“Welcome to the Music Business…You’re F**ked.”
The title of the symposium’s keynote address
jumped out at me, snatching my attention. It was outrageous, irreverent,
and just plain funny. Maybe I identified. After all, these attributes worked for
me at my job for 24 years. Until there suddenly wasn’t a 25th.
It ceased being more fun than not to go to work, and my
dwindling sense of humor became too obvious. I had become, in short, a
liability. I needed a fresh start. So did my employer. We parted ways, and I
set about redefining my career and life. My goal was to find the fun again by
combining elements of my skills set with one or more of my passions: music,
writing, history, sports, photography, and lighthouses (combining the last two
on the list is demonstrated below).
The organizer of the symposium, Martin
Atkins, certainly had an attitude that mirrored his
keynote theme. It was evident in his books, one of which bore the same title of
the aforementioned address. I read three short reviews on Amazon.com. Two of the three critics
lambasted him as a "charlatan and vulture who preyed on the vulnerability of
struggling, young, naïve, aspiring artists." For some reason, these views only heightened my interest in attending the event. One doesn’t have a long career
without making some enemies along the way, a fact that was not lost on me as I saw my career in the field of education end.
I came across the upcoming “Band:Smart”
happening while checking out an artist’s web site. He was going to be providing
entertainment on the first day. Investigating the symposium’s web site lured me
into considering a last-minute trip. With nothing better to do that
weekend, I plunked down the $99 registration fee and began to plan my excursion to
Chicago. I booked a room in a suburban hotel and entered addresses into my GPS.
The short process, as well as the original exposure to the opportunity, was
made perhaps far too easy by the Internet. In any case, initial steps on a possible
new path were laid down.
Those steps might actually have been traced
to another, much earlier time in my life. I grew up around the entertainment
business and those who lived and died in it. My mother was a country music
radio DJ and member of a local band of some local success. The happenstance of
my waiting for her shift to end one day led to a role in what would evolve into
an off-Broadway stint at the age of nine, followed by a series of other stage
performances. So I had already seen all levels of the vocation, from those who
made it big to those who were as Atkins had labeled them.
The Weekend: Day One (9/9/13)
I headed to Chicago in my 2008
Mini Cooper S convertible with GPS, EZ Pass, golf clubs, suitcase, iPad, notebook, and
82 hours of iPod music files in tow. After about 7 ½ hours, I arrived at the Oak
Brook Marriott (which I highly recommend based on location, price,
comfort) and explored the Friday night options for entertainment.
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A group
called Hedgehog and the Fox were having
a CD release party for the early show at Reggie’s. Since Reggie’s was reputed to be a prime club with an adjoining record store, I
elected to drive into the South Side of the city, which was not nearly as scary as Jim
Croce would have had us believe.
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| My view of the show that wasn't |
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While the record store was a disappointment,
I was initially feared that the night might be a wash. The wait to order a beer
and some food was longer than the drive into town. I theorized that maybe I didn’t
look like I fit in, until Hedgehog and the Fox started setting up. I looked
younger than most of them.
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Things looked up a bit when they plugged in their
instruments. An old favorite of mine, “Sylvia”
by Focus was the vehicle for the band’s
sound check. I was feeling better.
With still plenty of time before the 6PM show
and the place rather thinly populated, I finished my burrito and second Amstel
draft. As I watched the lead guitarist mingle with a couple of equally seasoned
women, my idea about the band’s average age was confirmed. Unfortunately this
only fed the mystery of why I felt a bit of an outcast.
I spent the rest of my meal looking through
the city paper, trying to add up the number of venues and shows existing during
the next week, and wondering if this market—big as it is—isn’t saturated.
By 6:50 it became evident that the band had
little intention of starting to play any time soon. The parking meter was only good until 7:20, so I
decided to make my way back out of the city. I paused long enough at the sales
table set up at the front of the bar to pick a copy of the CD they were supposed to be performing, based
solely on the Focus tune they rambled through earlier. I listened to the disc
on the way back to the hotel. The instrumentals were impressive, but the vocals
could be scrapped.
(Next week: ”The Weekend: Day Two)
