Growing up, I used to buy albums based on a review in a magazine.
Music I'd never heard, from an artist I didn't know, on the strength of someone else's description. I'd hand over money, bring it home, and listen start to finish.
The whole sequence required something from me. And because it required something, it gave something back.
I was thinking about that when I was putting together the Music Biz panel I moderated last week, sitting alongside Mike Boyd Jr., Royce Monroe, and Rachel Scarpati.
The conversation kept returning to the same tension from different directions: streaming solved the access problem and quietly created a connection problem.
When music is everywhere, instantly, at little or no cost, the investment disappears. And with the investment goes a certain kind of care.
Royce brought up an artist who released their music exclusively on their own website, not on any DSP, and built a nationwide touring career from the fans who found their way there.
The point wasn't that streaming is the wrong choice. It was that the people who seek you out become something different than the people who stumble onto you.
Live music has always understood this instinctively. A show happens once, and the people in the room know it. Bootleg was built to honor it.
The music industry keeps teaching me some of the best ways to take care of people. Whether it’s fans, artists, the team, or clients I’m passionately curious about the best ways for humans to take care of humans.
