. All of these things are useful, but none guarantees you people’s attention.
When you play live, you enter into a negotiation with the audience. You start by putting in the effort to promote the gig and get them to turn up. In return for that, they arrive. And they promise you their attention for about 3 minutes.
So what do you do when the spotlight is shining in your face, when you have one chance to transform a moment of fleeting attention into a long and beautiful relationship between your art and its audience?
That’s your half of the deal. You entertain people in return for their attention. Like it or not, you’re an entertainer. All musicians like it on some level: there’s no way people would put that much effort into playing music if they didn’t want some other people to hear it. But a lot of musicians persuade themselves that they don’t like it at all. They want to hang on stage like a masterpiece on a museum wall and be appreciated.
For reference, the following are not in themselves entertaining:
If you’re not convinced, remember this: people aren’t choosing which gig to go to. They are choosing how to be entertained. Your competition isn’t other bands. It’s widescreen TV, pubs, clubs, dinner with friends or a good book. I’ve seen gigs by very good bands that were less entertaining than reading a chapter of Titus Groan with a cup of tea. And those bands have now lost my attention. I know they’re good, I know I enjoy their music. But I’m not engaged any more. I don’t have time for bands that aren’t going to entertain me.
Let me be clear about what I mean by “entertain”. I’m not talking about cheese, I’m not talking about audience interaction or variety shows. And I don’t mean “funny”. You can be entertaining and moody. You can be entertaining and quiet. You can be entertaining and serious. You can be entertaining without talking. You can be entertaining without moving. But like my old friend Nick used to say, “Funny is always better than good.”
To entertain an audience is to hold their attention and give them enjoyment. The word “entertain” can also mean to receive someone as a guest, and that’s a good way of thinking about it. By making music and putting it out there, you have invited a bunch of people into your musical home. It’s now your responsibility to make it a good party. If people sit in silence listening to you tell six or seven stories then leave, it probably wasn’t a good party.
We made sure Ben’s Big Gig was entertaining. Whenever there was a decision to be made there was one final criterion: “Will it be entertaining?” I dropped some of my favourite songs from the set list. I put the band together. I had the Funky Llamas play an interval set instead of being a support band. I gave the audience the Twitter screen so they could heckle. I booked George Chopping to compère. I booked Tom Greeves to do a whole stand-up set in the middle of the gig. I put two shrubs on stage. I got Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall to endorse the gig. All in the name of entertainment.
I knew the music would be good. But I also knew that if I just walked on stage and played sixteen songs back to back people would be bored out of their skulls.
Music has a universal appeal. Most people will enjoy most music given the right context. If you entertain the audience, they will like you and your music. They will abandon all preconceptions about your musical style and your character. They will have a favourite song. They will tell their friends about how great a time they had and how great the music was.
Steve Lawson knows this. He plays solo bass guitar. Nobody in their right mind hears the phrase “solo bass guitar” and rushes to buy tickets. It’s a hard act to sell, if that’s the way you try to sell it. Luckily, Steve doesn’t do that. He has interesting conversations with people. He talks about how great house concerts are. He tells people about the exciting stuff he does with social media. He earns their attention. Then when he mentions months later that he’s putting on a house concert tour, or playing a gig somewhere, people turn up. And they enjoy the music. A lot. Steve’s a brilliant musician, but in a way that’s a bonus. The audience turn up for him and for the event.
The bonus of having an entertaining show is that you can sell it on its entertainment factor, not on the quality of the music. When the audience arrives and hears how great the music is they will want to buy CDs, sign up to mailing lists and tell their friends about you. But that’s not what gets them in the door.
You can’t get people excited about a show by telling them how in tune the singer is, how perfectly the band replicates the sound of the album or how efficiently the band can set up and soundcheck. People get excited by the prospect of entertainment. That’s why circus posters say things like “Death-defying leaps!”, “A woman with the head of a chicken!” or “Monkeys!” instead of “A really well-rehearsed band accompanying an seemingly dangerous acrobatic performance for two hours with a short interval”.
That would be boring.
I just finished editing the video of Dressing Up from the Big Gig. Nothing makes me happier than the sound of 200 people singing “on a t-shirt, yeah, yeah”. ;)
Mothers have always known. I suppose they must have learnt their lesson back in the days of free festivals and free love. But what is the reasoning behind this warning? Are musicians really that bad? Let’s investigate…
Ok. That’s not true. Musicians all have a plan. Most musicians have hundreds of plans. But not the kind plan a girlfriend is looking for. The girlfriend wants something like:
The musician’s plan is more like:
Musicians may never believe it, but the girlfriend plan is the one that works. Good ol’ hard work.
The Musician belongs to a group of people whose time and energy is largely taken up by their passion. The Artist more generally, and The Sportsman are in the same boat. The Academic is in a different boat, but sailing nearby.
Take your average muso. He spends two or three evenings a week rehearsing or gigging. He spends his free time with his friends, who are generally his band-mates. He puts aside random days to make badges, stuff envelopes with hand-printed demos and watch videos of himself performing. He goes into the studio for the odd week, and spends ninety per cent of his time playing table football, watching videos and getting stoned.
So he’s selfish with his time, but what about his mind? What does this beautiful, creative creature think about all day? Well… He writes songs. In his head. All the time. Even when he’s talking to you. He hears references and structures and moments of genius is any background noise. He reads about music. He watches TV shows about music. He talks about music. All the time.
There are several different types of intelligence, and musicians’ brains usually have quite an awkward balance.
Often, they have a very tactile, technical, methodical, systematic sort of intelligence. They are able to learn complicated riffs, scales and techniques with ease, and talk at length about the relative benefits of Strats and Teles, or bebop and swing, or Bowie and The Band.
Sometimes they have a more creative, artistic intelligence, and can write beautiful lyrics and compose breathtaking melodies. Their songs have an emotional intelligence that seems to be the indicator of a potential mate…
But wait. This intelligence, whether it is emotional, intellectual or creative, is directed inwards. It’s all about the music. The kind of people who are truly musicians are the kind of people who don’t turn their attention outside much. They don’t care for the intricacies of international politics, or the complex web of emotional paranoia happening around them, even if they understand it.
Musicians aren’t really stupid. But they can seem like they are.
Musicians may be vacuous idiots, but they can create one of the purest forms of entertainment, some of the most beautiful works of art, and some of the most exhilarating and engaging experiences in life.
It’s a trade-off. They aren’t the best dates. But they aren’t that bad.
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