The economics of house music

The beat goes on.

For DJ (and chartered accountant) Ali Miraj, house music is still on the rise. And the numbers back him up.

"Not everyone understands house music", as the words of one club anthem make clear. How times have changed. From its humble origins in a Chicago nightclub in the 1980s the genre – now dubbed electronic dance music (EDM) – has exploded into the mainstream.

And the financials reflect what has happened. According to a report commissioned last year for the International Music Summit, the EDM market is valued at approximately $4bn annually with recorded-music sales revenue representing 5.1 per cent of the global music market.

James Palumbo, an Eton- and Oxford-educated former investment banker who established the Ministry of Sound (MOS) – a nightclub in South London – in 1991, was one of the first to recognise the huge money-making potential of the industry. Having successfully built a global brand, the MOS group is now a multi-million pound business spanning merchandising, events, radio, mobile applications and bars, as well as a number of record labels including the hugely popular HedKandi. Others such as Pacha and Space from Ibiza have also leveraged their brand identity internationally.

The appeal of EDM has also been driven by DJ/producers such as David Guetta and Calvin Harris who travel between venues on private jets commanding up to $100,000 a night. Cracking the US market has been key. According to Nielsen Soundscan – an industry data-provider – 46.6 million digital electronic/dance tracks were sold in the US in the first half of 2012, making it the fastest-growing music genre with a 65.2 per cent increase compared to the previous year.

As well as music sales there is real money to be made in events. Last December Swedish House Mafia saw tickets to their performance at Madison Square Garden in New York sell out in just nine minutes. Beacon Economics, a consultancy, which was commissioned to assess the financial impact of the Electric Daisy Carnival in Las Vegas this year on the regional economy, found that the event generated an estimated $136m for businesses including hotels and restaurants. The Ultra Music Festival – where the industry's great and good hobnob by swanky hotel pools and engage in panel discussions on challenges facing the industry – attracted some 200,000 people.

In the UK, Live Nation Entertainment acquired Cream Holdings Limited in May this year for £13.9m ($21.9m) and intends to launch new festivals in North America, Europe and Southeast Asia. Pete Tong, a UK-based DJ who has long been at the forefront of the scene, has said there is increasing interest in emerging markets demonstrated by the Sunburn festival in Goa, India as well as huge potential in China.

With the numbers showing anything but a slow down, some fret about the fickle nature of the music industry and predict the hype may die down. But for now, at least, the beat goes on.

This story was originally written for economia.

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war