band buffet

by Bing Futch

Greetings, salutations and just plain “hello”. No ordinary column will this be, nor will I always write like Yoda. To you–patient reader– this little byte on the ‘net will be a firm, ripened cherry on your sundae of a week. To thee–impatient reader–this won’t hurt a bit.

I promise.

Thanks first and foremost to Ian Koss, the seemingly omniscient editor of Ink Nineteen magazine, for allowing me a forum through which to inspect, validate, deconstruct and violate the central Florida arts movement. There’s something happening here and what it is ain’t exactly clear. But there’s too much bullshit in the air to really tell. We’ll attempt to clear the air here, children. But first, I want to get something off my chest about the local music scene. A lot of it doesn’t seem to be about music.

Sweet, succulent, savory music.

The Scene is an idol that gets bowed to often by quite a few slobbering bands who dream of phat green rooms and riders that can demand any shade of M&M’s that they desire. Los Angeles, New York, Seattle and Athens have already established the stereotypical vibe of “integrity lost” that permeates the big music towns, even Nashville is starting to smell really bad. There’s no reason that a violent, corrupt, backstabbing system needs to develop any further in central Florida, particularly O- Town. Let those other cities crumble like sea salt, corroded from the inside. The 21st century, m’friends, is all about independence. Grass roots, do-it-yourselfishness, it’s all right to hit the road yourself with the propaganda, no one has to do it for you. Sure, the record companies are looking for good, no–great artists to fill their rosters. Only the best. Stellar. Guaranteed (they hope) to make millions. It’s not about the person behind the shirt and glasses, it’s about The Product. You’re meat. To be slapped onto the world’s buffet table, and you know the kind of people who are too fucking poor to afford a nice prime rib at Outback–so they go to some five dollar buffet and spend 20 minutes loading up their trays ahead of you. All you want is some of the chicken and a little sauce.

Damn, I’m hungry.

The buffet entrees are the artists, the fat cat ahead of you is Mr. Corporate and you’re hoping for a piece of the action. Forget it. You’ll get backwash, which you lap up happily because the gravy was too thick to begin with, pre-packaged, sucked dry and reconstituted as something other than what it once was.

Or. You can own the buffet and only invite your cool friends to come eat. In the future, there will be no need for post-production houses, because everyone will have a full production studio in their homes, for an affordable and affable price too. As of now, he has a CD burner, she has an ADAT, they have a 16-track board, it works at Full Sail. Everyone gets together in a creative symbiosis and some friend who’s a graphics wiz renders a little Photoshop Phuckery and a trip to the wholesale CD outlet gets you your product. Now, you go out, play your songs, sell your CD’s and find the niche that will support you. That slice of pie takes care of you and the band, but it takes a microscope– a shot picked off by a marksman, and not a riddled blast of shotgun pellets. Pie in the sky and millions of dollars for the good life of chartered jets and tix to the grammys is bullshit, the art of making music is nine-to-five AND a bag of chips. And change. It never stops, the process is always re-defining and morphing into an all-consuming passion that drives friends, family and significant lovers absolutely crazy. At least, that’s how it is for the true music heros. Working hard for your music pays off in the connection with the audience.

Sure, it would be nice to afford power and food too.

The promoters, clubs and management teams are not all your friends. Some of them possess integrity to the nth degree. Some of them will fuck you quicker than a two-dollar whore. In blind pursuit of the long- cherished label deal dream, the scales will develop, you’ll fall somewhere, skin your knee and end up working as a yacht hand on someone else’s cabin cruiser. Those that hang with you and endure your countless takes of the new song, bring you beer while the bassist changes strings, generally serve as taxi services and production assistants–these are your promoters, your front line. Their devotion results in flyering while they go shopping, talking you up on internet bulletin boards–extending the mailing list. To quote a line from the movie “Contact”–it’s all about “small moves”. Any long-standing musical group is supported by their following, people who will buy an album no matter how much it stinks. Eventually, as we swing towards the frightening future of 900 channels and onboard navigation systems, tribes of humans will huddle together in search of their lost humanity, eschewing electronic music altogether and choosing instead to form huge, acoustic symphonies. Chamber music will return, no batteries required. A new Eden will dawn on Earth and everything will be much better then.

Until that point, central Florida musicians will have to decide which way they’re going to swing. Either froth at the mouth and keep an eye on the prize, tirelessly running to stay in place or write a song, smell a flower, jam with many of your friends and continue to connect, communicate and consecrate the blessed gift of.

Music.

I won’t always be this loopy, but my logic is that if you made it through all of this–the ensuing columns will be a cinch. Read between the lines, think what you want, don’t want what you think. We’ll be back next week with a story of perseverance in the face of corporate greed as Will’s Loch Haven Pub celebrates three years of rugged individualism. Till then, have fun kiddies.