I’ve been deep into music since shortly after my 14th birthday. Three quarters of my life has been spent doing something I love. A lot. The side benefit has been that I’ve been able to create music as well. As much as any computer whiz with software can create “music” these days, I came about my (cough cough) talent honestly.
As hard as it might be to imagine holiday songs battling it out, the plain fact is … Christmas songs mean big bucks. Over and over and over again. A Number One Christmas song can mean early retirement for the writer, with a nice pension income supplemented every year in December.
In recent weeks I’ve been contacted by various music artists through various social medias (funny how the telephone is no longer one of them) to pick my brain for the millionth time on how to sell their wares/songs/nubile posteriors up the music industry food chain in the guise of a record deal or publishing deal or both.
It’s always in the form of sickly whining and the fetid scent of desperation wafts across the social media chasm with every single key stroke. “Why won’t anyone notice me?”
In recent weeks I’ve been contacted by various music artists through various social medias (funny how the telephone is no longer one of them) to pick my brain for the millionth time on how to sell their wares/songs/nubile posteriors up the music industry food chain in the guise of a record deal or publishing deal or both.
Secrets. Everyone has them; those little things you hide away, for fear of judgement and censure. Whether it’s trashy romance novels, plotless action movies, or peanut butter and bacon sandwiches, if there’s one thing every person on this planet has in common, it’s that everyone has or does something they’re ashamed of. In my case, my secret shame “things” mostly come in the form of music. I generally pride myself on having somewhat respectable taste in music (which I’m sure is debatable, but I’ll save that for next week’s column).
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 