The Day The Music Died, by Paul Shirley

The Day The Music Died, by Paul Shirley

On May 31, 2010, Lala.com, an online music service, boarded up its cyber-shop.  The shuttering had been in the works for several months; Apple Corp. purchased Lala.com for a reported $80 million in December 2009.  Many analysts have theorized that Apple is most enamored of Lala’s capability as a provider of streaming music, which many people believe to be the future in music consumption.

I was disappointed when Lala.com went the way of the dodo and Circuit City.  I was not alone.  Others, though, were heartened by the fact that one of Lala’s most touted capabilities, the aforementioned aptitude for streaming, will likely be available soon in iTunes.

I could give a damn about streaming music.  I’m old-fashioned.  I want to buy music, put it on my computer and on my iPod, and listen to it wherever I please, be that in my car, on the toilet, or while standing outside the Vatican, rolling my eyes as the pope half-heartedly apologizes for child molesters.

Which is why, when Lala winked out like a dying star, I was most saddened by the loss of two things:

1.  Albums that cost $7.49.

2.  The chance to listen to an entire song once before I choose whether to buy it.

To me, the debate over what an album should cost is an involved and deep-rooted one.  When I was in high school and college, I would rarely pay the full Weremouse Records price for an unknown CD.  I spent most of my music-shopping hours at stores that sold used CDs or at Best Buy, where I would go with high hopes that someone had had the sense to introduce The Strokes at a reasonable price.

My frugality didn’t apply to old favorites.  I was willing to pay $10, $12, even $14 for the most recent Stone Temple Pilots album, and might even have driven my light-blue Corsica – hatchback version! – to West Topeka to get it on release day.

After a decade as a dedicated music listener, the number of musicians for which I will pay full price – in other words, the number of bands I trust unquestioningly – is far greater than it was when I was twenty.   When Band Of Horses releases an album, I don’t mind paying $13 for it.  Band Of Horses is like an ex-girlfriend with whom I had an amicable breakup.  If we’re both single and I call her late on a Thursday, I have a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen if she comes over.

But I don’t know everything about every band.  When I read about someone new and intriguing – say, the Spanish indie-electronic act Delorean – I haven’t yet built up enough trust to go out and blow $13 on their album.  Or, to continue the analogy, I’m probably not willing to take the risk that I might get a guilt trip and a wine-induced meltdown, so I won’t pick up the phone.

For whatever reason, Lala’s $7.49 price point satisfied both edges of the music-buying spectrum.  I was happy to part with seven and half dollars in return for the privilege of owning the latest Deftones album.  And I felt protected enough by the price to gamble on Hockey.  (The band, not the sport.  No one gambles on hockey the sport, because no one watches hockey the sport.)

In the case of the latter, I felt further protected because I was given the chance to listen to songs – any of them – from the album, before buying.

It was a completely logical setup.

Accordingly, it is now gone.  Which is fine.  Corporations are not my friends.  I can’t expect Lala.com to exist just because I like it.

However, what I can expect – because I live in a capitalist society – is competition.  But up to now, that competition has been slow to report to the starting line.  In some cases, it’s sprawled out in the shared bathroom at the Olympic village, with an empty twelve-pack of Amstel Light on the floor and Sweden’s second-best high jumper – the one with the body out of Maxim – in the top bunk.

In the fast-moving, ever-changing, Internet-fueled world in which we live, it would seem to this author that musicians, bands, and labels would already have this – a way to deliver music to fans – figured out.  One of the better aspects of the Internet, for them, is its ability to remove the middleman.  The iTunes music store doesn’t need to exist.  Nor, for that matter, does Lala.  Those entities are nothing more than meaty hands in the collection plate.

Imagine, for example, a moment when I think, “I’d like to have the new Broken Social Scene album.”  I go to brokensocialscene.ca and am presented, front and center, with an option to buy the band’s latest album, along with the chance to listen to each of the songs on that album, one time.  Theoretically, that album would only cost me seven or eight dollars to download.  (Remember, we’ve cut out a coffer-robber.)  If I like what I hear, I click “Buy Album”, it is delivered to my desktop, and I drag it into the music-playing application of my choice, at which point it is safely in my possession for all of eternity, or until my laptop goes belly up thanks to a power surge.

Instead, what I go through, if my goal is to find Broken Social Scene’s new album at that band’s website, is a home page with a big picture and a confusing menu.  If I’m able to navigate to the correct link (“Store”), and have the patience to scroll past sixteen different articles of clothing for sale, and am thorough enough to click on the correct album cover (presented without anything that tells me something like, “Hey, if you want to buy our music, which is probably the reason you like us and the reason you’re here since we’re a fucking BAND, you should click down here”)…then I am taken to what is actually a reasonably intuitive page, where I can, in fact, buy the album for $9.  I suppose it’s a small victory that, after I’ve vanquished the cave monsters and deciphered the hieroglyphic code, removing the gold idol isn’t that difficult.

But that’s really the only logical step in the process.  In case I’m not sure I want to make such an investment, I can listen to…tiny fragments of songs, because evidently Broken Social Scene is ashamed of the rest of those songs.

That process is all well and good, I suppose, if the goal is to not make money.  But the complaint I hear, out of bands and labels alike, is that they can’t make money anymore.  Therefore, I have to assume that both of them would prefer to derive some profit from the recordings of songs.

Here’s a newsflash for both entities:

People will buy your music.  They’ve been doing so for decades.  But they won’t buy it if you make it difficult to find, purchase or listen to, especially when they can get it for free.

I contend that most people are like me.  They want to support artists, and they don’t mind paying a fair price for whatever those artists produce.  But, like me, most people are also lazy consumers.  They will give up if the barriers to that consumption are too much.  After all, while music is wonderful, it isn’t exactly rice, water, a data plan for an iPhone, or any of the other things we can’t do without.

It is true that I don’t understand completely the intricacies of royalty arrangements between labels and iTunes/Lala.  And I’m sure the details of the deals between artists and their labels would make even the most proficient contract lawyer blush.

But the attitude I’ve noticed – from artists and labels alike – is often one of, at best, helplessness and, at worst, entitlement.  The artist intimates that he or she shouldn’t be expected to do the dirty work of sending a daily email to the web designer, telling him that the “Buy Album” button doesn’t actually work.  The man at the label bemoans the damned college kid who just put his best band’s new album on the server at Pomona College.  Both blame the other, but neither actually does anything.

If the artist in question doesn’t care to make money performing his or her art, a laissez-faire approach to marketing makes perfect sense.  But such an approach only works if the artist in question is Trent Reznor or MGMT.  That is, either inordinately talented or inordinately lucky.  Unfortunately for them, most artists are neither.  Most artists are like a hyper-gifted version of the rest of humanity – they have to put forth some effort.

That’s not to say that all artists who complain about a lack of record sales are not working hard.  Some of them are just supremely unlucky – their band reached its potential just as Napster was peaking, or their albums were shipped by rail, or their publicist picked release week to have a nervous breakdown.

And then there are the labels, for which the same breakdowns might apply.  Some are working hard but are unlucky, and some are lazy but lucky.  But too many have given up, choosing to blame consumers for being consumer-like instead of blaming themselves for being too obstinate to pick up the phone and solve the new problems presented by new technology.

It would be wonderful if any of us could stop time.  I could go back to a point in my life when the Smurfs satisfied my every entertainment need.  Kevin Garnett could return to a day when the cartilage in his knees was present and plentiful.  And musicians and labels could warp to a time when the only way fans could get their music was at the record store.

Sadly, none of those is going to happen.  (Even though I’m pretty devastated by the Smurfs thing.)

So we’re left with what’s really going on:  People still like music.  People want to support musicians.  But people don’t have an unlimited supply of time, patience, or money.

Therefore, I have a request.  Musicians, labels, web designers:  Make it easy for people.  Prove to them that they don’t have to be disheartened by the passing (read: cannibalization) of Lala.com.  Show them that you care about your music and that you care equally about getting it to them at a fair price and with a reasonable preview.  In return, they’ll enter their credit card details or their PayPal information, and you’ll get some portion of the eight dollars each of them spends.  If enough of them do just that, you might not need to have the PBR vs. Stella debate every time you go to Williamsburg Music Hall.

And, I guess, if that’s too much to ask, there are always state fairs in 20 years.

Note: The original artwork at the top of this piece is by Scott Shaffer.

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