Why Douche is the Most Appropriate Phonetic in Fiduciary Matters; the world thinks it’s ok to ask artists to work for free…. and occasionally I kind of agree.

I really can’t tell you the name of the company involved in this, but this is pretty shocking. So let’s begin…

Some time ago, my band were invited to play at a corporate event. We’d just finished a run of festival appearances, were getting a small amount of airplay on commercial radio and receiving weekly press enquiries. We were keen to keep the ball rolling, and happy to play as many shows as possible, we accepted.

The event was for a big corporation who have branches all over the country. They were planning on opening a new branch and requested only a 30 minute set – “just a little something to get the customers pumped up”. At this juncture, our store contact pointed out that they couldn’t actually pay us, but in exchange for our time, they would feature the band on the homepage of their website and on the accompanying press release about the store opening. The fatal words “It’ll be great exposure for you guys” were uttered, and with that, the transaction was considered valid.

 A week before the gig, we were informed that a performance area had been set up in the parking lot with a stage and what we were told was a “full band setup, just bring your instruments and your own guitar and bass amps”. We continued to check the company’s website for our not-so-free advertising, but nothing appeared. It’s pretty poor etiquette to announce an event before the host does, so nothing about the gig went out on our social networks either. To make matters worse, nobody from the store would respond to our enquiries about the sound system setup, so we had no idea if the venue would be able to cater for our technical specifications.

48 hours before the gig and we’d had enough. The issue was passed over to band management, who sent a rather curt email requesting the corporation hold up their end of the deal or we’d be forced to pull the plug. Problem was – there wasn’t even a plug to pull!

The response was astounding. It was put to us that as the band, we were expected to provide our own sound system and should have sorted this by now. If we were unable to provide this at this late stage, perhaps only our singer and guitarist should perform. When we tried to explain that this wasn’t possible, our booking contact just didn’t understand that a microphone actually needs to be plugged into something to get sound out of it. Shouting her way through our songs over the noise of a busy store would not be an option and we just didn’t have a street-busker style setup we could use.

So, as we were:

• 1.       Unwilling/unable to shell out a few hundred bucks for PA system hire.
• 2.       Unwilling/unable to shell out a few hundred bucks for a van to transport the PA system.
• 3.       Unwilling/unable to spend hours setting up and dismantling a PA system for a 30 minute            gig.
• 4.       Not given our advertising; no sign of any press release with our logo, images, web links on        it, no offer of reimbursement for the expense this would incur.
• 5.       Getting nothing 

We had to pull out.

It was shocking to us that a big corporation like this couldn’t flick us a few hundred bucks for our time, or even sort out the necessary setup we’d need to play some music in their store. What made it even worse was that they were a specialist audio visual entertainment company! Shocking or what?

It’s pretty frustrating that 90% of the world seems to think it’s ok to ask artists to work for free. All those years spent learning your craft and coming up with something fresh and original are suddenly worthless and at times it seems implied that anybody pulled in off the street could do it too – so just get on with it and consider yourself lucky it’s you up there.  But sometimes, I occasionally see where they have a point.

The biggest show I ever played, I played for free.

Actually, at a rough estimate, I played this show for -$800 and it was worth every cent it cost me to get organised for it. A long hot summer some time ago, the group I was with were offered to play on one of the side stages of a pretty significant music festival. Somehow, the stars aligned and we managed to land this gig alongside some big name acts. As a relatively unheard of band, we were told straight up we wouldn’t be paid for this show as we needed it more than they needed us. It would have been just as easy for the festival organisers to have had that side stage sitting empty for the 45 minute slot we were offered and they would have lost no income from taking that option. Instead, they offered us a chance and we had no other choice than to jump on that thing like Van Halen instructed.

When I look back on this, if you care enough about something, have thrown thousands of dollars into it over the years, gotten yourself into and out of debt over it multiple times – what’s another $800 to pay for your lucky break? 

How Syphilis Saved Me; Something for the Musical Science Geeks

There have been so many times in life when I've hit a brick wall and questioned what on earth I thought I was doing? I first thought of spending my life on music at the age of twelve; ten years of studying, writing, gigging and recording later and nothing had happened. Thousands spent on lessons, instruments, studio fees and nothing had happened. Hundreds of hours spent with multiple bands, travelling to and from dirty little pubs and seedy little venues to play to absent crowds. Nothing to show for any of it.

It was on an occasion like this, back when I was nineteen, that I can honestly say Syphilis saved my life and still does to this day.

It was a freezing cold, dark and miserable morning when I woke up at 5:00am to head into the city for an audition. I was nearing the end of my university course and not knowing what to do next, I hoped to enter a conservatoire and study for a few more years. Looking back, it was such an aimless and wasteful plan and to be truly honest, not really the direction I wanted to go in life. Classical music is a wonderful thing, but it's a harsh and rigid discipline. Something that never would have been compatible with me and a world I feared was far too concerned with prestige and class rather than the creativity and freedom I was chasing.

Like a lamb to the slaughter I emerged from the train station a few hours later and joined the taxi queue. I'd only been waiting a couple of minutes when a guy about my age joined the slow moving line, holding a black box the exact same shape and size as my own. Our eyes met for a moment as the awkward realisation we were here for the same purpose dawned on us both. Matching instrument cases in tow, we began a stilted dialogue and decided to share a taxi to the conservatoire audition hall.

The fifteen minutes in the back of that taxi were hellish. He spoke as if he had a mouth full of silver and I don't mean the train track braces I'd recently had removed from my own. He told me his dad played the same instrument we did and held a seat in a pretty high profile orchestra. He told me that he'd been to the auditions last year and had been rejected; this was his last chance before his father made him go and join the air force. I had nothing impressive to say so I sat in silence, taking it all in. My teacher was not my father, nor had he done anything of note with his own musical career; he was a player in an amateur ensemble from a sleepy little country town who had stepped in to give me a little guidance and was the best I could afford.

At this point, he asked if he could take a look inside my case. I thought it would be rude to say no so opened it up and passed it over. It was like I had offered a tray of meat to a vegetarian. He immediately clocked the manufacturer; nothing impressive or of substantial quality, but again the best I could afford. Then like a shark on a feeding frenzy he went searching all over for the serial number.

Finding it, he went on to tell me that his serial started with a string of zeros and ended with the number eight. He'd gone to great lengths to ensure that his was the eighth instrument ever created in that line and was devastated to find his ex-girlfriend had managed to get hold of number six.

At this point my brain went numb. I had no idea that a serial number held so much significance and being deadly serious, I had looked at mine once when asked for the number by an insurance company so I could register the instrument under my mum's contents insurance. I had mistaken it for nothing more than a barcode style assortment of random numbers, used purely for the purposes of tracking an object in the case of a theft.

As he handed my case back to me, I slyly took a look at the engraving on the metal tubing. It didn't end with a low number; it didn't even start with a zero. Slightly stung, I zipped the case closed and like a man with a small penis, I tried to reassure myself that it was what I could do with it that counted above anything else.

Now we get onto the Syphilis....

Needless to say, my audition was a disaster. They turned their noses up at my instrument, very curtly told me they'd never heard of my teacher before and made me feel like I'd turned up to World War 3 with a BB gun and no reinforcements.

I was bewildered, confused and feeling very lost. It was at this point in my life I began to associate with Diego Rivera's painting "Man at a Crossroads".

Visually it's pretty stunning. It's chaotic, confusing and overwhelming, but it holds a thinly veiled dig at high society that's helped me throughout the years. If you look at the central scene, you see a figure who appears at the heart of the crossroads; somehow connected to everything yet involved in nothing. He looks just as lost and powerless as I've felt at times, yet still seems to be driving the entire image.

My favourite part of this whole painting is the tiny Syphilis cell that appears floating above the heads of a group of socialites; the type who would probably care more for serial numbers and prestigious brand-name music tutors, than for raw talent or artistic integrity.

Here's my beloved Syphilis cell circled in red.

It's message is pretty clear. You might be rich and have every luxury in the world, think you're above life's scandals and hardships and intend on using your connections and wealth to cruise through life, but underneath it all you're just as susceptible as the rest of us.

And susceptible he was. Daddy's good name and bottomless pockets didn't save him from the firing squad and he was dismissed along with me. 

I don't remember his name and I'm not even sure I correctly remember what he looked like but I haven't forgotten him in the years since that day. We shared a taxi back to the train station where he suggested I catch a later train and we go for a drink so I "had time to process what had just happened". 

I realised it must have cut him deeper than it did me. While I was disappointed, I would be returning to an empty room in my halls of residence to binge on some junk food and finish my course work; he would be returning to his family home to explain to his father that he had missed the mark again.  

I never forgot how I felt on that day. The audition was over before it had started and even though I was in no way ready to be accepted onto the course, I was dismissed for all the wrong reasons. The musical world can be a little like that. I've heard stories of amazingly talented artists being shot down for all kinds of silly reasons, but sometimes it helps to remember that the person doing the shooting down isn't above it all themselves.