Rise Above

Pay to Play

2008-06-15T20:30:15Z

]]> Unless you are a musician or have worked hands-on in the music industry, chances are that you do not realize everything it takes to be in a band. Maybe you have an idea, but in its full capacity it’s hard to recognize just how involved a process it is and how much of a toll it can take.

The financial responsibility alone can be overwhelming: rehearsal space, studio time for recording, equipment and equipment maintenance, CD pressing(s), merch, a van or bus and the maintenance fees that come along…the list goes on and on and on. Most bands take this in stride, knowing that it comes with the territory. If you are doing something that you love, chances are that you will do whatever necessary in order to succeed, no matter the level.

Pay to Play, in essence, is a way for promoters to recoup their expenses. Meaning, usually, they want a good headliner, book said headliner, pay an awful lot in advertising to make sure people come to the show and also pay for staffing, tickets and flyer printings, etc. In order to make good on a guarantee, he or she now must make sure that their funding comes from somewhere. A good amount of venues and promoters will seek out sponsorship, but with how stagnant the industry has been as of late, most sponsors are not taking the bait, so now what? Well, they can not charge too much for tickets because people would not be comfortable paying $25.00 for a ticket to a venue that’s not Madison Square Garden, unless the act is, say, the Beastie Boys or another act of that caliber…and since the Beastie Boys are not rolling in anytime soon as far as I know, it’s pretty much a moot point.

Anyway, so hiking up ticket sales is not an option and you can not always guarantee bar sales will pick up the slack, shows are offered all week and people will not be drinking as much during the week as they would on the weekend. And here is where we come to the solution of Pay to Play; charge the smaller bands. Minimum tickets sales for the bands are between 30 - 50 at an average of $10.00 each, and if the band does not sell them, they can not return them. For instance, if a band is required to purchase forty tickets, that’s four hundred dollars, out of pocket, just to play a show.

I put out an open invite for opinions on this matter, and most people were not afraid to speak their mind, both for Pay to Play, and against.

“I think the whole "pay to play" thing is an atrocity.
Promoters "promote" and musicians "play".
People shouldn't call themselves promoters when they can't get people out to a show that they've booked.
And although bands should still promote and get people out to their shows...
it's really not their responsibility.
There's way too many of these so called "promoters" out there...
they book a show and put no leg work into the promotion aspect of things.
They figure they're just gonna book a band and make themselves some money...
and the only "promotion" they do is posting a flier on myspace.
I think it's been very destructive to the local music scene.

And this is not about ALL promoters, by the way.
There are some good ones out there...

-Sean “Satyr”, Swear On Your Life
myspace.com/swearonyourlife

“Pay to play is a function of promoters inability to do their jobs properly. Most promoters do not have a proper business model or plan to facilitate successful events or shows. So what happens is you the band become responsible for their way of doing bad business. Essentially, you become his or her employee for that event just so they can show up, drink for free and try to be the toast of the town. Meanwhile, in reality, you put you shoe soles to the pavement to try and make it successful. We are musicians. It is our job to make music. They are promoters. It is their job to promote. It's a complete sham and should be boycotted!”

Derek Sessions
Revenge Of The Dragon
myspace.com/revengeofthedragon

“…I think that bad booking practices by clubs and "Promoters" (including pay to play) have ruined the scene here in Toronto. The clubs book entirely on how many friends an act can draw regardless of talent. People have gone to see their friends bands and been turned off of live music by shows that have 5 or 6 bands that weren't ready musically to be playing live. Had the clubs/promoters booked shows based on musical quality all along this shift wouldn't have happened and people would come just because they knew the music would be worth it.”

Scott Lucier , Blue Sky Down
Toronto
Canada
myspace.com/blueskydown

“I can see how this would benefit the promoter short term but I think most reputable promoters don't use this policy or, at least, that has been my experience. They would make enough money off of the acts with a bigger draw and just take a hit when they book someone who doesn't make them very much money. It is my opinion that promoters who practice pay to play are preying on smaller bands they know have little draw and I am pretty sure there is a website somewhere that lists promoters who have ripped them off somewhere. In the long run, this is not a wise business practice because people won't willingly work with them again just because they wanted to make a quick buck for the night.”

-Holli: BAMF, currently touring with Warped.
myspace.com/franciscothegirl

“A band is being hired to boost the clubs draw. You wouldn't hire a clown for a kids party and then ask him/her for money cause not enough kids showed up.
If the club doesn't know the band or think they will draw why let them play? Get one that will.
My band has already turned down several shows due to them wanting us to purchase tix then sell them ourselves. We did it once with death angel/god forbid and I think we out drew both of those nationals. Needless to say we only make about $100 of the $700 we brought in at the door.
So to put it bluntly fuck any club that expects money from us to play their shit hole.”

-Brian, Rage From Within
myspace.com/ragefromwithin

“Considering I’m a promoter and DO have bands sell tickets, there’s just sooo much to type that I don’t feel like trying to prove a point for both sides. I grew up and always will be a hardcore kid, but there’s just so many things that I could tell you to prove how much they have changed from even 5 years ago let alone 10,15,20, etc

The one thing I’ve learned in 6 years of booking is that you can NEVER make EVERYONE happy, just an impossible thing.”

-Charlie, Die Trying Booking
myspace.com/dietryingshows

“Depends how you look at it.

The way I do things at my venue (not to be named), the bands take 200
tickets on consignment. Depending on the show, the bands sell anywhere
from 100-200 tickets and receive $1 for tickets 1-50, $2 for 51-100
and $3 for 101 and beyond. Now, the band has the ability to make up to
$600 (or more if they take more tickets) and play in a real venue,
supporting headlining talent. I see it as a smart business transaction
on both ends. I am giving the band a huge incentive to go sell these
tickets and they're guaranteeing me tickets in return (and not up
front). Now if the band comes back with minimal tickets sold; don't
expect to play again any time soon.”

-Anonymous

“That’s the most underhanded BS I've ever heard...The practice of CHARGING a band to play is absolutely ridiculous. I hope these bands have the gumption and self respect to just play somewhere else.
I was raised in teeny little Florida towns where bars at least pay with beer. Making the TALENT pay to be heard is so greedy I cant believe it! I don't care how small time they are, way to support local art huh?!

It’s about the talent, NOT the promotion.”

JD, People ‘R’ Pets
myspace.com/peoplerpets

As of late, this specific subject has really started to come up more and more in conversation. Asking bands to Pay to Play started off every once and again, and now it is simply ridiculous. Certain promoters spoken with have fully admitted that they do not enjoy asking bands to Pay to Play, but it is sometimes a necessary evil. You wanna play a good show, but they can not continually put these shows together without guaranteeing a certain amount of tickets sold. Fair enough. But, to book these shows with acts that are teetering on mediocre (and that’s being generous) just to tell a band they have to shell out hundreds of dollars? How many people really want to go see a washed up act from the 80’s perform their one or two hit singles, even if they do love the opener?

Bands are starting to outright refuse this tactic and I wholeheartedly cheer them on. When it comes down to playing one local show with a decent act or putting that money towards something that is more conducive to their long term goals, more often than not, CD pressings and touring prevail. It’s unnerving that these are the options left, though.

A lot of people are not aware of how these things work, therefore, I can not fault them for the choices they make. My goal is to have as many people as I can recognize the fact that these situations do exist. For as many bands that refuse to Pay to Play, there are just as many who will do so because they do not want to pass up certain shows. Your favorite band may be paying a stupid amount of money to play, so if you see a myspace bulletin promoting the fact that they have tickets and you are planning on going to the show, please do not buy them at the door. And don’t forget to say Thank You.

If you have also have an opinion on "Pay to Play", please feel free to comment below or send an email to: kristin@iconsofpunk.com.

"I thought the venue would have a stage hand drop me off..."

2008-05-10T15:28:24Z

I kept my mouth shut, afraid that if I went to speak he would not continue with what he was about to say. I had no idea what his words would be or what they would mean, but I knew that I wanted to hear them.

]]> “Kristin?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“I need you to do me a favor; Scott doesn’t like crowds, so I need you to pick him up by the buses and drive him back to their hotel.”

At this I raise an eyebrow, knowing that Joe can easily read my expression, as it clearly states “You’re kidding, right? I don’t know this dude and I am not about to be tomorrow’s headline news.”

“It will be fine. He’s a good guy, just not a fan of crowds; he wants to get back to his room.”

“Where is everyone else?”

“Busy loading out or already gone. I’m the only one left in the office, so I can’t leave.”

“Joe, promise me that you’re sure this will be okay.”

“I promise this will be okay.”

“Fine, but it’s on your head if anything happens.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

I leave the office somewhat pissed. After this many years playing to thousands of people, Scott could not deal with a venue that held less than 700? Somewhat new to the industry, my naïve thought preempted logic and I got into my car annoyed, wishing that this trip was already over.

“What’s this?”

“This is my car.”

“This is the car that you will be taking Scott back with?”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously?”

“OK, listen. Scott said he needed a lift back to the hotel. No one specified what kind of car, so this is what you’re getting.” My car, a 1992 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a crack in the windshield and a backseat full of fliers, was the only thing in my life at that time that was mine and it held an incredible amount of sentimental value. This interaction regarding method of transport was not making me feel any better about this increasingly dreadful situation.

“Alright, fair enough. Hey, Scott! Your chariot awaits!”

Scott came off of the tour bus looking around for what I am sure was a nicer car than the one in front of him. Even the fans who had gathered around had faces that read “How dare you drive Scott in that?!” He noticed me looking at him, not with that “You’re Scott from ________!!!” look, but more like a “Yes, this is it. No, it’s not a joke. Please just get in the car” kind of stare.

“You’re driving me?”

“Yeah, I’m Kristin”

“I’m Scott. Nice to meet you, Kristin.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Scott. Ready?”

Thankful to be out from under the scrutinizing and sarcastic eyes of crew members and fans, alike, we were off. The first portion of the ride was quiet, but it was only a few minutes before a hitch was thrown into this originally simple plan.

“Uh, I’m kind of hungry. Is there anything open around here at this time?”

Fuck. This was not in the agreement; damn it, Joe.

“Well, I am sure that there are a few fast food restaurants still open.”

“Ah, no. Anything else?”

“Well, there is a diner open just up ahead. You would have to go inside, though. It’s pretty close to the venue, so you might run into some people who were at the show.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that’s not so bad. Okay, diner it is.”

I pull into the diner parking lot feeling a little guilty. I mean, it’s not this dudes fault that I am the one driving him, is it? He didn’t specifically ask “how about having someone drive me that really isn’t into the idea?” Just as I am thinking that I should at least make an attempt to be less standoffish, Scott turns back towards me.

“I just want to thank you for doing this. It has to be a little weird for you, seeing as you don’t know me at all, and here I am asking you to drive me back to my hotel. I really do appreciate this. I just hate crowds...”

That’s the precise moment that I knew I had nothing to worry about. This rock legend stands before me, somewhat awkwardly, thanking me for helping in his great escape. He is trying to do his job and lead a normal life at the same time…that shit’s not be easy.

“No, I understand. I really don’t mind helping you out, but, you’re right, I don’t know you and it is weird. It’s cool, though.”

The tensed air around us lightened a bit, both us of us now content knowing that our common ground was feeling awkward, albeit for different reasons. Scott nodded towards the diner. “So, you want to get this over with?” I nodded and started walking with him into the diner that was home to many after show gatherings. I wondered if Scott had taken me seriously when I warned him of the chance of fan encounters, but my wondering soon turned to confirmation as about 20 heads automatically whipped around upon our entering the foyer. The automatic silence was creepy and for a few seconds we both just stood there, trying to assess the situation.

“Come on.” I said, leading Scott over to the bar area and away from the tables that were full of people who had watched this man on stage not an hour before. “You’ll notice less people staring over here.”

He nodded slightly, a look of uncertainty frozen on his face. As soon as we sat Scott opened up the menu, quite apparent in using this as both a distraction and a way to hide himself as best as possible. Neither was working very well. After reading through the board a few times Scott questioned, “So, what are you going to get?”

“Oh, I’m alright, thanks.”

“Well, you have to get something. I need to make this up to you somehow.”

“No, you don’t…really, it’s no big deal.”

He turning back to the menu, clearly intent on finding anything that didn’t seem like NY diner food. His plan failed. The waitress came over to take his order of a burger, fries and a milkshake.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything? I would really like to pay you back somehow.”

“I’m positive, but thank you. Consider it my good deed for the day.”

He looked over at me, but said nothing. We had been quiet for a few minutes when he suddenly asked “Why the music industry?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How did you get involved with this industry? Why did you?”

No one had ever asked me that before and thinking back, I am not sure I had ever asked myself. It was something that I simply knew and never felt the need to question. He had asked a legitimate question though, so I thought about it for a little bit before I started to answer. I spent the next 10 minutes or so trying to surmise all that was relevant, speaking with enough honesty and passion so a man who had been a part of this grand illusion for so many years may even believe me.

The silence that followed seemed to swallow all of my words, and I wondered how much of a jerk I just made myself out to be. Mentally berating myself for letting my guard down and showcasing myself as a possible idealist, I figured our newly formed pseudo acquaintance was now back in the awkward stage. The waitress came by to deliver Scott’s chocolate shake and I said the only thing that came to mind. “Ice Cream is always a good choice.” Scott smiled and replied “I knew there had to be something you would like. Now, can I please order you a shake?” I laughed and told him that would be good, but only if it were strawberry. Another order placed with our patient, yet obviously bored waitress, and we were back to picking our cuticles and staring at nothing.

“You’re going to make it, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been doing this a long time.” He stopped speaking, but the look on his face said it all. His expression seemed like that of a man who had seen life fly by at an alarming rate - he wasn’t bitter, just tired. I have read about this man in recent years and all descriptions paint him to be “laidback” and “easy going”. Those character traits were evident that night, but in a pensive manner.

“I’ve been doing this a long time…long enough to know when someone is bullshitting me. You quickly learn when you should take someone seriously or if you should just add them to “the list.”

A man who had been not-so-nonchalantly staring at Scott since we entered the diner stood up to leave with his friend. On the way out he stopped to speak with Scott, telling him how big of a fan he is and how great the show was that night. Scott remained humble; a genuine “thank you” muttered to the man kind enough to keep it short and sweet. He looked back at the counter, pausing slightly before he continued.

“You seem to have a good head on your shoulders. Hell, you weren’t all too pleased with having to drive me around and that says something about you. Nothing that you just said to me was sugarcoated. This is a rough business and it’s not an area for the feeble minded; I have a good feeling about you.”

Scott noticed the look of shock, as I am sure that my eyes had grown wide. He laughed a bit. ”Yeah, I think that you’ll be just fine. For what it’s worth, I have met a lot of people in this industry and I haven’t felt this confident about all too many of them.”

No one had ever expressed such confidence in my working in the music industry before. All I had ever received were condescending remarks about how it was something that I “needed to get out of my system” or the ever-charming eye roll. Now I sat before a man who had more likely than not seen and done it all, telling me that I had a shot. I was completely taken aback and could not do much more than thank him, hoping he realized how much his words meant.

Scott smiled and nodded. Looking back, it’s rather funny to think about. Neither of us wanted to be like the others and because of that, here we are drinking milkshakes; trying to avoid life’s tests, but taking in its lessons. We continued to sit, the conversation taking a turn towards our lives outside of music. Scott told me he lived in London and how much he loves it there. How he misses it when he is away, as his home offers him much peace.

We walked back to my car much more at ease with one another. The conversation remained light and friendly on the brief ride to the hotel. They had a show in New York City the next evening and he kindly extended an invitation, which I accepted. Scott thanked me once again, telling me that he was glad to have met. I agreed, assuring him that it was no problem.

I never made it to the show the next night. To this day it remains one of the few shows I feel disappointed to have missed. I don’t remember why I could not make it into the city that night, but a part of me believes that no excuse short of death, dismemberment or a raging fever would have been suffice.

The last thing Scott said that night, just before he closed the passenger side door was, “I certainly didn’t expect the night to end this way. I thought the venue would have a stage hand drop me off and I would just wait silently until the guys got back.”

I smiled up at him. “Yes, but that wouldn’t be much of a story.”

Rise Above, An Intro...

2008-03-24T04:00:56Z

Everyone has a story. Every single person alive has something to say - a message, good or bad, yet many fail to recognize what in them is true. Some might say that failure of recognition is rather unfortunate, but I think that the determination is stronger for those of us who are clear of mind and our will that much greater. I figured it to be appropriate to tell you my story in my first column. I very rarely tell this story in such detail and, in fact, there are people who I am incredibly close with who have never been made privy to such intimate parts of my past. My story may not be life altering to all who read, but I am hoping that it is reaches at least a couple of you.

Growing up, I was a pretty sick kid. Before I even had the opportunity of exiting the womb I was diagnosed with a kidney “problem”. To add on to the stress of my young parents, I decided that there was no way that I was going to wait a full 9 months in utero and clawed my way out a full 2 months early. Today, this would not be as big of a deal, but in 1979 premature babies made people panic. Thankfully, I made it through okay, but with a now apparent kidney disease, as well as a cyst covering a good portion of said kidney, it was decided that this organ needed to go. No biggie, we have two of them. A couple of months, the removal of a vital organ and a couple bouts of pneumonia later, I was set to go home. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, my parents especially, and off they went thinking that their now healthy child was in the clear.

If you look at my medical records today, it’s not unlike staring at one of those ginormous dictionaries that they have on display at Borders. You know the one I am talking about? The thing probably weighs about 35 lbs and costs as much as your first car. Yeah, that one. After a while I stopped keeping track of every ailment, but those records include, but are not limited, to: Another operation (not kidney related), dozens upon dozens of cases of tonsillitis (on average, 4 a year), 13 cases of poison ivy within 3 years, of which I am severely allergic to (those were my fault, though. I was a tomboy, and there was no way anyone was getting me away from the woods across the street from where I lived. There were too many manhunt games and attempts at building tree houses for me to give that up) heart palpitations so bad I swore I was having a heart attack at the ripe old age of 13, which in turn lead to months of EKG’s and halter monitors (end result was that I was allergic to a medication that had my heart rate up to anywhere from 140-170 times a minute. However, all of that testing determined that my heart skips beats…who knew?) Severe stomach infections, something or other to do with sleep apnea, as I apparently hold my breath in my sleep…the list goes on, and on, and on. Oh, and I was (accidentally) stabbed in the eye. Though, I never did mind telling that story. It made me feel like the toughest four year old on the block.

By my early teen years my immune system was shot to shit. Any illness that was going around, I caught. It was pretty fucking terrible, but I dealt and eventually grew used to it. Around the time I hit my late teens and into my early twenties I started getting sick less often, which clearly I was stoked about. What I failed to realize at the time was that the universe is a motherfucker, and that it was simply the calm before the storm.

I entered my Doctor’s office thinking I was there for a routine physical. By the time I left, my world was flipped. A rather large ‘lump’ was discovered during this visit. As soon as the Doctor made me aware of this discovery I knew something was wrong. My mind instantly said “fuuuuuuuuuck.” Off to the Carol M. Baldwin Breast Health Center I went, referrals in hand. The oncologist there was a real shit fuck and I hated him from the moment he stepped into the room. He proceeded to feel around a bit, order some tests and flat out told me before testing had even begun “it’s not cancer.” I looked at him like the asshole that he was and replied “yes, it is.” The nurse who accompanied him also tried to reassure me that I “was too young” (I was recently 21) and that “it would be incredibly rare.” I agreed, but still told them that they should not say such things until they were confident, as they’re unfairly getting peoples hopes up with their methods. I don’t think they liked me very much, either.

The initial test results came back showing that it was a solid mass. It was definitely a tumor and the only way to find out if it was benign or malignant was to remove it. Great, get this fucking thing out of me. A lumpectomy was performed about a week or so later. The only thing that went wrong, so to speak, was when I woke from the anesthesia at some point during the surgery. Dr. Douche Bag looked at me in a state of panic (never reassuring, for the record) before I heard him hiss at the anesthesiologist. Internally, I chuckled. Surgery’s over. Go home. Wait for results. “We really don’t feel that it’s cancer” is the last thing I heard before leaving. I was too drugged up at that point to say anything, so a simple scowl was my only response.

Result’s day: “Surprisingly, we detected traces of cancer.” Well, duh. Fortunately, it was considered a low grade cancer. Meaning, I was not dying, nor did I have to go through any treatments. The worst of the diagnosis is me living with the risk of reoccurrence, at a 15-20% chance. I’ll take it.

I broke down three times during that saga. On the day they determined that it was indeed a solid mass, I left the building, got into my car and proceeded to beat my steering wheel. The day that I got the results, I left the building, got into my car and proceeded to beat my steering wheel while screaming like a lunatic. The last time was not as crazy like, but the most vivid. It was the night that I took the bandages off. I don’t know why they decided to use a tape so incredibly adhesive on such a sensitive part of the body, but they did. A part of me still believes that it’s because I called “bullshit” on them and they were not all too pleased with having to admit that they were wrong. Anyway, I fought with that awful tape for a good hour. By the time I had removed it all, I was laying on the shower floor, sobbing. It was the last time I cried over (my) cancer.

Cancer scare over, let’s move on with life? Ha. Yeah, I thought so, too. A few months after “tumor trauma ‘01” things really started to get fun. I woke up one morning with my knee hurting quite a bit. Seeing as how I tend to fall up and down stairs, stub at least one toe a day and walk into everything and anything, this sudden knee pain did not seem a big deal to me. As the day progressed, the pain was getting worse and I was desperately trying to figure out what I bumped into that could be causing it. I am going to make a very long day’s story short and simply state that by the end of the day the pain had spread throughout my entire body, to the point where the thought of climbing a flight of steps caused me to burst out in tears. I fell asleep that night curled up in a fetal position, too afraid to move. You know how they say that the mind allows us to forget pain, so as to not further traumatize? I have never been able to forget the pain that I was in that night. I would not wish it on anyone.

I woke the next morning feeling absolutely fine. Normal people would probably stop to think that the previous days events would be enough to warrant a trip to a Doctor, but I preferred to play the ‘ignorance is bliss’ game and try to forget that it ever happened. It turned out to be a poor choice on my part. Over the next few weeks, things got much worse. I was battling flash fevers, severe dizzy spells, joint and muscle pain beyond description and my nerves were all sorts of haywire. It was like my limbs suddenly had minds of their own and were acting against me, at will. A few meetings with my Doctor and a trip to the emergency room later, I was diagnosed with Fifth’s Disease. For those not familiar, it’s not unlike chicken pox. If you have chicken pox as a child it’s not so bad, but if you end up with them as an adult it could severely affect you, physically. With Fifth’s Disease, the same principles apply. Now, if you have a normal immune system being diagnosed with such a disease is not so bad. It usually last’s from 4-6 weeks and one might usually experience slight pain, slight fever and a possible rash. If you’re like me, you end up with some freaky mutated form of the disease. The worst of it lasted for about 6 months. It was an awful period of time, to say the least. In rare cases, severe joint pain is long term, lasting up to 10 years. Of course I had to fall into that category, as I am currently on year 6 and the pain has never subsided. On a good day I can only feel it in only one knee. A bad day means that both knees and hips are working against me and I feel as if I am about 94 years of age.

There is a reason as to why I am telling this tale, and it’s not for want or need of a ‘pity party.’ I have never felt any pity towards myself and I don’t expect you to, either. Why I decided to share this was simple: All of these events made me who I am. They made me stronger and they drove me towards reaching my goals, never looking back. Because I was considered somewhat “fragile” growing up, there were a number of thing’s that I wanted to do, but could not. Once all of the hoopla started to die down, I decided that no one was going to tell me “no” anymore and if they did, fuck ‘em. I’ll find someone else to tell me “yes”. I cut out the people in my life who were bringing me down or holding me back. I left a job that I had hated, but had remained at for years because I got caught in the trap of living someone else’s reality. I started taking control and it was the greatest experience I had ever known.

I instantly looked towards one of the only constants in my life – one of the few sources of inspiration that remained to help me gain in this new found determination: music. Music has never let me down and I knew that the ‘hands on’ approach was the only way that I would ever feel truly fulfilled, as far as careers are concerned. I will not bore you with the details as to how music has become so relevant in my life…we’ll save that for another day. The transition from highly boring desk job to a life in music was natural for me. I consider myself lucky, as I know how incredibly difficult and heart breaking this industry can be. I would like to believe that it was good karma and the universe decided that maybe it was time that she answered. Whatever the reason, I am grateful. I have met some of the most inspiring, hard working and genuine individuals throughout my working in this industry. I have made some of the best friends that I have ever known. I have seen things unravel at the seams, only for those who are just as inspired to quickly sew it all back up again, out of sheer love for what they do. It’s stressful, back breaking, tedious work and you will often want to gouge someone’s eyeball out with a stale cheerio, but the memories I have are some of the most pure and honest that I have ever known.

Life can be a really hard sometimes, no matter what age you are. There are certain people, places and situations that are going to want to pull you down because misery does in fact love company. Don’t let them dictate your thoughts or your decisions. Bad things can make you stronger; it all depends on what you choose to make of your situations. You have the power to do some good in this world, no matter what your specific definition of ‘good’ may be. I get to sit and listen to music all day and then write about it. Have conversations with people that I admire and pick their brains as to how they got to where they are in life. It’s surreal at times, but it is also amazing. I have never looked back and never once have I felt regret. Do I question myself? Sure, sometimes. We would never challenge ourselves if we didn’t. But, I have never doubted my decisions or myself. This industry, as fucked as it is, has been the most constant source of release for me...I hope I can give back even a portion of what it has given me.

My dad told me something when I was younger and his words pass through my mind often: “You have to paint your own picture…no one else is going to paint it for you.”