How the streaming-music boom is screwing over recording artists

$0.000014 per song? Sign me up!

Musician David Lowrey, formerly of the bands Cracker and Camper Van Beethoven, has been on the warpath against the modern music industry – that of Spotify, Pandora and iTunes – for a while now. His blog, the Trichordist, catalogues the exploitation of artists by the new overlords, and acts as a call to arms.

But sometimes, that exploitation is less severe than it looks on first glance.

Yesterday, Lowrey posted a piece titled "My Song Got Played On Pandora 1 Million Times and All I Got Was $16.89, Less Than What I Make From a Single T-Shirt Sale!". It recounts Lowrey's quarterly earnings for the song "Low", a 1993 hit by Cracker which has had an unexpected renaissance due to being featured in the Emma Watson film The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

From Sirius, 179 plays netted him $181.94; FM/AM radio paid him $1373.78 for 18,797 plays; Spotify gave him $12.05 for 116,260 plays; YouTube gave him $1.95 for 152,900 plays; and Pandora paid $16.89 for 1,159,000 plays.

That's a massive difference for Pandora, and it's no wonder that Lowrey writes angrily that:

Right now Pandora plays one minute of commercials an hour on their free service. Here’s an idea! Play two minutes of commercials and double your revenue!

But the story is actually more complicated than that. For one thing, as Lowrey writes, he only owns 40 per cent of "Low", so the numbers are artificially, er, not-high. For another, the royalties schemes Lowrey is discussing only cover songwriting credits. The performance royalties come through a different channel, and can be quite a bit higher.

But the most important difference is that, although all those services are technically "radio" – which is why they are covered by blanket licensing schemes – they are used in very different ways.

Take a look at the price per play:

Sirius 101.6424
FM Radio 7.3085
Spotify 0.0104
Pandora 0.0014
YouTube 0.0012
Service Price per play (¢)

That runs the gamut alright; but there's three clear categories of service in there. The top end plays the same song to thousands of people at a time. Assuming the average commercial radio station has 5,000 listeners, then the price per listener is actually better than it is on Spotify. Sirius pays much more, but it's also national; and so requiring 73,000 listeners to equal Pandora's price-per-user isn't that big of a deal.

The next most valuable is Spotify. That only plays to one user at a time (theoretically), but lets them choose what they can hear. That leaves it more likely to cannibalise record sales, but also offers the chance for an artist to earn more from their die-hard fans.

After that comes Pandora, which is a real internet-radio service; you can't choose what songs play, nor can you skip through too many you don't like. You can, however, adjust the playlist by giving it an artist or genre to focus on, and it will play things like that.

With all of that considered, it's pretty clear who the real rip-off is: not Pandora, but YouTube. It pays less per play than Pandora, even though it lets you pre-select the songs that will be played. And if you spend enough time with children, you'll know that it's perfectly possible to use YouTube as a jukebox, with judicious use of the playlist function.

But the real problem for artists like Lowrey isn't really the exploitation by the music services at all. Instead, it's that it's getting ever harder to get the millions of listeners required to make a living. To get $1,400 for one song on terrestrial radio, Lowrey probably had to win over ten, maybe twenty people who set the playlists for nearly every commercial radio station in the country. To get that much from Spotify, he would have to get 100,000,000 plays – and even if people love the song, that still requires convincing a good million people to click play.

The economics are against him on that one.

Sirius 101.6424
FM Radio 7.3085
Spotify 0.0104
Pandora 0.0014
YouTube 0.0012
Service Price per play (¢)

 

Photograph: Spotify

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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Just face it, being a parent will never be cool

Traditional parenting terms are being rejected in favour of trendier versions, but it doesn't change the grunt-like nature of the work.

My children call me various things. Mummy. Mum. Poo-Head. One thing they have never called me is mama. This is only to be expected, for I am not cool.

Last year Elisa Strauss reported on the rise of white, middle-class mothers in the US using the term “mama” as “an identity marker, a phrase of distinction, and a way to label the self and designate the group.” Mamas aren’t like mummies or mums (or indeed poo-heads). They’re hip. They’re modern. They’re out there “widen[ing] the horizons of ‘mother,’ without giving up on a mother identity altogether.” And now it’s the turn of the dads.

According to the Daily Beast, the hipster fathers of Brooklyn are asking their children to refer to them as papa. According to one of those interviewed, Justin Underwood, the word “dad” is simply too “bland and drab”:

“There’s no excitement to it, and I feel like the word papa nowadays has so many meanings. We live in an age when fathers are more in touch with their feminine sides and are all right with playing dress-up and putting on makeup with their daughters.”

Underwood describes “dad” as antiquated, whereas “papa” is an “open-minded, liberal term, like dad with a twist” (but evidently not a twist so far that one might consider putting on makeup with one’s sons).

Each to their own, I suppose. Personally I always associate the word “papa” with “Smurf” or “Lazarou.” It does not sound particularly hip to me. Similarly “mama” is a word I cannot hear without thinking of “Bohemian Rhapsody”, hence never without a follow-up “ooo-oo-oo-ooh!” Then again, as a mummy I probably have no idea what I am talking about. If other people think these words are trendy, no doubt they are.

Nonetheless, I am dubious about the potential of such words to transform parenting relationships and identities. In 1975’s Of Woman Born, Adrienne Rich describes how she used to look at her own mother and think “I too shall marry, have children – but not like her. I shall find a way of doing it all differently.” It is, I think, a common sentiment. Rejecting mummy or daddy as an identity, if not as an individual, can feel much the same as rejecting the politics that surrounds gender and parenting. The papas interviewed by The Daily Beast are self-styled feminists, whose hands-on parenting style they wish to differentiate from that of their own fathers. But does a change of title really do that? And even if it does, isn’t this a rather individualistic approach to social change?

There is a part of me that can’t help wondering whether the growing popularity of mama and papa amongst privileged social groups reflects a current preference for changing titles rather than social realities, especially as far as gendered labour is concerned. When I’m changing a nappy, it doesn’t matter at all whether I’m known as Mummy, Mama or God Almighty. I’m still up to my elbows in shit (yes, my baby son is that prolific).

The desire to be known as Papa or Mama lays bare the delusions of new parents. It doesn’t even matter if these titles are cool now. They won’t be soon enough because they’ll be associated with people who do parenting. Because like it or not, parenting is not an identity. It is not something you are, but a position you occupy and a job you do.

I once considered not being called mummy. My partner and I did, briefly, look at the “just get your children to call you by your actual name” approach. On paper it seemed to make sense. If to my sons I am Victoria rather than mummy, then surely they’ll see me as an individual, right? Ha. In practice it felt cold, as though I was trying to set some kind of arbitrary distance between us. And perhaps, as far as my sons are concerned, I shouldn’t be just another person. It is my fault they came into this vale of tears. I owe them, if not anyone else, some degree of non-personhood, a willingness to do things for them that I would not do for others. What I am to them – mummy, mum, mama, whatever one calls it – is not a thing that can be rebranded. It will never be cool because the grunt work of caring never is.

It is not that I do not think we need to change the way in which we parent, but this cannot be achieved by hipster trendsetting alone. Changing how we parent involves changing our most fundamental assumptions about what care work is and how we value the people who do it. And this is change that needs to include all people, even those who go by the old-fashioned titles of mum and dad.

Ultimately, any attempt to remarket parenting as a cool identity smacks of that desperate craving for reinvention that having children instils in a person. The moment you have children you have bumped yourself up the generational ladder. You are no longer the end of your family line. You are – god forbid – at risk of turning into your own parents, the ones who fuck you up, no matter what they do. But you, too, will fuck them up, regardless of whether you do it under the name of daddy, dad or papa. Accept it. Move on (also, you are mortal. Get over it).

Parenting will never be cool. Indeed, humanity will never be cool. We’re all going to get older, more decrepit, closer to death. This is true regardless of whether you do or don’t have kids – but if you do you will always have younger people on hand to remind you of this miserable fact.

Your children might, if you are lucky, grow to respect you, but as far as they are concerned you are the past.  No amount of rebranding is going to solve that. This doesn’t mean we can’t change the way we parent. But as with so much else where gender is concerned, it’s a matter for boring old deeds, not fashionable words.

 

 

 

Glosswitch is a feminist mother of three who works in publishing.