However, I am sure how much my band has made with Spotify. Better yet, here’s a breakdown of the payouts we’ve received from all streaming services we’re distributed through. Instead of relying on the fractional amounts/per stream breakdown, I chose to calculate how many streams one would have to achieve prior to getting a hefty $1 USD payout. This list includes the now defunct Ruckus (the more the merrier). Enjoy!

Just in case your multiplication isn’t as sharp as a middle-schooler, it seems – with an independent distribution contract – one would get paid the now infamous $167 with a mere 430,359 Spotify plays/streams. Still nothing to brag about, but it goes to show you how much major labels garnish artists paychecks. The interesting thing I took away from crunching these numbers is while only charging a $5 USD/month subscription fee, Napster still pays out exceptionally more than Spotify. The UK service (yet to launch in the US) charges approx’ $20 USD/month for an all access subscription. I don’t use either service, therefore I’m not familiar with the advantages/disadvantages each provides/lacks.

Going further, I thought it might be fun to figure out how many times an artist would have to be played in order to be make a modest salary of $30k. This graph is measured in the millions (obviously).

My advice:

1. Get invited to a private torrent site.
2. Download away.
3. If you like something, send $5 in the mail to the artist.

Don’t ask.

You may ask, “Why chili?” Considering that the Christmas holiday is mere days away and this time of year is filled with all forms of Eastern European starch concoctions and Polish pork product, the days leading up tend to lean vegetarian. There’s also the fortunate cheese wheel incident in which I was given via not-so-secret Santa a three-year aged hunk of cheddar weighing in at an impressive three pounds. Of course this means grilled cheeses galore, or panini to the gourmand in your life, and thick soups like chili on which to mound fistfuls of the white dairy gold. Everyone knows that gooey chili is the best. There’s no argument there.

I approached the streetcar stop stepping through my exhaled patches of cold breath. It was easily twenty degrees colder that it was earlier in the morning when I’d ridden my reviled Magna to work during the pre-dawn hours. Avid cyclists with their multi-hundred or even multi-thousand dollar rides tend to dislike bikes that don’t shift well and have a hard time braking when traveling at a comfortable clip. Yes, my bike may be substandard and, indeed, cheap, but it was free and it gets me to work in less than fifteen minutes.

I looked at the LCD readout at the stop that, in the darkness of the Solstice, brightly advertised the next arrival in four minutes. There was a lone Asian woman sitting at the stop. I refrained from sitting next to her and chose to stand a good distance away. She seemed lost in thought and looked lonely. I may have looked the same standing there like an oafish goof, uncomfortably leaning to one side, burrowing my hands in my coat’s pockets. I felt a drop of rain on the tip of my nose and I realized I’d forgotten my umbrella.

The headlights of the box-like car approached, blazing the way through a silky evening mist. After a spark, a series of squeaks, and a whispering slide, the street car came to a full stop. The front of the tri-sectioned car was filled with moms and kids ranging in age from probably four to thirteen. There were no seats available. I chose to stand in the second of the three sections. My days are often spent sitting for ten hours at a time in front of computer screens, so standing is usually a distinct pleasure for me.

I counted the usual suspects that I see on my daily rides around the city. They normally drop off near the Safeway to get money for their recyclable cans. They sometimes head to the library stop to congregate with some of the other homeless or to hop on the commuter rail. Some even dare to head into the Pearl, eventually getting off where the ride is no longer free and the fare surveyors reign supreme with their mantra: “Taking a survey of the fares. Fares please.”

The streetcar slid down the avenue and from the front came the sound of children singing. I thought it was someone’s music player at first. After careful aural inspection, I realized that there seemed to be spontaneous caroling a-brewing. Taken aback, I inched closer to the front cabin holding on to the rail above me making sure I didn’t fall into the middle-aged woman parked next to me. She was gabbbing into her iPhone about shopping. I decided to keep staring into my Blackberry’s void.

The din of the carols became louder and the words broke the residual noise. “Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains…” floated gaily into our cabin. Despite the voices belonging to untrained children, the song seemed to flow nicely. Even the spazzy little boy sung with a certain level of expertise. I listened further and continued to stare into the void. Something, however, was amiss.

As the group segued into “Silent Night,” I realized that I felt strangely. Dissecting how this unsettled feeling came about, a soaring wave of dread overtook my emotions. What was this? Why was I feeling this way? Was there something visual that was cluing me in? Was something about to happen around me? I swept my gaze across the cabin and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The usuals had already gotten off a stop back to hock cans for cash. Everyone in the car seemed normal and looked like they were headed back from work. “Shepherds quake at the sight…” the children continued. As I sung along in my head, it became clear that I was reacting to this song that I loved as a child. This harmless song that I remember most distinctly from an episode of Benson when one of the characters, Gretchen, sung it in German. It truly is a beautiful representation from such a harshly-regarded language: “Stille Nacht! Heil’ge Nacht!”

I could not relieve myself of this feeling of dread, nonetheless. It was then that I became sad. I realized the root of why I wasn’t warmed by the carolers and why I felt no pangs to hum along. Both songs that this group of merry public transportation riders chose to sing revolve around Christ’s birth and this, honestly, put me off. In a country, and world, where the year-end winter holidays are dominated more and more by the sentiment of putting Christ back in Christmas as if Christmas is the only reason to celebrate. While the sentiment may be earnest, what it ends up being is exclusionary. Christ never left Christmas. Those that celebrate the Christmas holiday are Christian or are lapsed Christians that continue the holiday. The holiday may have in many ways been supplanted by the frenzy of commercialization required to bring so many retail outlets into the black, but the core remains.

Christmas, though, was not the first celebration of the dawn of a new day. The history of man is filled with celebrations related to the coming of the sun and the revelry behind lighting the darkest of days. So many of the stories told during these days are allegorical and it’s important to remember this. This time of year for the northern hemisphere is largely dark, cold, snowy, and wet. We need a day to turn on a bunch of pretty lights, eat a lot, and get drunk! This notion is not shoved aside by the addition of Christ to the picture, of course. It was adopted and transformed just as humans have done for time immemorial.

“Silent Night” made me sad, indeed. Should I feel that a cute group of kids, when singing Christ-centered carols, is proselytizing? And if I do, why has it even gotten to this point? Why has this time of year turned contentious instead of joyous? Was this my own paranoia?

The kids moved on to the next selection and loudly belted out “Jingle Bells.”

I hummed along and smiled.

Most musicians would probably agree that the following term holds a negative connotation; “local band.” It’s akin to calling someone an amateur. Nevertheless, the stock of “local” is going up. Locally grown vegetables are selling better than ever and new farmers markets are popping up year-after-year. Buying from your neighborhood “Mom and Pop” hardware/pharmacy/convenience store thus thumbing your nose at the Walton family is a favorite pass time to many in the “liberal elite.” But it still sucks to be in a “local band.” Or does it?

The general consensus amongst music aficionados is there will never be another “rock star.” U2 and Aerosmith are the last of a dying breed. Major label sales have been plummeting since the dawn of the internet; which was promptly accused for the decline, and was (partially) to blame. Yet, the internet was not culpable because of Napster and its successors. It wasn’t guilty because of the advent of MP3s and iPods. It was to blame because people were given a choice. No longer was “crate digging” limited to snobby NY DJs in pursuit of a rare 78. Everyone could find and/or be promoted to/from anything. For that reason, major label sales are down, but music sales are up. The internet gave everyone the power to be a snob. And because snobs are innately narcissistic bastards who think their physical proximity played a part in inspiration (or simply feel a little more connection with the creator based on similar life experience), they especially enjoy art developed in their own backyard. So, if the death of the rock star is truly at hand what’s next?

Regional rule and infinitesimal-genres. The world is experiencing the most widely spread minutely refined class of pop music it has ever seen. No matter what you’re into, you can find it. Hell, you can probably find it a couple blocks away (or at most, the nearest large city). It’s a remarkable resource that has yet to be fully exploited. Most people are still stuck in the hype machine. But if consumption continues to follow the trend of “local = better” we could all bear witness to looks of pride when a couple of musicians are referred to as a “local band.”

Read: The Perils of DIY

We’re sick-and-tired of the old dichotomy, band v. audience. Our cogitations on the subject led to an idea. This idea is not a final solution to the problem. But we feel it’s an encouraging step.

Sh! Mob

It’s nearly an old adage. If you treat a hobby with the seriousness of a career there’s a good chance the hobby will transform to just that, a career. Money isn’t everything. The only separation between amateur and professional is dedication and attitude. So why do so many musicians shoot themselves in the foot with pure laziness?

I guess it’s a question of self-motivation. Not all musicians are lazy asses. The vast majority of Pitchfork reviewed, college radio played, and touring bands obviously have it together. The rest? Well, they just ramble on about how all the other guy’s success is due to “hype” and all those “over-hyped” bands are “un-original no-talent hacks.”

News flash, talent means squat. Talent is akin to an idea, or some fantastic invention. An idea without execution is worth zilch, null, nothing. Derek Sivers’s hit the nail on the head in 2005 with his article Ideas Are Just A Multiplier of Execution. Sivers’s is the founder of CD Baby, he’s a smart guy. More importantly he’s a self-motivated guy.

Usually not every member of a band is plagued with the “I’ll get to it later” bug. But how can you tell if you’re the virus or host? Well, it should be pretty obvious. If not, here’s a fun little guide:

1. Divide the amount of shows you booked by how many the band has played. Compare this number to your percentage of the band. Ex: “I booked 20 shows out of 50 (40%) and we’re a 4 piece [you're 25% of the band].” If the shows booked total is higher than your chunk, good job. If not, congrats’ you’re the anchor (not a good thing)…
2. Do you ever initiate practices/rehearsals/writing sessions or does someone else? If “Yes, always.” Great keep it up. If “sometimes.” Keep carrying your weight. If “never.” Better get back to WoW, a troll might be eating your level 5 rogue.
3. Do you handle communication? Maintain contacts? Check the MySpace? Respond to emails? If “Yes, always.” You’re the same one that booked all those shows and scheduled those practices aren’t you? If “sometimes.” Good job helping out where you can. If “never.” Seriously bro’, do you think those other guys like doing that stuff?
4. How many posters have you stapled up/passed out? If “Too many to count.” Obviously, you’re not the problem. If “as many as I can.” OK, maintain. If “We have posters?” Alright jackass, let me guess, you have better things to do, right?

Read: The Perils of DIY

I was just reading one of the many blog debates (this one on ETC) centered around pirating music. Nothing new, just restating the, “How am I supposed to find the good stuff? Radio? Blogs? MySpace? I need to steal everything first, then pay for it when I decide I like it” argument against, “Downloading without the consent of the artist is stealing.” I respect both views. Downloading (especially BitTorrent) have opened up avenues of music exploration previously unattainable. Yet, it’s a tough road for an artist that never makes money from creating music. What does this have to do with OnLive?

What if all music was located on a cluster of servers (think of the best torrent site ever) and could only be streamed (not downloaded) to your wi-fi enabled iPod, car stereo, or home computer? What’s the use of pirating something when you can access it at any time with any device? Especially if the quality was in the magically blessed 192KBPS? Not to mention, no more worrying about storage space for your 2TB collection. The server handles all of it. As far as price. It could be based on an all-you-can-eat subscription system (Like OnLive) or a per song/album (or better yet, both). Wrap it in Voluntary Collective Licensing along with Creative Commons copyrights and you may have a winning idea. You could even combine Pandora/Last.fm/social media functionality into the system.

The benefits of a system like this are many. To start with, you never have to worry about buying an iPod with enough space to carry your music collection. Storage space would matter little, yet functionality would be paramount. No more hard drive failure worries. Your data would always be “off site.” With added social media functionality it would be possible to discover music based entirely on your personal preferences.

The negatives are mainly technical. Wi-fi isn’t available everywhere (and certainly isn’t available on every device that can play music). Even when it is available, fast broadband wi-fi can often be buggy, sparse, or just downright broken. Sometimes it’s necessary to burn a CD to go “off the grid.” How would you accomplish that? Anything but DRM!

Our days are filled with some structure but normally end up morphing into experiences and artistic forays. I’m not an ardent supporter of un-schooling as my rigidity refuses to allow for any such thing in any part of my daily life. But, a little relaxation in lieu of imparting creativity to my kids is perfectly fine in my eyes.

This morning I decided to move our workbook tasks to St. HonorĂ© Boulangerie for a change of scenery and to alleviate the aforementioned boredom. As Hero cracked her book open to work on a vocabulary list, behind her le boulanger began working on a batch of freshly proofed dough. Decked in a white skull cap and shirt, he looked more like an artist as opposed to an artisan. He caught Hero’s eye instantly as she took a moment to case the room. Workbook be damned, she got up and walked to take a seat at the counter to watch as if he had a gift-wrapped present for her. I began to stop her, but realized that her attentiveness to his work was in and of itself an education.

From her earliest days, Hero would pull on my pants leg and beg me to hold her in my arms as I cooked. Realizing full well that this was dangerous, I would most often tell her no, but even more so, she would coax me with forlorn countenance to merely hold her. After very tired arms holding a growing child, she became my “sous chef.” What else would she be, this sponge of all things food? Mind you, though, that she doesn’t have the biggest appetite, but does try now and then to expand her tasting horizons beyond cheese, bread, and chocolate. Hero is still interested in watching food prep no matter if it’s something she likes or not. This is profoundly child-like and eager – and I adore it.

I gathered our books and packed them away in my bag as I approached the bar to take my seat next to the baker-in-training. Apparently she’d already drilled le boulanger with questions regarding what he was making. As I watched curiously, Hero informed me that she relayed my story of ill-fate with my baguette attempt from the day before (they over-proofed, and a layer of gray residue from the half-sheet pan somehow adhered itself to the dough). The artist softly told me he often fails at baguette-making at home.

I felt a little better.

Hero and I watched as the dough was shaped and set to rest, shortly to become long tubes of delicious bread, light and crisp. I sipped my cappuccino wondering if I’d realized earlier in life my obsession with baking and food that I’d be the artist behind that counter, sensing every sour bouquet; wishing I’d found that path instead of where I am. Snapping back to reality, I realized that there was a man with a heavy French accent standing a few feet away from me, sipping on a thick, dark espresso. He laughed while speaking in French to an older, attractive woman and broke to tell le boulanger how good the loaves freshly removed from the massive clay oven smelled. “The smell – the smell is very important, eh?” Le boulanger nodded and shot half a smile.

Hero turned her sweet face to me and drew a long breath through her nose and nodded. “Yep, Dad, that guy is right. It smells so good.”

There are things that no book can ever hope to teach you.

From the New York Times:

Mr. Pandit, the head of Citigroup, pledged to cut his salary to $1 a year until the bank returned to profitability and took personal responsibility for the “mistake” of even thinking about buying a new $50 million private jet after getting government financing. “I get the new reality, and I will make sure Citi gets it as well,” he declared.

Mr. Pandit, the “new reality” as you chose to call it (in a phrase, downsizing our own finances to barely scraping by levels) is actually the life-long reality for the majority of us.

Mr. Lewis of Bank of America, who occasionally grew testy and red-faced at questions about lending, told lawmakers that his bank had “every incentive to lend.”

I have every incentive to provide a comfortable life for my family, Mr. Lewis, but, sorry, reality kicks you in the ass sometimes and it’s your ass that has the target affixed to it for once.

The final quote rings with an air of populist realism, a sentiment that most of us feel, unless we’re sure that we’re going to be “rich” in the next couple years like Joe the Plumber did, facing the disparate realities of these bankers compared to your average American:

Louann Prosack, a retiree from Jessup, Md., said she traveled to Washington to understand why Wall Street workers were being paid so much, even as their companies foundered.

“It’s coming out of other people’s pockets, the money,” Ms. Prosack said. “And they say they can’t live on their $150,000 salary. That’s more than I ever made in a year, and I managed.”

Keep crying, banking CEOs. The new reality might just mean you have to live in a five bedroom house instead of that compound you’re used too.

Cry me a river.

Today, I’ve come to my judgment and it is as such: we are fighting a war in Iraq, a war in Afghanistan, but America’s most immediate enemies crawl in the green halls of Wall Street.

I watched the DOW tank today when the Senate finally set the stimulus package up for a vote and, judging by Wall Street’s reaction, they are not happy. I am now thoroughly convinced that since September 16, 2008, when the reality of our economy’s fragility came to fruition, Wall Street collectively has sought to usurp control of our country. They knew then that President Bush was headed out and figured that, most likely, Senator McCain was not going to win. Their reaction, mostly knee jerk, was to bail on America knowing full well that the hole they (“they” being big business, lenders, and banks) dug with Americans’ hard-earned dollars was never going to get filled and under an Obama administration it was only going to get worse. Hence, they committed the ancient practice of seppuku; they disemboweled themselves, hurtling America into such economic chaos that it seems likely that, unless President Obama’s stimulus package does indeed work, our government itself may unravel at the hands of obstructionist Republicans sitting at the wretched lap of Rush Limbaugh.

And this, my friends, is what Wall Street wants.

There is a gun pointed at our heads and we’re being held hostage by suits crying about having to make less than $500,000 a year.