There’s something so raw and beautiful about musicians’ drive to keep going despite all the daunting aspects of the music industry today. Let’s face it, only a very small percentage of our friends’ bands will “make it,” and what’s more depressing is that those bands who’ve passed some nebulous threshold and seem to have “made it” are hardly thriving but just surviving, if that.
Members of Mastodon have said that they’re just scraping by due to streaming platforms undercutting profits, causing bands to rely solely on touring to make money, which is further undercut by rising gas prices. It’s pretty bleak. It makes one think, “Well, shit, if Mastodon is struggling, what hope do we have?” Or look at The Bobby Lees. Despite their many thousands of monthly listeners and streams and all the sold-out shows, they almost called it quits. Maybe all we need is a Hollywood savior’s endorsement and a feature on HBO to lift our band up from the hopeless despair of the DIY mire so that we may be granted access to the glorified mainstream. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a great band and they deserve all the success they’ve experienced, but what I’m saying is that, even so, they deserve more, and moreover, the margins for success shouldn’t be so goddamn slim to the point where so many great bands go unheard. I’m sure you could name five of your friends’ bands that are probably better than Geese and definitely better than fucking Goose.
Measuring our self-worth by the metric of monthly listeners that’s dictated by a cartoonishly evil corporation that invests in AI warfare is a recipe for disaster and depression, but it’s also a crystal clear picture of the music industry today–at least for us bottom feeders. So I wonder, for those of us without rich parents or nepotistic connections or psyop-ass algorithmic marketing, what keeps us going?
For me personally, as corny as it may sound, I do it for the love of songwriting and community. It often doesn’t make sense logically or financially, but I don’t think I could stop if I tried. It’s in my bones. There’s something so priceless about being able to exercise creative control over time and space through sound and energy and wavering dynamics, especially in a world where so much seems out of our control, even if it is only in small increments of 35-minute sets. Also, there’s much to be said about the fact that all of the most substantial friendships in my life have been made through music–my bandmates are some of my best friends.
People who aren’t involved in bands probably wouldn’t understand why someone would spend so much of their time, effort, and money on a pursuit that so often proves fruitless. Well, if you consider the industry standards of fame and fortune to be the only significant fruits of your labor, then yeah, it wouldn’t make much sense. If we’re bound to that reductive mindset, that’s where it can get discouraging, and reasonably so. But if you can transcend that capitalistic, strictly transactional way of thinking, you may see that the fruits of your endeavors can be so much more: the satisfaction of writing a song that clearly conveys some sentiment or idea; new fans after playing a show; bonds forged with others with common tastes and interests; deep and meaningful friendships–to name a few.
In an ever-changing industry, we have to adapt and roll with the punches, because there will be many punches. I kept at it with my band Grampfather for 11 years before finally accepting that it wasn’t working. I don’t see it as a failure, but rather as an opportunity to reassess and reconfigure, to challenge myself to create a new project with a different approach. Instead of putting all my eggs in one basket, I’ve come to diversify and compartmentalize my creative output so that if something doesn’t work for my new band A Whole Nother, then I’ll release it solo. I encourage anyone in a band to adopt this mentality to ensure that nobody gets butthurt when their idea isn’t well received by the rest of the band–not every idea works out the way you initially envision, and quality control is a good thing. My situation now is much more sustainable than when I was putting my all into one project. When you put all your chips on the table on one bet, the loss can be more devastating than if you gamble more moderately. Call it a coping mechanism–whatever, it’s better than quitting altogether. Even if your passion becomes limited to a hobby where you only perform locally whenever you can get time off from your multiple jobs, it’d still be better than calling it quits, and most people would be glad and grateful that your band still exists and that you’re still doing the thing in some capacity.
Out of curiosity about what keeps fellow musicians going despite the many hurdles in our paths, I reached out to some of my favorite Hudson Valley musicians to pick their brains a bit to mine for some glimmers of hope in these seemingly hopeless circumstances we find ourselves in. Be sure to follow these amazing artists, listen to their music, buy their albums and merch, and help each other out. If I’ve learned anything through doing this DIY Kingston thing, it’s that the best way to help ourselves is to help others.
- Leo Lovechild
- MK Scully, host on WKZE, DJ MK Ultramatic
- Mike Amari, of Chosen Family Presents
- Kendra McKinley
- Nick Lee, of Mooth Tooth
- Maria Alvarez, of Cellmate
- Dylan Doyle
- Lea Bertucci
- Scott Pasch, of DCxPC Live
- callie mackenzie
- Keith Kelly, of Jelly Kelly
- Lara Hope, of Lara Hope and the Ark Tones, O+
- Kyle McDonough, of King in Yellow
- Chloe Cannon, of Bluestone Quarry, Easy Sweetheart, Ladies of the Valley
- Dan Steen, of What?
- Ella Goodwin
- Josh Towers, of Atabeya
- Kyle Miller
- Alessandra Gonzalez
- Andrew Blot, of A Whole Nother, Schmave, Easy Sweetheart
- Xondra
- Russ Alderson
- Roxy Bollé, of Mona Freaka
- Matthew Brady, of Your Favorite Person
- AYI
- Eric Sorensen, of Ramona Lane
Leo Lovechild
LL: The question of “what keeps it all going?” is obviously, or maybe not so obviously, a loaded one for me, and I’d assume for any other artist, regardless of their level of success. The easy answer is that it doesn’t really take any effort at all to “keep going.” I started making music when I was a literal toddler, and it’s something I’ve been doing day in and day out ever since because it brings me joy. So, making music is easy and pretty innate at this point. The hard part isn’t making it, it’s the sharing and showing it to the world part that can be a fucking pain in my ass. The fact is that art, despite its obvious importance and power on both a personal and societal level, is something that humans have struggled to assign monetary value to in an even remotely logical manner. Being a songwriter/performer/entertainer is one of those weird “jobs” where you make basically no money until you then make a little, and you keep making a little and a little and a little, and then suddenly, if you’re lucky, I guess you make a shit ton. I’m not really sure how it works, because I have another job that makes me most of my money. Obviously money is something we all need to survive, and thus is born the game. Now, I’m not going to sit here and pontificate any more about all that (I could, but I’d rather anyone who’s reading this go and check out my music and/or my poetry and try to read between the lines to understand my viewpoints), but I can certainly tell you that I’ve had many days over the course of my life when I’ve thought about what it would be like to not play music, and not put my entire emphasis in life into my art. It definitely seems like some things would be easier and less stressful for me if art wasn’t in the equation. But I’ve also woken up to messages from complete strangers telling me that listening to my music helped them not hurt themselves at moments when they were struggling. I’ve had every thought, both positive and negative and everywhere in between, as it pertains to “the struggle to keep going as an artist.” Ultimately, it’s kind of like life itself, or my LSD journeys when I was young: there is good and there is bad that comes out of it all, but I wouldn’t trade any of it in because then it would really all feel worthless.
MK Scully
host on WKZE, DJ MK Ultramatic
MK: As a DJ on a local, independent radio station that actively supports and promotes independent musicians, I have the opportunity to chat with a lot of artists about this exact topic. I’ve noticed some key points that come up again and again in those conversations.
Firstly, nothing will ever stop humans from creating art and music. Most of the folks who send me songs for consideration for airplay or write in to book an appearance on my local music spotlight segment aren’t expecting to ever quit their day jobs. They simply love making music, and they want that music to be heard, by ten million people or ten people–it doesn’t really matter. That’s why I do it. If playing a local artist’s music on KZE helps them get to that next level in their career, that’s amazing, but that’s never the expectation. We play it because it’s the authentic sound of our listening area, and what purpose does terrestrial radio serve if not to amplify the voices of our community?
Secondly, and relatedly, because independent artists are going to keep doing their thing, there will always be platforms for them and an audience for them at the local level. Something I’d love to see happen is a return to hyperlocal community economies. We’re already seeing major artists cancel stadium tours because no one can afford to spend hundreds of dollars on a concert ticket. But you can drop $20 to see a band at Tubby’s and have an incredible night, saving not only on the tickets and upcharged drinks but on transportation, parking–maybe you would have had to cut out of work early to make it to the show, etc, etc. Another part of why I play local artists on the radio is to connect them with an audience that will turn out to see them at local venues.
And in that same vein, another conversation I’ve had over and over is, of course, about AI in music. Unsurprisingly, everyone at our level is against it, because unless you’re financially invested in it, it’s a net negative. Of course, the people who ARE financially invested in it are going to push it everywhere they can. But what if we just reject if everywhere WE can? I’ll never play AI music on the radio or stream it. I don’t want it, and I know my listeners don’t want it.
Basically, what I’m saying is, if the system no longer works, reject the system. Build a new one. Yes, we’re all still trapped in this capitalist hellscape, but this is one fairly easy way in which we can resist. We all know it’s important to shop small–so, listen small too. There’s world-class music being made right here in your hometown. Go see it live! Buy it on Bandcamp! The very simplicity of that solution is what reassures me that independent music will never die.
–MK Scully, host on WKZE, DJ MK Ultramatic
Mike Amari
Of Chosen Family Presents
MA: I really struggle with this, because I believe inherently that art and commerce should be separate things, or at least that more capital should be put into supporting arts to allow for free and low-cost events. When this is not happening, people have to stretch themselves further and take on the financial burden or just more time/energy/labor to make it happen.
I had a platform for this at BSP, where we did many local bands every month, and tried to keep covers very low ($5-10). We even did a free weekly concert for a while, and again when doing the programming for 3 years at Opus 40, I was able to put some budget aside for local acts, mostly on chill Sunday afternoons. Now, I’m using the “Local Waves” initiative I started with Wave Farm/WGXC to highlight local music and present two free events every month (a free concert every 2nd Wednesday at The Local, and a free gathering with live taping of interviews with local artists every last Thursday at The Avalon).
So to answer the question, I think I have turned my focus and energy more towards local acts, and less towards big, typically more expensive ticketed shows. A small gathering of 10 people who are there intentionally and want to meet and build the community is often more satisfying for me than a big concert that is mostly filled with recent transplants or weekenders. Smaller, hyper-local connection is what is giving me hope.
–Mike Amari, of Chosen Family Presents
Kendra McKinley
KM: I am often heartbroken by how challenging it is to survive as a professional musician, but my antidote to overwhelm has been to dive deeper into my devotion to the craft of songwriting.
In January 2025, my bud Ben Seretan and I challenged each other to write a song per day for a full month. So I wrote 31 songs, many of which I believed to be ridiculous, but the challenge left me with a renewed fascination with how simple, and fun, it was to just write about what was happening, whether that was reflecting on the details of the day, or one’s emotional weather. Also, it was free.
A few months later, I was ready to start my next album cycle, and showed my friend, Hudson Valley producer Marco Buccelli, all my demos, including the songs from this songwriting challenge, even though I never intended to share that material with the world. I was shocked that the songs he was most moved by were the ones from my writing challenge that I believed to be the cheesiest. But the truth is, those songs were the most honest.
Marco and I spent the winter recording my new album, featuring all of my cheesy songs, and I could not be happier with what we created. I can’t wait to share it with you all.
I have recently led some group songwriting workshops, and learned that all the participants also struggled with finishing songs out of the fear of sounding cheesy or trite. I’ve come to understand that this fear of being perceived as cheesy is actually a fear of being witnessed. If you’re vulnerable enough to be truly witnessed, you are risking the potential of being misunderstood, but if you don’t take that risk, how will you ever be understood?
(My new record is called “Misunderstanding.”)
So cheesy as it sounds, I think we have to love music enough to keep making it.
Nick Lee
Of Moon Tooth
NL: I’ve been dedicating my life to being in a band for over 20 years. My first band started when I was only 13 and I’m 36 now. For about 15 years, my main mental focus has been for my band Moon Tooth. I wrote a lot of the music and I think it’s safe to say I was the main managerial and physical drive behind the band for the first decade as well. We played close to 100 shows in our first year that I booked most of and I was always playing in other bands at the same time. The one that did the most touring around the world was Riot V, but I also played guitar in Rice Cultivation Society, and bass in Thinning The Herd, and La Otracina for shorter periods of time. As Moon Tooth and Riot V got busier, I lost time for the other projects and started to only have time for those two.
About four years ago, I was struck with NORSE Epilepsy, which is a fancier way of saying, “Epilepsy with a strong resistance to medication.” Unfortunately that meant seizures on stage and a terrible destruction of my short-term memory, and over the next few years it meant less and less ability to tour with those bands. Riot V found a replacement pretty quickly, and even though Moon Tooth was still taking me out on tour, they had awful experiences picking me up off the floor on and off stage and fighting me to stay off stage when I was a confused mess. Anyway, the last four years of dealing with that have, needless to say, been terrible, but I kept in perspective why I ever wanted to do this. I always needed to find other jobs to pay rent and anything else you can think of–the most consistent of which has been teaching guitar, which I luckily still do, but I also worked as a barista, a waiter, did some construction, and other things as random as setting up blood drives, and anything else I could get my hands on–whatever kept the music portion moving.
I think now that I have been mentally held back and unable to get on stage as much, after touring the world, thinking about why I wanted to do this in the first place–laying in bed now, day after day, trying to figure out what I can do to fix my broken life, I think the main thing that comes back to me is the CHALLENGE. This has never been about money but writing music, as well as getting the opportunity to bring it from state to state, or even country to country–it’s a huge challenge mentally, physically, and creatively, all at once. You start on your couch trying to create something the world has never heard before, and you start trying to find a few other friends you can build it with, and if you’re lucky, it can grow into playing it in front of 5 people, and if you work hard enough, it can be 5,000 people one day. Of course there’s a lot of letdowns and disappointments, but it’s YOURS, and you work through those things, not because of money, but because it means so much to you to let other people feel what you feel inside.
I still teach guitar after 20 years, and I feel maybe the hardest thing is when students ask how you get this thing started and moving, and giving them an answer they can use, because of course I can give you hundreds of ideas and explanations to help with your knowledge of music theory or help their technique, but starting a project with others really depends on your personal persistence and drive, and also finding others you can really depend on and work with. I’ve been with the same drummer since we were 13, writing music and answering each other’s sentences musically, but he and the other two guys in Moon Tooth are my best friends. We depend on each other, make each other laugh, and really just make the best parts and the worst parts of this thing FUN. I think a lot of people forget that if this isn’t FUN, then you really are gonna have a tough time no matter what the case. We’ve accomplished so much together that we thought was what we were looking for and it turned out that it wasn’t exactly it. The best parts of this were writing new music together and having laughs together no matter what bullshit we were being handed at the moment. That might sound cliché but it’s very true, and especially after the horrible couple years my health has given to me, I know that to be true more than ever: Find your brothers or sisters you trust and love and enjoy creating with and being with and go after whatever you can get or learn from this thing. I’m not saying that will take the hard parts away but it will make it worth it, no matter what happens.
–Nick Lee, of Mooth Tooth
Maria Alvarez
Of Cellmate
MA: What keeps me going is that I simply love music. Since I was young, I always felt that music transcended me to a place where in those moments, nothing matters but how I feel inside, and as the song continues, I get to explore and reflect on the feelings that surface, asking myself, “Why did that make me feel this way?” There’s a beautiful self-awareness that emerges when breaking down the things you connect to. When it’s been difficult to find words, I know that music speaks through vibrations that have the power to fill our minds and hearts with images, words, and emotions that can’t be done otherwise. When I think of the music industry, I think of the quote, “Change is the only constant.” I’ve had years where I was home collectively for a few weeks and years where nothing happened at all–and in those times, I just waited and waited and waited for opportunities to come, not realizing that I’m only limiting myself. Am I only going to create if there’s an audience? Why would I tie my purpose to something with such an unpredictable outcome? There was something terrifying about putting my passion in the hands of an industry that relies on trends (which in this day, seem to change every day). I’ve always viewed art and the need to create as just as necessary as breathing. Even biologically, there’s an urge to create and procreate and those urges will express themselves in the endless forms of art (I’m a believer that everything is art). I want to create and connect whether it’s with my friends locally or with strangers in a random city. It’s our ultimate form of expression and the medium I choose to use is music. It’s my antenna for finding like-minded individuals, and if we happen to hit the same frequency, it can make us both feel seen and heard. The beauty of the era that we live in is that subcultures are able to thrive without the support of a dominant industry. We’ve seen the rise of independent artists and movies that are able to happen because of the direct connection we now have with audiences and listeners on social media. We’ve cut out the middle man and DIY culture has broken out of the punk cave. It’s becoming a way of life, not only with art, but with the rise of homesteading and cyberdecks, as a few examples. If you love something and it makes you feel good, remember that you’re doing for yourself, and in its most innocent essence, you’re doing it for connection. Anything else just caters to an industry that rewards ego, competition, and packaging your emotions and experiences into a brand, or product, until the next big thing goes viral…tomorrow. With all these inconsistencies, the only constant is your intention and your love for what you do. You can’t control the industry or the opportunities you get, but you can control where and how you move to keep doing what you’re doing.
–Maria Alvarez, of Cellmate
Dylan Doyle
DD: I’m touched to be included in this. It is true, this is a strange time, from AI to venues closing down, not to mention the economic stresses outside just our world.
In the past I have fallen victim to those insidious thoughts of, “Why am I doing this, what is my worth, how can I keep doing this?” And my answer took years to come to, but here I am now, doing it, staying above water, and in some ways growing into new ways I didn’t think I could even 4 years ago.
As artists it is our job to stand on the outside and look in. It’s not easy, and it takes emotional endurance, but that’s the price we pay for the freedom artistry brings you. I don’t wake up to hustle all day for the boss, or wait until Friday night to let loose. On the contrary, my weekends are when I am busiest. When most people are letting loose, I’m working. For years, that alone made me feel isolated, especially when people look down at the lifestyle. What brings me pride and keeps me positive is the work. I work at it a little every day, and it’s my thing.
My grandfather was a farmer, inherited his farm when he was 17, and even after he sold it at 75 he would still work on it to feel his connection. When I was 15, he gave me his blessing to live on the outside, as long as I work at it.
The world will always be changing, and where there is adversity, there is opportunity. So finding the new ways to use these things we quickly deem as setbacks is part of being creative.
In short, I stay positive and doing it by doing it, a little everyday, and knowing I will again tomorrow.
Lea Bertucci
LB: At this moment in time, it is far too easy to focus on the obstacles that surround making art independently. There are so many examples of large-scale systemic failure of institutions that once constituted the support network around both commercial and non-commercial artmaking. I think of the recent layoffs around the Pace Gallery, one of the most high level galleries of the art world, who accessioned more than fifty artists all at once (they also laid off around the same number of their workers)–to the full on dissolution of the National Endowment of the Arts (which in reality had been hobbled since the ’90s at least). These upheavals also extend into the enshittification of tech platforms such as Soundcloud, Bandcamp, and famously, Spotify. Of course, streaming has been at the forefront of decommodifying music for artists for a good while now, and we are now seeing the AI frenzied endgame of all of this. People seem to be wising up to this though, which is where things get interesting.
My question, or rather proposal is, could there be a possible site of liberation when capital no longer flows through the arts in the way it once did? People talk now like the 80’s art boom was a good thing. In my view, it promoted a churn-and-burn culture of bad art that was made by people who were the most willing to sacrifice their souls to the highest bidder. We have seen that the 1% of artists and gallerists get rich, while dealers inflate the prices of works at auction, only to abandon those artists once their prices were superseded by the next hot kid right out of Yale MFA. In music, we have similarly seen only the very top tier of artists actually be able to sustain careers. The art world is a funhouse mirror of our society at large in that the middle class has been obliterated and most of the people who are able to sustain themselves exclusively from their artwork are already buoyed by generational wealth.
So what is the potential for freedom and sustainability as an artist in this fucked up version of our reality? I say let the systems and institutions burn. Meritocracy is an illusion.
What if the art we make has nothing to do with how we sustain our lives? What if we completely compartmentalize our income from our creative practice? What if we could be truly independent, experimental, and curious in how we approach our artwork? What if we take risks and fail, do different kinds of things without any kind of external pressure to make the same album again and again? What if, as an antidote to the toxic individualism of the late 20th and early 21st centuries, we held each other up in acts of mutual solidarity? What if we had the breathing room to say no to things that made us feel exploited or weird? What if instead of looking for a record label or a manager, we release our own music on handmade cassettes or unique collages with a download code? Of course, this is nothing new in the world of underground music, where these cultures have always existed and continue to thrive. This is precisely the locus where things become inventive, and this is why the ethos of underground communities is so crucial right now. We already know how to do this, and because we are inventive, irrationally persistent, and inspired, we will endure in the face of the collapse of systems that never even served us in the first place.
Scott Pasch
of DCxPC Live
SP: What keeps me going is that DCxPC Live gives me back so much more than money ever could. I get to document bands I love, help create shows that feel meaningful, build real friendships, and be part of a community that has shaped most of my life.
I have been playing in bands in one form or another since I was 16, and the thing that has kept me connected to music has never been the idea of “making it.” It has always been the moment of connection. The moment when a room locks in. The moment when a song makes a stranger feel less alone. The moment when you realize the people around you are not just an audience, but a community.
My relationship with punk has always been rooted in that idea. I came up loving the ethics of early DC hardcore and Dischord, where the point was not to chase industry approval, but to build something honest, accessible, and sustainable on our own terms. That mindset shapes everything I do with DCxPC Live. Success has never been measured in money. Success is a band having a physical document of one of their best nights. Success is someone discovering a new favorite band because they took a chance on a record. Success is different scenes connecting at a show. Success is supporting the scene by making space for people who might not always feel welcome elsewhere.
I started the Scene Support podcast because so much of what keeps music alive happens offstage. It is the photographers, engineers, promoters, writers, labels, graphic designers, bookers, and more who show up early and stay late. Those people are the infrastructure of the scene, and I wanted to create something that shines a light on them.
There are definitely discouraging parts. Vinyl is expensive. Booking and promotion can feel endless. Streaming has trained people to see music as disposable. But then I am watching a band tear through a set, talking to someone at my merch table who is genuinely excited about a record, or hearing from a band that having their live set pressed means something to them. That matters. That is the fuel.
Luckily I don’t do any of this alone. DCxPC Live exists because of my Backline: Joshua “Danger” Dobbs, Aaron (put.over.photo), Savannah, Dez, Willy, Arsenic, and a long list of volunteers who regularly show up in countless ways. Not to mention all the people who were already doing the hard work and who helped me along the way here in Kingston, and in all the other scenes I’ve been part of over the years.
DCxPC Live lets me participate in music in a way that feels active instead of passive. I am not just consuming culture. I am helping preserve it, support it, and pass it along. I do it because this community has given me friendships, purpose, inspiration, and a sense of belonging. Running DCxPC Live is my way of giving some of that back.
–Scott Pasch, of DCxPC Live
callie mackenzie
CM: Every time that I get to play music and call it “work,” I am filled with an immense sense of gratitude. Since I was young I wanted to be a musician. My mother always told me that I wasn’t good enough and I wouldn’t make it. But what does it mean to “make it”?
I’m new to the “scene.” Aside from jumping up on stage with a friend’s band to sing a Tracy Chapman tune in 2008, I had never performed unless it was around a campfire.
In 2019, I began writing poetry and music again to deal with my feelings around the state of the world. Writing music saved my life. I was writing so much music at that point and posting online, and people kept asking when I would play.
In 2022, in one of the darkest mental health periods of my life, I left my full-time job to focus on my health. It was during that time that I decided to start performing. My first paying gig was May of 2022–a few songs at a Social Justice event in Kingston.
All year I was on the Hudson Valley farmers market circuit. To me, I had made it. I spent hours in that first year amazed that when people walked by many would pause and put their hand over their heart as I sang a tender line–before grabbing my info card and throwing a few bucks in the tip jar. People came up to me afterwards with tears in their eyes, telling me that they really needed to hear what I had said. And to me, that (plus the 200 bucks going directly towards bills) was all I needed.
Since then, I have played at many different places–vineyards, bars, clubs, and festivals, oftentimes as background noise. I remember being terrified the first time over 50 people sat quietly and stared while I read my diary out loud over my guitar. The sounds of affirmation in the form of “mmm,” “ooohhh,” and “woooow” told me that I “made it.”
Art is a large part of my spiritual and healing journey. In sobriety, I learned that we cannot push down our feelings but we must feel them and acknowledge the size and intensity of them. When someone comes to me and tells me that my music is helping them heal, I know that I “made it.”
I feel grateful for years of playing at venues that pay guarantees, and having homemade merch to sell as well. I am grateful that people believe in my music enough to donate to album funds. I have said for years, “My soul is a lot richer, but my bank account is still trying to catch up.” I have been very intentional about where and when I play. As a mother, I am not able to pick up and go on tour. I do not play for free at a venue–unless I am choosing to support a cause I care about. I do not play where there are ridiculous door splits–I have turned down many gigs.
Because of this, I may never “make it” by traditional standards. I have found alternate ways throughout the past four years to make enough money to survive late-stage capitalism. I will never stop making music though–it’s life or death for me, literally.
In my heart, I’ve already “made it.”
Keith Kelly
of Jelly Kelly
KK: The dooms and glooms, plights and hardships are the easy points to speak of in terms of making art and being an artist. I’m not quite sure where the wires got crossed where it is sometimes presumed that beautiful things are born out of ease and comfort. That’s rarely the case and never has been. Being an artist is hard and oftentimes uncomfortable. So why bother then? Making music holds the same meaning to me as hieroglyphics, a stone sculpture from the year 1200, or a macaroni painting on a paper plate. It’s an act of spirit, communication and connection. Making something out of nothing just to share the human experience, connecting with the purity of a pulse or a melody that your bones already know. Something familiar and foreign, a best friend you’ve never met. A form of magic that when witnessed you can see a person transform right before your very eyes. Once rigid, stiff and controlled, now writhing, and swaying with irreverent joy. However corny it may sound, music is magic. Goddamn right…and ya know what, I believe in it and always have. Music was my first love and a constant source of joy. It was a safe haven and shield, a sonic forcefield that enabled me to glide through the ugly currents of bullshit unscathed. Most of all, it was a friend. For the same reasons you don’t question why you’d want a friend, I never questioned art and music at all. It became a constant companion and still is. Being a musician for most of my life, it’s taken on many forms and expressions and sometimes different forms of expectations. Having the expectation of music actually being my full-time career seemed almost like a possibility at one time. We were constantly touring and had prominent PR companies, management, booking agencies, etc. The only caveat…there’s not really any money. Bartending and hustling around in NY was a standard but unsustainable it seemed. Get a “real” job? Wear some costume? Pretend to be a different person? There was a definitive moment when my expectations became more of what do I expect out of my life? I needed to reframe my perception. Sure, there might have been some world in which I missed that may have paid ya millions, paid for your videos and limos and put you up in the Hollywood hills. Nope. Not in my world. I have Spotify!!! What I learned is I do not need permission from people I don’t know who can’t do what I do to “allow” me to make music. Why the hell would I? I can allow myself permission to create beautiful things. To challenge myself and to create a world that makes me happy in it. I make music and will make music because it is hard. In pure defiance of ugly. In the spirit of talking to a person I’ve never met or maybe never will. To make myself dance alone in a room, to make a room full of other people dance, or an occasional head bang if I’m lucky. In defiance of giving in to the Clark Kent version of myself just to fit into some social status quo and ultimately because life may be longer than you think. If you’re lucky enough to find something you love, then do that for as long as you can, in defiance, in celebration, for no good reason and for all the reasons in the world.
Lara Hope
Of Lara Hope and the Ark Tones, O+
LH: Where to begin? I’ll go back in time a bit. Pre-2020, I was at the height of my music “career.” Touring 6+ months a year, gaining new fans, writing new songs, opening for some of my musical heroes, signing albums, posters, and occasionally boobs. Was it fun and fulfilling…sometimes. Was I broke? Most of the time. Did I see any other way or want it to change? Absolutely not. But then it all did change on March 11th. I was supposed to leave that night for a 6-week West Coast and Canadian tour opening for Tiger Army and Twin Temple (satanic doo-wop…look em up!). Needless to say, the tour was canceled when the world was canceled. I had no idea what to do with myself. I had no idea when the shows would resume. I had no idea when I could get back to “normal” life.
So, I decided to jump on the livestream bandwagon–what started that first Monday of the pandemic in front of my fireplace with no clue what I was doing, turned into a weekly livestream show that went on (almost) every single Monday night for the next TWO YEARS. We wrote a theme song, we made a logo, we started a FB group, and we started a COMMUNITY. Folks from all over the country, and some from around the world, started to tune in weekly. We’d keep the comment section live and rolling, and we were conversational with the viewers, and then they began to be conversational with each other. We made friends. They made friends. We found a place where we could all feel at home for an hour every week, even when nothing else made sense. It was one of the most beautiful and fulfilling things I’ve ever been a part of.
The point of bringing all of this up is to say that community is a large part of what keeps me going in today’s music industry. To echo what other people have written here, some of my very best friends and partners have come as a result of playing music together, or sharing my music with them in some capacity. Pandemic times also allowed me to pivot from putting all of my energy into my own music, and to branch out and start working for the local nonprofit music, art, and wellness organization O+ as the music programming director, which gave me new opportunities to take my skills and desire to bring people together and help other bands/musicians with their performance and career goals.
“Making it” has many different meanings. There are plenty of artists who support themselves through their music, and yet they aren’t on mainstream radio or signed by a major label, so no one “knows them.” There are plenty of artists who make no money and play music as a hobby while having a day job, and find true fulfillment in that. Making it is what you make of it. We are playing music because we know no other way. Because we have to. Because it’s who we are. Because if I didn’t sing, and play, and network, and support the scene…I would lose my mind.
–Lara Hope, Of Lara Hope and the Ark Tones, O+
Kyle McDonough
Of King in Yellow
KM: It feels fitting that I am typing this while the [unnamed utilities monopoly that supplies electricity for all of us] threatens to shut off my power for the third time this year. As someone who has been playing live music since they were 13 years old (honestly all of us in KIY started young), we knew from as soon as we started playing music, we don’t want to live a life where we aren’t doing that. We recognized it was never about a glamorous life or an easy life, but we realized it wasn’t any worse than the lives we had already. We all grew up in poverty–we knew to have low expectations. We wanted a life where we had the luck to live a life in creating something–the old world magic of walking into a room with ideas and leaving it with a tangible thing!–a thing you could share and others could share. It was intoxicating.
With the new age of modern music marketing, there is definitely a cloud of soul-crushing capitalism that you have to push through. But through it all I feel like the community aspect of meeting weekly with your best friends and putting shows together with friends from near and far is such a big part as to why I still do this, as well as the gratification of creating with people you love, and the endless gift and joy that making music brings me personally.
–Kyle McDonough, of King in Yellow
Chloe Cannon
Of Bluestone Quarry, Easy Sweetheart, Ladies of the Valley
CC: When I was 10 years old I tried to convince my fellow classmates that Christina Aguilera was my cousin. My only attempted proof would be belting out the highest vocal solo from “Come On Over Baby (All I Want is You)” during recess, interrupting their kickball game while they stared at me, dumbfounded, probably partly impressed but mostly confused. I would say about 40% of them ended up believing me.
Why did I do that, you ask? Nothing on earth could have motivated me more than having any amount of proximity to Xtina: specifically, to her fame. If you had asked me between the ages of 1 and about 25 what I wanted to be when I grew up, the answer was always the same: “a famous singer.” I did not quite understand the steps that it took to get there, only that if Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera could do it by age 15, so could I. Or so I thought.
The vague story of how fame happened in my childlike mind was that you found yourself in the right place at the right time, you sang in front of the right important person, they recognized you as the world class talent that you were, you got signed to a record company, and then you were turned into the next big international pop star. The way I attempted to achieve that was by singing everywhere I could—at home with my siblings as entertainment for our extended family members, with friends at school (along with choreographed dances), in choirs at church and school, and eventually performing out live in bands of my own.
The quest for fame only grew more enigmatic as the years went on. The idea of being “discovered” soon became a relic of the past. Now people were creating their own success, tirelessly uploading to social media and attempting to shine their way through an impossibly growing hoard of competition. The determination for fame I had held since childhood was starting to dwindle, as the insurmountable reality continually slapped me across the face. Eventually I gave up on music altogether.
Over the next few years, I became incredibly depressed. I felt socially alienated and began to have strange health symptoms that no one could explain. When I inevitably sought counseling, my therapist asked me if I had discontinued any activities which had once brought me joy. After thinking for a moment, I admitted that I had stopped playing music a few years back. When she asked why, I said “Well, I’m getting a little long in the tooth, aren’t I?” I was 25. She could not stop laughing. I had become so brainwashed by the capitalist music machine, I thought the cutoff for playing music was about 21.
She asked me what I had liked about playing music, beyond the search for fame. I thought about the memories laughing with my talented family and friends, the excitement of building mastery of piano and guitar, and most importantly, the feeling of belonging that the act of playing music brought to me. None of this had anything to do with money, fame, or success, but it is what had always made it worthwhile to me. I had just forgotten that for a while. When I said all this aloud, my therapist reminded me, “Chloe, you’re an artist. It’s not a choice for you, it’s just who you are.” And I’ve lived by it ever since.
–Chloe Cannon, of Bluestone Quarry, Easy Sweetheart, Ladies of the Valley
Dan Steen
of What?
DS: I appreciate you reaching out to us about this, and I’m happy to try and convey my thoughts into words, although sometimes I feel it can be hard to find the proper way to put them to the page. I think that’s why all of my songs are mostly instrumental.
Like a lot of other musicians, I’ve had this dream since I was a kid–that I would go to college, start a band, and all pieces would fall into place. And honestly, they kind of did. I met Ryan Perrone my second week of school, and from that first open mic in 2016 on, our band What? has continued to grow and develop into what it is today. Seeing that development in real time has been a driving force for me behind the scenes.
Being both the manager and agent of a band, while also being a member of the band can most definitely suck the fun out of it (unless you LOVE sending emails). Days where you find yourself staring at a screen for hours instead of writing or practicing, you have to constantly remind yourself the reason you’re doing it in the first place.
I believe in the songs that my friends write. I want everyone to hear them. Just as an example, when you have a group of 6 guys (who all get along!) who are chill with not getting paid for months so you can save up to buy a van, you have to take that as a sign that everyone is committed. And when you have a group of guys committed to something bigger than themselves, someone has to step up.
Sometimes I feel I’m living in this dream-like reality. I get to live with my bandmates and we can rehearse whenever we want? I get to go on stage with my best-friends night after night? I get to explore new cities every weekend? I get to play the music that I love and believe in? And I get to help someone forget about all of their problems that exist in this fucked up world, even if just for a few hours? Sign me up.
The truth is I know this won’t last forever. But while I’m here, I’m going to give it my best shot. I mean, who wouldn’t?
Ella Goodwin
EG: I think what keeps me going is that music is such an important tool in my life for processing emotion. I’ve always made music in the crevices of time I have between other interests and pursuits, whether that be school, work, friendships, etc. Sometimes I realize I’ve taken a long break between writing songs or playing guitar and I feel the guilt and shame that comes with that, but I also know that music will always be a part of my life. I think a lot about the song “Everything is Free” by Gillian Welch, released in 2001 and even more relevant now, when she says, “Someone hit the big score and figured it out, that we’re gonna do it anyway, even if it doesn’t pay.” I’m not making music to make money or even to make fans. I’m making it because there’s too much in the world that I find amazing or beautiful or terrifying to not make music. I’m not great at working the social media corporate machine, but I say yes to pretty much every show I’m offered because playing my music for others, sharing in the feeling a song creates or facilitates, and meeting other musicians keeps me going on its own. In a world where slowing down, feeling things deeply, and finding in-person community seems to be increasingly difficult, writing and sharing music has helped me to find my community and to process the most intense experiences of my life. I think the intricacies of being alive and in community with others is what keeps me making music. Each time I play a show or listen to a friend’s new song or see a bird I’ve never seen before or feel grief or watch the day turn to dusk, I want to write music.
Josh Towers
Of Atabeya
JT: What keeps me going in music despite the chaotic state of the industry? I think I can attribute this to honoring the past as well as the future (while still trying to stay present day by day!). When I’m feeling particularly dejected, I think about all the hardships that my ancestors went through for me to even exist in this world, and how easy I have it in comparison. I can’t help but always think of the many miracles, coincidences, and synchronicities it took for me to be where I am and to have had the honor of meeting so many beautiful, creative people in the Hudson Valley especially.
I was given this opportunity in life to delve into the creative arts and so I stuck with music. Internalizing these thoughts and being grateful for where I am, no matter the situation, helps put everything in my life into perspective, pushes me to prioritize my goals, and allows me to feel like I am even somewhat deserving of expressing myself artistically, rather than letting my musical endeavors take the back seat to full-time participation in capitalist society.
In the same instance, I try my best to engender an artistically fulfilled and creatively liberated future for my two kids, as well as all those that are coming up in the music/arts scenes that I might accidentally have a positive influence on along the way.
–Josh Towers, of Atabeya
Kyle Miller
KM: I’ve made an effort to turn my gaze away from the internet. Don’t get me wrong, I still upload my music to streaming platforms and post on social media, but I don’t look for any validation there or use those online metrics to gauge my success. Social media in particular has really become a pay-to-play system masquerading as something democratic. The idea is: “Make something great and share it; if other people like it, you’ll rise to the top and grow your audience.” The reality is that sponsored posts and paid content are what drives success for entertainers of all kinds and it takes a lot of money invested in that kind of exposure to cut through the cacophonous noise of millions of other people chasing the same dream.
A lot of the shows I play are what I like to call “Wallpaper Gigs.” That is, shows where you’re meant to match the decor and vibe of a place rather than command people’s attention, often in bars, restaurants, or hotels. When I play those types of shows, the greatest compliment I can be paid is when I play a few covers, but it’s my song that makes the audience turn away from their drink or their food or their date to applaud when they really don’t have to (and maybe haven’t throughout the rest of my set).
What really keeps me going is that out in the real world (the one you can smell and touch and hear outside of the internet), I’ve turned music into my livelihood. When I’m done with a show I remind myself: “I just got paid to play songs that I wrote.” It feels really special.
Alessandra Gonzalez
AG: What keeps me going is actually remembering the alternative.
I know what it’s like to work a traditional 9-to-5. Throughout most of my 20s and 30s, I devoted myself to creating stability for my son. I worked hard, earned a decent living, and did everything I thought I was supposed to do. Yet every day on my way to work, I cried.
What stayed with me most wasn’t my own unhappiness—it was watching people who had spent 20 or 30 years doing work they no longer loved. Unless there was a holiday party or some small recognition from management, I rarely heard anyone speak with pride about what they did. Instead, I heard exhaustion, frustration, and regret. I saw talented people overachieving with little reward and carrying the weight of dreams they had long ago abandoned.
Experiencing that for years taught me something important: I didn’t want to live with the regret of never trying.
So in my late 30s, I took the leap into music.
From the outside, some people assume I’m successful, but the reality is much more humble. I still struggle to make ends meet. My shows aren’t always packed. I don’t have a massive following. In fact, during my first few years of performing, it felt like every outdoor show came with a thunderstorm. Even now, I still question whether this path is sustainable.
But I’ve never felt more alive.
What keeps me going isn’t money or recognition. It’s the moments when someone comes up to me after a performance and says, “Thank you. You made me believe I could fight for my dreams again.” Those moments are worth more than any paycheck.
I wouldn’t be here without the support of my community, the people who come to shows, share my music, and continue believing in what I’m building. Their support reminds me that art matters.
If we’re given one life to live, I believe we owe it to ourselves to answer our calling. For some people it’s teaching, for others it’s caregiving, advocacy, or entrepreneurship. For me, it’s music. No matter how difficult this industry can be, I know I would rather struggle pursuing my purpose than spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I had never tried.
Andrew Blot
of A Whole Nother, Schmave, Easy Sweetheart
AB: Well, as someone who came up as a classically trained trumpet player, I never really understood the competitiveness that being in music can conjure. Being in and out of All-County and All-State bands, as well as participating in NYSSMA, an association that assigns you a value on how “good” you are at your respective instrument so they know how to rank you always just seemed superficial to me because it was never really about status or clout. It was about having fun with friends and just playing music—doing the thing. As someone who grew up in a fairly musical environment, music was just a thing that you participated in, whether it was listening to it or playing it.
I loved playing the trumpet, but the rigidity of classical ensembles and the nature of the music itself never really made me “feel” all that much. So when I picked up the guitar around 7th grade, it opened up a whole new world of self-expression and collaboration to me, and to this day, that’s really all that it’s about because that’s all it ever was about.
I just need the outlet. I need to let the things I hear inside my head out—full stop. The collaboration is the best bonus in the world, and I have met some of my closest friends through making music. I had the choice to go to music school, and I decided against it. I never wanted something I loved so much to be haunted by the pressures of earning money and fighting for that “first chair.” So, all of this is really to say that I have never been discouraged by the music industry because I never really cared to think about it. This very much could be to my own detriment, but to me, I got and continue to get everything I need out of music by just letting it live through me and sharing that with others, and hearing what others have to say as well. Would I love to be able to pay the bills year-round by playing music? Hell yeah, but I just never was able to go all in on that hand. The outcome can be very heartbreaking.
As long as your intentions are pure and you know what you’re in it for, regardless of what that might be, then you are alright in my book.
This Trey Anastasio quote comes to mind: “Rock and roll—on a certain level—is a bunch of bullshit, but music is not. Music is the realest thing in the world to me, and anyone who’s been there can feel it.“
–Andrew Blot, of A Whole Nother, Schmave
Xondra
X: The biggest thing that keeps me going in this industry is actively staying connected to my “why.” It’s very easy to get caught up in vanity metrics, comparison, and the frustration of your career not being where you want it to be. What’s more difficult is intentionally choosing to drown out that noise and focus on the thing that matters most: the music. Detaching from the outcome and enjoying the journey of deepening my craft has been the best decision I’ve ever made. It has allowed me to make better music, attract more opportunities, and connect with listeners and other musicians on a deeper level.
Another thing that keeps me going is being in community with other artists. I have noticed that sometimes the industry can be so intense that artists end up operating from a place of wanting something from everyone they meet. There is a rampant energy of “lack” in the independent music world because we are all so exhausted from wearing so many hats and trying to push our careers forward alone. I got really tired of feeling burnt out all the time and had to shift my mindset to one that pours into my community and adds to the abundance, rather than just looking to take. I love running music industry workshops, hosting mixers and showcases, planning writing sessions, and more. I think when we lean on and lift each other up, we all win. It reinforces the idea that we all belong in this industry and deserve support at every step of the process. At the end of the day, it is a blessing even to have the privilege to pursue your passions. As my close personal friend Henry David Thoreau once said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Not us. We are trying, and trying is a beautiful thing.
Russ Alderson
RA: What else is there? Playing music is such a big part of my identity, I wouldn’t know what else to do. My name is Russ Alderson. I am a 59 year-old bass player and singer. I moved to Kingston in late 2025 after being a New York City resident since 1991.
I have been given every chance to give up. None of my original bands have ever been signed to a label. It’s been a long time since anyone has asked me to be their bass player on tour. I was on my way to having a decent career as a bass player for hire but made a choice to work a proper job and be home every night to raise a family. Even through all that, I still kept doing things whether it was weekly jams, writing, or recording. Once the kids were old enough, I took more gigs and found new opportunities.
Whenever I ask myself, “Why continue?” I only have to look as far as my community of musicians and show-goers. My bandmates are some of my longest friendships. I have established some formidable rhythm sections with my drummers over the years. Our musicianship has gone up so many levels since we were young. We know how good we are and we still look for ways to get our music out there. The audience piece of that community is just as important. The people that have come out to see us countless times are so valuable and make it worthwhile to put in the work.
Since I’m nearly 60, I’ll also make this point: it’s a matter of survival. I have watched both my parents succumb to dementia. They say the best things for treating it are physical activity and socializing with others. Playing music with great people should be perfect for that. It should keep my brain engaged and hopefully ward that shit off!
That’s my future sorted then. If I stay immersed in a great community and never stop playing, I’ll be fine.
Roxy Bollé
Of Mona Freaka
RB: It is definitely hard to be a group of young girls in the music industry. There are lots of hardships, whether it be misogyny, our age, or the lack of faith that people might have in a teen band. But we prove ourselves when we get out there–when we put out music, play a killer show, or get a great festival booking. Hell, we even got invited to play a festival in the UK this summer!
Music has been monetarily devalued, but it’s truly the one universal thing that brings humans together. It’s something that people can bond over, and really feel, whether they understand the words or the meaning behind them or not. It’s those magical elements of human voices, instruments, melodies, and progressions that hit so deeply. Writing songs is a way for our band to communicate and express our thoughts and feelings in a way that in turn makes it easier for others, and ourselves, to process.
When you start writing your own songs, performing them, showing them to other people, it’s a feeling that can’t really be described, just experienced. And another big factor in why we keep going is because we feel what we’re doing is important. People think because it’s the modern age, feminism isn’t needed anymore. But clearly, with the state of our world right now, we need it more than ever, and we’re happy to deliver a dose of it through Mona Freaka.
There are so many talented musicians and songwriters in the world, and we’ll admit, it’s a bit scary. Social media makes the pond feel like an ocean and a constant battle for attention. But having bigger dreams doesn’t mean smaller possibilities. As teenagers, in a lot of people’s eyes, our lives are just beginning, and in a lot of ways they’re right. But incredibly, by having this band, we’ve been able to accomplish things that a lot of people can’t and never will, because we committed to it, truly believe in what we do, and we’re willing to persist.
To be in this game, you’ve got to be at least a little delusional. It’s nice to have equally delusional people beside you. Shout out to the rest of our band!
The term “making it” is so broad, but every gig, every songwriting session, every rehearsal, is making it for us. Artists oftentimes are so busy looking for the next thing, that they tend to miss the moments right in front of them. We really try to soak it all in.
We love nothing more than being on a stage together, playing our songs, and hearing the audience sing along. At the end of the day, it’s about really loving the music. And it’s a thrill when we make new fans, or our music gets played on the radio. It’s a cool experience when we get to sit down for an interview or a podcast, or get featured in some sort of press. That’s what it’s about for us–when people come up and tell us they are moved by our music, or just really liked our show or a song–that’s super cool, and we really appreciate that magical exchange of energy.
–Roxy Bollé, of Mona Freaka
Matthew Brady
of Your Favorite Person
MB: Train and I were at Snugs one night in 2022 and there was a band playing Strokes covers. We thought, “We could do that.” We started playing together and soon met a drummer named Ben Hansen and a bassist named Luke Fisher. Everything good that has come to us, each small success, has come as a total surprise. We love playing together and hanging out and that’s why we do it. We make music that we want to listen to.
There has always been a corporate power structure that artists have to find a way through. In some ways it is more exploitative now than it’s ever been, but in other ways artists are far more free. There was more money in the old days, but there was also more dependence on labels and gatekeepers, and with that came the restriction of creative control. The price for being able to record at home, self-distribute, and be independent is that the world of music is a lot more crowded, which can make it difficult to be heard.
Every artist who has ever lived, in any time period, has been extremely fortunate to make a living at it. Like most musicians, I dream of one day quitting my day job, but I try not to get too hung up on it. What matters is making great music, working towards making the best thing you can. If people discover it, great–if not, well, that wasn’t the point, at least not for us. Will Ferrell was on the WTF podcast years ago and he talked about his time struggling to find work as an actor; he relayed some advice his dad gave him that I think about a lot: “Remember, there’s a lot of luck involved, and if you get to a certain point in three years, four years, five years, and you just feel like it’s too hard, don’t worry about quitting, and don’t feel like you failed, and it’s okay to pick up and do something different…and for some reason that took the pressure off. I’m like, oh, okay, well, this is like the lottery…let’s just relax and try not to squeeze the bat too hard.”
I felt very reassured by that quote when I first heard it. When I feel myself becoming discouraged, I try to remember to just enjoy it. Enjoy the journey. If you focus too much on some distant goal you’re trying to achieve, you can miss out on all the fun.
–Matthew Brady, of Your Favorite Person
AYI
A: When I saw my payout through DistroKid for 2/24, I had a moment…had to remind myself that I’m releasing on these platforms so they can reach as many people as possible, not for me to be famous and get a deal in the industry (although a check would be helpful in this economy).
There’s something so empowering in creating something from scratch, developing an idea from my brain and/or collaborating with other artists to amplify it. I don’t want to ever feel like a machine where I’m constantly putting out music to keep up with the short attention spans and “trends” of today.
What keeps me going is the journey and the healing that comes from it. I’m doing this for little me–shoot, even big me! Each project either fosters my curiosity, connection with others, or connecting with other parts of myself that I’m still getting to know.
So even when the numbers don’t reflect the work, I’m reminded success is subjective. To me, staying honest to my ideas and continuing the process works for me.
–AYI
Eric Sorensen
of Ramona Lane
ES: Music is something that makes us feel alive and rejuvenated in our spirits. Being able to both play on stage and experience being in the audience is the best medicine for the soul.
When a good song comes on, or a solid groove locks the band in, everyone in earshot is suddenly captivated again. It’s a really fantastic experience that we are all so grateful to be a part of.
It’s an opportunity that not many people get to have, and we try to maintain a sense of appreciation and respect that we have the ability to do so. Performance of any kind, whether it’s stand-up comedy, ventriloquism, public speaking, music, or dance, can be intimidating and daunting. There’s an entire audience watching and listening to your every move, and it’s intense. It’s also really exciting and fun. The feeling of being on stage and giving all of your energy and people get to receive that, it’s empowering not just personally, but also into a greater sense of communal bonding and shared experience.
Some days it’s hard to pick up the instrument and practice, but that’s part of what being a musician is–not just the practice but also the struggle of making the choices to practice and continue to write. Seeing other bands that we met along the way that have “made it” or at least have “grown” out of the local bar and venue scene can feel discouraging, but at the same time, it gives us hope. Not that we can make a ton of money, but that people still care about music and live performances. They want to feel alive in one of the most socially open and acceptable means of activity: live music and performances.
The quality of the relationship with the people that you share interests, goals, and social morality with is what makes a band work. Everyone is there because we made the choice to take this time to come together and try and make something greater than just the sum of our parts. We want to spend time together because we have similar values, beliefs, and enjoy each other’s company in ways that makes us feel like we can do great things.
Between appreciation of being able to perform on stage regularly, and having the bond of shared interests, friendship, and business that is a band, not one of us thinks that we will ever stop playing music.
–Eric Sorensen, of Ramona Lane
Many thanks to these awesome musicians for contributing their time, their voices, and their unique perspectives on what keeps us keepin’g’ on. If you have thoughts on this topic and want to weigh in, please leave a reply below. Let’s keep the conversation going.
-Article written by James Kwapisz and friends
Leave a Reply