C
Codreanu
Guest
Almost any business pundit will tell you that targeting a range of customers with highly specialized interests -- niche marketing, in other words -- is the way to go in our modern, choice-intensive marketplace. Record labels have known this for years, but the last few years have seen a rash of new imprints, each with a highly specific purpose. So what happens if you combine specificity with that most pervasive of market forces, nostalgia? It's almost a license to print money. Spin-Art, Jetset and Parasol have profited by releasing new material from well-established indie and ex-major label bands -- groups with proven sales and a solid fan base, whose numbers aren't quite up to snuff. Inevitably, the majors noticed this. The result? A handful of retro-focused labels specializing in new music from "are they still around?" bands. Of these, Sanctuary is by far the most successful.
If you're an established niche act on the downward slope of your career arc, and you still have a fanbase passionate enough to make new albums profitable, Sanctuary Records wants you! If you're newly past your prime, Sanctuary will provide a safe haven where you can renew your artistic growth and pick up where you left off. Join internationally famous acts like Morrissey, The Allman Brothers, Motörhead, Rollins Band and Ric Ocasek -- vital contemporary artists who still have a lot of good years left in them, no matter what radio and the press might say. Find your Sanctuary today!
Okay, we admit, Sanctuary doesn't explicitly claim to be a clearing house for late-career bands, but they've certainly signed a hell of a lot of them. Want to know if your favorite long-standing indie-rock outfit is gearing up to make the jump to Sanctuary? Or perhaps you're in a band with at least eight records, fifteen years and ten or more drummers to its credit, and you're wondering if you're ready for Nostalgia's Big Time. Well, to help you make the call, we've compiled some of the key indicators...
(Thanks to Jennifer Kelly for the one about the leather pants.)
Your publicist's new college intern has never heard of any of the bands your press materials compare you to.
Don't even bother asking him if he's heard of you -- he might say something like "Nah, I'm not really into the classic stuff."
A zine interviewer asks what you've been listening to in the van, and you respond, "Mostly talk radio."
You could always try to recover by saying, "Oh, you mean the tour van!", but this reveals an even scarier fact: you apparently own more than one van.
Someone from your local opening band calls you "sir" -- and you aren't in the South.
You can tell yourself "He's just a really polite kid" once, maybe even twice, but sooner or later you'll have to accept the truth. On the bright side, you might be able to guilt him into helping you load out.
You play a local basement show to regain a bit of your edge -- and have to cut the show short so you can bust your own kid for breaking curfew.
That's not the worst part, either; she talked through the whole damn show.
You finally have tenure.
You settled in a college town because you liked the atmosphere and the readymade audience. That was 20 years ago. Now you're teaching three sections of English Lit. Ever tried grading midterms in a van, surrounded by drums and piles of your own evil-smelling laundry?
People keep talking about your band in the past tense.
When one of your good friends says "You guys had some great songs" for the seven hundredth time, you grab him by the lapels, shake him vigorously and scream "Have! We have some good songs. We haven't broken up!" Then the Manager of the Olive Garden comes over to see if there's a problem with your meals. Awkwardness ensues.
You open for a trendy band whose members are much younger than you. They remember listening to you when they were "kids".
After the gig, the lead singer pulls you aside and asks for your advice on investing the six-figure advance he just scored for signing to Atlantic.
You land an in-store at a big indie record shop. When you arrive, the clerk takes one look at you and tries to show you where the jazz section is.
It's actually a very nice jazz section, and you buy a bunch of stuff, but you sell enough merch to break even. Probably.
The baby-faced sound guy who ran the board for your first gig comes back for your 20th anniversary show -- but now he looks like Nick Nolte.
Ironically, his mother looks like Gary Busey, as you'll see for yourself when she picks him up after the show.
You plan your family's spring break driving trip to Disneyland to include a 24-hour stop in Austin, Texas during South By Southwest.
If you can pick up a show in Anaheim and find a sitter for the kids, you might be able to write off the entire vacation as a business expense...
You've developed an "upscale" merch line.
Back in the old days, you couldn't bring yourself to charge more than $10 for a t-shirt. Now, your fans have become doctors, lawyers and captains of industry. They have a lot of disposable income, and they're prepared to spend a healthy chunk of it recapturing their youth by going to see all their old favorite bands and dropping the kind of cash they never could in the good old days. That's why your $250 silver anniversary coffee table book just sold out its fourth printing.
Your new bass player was recommended by his music teacher -- who is also your old bass player.
But if he thinks this makes up for that time back in '87 when he puked in your guitar case, he's wrong.
Your leather pants now have a lycra wasteband.
And they're still uncomfortably snug. Those bulky sweaters aren't fooling anyone.
Your city's outsider rock 'n' roll poet guy hasn't bothered to write a poem about you.
Most big scenes have a guy like Chicago's Thax Douglas, who writes poems about bands and is often invited up on stage to read them as a sort of introduction. It's usually considered an honor... and it's an honor you haven't received. Last time he came to one of your gigs, you spotted him leaving during your first song.
It's been at least ten years since you played (or even attended) a show without wearing earplugs.
But really, that's just common sense. You know what'll really make you look old on stage? A hearing aid.
Your entire discography is available in the iTunes store... and you have no idea what that means.
Other than a few tentative attempts to explore some genealogy websites, the Internet remains a mystery to you. And you're fine with that.
No-one in the audience is entirely sure whether your "Sexy Grandma" t-shirt is meant to be ironic.
But don't worry -- they'll forget all about it when they spot your drummer's crochet vest.
Your parents no longer come to your shows unless you put their managed care facility handlers on the guest list.
C'mon. They're on a fixed income! And it wouldn't be right to make Arturo wait in the van for 90 minutes!
Cops pull your tour van over, but let you off with a warning.
They accept your explanation that you were driving erratically because you spilled your latte on your lap. There's no mention of probable cause, and they don't attempt to search the van. They just give you a warning, encourage you to drive safely, and thoughtfully point out that your driver's side rear tire is looking a bit low. To add insult to injury, one of them calls you ma'am.
-- George Zahora
http://www.splendidmagazine.com/departments/tdlt/tdlt101705.html
If you're an established niche act on the downward slope of your career arc, and you still have a fanbase passionate enough to make new albums profitable, Sanctuary Records wants you! If you're newly past your prime, Sanctuary will provide a safe haven where you can renew your artistic growth and pick up where you left off. Join internationally famous acts like Morrissey, The Allman Brothers, Motörhead, Rollins Band and Ric Ocasek -- vital contemporary artists who still have a lot of good years left in them, no matter what radio and the press might say. Find your Sanctuary today!
Okay, we admit, Sanctuary doesn't explicitly claim to be a clearing house for late-career bands, but they've certainly signed a hell of a lot of them. Want to know if your favorite long-standing indie-rock outfit is gearing up to make the jump to Sanctuary? Or perhaps you're in a band with at least eight records, fifteen years and ten or more drummers to its credit, and you're wondering if you're ready for Nostalgia's Big Time. Well, to help you make the call, we've compiled some of the key indicators...
(Thanks to Jennifer Kelly for the one about the leather pants.)
Your publicist's new college intern has never heard of any of the bands your press materials compare you to.
Don't even bother asking him if he's heard of you -- he might say something like "Nah, I'm not really into the classic stuff."
A zine interviewer asks what you've been listening to in the van, and you respond, "Mostly talk radio."
You could always try to recover by saying, "Oh, you mean the tour van!", but this reveals an even scarier fact: you apparently own more than one van.
Someone from your local opening band calls you "sir" -- and you aren't in the South.
You can tell yourself "He's just a really polite kid" once, maybe even twice, but sooner or later you'll have to accept the truth. On the bright side, you might be able to guilt him into helping you load out.
You play a local basement show to regain a bit of your edge -- and have to cut the show short so you can bust your own kid for breaking curfew.
That's not the worst part, either; she talked through the whole damn show.
You finally have tenure.
You settled in a college town because you liked the atmosphere and the readymade audience. That was 20 years ago. Now you're teaching three sections of English Lit. Ever tried grading midterms in a van, surrounded by drums and piles of your own evil-smelling laundry?
People keep talking about your band in the past tense.
When one of your good friends says "You guys had some great songs" for the seven hundredth time, you grab him by the lapels, shake him vigorously and scream "Have! We have some good songs. We haven't broken up!" Then the Manager of the Olive Garden comes over to see if there's a problem with your meals. Awkwardness ensues.
You open for a trendy band whose members are much younger than you. They remember listening to you when they were "kids".
After the gig, the lead singer pulls you aside and asks for your advice on investing the six-figure advance he just scored for signing to Atlantic.
You land an in-store at a big indie record shop. When you arrive, the clerk takes one look at you and tries to show you where the jazz section is.
It's actually a very nice jazz section, and you buy a bunch of stuff, but you sell enough merch to break even. Probably.
The baby-faced sound guy who ran the board for your first gig comes back for your 20th anniversary show -- but now he looks like Nick Nolte.
Ironically, his mother looks like Gary Busey, as you'll see for yourself when she picks him up after the show.
You plan your family's spring break driving trip to Disneyland to include a 24-hour stop in Austin, Texas during South By Southwest.
If you can pick up a show in Anaheim and find a sitter for the kids, you might be able to write off the entire vacation as a business expense...
You've developed an "upscale" merch line.
Back in the old days, you couldn't bring yourself to charge more than $10 for a t-shirt. Now, your fans have become doctors, lawyers and captains of industry. They have a lot of disposable income, and they're prepared to spend a healthy chunk of it recapturing their youth by going to see all their old favorite bands and dropping the kind of cash they never could in the good old days. That's why your $250 silver anniversary coffee table book just sold out its fourth printing.
Your new bass player was recommended by his music teacher -- who is also your old bass player.
But if he thinks this makes up for that time back in '87 when he puked in your guitar case, he's wrong.
Your leather pants now have a lycra wasteband.
And they're still uncomfortably snug. Those bulky sweaters aren't fooling anyone.
Your city's outsider rock 'n' roll poet guy hasn't bothered to write a poem about you.
Most big scenes have a guy like Chicago's Thax Douglas, who writes poems about bands and is often invited up on stage to read them as a sort of introduction. It's usually considered an honor... and it's an honor you haven't received. Last time he came to one of your gigs, you spotted him leaving during your first song.
It's been at least ten years since you played (or even attended) a show without wearing earplugs.
But really, that's just common sense. You know what'll really make you look old on stage? A hearing aid.
Your entire discography is available in the iTunes store... and you have no idea what that means.
Other than a few tentative attempts to explore some genealogy websites, the Internet remains a mystery to you. And you're fine with that.
No-one in the audience is entirely sure whether your "Sexy Grandma" t-shirt is meant to be ironic.
But don't worry -- they'll forget all about it when they spot your drummer's crochet vest.
Your parents no longer come to your shows unless you put their managed care facility handlers on the guest list.
C'mon. They're on a fixed income! And it wouldn't be right to make Arturo wait in the van for 90 minutes!
Cops pull your tour van over, but let you off with a warning.
They accept your explanation that you were driving erratically because you spilled your latte on your lap. There's no mention of probable cause, and they don't attempt to search the van. They just give you a warning, encourage you to drive safely, and thoughtfully point out that your driver's side rear tire is looking a bit low. To add insult to injury, one of them calls you ma'am.
-- George Zahora
http://www.splendidmagazine.com/departments/tdlt/tdlt101705.html
