The other day I got some bad news from a friend of mine who designs typefaces. He checks his font sales religiously, and for years rarely went a day without at least one order. But, he told me, the day the stock market kamikazed, business stopped - instantly. And it's been silent ever since. Other friends with online stores have told me similar stories.
Eschatone receives sales figures from its distributors at the end of each month, so no word yet on results at retail, but I can tell you that after a very encouraging launch, the proprietary eschatone.com online store has only received two orders since the crash (both for Brian Dewan CDs). Things screeched to a startling and scary halt.
The company has virtually no overhead, so it's not like we're in any trouble, but releasing product into this environment is an empty gesture. Our priority since the summer has been Michael Bassett's Soft Verges, which is a fuckin sonic masterpiece of the highest order. But right now, promoting the record the way we want to would be like yelling into a hole in the ground - it is simply not going to stimulate sales. No slight to the record at all; sad fact is that nobody is spending money on anything not absolutely essential.
Similarly, putting out my own stuff seems like a waste of time until things improve, regardless of how much I've got stockpiled. Promoting a record is the most expensive part of a plan that ends with strangers who might be touched by the music having a chance to interact with it as its creator intended*. My music comes in a physical package of my conception and is meant to be consumed in hi-fi with all the trimmings (the same could be said for all Eschatone releases, which is why we have the roster of artists we do). That is just not gonna happen right now - people will grab for free MP3s all day, sure, but that's half the story at a fraction of the fidelity. When I listen to the finals of "The Bowery Electric" and Shoot The Piano Player on MySpace, I kinda want to throw up. These are exquisite-sounding recordings being squeezed out the nasty ass of that fucking Flash player, with a tiny little jpeg where the album sleeve should be.
Common sense says Eschatone should stay in a holding pattern right now. I'm impatient and a bit frustrated - particularly regarding Michael's record, which I feel so strongly about, I'd go door-to-door for it - but when things are better, we'll still be around and ready to go. I have a feeling that's more than we'll be able to say for much of the remaining "music business".
*That's the Eschatone model**, anyway - the average label's plan ends with them turning a profit, preferably an enormous one, which is why most of them don't last very long.
**Not to be confused with my own model, which ends with me giving copies to the same ten friends who have been listening to my shit since 1991, then driving around to it in a car until I get tired of it and want to make something else. Anything beyond that is, in my opinion, me being way too generous to the human race by giving it an opportunity to enjoy my hard-won music that it frankly doesn't deserve.
It's been a week and I think we're doing okay with this whole move to Brooklyn. We still have almost no furniture, nothing much to cook with, and no cable or Internet in the loft for two more days. But the neighborhood is wonderful, and so inspiring.
I've started just about every day by taking a bagel and coffee down to the waterfront. I have yet to see more than three or four people walk by during my breakfast. That's my favorite thing about DUMBO so far - no people!
In honor of my new homeland, I'd like to share with you my 10 most favoritest lyrics from the patron saint of Brooklyn, Brian Dewan:
1. I picked you up at your doorstep / And drove along / And drove along / And dropped you off at the loony bin / Where you belong. - "Where They Belong"
2. The letter fell into the hands of a Yankee antique dealer / He decided it was bunk and threw it in the cellar. / He bid at an auction for a haunted pianola / When he got it home, the ghost inside haunted his house forever. - "The Letter"
3. What strange abomination holds fancy over fact? / What byzantine mutation would love what can't love back? / What kind of freak of nature forgives a heinous crime? - "The Human Heart"
4. It can drum its fingers on a desk / Or shake your hand! / Or shake your hand! - "The Boston Arm"
5. Put your money where your mouth is. / Put your money in your mouth. - "Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is"
6. What are you, queer? / Cut your hair. / I think you should be / In the electric chair. - "Cut Your Hair"
7. Discoloring and decaying / They cannot pull their weight / They block the path of passers-by / Until they desiccate. - "Cadavers"
8. Warm and wet and knowing / Mute, but so alive / Few of God's creations / Scarcely can compare / Who can explain / The mysteries inside / Oh, so beautiful / Slippery and smooth. - "Feel the Brain"
9. A sunny afternoon in the summertime / Sound can carry for far and wide / When I put the record on the record player to play / People can hear it for a mile away / Open all the windows on a summer's day / Hundreds of people can hear the record play. - "The Record"
10. The kids / The kids / They think they own the place / Barging in to make themselves at home / In their bathing suits / With their great big towels / Creeping forward to usurp your throne. - "The Kids"
I was so proud to vote in this election. I feel like I participated in a revolution, a real, bloodless and civilized revolution, and I feel like America's founding fathers would be proud: we used the system they created to save this country.
This should be a time for thinking hopeful thoughts of brotherhood and unity. But you know what? After eight years of having my hometown and way of life judged and slandered by the half of the country whose ignorance bought us the mess we're in, I think we Class of '04 Blue Staters are entitled to pause, take a deep breath - and rub it in a little. Just a little, before we get to work fixing the country these fuckers were telling us we could leave four years ago. Good thing for them we liberal elitists stuck around, no?
So briefly, before I get my goodwill on: I would like to invite any folks who aren't interested in supporting our new Commander-in-Chief to hike your unpatriotic asses on outta this great country. I can even suggest a fine new homeland. Since so many of you seem to think she's competent and/or hot, you might want to follow Sarah Palin back to Alaska. There's plenty of available land as nobody lives there - and lots of oil to drill, baby, drill. Best of all, Russia is right next door, so you can go buckwild with that whole hate-and-fear jam ya dig so very much. It'd be like that southwestern border-patrol-militia dress-up thing you guys love, except with an enemy who might actually be dangerous.
Once you've all relocated, you can join your favorite dude Todd Palin in the Alaskan Independence Party and secede. Don't worry, the lower forty-eight will get by (I mean, Git-R-Done) without you.
Okay, I feel better! You'll hear no more such vitriol from me, except maybe on my forthcoming album Everyone Who Voted For Bush STILL Owes The Rest Of Us Unlimited Blowjobs Forever. In the meantime - like Lee Greenwood says - I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free. Because apparently "being an American" is a place. Speak English or die!
Every once in a while, however rarely, I wish I was on American soil. Tonight, that feeling is strong.
I can't say how glad I am that this incredible young guy got the gig. Here's hoping he makes good. He's got a long hard way ahead. It is hard to feel anything but sober in the face of what he inherits. Nevertheless, I'm very pleased to see this day.
CART
