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Millions of tracks. Nothing to listen to.
Capitalism just can’t help stealing the magic.
The creative arts have always had a difficult relationship with commerce. Periods of relative calm are punctuated with moments of “we don’t need you” pique. Whether it’s an artist fleeing an exploitative label/manager/promoter or a label dumping a promising talent that’s simultaneously wanting artistic control and failing to shift enough units, the “upper hand” ping pongs back and forth.
In the sixties, commerce had the upper hand. No one would have thought we’d still be talking about the Beatles and the Stones fifty years later. Labels and the publishers could therefore easily assert that it was them that were bringing the real value to the table.
By the end of the sixties, the artists were starting to twig. With the exception of the Beatles, few were making real hard cash. Lawyers were brought in, managers were being investigated and independent record labels were popping up left, right and centre. Artistic control was de rigueur, promoters were getting put in their place, artists were starting their own labels and fiercely loyal managers like Peter Grant were beginning to emerge. It wasn’t all wine and roses. Artists like John Fogerty were disillusioned, the artist inevitably the David struggling against the Goliath.
