The Bloomsbury Handbook of Popular Music Policy 9781501345326, 9781501345357, 9781501345340

Table of contents :
Cover
Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgements
Contributors
1 Introduction: Situating popular music policy Shane Homan
Part I Policy contexts
2 Distributing rights and resources: The cultural politics of popular music policy John Street
3 The presence and absence of policy in the digital music industries Daniel Nordgård
4 Property or status? Music and musicians under copyright Thomas Dillon
Part II Policy sectors
5 Conceptualizing popular music’s heritage as an object of policy: Preservation, performance and promotion Paul Long, Zelmarie Cantillon and Sarah Baker
6 Popular music, policy and education Gareth Dylan Smith and Zack Moir
7 Music exports Shane Homan
8 Broadcasting and popular music policy J. Mark Percival
9 Live music infrastructure Adam Behr
Part III National frameworks
10 Audible, visible and experiential: Reflections on South Korean popular music policy Soojin Kim
11 The Canadian conundrum: Robust policies catching up with the times Richard Sutherland
12 The new Great Leap Forward of China: National and local music policy in Chengdu Qian Wang
13 Australian popular music policy Sarah Taylor and Shane Homan
14 More than dots on maps: Locating live venues in the German music policy framework Niklas Blömeke, Jan Üblacker, Johannes Krause, Heiko Rühl and Katharina Huseljic´
15 From national identity to the well-being of future generations: Popular music within devolved Welsh policymaking between 1999 and 2020 Luke Thomas and Paul Carr
Part IV Contemporary debates
16 Ticketing: Why is it a problem? Michael Waterson
17 Gender and popular music policy Sam de Boise, Maura Edmond and Catherine Strong
18 When music becomes datafied: Streaming services and the case of Spotify Jonas Andersson Schwarz and Sofia Johansson
19 Music cities Sarah Taylor
20 Brexit and the UK live music industry Patrycja Rozbicka, Adam Behr and Craig Hamilton
References
Index

Citation preview

The Bloomsbury Handbook of Popular Music Policy

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The Bloomsbury Handbook of Popular Music Policy Edited by Shane Homan

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Inc 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in the United States of America 2022 Copyright © Shane Homan, 2022 Each chapter copyright © the contributor, 2022 For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. ix constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover photo by Shirlaine Forrest/WireImage/Getty Images All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Inc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Homan, Shane, editor. Title: The Bloomsbury handbook of popular music policy / edited by Shane Homan. Description: New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2022. | Series: Bloomsbury handbooks | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “Examines the complex relationships between governments, industries and audiences, offering insight into negotiations within particular industries, nations and regions, where music policy remains at the forefront of wider creative industries policy”– Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2021043526 (print) | LCCN 2021043527 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501345326 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501389917 (paperback) | ISBN 9781501345333 (epub) | ISBN 9781501345340 (pdf) | ISBN 9781501345357 (ebook other) Subjects: LCSH: Popular music–Law and legislation. | Popular music–Political aspects. | Cultural policy. | Music trade. | Music and state. Classification: LCC ML3918.P67 B562 2022 (print) | LCC ML3918.P67 (ebook) | DDC 781.64–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021043526 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021043527

ISBN: HB: 978-1-5013-4532-6 ePDF: 978-1-5013-4534-0 eBook: 978-1-5013-4533-3 Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

Contents

List of Illustrations  viii Acknowledgements  ix Contributors  x

1 Introduction: Situating popular music policy  Shane Homan 1

Part I  Policy contexts 2 Distributing rights and resources: The cultural politics of popular music policy  John Street 21 3 The presence and absence of policy in the digital music industries  Daniel Nordgård 33 4 Property or status? Music and musicians under copyright  Thomas Dillon 49

Part II  Policy sectors 5 Conceptualizing popular music’s heritage as an object of policy: Preservation, performance and promotion  Paul Long, Zelmarie Cantillon and Sarah Baker 73 6 Popular music, policy and education  Gareth Dylan Smith and Zack Moir 91 7 Music exports  Shane Homan 109

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Contents

8 Broadcasting and popular music policy  J. Mark Percival 127 9 Live music infrastructure  Adam Behr 137

Part III  National frameworks 10 Audible, visible and experiential: Reflections on South Korean popular music policy  Soojin Kim 151 11 The Canadian conundrum: Robust policies catching up with the times  Richard Sutherland 163 12 The new Great Leap Forward of China: National and local music policy in Chengdu  Qian Wang 181 13 Australian popular music policy  Sarah Taylor and Shane Homan 199 14 More than dots on maps: Locating live venues in the German music policy framework  Niklas Blömeke, Jan Üblacker, Johannes Krause, Heiko Rühl and Katharina Huseljic´ 217 15 From national identity to the well-being of future generations: Popular music within devolved Welsh policymaking between 1999 and 2020  Luke Thomas and Paul Carr 233

Part IV  Contemporary debates 16 Ticketing: Why is it a problem?  Michael Waterson 255 17 Gender and popular music policy  Sam de Boise, Maura Edmond and Catherine Strong 271

Contents

18 When music becomes datafied: Streaming services and the case of Spotify  Jonas Andersson Schwarz and Sofia Johansson 289 19 Music cities  Sarah Taylor 305 20 Brexit and the UK live music industry  Patrycja Rozbicka, Adam Behr and Craig Hamilton 321 References  333 Index  403

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List of Illustrations

Figures 12.1 The development/growth rate of the music market, 2014–18 (Zhao 2020). Unit: RMB (billions)  187 12.2 National GDP growth rate (State Statistics Bureau 2019, see Xinhua Wang [government] website 2019). Unit: RMB (billions)  187 15.1 Murray’s (2020) Welsh devolution process diagram  234 15.2 A snapshot of the flow of public funding in devolved Wales (1999–2020): Opportunities for policymakers to support Welsh popular music  234 15.3 A snapshot of the ladder of popular music support initiatives emanating from Welsh policy (2012–20)  249

Tables 1.1 Subdivided industries’ output value, 2018 (Zhao 2019). Unit: RMB (billions)  188 1.2 Live music associations in Germany  221 1.3 Federal Covid-related aid programmes in Germany  229

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Leah Babb-Rosenfeld at Bloomsbury for her endless patience in seeing this project to completion. A big thanks to the contributors who found the time to complete chapters and provide their impressive expertise to a good range of contexts, debates and issues. Their contributions are particularly appreciated as they were written at a time when university sectors, livelihoods and life generally were in pandemic upheaval. Thanks, too, to my colleagues in the School of Media, Film and Journalism at Monash University, who have proved to be a good bunch of people in the eternal crises that universities now find themselves in. Special thanks to Paul Long, who not only endured his own Covid-affected initiation into Monash but provided moments of wisdom in relation to this book. Completing this book also reminded me (again) of the global value of IASPM, the International Association for the Study of Popular Music, and the collective strength of its members’ knowledge and political aspirations, of which many examples can be found in this volume. A final thanks to my partner, Leah Mckay, who has put up with me during pandemic lockdowns, work trials and tribulations, and has endured my guitar playing and drumming. I am grateful for our new country lifestyle; the double album of Mckay/Homan country classics is sure to follow.

Contributors

Sarah Baker is Professor of Cultural Sociology at Griffith University, Australia. Her work explores the connections between heritage and well-being, the sustainability of the community heritage sector and the connections between heritage and the pursuit of cultural justice for local communities. Her books include Community Custodians of Popular Music’s Past: A DIY Approach to Heritage (Routledge, 2017) and Curating Pop: Exhibiting Popular Music in the Museum (Bloomsbury, 2019). Adam Behr is Senior Lecturer in Contemporary and Popular Music at Newcastle University, UK. His research covers cultural policy, the politics and sociology of music – particularly popular music – and the music industries. Niklas Blömeke is a PhD student in the Department of Music (Popular Music and Media) at Paderborn University, Germany. He lectures for the BA programme, is a member of IASPM D-A-CH and works as a local promoter. He is particularly interested in music performances, clubs and their networks. Sam de Boise is Senior Lecturer at the School of Music, Theatre and Art at Örebro University, Sweden. His research has focused on music, gender equality and masculinities, as well as music and extremism amongst the contemporary far-right. He is the author of Men, Masculinity, Music and Emotions (2015, Palgrave Macmillan) and is managing editor at NORMA: International Journal for Masculinity Studies. Zelmarie Cantillon is Vice-Chancellor’s Research Fellow in the Institute for Culture and Society, Western Sydney University, Australia. Her research focuses on the intersections of heritage, tourism, space and place, and cultural policy. She is particularly interested in exploring heritage through the lens of cultural justice. Paul Carr is Professor in Popular Music Analysis at the University of South Wales, UK. His research interests focus on the areas of musicology, the music industry and pedagogical frameworks for music-related education. His most recent publications include a monograph on Sting (2017), guest editorship of the journal Popular Music History (Curating and Documenting Local Popular Music Histories, 2020), co-editorship of The Bloomsbury Handbook of Rock Music Research (2020) alongside Allan Moore and guest editorship of the Journal of Popular Music Education (Popular Music Education in Wales, 2021).

Contributors

Thomas Dillon is a member of the English Bar (also admitted in California). He read Classics at Queens’ College, Cambridge, UK, and intellectual property and competition law at Queen Mary, University of London, UK. He has an MBA (Film Business) from Cass Business School, London, UK. Since 2014 he has been a legal counsellor at the World Intellectual Property Organization, Geneva. He is a Fellow of the Chartered Institute of Arbitrators and a member of the British Academy of Film and Television Arts. Maura Edmond is Lecturer in Media and Communications at Monash University, Australia. Her work on art, media, culture and gender has been published in New Media and Society, Television and New Media, Towards Gender Equality in the Music Industry (Bloomsbury 2019), the Routledge Companion to Global Cultural Policy (2018) and in arts and cultural magazines around Australia. Craig Hamilton is Research Fellow in the Birmingham Centre for Media and Cultural Research (BCMCR) at Birmingham City University, UK. His research explores the role of digital, data and internet technologies in the business and cultural environments of popular music. Shane Homan is Associate Professor in the School of Media, Film and Journalism at Monash University, Melbourne, Australia. He has written extensively on popular music and cultural policy. His most recent (co-authored) publication is The Music Export Business: Born Global (Routledge, 2021) with Stephen Chen, Richard Vella and Tracy Redhead. Katharina Huseljić is a PhD student in the Department of Sociology at Heinrich-HeineUniversity in Düsseldorf, Germany, where she lectures in quantitative methods. In the project CIMT she works on social (in-)equalities in the urban built environment and citizens’ participation in shaping cities and is especially interested in measuring individual demands and needs in the urban space in surveys. Sofia Johansson is Associate Professor in Media and Communication Studies at Södertörn University in Stockholm, Sweden. She is the co-author of Streaming Music: Practices, Media, Cultures (Routledge, 2017). Soojin Kim received her PhD in ethnomusicology from Ohio State University, USA, and currently teaches at a few different universities, including Korea National University of Arts, as a part-time instructor. Her research and teaching interests embrace issues of identity, modernity and multiculturalism in postcolonial contexts of South Korea. Johannes Krause researches social structural influences on doing beauty and education. He holds a PhD in sociology, a diploma in social sciences and a Master of Business Administration. Since 2010 he works, teaches and researches with qualitative and quantitative methods at the Department of Sociology of the Heinrich-Heine-University in

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Düsseldorf, Germany. He is co-editor of the soon-to-be published book Social Impact of Physical Attractiveness. Paul Long is Professor in Creative and Cultural Industries in the School of Media, Film and Journalism at Monash University, Australia, where he leads the postgraduate programme in Cultural and Creative Industries. He has written widely on popular music heritage and issues of cultural history. He is currently writing a book on the economy of popular music heritage for Rowan and Littlefield for publication in 2022. Zack Moir is Associate Professor of Music and Director of the Applied Music Research Centre at Edinburgh Napier University, UK. His research interests are in popular music in higher education, music education for social justice and improvisation pedagogies. Zack is the editor of The Bloomsbury Handbook of Popular Music Education: Perspective and Practices (2019) and an editor of The Routledge Research Companion to Popular Music Education (2017). Daniel Nordgård is Associate Professor at the University of Agder, Norway, and the author of several publications on the music industries, digitalization and streaming. He has a broad background from music, as musician and artist and as a festival manager and concert promoter. Nordgård sits on the board of the International Music Business Research Association (IMBRA) and the editorial board of the International Journal of Music Business Research (IJMBR). J. Mark Percival is Senior Lecturer in Media at Queen Margaret University, Edinburgh, UK. He leads the Creative Industries group at the QMU Centre for Communication, Cultural and Media Studies. His doctoral thesis at the University of Stirling, Making Music Radio, focused on the social dynamics of the relationship between record industry pluggers and music radio programmers in the UK. He has written about Scottish indie music production, popular music and identity, mediation of popular music and punk rock as heritage culture. Patrycja Rozbicka is Senior Lecturer in Politics and International Relations at Aston University, Birmingham, UK. Her research focuses on different stakeholders in policymaking, music and politics, and the regulation of the live music industry in the UK. Heiko Rühl is project manager of the first official German Live Music Survey Clubstudie. Besides live music and festival research he has conducted various projects in cultural sociology and urban and regional research at the University of Cologne, Germany. Jonas Andersson Schwarz, PhD, is Senior Lecturer/Associate Professor in Media and Communications Studies, Södertörn University, Sweden. Research interests: the interrelations between increasing digitization, everyday life, and social structures. Critical studies of digital platforms as structural and mediating infrastructures, particularly in

Contributors

relation to civil society, epistemology and the data-driven media economy. Materialsemiotic media ecology, including theories of posthumanism, Afrofuturism and the Capitalocene. Gareth Dylan Smith is Assistant Professor of Music (Music Education) at Boston University, USA, where he teaches graduate students in music education. Gareth plays drums with Stephen Wheel, Build a Fort, Oh Standfast, the Eruptörs and Black Light Bastards. He writes about drumming, popular music education and sociology of music education. Catherine Strong is Senior Lecturer in the BA (Music Industry) at RMIT University, Australia. Her research focuses on gender, collective memory and heritage in relation to popular music. Recent publications include the edited collections Towards Gender Equality in the Music Industry (Bloomsbury 2019) and The Routledge Companion to Popular Music History and Heritage, as well as articles in Cultural Sociology, Continuum and Gender, Work and Organisations. She is the co-editor of the journal Popular Music History. John Street is Professor of Politics at the University of East Anglia, UK, and has been an Honorary Professorial Fellow at the University of Melbourne, Australia. He is the author of several books, including Music and Politics (Polity, 2012). Currently, he is leading a project on the history and politics of the English protest song. Richard Sutherland is Associate Professor in the Department of Economics, Justice, and Policy Studies at Mount Royal University in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. His research focuses on the history of the development of Canada’s government policies for music industries. Sarah Taylor is a postdoctoral research fellow in the Unison Housing Research Lab at RMIT University, Australia. For her doctoral research she investigated the historical geography of live music in Melbourne and Sydney between the 1980s and 2000s, utilizing an innovative methodology that combined Geographic Information Systems and interviews with musicians. An expert in large datasets and mixed methods research, with an abiding interest in the value of music as a social research topic, she has published on topics relating to live music history, music industry restructuring, collaborative networks and social housing. As a musician, she has performed with folk group the Taylor Project since 2006. Luke Thomas is a PhD candidate at the University of South Wales, Cardiff, UK, who is currently researching Welsh popular music policy and its impact on musicians in Wales. Jan Üblacker is Professor for Housing and Neighborhood Development at the EBZ Business School, University of Applied Science in Bochum, Germany. His research focuses on causes and consequences of neighbourhood change, urban development, gentrification, housing and housing markets.

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Qian Wang, PhD, is Professor of Sociology at Yibin University, China. His research is mainly focused on music, sociology, cultural studies and gender studies in the context of Chinese popular music. He is the author of Rock Crisis: Research on Chinese Rock Music in the 1990s (Shanghai Shudian Chubanshe 2015). Michael Waterson is Professor of Economics at the University of Warwick, UK. He has worked on both theoretical and empirical issues in industrial economics. In 2016 he wrote an influential report on secondary ticketing commissioned by the UK Government.

1 Introduction: Situating popular music policy Shane Homan

Popular music first emerged as of intellectual interest within traditional academic disciplines such as sociology and English studies in Britain and the United States in the 1970s. This was at first driven by enquiries about consumption and embodied attachment: the role of music in everyday leisure contexts; how it is situated within the household, etc. Subsequent studies provided useful insights into the different uses of popular music, forming an important component of ‘subcultural studies’ and other contextualized forms of identity construction. These projects – examining how popular music forms the ‘glue’ for various urban scenes and tribes – come to lie at the intersection of sociology, criminology and leisure studies and an emerging cultural studies. How goth or punk music fans (for example) arranged themselves spatially, semiotically or politically produced work that was both interesting and a significant advance on prior constructions of popular music as simply an ‘add on’ leisure form. The ‘holy grail’ to be found – popular music at the centre of life and as spaces for an alternative politics of consumption and production – has at times proved elusive. However, by the 1980s, popular music became part of a wider range of popular culture (magazines, books, television, film, games) that demanded attention to their methods of production and consumption, and the myriad ways in which they constitute ‘entertainment’, ‘media’, ‘culture’ and ‘leisure.’ Subsequent research did much to begin the demolition of the semiotic fences between ‘high’ and ‘low’ art – and that ‘mere’ entertainment could possess interesting forms in which to interrogate social structures. In similar ways, the emergence of media industries studies was useful in beginning to think about how media companies arranged production; constructed and adhered to formats; thought about their core markets/consumers; and worked within key power structures. Initially derived from Marxist perspectives, media power was decisively linked to economic structures (see, for example, Fuchs and Mosco 2015). Equally, much of this work sought to align mainstream capitalism with mainstream culture, where major media companies served the interests of the state. The flaws of media monopolies (less consumer choice in product, distribution and ways to consume; increased power of companies to also dictate terms to governments) became a core research interest. While it never went away,

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media monopoly has again become a feature of popular music studies, as attention shifts to the commanding presence of internet platforms within the music industries. However, in a broader sense, just how and where fan, musician or management activities were abetted or constrained by the state was not yet of interest. However, ‘culture lives a hybrid life as a creature of the state, commerce and civil society’ (Durrer, Miller and O’Brien 2018: 3); and I now turn to the gradual incursion of popular music within the wider machinery of the state. Before we proceed further, it is worth briefly understanding central definitions in this book. I do not want to revisit the considerable debates about what occurs when ‘popular’ is placed in front of ‘music’ (cf. Frith 1996) as part of much wider debates about ‘mass’ and ‘popular’ culture. While acknowledging that music genres and practices cross boundaries, Middleton and Manuel (2015) provide some useful components: popular music is represented by the scale of its consumption and production; and can be developmentally aligned with mass media as its central forms of distribution. This accounts for ‘mainstream’ music genres – pop, rock hip-hop, country, dance/electronica, blues, r&b, soul – while also recognizing that what is regarded as a ‘niche’ genre is historically contingent. For example, is jazz regarded in the twenty-first century as ‘art’, ‘niche’ or ‘mainstream’ music? We would also include non-Western musics that accord with these definitions, either as adaptations or as fully formed local genres (with a much wider debate, too, about the policy contexts and discourses of ‘world’ music). As discussed in the next section, branching popular music enquiry out into much wider social, political and cultural contexts does not necessarily result in a ‘reductive … “sociologism”’ (Middleton and Manuel 2015), but acknowledges the existing discourses about music that existed before its arrival.

Arts and cultural policy Most Western (and many other) nations have instituted Arts ministries since the Second World War, initially premised on ensuring ‘high’ art forms such as opera, ballet and classical music were maintained. From the 1940s to the 1960s, these art sectors formed the bulk of state subsidy in the UK, New Zealand, Canada, Australia, France, the United States and elsewhere based on a settled discourse of ‘culture’. It has involved four broader defences in relation to classical music. First, that classical music derives from the wellspring of societal traditions reaching back centuries. Second, it has been consistently argued that this music is the height of ‘excellence’ – that its composition and performance represent the peak of human creativity. While this might be reaching too far into stereotype, its proponents nonetheless observe that the wider societal perception remains: Associated with the word [‘classical’] today, therefore, are connotations of clear hierarchies, of value judgements that are somehow objective and fixed across time, and of a principally Eurocentric view of culture. Even when considering contemporary ‘modern classics’, the implication is of acceptance into a revered canon of Great Work within a circumscribed tradition. (Eastburn 2018: 141)

Introduction: Situating Popular Music Policy

Third, such traditions should continue at the centre of reception and education to prevent a ‘lost’ cultural phenomenon, and to ensure new generations are weaned away from pop culture: [Young people] don’t have the freedom to choose Bach instead of Britney because they have never been taught how to exercise such freedom. Just imagine how our musical world would change if even a fraction of the amount of money young people spend on purchasing recordings of every new ‘pop’ sensation was spent on recordings of, say, western art music, or of indigenous music from across the world, or of the traditional music of some ancient culture! (Walker 2005: 137; see also Walker 2009)

Fourth, the unique arrangements of high art forms (ballet companies, symphony orchestras, opera companies) incur extremely high costs in rehearsing, performing and touring, where state subsidies ensure their survival. In short, such cultural enterprises should not be concerned with the economic constraints of commercial popular culture. Large-scale arts organizations’ costs of production (such as orchestras) cannot be met by ticket revenues – Baumol’s ‘cost disease’ – leading to a mixture of revenue solutions (donations, sponsorships, private philanthropy) combined with government funds (Brooks 2006). Perhaps a fifth broader defence can be added: how classical music is situated within ‘heritage’ discourses, in terms of both performance and educational practices. It is worth briefly re-rehearsing the above arguments for coming to understand how popular music has been defined in the past substantially by these absences – for what it is not. In turn, the sustained arguments for popular music as ‘Other’ against high musics have influenced how it has been funded, regulated and organized socially. The above arguments have been successfully challenged on several fronts, led in the main by a campaign for the arts intelligentsia and societies to take popular culture on its own terms. In one sense, this has simply been a case of ‘following the money’, in providing testimony to just how ‘popular’ popular music is. In another, it is also making the case for similar ‘public good’ arguments to that of high musics. Discussing Sandel (2012), John Street argues that a ‘Springsteen concert cannot be accounted in purely cash terms. It lives in the communal experience and understandings that exist outside the reach of market value’ (Street 2015: 8). At the same time, particularly since the conversion from ‘rock and roll’ to ‘rock’ in the 1960s and 1970s, many were prepared to argue for popular music on similar discursive terms to High musics in terms of creativity, genre traditions and complexity. This was augmented by the ‘“high” analysis of popular music’ that emerged in the 1980s in academic journals, books and mainstream media as popular music studies (and cultural studies) found more stable footings in universities (Hill 2020: 42). Perversely, the efforts to take popular music ‘seriously’ have created their own canons, hierarchies and value judgements. It is not surprising that by the 1990s researchers were investigating various branches of popular music from policy perspectives, including perhaps the first interrogation of the live music venue as a site of conflicting regulations and state anxieties (Street 1993). Through a prism of ‘unpopular culture’, Steve Redhead completed a series of analyses of

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urban music and nightlife, and the rise of ‘raves’ and the nightclub (1993, 1995, 1997) that in turn examined the legal frameworks of music (amidst other popular cultural forms) and the consequences of transgression. In 1991, Paul Chevigny completed a landmark study in how cultural regulation is deployed to mask other intentions. In this case, the introduction of New York City’s ‘cabaret laws’ restricted where its (primarily black) jazz musicians could play, and in what combinations. The reversal of the laws was achieved through recourse to broader constitutional rights that fought against efforts to ‘clean up’ the city for tourists amidst the adverse claims made for ‘vernacular’ music, even as the city admitted its jazz venues – and musicians – to be ‘a city and national treasure’ (Chevigny 1991: 102). Spanning sociology, criminology, law, politics and cultural studies disciplines, this kind of work in the 1990s was important collectively in placing different forms of music activity at the intersections of urban consumption/production. The role of the state also came into focus in its powers to enhance or censor. Martin Cloonan explored British popular music censorship (1996) and different national industrial contexts globally (2003). Drewett and Cloonan’s subsequent (2006) collected edition on music censorship in Africa usefully revealed how different histories of market formations, and historical understandings of the limits of the state, can inform censorship practices. Another important example of an early ‘popular music policy studies’ was Bennett et al.’s Rock and Popular Music: Politics, Policies, Institutions (1993). Presenting a variety of industry and government contexts globally, its strength was in the tensions between local, national and global policies and activities. Similarly, other work – Manuel (1993) and Malm and Wallis (1984, 1992) – emphasized further the need to examine the effects of media ownership, technologies and specific national media policies. In relation, how popular music is constructed and sold in specific tourism markets has added a valuable subbranch of intersections of leisure, nation and music genres, including political economy approaches to music tourism (see, for example, Connell and Gibson 2003; Guilbault and Rommen 2019). Popular music policy came to be part of a ‘critical cultural policy studies’ (Lewis and Miller 2003). Drawing on Foucault, Lewis and Miller assembled the collection in the name of a ‘progressive politics’ (Lewis and Miller 2003: 8). In 2003, they identified two broad forms of policy positions: (i) ‘the market as a system for identifying and allocating public preferences for culture’; and (ii) ‘identify[ing] certain artifacts as inalienably, transcendentally, laden with value … [it] encourages a dirigiste role for the state that coerce the public into an aesthetic’ (Lewis and Miller 2003: 4). While the first sees the state provide a ‘light touch’ regulatory framework in terms of infrastructure ownership (for example), the latter describes well the series of decisions made about funding symphony orchestras: an ‘“endangered species” approach to culture’ (Lewis and Miller 2003). How (and if) these two basic positions have changed are discussed below. Yet the 2003 collection is also interesting for its first two chapters that epitomize a much larger debate within cultural policy studies. In the opening chapter for the book, Stuart Cunningham argues fiercely for a more pragmatic – and practical – discipline:

Introduction: Situating Popular Music Policy

a policy orientation in cultural studies would shift the ‘command metaphors’ of cultural studies away from rhetorics of resistance, progressiveness, and anti-commercialism on the one hand, and populism on the other, toward those of access, equity, empowerment … It offers one major means of rapprochement between the critical and the vocational divide … (Cunningham 2003: 21)

For Cunningham, this entailed academics coming to grips with the fine detail of local policies (content quotas, Broadcasting Acts, who is given the keys to national media infrastructure, etc.) and a broader remit of interrogating how national culture is envisaged and implemented. In the following chapter, Jim McGuigan warns of ‘becoming [too] useful’ to industries and governments, with distinctions to be maintained between ‘“useful knowledge and “critical” knowledge’ (McGuigan 2003: 28–9). Drawing on Habermas’s construction of the ‘public sphere’, McGuigan argued to retain a broader field of enquiry as a corrective to a certain kind of instrumentalism which is implicit in the economic reductionisms and technological determinisms that frame much policy debate … it has now become common, however, for ‘culture’ to be resituated within the economistic and technicist discourses of public policy and in this way is tied into the governmentality of communications media on industrial and economic grounds. (McGuigan 2003: 38)

This debate has had various flashpoints since, although the subsequent chapters in the Lewis/Miller collection dealing with music – examining radio music formats (Berland 2003), the discourses and regulation of music copyright (McLeod 2003) and the idea and practices of music nation-states (Shuker 2003) – revealed a healthy diversity of approaches, where coming to grips with state machinery, and critiquing it, does not have to be an either/or proposition. Such divisions might seem ancient history; but they have resurfaced in different forms.

Cultural and creative industries I have described up to this point some of the ways in which popular music has been situated in relation to broader social and governmental conceptions of ‘culture’. This was also dependent upon the idea of the ‘cultural industries’ – the set of industries and arts organizations (including heritage) envisaged by and in the purview of governments. It has been well documented that the shift to the ‘creative industries’ in the late 1990s was precipitated by the UK Blair government’s 1998 Creative Industries Mapping Document, which famously married traditional arts (museums, crafts, art, etc.) to a wider range of industries (fashion, games, publishing, IT, etc.). For those sectors struggling to be noticed by government, this broader linkage of arts with industry, doing away with older hierarchies of value, was regarded as valuable. For others, the alignment of these industries with central economic discourses stripped out other criteria of value; privileged the individual artist over structural protections; and was dubiously linked to wider urban and social policy

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(Hesmondhalgh 2013a: 165–80). For still others, ‘[t]he creative industries paradigm has been a very successful rhetorical device for the promotion of this sector, though it has had a mixed reception: cultural analysts have objected to the economic slant on cultural production, while economists ask themselves what difference it makes to measurement in national income accounts and the industrial organization’ (Towse 2020: 143). This shift is in part reflected in the increasing number of state ‘Arts’ ministries re-titled and redesigned as inherently ‘Creative’: for example, Creative Wales; Creative New Zealand; Creative Scotland; or programme (Creative Ireland; Creative Canada, Creative Finland, Creative Denmark) and agencies (such as CreateHK for Hong Kong). In the main, these examples have replicated the original UK template of placing the former ‘cultural’ industries under a broader umbrella including media, design, gaming, etc., while emphasizing these sectors’ ability to go to market. Where financial support exists for these sectors, it is also now predicated upon their broader application across the state, ‘to position creativity across a range of governmental objectives and away from simpler subsidy models of support’ (Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole 2016: 5). It is also a more outward-looking project, in moving beyond cultural citizenship discussed below (and the benefits conferred upon local citizens of attending a cinema, a live concert or reading a book), and restating the case for a nationalism that can be put to work at home and abroad. It also brings potential problems, if national governments are seen to be simply outsourcing industry policy to the industries themselves. The repurposing of a national arts ministry to a Creative New Zealand (for example) also performs a cheerleader role, espousing a vitality of efforts and funding for consumption internally and externally. This has been consistent with those states which (pre-Covid-19) invested more heavily in their cultural budgets. It can also work in reverse: in 2019, the Australian government removed ‘Arts’ from the Minister’s title and departmental focus within a renamed Department of Infrastructure, Transport, Regional Development and Communications (McIlroy 2019). This was widely perceived as a demotion by those in and outside the cultural sector as the government argued the merits of reducing the number of departments from eighteen to fourteen. It also seemed consistent with various battles fought between Australian cultural sectors and the former Arts Minister and reduced funding of key organizations, such as the Australia Council, leading up to the departmental reshuffle. That ‘Communications’ was retained in the Australian departmental review – though seemingly tacked on at the end of the larger portfolios – is a reminder that cultural/creative policy intermingles with other state concerns, not least media policy, where broadcasting policy, for example, shapes decisions made about local content. We can borrow from Des Freedman’s (2008: 13–14) analysis of media in making distinctions between policy (goals, norms, instruments shaping behaviour); regulation (specific agencies and activities managing policy) and governance (the wider systems, institutions, public and private and national/international). Accounting for all the actors in these local, national and supranational contexts evokes instant complexity when we think about the range of spheres of public life and interested parties across communities, industries and governments. As Flew (2012a: 164–76) points out, the central changes of the past two decades, including globalization, technological change, information abundance, budget constraints and

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political shifts, have further complicated structures and processes. These in some ways have reduced where the state can act, and the allocation of funding and other resources taken for granted in prior decades.

What is popular music policy? Beyond the loftier rhetoric of governments, ‘[a]t its simplest, policy is about the attainment of particular goals’ (Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole 2016: 3). In adopting the Freedman schema cited above, a definition of popular music policy constitutes the goals, systems, management and regulation attached to popular music activity. In this sense, considerations of popular music are like any other affair of the state in ‘allocating scarce resources and resolving competing demands and is intensely political (in the sense that politics is about who gets what, when and how)’ (Street 2015: 7). While they can be most obviously broad, it is the triggering of particular instruments and actions where complexities and tensions lie. For example, a stated national goal of ‘promoting national artists in the national media’ raises questions about intent, context and practice. Should emphasis be placed on commercial television broadcasters to air more local music content; or should public broadcasters? If it is public broadcasters, what are the consequences in relation to legislated requirements to air local content? Further, what is now considered to be ‘national’ media, given the ubiquity of global media platforms; and what are the responsibilities of the state and industries in ensuring national visibility/audibility on these platforms? In this case, several ‘stakeholders’ become involved, including arts/cultural/creative and telecommunications government departments (who might have very different views based on different rationales); and industry bodies (copyright collecting societies, local/national musician organizations and unions, recording sector organizations, major and indie recording companies). In addition, other government departments (trade, copyright) may become involved in terms of national responsibilities within wider international trade agreements and the production of local content. This is not to forget the national audience, which might obtain input through public interest organizations designed to defend broadcasting; nor the media itself, which will almost certainly have a very public say in the broader policy goal and the means to attain it. While popular music policy involves (and often becomes bogged within) the realpolitik of other public governance spheres, ‘culture’ is at play here in very specific forms. To consider popular music policy is to recognize the impact of ‘value’ in two senses: (i) the value attached at a given time to the products, reception and activities of popular music; and (ii) the measure attached at a given time to ‘culture’ as an intrinsic public good. This is not to discount that economic rationales may be regularly found for both. It involves considering popular music as a powerful source of both individual and collective identities and values (Frith 1996) and ‘the ways in which political value is invested in music and becomes intrinsic to our understanding of it’ (Street 2015: 7).

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In Chapter 2, John Street expands on the primary sites of cultural policy in relation to popular music, and where priorities become central or marginal to state concerns. For Street, education policy is just as important as more obvious government portfolios (such as copyright) in the direction of flows of funding and resources, and what national music industries come to look like. Working through eight sites of intersection between the state, audiences and producers, Street reminds us to consider policymaking as exercises in power, with consequential results as a form of ‘politics by other means’, and a politics of value that impacts upon, and is in turn impacted by, a range of other public and governmental spheres. I will now consider some of the ways in which these distinct meanings of ‘value’ have become apparent in specific instances; and acknowledge where authors in this collection have taken up these and other themes in their own chapters.

Local, national, regional, global? Popular music has always been at the heart of tensions related to the trade of cultural goods and services. The ‘independence’ of nation-states is certainly filtered through wider global mechanisms. The GATT (General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade) and, later, the World Trade Organization have been influential in setting trade terms, where music (as with film, television, radio) has been contentious. The argument that culture should be an ‘exception,’ protected as intrinsic to national culture, has been a source of friction in many so-called free trade agreements between nations. For example, Canada’s recent re-negotiation of the NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement) with US President Donald Trump proved to be difficult. The Canadians’ insistence upon retention of the ‘cultural exemption’ for media and cultural production was a ‘sticking point’ with the Americans (MacCharles 2018). In relation, what are now regarded as ‘old school’ mechanisms – local content quotas – have proved to be remarkably stubborn in the digital era. Again, Canada has been the most vocal in arguing for the adverse effects of a full-blown internationalism. In addition to retaining its local content quotas for music, a 2020 review of its Broadcasting Act also argued for international carriers of music and video (Netflix and Amazon as much as Spotify and iTunes) to be legislatively treated as ‘local’ companies with attendant regulation and obligations to consumers and producers (Broadcasting and Telecommunications Legislative Review Panel 2020). As Richard Sutherland points out in Chapter 11, the recent global successes of Canadian artists (see also Chapter 7) have disguised several pressing policy concerns. While older frameworks built upon cultural nationalism (protecting music output against that of much larger neighbours) remain, these are no longer sufficient within digital, global processes of music-making and consumption. Sutherland argues that both current and future governments must confront a long policy ‘shopping list’ to enact change, among them a restoration of copyright law to take into account the ability to siphon revenues from the larger digital aggregators; the amendment of ‘local content’ definitions

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to incorporate streaming media and a revamp of national funding structures to ensure better local sustainability for artists. The much earlier prediction that some companies might end up ‘floating up above sovereign national states’ (Malm and Wallis 1992: 2) was prescient. The real power of the global digital platforms is now ‘hiding in plain sight’, with their ability to override local consumption platforms and local content mechanisms. This represents the messy landscape in which governments and industries must contend. Questions include how to ensure the visibility/audibility of local acts on global curated platforms, and the effects of algorithmic decision-making upon music choices for the consumer. For the state, there are increasing questions about how to leverage local taxation upon international companies, ensuring that local consumption is properly accounted. For example, one newspaper reported that in Australia, Spotify’s stated revenue had decreased from $129 million in 2016 to $416,000 in 2019, despite considerable local subscription growth in the same period (Cooke 2020). The reason offered by the company was its transfer of subscription revenues through its Luxembourg parent company (Cooke 2020). In 2020, Indonesia imposed a 10 per cent VAT on ‘non-resident foreign firms which sell digital products and services … worth at least 600 million rupiah ($41,667) a year or which generate yearly traffic from at least 12,000 users’ (Reuters 2020). After the initial utopian discourses of such platforms as the ‘saviour’ of both musicians and fans, it seems nation-states are summoning the courage to use their legislative powers. The vexed issue of ‘Brexit’ is another series of events that reveal interesting combinations of local/regional/global. The decision by the UK to leave the European Union (EU), and the subsequent severing of complex legislative trade, justice and travel frameworks, had long been argued by key organizations (UK Music, PRS, MMF) to have various adverse effects upon British music. A UK Music submission to a Brexit enquiry outlined concerns for touring, visa regulation, copyright and the removal of access for UK musicians to EU funding (UK Music 2016a) amidst wider concerns of a loss of control when engaging with such a large trading partner. With the deal finally secured in early 2021, the music industries’ fears of increased bureaucracy and costs to engage with Europe were confirmed. Further outrage ensued upon a newspaper report that an EU offer to exclude musicians from more restrictive visa arrangements was refused by a UK government determined to stick with ending ‘freedom of movement’ regulations on both sides of the English Channel (O’Connor 2021). At the time of writing, it is becoming clearer how Brexit will directly affect musicians in a variety of ways, with a list of famous artists putting their names to a letter arguing that ‘the deal done with the EU has a gaping hole where the promised free movement for musicians should be: everyone on a European music tour will now need costly work permits and a mountain of paperwork for their equipment’ (Ramachandran 2021). Elton John has gone further, arguing that ‘the entertainment business brings in £11 billion a year to this country and we were just tossed away … Oh well, the arts: they don’t matter’ (cited in Rogers 2021). In Chapter 20, Patrycja Rozbicka, Adam Behr and Craig Hamilton outline the various obstacles confronting UK artists, managers and touring crews desiring to tour Europe; and European acts used to touring the UK with minimal fuss. Through the case study of

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Birmingham, the authors reveal the many effects wrought by an increasing bureaucracy that flows through to the viability of local venues and ‘incubator’ infrastructure for emerging artists. As the British music industries have collectively (and repeatedly) pointed out to both the May and Johnson Conservative governments, the economic losses will be substantial and ongoing. This remains a vivid example of how indirect policies have direct effects. In the push for a ‘hard Brexit’, the Conservative governments have been consistent in removing ‘freedom of movement’ for goods, people and services that will steadfastly ignore the fallout across all cultural industry sectors. The UK music industries are also fearful of effects upon national output and European sales. In Chapter 7, Shane Homan explores the increasing prominence of music export programmes and offices in countries with strong and less recognized popular music industries. After Cloonan (2007), Homan documents a hyper-promotionalism in a sector that (pre-Covid-19) relies upon personal and institutional networks and a set of cultural intermediaries that work to combine different cultural nationalisms, identities and sounds. As export programmes expand in many countries, problems remain in how ‘success’ is measured, and the levels and types of interdependency between states and industries. Policy contexts are also being broadened to account for themes of climate change and sustainability. Investigating the historic ‘materiality’ of popular music, Kyle Devine’s Decomposed: The Political Ecology of Music (2021) asks us to contemplate the consequences of music consumption in terms of energy and natural and human resources. Gibson and Warren’s (2021) The Guitar: Tracing the Grain Back to the Tree similarly offers a new subfield of popular music policy, in analysing the value chain of guitar production and how the regulation of rare wood categories confront musicians’ and companies’ thirst for an ‘authentic’ product. Both works raise a new politics in extending beyond the national, and ideas of the ‘good global citizen’.

The national Martin Cloonan’s (1999) argument that the nation-state retains considerable legislative and discursive force within ever-globalizing forces is upheld in this collection, albeit with a few caveats (discussed below). In a collection of writing examining the formation and maintenance of Australian culture, Rowe, Turner and Waterton (2018) employ the term ‘nationing’ to chart the disappearance of former ideas of culture as national social contract, national identity (or both); and to announce new forms of nation-building. Nation-states cannot entirely abandon intrinsic projects of cultural infrastructure and governance but do have to entertain the paradox of ‘a partnership between the internationalist embrace of a global economy and a nationalist programme of modernization and cultural development’ (2018: 7–8). The third section of this volume examines specific national policy contexts and histories. In British contexts, J. Mark Percival (Chapter 8) examines broadcasting policy as something which is only incidentally enacted in relation to popular music. Examining

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the histories of music radio in the UK, Percival discusses one of the perversities of broadcasting policy: the arrival of ‘pop’ music formats on the BBC as a result of offshore pirate stations’ success in providing youth with an outlet. For the most part, it is argued, popular music was a distant matter for both Labour and Conservative governments more concerned with ownership patterns within commercial music radio, and the continued health of BBC radio. Soojin Kim (Chapter 10) examines the astonishing rise of K-pop and accompanying state policies designed to capitalize on local and (especially) international consumption. This chapter provides a clear history of how the foundational discourses of the ‘creative industries’ have been directly linked to much wider national aims and outcomes. In assessing the various forms of place-making, national branding and tourism strategies allied to K-pop, Kim argues that future research needs to recognize the limits of commodification and government policy instrumentalism and ask harder questions about what the broader uses of ‘culture’ should entail. In Chapter 13, Sarah Taylor and Shane Homan examine the Australian challenges of policymaking in a large country with a tripartite governance system (cf. Canada) at some distance to the centres of production and consumption. The authors emphasize the historical importance of broadcasting policy in ensuring the visibility of Australian artists to local fans. The chapter documents the recent machinations of live music policy and the emergence of the ‘Agent of Change’ policy as globally innovative in reversing the onus of residents and developers to existing music venues. In the absence of federal government interest in a coherent national music (or cultural) policy, Taylor and Homan argue that it is the larger capital cities that have taken the opportunity to drive policy, in tandem with better organized advocacy and industry associations. Chapter 14 in this book also emphasizes live music policy within a national context. Niklas Blömeke, Jan Üblacker, Johannes Krause, Heiko Rühl and Katharina Huseljić look at city policymaking in Germany filtered through federal histories and contexts, including zoning, noise law, licensing, tenancy and safety laws. Their case study of Cologne provides interesting insight into the tensions between obvious stakeholders amidst the city’s plan to properly incorporate music venues as ones of cultural value. The proposal currently in front of the Bundestag – to classify all live venues as cultural institutions – is intriguing for the wider precedent it may set in Europe and elsewhere. In Chapter 15, Luke Thomas and Paul Carr chart a similar trajectory in policy from economic discourses to one of wider social/cultural benefit in documenting the influences of a ‘national’ policy at first driven by UK budgets, with increasing autonomy achieved via devolution. They also trace the increasing emphasis upon Welsh identity and Welsh language in popular music policy, particularly at the school level. For Thomas and Carr, a key, recent breakthrough has been achieved in recent governments recognizing the importance of both creative industries and social/cultural policies, and providing the legislative firepower to fund them. This means identity discourses can be further translated into sufficient expansion of domestic and export support.

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The ‘music city’ moment While the nation-state retains a strong influence in how popular music policy is discussed and arranged, the other major shift in policy contexts (coupled with and implicated within creative industries discourse) has been the emergence of the ‘music city’. Popular music has certainly been part of town and city strategies seeking to exploit ‘high’ or popular culture to promotional and economic ends. In one sense, this has been a logical development of earlier positioning of urban places as a ‘city of cinema’ or ‘city of literature’. In essence, the thematic drivers of the music city revolve around structures of space (popular music as part of locational creative industries/entertainment clusters and networking); structures of local economies (popular music as sites of economic opportunity across both production and consumption) and structures of promotion (popular music as signifier of cultural branding) (Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole 2016: 84–7). Popular music as central to urban heritage has been a strong component of this in embodying all three themes. Memphis (Hall 1998), Nashville (Kosser 2006), Austin (Grodach 2012b) and Liverpool (Cohen 2007) are vivid examples of cities that have successfully converted popular music histories into durable heritage narratives. Beyond its role as consistent reminders of the value of placemaking (e.g. Memphis as one of the founding sites of blues and rock and roll), popular music heritage continues to be leveraged in contemporary branding efforts. As Paul Long, Zelmarie Cantillon and Sarah Baker point out in Chapter 5, heritage operates as both direct and indirect forms of popular music policy. Their chapter moves through the various forms of argument for intangible music heritage protections; and the claims made for unashamed activation of local/national histories for tourism, where pop, rock, reggae and heavy metal exhibitions (and acts) are now welcomed in more formal settings. This chapter poses various policy tensions, not the least in having different stakeholders (governments, fans, artists, industries) come to some agreement about the social and cultural value of what should be preserved and promoted. The music city paradigm has an equally long history, of course, in urban regeneration narratives. The construction of the Beatles Museum (The Beatles Story) on Liverpool’s docklands in 1990, for example, serves several purposes: as part of wider and more expensive efforts to replenish neglected parts of the city; as a core feature of remembrance and civic pride; and as a handy generator of international tourist income. In Chapter 12, Qian Wang explores the very local contexts of music policy in Chengdu, and how they play out against a backdrop of national government discourses and expectations. Drawing on local interviews, Wang provides an interesting account of how Chengdu bureaucrats thread the needle in meeting the many tasks that are often in conflict with local/national objectives. The chapter provides insight into how ‘music city’ ambitions are played out in China, with Chengdu harnessed to particular aims of national creative industries policy in this respect. Wang walks through the ways in which popular music remains marginalized, where the performance of policy action and structures comes to stand in for the real thing. Although possessing an uneven track record, urban regeneration strategies can also be classified as social amelioration strategies: popular music playing its part to smooth

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away the debilitating effects of unemployment, civic decay and general perceptions of poor ‘liveability’ in certain towns and cities. This is achieved through luring the ‘right’ kinds of labour, cultural consumption and creative industries. There is now enough distance from Richard Florida’s original work (2002, 2005a) to reconsider issues which are more than side effects of middle-class regeneration: regulation, gentrification and displacement (Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole 2016: 86). In Chapter 19, Sarah Taylor canvasses the history of thinking about the ‘music city’ concept, both as an idea and as an ideal. This chapter looks at the different academic, state, advocacy body, city, United Nations and music industries definitions, making distinctions between the music city and music in the city. It traces the policy histories of Austin, Texas, as one example where city/industrial reform was matched with promotional strategies that reinforced each other. Taylor warns of the dangers for the music industries in arguing too hard for the ‘special’ qualities of urban music activity, even as it remains as a handy trope within predominant economic narratives. The emphasis upon urban contexts in this book is revealing in signifying the extent to which localized activity retains its importance. Various discussions in different chapters about the music city concept also imply a wider shift in power relations, as major cities assume greater roles in the funding, promotion and maintenance of local and regional music industries. However, as Adam Behr points out in Chapter 9, problems certainly remain about how ‘infrastructure’ is defined and constructed (including in the arguments put forward for public monies to facilitate primarily commercial ventures). Examining the different scales of live performance sites in the UK, Behr reveals an increasingly popular city strategy: the harnessing of public and private funds to construct the ‘Statement’ concert arena, designed to provide a landmark building that announces regeneration, and ensure that the city is included in the national tour circuits of the more famous national and international artists. For Behr, the intersections of local, regional and national policymaking structures are poorly equipped to handle the needs of the smaller local pub venue, which experiences all of the regulatory burdens of the different governmental tiers, but often without the consistent support of all three layers.

Networked everything Popular music has led the cultural industries in grappling with the production and consumption contexts of the internet. This can be summarized in encompassing four broad stages. The first stage entailed a primarily legal discourse from the mainstream industries (recording companies, artists and publishers) in response to the initial emergence of internet filesharing. Confronted by ‘illegal’ consumption, the recording companies collectively branded their core markets not as fans, but as consumers, with corresponding threats to use the courts for punitive action. Here, discussions of digital piracy trumped wider considerations about the best uses of digital circuits to grow consumption. In the United States, the RIAA initiated 20,000 lawsuits against individual downloaders (Waelbroeck 2013: 391).

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The second stage introduced ‘a la carte downloads’ (Waelbroeck 2013: 394) via computers or smartphones offered by Apple (iTunes), Spotify, Deezer, Rhapsody and others. The ‘allyou-can-eat’ buffet approach was initially offered via subscription models for a monthly fee, or for free if willing to consume the accompanying advertising. Where the music industries continued to invest in better CD technologies, the real innovation was imposed upon them by media platform companies in redesigning ‘choice’ and viewing the era of abundance not as something to be guarded against, but as the central sales pitch. The third (overlapping) stage entailed the spread of music networks beyond listening platforms. MySpace (2004) and YouTube (2005) became important distribution networks for commercial music video content. More importantly, these sites provided new forms of community-building around artists and genres, provoking an explosion of amateur music activities. In addition, other companies emerged to offer even more emphasis upon algorithm-centric music platforms (Rdio, Pandora, iHeartRadio). A further part of stage three is the gradual digitalization of traditional media industries: analogue music radio stations offering digital options, for example. This sees the music industries engaging in definitional wars in terms of both what is ‘media’, and what falls within regulatory jurisdiction. Stage four (at the time of writing) sees a more settled digital landscape in relation to the major players, and continuing convergence of content, ownership patterns and distribution. For example, in April 2021, Facebook ‘deepen[ed] its relationship with music company Spotify and will allow users to listen to music hosted on Spotify while browsing through its apps as part of a new initiative called “Project Boombox”’ (Matney and Perez 2021). Streaming (rather than subscription, and the former pretence of ‘owning’ songs) is the dominant model, supported by ever-increasing sophistication of mobile phone technologies. However, the utopian discourses that accompanied the arrival of the music platforms have long disappeared. Digital distribution has upended relationships between artist and fan across social and legal lines. For both artists and fans, massive amounts of ‘relational labour’ (Baym 2018) can be expended in maintaining healthy connections. It is argued as an imperative for contemporary artists who can trade digital fan connections for branding and commercial benefits (Baym 2018; Meier 2015). Finally, the digital platforms’ claims to ‘saving the music industries’ (Spotify 2021a) are being re-evaluated. This has included re-assessment of data offered by the major players arguing the famous decline in profits wrought by digitalization: ‘this information has been repackaged and sold to politicians and the public in order to create laws that benefit major record labels’ (Arditi 2021: 87). It has also renewed calls to reassess ownership structures: As streaming rose to prominence, so too did the outsize corporate power that has come to control nearly all music distribution and revenue. Spotify and Google’s YouTube account for three-quarters of all streams globally. Along with streaming services of tech monopolists Apple and Amazon, four companies have a near-total stranglehold on the market … That power imbalance has worsened the industry’s inequity. Apple, Google, and Amazon are able to bankroll their music offerings through monopoly profits elsewhere. (Knox 2021)

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Taken to its furthest ends, Hesmondhalgh and Meier (2018: 1567) wonder if music has become ‘instrumental’, simply ‘a particularly potent way to attract consumers to new technologies’. These interdependencies of payment structures, industrial practices, technologies and corporate footprints are assessed in the next section. Echoing Street’s description of music policy as ‘politics by other means’, Daniel Nordgård presents an interesting account of the many differences that lie between the central technology companies and the music industries in Chapter 3. Assessing the consequences of an important Roundtable between government agencies, music and media sectors held in Norway annually, Nordgård documents the problems experienced by stakeholders in obtaining consensus, where digital music policy cuts across very different corporate, national and European agency agendas. In this context, the ways in which both the music and tech sectors positioned themselves and their opponents in legislators’ eyes were just as important as the policy themes and merits of particular arguments. In Chapter 18, Jonas Andersson Schwarz and Sofia Johansson examine Spotify and the consequences of ‘datafication’. In assessing the ethical, legal and material contexts of music as data, they ask us to consider a new digital political economy with a distinct hierarchy of important and less important players. Indeed, ‘Spotification’ announces new and complex ways to understand the power and practices of the digital platforms, especially where the fan/consumer is but an endpoint (product) of algorithmic distributions of music. Andersson Schwarz and Johansson raise many issues in terms of Spotify’s power in terms of what and how much music reaches the consumer; the ephemerality of current music distribution; and market distortions that require real legislative intervention.

Rights and royalties Unease about the growing dominance of certain companies in key sectors (including Live Nation’s power within concert/touring production) has shifted to the foreground in some key ways in recent times. The US Congress has asked Spotify to answer questions about its ‘Discovery Mode’ function, including its promises to increase artists’ visibility in playlists in exchange for lower royalty rates (Brewster 2021). Of greater note, artists’ increasingly vocal complaints about streaming royalty rates provoked an industrial and a governmental response. Spotify launched its ‘Loud & Clear’ website explaining its payments ecosystem. In the aim ‘to provide a valuable foundation for a constructive conversation’ (Spotify 2021b), the website makes useful and emphatic points about wider value chain inputs and responsibilities for artist payments without directly addressing artists’ main concerns: how it processes royalties via its ‘streamshare’ system, rather than direct alignment of download to artist/publisher/recording company; the call to publish artist annual earnings; how the system provides long-term viability for the tranche of artists who are not ‘superstars’; and calls to raise the overall floor of the royalty rate. The governmental response arrived with the House of Commons Economics of Music Streaming Inquiry in the UK across 2020–1 (UK Parliament 2021). The mix of artists,

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recording label and streaming company executives who provided testimony produced some predictable standoffs between MPs and industry CEOs, with various noises about ‘evolution’ of the digital ecosystem and teething problems; and differences about the extent of the royalties problem and potential fixes (Smirke 2021). Artists were not appeased by Spotify CEO Daniel Ek’s thoughts a year earlier that the central problem was one of productivity: You can’t record music once every three to four years and think that’s going to be enough. The artists today that are making it realise that it’s about creating a continuous engagement with their fans. It is about putting the work in, about the storytelling around the album, and about keeping a continuous dialogue with your fans. (Richards 2020)

At the time of writing, the UK Parliament Inquiry had yet to release its recommendations. Artists have not relented in their streaming campaign. In June 2021, many famous artists petitioned the British prime minister, Boris Johnson, requesting that streaming royalties be paid through a performing rights organization, and that a regulator be established to oversee the entire streaming sector (Beaumont-Thomas 2021). This sought to place streaming royalties akin to how payments are made through traditional broadcasting such as radio. In Chapter 4, Thomas Dillon provides a fascinating account of how music gradually came into view of rights holders, industries and governments, and the ways in which the basic premises of authorship and ownership spilled over from the emerging book and other cultural industries. Examining the current balance between copyright owners and those in charge of its distributive technologies, Dillon argues that not a lot has changed: a central ‘property right’ remains absent, leaving songwriters and performers with negligible recourse under existing ‘renumeration’ rights. With the full scope of economic rights in relation to digital platform companies yet to be settled, Dillon reminds us that artists have few choices in the contemporary popular music landscape. In another ‘rights’ context, Michael Waterson (Chapter 16) examines the company and consumer contexts of music concert ticketing. Charting the changing histories and technologies of ticket arrangements, economic theory is invoked in relation to the consumer’s willingness to endure certain types of ‘rules’ from the ticketing companies, and the role of consumer psychology in assessing ticketing company marketing and purchasing structures. As noted in other chapters in this volume, monopoly (or semi-monopoly) structures and practices have left consumers with few moral or legal rights. Waterson also assesses the controversial ‘secondary ticketing’ system, suggesting that increasing legislation of the sector will have to be supplemented by the use of better policing technologies, both on the website and at the stadium.

Policy efficacy and situating value Finally, what of the ability of governments to implement popular music policy and its abilities to effect real change? As we have seen in the section above, governments continue

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to excel in substantially lagging legislatively behind commercial digital media and the consequences of a networked set of industries (Flew and Swift 2013). They are also poor in shaping policy responses for industries such as popular music that ‘focus on mass markets, make money from their blockbuster products, enlist brokers to spot and filter talent, and their synergies have often made it attractive to integrate them in entertainment conglomerates’ (Jones, Lorenzen and Sapsed 2015: 19). While monitoring and regulating for the effectiveness of creative industries and markets is difficult enough, others have fiercely returned to prior policy meanings that lie beyond the economic: ‘debates over cultural policy and creative sector funding focus mostly on government-approved instrumental arguments and reasoning, thus leaving real and substantive issues of cultural value, access and justice under-explored and unchallenged’ (Belfiore 2018: 2–3). This argument has been sharpened in the wake of the devastating impacts of Covid-19 on the cultural/creative industries, particularly the performing arts sector. In Australian contexts, successive budget cuts to cultural enterprises and organizations have left arts leaders believing that neither cultural nor economic arguments will sway the current Australian government (Anatolis 2020; Caust 2021; Meyrick 2020) in providing further support. The ‘notion that arts funding is about investing in artists so they can make art, sure in the knowledge that doing so is in itself a public good, feels like a quaint memory’ (Croggon 2019). While the Morrison government did offer $160 million in support for Covid-19-related assistance to arts and culture, the way in which is its primary unemployment benefit payment (‘Jobkeeper’) excluded arts workers has been heavily criticized. Further, it has been argued that ‘ideological rigidity’ provided the cause for the slow and careful ways in which support was targeted and provided, especially compared to individual state government support (Pacella, Luckman and O’Connor 2021: 46). The effects of Covid-19 revealed how popular music extends throughout local economies, especially in the economic losses aligned to the closure of the local music pub, festival and national touring circuits (e.g. Savage 2020); and also how popular music (and popular culture more generally) provided much needed distractions to locked down consumers. This returns us to earlier discussions of ‘cultural citizenship’ (Miller 2007), and the ways in which we might think about where the popular music subject is defined as consumer/ citizen. As one of the few silver linings of a tragic and widespread pandemic, does the centrality of loss/substitute narratives in relation to popular music provide a space where ‘practices of consumption have not entirely superseded practices of civics’ (Miller 2007: 32)? Rather than dwell on the (often) predictable responses of particular governments to music sector support, there is the possibility of a post-Covid cultural ‘subjectivity [that] is ordained prior to politics’ (Miller 2007: 72) in the ways that popular culture came to resemble something more than entertainment. In this book, examining other spheres of cultural citizenship, Gareth Dylan Smith and Zack Moir (Chapter 6) argue that music education is too important to be left to the devices and discourses of the market. Their chapter examines UK and US policy settings, revealing how wider national histories of thinking about arts/culture (and race, gender and class) have limited the options, in turn, for thinking about popular music education. Dylan

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Smith and Moir make a passionate case for music education that is not only about the fundamentals of music histories and music-making, but as a political project that extends beyond the needs of the music industries. In relation, Sam de Boise, Maura Edmond and Catherine Strong (Chapter 17) argue that for women and non-binary people, matters of gaining access to and being included within popular music policy cannot be left to the music industries alone. Examining the policy histories of Sweden, Australia and the UK, the authors document progress in some quarters, especially within music industry bodies who now recognize the value of ‘diversity’ structurally. However, too often, the establishment of equity ‘guidelines’ and ‘strategies’ is not sufficiently implemented, leaving suspicions about original intent and aspirations (within governments and industries). De Boise, Edmond and Strong note the rollout of Covid-19 assistance packages to the music industries as an instance where the gendered impacts of lockdowns and loss of income were not properly measured or responded to. Popular music policy studies, then, continue to ask important questions: what are the roles and responsibilities of us as fans and music-makers; what are the roles, responsibilities of the state and the music industries? Beyond the mechanics of singular policies, regulations or industry strategies, popular music’s ability to ‘provide a basis for rich, feelingful experiences of sociability’ (Hesmondhalgh 2013b: 171) is too important to be left to ‘key stakeholders’.

Part I Policy contexts

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2 Distributing rights and resources: The cultural politics of popular music policy John Street

Introduction Popular music policy is political. Not in the (largely meaningless) sense that ‘everything is political’, but rather in the sense that popular music policy involves the allocation of prized rights and scarce resources. Music policy – as with any policy – entails the articulation and imposition of political values and judgements through the exercise of political power. This, at least, is what I want to argue in this chapter. Rather than consider the broad sweep of music policy, useful though this can be (Cloonan 1999; Cloonan and Frith 2008), I want to concentrate on the political choices that governments (and their agencies) make when implementing music policy, and the political consequences of them. This is why this chapter’s title refers to ‘rights and resources’. These, I want to suggest, are what are at stake in the making of music policy. Music policy is, in other words, politics by other means. Who benefits and who loses in the results of these decisions can be attributed to the distribution of power. Power – who gets what, when and how – is often taken to define what is contained or meant by ‘politics’. In the case of music policy, this power resides within global, national and local forms of government, but it also resides within corporations and other institutions that are implicated in the production, distribution and consumption of music. How these corporations and institutions act is determined, to an important extent, by the legal framework and regulatory process that are created by governments. The degree of state involvement varies with political system – from the most authoritarian to the most libertarian – but all in their different way intervene in the business of making, distributing and consuming music. Music, you might say, could not exist without these interventions – a truth that was brought home brutally by the impact of the lockdown imposed by

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governments during the Covid-19 pandemic of 2020–1. How music was made and heard changed radically; live performance became a solo stream in an empty room. While corporations and other non-governmental institutions are implicated in the making and implementation of popular music policy, this chapter focuses upon the actions of formally designated political actors, individuals and institutions acting at the local, national and global levels, whose power to act is legitimated by constitutions or elections or both. Because of these legitimating processes, political actors differ in the music policies they implement. These differences stem from political ideologies and forms of political system. China’s music policy is different from Canada’s because one is an authoritarian regime and the other liberal democratic, but Canada differs from the United States, which differs from Sweden. And so on, with the result that one country produces Rush, and the other ABBA, the explanation for which can be found in part, if not only, in politics. Politics, though, is not just about the exercise of power. Music policy is not just a matter of power either. It is also an argument about what is fair or just, about who should benefit and who should lose. Towards the end of 2020, a Select Committee in the UK’s House of Commons hosted an investigation into music streaming. One of the witnesses to the enquiry was Guy Garvey of the band Elbow. In giving evidence, he said: If you weigh up the effort and time that goes into making the art, making these recordings – and not just the art, but the craft and the skills of producers, recording engineers and microphone manufacturers … no, you shouldn’t really have it in your pocket for £10 a month. (DCMS Select Committee, House of Commons 2020)

Garvey, like several other musicians who appeared before the Select Committee, was arguing that the treatment of musicians by streaming services such as Spotify was unfair. He was making a political argument about justice. Such arguments are also a central feature of the politics of music policy.

A brief history Guy Garvey’s plea for a fairer treatment for musicians is not the first such request and is not peculiar to the particular circumstances created by the digitalization of music-making and music distribution. There have been many previous such pleas. The history of attempts to protect the rights of musicians stretches back into the nineteenth century, and the unionization of musicians (Williamson and Cloonan 2016). A trade union for musicians is, however, just one symptom of the politics of music policy. After all, those politics are themselves a product of other processes. These include, but are not confined to, the changes brought about by new technologies, from the printing process to the drum machine to the sampler and beyond. These technologies set in chain rights claims that have had to be settled by political interventions of one kind or other, most obviously that of copyright (Cummings 2013), but labour legislation and competition regulation are also implicated, as are broadcasting and tax policies.

Distributing Rights and Resources

To notice these other familiar features of the policy areas that organize the making, distribution and consumption of music is to see the shifting surface of a deeper set of changes. These involve the gradual recognition of music as a legitimate and necessary focus of political attention. This history is described by Tim Blanning (2008) as ‘the triumph of music’. For much of the early period of recorded history, at least in the West, musicians (if not music) were regarded with some suspicion. While it might be wrong to describe the responses of those in positions of power as ‘policy’, music and musicians were treated as a potential threat to the social order and were treated as such. In the sixteenth century, the Protestant reformer Calvin was, according to Blanning (2008: 10), ‘deeply uneasy about its [music’s] power, suspecting that it was conducive to “unbridled dissipations”, “immoderate pleasure”, “lasciviousness and shamelessness”’. Only gradually was music’s power accorded a more positive image, and musicians to be regarded as valuable. From then it was a short step to musicians becoming courtiers to monarchs, hired to enhance royal power. With the democratization of power, so too was music democratized (Attali 1985). In this role, it became the object of state policy. While it might not assume the importance of clean water or cheap energy, let alone health and welfare, music fell within the remit of government. Music policy became ‘a thing’. This simple history is ruthlessly abbreviated, but it serves to illustrate a key point: music policy is itself a consequence of society-wide political change. It is political in its inception, as well as in its daily practices. It is to those daily practices that I now turn. In what follows, I discuss the different dimensions of music policy, drawing attention to the ways in which political values, ideas and judgements are incorporated into them. These issues, I should add, are discussed in much more detail later in this Handbook. My purpose here is to highlight the political judgements lurking within each area.

Educating The education system is a key element of popular music policy (and the education system is a central concern of all political regimes). It affects who gets to be musicians and what kind of musician they become. It helps to create their audiences too. It is also responsible for the intermediaries that enable music-making and consumption to co-exist. For most children, school is where they learn to sing and to play an instrument. How these skills are taught varies across education systems. Much attention in the last few years has focused, for example, on the Sistema system pioneered in Venezuela, but adopted subsequently in many other countries. It is alleged to have enabled children to learn classical music skills from a very young age, but also to have aided their educational and emotional development. In Britain, the New Labour government (1997–2005) promoted Sistema, together with their Creative Partnerships scheme, to enhance the learning of creative skills in schools (Hesmondhalgh et al. 2015: 151–7). While New Labour made a special point of boosting musical and creative skills at school, successive governments in the UK and elsewhere have implicitly and explicitly made music

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policy through decisions about the content of the curricula for which they are responsible. While they might not specify the exact content of what is taught (though some governments do), they affect music’s place by what they prioritize or marginalize. The boosting of some skills (reading, writing and maths) and some subjects (science, technology, engineering) means that other ones are neglected and under-funded. Decisions of this type affect the skills in music-making and music appreciation. They shape the music culture of the society. They affect the distribution of social capital and of capabilities. They can, therefore, contribute to inequality (or equality) (Green 2006). In January 2021, it was announced in the UK that one of the secondary school examination boards for music was dropping jazz from the curriculum, and with it the only composer of colour disappeared from the classroom, while the number of women composers was reduced to four (Clifford and Adams 2021). These effects are not generated only in the early years of education. They are a consequence of further and higher education. Simon Frith and Howard Horne (1987) document, for example, the profound impact of art colleges in the UK on the country’s popular music culture. For them, it is no coincidence that many of the musicians who shaped popular music in the 1960s and 1970s in Britain went to art school. It was there that they learnt to become artists and to turn those lessons into the distinctive sounds and styles of that era. When those same art schools were subject to cuts in the 1980s, this affected the form and extent of musical creativity. UK universities, by contrast, have had a rather different contribution to make to music, and hence occupy a different place within music policy. Before the expansion of the higher education sector, and the incorporation of art schools into it, universities produced comparatively few musicians. They produced the journalists, managers and record company executives. Many of them, furthermore, chose not to teach or research popular music. As elite institutions, the ‘popular’ was not their business. They taught Beethoven, not the Beatles. This has changed, and with it the cultural sensibilities and skills of their students. These universities also provided, and this is rather more important, the venues and the audiences. Student audiences and university campuses have helped to create and maintain the live music business, providing a place for punters and performers, especially in the indie sector. Looking back over this section, it might be objected that the education system has been important to music in any given country, but this is not to be confused with music policy. The impact of education on music might be seen as an unintended consequence, a side effect, but not the result of a deliberate policy strategy. There are examples, as with New Labour, of deliberate intervention in education for the sole purpose of affecting the making or appreciation of music, but most of the time the effect is secondary to the stated purpose. But this is to take a very narrow definition of policy. Without state funding of, and deliberation over, education policy, the musical landscape would have been different. The chances to make music and the capacity to appreciate it would have been altered. To this extent, education policy is music policy, and is political in that it affects the distribution of social and cultural capital.

Distributing Rights and Resources

Copyrighting Copyright law is another vital feature of music policy. It determines the rights granted to songwriters and performers for their endeavours. But while copyright policy is absolutely central to music policy, it cannot be claimed that copyright law is exclusively directed at music-making or music consumption, any more than is education policy. Copyright applies to many other creative practices. But it does have specific importance to music, and that importance is political as well as commercial or aesthetic (Frith and Marshall 2004). Copyright policy determines the distribution of rewards for those associated with making music. This takes two forms: determining who is rewarded; and what principles determine the size of the reward. In other words, copyright policy is political in the sense that it seeks to give form to a particular notion of ‘fairness’ in the distribution of resources and rewards. Our notion of fairness, according to the political philosopher John Rawls (1971), is fundamental to our understanding of justice. Arguments about copyright are often couched in terms of what is or is not ‘fair’. Is it fair that this or that contribution to a song be rewarded, whereas some other contribution is not? Disputes of this kind may be resolved in court, but this does not make them apolitical and outside the realm of music policy. Courts work with the law as laid down by states, and in the process, they make policy. State policy on copyright differs between countries, reflecting, among other things, differences in ideology. China’s copyright policy is explicitly directed to serving Chinese communism, just as copyright policy in the West is informed by variants of liberalism (Street, Negus and Behr 2018b). These variants usher in different principles of fairness, so that copyright in the United States, for example, is different from that in the United Kingdom. A fascinating insight into the comparative politics of copyright is offered by Rasmus Fleischer (2015), in which he traces the different paths taken by copyright policy in North and South Europe from the 1930s onwards, and how eventually these different approaches were resolved in the Rome Convention (1961). The Convention was intended to establish ‘protection in performances for performers, in phonograms for producers of phonograms and in broadcasts for broadcasting organizations’, but instead, says Fleischer (2015: 342), it gave ‘the record companies special rights to economic compensation, while similar rights were denied the musicians’. Here was stark illustration of the power politics of copyright policy. Copyright policy (and, by implication, music policy) is also political in that it is central to the regulation of the new tech giants and the streaming economy. This is the battle engaged at one level by musicians like Guy Garvey and by transnational organizations like the European Union. The system over which these disputes are fought is itself the consequence of intensive (and costly) lobbying by the main stakeholders (Corporate Europe Observatory 2018). Copyright is central to musical policy, especially so in the era of streaming, and it is profoundly political in that it seeks to impose a notion of fairness in the distribution of rights and rewards in the making, distribution and consumption of music. It also distributes power in the way that it recognizes the interests of some players and ignores or marginalizes those of others.

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Competing Music policy is made in the regulations that governments (or transnational organizations such as the European Union) impose on the market (Negus 2019). These regulations apply to a range of market practices but are most frequently justified in terms of promoting competition. Competition, it is assumed, is what best serves the interests of the consumer. So it is that the market regulators have scrutinized mergers and acquisitions in the music industry. For example, when EMI was up for sale in 2011, market regulations required that its publishing wing be sold separately (to Sony) from its music operations (to Universal). This was to prevent either of the remaining music corporations assuming market dominance. In the case of another merger, that of Live Nation and Ticketmaster, the authorities ruled that this was acceptable, despite this seeming to create a dominant presence in the live music market. The argument was that the interests of concertgoers would not be adversely affected. Meanwhile, the UK’s Competition and Markets Authority were concerned that the merger of two big players in the secondary ticket market, Viagogo and StubHub, would have an adverse effect on fans (see Chapter 16). Similar concerns, albeit on a much larger scale, are being raised about the power exercised by companies like Amazon, Apple and Spotify. They pose, in the mind of some commentators, a threat to the way in which music is made and circulated (Hesmondhalgh and Meier 2018). The response of governments (or transnational authorities) is, therefore, an aspect of music policy – doing nothing or regulating are both forms of policy that affect music culture. These interventions (or their absence) into the operation of the market are sanctioned by legislative authorities and are political in this general sense. Different legislatures have devised different rules, often the result of lobbying by corporate and other interests, which adds a further layer to the politics that are entailed. They are also political in a more specific sense. Embedded in the legislation are judgements as to whose interests are to be protected, and for what reason. The presumption of competition policy, as it applies to the music industry (and other sectors), is that it is the interests of consumers that must be protected and that markets are best able to do this. The interests of performers are not considered. Nor is the possibility that the market itself may not be the best mechanism for distributing scarce or valued resources (Sandel 2012).

Licensing Policy on live performance is not confined to competition regulation. The siting and operation of venues are also subject to political oversight. In the exercise of political power, a range of rights issues are decided. In 2019, the UK’s Parliament published a 50-page report on the state of live music, and a list of recommendations as to how it might be preserved and developed (Digital, Culture, Media and Sport Committee 2019a).

Distributing Rights and Resources

One useful example: in the UK until recently, developers were permitted to build their luxurious dwellings in city centres, and music venues situated nearby were expected to soundproof themselves to protect their new neighbours from the noise. This led to the loss of many small venues who could not afford the cost of the soundproofing. The introduction of new legislation, which shifted the responsibility for noise pollution to the ‘Agent of Change’ (the developers), shifted the distribution of responsibility (and costs) for music venues (Record of the Day 2018). It was a piece of music policy and was political in the sense that it established a particular view of what was in the ‘public interest’ – the retention of music venues (see Chapters 13 and 19). Shane Homan (2003) provides a vivid account of the history and politics of the regulation of live music. His case study was Sydney, but his insights can be applied almost anywhere. He shows how issues as diverse as liquor law, late-night trading policy and building codes can be crucial determinants of live music. Together, this mix of government responsibilities constitutes a form of music policy, justified in the name of the public interest, and as such political in a very traditional sense. There are other examples of how music and the public interest are aligned in policy. This has to do with what may or may not be performed within those venues. These matters are, of course, subject to the requirements of copyright law, but they may also be subject to higher principles. These have to do with rights of expression. In the United States, for instance, it was determined by the courts that ordnances that restricted the number of instruments to be played on a given stage were in breach of the First Amendment (Chevigny 1991; Street 2012). In the UK, the Metropolitan Police imposed a similar kind of restriction on Grime and Drill music by their use of Form 696 (Fatsis 2019). The form was introduced to stem knife crime and criminal gang behaviour. It required detailed information about forthcoming performances, and because of the obligations it imposed, many of the planned events never took place. The form was seen, as a result, as more of an act of censorship than of crime prevention. Two things, therefore, emerge from this example. The first is that the form affected the performance of music, and it could therefore be seen as a part of music policy. The second is that this policy was political, just by virtue of the debates it fuelled, let alone the underlying motives being attributed to the police. These attempts at regulation by the state and its agencies would seem to constitute part of music policy in that they seek to determine what can and cannot be played. In making such judgements, these authorities are establishing an intimate (if illegitimate) connection between political values and musical performance, whether in the denial of freedom of expression or in the enactment of racial prejudice.

Subsidizing States make music policy through the funds that are made available to subsidize performers and performances. Music may not benefit to the same extent as film from tax breaks, but it does nonetheless attract other forms of public money. This may come in the form of support

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for cultural heritage or artistic innovation. It may be funded by taxation or through the profits made from national lotteries. Here music competes with other fields of the arts and heritage. Indeed, different forms of music compete with each other. How these allocations are made is political in at least two senses: in the system by which money is allocated to arts; and the decisions made about how the available money is allocated. So it is that complaints are directed at the allocation system – that, for example, small venues lose out to large concert halls, that folk music loses out to jazz, and both to classical music. All such decisions are necessarily political. There is no objective, scientific method for allocating resources. Attempts are made to quantify the value of art, or to produce mechanisms that are deemed legitimate and transparent. But however well designed either is, there will be debate as to the appropriateness of the criteria (see Chapter 1). Sometimes subsidies are targeted at music alone. This was the case of New Labour and its New Deal for Musicians (Cloonan 2007). This allowed aspiring musicians to get access to training and to business advice. Such forms of subsidy are deliberate acts of political intervention, inspired by a range of motives, principles and values. There are, though, other forms of subsidy which might be deemed unintentional, but no less important as a form of music policy. The provision of forms of unemployment support, however meagre, can provide an opportunity for aspiring musicians to pursue their ambitions. Similarly, the support funnelled to university and college students for their social facilities can end up as providing venues for live music, just as public service broadcasters can help to fund music festivals through the rights to broadcast them. The intentional and unintentional subsidies are political in that they involve decisions about the distribution of public money. Both too can be judged politically in terms of their effect: what resulted from these subsidies. But only the intentional forms can be understood in terms of their ideological ambitions.

Broadcasting Every political system regulates its system of broadcasting, and in doing so, every system influences the form of music that is heard and, to an extent, how it is heard. This can result in such basic decisions as to whether the broadcasters are to be commercial or public service, receiving their income via advertising or via a licence fee or equivalent. The alternative funding streams create different expectations and incentives for what music is played. This, in turn, can have consequences for the wider music culture. This is not just a matter of establishing what music sounds like, but it can create or close down opportunities for musicians to develop their own style. Put simply, the commercial broadcaster needs to guarantee an audience for its advertisers, and this necessitates playing music that has already proven to be popular. This is, by definition, a conservative policy. Public broadcasters, by contrast, have the freedom to experiment, to lead, rather than follow, their audience. It creates opportunities for new sounds to be made and played. This approach is instituted in the current BBC in the form of ‘BBC Introducing’, but it was implicit back when The Beatles were developing their own style (Frith 1988).

Distributing Rights and Resources

It also creates the possibility of creating new kinds of audience. As Simon Frith and Martin Cloonan (2020: 688; their emphasis) contend: ‘As a non-commercial broadcaster the BBC treats its audience not as a listening market share or as consumers to be sold to advertisers but as the public.’ While the BBC’s music output is designed to entertain its audience, it is also intended to educate them, and to form them into ‘musical communities’ (Cloonan 2020). Broadcasters can, too, provide opportunities for live performances through the creation of programmes that feature them. This may entail film or recording festivals and concerts, or by creating opportunities within their own roster of programmes. These initiatives may not be the direct consequence of government policy, but they are the result of the broader framework in which broadcasting is situated and the obligations imposed on broadcasters. Across the world, governments have encouraged or required the introduction of broadcasting quotas. These require that a certain proportion of all broadcast music be home grown (although quite what that means varies from place to place). There are a number of motives for this. It is a device for boosting the local music industry by providing an outlet for local musical talent, and to resist incursions from foreign music corporations and nations. There is also a wider cultural rationale: to promote national identity and tradition (Henderson 2008; Shuker 2008). With broadcasting, the politics are those of promoting national identity and national industries, and with the resolution of questions about which identities and what music. These are political judgements about what to prioritize and about what to communicate about those priorities.

Promoting Music is a form of communication, and as such it can be put to work on behalf of the state as propaganda. But not every such use might be deemed as ‘music policy’. Tony Blair’s Labour Party made much play of Britpop and Cool Britannia in its campaigning, encouraging association between the Party and the success of Oasis and Blur. This, though, did not represent a deliberate policy intervention, any more than the British Council’s promotion of British music overseas represents music policy. The Labour Party contributed nothing to the success of the bands or to the idea of Cool Britannia. They simply exploited the opportunity they represented. Something similar might be said of the US State Department’s deliberate use of music as a tool of Cold War diplomacy (Fosler-Lussier 2015). There is a difference in this case, because the government was actively underwriting the tours by the musicians and making strategic decisions about what music and musicians should be employed. Using music as propaganda stretches back through time and across countries. The Soviet Union, particularly under Stalin, actively recruited music to the cause (Starr 1983). A similar strategy was adopted in China under Chairman Mao, when Peking opera was required ‘to build heroic characters and reflect real life in the PRC’ (Luo 2016: 440). Today, there are examples of the same practice in countries such as Iran, Saudi Arabia and China. The

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Guardian reported, for example, that ‘a music video that features a little-known performer rapping over images of his country’s achievements has been released to mark China’s largest political event of the year’ (Kuo 2019). Music policy designed to promote a national brand or identity, or to articulate an ideology, serves one set of political goals. The New Zealand government of the early 2000s assiduously promoted its country’s music for a mixture of reasons. As Roy Shuker (2008: 277) suggests, the government realized that ‘the continued development of the infrastructure of the New Zealand music industry was central to generating opportunities for local musicians, and for providing a launching platform for access o the international market’. The French government has invested heavily in its National Music Centre for a similar mixture of reasons. Sometimes the reasoning is more focused. One legacy of New Labour’s flirtation with Britpop was its Creative Industries Task Force, of which Alan McGee, head of the label that signed Oasis, was a member. The task force was charged with promoting the interests and cause of the UK’s creative industries (Hesmondhalgh et al. 2015: 40–2, 110). While there may be multiple motives for promoting music, only some of which can be seen as part of music policy (as opposed to industrial or foreign policy), they nonetheless have an impact upon habits of making and consuming music. The politics of this policy lie, in part, in the decision to intervene in the business of creativity, to open up a policy area which had previously been seen to lie ‘off limits’. But the more interesting aspect of its politics lies in the specifics of the policy. David Hesmondhalgh and his colleagues, for example, argue that promoting culture can be inspired by one of two general motivations. It can be designed either to grow the industrial base and to generate revenue, or to enhance the aesthetic quality of the culture. Hesmondhalgh and his team conclude that Labour prioritized the first. They did not do this to the exclusion of the latter, and one of the most interesting questions raised by Labour’s cultural policy was about what constituted ‘quality’ in culture. Debates about quality can often be dismissed as hopeless attempts to escape relativism and subjectivism in cultural judgement, or as insidious exercises in elitism. Tessa Jowell, then Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, argued that there was merit in the idea of ‘excellence’ and policy should aim to identify and promote it. Whether or not it is possible to agree on what is meant by ‘excellence’, the fact that politicians engaged with its meaning is indicative of another dimension of the politics of music policy. What music is promoted (and why) is bound up with political judgements, as Theodor Adorno (2001) made explicit many years ago.

Censoring In ending with censorship, we are, in a sense, returning to the beginning of this chapter and the beginning of music policy. Music policy may be involved in the promotion of musicmaking, but it may also be used to curtail it. Typically, it is assumed that music censorship is

Distributing Rights and Resources

confined to authoritarian regimes, and it is undoubtedly true that authoritarian regimes are the most assiduous of censors (Index on Censorship 2010). The reasons for this censorship vary, but it covers the usual suspects of sex, politics and religion. These very same issues can cause consternation in liberal democracies and can lead to censorship (Cloonan and Garofalo 2003; Korpe 2004). Hip-hop, from its earliest days to its current forms (including Grime and Drill), has been singled out for censorship, whether by the police or at the instigation of organizations like the Parents Music Resource Center (Chastagner 1999; Fatsis 2019; Kubrin and Nielson 2014). Significantly for our purposes here, the censorship in liberal democracies is rarely the direct result of states or state agencies. As Martin Scherzinger (2007) has suggested, censorship in Western liberal societies may more commonly result from corporate decisions and from acts of self-censorship. It might not, therefore, be understood as an aspect of music policy, whatever its impact on music-making and consumption. Or put another way: it might only count as music policy if the practices of corporations or of selfcensorship can be seen as in some way causally related to the actions of the state. Music policy, though, is not just made in the act of censoring and in the exercise of power that enables this to happen. It is also made in the realm of political ideas, in the resolution of questions as to how and when music becomes ‘speech’ and what rights attach to its performance. This returns us to the arguments advanced by Paul Chevigny (1991) – on the page and in the courtroom – as to when restrictions on musical performances become a breach of the First Amendment. Music policy is political philosophy as well as product of political power. To understand music policy, we certainly need to appreciate the dynamics of political power, of who wins and loses in the battle over scarce resources; but we also need to appreciate the political ideas and values that attach to the rights claimed in the attempt to legitimate the power struggle and its outcomes.

Conclusion My aim in this chapter has been to highlight the politics of music policy. This has involved a number of separate, but linked, arguments. The first concerns what is meant by music policy. It might be supposed that this is a single and discrete area of policymaking. It is rare to find such a thing in any state. Instead, music policy is constituted by decisions and initiatives in a wide range of policy arenas. Music policy, by this account, has multiple forms, and cannot be reduced to a single set of decisions or a single goal. Rather, it serves many different goals and derives from a wide range of policies – from education to market regulation, from broadcasting to copyright. It may serve commercial goals or cultural ones. In these various forms music policy may be understood as a deliberate intervention or initiative. This is the case, it seems, with the introduction of broadcasting quotas. Equally, music policy may be the unintended, or at least a by-product, of other policy decisions. Here government decisions become music policy. They are no less important for music culture for being unintended.

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The second argument has concerned what is meant by politics in the many contexts in which music policy emerges. At one level this might mean all and anything that governments do, but it extends further than this to include the values and judgements that are imposed on policy (and recognized by it). The interests and actors that benefit or lose from the various forms of music policy are the result of political choices. They may be cloaked in the rhetoric of economics or national interest but underlying them is a set of values (consciously or unconsciously held) about what is fair or just, about who deserves what for which reason. What can be gained by seeing music policy as politics by other means? My answer would be that it allows us a perspective on the exercise of power in respect of the making, distributing and consuming of music. It enables us to judge that exercise of power and to respond to it. What might be lost by seeing music policy as politics by other means? We risk losing a sense of the pleasures that music brings and the escape that it might provide from those political forces that dominate our daily lives. Which is, of course, in itself to adopt a political position.

3 The presence and absence of policy in the digital music industries Daniel Nordgård

Introduction Digital innovations have impacted the music industries with velocity and effect, following the turn of the millennium. A multitude of interconnected processes commonly referred to as digitalization has affected business models and revenue streams in the music industries (Tschmuck 2017), the creation, distribution and access to music (Spilker 2018), or the structures and dynamics of the music industries (Hughes et al. 2016; Nordgård 2018). There is little dissent that digital change has had a significant effect on the internal relations and dynamics of the music industries and the powers and positions of traditional stakeholders. More than that, it has also introduced new powerful stakeholders originating from outside the traditional realm of ‘the music industry’ (Negus 2019a) – some of which have significant economic resources and political clout (Nordgård 2018). It has introduced a digital and cross-national dimension in music policy research. Popular music policy has long been an established field of research, focusing on issues such as subsidies for the arts, city policies and local governments, the music industries and the nation-state (Homan et al. 2016), censorship (Cloonan and Garofalo 2003), or the political value of music (Street 2013b). However, a growing body of research is extending the focus by investigating digitalization and its effects on culture, competition and copyright (Schroff and Street 2018), digital markets and the dominant position of the technology sector (Hesmondhalgh and Meier 2018), or challenges harbouring local and national sounds and expressions in a market dominated by transnational corporations (Negus 2019b). In this contribution, I wish to add to these works by focusing on the political powers exercised by stakeholders from within and outside the traditional realms of the music industries in a time of much upheaval. I will explore how processes of digitalization in the music industry have coincided with international policymaking and why these processes

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have spurred difficulties among stakeholders within and outside the music industries. In particular, I will look at Europe’s ambitions for a Digital Single Market and frictions in the music industries following different initiatives from Brussels. This chapter draws on data from the Kristiansand Roundtable Conference which is a yearly invitation-only event taking place in Kristiansand, Norway. The events started in 2007 and have from their inception been recorded for the purpose of research and analysis and with the clear consent of the delegates and the assurance of anonymity. I will use the case of the Kristiansand Roundtable Conference to provide insights to discussions and considerations and suggest that both the presence and absence of policy have had significant implications for the continuous process of digitalizing the music industries and adapting it to a Digital Single Market. Following this, I aim to elaborate on two critical periods for the digitalization of the music industries and demonstrate that the political positions of the traditional music industries have changed significantly. This change I tie particularly to two important policies: the European Copyright Directive and the Music Modernization Act (MMA), and suggest that while the period leading up to these two policies may be defined by an absence of a music policy, the two political programmes or framework may suggest the opposite.

Calling for political attention With digital distribution and platform-based access to music, the business of music has become increasingly linked to and dependent upon digital conglomerates and their business and agendas (Hesmondhalgh and Meier 2018; Negus 2019a). Musical content has long been important to technology companies aiming to establish a market for their products or services, whether through legal or illegal use of content – and sometimes even something in between. Following these increasingly interconnected businesses and markets, political issues have grown in importance, particularly, within the international dimension, and the many difficulties with harmonizing music licensing, territories and national interests, and the balancing of economic interests of music industries with those of the technology companies (Schroff and Street 2018). Since the turn of the millennium, the giants of the tech sector have exercised political pressure to position themselves, often conflicting with the interests and agendas of the traditional music industries. An increased political presence of the tech companies in the beginning of the 2000s was also central to my analysis of the music industries’ adaption to new digital frameworks and new stakeholders from 2007 and 2011 (Nordgård 2018). From three concepts proposed to better understand these transitions and frictions, I suggested that one of these three should be ‘relations to legislation and policymakers’ (Nordgård 2018: 113–18). More specifically, my point was that in political processes with much at stake for music business stakeholders, such as copyright issues or cross-border licensing, industry stakeholders and their agendas were sidelined. Or, at least, key stakeholders in the music industries, and in particular the recorded music industry, felt sidelined. They voiced these concerns and frustrations

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regularly during a series of annual meetings at the Kristiansand Roundtable Conference, held in Kristiansand, Norway, from 2007 to 2012 and then from 2016 to 2019. As I’ll return to in more detail below, the analysis of these conversations suggests that the digital transitions of the music industries were (and remain) determined by three main factors: the internal structures and power dynamics of the music industries; the external pressures from new digital stakeholders; and policy and legislation, particularly on a transnational level (Nordgård 2018). The suggestion in that study was that from these three, the first was the most important. However, the latter of the three – policy and legislation – was perhaps the theme that was most at the centre of the talks, constantly being referred to and often in a critical and defensive manner. These same concerns and frustrations can be found in the reception speech of Martin Mills,1 founder of Beggars Group, when receiving the Billboard Industry Icon Award at MIDEM in 2013 (Mills 2013). After first underscoring that digitalization is a positive matter that enhances his business in so many ways, Mills also warned about the threats posed by technology companies to the creative economy and in particular copyright. In his speech, he warned against the influence these companies hold among governments, politicians and bureaucrats, hence describing conflict lines similar to those from the Kristiansand Roundtable Conferences: I want to address the lack of support that governments, politicians and bureaucrats worldwide show to the creative industries. Many pay lip service to the value and importance of the creative economy, but most fail to match that with their actions. Creative industries are built upon strong and defendable intellectual property rights, and without that they will inevitably wither and fail. It is impossible to make the investments to produce new creative goods without the security that ownership of them is protected. Yet governments are seduced daily by elements of the new technology industry into diluting and compromising that security. Often in the name of the importance of those industries to today’s economies, often in the name of open Internet philosophy. But all of these arguments are aimed selfinterestedly at compromising the value and the integrity of creative goods. These creative works are a priceless national cultural and economic asset, which should be treasured, not dumped … Cross border licensing is clearly a problem, and the territorial structures that continue to dominate a global licensing marketplace are clearly an anachronism. We need help in moving beyond that. But we do not need to have control of our rights taken away from us, to be forced to license that in which we have invested at uneconomic prices, to simply allow huge tech firms to make even huger profits. We do not need illegal services to be made more visible than legal ones. Tech companies should be the partners of rights companies, not their masters. And we value them enormously as such, our partnerships with them are fundamental to our business now – as is our content to theirs. (Billboard 2013)

Mills’s speech and his conception of the political processes affecting his business echo those heard during the annual Kristiansand Roundtable Conferences (2007–19), in particular during the years 2007 to 2011 (Nordgård 2018). Here too concerns were that policymakers and legislators weighed towards the interests of technology conglomerates over music industries stakeholders. During the conversations in the early years of the

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conferences, there were continuing references to political processes in Brussels and initiatives to provide seamless cross-border licensing of creative content, supporting the political ambitions of a Digital Single Market. However, these ambitions rest on untangling very complex issues with multiple and conflicting agendas. It is within this vortex of competing interests that the music business stakeholders claim that the interests of the music industries are overlooked (and in particular those of the record companies and the publishing companies) as opposed to the interests of the technology industries. Hence, referring to these conversations in Kristiansand, Norway, and adding them to Mills’s statements in 2013, it seems that the policies that dictated the terms for the digital music industries in the initial phases of digitalization (mid-2000s to 2018) was never music-centred. Rather, it was technology- and market-centred, including the academic discourses describing and discussing these events. The music industries stakeholders were subordinate – or felt subordinate – to the political processes that very much dictated the frameworks for their businesses. Over the last few years, however, two political bills have passed: the Music Modernization Act in the United States in 2018 and the EU Copyright Directive, article 17 in the European Union in 2019, both indicating a political shift of power and influence. The Music Modernization Act, or the Orrin G. Hatch-Bob Goodlatte Music Modernization Act, consists of three titles: (i) Musical Work Modernization Act; (ii) Classics Protection and Access Act; and (iii) The Allocation for Music Producers Act. The first of the three creates a blanket licence for interactive online streaming, making it easier for services to obtain licences and for creators to collect royalties. The second title includes pre-1972 recordings within US federal copyright, and the third includes music producers, mixers and sound engineers in the law. The law was passed in 2018, but will go into effect and start paying rights owners on 1 January 2021. The EU Copyright Directive, article 17, requires digital platforms to gain authorization from rights holders by concluding licensing agreements (Moreno 2020: 155). The major change that follows the legislation is the burden of responsibility (the notions of take-downs) that moves from the content owners to the digital platforms (that are obliged to seek to licence). The law was put into effect on 7 June 2019, but member states have until 7 June 2021 to pass national laws and start enforcing the article. Although different in content, scope and focus, what the two laws passed in the United States and in the EU have in common is that they regulate what was considered gaps in online copyright regulation and they do so in a way that is commonly regarded to provide security for rights owners and content providers.2

Locating popular music policy Despite policymaking and legislation being critical components in the regulation and facilitation of international digital markets for music and culture, these issues have been fairly absent from music and cultural policy research, with some important exceptions. There could be several reasons for this, including that the field is traditionally focused

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on political fields more directly linked to the public art sector and policy traditionally aimed at the arts (and particularly the fine arts, as opposed to commercial art) (Mangset 2020). The point being that cultural policy is often confined to a narrow field of the public sector, not necessarily harmonizing with the broad and complex political landscapes that digital cultural content is usually associated with. A similar point is made by David Hesmondhalgh, when arguing that cultural policy is usually linked to specific political sectors and particular types of policy, such as ‘the subsidy, regulation and management of the arts’ (Hesmondhalgh 2013a: 167), as opposed to other bordering political fields, such as economics, law or market competition. It could be that while policies of intellectual property regulation (IPR) and regulations on licensing and collective management across borders belong to the latter category, music and cultural policy has traditionally focused on the former. Another reason for the relative absence of these issues could be that focus within the study of cultural and music policy is commonly placed on state or local/regional levels, rather than the international. Further, it is commonly linked to concepts of identity, language or the nation-state. In Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole’s The Popular Music Industries and the State (2016) these concepts are investigated, however with two important additions. First, they draw a line to a global, international dimension. Although critically deploying the term ‘globalization’ and devoting most of their analysis and discussions to the national state – the three cases of Scotland, Australia and New Zealand – they nonetheless adopt a global dimension for their analysis. Second, and closely tied to the global/international dimension, they focus on the music industries – the commercial aspects of the music sector. The global/international dimension in their work is very much linked to copyright and licensing. While limiting a wider global perspective to these particular topics, it nonetheless represents an important broadening of the field’s focus, geographically, but perhaps even more importantly, including the intermediaries and the music industries. This latter point adds to a broader call for more focus on the music industries and the role and functions of intermediaries, such as Street, Negus and Behr (2018), who argue that little attention has been paid to the intermediaries and the policy effects on the creative and innovative outcomes from these stakeholders. This builds on the seminal work of Keith Negus (1999), where emphasis is placed on the cultural and creative effects of industry structures and corporate cultures. It further develops the argument by focusing on intermediaries associated with bureaucratic and back office work, such as the collective management organizations (CMOs) (Street et al. 2018a). A similar argument is made by Toby Bennett (2020a) in that administrative and bureaucratic positions and work represent important but often neglected parts of analyses and research on music businesses. Drawing on an in-depth qualitative study of employees in major record companies, Bennett’s point is that routine and bureaucratic work represents value that too often gets overlooked in studies on creativity and innovation. However, digital innovations and disruptions have led to a heightened importance of administrative work. Bennett makes an important point by arguing that while much of this work is ‘predominantly routine, repetitive, sedentary and mundane’, these workers ‘actively maintain the infrastructural and cultural environment that makes this work both possible and meaningful’ (Bennett 2020a: 233).

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Policy, value and markets In his article Music, Markets and Manifestos, John Street provides a framework or context to consider music policy within. Here, he argues that music policy operates in the intersection of aesthetic value and commercial logic. Cultural and commercial values are negotiated in policy. This is the business of politics, where politics refers both to the routines of resource distribution and to the attribution of value. (Street 2013: 283)

In doing so, Street also initiates a discussion on the need for policy to be dictated by economic value, with reference to Dave O’Brien (2010: 12), who argues that public spending is determined by economic limitations and political priorities. Hence, for culture – and music – to have priority over something else, culture has to be given an economic value that can be compared and politically assessed. O’Brien makes two important arguments when it comes to valuing music and art economically. First of all, he underscores that the point is not to argue for a market-driven assessment of music and art. Rather than saying that culture should be determined by market forces, the point is that by giving it economic value, you also give it political value, as culture can then be assessed against other political priorities (O’Brien 2010: 13). Second, he avoids an instrumental argument where economic value is assessed in relation to secondary effects, such as tourism (referring to Mozart’s economic impact on tourism in Salzburg) (O’Brien 2010: 12). Nonetheless, O’Brien’s point is that culture, art and music needs to be given an economic value for politicians to be able to compare and allocate finite resources against other competing demands. In doing so, he also reduces political priorities to simple ‘Cost Benefit Analysis’ (CBA) (Street 2013: 284), which may not fully cover the political considerations in play. If politics were only based on measuring and comparing economic footprints, then surely this would be an exercise in which music would often come up short. In particular on issues where the political counterparts are the world’s biggest companies and brands, such as Facebook, Google, Apple and Amazon, even the biggest companies within recorded music are economically dwarfed compared to these companies. Also, a side effect of politics based on cost–benefit analyses, and various attempts to describe and assess the economic footprints of music – and cultural economics seem to have fostered a wealth of economic ripple effect analyses – is that some are performed with less rigour than others. However, as discussed below, there are important and current examples of significant policy recently passed (such as the European Union’s new Copyright Directive and the American Music Modernization Act) that counters the laws of economic gravity. To better understand this, other political priorities must be taken into account, as Street also points out by arguing for the inclusion of human and cultural rights (Street 2013: 295). An additional option is to be open to the possibility that policy is not determined on music’s economic, nor artistic and cultural value, but on other political objectives. This partly resonates with Street’s point, in adding music’s political value to the mix. As will

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be elaborated in more detail below, there are current political issues that extend beyond cost–benefit analysis and where political considerations are not solely determined by economics. In fact, by looking at the European Union’s ambitions for a Digital Single Europe, one could argue this is to exercise political objectives beyond economics (although free trade and market alignment are central to it). Here, music and culture hold a significant position beyond economics, in that it represents cultures and identities at a national level (Homan et al. 2016), and also at a regional level – such as the European Union. Culture is an important ingredient in European identity and the problems with aligning European national territories and cultural identities into a regional one remain. Hence, efforts to arrive at a Digital Single Europe can prove an example of policy heavily affecting music, with objectives beyond economic metrics. A growing body of research is devoted to issues concerning the European Union and its ambitions for a Digital Single Market – including issues with data and cross-border licensing (Negus 2019a; Nordgård 2018); the balance between culture, competition and copyright (Schroff and Street 2018); or music policy’s impact on cultural diversity (Street et al. 2018a). However, the complaints voiced by Martin Mills in 2013 and the topics being discussed at the Kristiansand Roundtable Conferences (2007–11) represent political issues beyond the alignment of copyright regimes and competition among the CMOs. These are issues of power and political influence, where power dynamics exist in multiparty relations, with the state as the addressee, and stakeholders representing different fields, sectors or industries with differing rules and objectives. In addition, I’d like to suggest that focus should also be given to the power dynamics within and between industries and sectors in order to understand how this affects policymaking. This means placing more emphasis on specific stakeholders and the industry, sector or field that they belong to and represent. I’ve argued elsewhere (Nordgård 2018) for the applicability of Fligstein and McAdams’s Theory of Fields (2012) when trying to assess and make sense of dynamics when fields undergo transition and change. Described at its very simplest, Fligstein and McAdams’s theory builds on the Strategic Action Field (SAF) as a meso-level social order in which stakeholders (incumbents or challengers) act in (relative) coherence by following shared rules and objectives. SAFs exist in relations to other SAFs, often in an interdependent relationship, and they also exist in relations to the state. A central feature in the theory is that disruptions or crises can occur, either through endogenous or through exogenous forces, and that when this happens, the state becomes critical (2012: 71) and the subject of political pressure and lobbying from interest groups and stakeholders aiming to secure positions, or reposition themselves within the field or in interdependent fields. Fligstein and McAdams describe a mutual dependency between non-state strategic action fields and state fields, in which state fields are both granting conditions for non-state strategic action fields, while at the same time being dependent on them. They may provide a useful framework for assessing how the music industries are responding to external competition and influence, and how this again plays a role in political considerations and actions from the music industries, the technology companies and the governing bodies themselves.

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Returning to Kristiansand As briefly described in the introduction, the Kristiansand Roundtable Conferences offer a rare opportunity to access and observe a series of closed-meeting discussions amongst stakeholders with vested interests in the challenges of aligning music industry interests with technology industry needs and European Digital Single Market strategies. It has been an opportunity to observe and understand the different considerations taken by parties close to the processes and learn more about what reflections are done, what positions are taken and what possibilities are considered. It also offers a perspective of time, as the meetings were held from 2007 until 2019,3 during periods of significant digital change, economic resurrections and political frictions. These meetings also provide an historic perspective and opportunity to observe changes in positions, attitudes and framework conditions. Since its inception in 2007, the conference has been hosted annually by the University of Agder in Norway. These are closed meetings for an international group of invited guests, speaking under Chatham House Rules.4 This allows for a greater degree of openness on complex issues with multiple stakeholders and agendas. It allows people to speak more candidly on issues that might conflict with company or sector interests – a key feature if one is to have dialogues with any hope of progress. Over the nine years of Roundtables, a large number of stakeholders have been invited, reflecting the full range of music industry sectors, representatives from the technology industries and occasionally participants from national and international political bodies. Many of the participants are directly and indirectly involved in the strategic and political work around the processes of digitalization of the music industries and its markets, and in some cases directly involved with specific political initiatives with significant impact on the international market for recorded music. Consequently, the Kristiansand Roundtable Conference in many ways can be seen as a representation of the field itself, the challenges being discussed and the economic, strategic and political considerations made by key stakeholders. When changes in attitudes and positions do occur here, they likely signify larger changes in the field (for a more detailed elaborations on the form and structure of these events, see Nordgård 2018: 49–52). Based on the Kristiansand Roundtable Conference, there has been substantial change. This applies particularly to politics and the positions traditional music industry stakeholders have taken in shaping and influencing policy that affect music business in a digital market. If nothing else, there has been a change in the perceived political positions these stakeholders have vis-à-vis the technology companies. During their initial years (2007–11), the talks were generally pessimistic with regard to the outlooks of a viable model for digital music businesses and a corresponding economic resurrection for (in particular) the recorded music industry. This pessimism was reflected in simultaneously bleak hopes for the music industries achieving any political wins in relations to copyright, licensing and a conception of a fair and sustainable digital economy (very much aligning with Martin Mills’s Billboard speech in 2013). As an example, one central issue in 2007–11 was that policy relating to the cross-border licensing of digital content, specifically related to the European Union’s ambitions for a

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Digital Single Europe, was considered to be developed in the interests of the technology companies and contrary to those of the music industries. These issues have been thoroughly elaborated upon before (see Nordgård 2018); yet I’d like to repeat three important themes from this work in order to demonstrate a change in perceived political position political influence among the music industries’ stakeholders. In 2018 I argued that the determining factors for digital change in the music industries were (i) the music industries themselves – the complex and heterogeneous structures and dynamics of the field itself (Nordgård 2018: 100–7); (ii) the pressures from external stakeholders – the technology industries (Nordgård 2018: 107–13); and (iii) policymaking and legislation: the political frameworks provided by national international governing bodies (Nordgård 2018: 113–18). In relation, the music industries were losing political influence on issues with significant impact on their businesses and sector. This was due both to effective lobbying from the technology companies and to the disorganized and even conflicting political approaches adopted by different music business stakeholders. A good illustration of how the three determining factors work in tandem is provided in 2009 when a major record company representative is responding to a call for bypassing the recording and the publishing companies, and for artists and composers to work directly with the ISPs (internet service providers), and with the music platforms in responding to the European Union’s multiple calls for action (Nordgård 2018: 98): [Major record company representative]: But I think that we have to remember that between 2002 and 2005, the ISPs and Telcos were the most effective lobby-groups in this place. They created and intensified the war between the recorded and publishing rights. And they systematically did that through a bunch of different associations. At (major record company) we ended up hiring a couple of people that were helping lead those groups because they were becoming so effective bringing the industry against itself. So, working with the ISPs is not about working with the head of the op-co (operating company) in the local market; it’s about working with the heads of Dutch Telekom; Telefonica, etc. So, it’s not just engaging at a local level. Because they’re very smart, they were very, very clever in the way that they gave the impression to the EU and governments in a number of different territories, that they were trying to do deals and they were disingenuous in the way that they forced the issue in terms of the definition of revenue. And they made that an issue that they knew would separate publishing and recorded music and it worked very effectively. [Music manager]: So, what was their gain? To get the free access to music in a way? [Major record company representative]: It was really to give themselves five years of the traffic and the audience that P2P was generating. But also, to begin to move the EU towards compulsory licensing. NOKIA in 2002 was lobbying very effectively for this. The first deal (major record company) did with NOKIA was effectively an attempt to build a bridge to NOKIA, saying, ‘look, there may be another way that we can work together.’ I remember at the time, licensing a device which was an awful music phone, the 3300, and being rated by the other majors because they’d licensed it to a device that wasn’t DRM compliant at the time. And I said, these guys have got a business that generates 34 billion in turnover. They could buy our industry quite quickly if they just clubbed together with one of the Telecos. And we are sitting there making it impossible for them to licence and that is exactly what they want us to do.

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The above statement reveals how the technology companies had effectively lobbied the European Union to maintain the status quo, partly by escalating the (perceived) conflicts between music industries sectors, and by communicating directly to policymakers and legislators. Further, to advocate a compulsory licence for all digital music content was strongly opposed by important sectors of the music industries, as this would deny them the right to negotiate terms on their particular catalogue of rights.

Changing political positions Since these Roundtable deliberations and Martin Mills’s speech in 2013, two important political processes were settled. Both represent substantial change in the political considerations of policymakers and legislators: the 2018 Music Modernization Act in the United States (the MMA) (Elton 2019) and the 2019 EU Copyright Directive (Moreno 2020). As important signifiers of political change, I will elaborate on the reasons for this change – why these policies got passed – and what that means for the political power and positions of the music industries’ stakeholders. In 2018 and 2019 the two policies were very much part of the Kristiansand Roundtable; some evidence of why they got passed can be found in the conference of internal discussions here. The passing of these laws is arguably the result of a more organized and coherent lobbying effort from the music industries and the technology companies – spearheaded by giant companies like Facebook and Google – losing some of their political strength and power. The dynamics between the lobbying powers and political influence of the music and technology industries seemed to have shifted a little, exemplified by drawing on a few quotations from the 2018 and 2019 conferences. The political power balance (as in most political fields) is fluid and dynamic, and the political weighing between sectors involved in the digitalization of the music industries has shifted over time. This was pointed out by a music business lobbyist who in 2019 explained that from his standpoint there had been a political shift some ten years ago, when the digital technology providers became the most powerful lobbyists in Europe: I guess as a professional lobbyist, to answer your question, I think 10 years ago the creative industries were probably one of the most powerful lobbies in Europe, by a country mile, particularly in some territories, whether you were part of the film industry or the music industry, you were an incredibly powerful lobby. In the last 10 years that’s changed. The digital tech providers are the most powerful lobby in terms of money, in terms of influence. So certainly, there was the realization in July that we were small fish playing with hundreds of thousands of pounds of lobbying budgets whilst they were spending millions and millions in lobbying. So I think there’s been a realization, and I’m sure if I spoke to (name of person and company) she would say the same thing; that we either work together to achieve common interests or we won’t achieve anything. Because we no longer have the same influence we had a decade ago. (music business lobbyist 2019)

Policy in the Digital Music Industries

Beyond supporting the analysis in 2018 (Nordgård 2018) and Martin Mills’s speech in 2013, the quote also illustrates the dynamic nature of politics: it shifts. As many of the delegates at the Kristiansand Roundtable Conferences agree upon, the MMA and the European Copyright Directive is considered to represent a political shift back to the creative and cultural industries, at least when it comes to copyright and licensing. The main reason for this is suggested to be that the music industries finally managed to act coherently and as a collective, speaking with one voice, evident in the legislative process of the MMA: it’s a rare moment for the music industry that everyone came together. I mean the astonishing thing about the Music Modernization Act, is that there was not a single vote cast against it in the entire legislative process. Both sides of our congress, our House and our Senate, in all of its committee work, not a single vote was cast against the Act. This is astonishing in America today, it’s almost as if everyone fell asleep on some gas or something like that, because obviously – it might be a technique for the future we could consider – but for this time, this industry came together. I’ll tell you, in the past we’ve had many politicians look at us as an industry and speak at our events and say ‘for god’s sake, come to us with one voice’. We listen to the publishing industry come to us and say one thing, then the sound recording industry says another, and we do nothing as a result. ‘If you want anything from us, come to us with one story, one voice,’ and we did. And as a result, this passed. (former record company representative and artist manager 2018)

Very similar notions were made in 2019 relating to the passing of the European Union’s Copyright Directive: If you go back two years, the commission in its draft copyright directive set out a principle establishing that platforms that host user uploaded works are liable for copyright and should obtain a licence for that work and should implement measures to present the availability of unlicensed content. Two years later, we get to July in the European parliament, where the parliament were reviewing the proposals for Article 13, and I think probably the first time that the European parliament has ever been subject to US-style lobbying. In fact, it’s worth noting, I’ve never seen the music industry more aligned on anything in Europe as I have on Article 13. When you find yourself in a room wearing the same t-shirts as Impala and IFPI, it was a complete single voice. (Director of European Collecting Society 2019)

In addition to arguments that the new political ‘wins’ rested upon a more coherent and organized political approach by the music industries, there are also claims that the political shift reflects political scepticism towards the technology companies. In other words, the group argues that not only have the music industries managed to reposition themselves politically through adapting their lobbying, but also that their political opposition (in these matters) has weakened, with policymakers and legislators regarding them differently to only a few years ago: I think these companies are becoming so big that the politicians are daring in a way that they didn’t before to address this issue, and the value gap is straight into everyone’s face, because the numbers speak their own story, and the tax exemptions and so forth are damaging their image. Many times, I feel that this is basically an image war, between who is the most creative

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here; is it the digital networks or is it the good old fashioned music publishers and writers? It’s an image war. (Representative of international composers’ societies 2019)

The above point was followed up by a music manager for an internationally acclaimed artist saying that there are a couple of points. One of them goes to exactly what you just said, which is what I believe is going on in Europe, and that is the second vote on Article 13 came fairly shortly after Google was fined $9 billion for allegedly suppressing competition. When that happened, Google immediately effectively thumbed its nose at the European Commission and said ‘we don’t care, we’ll pay the fine off tomorrow’, they wrote it down in one day, and they’ve made the legislators think ‘just how powerful are these people? We can fine them this amount of money and they don’t care.’ So, for the first time, when it came to looking at somebody else that these guys were lobbying on, they start thinking ‘well, actually, maybe we shouldn’t be listening to them quite as much as we have in the past.’ So, I think that’s one of the things. It’s good for us to come together and making this happen, but I think there were other forces as well, which is legislators finally realizing they are completely losing control in terms of the tech giants. That’s one of the things I think is important. (international music manager 2019)

The consensus in the above excerpts from the Kristiansand Roundtable Conferences is that a political change is happening, resulting from changes in the internal structures and dynamics of the music industries, changes in the pressures and threats from external stakeholders, and the effects this has on policymaking and legislation. This supports my original analysis in 2018 (Nordgård 2018), where it was argued that the somewhat dysfunctional structures of the music industries (Nordgård 2018: 100) and the opposing agendas and objectives within this group of stakeholders constrained them from successfully countering and/or cooperating with the technology industries. More than that, the detached and divided agendas of the music industries also weakened any form of political lobbying; this means we need to reconsider how we understand and assess digital change in the music industries, adding more emphasis on policy and political processes.

Digitalization: A political crisis? The digital turmoil in the music industries, commonly exemplified with the launch of Napster in 1999, is often referred to in bold font as a ‘crisis’. In particular, the music industries’ challenges with adapting to a digital era are mostly described as an economic crisis caused by technological innovations. According to David Hesmondhalgh and Leslie M. Meier (2018: 1562–6), the digital transitions and resultant economic turmoil can be summed up in three main periods, all of which are linked to specific technologies, business models and even companies: (i) the Napster moment from 1999 to 2003, enabled by the MP3 format, online file-sharing and copyright infringement; (ii) the iTunes Store moment from 2003 to 2008, driven by Apple and their successful product the iPod; and (iii) the mobile telephony

Policy in the Digital Music Industries

and streaming moment, from 2008 on, in which a mix of IT start-ups, large technology powerhouses and the telecom companies (Hesmondhalgh and Meier 2018: 1565) have created a tremendous economy and a strategic advantage for the technology companies vis-à-vis the traditional music industries. The results, according to Hesmondhalgh and Meier, are that music in some respects has become instrumental to other core businesses (such as telephone manufacturers, telecom companies, streaming services, etc.), becoming the means, and not the ends, of a significant and growing industry. The traditional music industries, and in particular the record companies and the publishing companies, have become more powerless. These changes following digital innovations have been well documented by a number of scholars (Hughes et al. 2016; Spilker 2018; Wikström and DeFillippi 2016). What has been less discussed is what this shift in the power balance means for the political processes and the ways and effects that different stakeholders have had on influencing policy. In this transitional period, political issues have been central; some of the most central debates in music business over the last twenty years have been highly political and almost entirely linked to copyright, licensing and harmonization of territories and regions, targeting political objectives that do not align well with those of the music industries. The descriptions based on the dialogues from 2007 to 2011 (Nordgård 2018) echo the backdrop described by Schroff and Street (2018) on EU policy and the failed efforts to create the Digital Single Market, where the European Commission considered the geoblocking of media content as a key barrier to the effective functioning of the Digital Single Market (2018: 1305–6). The challenging political position of the music industries in general, and for the CMOs, the record companies and the publishing companies in particular, became evident during the 2007–11 talks. Here, the main problems for the European Union and its Digital Single Market strategy resided in music, cross-border licensing and the establishment of a single authoritative database, or registry for rights data, such as the Global Repertoire Database (Nordgård 2018). The political initiatives in this period seem directed more to facilitating the technology industries and their needs to licence with ease and without the fear of being sued. Policymakers, and in this particular case the European Union, considered the music industry to be the main reason why digital progressions stopped and why the Digital Single Market failed to emerge. As such, this period must be considered a political crisis just as much as an economic one. Although current policies (such as the European Copyright Directive and the Music Modernization Act) suggest a change in priorities, perhaps one should continue to question whether these political shifts are informed by music policy, or something else entirely.

Conclusion Referring to Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole, ‘policy at its simplest, is about the attainment of particular goals’ (2016: 3). This would imply that whatever policy is proposed and followed by politicians and governments represents ambitions and goals in a particular

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field. The presence or absence of any particular issue must then be read as a signifier of where interest and ambitions lie. The above-mentioned concerns by Martin Mills align well with arguments and considerations of several attendees at the annual Kristiansand Roundtable Conferences in 2007–11 (Nordgård 2018). This suggests that governments and policymakers have long been leaning towards the technology industries, and not the content creators and owners, when developing policy and legislation. As suggested in 2018, perhaps one way to assess the digitalization of the music industries in the period up until 2018 is as a political crisis rather than an economic one. It’s tempting to conclude that music policy in Europe since the turn of the millennium has been defined by its very absence, where political discourse around issues affecting the digital music industries has been influenced by significant stakeholders in opposite fields from the music industries. Consequently, the two pieces of legislation addressed above (the MMA and the European Copyright Directive) signal the emergence of a cross-national music business policy which gravitates more towards the music industries than before. If this does signal political ambitions more rooted in popular music and the music business, then there are other issues that may also be addressed in the future – ones that may require focus to be channelled further towards the internal structures of the music industries, the role of intermediaries and the framework conditions of the creators and the performers. A recurring theme during the Kristiansand Roundtable Conference has been concern over the economic and artistic sustainability for a broader set of stakeholders. These concerns echo a growing body of research addressing an economic divide and a diminishing cultural diversity accelerated by digitalization (Elberse 2013; Kiberg 2020; Krueger 2019; Nordgård 2016; Street, Liang and Schroff 2018). In other words, policy more grounded in music and culture is perhaps forced to more thoroughly assess the role and functions of traditional intermediaries, as also pointed out by Street et al. (2018a). Also, as Street (2013) has further argued, with policy, assessments of value follow. As argued above, although political interest may seem to shift from the technology sector to the music industries, this does not necessarily indicate that music is valued any differently than before. A significant effect following digitalization could be found in how society and politicians value music and the people who work with music. Keith Negus (2019a) already addresses these issues as he elaborates on how digitalization has redefined musicians and artists as content providers (rather than creative producers). His point is that ‘music as content suggests a generic type of information that simply appears for the benefit of users’ (Negus 2019a: 371). The value and meaning of music are changing due to digitalization, as is the nature of artistic work. Work is changing. Part of this is already addressed through different elaborations on the effects of more mobility within value-chains and systems, where musicians and artists take on more roles and functions than before (Nordgård 2017; Tschmuck 2016). But while mobility in roles and functions within a digital music business landscape is often given a positive meaning – artists and musicians have more choice and control over more of the process – for most, it is not really a choice. Digitalization has indeed opened up alternative routes to market and different ways to bypass traditional gatekeepers. But in doing so it has also assigned new roles to the artists and musicians, many of which

Policy in the Digital Music Industries

require substantial work and often specialized skills. There is a growing emphasis on the physical and mental hazards arising from musical work. In a pioneering work titled Can Music Make You Sick: Measuring the Price of Musical Ambition (2020), Sally Anne Gross and George Musgrave address the conditions of musical work, and in doing so they also point out how digitalization affects these conditions by increased competition and the abundance of music, and an increasing demand of the music creator’s online presence in social media and on different streaming platforms. These efforts have costs, and these costs seemed to be addressed more critically by stakeholders and by scholars. Here lies an issue that will perhaps gain political momentum in times to come: how musical work is valued (and compensated) in digital markets. At the very least, will this gain importance in a postCovid-19 period with increasing dependency on revenues from recorded music?

Disclosure statement Beyond the author’s position and obligations at the University of Agder as an Associate Professor, Nordgård also sits on the boards of various organizations in the capacity of being a researcher and an expert on digitalization and music business. He serves on the board of Gramart, which is the Norwegian featured artist coalition, and through this role, he also serves as deputy chair on the board of GRAMO, Norway’s collecting society for neighbouring rights for performers and producers.

Notes 1

2

3 4

Beggars Group comprises four record labels: 4AD, Matador, Rough Trade and XL Recordings. The company is often referred to as the fourth major due to its size and significance. The above descriptions of the two pieces of legislation are overtly simple and do not do justice to the laws or its implications. For a good overview of the US Music Modernization Act, see copyright.gov: https://www.copyright.gov/music-modernization/. For a good elaboration on the MMA’s effect on mechanical licensing in the United States, see Elton (2019). Moreno (2020) gives a good introduction (and discussion) to the EU Copyright Directive, and to gain a good overview of the directive, see Media Writes: https://mediawrites.law/the-eu-dsm-directive-the-platform-liability-provision/. From 2013 to 2015, the conference was cancelled due to various reasons. The Chatham House Rule dictates that all participants can freely use the content of the talks and refer to it, but not the identity of the speakers and the participants: https://www. chathamhouse.org/chatham-house-rule#

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4 Property or status? Music and musicians under copyright Thomas Dillon

Copyright is a form of intangible property in original literary and artistic works, including music. The copyright law confers on the author of such works exclusive rights to reproduce such works and to perform and otherwise make them available to the public. Alongside copyright, the law also confers similar ‘neighbouring’ or ‘related’ rights on performers, producers and broadcasters. The precise extent of these rights varies from national law to national law. However, a degree of uniformity has been achieved through international treaties, principally the Berne Convention on the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works (Berne Convention 1886–1979); the International Convention for the Protection of Performers, Producers of Phonograms and Broadcasting Organisations (Rome Convention 1961) and the World Intellectual Property Organization Treaties on Copyright and on Performances and Phonograms (WCT, WPPT 1996). A large part of the protection conferred by the Berne and Rome Conventions was inserted into the public law of international trade by the Agreement on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Law (TRIPS Agreement 1994) of the World Trade Organization. Certain basic principles limit the scope of the economic rights granted under copyright. The core right protects against copying – the independent creation of a similar work is no infringement. The right protects the expression of a work, but not ‘ideas, procedures, methods of operation or mathematical concepts as such’ (Article 2, TRIPS Agreement 1994). It is limited in time, usually to the lifetime of the author plus a period of years.1 There are exceptions from infringement in favour of certain socially essential or economically insignificant uses (Article 13, TRIPS Agreement; see also Gordon 1983). These ‘economic rights’ form the basis of transactions between their holders and those who invest in and commercialize the works, performances, recordings or broadcasts. However, the law also confers so-called moral rights on authors and performers. These rights include the right The views expressed in this chapter are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of the Secretariat of the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO) or the Member States of WIPO.

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to be identified as the author or performer and to object to any distortion, mutilation or other modification of the work or the performance that would be prejudicial to the holder’s reputation (Berne Convention (1928); Article 5, WIPO Treaty on Performances and Phonograms (1996); Article 5; Beijing Treaty on Audiovisual Performances (2012)). These two categories of rights receive differing emphasis in national law, depending on the legal tradition of each jurisdiction. The economic reasons for and against copyright have loomed large in recent years, the contesting parties often neglecting the possibility that there are reasons for copyright outside the material. In essence, proponents of copyright assert that if creators have no property in their works, they will be under-compensated for their efforts and, as a result, the supply of such works will be below the potential demand. Since creative works are in a state of nature ‘non-excludable’ (authors cannot prevent others from using them) and ‘nonrival’ (the consumption of the work by one person, like that of sunshine or the benefits of national defence, does not reduce consumption by another), the law needs to intervene to impose obligations on potential users of the work, without which transactions in copyright works are impossible and the position of the author cannot be protected (Gordon 1983: 265–9). Some economists have been more sceptical (Plant 1934). Others have questioned whether the grant of a right to the author is in fact necessary for an efficient market, so long as distributors are protected. This posture may be discernible in the earliest English legislation, discussed below (Barnett 2013).

Enforcement and the public sphere The current salience of copyright as a social and political issue has resulted from the disruption brought to the entertainment sector by the internet. A series of much publicized infringement cases against online intermediaries, particularly in the United States, has taken discussion of the technicalities of copyright out of specialist circles and into the general media and online discussion. In December 1999 a group of record companies issued proceedings in California against Napster, Inc., a company which operated an online network allowing internet users to ‘share’ (i.e. transmit copies of) digital files, in particular music files. In 2001, the federal courts in California held the company liable for copyright infringement and it went out of business.2 A series of legal actions were brought in many jurisdictions around the world against actors in the rapidly developing supply chain for unlicensed copies of music and other works.3 Widely reported criminal enforcement actions were also taken at the instance of copyright holders.4 The process of judicial interpretation of the effects of the fragmentation of infringement across borders shows no sign of ending, two decades after it began. New remedies against infringement have also been devised, in particular the blocking of consumer access to websites deemed to infringe copyright. The courts in several countries in Europe grant such orders, such as Austria, Denmark, France and the UK, pursuant to the jurisdiction provided for under Article 8(3) of the 2001 Copyright Directive (European

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Parliament 2001). Statutory provision to similar effect has been made in non-EU countries, such as Australia and Singapore (Parliament of Australia 2015; Singapore Government 1987). These novel remedies have provoked much discussion of the compatibility of the protection of copyright with rights of free expression. In addition, courts have had to resolve issues arising from the digitalization of musical production methods, in particular in relation to sampling. As with so much else in the sphere of digital copyright, the extent to which unlicensed sampling is an infringement remains somewhat uncertain.5 At the same time, more traditional copyright disputes within the music industry as to the authorship of celebrated songs have fed public interest in the issue of copyright.6 This intra-industry function of litigation extends also to disputes between band members.7 Such disputes often also involve the law of partnership. Although copyright is much argued over today, it has always given rise to controversy, even as to its very existence. However, the poles of the debate have not shifted greatly since the British Royal Commission of 1878. Is a right of property justifiable or desirable? Could artistic creation be maintained simply by giving authors a right to be paid – a ‘royalty system’? (Royal Commission on Copyright 1878). Countries have overwhelmingly opted for the grant of property rights in authors, sometimes extended also to performers of works, producers and broadcasters (see the Rome Convention (1961); WPPT (1996); Beijing Treaty on Audiovisual Performances (2012)). However, the growth of the internet and its possibilities has given new life to these fundamental debates of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Understanding copyright The story of copyright is largely that of the relationship between the artist and the machine. While the copying of written scores was possible only by manual copying, the possibility of a market in, and an income from, sheet music was limited. Until broadcasting and recording became possible, the career of a musical performer, circumscribed by time and space, was confined to the exploitation of his presence before a live audience. The opportunities to earn a living from creative production have multiplied with the growth of new technologies of distribution. Of course, this interaction results in policy only through the lens of the values and ideological commitments of the actors concerned (Dillon 2016). With each technological advance, the law has adapted to reflect a social bargain between the owners of the technology and the creators of the content on which the commercialization of the technology depended. The nature of this bargain has fluctuated at different times and in different places by reference to the underlying rationales for legislative intervention to secure the position of authors. There is, however, no determinate set of values to which legislative change can be directly related. The justifications for copyright are underpinned by an unstable set of values. Categorical assertions about the purpose of the right, common in policy debates, are never complete. There is no one copyright and no single, canonical rationale for it.

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In recent years, the possibility of maintaining the balance of interests of authors and technologists has come into question. It is not clear that the disequilibrium created by technical progress will result in a new sharing between the artist and the owner of the machine. The purpose of this chapter is to outline the principal conceptions and influences that have influenced the development of policy over the three centuries since copyright in its modern form began to take shape. Although international conventions led to a considerable degree of harmonization, the way in which the law developed in different countries reflected national conceptions of the role and standing of the artist. These differences can be grouped by reference to the common law and civil law jurisdictions, though important variations subsist between members of each group. Thanks to the internationalization of copyright scholarship since the nineteenth century, there is a well-established dialogue between the different traditions of copyright, even if there is no tendency or aspiration towards unification beyond the federalizing efforts of the European Union. This chapter seeks to explain, through a historical approach, the main lines of policy which have shaped and continue to shape the contemporary framework of copyright for music. A central question is whether the right of an author in his or her work is a property right as a matter of natural law, and so in principle to be protected irrespective of public benefit; or whether it is rather a right conferred on an author by the state on utilitarian grounds in order to promote societal benefits. If the right is merely an instrument of social benefit without intrinsic moral justification, it should in principle yield to any superior interest of society. The early history of copyright remains a contested field on account of its supposed relevance to the values underlying the right (see, for example, Mossoff 2005).

Prehistory Copyright, as it is called in the common law tradition, or ‘author’s right’, as it is called in the Continental tradition, confers exclusive rights on the holder of the right to prevent certain actions by unlicensed third parties in relation to literary or artistic works. The prehistory of copyright includes the grant of privileges or monopolies, acts of the sovereign power, but those haphazard and adventitious protections rested on no principle acceptable in the modern state, as it developed in England and France in the seventeenth century. The story of copyright does not begin with music, but with books. That the coming of the printing press presented a problem for authors is evident from the preface to the First Folio (1623) of the works of William Shakespeare, no mean songwriter, in which the editors, John Heminge and Henry Condell, addressing ‘the great Variety of Readers’, observe: From the most able, to him that can but spell: there you are number’d. We had rather you were weighed; especially, when the fate of all bookes depends upon your capacities and not of your heads alone, but of your purses. Well ! It is now publique, & you wil stand for your priviledges wee know: to read, and censure. Do so, but buy it first. That doth best commend a

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Booke, the Stationer saies. Then, how odde soever your braines be, or your wisedomes, make your licence the same, and spare not. Judge your six-pen’orth, your shillings worth, your five shillings worth at a time, or higher, so you rise to the just rates, and welcome … It had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to have bene wished, that the author himselfe had lived to have set forth, and overseen his owne writings; but since it hath bin ordain’d otherwise, and he by death departed from that right, we pray you do not envie his Friends, the office of their care, and paine, to have collected & publish’d them; and so to have publish’d them, as where (before) you were abused with diverse stolne, and surreptitious copies, maimed, and deformed by the frauds and stealthes of injurious impostors, that expos’d them: even those, are now offer’d to your view cur’d, and perfect of their limbes; and all the rest, absolute in their numbers as he conceived them. (First Folio 1623)

Heminge and Condell make two relevant points. First, the objective success of a work depends on sales in the market; and second, less obviously, the authentic expression of the author needs to be secured against bad actors who would misrepresent those works to the detriment of readers. These two notions – the maintenance of a market and the protection of the integrity of the work and the dignity of its author – remain the values between which copyright policy oscillates. Since the fundamental principles of divergent legal traditions operate within closed systems, their differences cannot be brought to a resolution, save to the limited extent international treaty-making can achieve it. But for all that tidy minds might like to resolve the tension between the two, the lack of resolution may be productive. The instability of legal theory leaves the system open to evolution in the face of a changing environment. In this evolution, there is an iterative process of conceptualization and characterization in which the subject matter of regulation is clarified and defined. After three centuries of legislation this process is not – perhaps can never be – complete. From the arrival of printing in the fifteenth century, the printing trade was regulated by means of ‘privileges’, specific monopolies granted by the authorities to individuals in respect of a particular activity. This was merely the application to the printing industry of a regulatory method employed in many sectors. The earliest privileges for printing were granted in Venice in the fifteenth century (Kostylo 2008). What began as a grant of monopoly for a technology evolved into the grant of monopolies for the printing of particular works. The earliest known privilege for a work is that given to Marco Antonio Sabellico on 1 September 1486 for his history of Venice, Decades rerum Venetarum (Bently and Kretschmer 2008a). Unauthorized publication was punishable by a fine (Bently and Kretschmer 2008a). Such privileges were not granted to authors as a matter of right or as a matter of routine, but rather as an act of favour in recognition of the investment made in the production of a work, such as Sabellico’s, which conferred some public benefit. They covered only a minority of publications. Music steps on to the stage for the first time with the twenty-year privilege granted on 25 May 1498 to Ottaviano Petrucci by the Venetian state for the printing of music (Bently and Kretschmer 2008b). Petrucci had devised (or at least mastered) a technique for printing music through multiple impressions of movable type. However, privileges were also granted for specific musical works, such as that granted on 25 October 1515 to

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Ludovico Ariosto for his Orlando Furioso. The monopoly was to last for the duration of Ariosto’s life. Penalties for infringement were to be shared between the composer and the state. Thus Venetian practice protected technological advances and creative works using the same mechanism. In either case, the grant was justified on the utilitarian grounds of the protection of investment, rather than any natural authorial right. A similar system of occasional privileges for printing operated in England, in which the propriety of the works printed was a usual precondition of their protection. For example, Edward VI granted to Richard Totell the exclusive right for seven years to print books on the common law, subject to any prior privileges. The privilege required that any such book be approved in advance by ‘one of the Justeces of the lawe’ or other specified experts (Bently and Kretschmer 2008c). However, by the time Heminge and Condell wrote their preface to the First Folio, the protection of authors in England against unlicensed copying had largely been delegated to the Stationers’ Company of London. In 1557, Queen Mary had granted a monopoly on printing to the Company, in order to address the publication of ‘seditious and heretical books rhymes and treatises’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2008d). Printers would enter a publication in the register of the Company and thereafter enjoy an exclusive right to print and publish the work. The Company would seek authorization for the publication from the church authorities where it seemed appropriate. It was empowered to conduct searches, seize unauthorized books and impose monetary penalties, to be shared between the Crown and the Company. The grant of commercial monopolies by the Crown, in theory a means of fostering economic development, but often a tactic to raise revenue from grantees, had been controversial since at least the time of Queen Elizabeth and culminated in 1624 under James I in the enactment of the Statute of Monopolies (Bently and Kretschmer 2008e). However, the Statute exempted ‘any letters Patentes or Grauntes of priviledge heretofore made or hereafter to be made of for or concerning printing’. The system established by Mary therefore continued, with interruptions, into the second half of the seventeenth century, first under Royal authority, then under statute (Bently and Kretschmer 2008f, 2008g, 2008h; Tanner 1961).8 After the Restoration of the Monarchy in 1660, the English Parliament prolonged the authority of the Stationers’ Company for two years under the Licensing Act 1662. As with the Marian Stationers’ Charter, the 1662 Act was quite explicit in its policy basis. It was intended to address ‘heretical, schismatical, blasphemous, seditious and treasonable books, pamphlets and papers’ through the limiting of the number of printing presses (Bently and Kretschmer 2008i).9 This provision was extended on several occasions, but finally expired in 1695 (Astbury 1978). By then the controversy over the regulation of the press was so acute that the Act was not renewed, leaving the market unregulated. The philosopher John Locke (1632–1704), whose theory of property was to influence the developing understanding of copyright, had been a notable opponent of the renewal of the Licensing Act as its possible revival was discussed in 1694. His objections, however, were focused on the damaging effects of monopoly on the availability and cost of books, especially classical authors. He asserted:

Music and Musicians under Copyright

That any person or company should have patents for the sole printing of ancient authors is very unreasonable and injurious to learning; and for those who purchase copies from authors that now live and write, it may be reasonable to limit their property to a certain number of years after the death of the author, or the first printing of the book, as, suppose, fifty or seventy years. (Hughes 2006)10

Similarly, in his assault of 1644 on the regulation of the press, Areopagitica, John Milton approved ‘the just retaining of each man his severall copy, which God forbid should be gainsaid’, while railing at what he considered to be the cynical manoeuvres of the printing industry (Milton 1644). The Stationers, realizing that their purely industrial interest had failed to persuade legislators, proposed a new form of regulation which put the author’s interest at the centre, explicitly creating a property right in works of authorship, in place of a system of press licensing which only benefited authors tangentially. That proposal was to become the first copyright law, the ‘Statute of Anne’ of 1710. It was well understood that ‘the copy’ of a work as acquired and registered by a printer was the property of that printer and that this intangible object could be sold, inherited or given as security (Gadd 2016). The nature of the right held by the author prior to the handing over of their manuscript was not entirely clear, but it was substantial enough to support the title of the printer under the Licensing Act. The author at least had rights in their work at least so long as it remained unpublished.11 The nature of the author’s right was uncertain, save that, if it existed, it was a species of property, not a personal privilege, and would seem to be of perpetual duration (like the rights accruing to licensed printers under the Licensing Act) (see, for example, Tonson v. Collins (1761)). The property was in some sense acquired from the author, sometimes for quite considerable sums. However, the hypothesis of a common law copyright was not necessary to support the economic relations between authors and publishers. On any footing, the author had a conventional property right in the manuscript and the practical ability not to disclose it to a publisher save on satisfactory contractual terms. In the period after the Statute of Anne, however, the idea persisted that the common law granted an exclusive right to the author in an original work independently of the statute. This question was answered in 1774 in Donaldson v. Becket, when it was decided that there was no common law copyright, albeit the decision did not put the notion definitively to rest, with counsel in later cases attempting to resurrect the notion of a common law copyright (Gomez-Arostegui 2014).12 However, developments in the civil law were later to introduce a natural law conception of the author’s right.

Early copyright in the English-speaking world The modern history – or one such history – of copyright starts with the Statute of Anne, the first statute to substitute a generally applicable rule of property for an arbitrary privilege as to the exclusive exploitation of creative works. The author, or the publisher to whom he had assigned ‘the copy’, was entitled to ‘the sole Liberty of Printing and Reprinting any

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such Book and Books for the term of fourteen Years’. If the author was still living at the end of that term, the ‘sole Right of Printing or Disposing of Copies’ would return to him for a further term of fourteen years. The recovery of monetary relief was conditional, however, on registration of the work with the Stationers’ Company (Statute of Anne 1710). The policy justification for the law was set out in the preamble, which explained that persons had taken the liberty of publishing books and writings without the consent of the ‘authors or proprietors of such books and writings’ to the ‘very great detriment and too often to the Ruin of them and their families’. The Act was required ‘for preventing therefore such practices for the future and for the encouragement of learned men to compose and write useful books’ (Statute of Anne 1710). One can clearly discern in this justification a utilitarian argument that without protection for their works, expertise will not be made available to society through ‘useful books’. The consequences for authors (and their families) of not protecting copyright are formulated in economic terms. That formulation is not inconsistent with the notion that authors have some moral call on the proceeds of the exploitation of their works, but it does not express it. However, when the first Copyright Act of the United States was enacted in Connecticut, the preamble explained that it is perfectly agreeable to the Principles of natural Equity and Justice, that every Author should be secured in receiving the Profits that may arise from the Sale of his Works, and such Security may encourage Men of Learning and Genius to publish their Writings; which may do Honour to their Country, and Service to Mankind. (Bently and Kretschmer 2008o)

This justification not only articulated the social benefit of incentivizing authors to produce useful works but also explicitly referred to the natural right of the author to the profits of their work. This reflected the influence of John Locke’s theory of property, namely that by mixing their labour with a material production, the worker acquired a right of property in the result (Locke 1690). However, when the US Constitution was ratified in 1788, it provided in Article 1, Section 8 that Congress should have power ‘to promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their respective Writings and Discoveries’, transferring responsibility from the states to the federal government. Although the reference to ‘their respective Writings and Discoveries’ might suggest recognition of at least some property right of the author in their work, the dominant rationale is clearly instrumental. The power to protect authors’ rights is granted ‘to promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts’ and any such rights are to be limited in time. In the period leading to the enactment of the Statute of Anne, Locke had in fact written a memorandum for a Member of Parliament, Edward Clarke, setting out arguments against the renewal of the Licensing Act. However, Locke’s arguments, like those of Milton, were all directed to the iniquities of a controlled press. Locke’s argument was economic,

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namely that the effect of the monopoly of the Stationers’ Company was to limit the supply of editions of classic authors, to reduce the quality of books and to increase their prices to the detriment of the public (Hughes 2006). At the time of the enactment of the Statute of Anne, therefore, the publicly expressed motivation for copyright was essentially utilitarian, though there was an intuition, not fully articulated, that an author had some kind of proprietary interest in his work.

France It was not until after the Revolution in 1789 that the French State adopted recognizable copyright legislation. A proposal to grant copyright in works, including musical works, was introduced by the Abbé Siyès in January 1790, but did not succeed. This proposal asserted that ‘[t]he progress of the enlightenment, and by consequence the public utility unite themselves around the ideas of distributive justice, to demand that the property of a work be preserved for the author by law’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2008j). This somewhat compressed justification for the proposed law appears to combine the utilitarian principle with the notion that the author has a claim in justice to ownership of his work. The report of de Boufflers made in December 1790, setting out a proposal to enact a patent law, is much more explicit as to the notion that an inventor has an exclusive property in the fruits of their invention: If there exists for a man a genuine property, it is his thought; that at least seems inviolable [hors d’atteinte], it is personal, it is independent, it is prior to all transactions; and the tree which is born in a field does not belong as incontestably to the owner of that field as the idea which comes into the mind of a man belongs to its author. (Bently and Kretschmer 2008k)

Invention was ‘the original [primitive] property, all others are merely conventions’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2008k). The National Convention adopted the law, declaring that every new idea the disclosure or development of which can become useful to society, belongs initially [primitivement] to the person who has devised it, and that it would be to attack the rights of man in their essence not to regard an industrial discovery as the property of its author. (Bently and Kretschmer 2008k)

At this early stage in the development of the French intellectual property system, it is clear that there was a strong conception of mental creation as giving rise to property rights as a matter of natural law or, as we would say today, a human right. The principal justification for exclusive rights was the pre-existing entitlement of the originator to property in his ideas.13 The first law to reach enactment was the law of 1791 on dramatic authors, proposed by Le Chapelier (Bently and Kretschmer 2008l). This abolished the monopoly of the

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Comédie française in the presentation of plays, a privilege which gave the company effective ownership of all the classic works of French theatre and – something of a subsidiary consequence – established a property right for dramatic authors in their works. According to Le Chapelier, the effect of the Royal monopoly of the Comédie française was that the actors had become ‘no more than subordinate courtiers’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2008l). It is important to note that the copyright legislation of the revolutionary period was part of the larger project of doing away with royal privileges and the craft guilds. Le Chapelier’s report to the National Convention makes it plain that the grant of rights to authors is a consequence of the abolition of the monopoly of the Comédie française in the performance of plays, whether ancient or modern. While there was a single outlet for theatre, the question of authors’ rights was academic. However, once freedom to perform was introduced, the autonomy of authors needed to be protected through legislative recognition of their property in their works. The source of this property was undoubtedly natural law. In an often-quoted sentence, Le Chapelier observed that ‘the most sacred, the most legitimate, the most unassailable, and if I may say so, the most personal of all properties, is the work, the fruit of the mind of a writer’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2008l). However, after a period of years from the death of the author, deemed sufficient to enable an adequate return to be derived, the work belonged to the public – this was how it worked, Le Chapelier noted, in England. Accordingly, the new law provided that five years after the author’s death, the play could be performed freely, but otherwise not without the written permission of the author. The liberalism of the révolutionnaires is clear from Le Chapelier’s speech to the National Convention: ‘The improvement of art depends on competition … it brings together [material] interest and self-esteem’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2009l: 12). He went on to observe: ‘Under liberty, it is merit which prevails, competition only stimulates it’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2008l: 12). These remarks reveal another important theme in copyright policy: the need to protect the market in creative works in favour of consumers, against manipulation or monopolization. It is no coincidence that Le Chapelier brought forward another statute later in 1791, providing for the abolition of craft guilds and trade unions (Loi Le Chapelier 1791).14 However, pre-revolutionary sentiments on this subject were eventually to reassert themselves. Le Chapelier’s report is important for the values which it articulates, but the second revolutionary law on the rights of authors, the Decree of 19 July 1793, was of more direct practical relevance to musicians. Presented to the National Convention by the educationalist Joseph Lakanal, the law granted a term of protection of life plus ten years to every kind of author, including ‘les compositeurs de musique’. Lakanal’s report to the Convention indicates that while the need to protect the author and their dependents from penury was a reason for conferring protection, the ethical basis for the law was the natural property of the author in his work: ‘Of all properties, the most incontestable, the one the augmentation of which can neither damage Republican equality nor detract from Liberty, is undeniably that in works of genius’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2008m). It was necessary to prevent the ‘pirates littéraires’ from depriving the author of their just reward. Consciously echoing the 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen,15 Lakanal concluded

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his peroration by describing his Bill as being ‘in some sort, the declaration of the rights of genius’ (Bently and Kretschmer 2008m).

From the economic to the personal At around this time, German thinkers were evolving different conceptions of authors’ rights, in which ownership of the work was anchored in the unique expression of the author, giving rise to a property which could not be alienated. The exploitation of the work was possible only by the grant of subsidiary rights, a so-called usufruct (Fichte 1793). This metaphysical conception, rooted in natural law, was to characterize the German tradition of copyright. To this day, Urheberrecht (author’s right) cannot be assigned, only (to use a common law approximation) licensed (see Article 29, Law on authors’ rights and related rights, Copyright Law, German Law Archive 1998; German Parliament 2018). German law adopts a protective attitude to the author, seeking to protect him/her against the vagaries of the market; the so-called best-seller clause allows an author to require the renegotiation of a licence contract in case the remuneration is disproportionate to the profitability of the work (German Parliament 2018). The philosopher Immanuel Kant had in 1785 published an essay, ‘On the Wrongfulness of Unauthorized Publication of Books’ (Kant 1785), founding his argument on what he saw as the inalienable right of an author to his own speech, the publication of the author’s works without permission constituting an invasion of the author’s autonomy. Although Kant’s ideas had no discernible impact on copyright policy in the immediate period after their publication, in the first half of the nineteenth century French courts began to hold that the author had certain moral rights of divulgation (first publication), attribution and integrity (see Lucas and Lucas-Schloetter 2017; Rideau 2016). Thus in Marle v. Lacordaire in 1845, relating to the unauthorized publication of extempore sermons given by the Abbé Lacordaire in Lyons and Grenoble, the Chambre correctionelle at Lyons held on appeal that ‘it is important for [the author] to retain the fruit of his work, to remain the judge of the opportuneness of its publication, and to be on his guard against a dangerous alteration’ (Dalloz 1845). A right to prevent the distortion of the work was evolving from the right of attribution and first publication, notwithstanding the absence of any explicit grant of such rights in the law of 1793. This growing consciousness that the author enjoyed non-economic rights alongside his economic or ‘patrimonial’ rights was to result in a profound divergence from the English model of copyright. It is striking that not only could Le Chapelier or de Boufflers in the 1790s refer to the utilitarian English approach to intellectual property with apparent approval, but also a French law reporter in 1828 could cite the views of the English jurist and copyright counsel Blackstone in commenting on a decision in bankruptcy, holding that the unpublished works of a deceased author could not be taken by his creditors (Bently and Kretschmer 2008n). This early concordance of doctrine was not to last. The preservation of the author’s utterance, a concern prefigured in Heminge and Condell’s preface, was to

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become one of the principal points of difference between the civil law tradition of copyright and that of the common law.

Music as a subject of copyright The French legislation of the 1790s had decisively recognized the composer of music as an author for purposes of copyright. In England, however, the question whether musical scores were ‘books and other writings’ was unclear. Some composers continued to attempt to control the reproduction of their works by obtaining grants of royal privileges, but the validity of such antique methods was doubtful (Mace 2016). It was not until 1777, when the ‘English Bach’, Johann Christian, son of the great Johann Sebastian, won his action against the publisher Longman that it was clear that composers were authors of ‘writings’ and so entitled to control the reproduction and sale of their works (Bach v. Longman (1772)). To the judge, Lord Mansfield, the case was perfectly clear: Music is a science; it may be written; and the mode of conveying the ideas, is by signs and marks. A person may use the copy by playing it; but he has no right to rob the author of the profit, by multiplying copies and disposing of them to his own use. (Bach v Longman 1772)

It followed that a musical composition was a ‘writing’ within the Statute of Anne. Composers were entitled to copyright in their scores. This resulted in a huge increase in the registration of musical compositions with the Stationers’ Company and much litigation by composerentrepreneurs against unlicensed publishers (Mace 2016). Although in 1737 an unsuccessful attempt was made to strengthen the law in a Bill which confirmed, in passing, that copyright extended to ‘Books of Musick, or any Composition in Musick whatsoever, whether printed or engraved’, it was not until 1842 that musical works were expressly mentioned in a domestic statute as attracting copyright. In the meantime, a series of ill-drafted Acts had attempted to protect the products of other technological processes, namely engravings (1734, 1766, 1777) and sculptures (1798, 1814). The Copyright Act 1842 finally gave explicit recognition to musical compositions as subjects of copyright, somewhat awkwardly deeming, inter alia, every ‘sheet of music’ and every ‘Opera, Farce, or other scenic, musical, or dramatic entertainment’ to be a ‘Book’; and conferring copyright protection on such ‘Books’ for the life of the author plus seven years or forty-two years from publication, whichever was longer (Copyright Act 1842, section 3). Strictly speaking, the first mention of musical works in any British copyright statute was in the International Copyright Act 1838, which authorized the Crown to enter into treaties with other countries to secure mutual protection against unlicensed ‘printing or reprinting’ of ‘Books’ first published in the respective jurisdictions. The Act defined ‘Book’ as including ‘Sheet of Music’ and, in a foretaste of future attempts at future-proofing references to technology, deemed ‘printing and reprinting’ as including ‘Engraving and any other Method of multiplying copies’.

Music and Musicians under Copyright

Building the international structure of copyright By the early decades of the nineteenth century, authors in Western Europe had become acutely aware that their rights under national copyright laws were unable to protect them in non-domestic markets. Music, as a universally understood form of communication, was naturally an early subject matter for litigation about non-domestic works. The solution to the copying of national works in other countries was obviously some sort of international agreement. Between 1827 and 1829 Prussia constructed a network of mutual recognition treaties within the German Confederation (Kawohl 2008). The UK enacted the International Copyright Act 1838 with a view to negotiating similar treaties with nations which consumed British works. However, the path to an international copyright regime proved difficult. No treaties were achieved under the 1838 Act. The offer of protection in favour of foreign authors was rather limited, and the benefit to the United Kingdom of securing protection for its works on the Continent and in the United States considerably exceeded the interest of other countries in protecting the works of their nationals in the United Kingdom. However, later British legislation on the subject permitted an adequate offer of protection which enabled some treaties to be concluded (International Copyright Acts 1844, 1852). Britain entered into treaties with Prussia (1846), Hanover (1847), France (1851), Hamburg (1853) and Belgium (1854), among others. Other European countries did the same, but the resultant network of bilateral treaties was complex and incomplete. British authors, such as Charles Dickens, lobbied in favour of international treaties to provide mutual recognition of copyright across borders (Hoeran 2016). However, repeated efforts through the nineteenth century to enter into such a treaty with the United States, the principal market of concern for British authors, were unsuccessful (Solberg 1926).16 The idea of a multilateral treaty on copyright was proposed in resolutions of a wellattended Congress on Literary and Artistic Property held in Brussels in September 1858 (Ricketson and Ginsburg 2005). The notion was promoted at various subsequent national events and in 1878 a further international congress was organized in Paris, chaired by Victor Hugo, which called for the French Government to organize an international treaty. In the event, it was the Swiss Government which accepted the challenge, and as a result of conferences in 1883, 1884 and 1885, a convention was elaborated which was adopted at Berne on 9 September 1886 by ten countries: Belgium, France, Germany, Haiti, Italy, Liberia, Spain, Switzerland, Tunisia and the UK. The Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works has remained the foundation of the international copyright system. It established certain fundamental principles, most notably that of ‘national treatment’: the rule that authors of one contracting state must receive in all other contracting states the same protection as those states give to their national authors. Infringing copies were liable to seizure on importation to any Convention country. A Secretariat was set up, the Bureau of the International Union for the Protection of Literary

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and Artistic Works (BIRPI17), which as of 1970 became part of the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO). This relatively modest attempt to establish minimum standards of protection was enhanced by subsequent revision conferences at Paris (1896) and, significantly, Berlin (1908). The Berlin revision adopted a minimum term of protection of the life of the author plus 50 years, which was to remain the international standard for a century. It required protection for foreign authors irrespective of any national formalities (a rule which prevented the accession of the United States to the Convention until 1989). It protected cinematographic works, only 13 years after the Lumière Brothers’ first demonstration of cinema. Later revision conferences took place at Rome (1928), Brussels (1948), Stockholm (1967) and Paris (1971).

Copyright and technology The various revisions of the Berne Convention evidence the interaction of technical development with the protection of copyright works. In the Final Protocol of the preparatory conference in 1884, the Swiss had secured the inclusion of a sentence providing that ‘the definition of the words “arrangements of music” … shall not cover pieces reproduced by automatic instruments such as electric pianos, music boxes, fairground organs, etc’ (BIRPI 1884, Part III, par. 2). Paragraph 3 of the Final Protocol to the 1886 Convention provided: It is understood that the manufacture and sale of instruments for the mechanical reproduction of musical works in which copyright subsists shall not be considered as constituting an infringement of musical copyright. (BIRPI 1886)

This provision was included as a concession to Switzerland, without any lengthy analysis of the issue (the Swiss cantons of Geneva and Vaud were the centre of the music box industry) (Briggs 1906: 403). The issue was the subject of animated discussion at the 1896 revision conference, at which the French delegation proposed that the benefit of the provision shall not apply to instruments which can only reproduce tunes by the addition of perforated strips or cards or other systems which are separate from the instrument, are sold apart and constitute musical editions with a particular notation. (BIRPI 1896)

No agreement was reached and no amendment was adopted. Courts faced with the issue in signatory countries had come to different conclusions as to the infringing nature of an unlicensed device for playing protected music (Briggs 1906: 407–8). However, at Berlin in 1908 the balance was adjusted in favour of musical authors, Article 13(1) of the revised treaty providing (over the objection of Switzerland) that the ‘authors of musical works shall have the exclusive right of authorizing: (1) the adaptation of those works to instruments which can reproduce them mechanically; (2) the public

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performance of the said works by means of these instruments’ (BIRPI 1908). The report of the conference stated: The right of the author and the right of the inventor of instruments must not be weighed against each other; the latter may have achieved wonders, shown true genius, but his right stops at that of others; he cannot appropriate a raw material which does not belong to him and, in this case, the raw material is precisely the musical expression. (BIRPI 1908)

By the time the Berne Union met again, in Rome in 1928, radio had raised a new challenge as to the balance between the sellers of machines and the originators of the content that gave the machines value. The revised Convention provided that authors should have the exclusive right to authorize the broadcasting of their works, subject to the conditions of national legislation. However, such provisions could not ‘in any circumstances be prejudicial to the moral rights of the author, nor to his right to obtain an equitable remuneration which, in the absence of agreement, shall be fixed by the competent authority’ (BIRPI 1928). This introduction of a right of ‘equitable remuneration’ marked a step away from the notion of property. The basic notion of intellectual property is that creators are given property rights which find their value through negotiation in the market. Without the right to refuse to transact, the possibility of free exchange at a price is compromised. A right of remuneration, to be fixed by a ‘competent authority’ in case of disagreement, places the author in a system of reward which is subject to external control. The nature of the author’s rights as a privilege of authorial status, rather than a freedom to trade, is emphasized by the explicit preservation of moral rights. The author has those rights simply by virtue of being an author. The fact that the author may have sold all economic interest in the work is irrelevant. At Brussels in 1948 the Berne Union adopted further revisions, widening rights relating to broadcasting and restating in plainer language the right of authors of musical works to authorize mechanical reproduction: such authors should have ‘the exclusive right of authorizing (i) the recording of such works by instruments capable of reproducing them mechanically; (ii) the public performance by means of such instruments of works thus recorded’. This right was subject to national rules, as under the Rome Act, but without prejudice to the right of the composer to equitable remuneration (BIRPI 1948, Article 13(1)). Under the last substantive revision of the Convention, at Stockholm in 1967, the formulas adopted as to the liability of makers or users of mechanical instruments were obviated by the introduction of explicit exclusive rights of reproduction and public performance in all authors. Any sound or visual recording of a work was to be considered as a reproduction for the purposes of the Convention and its use for public performance ‘by any means or process’ fell within the exclusive right (WIPO 1967, Articles 9(1)). As the internet became a widespread phenomenon, WIPO’s member states agreed in 1996 the two so-called Internet Treaties, the WIPO Copyright Treaty (WCT) and the WIPO Performances and Phonograms Treaty (WPPT), the most significant achievement of which was to formulate an exclusive right in copyright owners and performers to

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authorize the making available of their works and performances to the public ‘in such a way that members of the public may access them from a place and at a time individually chosen by them’ (WIPO 1996, Article 10). This represented the copyright community’s response to the rise of on-demand services.

A national example An illustration of the response of national legislation to technological change, under the impulsion of successive revisions of the Berne Convention, can be given through the legislation of the UK. Before the Berne Convention, British copyright legislation had not been universally admired. The Royal Commission on Copyright of 1878 asserted that British copyright statutes were ‘drawn in different styles, and some are drawn so as to be hardly intelligible’ (Copyright Commission 1878). Under the impulsion of the 1908 Berlin Act of the Berne Convention, a departmental committee was appointed in 1909, under Lord Gorell, by the then-president of the Board of Trade, Winston Churchill (Gorell Committee 1909). The Committee cited the disparaging verdict of the 1878 Commission on the British copyright legislation, observing that there was ‘inadequate recognition of the principles which should regulate the rights of persons in the products of their brains’. It examined the provisions of the Berlin Act and recommended their implementation. The British Parliament duly passed the Copyright Act 1911, a well-conceived statute which became the copyright law of many countries through the Empire. It dealt with the phonograph and player piano by providing that it was an infringement of a literary, dramatic or musical work ‘to make any record, perforated roll, cinematograph film, or other contrivance by means of which the work may be mechanically performed or delivered’ (UK Parliament 1911, Section 1(2)(d)). Contrary to the recommendation of the Gorell Committee, which had examined the issue at length, the Act included a statutory licence permitting the manufacture of contrivances by means of which musical works could be mechanically reproduced, provided that the copyright holder had consented to or acquiesced in such manufacture by any person (Section 19(2), 1911 Act). This had been the earnest submission of the manufacturers of such devices, who claimed to have built up considerable businesses on the assumption (not entirely supported by the case law) that they were not infringing the composer’s copyright by making such records (Gorell Committee 1909: 22–6).18 The 1911 Act (37 sections) was replaced by the Copyright Act 1956 (51 sections), which created a new copyright in television and radio broadcasts by the public broadcasters (UK Parliament 1956, Section 14(1)). The development of cable television resulted in the amendment of the 1956 Act by the Cable and Broadcasting Act 1984, which added protection for cable programmes and against the unauthorized inclusion of protected works in cable programme services. The 1984 Act also, importantly, introduced a right of action for payTV operators against the importation or commercialization of devices designed or adapted

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to enable reception of programmes without payment, and created an offence of fraudulently receiving such programmes (sections 53, 54, 1984 Act). The 1956 Act was further amended by the Copyright (Computer Software) Amendment Act 1985, which conferred copyright protection on computer software as literary works (UK Parliament 1985). The 1956 Act was replaced by the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 (306 sections, as first enacted), which created a rental right for sound recordings, films and computer software (UK Parliament 1988). The 1988 Act was in subsequent years multiply amended under the impact of Directives of the European Economic Community and its successors to protect satellite broadcasts and on-demand internet transmission, becoming something of a patchwork of continental influences. The growing length of the legislation testifies to the continual increase in the complexity of the commercial environment for creative works. The relatively swift reaction of the international copyright community to these technological changes over the decades was an essential precursor to a negotiation with the owners of the technologies as to the revenues resulting from their new methods of exploitation. As with all inputs to a profitable enterprise, the suppliers of raw materials, in this case authors, artists and performers, seek a share of the results of the commercialization of their inputs. This process has generally worked well for copyright owners over the period since the copyright status of musical boxes caused reflection in the 1880s. However, it is not clear that this cycle of innovation and benefit-sharing continues to work, despite the adoption of the 1996 Internet Treaties.

Moral rights under the Berne Convention The Rome revision saw the emergence on the international stage of a notion of moral rights, on the proposal of France, Italy and Poland. The Italian delegation observed that it would be a matter of ineffable pride for us if we could obtain from you, in this Conference which is being held in Rome, in this eternal city where so many human ideals have been attained, the recognition of this principle that a work of the mind does not only have a market value, but especially a spiritual and moral value; if we could obtain from you that this chapter which it lacks is added to the Berne treaty, that chapter which would serve to interpret, to complete, to ennoble all the others: the chapter on the protection of the author’s intellectual personality. (BIRPI 1928)

Although the ‘English-law delegations objected very strongly … to the proposed text’s incompatibility with the general principles of English law’ (BIRPI 1928), a compromise was reached. Article 6bis of the Rome Act provided that ‘[i]ndependently of the author’s economic rights, and even after the transfer of the said rights, the author shall have the right to claim authorship of the work, as well as the right to object to any distortion, mutilation or other modification of the said work, which would be prejudicial to his honor or reputation’. The conditions of exercise of these rights were to be a matter for domestic

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legislation, giving a degree of flexibility to members of the Union in their implementation of the provision. This recognition of a ‘moral right’, that is to say, a protectable interest in the personality of the author, represented a natural law conception of copyright. The moral rights of the author were retained, notwithstanding the transfer of the economic rights in the work. The fact of being an author entitled the author to the protection of his or her ‘intellectual personality’. It was, in a sense, the reassertion of status, rather than property, as the basis of copyright. Although moral rights are in theory non-economic, they have economic consequences and, potentially, exchange value. The classic example of the exercise of such rights is the claim successfully brought by the estate of film director John Huston, seeking to prevent the French television channel Le Cinq from broadcasting a colourized version of Huston’s film The Asphalt Jungle (Turner Entertainment v. Huston 1989, 1991, 1994). Damages were awarded on the basis that the colourization was a violation of the late director’s moral right in the integrity of the work, even if the US copyright holder, Turner, had been acting fully in accordance with its rights in the United States in creating that version.

Authorial status within a wider frame The continental droit d’auteur or Urheberrecht embodies a different conception of the position of the author from that of the copyright of the common law tradition, albeit the divide is not absolute. Elements of the protective attitude of the author’s right jurisdictions are found in common law legislation, if only by reason of the fact that Article 6bis of the Berne Convention requires some recognition of moral rights to be given. However, the distinction is real. Under French or German law, the author is always a human individual, not a company, even if the author may confer rights on a company (Loewenheim, Leistner and Ohly 2017: 291–2; Lucas 2017: 170–2). This anchoring of the right in the personality of the author is clearly expressed in the different approaches to originality adopted by the common law and civil law traditions. In the common law jurisdictions, the test for originality was historically satisfied by showing that the author expended more than trivial effort in producing the work and did not copy it from another; that is to say, the work ‘originated’ with that author. Artistic merit was irrelevant (University of London Press Ltd v. University Tutorial Press Ltd 1916). In the French tradition, originality requires the ‘imprint of the personality of the author’ (Lucas 2017: 127–9). Similarly, in Germany, only works which constitute ‘personal intellectual creations’ attract copyright (Loewenheim, Leistner and Ohly 2017: 130). This standard has essentially been mandated for the countries of the European Union (see Infopaq International A/S v. Danske Dagblades Forening (2009); Eva-Maria Painer v. Standard Verlags GmbH (2011)). With such a test of originality, it is natural to infer that only human beings can qualify as authors for purposes of protection. Despite the abolition of the guilds under Le Chapelier’s law of 1791, social organization along occupational lines remained a powerful idea in France throughout the nineteenth

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century (Desrosières and Thévenot 2002: 10). It is intriguing to note that the development of the droit moral in France, with its ultimate emergence on the international stage in the Rome Act of the Berne Convention in 1928, coincided with the struggle to reverse the anti-union policy of the révolutionnaires: following the labour troubles of the 1830s and the revolution of 1848, the Loi Ollivier of 1864 legalized strike action, subject to conditions (Loi Ollivier 1864). Unions were legalized in 1884 (Loi Waldeck-Rousseau 1884). The focus of the droit d’auteur on the author as a human person is consonant with a larger tendency to conceptualize French society according to statut (status), including the creative classes. In its modern form, the ‘author-artist’ (artiste-auteur) is subject to one set of social security arrangements, the ‘performing artist’ (artiste-interprète) to another. The Code of Social Security, as amended in 2018, divides the profession of artiste-auteur into five branches: writers (including playwrights and scriptwriters); musical composers, composer-lyricists and choreographers; graphic and plastic artists; cinematographic and audiovisual authors; and photographers (Government of France 2018). Admission to the social security system is managed by different associations. Graphic and plastic artists must seek affiliation with the Maison des Artistes (2021); authors in the other branches with Agessa (2021). This special status of the author, often conceptualized as the weaker party in any commercial negotiation, continues to be reinforced in the copyright legislation of the European Union. Following the German model, Article 20 of the Digital Single Market Directive introduces a right for authors and performers to claim additional, appropriate and fair remuneration from the party with whom they entered into a contract for the exploitation of their rights, or from the successors in title of such party, when the remuneration originally agreed turns out to be disproportionately low compared to all the subsequent relevant revenues derived from the exploitation of the works or performances. (European Parliament 2019)

A reciprocal right for distributors who have invested in expensive failures is not envisaged.

Not property, not status? The balance of power between copyright owners and the developers of technology has shifted strongly in the favour of the latter. This is not purely a matter of the commercial power of the dominant internet companies, though the ability of those firms to fund advocacy on behalf of their interests has certainly affected the nature of the debate. The fundamental problem for copyright interests is that the liability rules relating to the use and misuse of copyright works on the internet have not been settled. In 1998 the United States enacted the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), which was intended to achieve a balance of interests between copyright owners, technical intermediaries and consumers. In 2000, the European Community adopted the Electronic Commerce Directive, which attempted in a ‘horizontal’ manner to set a framework for

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all sorts of unlawful conduct online (European Parliament 2000). These measures had in common the fact that they sought to govern the position of intermediaries of a new sort, the fundamental liability position of which was not yet settled. Thus section 512(c) of the DMCA and Article 14 of the Electronic Commerce Directive provide on certain conditions a ‘safe harbor’ against liability for infringement for hosting providers, but neither measure specifies the underlying conditions of liability. The starting point for the copyright owners’ claim to share in the proceeds of internet businesses that are in some sense reliant on copyright works is necessarily the proposition that their interlocutors are – or risk becoming – liable for infringement unless terms of coexistence can be agreed. After some twenty years of litigation in many jurisdictions, the nature of the liability of internet intermediaries remains hotly debated. Right holders have sought to shift the legislative balance in their favour, but their battles appear to be far from over. At the same time, the general acceptance of the notion of copyright as a property right has come under attack. It is apparent that, after the adoption of the Berlin Act of the Berne Convention in 1908, the natural law conception of copyright enjoyed a growing influence on the international regulation of copyright. However, whether copyright was justified on pragmatic, instrumentalist grounds or as the emanation of the authorial personality, it was at bottom a property right. In the aftermath of the digital revolution, however, a trend in academic writing has rejected the notion that copyright is property in the full sense or even at all (cf. Mossoff (2005) and Lemley (2005)). This takes the argument back to the British Royal Commission on Copyright of 1878, before which some voices argued against a property right in creative works, proposing instead the ‘royalty system’ – what we would today call rights of remuneration – to the extent that some commentators would allow any remuneration for authors at all. What is not clear is how a market could operate without the right of the author to refuse to deal with would-be users. The basic argument for a property right in creative works remains the same as in Le Chapelier’s time: without a right to take his or her work elsewhere, the artist is merely a courtier, dependent on the goodwill of a prince, or in our post-revolutionary days, the teenager at the computer screen.

Notes 1

2 3

The international minimum is life plus 50 years. See World Trade Organization (1994) (‘TRIPS Agreement’). In many countries the term is life plus 70 years. See, e.g., Article 1(1), Directive 2006/116/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council of 12 December 2006 on the term of protection of copyright and certain related rights (‘Term Directive’). A&M Records, Inc. v. Napster, 239 F.3d 1004 (9th Cir. 2001). The brand ‘Napster’ was subsequently used for a non-infringing music streaming business: www.napster.com. For example, in the US Supreme Court, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. v. Grokster, Ltd., 545 U.S. 913 (2005); in the Federal Court of Australia, Universal Music Australia Pty Ltd v. Sharman License Holdings Ltd [2005] FCA 1242.

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4

5

6 7 8

9 10

11

12

13

14

15 16

For example, the prosecution in Sweden of the operators of the Piratebay bittorrent tracker and indexing site, see Neij and Sunde Kolmisoppi v. Sweden (2013) ECHR Appl. no. 40397/12, Decision 19.2.2013 [Section V]; prosecution of the operators of the Megaupload online storage facility: Mathias Ortmann v. United States of America [2020] NZSC 120. In Europe: the Metall auf Metall case: Pelham and Others v. Hütter and SchneiderEsleben, Court of Justice of the European Union, Case C-476/17, 29 July 2019, ECLI:EU:C:2019:624. In the United States: Bridgeport Music, Inc. v. Dimension Films, 410 F.3d 792 (C.A.6 (Tenn.), 2005) (strongly criticized in Patry (2021), § 3:163); VMG Salsoul, LLC v. Ciccone, 824 F.3d 871 (C.A.9 (Cal.), 2016). Skidmore as Trustee for Randy Craig Wolfe Trust v. Led Zeppelin (2020) (the ‘Stairway to Heaven’ case); Williams v. Gaye (2018) (the ‘Blurred Lines’ case). Hadley v. Kemp (1999) (Spandau Ballet); Fisher v. Brooker (2009) (Procul Harum’s ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’. The Commonwealth Act provided, among many stringent provisions against unauthorized political commentary, the whipping of ‘ballad-singers’ found selling unlicensed ballads. 1662 Act, 13 & 14 Car. II c. 33, preamble. Hughes (2006), attaching the text of Locke’s memorandum as contained in Lord King’s 1830 biography of Locke. Remarkably, Locke’s suggestion of a term of copyright of 50 or 70 years after the death of the author became the default duration of copyright internationally: see Berlin Act of the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works (1908) (50 years); and European Union (1993). ‘Ideas are free. But while the author confines them to his study, they are like birds in a cage, which none but he can have a right to let fly: for, till he thinks proper to emancipate them, they are under his own dominion’: Willes J, in Millar v. Taylor (1769). There is some disagreement between scholars as to the outcome in this case, though recent research tends to support the conclusion that it did scotch the idea of common law copyright (see Gomez-Arostegui (2014)). However, contemporary lawyers clearly did not regard the issue as finally settled, as one finds counsel continuing to argue to the contrary: see, for example, Bentley and Kretschmer (2008p). See also Ginsburg (1990). In this classic article Ginsburg attempts to demonstrate that both author’s rights and economic instrumentalism were motivations for the early copyright legislation of both France and the United States. However, the strength of the natural law rhetoric of French legislators immediately after the Revolution cannot be disregarded, given the future development of French intellectual property law. ‘It is contrary to the principles of liberty and the Constitution for citizens with the same professions, arts, or trades to deliberate or make agreements among themselves designed to set prices for their industry or their labour. If such deliberations and agreements are concluded, whether accompanied by oath or not, they will be declared unconstitutional, prejudicial to liberty and the Declaration of the Rights of Man, and will be null and void’ (Article IV, Loi Le Chapelier in Bentley and Kretschmer (2008l)). Adopted by the National Convention on 26 August 1789. In Article XI, the Declaration declared the freedom of printing, within the law. A treaty on copyright between the United Kingdom and the United States was signed on 17 February 1853, but was not ratified. International protection was in theory possible

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in the Confederate States from 1861 to 1865 under the Confederacy’s Act to secure copyrights to authors and composers, approved 21 May 1861 (see Tyler, Wise, Allegre and Smith 1861). 17 The acronym is derived from the French name of the Secretariat, the Bureau de l’Union international pour la protection des oeuvres littéraires et artistiques. 18 The statutory licence was carried into section 8 of the 1956 Act; and ultimately abolished by the 1988 Act (see Schedule 1, paragraph 21).

Part II Policy sectors

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5 Conceptualizing popular music’s heritage as an object of policy: Preservation, performance and promotion Paul Long, Zelmarie Cantillon and Sarah Baker

Introduction In June 2008, a fire consumed the Hollywood backlot of Universal Studios. Reams of popular music’s recorded history went up in smoke, with the fire destroying thousands of master tapes. Losses included work by artists as disparate as Buddy Holly, Duke Ellington, Iggy Pop and Eric B. & Rakim, as well as many other lesser-known figures whose work may not be available elsewhere. Pondering this loss, Jody Rosen (2019) writes that ‘recorded music is arguably America’s great artistic patrimony, our supreme gift to world culture. How should it be safeguarded? And by whom?’ This problem reaches beyond the United States and is answered in part by the global abundance of initiatives that have appeared in recent decades devoted to conserving, exhibiting and exploiting the variety of sounds, modes of production and cultures of popular music’s past. These initiatives affirm the innovative ways in which popular music’s past has become enveloped as a distinct field of heritage practice, one defined by the attention of consumers, the music industries themselves, cultural institutions such as museums, art galleries and archives, as well as the tourism sector. Policymakers likewise have become attuned to the meaning and value of popular forms as part of a wider vista of music heritage, particularly in its relationship with contemporary cultural production and consumption. The global reach of UNESCO’s ‘Creative Cities of Music’ is a prime example. This is an initiative that creates a network of cities around the world ‘that have identified creativity as a strategic factor for sustainable urban development’ (UNESCO 2021) and in which sites such as Adelaide (South Australia), Auckland (New Zealand) or Kingston (Jamaica) promote continuing music production founded on a celebration of a lineage of creativity and cultural innovation.

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The origins, visibility and function of policy developments signalled by UNESCO’s Creative Cities of Music initiative inform the three key concerns of this chapter. First, we are interested in whether the growing attention to popular music’s heritage is an amplification of the idea that the value of popular music lies not only in its economic promise but is expressed also in the ways in which it has accrued an abiding cultural worth for individuals and communities that consumed them. Second, we attend to the question voiced by Rosen of how popular music’s heritage is to be preserved and to whom that responsibility falls. The terms of that question can be extended in order to scrutinize the purpose and ends of the recognition of popular music as heritage and any obviousness about the demand for attention to it from policymakers. Third, we explore the challenge of making sense of a global field of practice in any systematic manner given the range of cultural, political and social contexts in which it takes place. Taking these issues together, in this chapter we conceptualize popular music heritage as an object of policy that falls at an intersection of civic and commercial interests, between a prioritization of economic returns and cultural values. This character locates popular music heritage within a wider framework of interests, actions and strategies for analysis. As Dave O’Brien (2013: 130) has commented in outlining cultural policy and its character as a form of public policy, it ‘reflects something more than that which can be reduced to market transactions and the methodological apparatus of economic valuation’. This chapter is an opportunity to explore the specificities of cultural policy for popular music heritage as policy, revealing something about its place and role in the cultural economy more broadly. The various social, cultural and political contexts in which music heritage emerges makes it a potentially elusive object of policy. Not always clearly codified, music is sometimes specifically named in policy for heritage, and other times captured across a range of indirect statements, actions and purposes. In conceptualizing policy here, we outline contemporary articulations of heritage as a field of practice and the particular challenges of thinking about popular music’s position within it. To illustrate, we outline four areas of activity – music industry, cultural institutions, tourism, fan activities – that demonstrate the lineage and emergence of popular music as heritage and the complex ways in which the commercial, public sector and the vernacular intersect and inform the potential, purpose and character of policy. Building upon the insights afforded by these four areas of practice, we posit popular music heritage policy as a dynamic field, and as an assemblage composed of different values, actors and interests. In doing so, we present a typology of preservation, performance and promotion, identifying the politics, processes and personnel that give each meaning as a way of bringing into view policy for popular music heritage.

Heritage and popular music: Key definitions, issues and challenges Heritage refers to an active engagement with the past distinct from, although not unrelated to, history and collective memory. It encompasses how objects and practices

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of the past are identified and enlisted to speak as representatives not only of the specific moments from whence they originate, but of the very notion of pastness and inheritance. Thus, heritage entails an approach to the past which, as Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (2015: 1) suggest, is ‘received through objects and display, representations and engagements, spectacular locations and events, memories and commemorations, and the preparation of places for cultural purposes and consumption’. This definition captures perceptions of the natural environment as well as cultural traditions and materials which can take both tangible and intangible form (Smith and Akagawa 2009). We are concerned, then, with an attention to the past across a specific field of practice, supported by policies formulated under the authority of governing bodies and their appointed intermediaries. Such intermediaries are located in specialized institutions and departments, their professional expertise codified and expressed in museological practice and archival selection, curation and preservation that is akin to an industrial sector in scale and scope. Laurajane Smith (2006), among others, has argued that the heritage industry is a meaningmaking process in itself: the act of preserving certain objects and practices attributes value and assigns significance to that which is being preserved. As Graham (2002: 1004) writes, heritage expresses value: ‘it is concerned with the ways in which very selective material artefacts, mythologies, memories and traditions become resources for the present.’ In so doing, resources are themselves subject to contemporary needs and expectations inflected by particular hierarchies, institutions and interests. For instance, Smith (2015) indicates the nature of heritage as a global concern, noting that, since the late 1950s, UNESCO has been a crucial site for the production of ideas about heritage, its international comprehension and parameters, composition, value and management, as captured and disseminated in treaties, conventions and listing practices that have deemed what is worth preserving and celebrating. Smith argues (2006, 2015) that the conceptualizations and practices of heritage are framed by an ‘authorised heritage discourse’ (AHD). The AHD privileges that which is aesthetically pleasing, ‘material, non-renewable and fragile’ and in need of protection by ‘experts’ who can reveal the ‘authentic’ qualities of ‘material objects, sites, places and/ or landscapes’ and who can communicate their value in the present ‘so they may be inherited by future generations’ (Smith 2015: 135). The conceptualization of heritage that has emerged from the AHD is ‘entangled with discourses of nationhood, citizenship and nationalism’ (Smith 2015). Consequently, while heritage can speak to the local, enabling a sense of belonging, it can equally generate exceptionalism and exclusion. Key to this character is the origin of AHD in European discourses which in turn have inflected the global dissemination of heritage practice through organizations like UNESCO. Therefore, what is posited as a universal impulse to celebrate the past as a shared bequest is, in fact, more partial and contested. Whether gesturing to the universal, or something more delimited, expressions of the cultural mission of heritage often also signal its economic dimensions. For instance, a sense of potential value is foregrounded alongside more durable and immutable notions of value in the following statement by the European Commission (2014: 2): ‘Europe’s cultural heritage, both tangible and intangible, is our common wealth – our inheritance

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from previous generations of Europeans and our legacy for those to come.’ Acknowledging that heritage constitutes a ‘repository of knowledge’, the statement underwrites its status as ‘a valuable resource for economic growth, employment and social cohesion’ (2014). The material realization of this promise is reported by Historic England (2020), who note that in the year before the Covid-19 pandemic, the heritage sector in that country alone was responsible for 206,000 dedicated jobs, supporting another 357,000 indirectly in fields such as construction and social services. The value of heritage is, therefore, manifest in both cultural significance and economic promise, both of which make it of interest to policymakers.

Music within heritage practice Traditional music, as opposed to popular forms, has tended to fit more neatly within established conceptualizations of heritage that privilege materiality, fragility and authenticity. For instance, Caroline Bithell (2006) explores the bodily nature of how cultural inheritance – the sound of the past – is remade and ‘felt’ in traditions of practice. Thus, music is unlike the wider material heritage, and as such cannot be preserved and exhibited in a museum for posterity: it is ‘“visible” only in the moment of its performance’ (Bithell 2006: 4). The maintenance of the distinctiveness and parameters of traditional music practices expresses a close fit between culture, place and identity, suggesting an immutable character. These aspects are apparent where ethnomusicologists have played a part in defining musical forms and their status as intangible cultural heritage in need of protection from the forces of change and ‘causes of endangerment’ (Grant 2012: 46). What is interesting in such approaches is the origin and nature of threats to traditional music, as intangible cultural heritage, and their definition in policy. Keith Howard (2016: 9), in a discussion of East Asian traditional musics, cites the example of the UNESCO Statement on Cultural Policies which is concerned with the ‘severing [of] a people’s links with and obliterating the memory of its past’. This statement recognizes contingent damage and destruction occasioned by thoughtlessness but in particular identifies threats from ‘the imposition of alien values’ through colonization or occupation following conflict as well as ‘the processes of urbanization, industrialization and technological penetration’ (2016). In tandem with the impositions of colonialism and cultural domination, this last triumvirate identifies the material processes that have underpinned the production and proliferation of popular music. What is at stake in thinking of popular music’s sounds and practices as endangered and worthy of preservation and celebration? Distinct from the sounds and expressive practices associated with traditional music, popular music encompasses commercial forms, particularly those emerging in the latter half of the twentieth century (Brandellero et al. 2014). In this sense, popular music is a product of modernity, associated with specific technologies and innovations in terms of its creation and consumption. These origins pose particular challenges for popular music’s ‘recognition as a legitimate form of heritage’, given that it is ‘characterized by

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mass-produced, mass-consumed ephemera and a relatively recent history’ rather than ‘that which is singular, unique and belonging to a distant past’ (Istvandity and Cantillon 2019: 4). Furthermore, unlike many forms of traditional music, popular music has complex global roots and routes through which it has been nurtured, circulated and appropriated, belying any one claim to immutable and ‘authentic’ points of origin. Nonetheless, in spite of popular music’s bequest as a cosmopolitan cultural form, it is also rooted in the local and associated continuities. Consequently, the capacity of popular music to straddle the global and local, and its existence as a commercial product that is experienced and engaged with affectively, in individual lives and collective cultures, underlines the complexity and ambiguities of its heritage status. On one hand, there is an historical association of popular music with processes of cultural imperialism and, as in Regev’s (2013) formulation, an ‘Anglo-American dominant paradigm’. Rock and pop’s roots in US jazz, blues and the influence of Caribbean sounds, of hybrid, dislocated forms have often been received critically by cultural gatekeepers of local traditions warning of changes wrought by influences deemed to be alien to them. One can find such accounts in the contexts of countries such as Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia (see Barendregt and Yampolsky 2014), but also within and between the Anglophone sphere (see Horn 2009). Indeed, the commerce underpinning popular music’s innovation and renewal, as well as its modes of dissemination and consumption, seems at odds with the connotations of heritage as distant and fixed in and by the past. On the other hand, however, it is the very qualities of hybridity and of versions of modernity and mobility that have lent themselves to the envelopment of popular music in heritage practice and policy. As we have recently argued (Baker et al. 2020), alongside traditional cultural forms, popular music has been enlisted to play a role in encouraging inclusivity in deindustrializing sites and supporting community identity and well-being. Popular music’s global reach and polyphonic roots have often accentuated its accessibility and appropriation as shared forms, even if communities of interest and intermediaries might seek to police generic boundaries and meaning. Below, we turn to the context for such initiatives in order to understand them in terms of policy processes. To do so, it is first valuable to register how a variety of agents have framed popular music as heritage. We propose that popular music as a broad object of heritage policy emerges from four distinct, yet interlinked, fields of activity within the cultural economy: the music industries, cultural institutions, tourism and fan practices.

The music industries Various sectors of the creative economy, including cinema, television and publishing, gain economic returns from the availability and exploitation of their repertoire or ‘back catalogue’. While unevenly distributed, cultural cachet and legitimation are gained from the expanse, qualities and longevity of historical material which is conserved for at least as long as rights and some market value can be maintained. Recent decades have witnessed the

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materialization and amplification of associations of memory, history and heritage across these creative sectors in their treatment of their repertoires, a development that we suggest is most pronounced in the practices of the music industries. This process is apparent in a broad ‘historical turn’ (Long 2019) across the field witnessed in the deployment by artists, labels and intermediaries of terms such as ‘history’, ‘archive’ and ‘curation’ manifest in the growth of the ‘reissue’ market (Bottomley 2016) or the identification and validation of the ‘legacy’ or ‘heritage’ act (Bennett 2009). Importantly, the innovation of the digitalization of music and the availability of new material have galvanized the re-presentation of old material across platforms such as Spotify, iTunes/Apple Music or YouTube. With the appearance of meta archives, these platforms afford the impression of an intensified presence before us of the global and historical wealth of recordings and new modes of access to them. These platforms have established new business models and galvanized others. As recently reported by the Financial Times, a reappraisal of the value of back catalogues by their creators and owners is currently under way, attesting to the economic import of the past for the music and entertainment industries (Fildes 2020). This development may itself herald an end point in the value of popular music – deflecting from investment in its future in favour of the certainty of its past. While legacy or heritage acts experience declining returns from new material, there is, nonetheless, enthusiasm among established and new audiences for the performance of their back catalogue in the live music circuit (Jenke 2020). Generating revenue from popular music’s past through new technologies and renewed marketing and promotion of legacy artists and their repertoire provide challenges for the attention of the public heritage sector and policymakers. As our opening example of the destruction of the Universal master tapes suggests, not everything in the corporate archive has equal value in terms of continued financial potential or recognized cultural worth. The products of the music industries are commercial properties, the continued value and sustainability of which is subject to a business calculation. Yet, as Rosen’s (2019) comments on the loss at Universal suggest, these properties and the total bequest of popular music’s past – of historical hits or misses – are felt to express something of cultural importance that merits preservation beyond the interested curation of the music industries. Nonetheless, the fact that popular music’s past has continued financial value for those who have overseen its production raises questions when it does become the object of the attention of largely not-for-profit and publicly funded cultural institutions and intermediaries as well as more commercial enterprises.

Cultural institutions There is a wealth of museums, archives and halls of fame specifically dedicated to popular music’s past around the world (see Baker et al. 2019). Examples include The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum (opened 1995, Cleveland, USA), Rockheim (opened 2010, Trondheim, Norway), the Australian Music Vault (opened, 2017, Melbourne,

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Australia) and the Indian Music Experience Museum (opened 2018, Bengaluru, India). Exhibitions on popular music heritage have also become common in cultural institutions with a broader collecting remit. At the time of writing, for instance, the National Portrait Gallery of Australia exhibited ‘Pub Rock,’ which aimed to ‘celebrate the people, places and sounds of Australian pub rock and its enduring impact on our nation’s identity’ (National Portrait Gallery 2021). Similarly, Hong Kong’s Leisure and Cultural Services Department has organized an exhibition at the island’s Heritage Museum entitled ‘Hong Kong Pop 60+’ planned for 2021. Formulated as part of a wider celebration of Hong Kong’s popular culture, the last of these exhibitions is organized around the display of totemic artefacts as disparate as the guitar of musician and songwriter Wong Ka Kui, a manuscript of lyrics to Faye Wong’s 1992 hit ‘Vulnerable Woman’ and a Chinese wedding gown worn by Anita Mui in the last concert before her untimely death. Such items are deemed to signify the importance of music, something recognized as ‘closely related to everyday life […] always in touch with society’ (Hong Kong Heritage Museum 2020). In this case, the exhibition also has had a hand in emphasizing the distinctiveness of Hong Kong’s place identity, ‘elevating Hong Kong to the world stage and exerting its deep, broad influence everywhere’ (Hong Kong Heritage Museum 2020). The activity of the aforementioned institutions exhibits a variety of economic characteristics and relationships with policymakers and the music industries. In the case of Norway and Melbourne, national and regional governments have authorized the establishment of popular music heritage museums directly. Cleveland’s museum is based on a foundation established by Ahmet Ertegun of Atlantic Records where the city’s administrators invested considerable sums of money to secure the venture in the face of competition from other sites such as Memphis, and their support continues to underwrite it. Established by an amalgam of government and private sponsors, the Indian Music Experience Museum is also a not-for-profit, where indie, rock and Bollywood music are featured alongside more traditional forms. In a number of cases, the boundaries between the music business and cultural sector become rather vague with some interesting synergies emerging. Indicative examples are exhibitions that have taken place at London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, which is a non-departmental public body sponsored by the UK’s Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport. The year 2013’s ‘David Bowie Is …’ and 2017’s ‘Pink Floyd: Their Mortal Remains’ were enormous successes and while the institution is free to visit, such exhibitions charge an entrance fee as well as generating considerable income: the latter was the main driver of growth in commercial returns for the V&A in 2017 (an increase of 17 per cent in income) (Victoria and Albert Museum 2018). The Bowie exhibition took in over £3.5 million in retail sales, although profit margins were conditioned by royalty payments to those in possession of rights to the artist’s material and archive. In turn, both exhibitions have gone on to tour the world, emulating the routes and business models of the artists as well as generating further income for the institution. For example, ‘Their Mortal Remains’ has exhibited in Rome and Dortmund with plans to reach Los Angeles in late 2021, before further stops across the world (Vogue Multicultural Museum 2021).

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Tourism Music tourism encompasses engagements with both popular music’s contemporary production cultures and with its heritage. While popular music heritage tourism may include visits to cultural institutions, it extends also to ‘pilgrimages’ to specific places of significance such as Elvis’ Graceland (Gibson and Connell 2007) or other music-related attractions including, for example, guided tours and historic markers like those found on the former homes of Bob Marley and John Lennon (Darvill 2014). All of these have value for entrepreneurs and policymakers seeking to gain recognition for sites of significance as well as assessing the economic returns possible on this kind of cultural infrastructure. Certainly, the UK’s Creative Industries Council has noted the pull of music tourism to that country, with the city of Liverpool providing perhaps the most well-known example of a local tourism industry built on popular music heritage. A 2014 report by UK Music assessed the value of Beatles tourism to Liverpool (and the economic promise of the heritage sector for the wider UK if properly nurtured in the same manner), estimating its potential to be £4 billion per year. As suggested in the report, while Liverpool may now be the most celebrated site of music in the UK, its governing agents were slow to recognize economic opportunities afforded by its association with the Beatles along with any apparent obligation to preserve materials or places connected to the band. In fact, Fremaux (2015) demonstrates how Liverpool’s emergence as a music tourism destination was largely initiated by DIY entrepreneurial initiatives rather than policies led by local government or cultural bodies such as English Heritage or the National Trust, which have only recently recognized sites of popular culture as part of their purview (see Hesmondhalgh et al. 2015).

Fan activities The celebration of Liverpool’s Beatles sceneography by fans attests to the organic ways that particular sites connected to popular music’s past have been identified by them as objects of heritage. Fans have played a part in collecting, curating and validating popular music’s past in their active engagement with the music industries, cultural institutions and the tourism sector which goes beyond their role as consumers. The contributions of fans to our understanding of the practices and processes of policymaking are helpfully described by Roberts and Cohen (2014: 235) as ‘Heritage-as-praxis’, that is, ‘a form of memory work encompassing everyday social, cultural and pedagogic practices, and a process of tracing influences, connections, and “inheritance tracks”’. Fan activities take place through a range of DIY and community heritage initiatives, including in the establishment of dedicated archives and museums (see Baker 2017) as well as online communities of interest on social media (see Collins 2018; Long et al. 2020). Certainly, digital technologies have afforded fans the practical means to develop and share their own collections and interpretations. While some activity is purposeful in its orientation to heritage practice, many activities

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in the digital realm are unintentional, with fans becoming accidental archivists in their production of podcasts, blogs and contributions to Facebook groups, for example (Baker and Collins 2015). While not a direct result of policy, fan activities may be responsive to or align with existing statements and objectives, as well as potentially providing the justification for further investment in popular music heritage at a state or institutional level – as with the example of Liverpool or in grassroots campaigns to recognize and preserve important sites in other cities (Bennett and Strong 2018). Ultimately, for popular music to function as a part of wider heritage industry and discourse, an appeal must be made beyond the limits of the aficionado to whom it may already speak. Whether to cultivate new generations of audiences, tourists, consumers of exhibitions or a recognition of community, amongst other purposes, this is where the consolidated work and mechanisms of policy can be understood.

Thinking of popular music heritage with and through the policy assemblage John Pendlebury (2015: 426) suggests policy is often taken to be coterminous with social policy and understood to be about the systematic direction and achievement of state action and governance objectives. Pendlebury (2015) highlights a variety of perspectives which emphasize the rational character of policymaking and thus the role in it of authority, knowledge, expertise and order, of purposeful decisions based in evidence and objectives that are not arbitrary in design. In terms of music policy, Cohen (2007: 126) defines it as ‘direct or indirect intervention into, and support for, music practice by local, national and international governing bodies based on conceptions of music’s social, cultural or economic significance’. Similarly, heritage policy involves mobilizing the past by the same authorities and for similar purposes. As Pendlebury (2015: 426) observes, in recent years policies for heritage have been expanded or ‘transferred’ (see also Gray 2002; Prince 2010) to encompass other instrumental objectives. Thus, policy directed at heritage, including popular music as part of its domain, is designed with specific social, cultural and economic aims and impacts in mind. Whatever their authority, source of power and intentions, policymakers face a range of constraints on the realization of their goals, including budgetary limits, the traditions of institutions, ‘media perceptions, electoral concerns, the demands of interest groups or the ideologies of policymakers themselves’ (O’Brien 2013: 114). In moving to explore such dynamics, we take a cue from Prince’s (2010) assessment of policy and processes of its transfer in relation to the concept of ‘assemblage’ and its utility for understanding the complexities and contingencies of governmental systems and their operation. As Prince (2010: 172) argues, such systems are assembled from a range of elements: ‘bodies, texts, discourses, buildings and factories’, not to mention natural resources. These elements ‘cohere together enough to appear systematic or at least describable as a city, a government, an institution, a commodity chain and so on’ (Prince 2010: 172). As O’Connor (2015)

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observes in a discussion of the cultural economy that has pertinence for the production and legitimation of policy discussed here, discourses operate through institutions, assembling individuals and objects in particular relations. In the field of heritage, these relations modify and direct conventions, dispositions, values and resources. Furthermore, the notion of assemblage implies a function for cultural intermediaries in constituting policy assemblages: shaping policy formation, translating policy into practice, and regulating, organizing and governing its implementation (see also Taylor 2015). In his work on the music city (see also Ballico and Watson 2020), Bennett (2020b: 6) further emphasizes the role of ‘intermediaries (consultants, trade bodies) and devices (handbooks, indicators)’ in constructing this policy assemblage. Policy for popular music heritage, then, can be understood to encompass a complex assemblage of actors, interests, goals and practices, including governments (national and local), cultural institutions, cultural intermediaries, funding bodies, professional curators, DIY activists, the music industries, consumers, fans and end-users of heritage initiatives. Below, we explore the dimensions and operations of policymaking as a dynamic field of meaning, intent, action and power. Distilled from popular music heritage’s global, cultural and political variety, this field is broadly captured by three operational descriptors: preservation, performance and promotion.

Preservation Preservation refers to the processes that serve to identify, recognize, legitimate, collect and safeguard materials and histories of popular music culture. It encompasses the establishment and maintenance of sites associated with popular music, including the built environment and intangible spaces. Preservation is the domain of archival practice and cultural institutions such as national and local repositories, museums, galleries and libraries, as well as DIY, community organizations. Preservation of objects, spaces and places involves a primary stage of identification and recognition of such things as heritage. In this process, institutional interventions and statements can have a transformative and mobilizing power. An indicative instance is a case from 1977 when the US Congress passed S.Res.335: ‘A resolution recognizing the city of Memphis as “the home of the blues”’ (Memphis Congress 1977). The US Senate nominates such gestures as ‘Congressional tributes’, the recognition of Memphis only one of 95 in that year. While recognition by government and its agents at this level is significant, it is not a response to any inherent value in heritage sites or objects, nor does it come with any guarantee of action, including the creation of cultural, social or economic policies to support heritage activities or the apportionment of resources. As Ryan (2011: 500, n. 3) argues, such resolutions – concerning music or otherwise – are ceremonial in nature but can offer an important source of pride for places and people so recognized as well as galvanizing further action and impacts. In another example (Ryan 2011), a US Senate resolution in 1987 ordained jazz as a ‘national treasure’, a commonplace phrase afforded the

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weight of authority, taken up in description of sites and musicians by fans and advocates, thus underwriting preservation and celebratory activities and the broad movement to expand the domain of heritage. These resolutions may appear to confer status by fiat, yet they emerge from a dynamic process of engagement, advocacy and opportunity in which the involvement of fans and intermediaries is already present, highlighting how policymaking manifests as an assemblage. The examples noted above are also indicative of how governments, national and local, as well as supranational bodies such as UNESCO, oversee public cultural institutions. However, their approaches to preservation are by no means universally agreed upon or uniform, evidenced by the varied national approaches to the archiving of recorded sound. For instance, Andy Linehan (2010) outlines how the extensive collection of cylinders, discs, digital and master tapes held at the Norwegian National Library was accrued from voluntary contributions until the extension of ‘legal deposit’ regulations in 1990 made sound records subject to the same requirements governing print publications and underwriting copyright law. By way of contrast, there is no legal requirement for the same at Linehan’s home institution of the British Library. The variety of national approaches to archiving suggests how the production of popular music heritage is a site of negotiation for both recognition and practical action in policy. It is necessary for intermediaries to argue not only for the recognition of a particular site, artefact or practice as worth preserving but for the very idea that the past of popular music culture is distinctive and merits attention. For example, the US Department of the Interior National Park Service oversees a register that recognizes important landmarks in the country’s heritage worthy of protection and support. An illustrative example is its attention to the Apollo Theater of Harlem, New York City, which was the subject of nomination in 1983 when it lay derelict. The submission on behalf of New York City’s Landmarks Conservancy notes the venue’s decline in the entertainment market due to competition in the entertainment sector over artist fees, ticket price and recordings. Commercial failure prompted a call for public intervention for those recognizing that the Apollo was more than a functional venue – to them it represented something significant. Its importance was identified in an initial assessment of its architectural particularity and in relation to both the identity of Harlem and an association with artists such as Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington, Sam Cooke, James Brown and Aretha Franklin. Nonetheless, the official evaluation accepted an obvious local significance in the site but remarked on how a case had not been made for its national importance in relation to claims about its historical associations with the emergence of the literary, artistic and cultural lives of Black Americans. Furthermore, the evaluation complained that the significance of events after 1935 had not been demonstrated by those nominating it for registration (United States Department of the Interior National Park Service 1983: n.p.). Nevertheless, a couple of decades later, the 75th anniversary of the theatre was celebrated in the Smithsonian special exhibition ‘Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing: How the Apollo Theater Shaped American Entertainment’ (Carlin and Holman Conwill 2010). Organized by the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture in collaboration with the Apollo Theater Foundation, the exhibition travelled to various destinations across the

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country, with over 100 objects from national and private collections curated to showcase the theatre’s impact on American popular culture. Beyond its commercial life, then, the process of recognition of the Apollo as something worth preserving and celebrating was a protracted one. The venue’s future as a heritage site was secured with its purchase by New York City in 1991 and establishment of a notfor-profit organization to maintain it. This instance demonstrates how preservation is not simply about identifying and recognizing an object or resource as heritage. Value is established by articulating a set of narratives attached to or illustrated by a site, sound or personality associated with popular music’s past; it involves making a claim for why such heritage matters and how it relates to a wider constituency who may not yet recognize the value apparent to others. The active process of producing such narratives and claims suggests something of the performative necessity of discourses attached to the tangible and intangible objects, spaces and places that are in equal need of identification and preservation in heritage practice and policy.

Performance Performance refers to the exhibition and display of popular music heritage, access to it and the use made of it. We define performance here to include the creation of permanent exhibitions and spaces and the degree to which policymakers direct resources toward making materials, sites and experiences visible to and inclusive of an array of possible users, audiences and consumers of heritage. As identifying and recognizing popular music as heritage is key to its establishment as an object of preservation for policy, this is a process in which an end point is never reached. Requiring intellectual and economic resources to sustain it, what is preserved as popular music heritage cannot be left to await what it might become or how its value might be interpreted: these qualities require actualization. As Laurajane Smith (2006: 88) has argued, historic management and conservation bodies engage in what she calls ‘heritage performance’, a mode which links meaning-making in the present to the past as a way to achieve authority and validity for this practice and its outcomes. Below, we draw attention to how this idea is extended to the specificities of popular music heritage and how and why it can be understood as a performance. Again, the nature of policy as process and assemblage is apparent in light of the range of actors and practices involved in performing heritage and in generating meaning. For cultural institutions, heritage performance occurs within a context in which ‘their operations are reconfigured increasingly by market reasoning so that publicly funded organizations must behave like private businesses, thereby further undercutting their own legitimacy’ (McGuigan 2004: 59). Heritage must address economic imperatives, ‘performing’ in order to articulate the values it represents and thus its value to both policymakers and funders as well as publics. Expenditure on culture as a public policy mechanism demands that those at whom it is directed are seen to register and make use of it, so rationalizing its purpose predicated on a model of customer service (McGuigan 2004).

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We can thus understand the performativity of the heritage sector on these terms with some examples of how a return on investment is measured by reach and engagement with its various constituencies. For example, each financial year, Melbourne’s Australian Music Vault publishes an annual report which outlines its income, expenditure and the range of ways it offers value for money as a publicly funded cultural venture. In each report, engagement is demonstrated through a wealth of metrics: in 2018–19, for instance, there were 714,791 attendees at the Vault’s permanent exhibition, 40,960 visitors online and 10,594 participants in an ‘Arts learning programme’. Of these, 94 per cent attest to having ‘enjoyed their experience’; while 97 per cent ‘would recommend the experience to other people’ (2019: 42). Likewise, community-based, DIY cultural institutions must also measure and demonstrate these engagement metrics in pursuit of funding. For example, the UK’s not-for-profit Birmingham Music Archive was awarded a £42,000 grant from the UK’s National Lottery Heritage fund for its project to document the history of the Que Club, a dance music venue that had once been popular in the city (Heritage Fund 2019). To obtain the award, the Birmingham Music Archive (birminghammusicarchive. com/in-the-que) articulated how the project would nurture new audiences for cultural heritage, acceding to a set of ‘key performance indicators’ (KPIs) to demonstrate a return on investment for the funding body – not financial in nature, but measured by individuals reached and impacted by this project. The engagement metrics demanded by policymakers and funders position publics in particular ways, potentially constraining a sense of the critical faculties that might be developed in relation to the preservation and performance of heritage, whether focused on popular music or otherwise. However, as McGuigan (2004: 59) observes, ‘Customers are also citizens, some of whom may not be entirely satisfied with the prevailing state of affairs.’ Individuals are not merely passive recipients of culture; they have their own investment and interests in heritage and its uses (for instance). This is a quality that is apparent in our own work which identifies the expression of a reflexive sensibility among members of the public regarding the framing of heritage and their own agency in the field. Researching the values and value of community initiatives in popular music heritage, we have explored how the offer and resources of the DIY sector are sometimes organized and evaluated by visitors in relation to initiatives that are commercially oriented or publicly funded (Baker et al. 2021). In detailing how individuals respond to initiatives as registered on the online platform Tripadvisor, we note the recognition and validation of heritage values and objectives such as those expressed by the UK’s National Jazz Archive. As we record, visitors to this not-for-profit, which is hosted by a local library, are appreciative of the archive’s aims and achievements, with one commenting on the mission of the archive in relation to neoliberal austerity which has diminished the public sector and its cultural offer (Baker et al. 2021: 7). As we discuss, reviews from committed fans as well as casual visitors to DIY sites express an active engagement with popular music as heritage. They assess their experiences in terms of ‘value for money’ while simultaneously co-creating the cultural worth of such institutions, endorsing or indeed potentially challenging the preservation and performance of the past before them. Our exploration of reviewing popular music heritage experiences, then, suggests how the dictates of cultural policymakers inflect the

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performance of the DIY and community sector, as well as the expectations of visitor-users. One aspect that is shared by this sector with publicly funded institutions and, to a degree, the commercial sector, is that the performance of popular music heritage has a role in democratizing the past and its purpose. As Cohen argues in writing of the British context, subsidies and other government support mechanisms for culture have traditionally been concentrated in the ‘high’ arts, those ‘cultivated by a social elite and regarded as having educational, aesthetic and moral value and a significant role in the construction of national culture’ (Cohen 2007: 128; see also Flew 2008). We should be cautious of generalization, but this distinction is one recognizable in other social and cultural contexts, especially as the values associated with ‘high’ art also have clear parallels with the traditional understanding of heritage as enshrined in the authorized heritage discourse. Instructive here is Hesmondhalgh et al.’s (2015) study of cultural policy under the UK’s New Labour administration which came to power in 1997. Hesmondhalgh and colleagues detail how, after 1997, the UK’s authorized heritage bodies acquired sites associated with popular culture, including John Lennon and Paul McCartney’s childhood homes in Liverpool while granting protected status to others such as EMI’s Abbey Road Studios. As they argue, this extended the purview of what constituted heritage, developing an inclusive appeal to new audiences. Whether these moves were directly the result of the actions of government or a reflection of changes already under way in the heritage sector, they involved recognizing the plurality of social stories and origins, addressing the variety of ways in which popular culture registers as integral to individual perspectives and selfhood in relation to a wider set of communal possibilities. Objectives of democratization and inclusivity, however instrumental in formulation, involve the nurturing of a broadened meaning of cultural citizenship which, as Rosaldo (1994: 410) puts it, is responsive to plural, open notions of ‘dignity, thriving, and wellbeing’. His conception is based on an assessment of higher education, arguing for the enfranchising potential of a recognition of a community’s shared fate and connectedness across a broadened sense of its cultural life. Cultural citizenship, he suggests, implies a ‘polyglot citizen’ and the sense that any address to a ‘we’ in curricula – or in the context of this chapter, heritage institutions, policy and practice – is necessarily inclusive rather than prescriptive and exclusive in definition and meaning. We note, however, that any utopian objective is not guaranteed by the uncritical extension of the heritage field to encompass popular music. In fact, popular music heritage initiatives have often reproduced abiding hierarchies such as race and gender. For instance, the figure of the white, male rock artist has often been privileged in the collection, preservation and display of popular music heritage. McDonnell (2019: n.p.) identifies exclusions in an exhibition of instruments at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art and the overall approach of Cleveland’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, arguing that both demonstrate ‘manhandling’, a process that ‘pushes women out of the frame just as whitewashing covers up black bodies’. Whether the responsibility of industry, creatives, audiences or cultural intermediaries and policymakers, the performativity of popular music heritage is one that requires reflexivity regarding its exclusions and potential as a democratizing agent. This reflexivity might be particularly

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necessary in a consideration of the promotional role of popular music heritage in policy formulation and its role in placemaking. As Cantillon et al. (2021: 86) point out, if ‘striving for cultural justice outcomes’, those engaged with the performance of popular music heritage ‘should embrace multiple, intersectional – and sometimes conflicting – narratives surrounding the expressions, people and places they aim to document’.

Promotion Promotion refers to how popular music heritage is produced or enlisted by policymakers in endorsing contemporary creative practices and informing processes of urban renewal and placemaking. This aspect of policy formulation is where a relationship is often most apparent between civic and commercial interests – whether the latter are specific to the music industries, the night-time economy, real estate or other sectors. The association of popular music, identity and location has emerged as an important component of the process of promotion in the context of policymaking. The existence of national collections and displays – Music Archive Finland, the British Music Experience, the Australian Country Music Hall of Fame – speaks to the general appeal of popular music heritage and its cosmopolitan identity. Moreover, organizations such as the Detroit Sound Conservancy, Birmingham Music Archive and Memphis Rock ‘n’ Soul Museum articulate specific claims for the importance of locality in popular music’s formation and heritage enterprise. Establishing a heritage offer and giving a local name to repositories of popular music heritage is simultaneously a gesture to and a claim for part of its dissemination as a cultural force with a global reach. This is suitably signalled by the fact that Buenos Aires (Argentina), Hamburg and Halle (Germany), Eger (Hungary) and Alkmar (the Netherlands) all host sites dedicated to the Beatles. However, none of these locations have the aura attached to Liverpool as the origin point of the band. No other site offers an encounter with the actual spaces and places named or evoked in their songs and in which the band members’ musicality was initially nurtured – this is Liverpool’s singular appeal, even if some of the buildings and sites disappeared or were transmuted before the realization and exploitation of the durable value of Beatles lore. While not all places can lay claim to such influential and tightly focused objects of music heritage, an equivalent and tradeable sense of singularity is apparent in many geographies, such as Memphis’s Beale Street, Detroit’s Motown sounds or the bhangra associated with Birmingham’s South Asian migrant communities. Such examples of popular music heritage can be employed in a promotional role by policymakers. They serve to accentuate the local distinctiveness and competitive advantage of cities, towns and regions, as heritage is also enlisted to support claims about the value of contemporary music businesses, other creative enterprises and visitor experiences. This process is particularly apparent in deindustrializing cities like Birmingham and Detroit, following places like Glasgow or Liverpool which have been framed by cultural policy discourses as sites in which a creative lineage and contemporary innovation work in

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synergy (see Bottà 2015; Breitbart 2016). Faced with the decline of traditional industrial production and associated problems – ‘job losses, reduced quality of living conditions, population decline, increasing inequalities, and legacies of trauma’ – these cities have often turned to cultural and creative activity as strategies for urban revitalization (Cantillon et al. 2021: 73–4). This is evidenced by the economization of culture, witnessed in the emergence of and investment in the ‘knowledge economy’ (Hospers 2003), ‘creative industries’ (Cunningham 2002) and ‘creative city’ strategies (O’Connor et al. 2020). While we have suggested how popular music heritage can be employed by policy and practice to speak ‘locally’ in accentuating identity, participation and communal well-being (Baker et al. 2020), it also has a role in addressing a wider audience, to advertise the ineffable qualities of place as part of this post-industrial, or deindustrializing, cultural moment. For Flew (2008: 7), this moment involves an attention to cultural assets and the value of human capital, but also ‘less tangible networks of knowledge, interpersonal ties and social capital that lead to the clustering of creativity and innovation in particular geographical locations’. The cultural capital of place is important not only for its contribution to a sense of local pride, branding and tourism but also for the attraction of mobile professionals for whom leisure and quality of life is a key determinant of the value of one place over another. As Flew (2008: 7) writes, it is culture, as ‘access to unique experiences and as quality of life, that has come to be recognised as the key element of the competitive advantage of cities’. There are a number of templates for the practical development of a role for popular music heritage in urban regeneration and as an element in the wider cultural and creative economy. Some of these may be cautionary, such as the failed National Centre for Popular Music (NCPM) in Sheffield, UK (see Kam 2004), emphasizing that the intangible cultural qualities of heritage employed in promotion are nonetheless judged in terms of economic returns and structural impacts. The NCPM was part of a pitch for a ‘Cultural Industries Quarter’ and a plan for growth in the face of the decline in demand for steel production for which the city was renowned (Oatley and Mackie 1996). Despite development support from Sheffield City Council, significant funds contributed by the European Union (EU) Structural Fund, and national support funds such as those granted by Arts Council England, the NCPM opened in March 1999 to underwhelming visitor numbers which precipitated an early ‘relaunch’ and later permanent closure with the bespoke building sold to the city’s Hallam University, where it now serves as the union of students centre. Whatever the policy lessons of this instructive failure, elsewhere, a range of successes have advertised the appeal of such ventures and the potential gains of regeneration attached to music tourism which promotes heritage and contemporary creative production and scenes together. For example, the authors of Music Canada (Terrill et al. 2015: 20) reference cities such as Liverpool, New Orleans, Memphis, Nashville and London and how music heritage is ‘leveraged for economic and cultural gains’. The most visible instance of promotion as a signifier of continued innovation, of place branding and as a call to visitors, is UNESCO’s Creative Cities Network. This designation recognizes, among other things, folk art, design, film, gastronomy, literature and media. As introduced at the outset of this chapter, its City of Music scheme, founded in 2006, evaluates cities based on six variables, including

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music heritage. By 2020, there were more than forty cities with this title, including the UK’s Glasgow and Liverpool, Kansas City (USA), Brazzaville (Congo) and Salvador (Brazil). The recognition afforded such places by UNESCO’s award is nominal, akin to the US Senate’s designation of Memphis as ‘Home of the Blues’. Nonetheless, the title is appealing to city agents seeking to build on it in order to advertise the distinctiveness of their locale in which something ‘essential’ about its cultural qualities is signalled by music histories. A sense of a distinctive essence thus becomes a repeated promotional trope. As Joe Anderson, mayor of Liverpool, said of the logic of locating the British Music Experience permanent exhibition in the city, ‘Music is inherent in Liverpool and is entwined with the city’s history, present and future’ (cited in Atkinson 2015). The point of the promotion of popular music heritage, founded on an established reputation (or attempts to establish one – see, for instance, Feldman-Barrett 2015), supported by the evidence of cultural assets, the material record(ings) and a variety of intangible qualities, is to actualize this sense of essence. Nothing is more unassailable than the claim of the uniqueness of music heritage and ambiance of place which serves to inflect the practice of the policy assemblage. In cities like Liverpool, or Detroit or Birmingham, what unites the policymaker, professional heritage officer and DIY fan community is faith in a durable distinctiveness of identity, where the economic and cultural worth of local music, past and present, is ultimately indivisible. Like the process of preservation, an end point for the role of music heritage in promotion and policy is never reached. The distinctiveness of a local music heritage is not one that makes itself heard but rather must be persistently narrativized and its value articulated.

Conclusion We set out in this chapter to explore the ways in which the value of popular music heritage has been captured and inflected by policy motives and practices. In doing so, we discussed some of the particular challenges of locating popular music in the context of a wider heritage sector. As we have suggested, the music industries are themselves invested in identifying and exploiting the heritage of popular music in particular ways, alongside consumers, entrepreneurs in tourism and indeed cultural institutions across the public and private sectors. This activity exists in an assemblage constituted by a range of actors and interests, including policymakers and cultural intermediaries, but also fans. Popular music heritage is a focus for the production of cultural values and economic value that we have operationalized in terms of the role of policy in its preservation, performance and promotion. The parameters of these categories are, of course, permeable, and it is important to emphasize their interaction. To take the last category, for instance, the role of popular music heritage in promoting the distinctiveness of place involves a degree of preservation. Identifying, recognizing, maintaining or revitalizing the key sites of historical activity, tangible or otherwise, involves a commitment to their preservation and performance in exhibitions of associated music and artefacts. In addition, these categories

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also involve policies and actors beyond those immediately concerned with heritage – in planning, housing, licensing, traffic control or health and safety, as well as others. An emphatic aspect of our approach here has been to understand the role of policy in articulating the value of popular music’s past, underpinning the maintenance, possibilities and sustainability of its heritage status as part of wider economic challenges. After all, archivists, archives and exhibitions cost money and demand resources. As the category of promotion makes apparent, the field is one intimately involved in the sustainability of contemporary popular music. At the time of writing, the global Covid-19 pandemic had a profound impact on the music industries – live music in particular, but also in production practices and indeed in cultures of consumption. One might cynically observe that in light of the current crisis it is possible that there is much that might occupy the archivist and historian in commemorating something passing in popular music. Yet this is to ignore the fact that popular music heritage is, as we have demonstrated, also impacted by the pandemic with the (temporary or permanent) closure of its archives, exhibitions and museums. The existential crisis facing culture in general, in its continued creation or preservation, is one that amplifies the questions about the safeguarding of pop’s heritage and who is responsible for it as expressed at the outset of this chapter. Creative artists, heritage workers and institutions are in need of the attention and help of policymakers in new and urgent ways that leave us to pose a question in closing: what is the future of popular music heritage and the role of policymakers in that future?

6 Popular music, policy and education Gareth Dylan Smith and Zack Moir

Introduction In this chapter we explore links between popular music, policy and education from two broad perspectives. We examine the impacts of popular music and cultural policy on music education, and links between education policy and popular music education (PME). Our use of the term ‘education’ in this chapter is deliberately broad and multifaceted. In addition to considering education by focusing on institutions and stakeholders, for example, we also focus on the way in which policy impacts or drives wider economic and ideological issues, thus functioning as a form of ‘public pedagogy’ (Giroux 2003). Our focus is as much on economic, political and social policies as de facto educational texts and discourses. Due to the inherent ambiguity of the terms ‘policy’ and ‘PME’, consideration of these areas is potentially problematic. Additionally, we are aware of almost no policy texts pertaining specifically to popular music education or on popular music in education, with the exception of a white paper from the Association for Popular Music Education (APME). Given the small size of that organization, its minimal reach and the dearth of references to, or apparent impact of its paper, we note for now simply that ‘the mission of the Association for Popular Music Education (APME) is to promote and advance popular music at all levels of education both in the classroom and beyond’ (Association for Popular Music Education 2020a). We have found no other documents so clearly intended to address, or indeed to promote, popular music and education. Mostly, popular music has been embraced in education, or excluded from it, through various cultural, economic and education policy initiatives policies driven by ideology, cultural norms and politics on local, regional, national and international levels. To keep the content manageable, throughout this chapter we generally limit our consideration of these issues to the United Kingdom and the United States.1 We address the issue of ambiguous terminology by defining how we use two terms germane to this chapter. PME is the simpler of the two terms to define, and, for the purposes of this chapter, we use it to refer to the range of activities associated with teaching, learning and studying popular music

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in various contexts and educational settings. These encompass higher education, primary and secondary schools, educational community music initiatives, non-profit charity programmes and learner-led auto-didactic pursuits. The term ‘policy’ is perhaps more problematic because of a multiplicity of general uses and normative assumptions, including in the context of discussions on music education. ‘Policy’ refers not only to governmental initiatives and legislation but encompasses a range of processes and guidelines. As Schmidt (2017: 12) acknowledges: Policy can be formal or informal, obvious or subtle, soft or hard, implicit or explicit … as much legislation as it is a set of practices, as much analysis as it is a disposition, as much a process as a set of outcomes.

Similarly, for Kendi, policy encompasses ‘written and unwritten laws, rules, procedures, processes, regulations, and guidelines that govern people’ (Kendi 2019: 18). In this chapter we therefore embrace a broad understanding of policy, whilst considering the ways in which PME is influenced by specific policies, established practices, prevailing attitudes, and indeed the absence of formal policy. Additionally, the notion of policy (either as text or as discourse, to use the Foucauldian terminology that is prevalent in literature on policy analysis (see Doherty 2007; Olssen et al. 2004)) is somewhat restrictive, as we are interested in the concepts of policy participation and policy action, which go some way towards ensuring that the notion of policy is not simply something decreed by governments or other authoritative bodies, for example, but rather something embedded in, enacted through or even resisted by the work of popular music educators. By remaining critical of the idea that policy could ever be neutral or objective, or simply a tailored ‘solution’ to a universally agreed ‘problem’ or ‘situation’, and drawing on the idea that policy reveals covert or explicit interpretations of ‘problems’ (Bacchi 2000), we consider policy in and pertaining to PME as something that is indicative of, and which reveals the phenomenon of, problematization at work. The term ‘policy’ may be seen as tantamount to the authoritative allocation of values (Easton 1953; see also Schneider and Ingram 1997: 2). As Froehlich and Smith (2017: 32) have noted, ‘The more rigorously certain values are emphasized over others, the easier it is to discount, disengage, and disenfranchise anyone whose values do not match up with those in the (frequently silent) majority.’ As Olssen et al. (2004: 60) clearly state, ‘In the technocratic view, policy documents are interpreted as the expression of political purpose, that is as statements of the courses of action that policy-makers and administrators intend to follow.’ In such a view, policy is considered as an inherently hierarchical process in which a top-down mentality allows people/groups/systems/bodies/institutions in positions of power and influence to formalize dominant values, ideas and beliefs. According to Smith (2019: 303), ‘Anything personal is always already something political. Education is also always political, because it deals with people, power relations, and the meanings and values of people’s place(s) in the world.’ In this sense, as educators we can never be socially or politically neutral (Moir in press). Indeed, as Doherty (2007: 193) notes, ‘Education policy is taken to be an expression of political rationality, and as a constituent of the scaffolding that establishes and maintains certain hegemonic projects’. In this way, policy can be seen

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to refer to the ways in which institutions (such as governments) enact their will based on their readings and problematization of certain phenomena, issues or situations. Policy texts are generally outlines of the things that governments plan to do, and thus can command the perceived weight of law, particularly when viewed as the means by which values are authoritatively allocated. ‘Authoritative’ in this case (derived from Easton’s phrase) reinforces the notion that policies are created by those in positions of power who can initiate, enact and enforce such allocations of values. However, as noted above, it is also possible to conceive of policy in a less authoritarian way, as a means of encouraging people to behave, consider and value things in particular ways (Ball 2015). It is important to be mindful of the degree of interpretation that inevitably takes place when engaging with policy documentation. As Olssen et al. (2004: 60) underline in relation to education: Policy statements or documents relate educational intentions, in the form of values and goals, to factual information resulting from research. These statements must then be interpreted by those who would either discuss or implement the policy … Because policy documents are construed as expressions of particular information, ideas and intentions, the task of analysis becomes one of establishing the correct interpretation of the text.

Those with an interest in education policy should also be cognizant of Doherty’s (2007) warning, within the context of the globalized, predominantly capitalist world in which we find ourselves, that a feature of education policy in late modernity is its relentless predisposition to fix the boundaries and horizons of national projects of education at all levels. Such policy production now takes place in an atmosphere infused by the economic, political, social and cultural affects of globalisation. As a consequence, education policy is now cast in moulds that reflect this ‘new complexity’ in the policymaking climate, a complexity comprised of the interrelation between the supranational, the nation state and the region. (Doherty 2007: 193)

While we can certainly see ways in which authoritative interpretations of ‘policy’ can have significant impact on education, such policy is not only created but also usually interpreted and implemented in circumstances that are inevitably influenced by dominant political and economic frameworks. Further, as Olssen et al. (2004: 71) state, ‘How we explain certain types of policy at certain junctures in history is deeply and intricately intertwined with the structuring realities of class, race and gender.’ Even though an area such as PME might not typically be viewed as directly influenced by any specific authoritative policy directives, the experiences of those engaged in PME are strongly affected by the values of policy researchers, policymakers and policy recipients. We continue this chapter by considering economic policy, creativity and the music education industry before discussing music education in state schools and non-profit organizations. We next address some considerations concerning Eurocentric and colonial values and then influences of militarism and money on school music. To conclude, we summarize the chapter and suggest ideas that could shape future policy for popular music education.

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Economic policy, creativity and the music education industry We have noted that PME does not seem to be targeted by explicit governmental policies. However, one example of national policy (in the UK, and with wider international ramifications) that resulted in a significant shift in understanding various aspects of the arts and their place in society is in the framing of the term ‘creative industries’ (sometimes referred to as ‘cultural industries’) during the ‘New Labour’ governments of Tony Blair (1997–2007) and Gordon Brown (2007–2010).2 As Homan (2013: 388) notes: Under Blair, the direction of greater governmental resources to the ‘creative industries’ was a means of connecting its themes of individualism and enterprise with the booming design, fashion, media, sport, theatre, advertising and software industries. Popular music’s prominent place at the government table was no doubt helped by the ‘Cool Britannia’ period of high pop exports … and the Blair cabinet’s eagerness to be the fashionable party of youth.

While it could be viewed as encouraging to see a government willing to support activity in the arts through a policy of greater allocation of resources to bodies and institutions, the renaming of the Department for National Heritage to the Department for Culture, Media, and Sport in 1997 signalled greater seriousness for culture as a policy area (Gross 2020). On the other hand, with ‘greater allocation of resources’ and ‘seriousness’ comes the ‘greater allocation of values’ (to draw on Easton (1953), or rather the greater assumption and assertion of these values from the top. A fundamental change in focus occurs if the arts are supported financially, and politically, when the supposed benefits of engagement with art and artistic pursuits (including in education) are framed in economic terms. Notions of the arts as areas of/for creativity, as sites and sources of culture, and possessing aesthetic value for societies and citizens, become complicated and contaminated, ‘particularly as the cultural is increasingly called upon to pull its weight as part of GDP considerations’ (Homan 2013: 389). This reframing of the arts and associated practices, within the language and values of industry, aligned with wider attempts to transform the UK economy from one based on (post-)industrial services, to one focused on knowledge-based work.3 In doing so, the notion of creativity also changed because of the exchange value that could now be attached to acts of creating or being creative. In viewing creativity, including the power to create ‘products’ from nothing, as economically valuable – rather than just culturally or aesthetically valuable, for example – the role or purpose of the artist is reframed and subsumed by notions of service, exchange and entrepreneurialism (Mould 2009). Clearly, economic systems and political ideologies foment particular governments’ predispositions to developing certain policies. In analysing these policies we should ensure that we scrutinize texts and discourses in a way that takes full account of the ideological standpoint of the initiators of the policies and their potential motivations. In the case of the ‘creative industries’ and ‘cultural economy’ initiatives of the Blair government, it is important to recognize that these policies, as Newsinger (2015: 302–3) succinctly

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states, are ‘in a number of concrete ways, the articulation of a politics that is neoliberal in character’, where ‘in the post-1997 period, the British New Labour and other governments (particularly Australia) followed, at least in part, a political trajectory first embarked upon by the Thatcherite New Right in the 1980s’ (2015: 303). The neoliberalism of the Blair and Brown governments (as New Labour) that immediately followed had substantial and long-lasting impacts on education. In the arena of higher education, the education of artists was affected due to government policies that strived, for example, ‘to ensure that academia is equipping students with skills to make the most effective contribution they can to the creative economy’ (DCMS 2008a: 25). Consequently, we have seen providers of higher popular music education assume roles in which their perceived purpose is to ‘prepare’ students to be cultural workers and entrepreneurs in/for the creative industries (Moir 2017). We, and many other educators and writers, firmly believe that the conflation of training and education in this area is problematic, ideologically speaking (Giroux 2011). However, it is fair to say that PME has flourished (quantitatively, at least) in higher and further education throughout the UK. At the time of the last formal detailed mapping of PME provision (Cloonan and Hulstedt 2012), forty-seven institutions in the UK offered degrees in Popular Music, the majority of which were introduced in the ten-year period preceding publication of the report (Cloonan and Hulstedt 2012: 4) during the New Labour era. Additionally, Cloonan and Hulstedt note that ‘provision is dominated by post 1992 institutions’ (Cloonan and Hulstedt 2012), ‘modern’ institutions which would typically have been colleges or polytechnics (and thus more readily aligned with vocational training) until gaining university status under the Further and Higher Education Act of 1992. Government policy in the UK seems conflicted, or at least inconsistent. Since the subtle yet highly significant shift in focus from ‘the arts’ to the ‘creative industries’ outlined above, artists have been cast as creative entrepreneurs (Hewison 2014), while the government simultaneously props up a fiscally unsustainable ‘high culture’ industry through financial subsidies. The double standard is compounded by a cultural policy (Department for Culture, Media and Sport 2016) that emphasizes canonical works in the school arts curricula, reifies old familiar texts and marginalizes new and diverse voices. It requires some agile mental acrobatics to reconcile this with the notion of the individual artist entrepreneur, unless the rather sinister impetus for all this is a tacit, resolutely anti-art and anti-creative policy that privileges the already wealthy and powerful. Smith describes how in England ‘the government is, with the left hand, feeding a sector that creates professional popular musicians at ever higher rates, while, with the other hand, it enacts policies that de-emphasize popular culture in curriculum, public spaces and discourse’ (Smith 2021: 19). He goes on to explain, for example: In the most recent iteration of a four-year [UK] government arts funding cycle, money was spent almost entirely on subsidizing ‘high culture’ venues and companies including the Royal Opera House and the Royal Shakespeare Company, whereas grass roots popular music across the UK has been suffocated through under-funding … over half of London’s 430 music venues closed in the decade leading up to 2017. (Smith 2021: 19)

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It is somewhat consistent with the UK government’s apparent view of the arts and artists, then, that during times of crisis, they should be left to fend for themselves. During the 2020 Covid-19 pandemic and attendant social, cultural and political (not to mention emotional and spiritual) crises, musicians, along with other cultural and entertainment sector workers, felt increasingly abandoned by government (Barker 2020; Cavendish 2020; David 2020) as politicians introduced a scheme only to offer financial support to those in ‘viable’ jobs – determined by an ability to work at least one third of regular full-time hours. With music venues shuttered for the foreseeable future, almost no musicians have ‘viable’ jobs as performers, in this view. Many who would have supplemented their income gleaned from performance with teaching are also finding it difficult to make a living in this way due to lockdown/quarantine restrictions and the logistics of social distancing that make instrumental and vocal tuition difficult. A by-product of government policy that explicitly casts musicians as creative workers and entrepreneurs is that these artists become subject to the market. When people working in this area are able to contribute to GDP they are supported in some ways; but when they are rendered unviable by policies and government action relating to the pandemic response, or austerity, or the changing perceptions of value that such people have, they are solely at the mercy of the market. There is little in the way of explicit policy text pertaining to how such logic impacts PME. In the UK’s higher education sector, the instrumentalist New Labour creative industries policy outlined above remains dominant with ‘industry training’ still serving as a clear raison d’etre for many programmes. We question, then, how PME graduates can contribute effectively to an economy in which they have been deemed unviable and, indeed, what constitutes an ‘effective’ contribution. The very wording of a sentence like this betrays a set of values that holds the economy to be central, while the learning, development, intellectual and aesthetic flourishing, and the potential for students to contribute to societal well-being, are secondary at best. Moreover, there is a paradox here, in that higher popular music education is framed in terms of market viability and its graduates trained to be creative entrepreneurs, while all artists are lumped together in a lazy logic that views all cultural workers as dependent and therefore disposable in times of economic crisis (Moir in press; Parkinson 2017). In this section, we have seen briefly how a neoliberal market rationale guided policy and practice in the UK in relation to higher popular music education. For the following section we cross the North Atlantic from the United Kingdom to the United States. Here we explore the relationship between policy and popular music education in state-funded schools and third sector organizations.

Music education in state schools and nonprofit organizations In the United States, following a federal mandate through the Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA) requiring music as part of every child’s education, there has been a renewed focus

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on meeting this goal (US Department of Education 2015). However, public education is often poorly funded, leaving a vacuum to be filled by third-party organizations. As Jones notes, ‘While this legislation is viewed by many as a victory for arts education, many schools struggle with funding even the most basic arts programmes in schools’ (Jones 2009: 63). Schools in the United States are funded largely through local tax revenues, leaving less wealthy populations with relatively poorly funded schools. While the ESSA mandate for music education is national policy, it is always interpreted via national, regional and local traditions, viewed through the lens of the National Association for Music Education, and implemented on the basis of assumptions, traditions and practices in particular school classrooms with individual teachers. It is thus possible to view music education policy as existing in a hierarchy of macro- to micro-contexts that corresponds roughly to a policy spectrum from text to discourse. At the highest level is the written federal mandate; beneath this are a set of non-binding guidelines in the form of the Core Arts Standards (National Coalition for Core Arts Standards 2014). Parallel with the NAfME Standards (National Association for Music Education 2014) and various standards in each state of the federation, ‘on the ground’, teachers interpret and implement these policies according to their own training, ethos and in the context of the needs and culture of the school. Music education is a highly professionalized and credentialized industry in the United States, fuelled in no small part by a nationwide machinery of undergraduate and postgraduate music-teacher education programmes. This self-sustaining system creates a hegemonic cycle that is hard to break: teachers teach the way they were taught by teachers who teach the way they were taught, and so on. Attempts to embrace an alternative ethos are fraught with difficulty (Kratus 2007; Krikun 2016; Randles 2013; Williams 2019). Existing music education policy, then, may not best serve music education’s potential for individual or collective good in or through popular music. Due to the prevailing model of large ensemble instruction in middle and high schools, music education experiences have tended to consist primarily in choirs, orchestras and wind bands. American high school performing ensembles often exhibit extremely high levels of executional skill, but in recent years there has been substantial momentum towards encouraging music teachers to curate possibilities for experiencing all the NAfME standards more equally, embracing creativity, improvisation and songwriting, for example (Randles and Smith 2012; Williams 2019). Incorporating popular music has been widely seen as a vehicle to achieving this end, both by welcoming music that is meaningful to young people and through applying modes of learning that reflect how people learn music ‘naturally’ outside of school contexts (D’Amore and Smith 2017; Powell et. al. 2017). Despite predictions from fourteen years ago that music education practices in the United States were at a philosophical and practical tipping point (Kratus 2007), change has been slow because of the cycle of self-perpetuating practices embedded in the well-oiled music education industry machine. Nonetheless, there are indications that a widespread shift towards including popular music in school music in the United States is under way (Powell et. al. 2015). A public sector vacuum of resources, teaching skills and pedagogical savoir-faire for popular music has been partly filled by players in the substantial ‘third sector’ of

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non-profit organizations, who rely on philanthropic donations to execute the policies that their boards of directors enshrine in vision and mission statements. These organizations’ reliance on philanthropic funding means that initiatives are not necessarily driven by the greatest educational or social need. Of course, notions of ‘need’ also invite critique, since it is arguably rather elitist to suggest that students not in receipt of music education in state-funded schools are in need of anything at all from a dominant class of policymakers, funders and teachers. Such (albeit often unconsciously) classist, racist thinking can go largely unchecked at non-profit organizations that often eschew evaluative oversight or informed strategic decision-making in favour of attention-grabbing, number-based headlines and glitzy celebrity photo-opportunities to appease wealthy yes-men and White saviour philanthropists (Flaherty 2016; Smith 2020). The most visibly active of the music education non-profit organizations in the PME sphere in the United States has been Little Kids Rock which facilitates professional development workshops for music teachers, with the goal of providing them with the skills, pedagogical understanding and curricular resources to incorporate popular music creation (performing, songwriting, beat-making, rapping, etc.) into the classroom through ‘modern band’ (Gramm 2021; Smith and Gramm in press). Reflecting the prevailing performance paradigm mentioned above, and the extensive training that American music teachers receive in executing and delivering this model, the modern band phenomenon is characterized primarily by instrumental performance ensembles that include guitar, bass, keyboard, drums, ukulele, vocals and technology (Knapp et al. in press). With a pedagogical approach that builds on work by music education pioneers such as Shin’ichi Suzuki (1969/2013) and Lucy Green (2008, 2014), Little Kids Rock’s founder and CEO views the organization’s work as ‘democratizing music education’ as ‘a means of disrupting the hegemonic structure of music education in our state schools’ (Wish 2020: 118). It is difficult to ascertain what level of impact, if any, Little Kids Rock may have had in its nineteen years of operation (at the time of writing), because only one annual report has been published by the organization, and ‘outcomes’ data are limited almost exclusively to quantifying the company’s activity, rather than to providing any meaningful evaluation of it (Smith 2020). As Hess (2019a) has noted, with a swing of the ideological pendulum towards the inclusion of popular music in schools, educators run the risk of simply instituting an alternative cultural hegemony. While there appears to be little risk of a new popular music education hegemony arising in the United States, Koskela and Leppänen (2020) contend that PME occupies just such a hegemonic position in Finnish schools, and Moir (2017) identified a similar trend in higher popular music education in the UK. Following Kallio (2017) and Kallio and Väkevä (2017), Koskela and Leppänen (2020: 11) describe how: PME negotiation processes are conducted from the viewpoint of the teacher and the school’s norms rather than from the viewpoint of students. This reveals that ‘enacting democracy within PME entails shifting a focus from the subject content to the interactional classroom context and encouraging the teacher to become aware of patterns of inequality.

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The adoption of popular music as normative practice in schools in the Nordic countries has been widespread since the 1970s (Brinck 2014; Tønsberg 2013). Hebert et al. (2017: 468) suggest that it is not surprising ‘that popular music education has become especially supported in nations known for socialistic (rather than corporate-capitalistic) policies, including the Nordic welfare states’. As Christophersen and Gullberg suggest, though, there are so many problems and potential issues with the term ‘popular music education,’ even in countries orientated towards a more social-democratic model of governance, that perhaps ‘a conception of popular musicking (“popular” meaning vernacular or common) could be fruitful, connecting music to issues of everyday life and agency’ (2017: 434; emphasis added). Critiques of including popular music education in schools take account of the risk of conflating claims of democratization or other education aims with the idolization of celebrity musicians and stoking unrealistic dreams for musical ‘success’ (Smith 2013) and conflating or comparing musical or personal success with notoriety or relative wealth (Hebert et. al. 2017; Moir 2017). It is worth considering, for instance, that for the Rock and Rock Hall of Fame there is no comparable rock and roll hall of objective excellence, cultural value or personal meaningfulness with which learners could align their aspirations as music-makers. Seemingly culturally neutral, benign or even altruistic organizations like the GRAMMY Organization or the National Association of Music Merchants (NAMM) exist to bolster the commercial music industry. It is perhaps telling that, as sales of recorded music and instruments such as guitars and drum kits have declined in recent years, the GRAMMY organization endorsed the GRAMMY Music Education Coalition and expanded its GRAMMY Museum network, while NAMM has partnered with music education organizations from Little Kids Rock in the United States to the UNESCO-affiliated International Society for Music Education (ISME). The push to include popular music in schools has focused on pedagogical processes, through Musical Futures in the UK (D’Amore and Smith 2016; Powell et. al. 2017) and Little Kids Rock in the United States (Smith et. al. 2018), rather than emphasizing commercialism and the cult of celebrity pervasive to popular music (despite the latter approach being foregrounded in non-profits’ fundraising and publicity initiatives). The case of Musical Futures presents another interesting model, where, in Australia, Musical Futures Australia operates as a private company in partnership with Victorian and Queensland State governments to spread its methods and approach to more teachers and schools. The Australian case provides an example of how a pedagogical approach born out of meticulous, careful research now lives at the nexus of interests of the private sector, state authorities and individual music teachers. In this section, we looked briefly at policy and practice in relationships between state, corporate and non-profit sectors. In the following section, we consider how education policy affects perceptions of the value of popular music, and how this reflects values enshrined in law. These values are, we argue, deeply rooted in classist, sexist and racist policies of colonialism.

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Eurocentric and colonial values Educational sociologist Diane Reay (2017) ably demonstrates how the entire project of public education in the UK is deeply classist. This system is replicated globally through violent, oppressive colonial and neocolonial practices aimed at ‘rais[ing] up a people in a studied, and thereby inadequate, approximation of their betters’ (Willinsky 1998: 91). As Kelly and Altbach have articulated, public ‘education’ has never been about empowering or enabling individuals or groups in society, unless those people are already enabled and empowered: In any society, schooling never has been an organic outgrowth of the entire community. Rather, except in small-scale preindustrial societies devoid of social stratification, schooling has grown out of the interests of one of several parts of the society … they have been connected to dominant modes in that society, serving the needs of a class within the society, and tied ultimately to social and economic places, which underclasses could aspire to if not achieve. (Kelly and Altbach 1978: 3)

Music education models have followed this pernicious modus operandi (Kallio 2017; Niknafs and Przybylski 2017). The word ‘music’ in music education usually refers, or is at least normatively understood to refer, to Western classical and art music (Bradley 2015). This Eurocentric presumption is adopted worldwide. Programmes and certifications in popular music education, therefore, always need to be branded as such, with labels including music production, music industry, commercial music, music production, popular music performance, songwriting, etc. (Smith 2013). Moreover, as noted above, degrees in these subjects, where they do exist, are often offered by newer and less prestigious institutions that include universities focused on teaching, rather than on research (Cloonan and Hulstedt 2012; Parkinson and Smith 2015) and by ‘challenger’ institutions (Department for Business, Innovation and Skills 2016: 5) such as the British and Irish Modern Music Institute (BIMM) and the Academy of Contemporary Music (ACM) in the United Kingdom, and the Detroit Institute of Modern Music (DIME) in the United States.4 When the inclusion of popular music is approved by programme and curriculum committees, often learners are held accountable to an ill-fitting setting of Eurocentric standards. As Mark Hunter (2019: 45) explains: The normative expectation that candidates wishing to study music in Higher Education in England and Wales are equipped with Western art music instrumental performance skills and music theory is intimately bound up with the cultural mores and financial capacity of a specific and limited socio-economic group.

Popular music, including jazz (Krikun 2016), has been Othered and marginalized in theory and practice in education, politics and law. This has led to oppressive beliefs and practices being portrayed and perpetuated in public as nothing other than entirely

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normal. In truth, however, these understandings rest on ‘philosophical accounts [that] are all formalist in nature and are in various senses children of Eduard Hanslicks’s theory5 as developed in his seminal Vom Musikalisch-Schonen of 1854’ (Lewis 2019: 39). This White supremacist policy of denigrating most music, including popular music, is reinforced by common and commonsense assumptions by many in the music teaching profession that, for instance, popular music is simple, or that music is a universal language (Bradley 2015). This latter assertion positions European classical music as culturally neutral, devaluing other musical and music learning traditions, and operating as a kind of colour-blind racism (Bradley 2015). The cultural subjugation of popular music is enshrined in copyright law, in that fundamental aspects of popular styles like beat-making, rhythm and groove are not legally part of a ‘song’, which comprises, in legal terms, melody and lyrics; anyone trying to earn royalties for a sampled performance of a seminal drum groove, for instance, is almost certainly doomed to fail (Brennan 2020). This, of course, has implications for distribution of earnings and accumulation of wealth. Lewis (2019: 39) underlines how ‘a racist and classist practice and law … attempts to hide its exclusionary nature behind a metaphysics of the musical work that purports to be objective and universal, but in fact is not’. The view of popular music as ‘less than’ and trivial to ‘serious’ art music of the Western classical canon is widely upheld in cultural and education policy, as noted above. Borje Stålhammar (2006: 123) astutely observes that ‘often the evaluation of art is treated as a purely aesthetic matter, no attention being given to social context and conventions’. This leaves most musics, including popular music, on the fringes of music education. This is the case even in many instances when popular music is included in curricula, since popular music is widely held to be culturally inferior, and to be created by people of lower culture. Stratification of modes of music-making and learning involves deeply ingrained classist processes (Bull 2016, 2019) as well as deeply racist (Ewell 2020) and sexist ones (Lewis 2019; Volgsten 2016). Ibram X Kendi (2019) emphasizes how difficult it can be even to see this entrenched cultural hierarchy – what Bourdieu (1984) calls ‘doxa’ or unquestioned, reified knowledge – due in no small part to the complexities of the intersections and interplay of race, class and gender. Despite assertions by prominent white scholars such as jazz and education researcher Ed Sarath that Black Music Matters (Sarath 2018), as far as anyone with any real power is concerned, it frequently does not. There is a paradox that emerges in this context for, as discussed above, higher education is increasingly characterized by ‘an obsession with … market values, and an unreflective immersion in the crude empiricism of a data-obsessed market-driven society’ (Giroux 2020: 16); however, while popular and Black musics do matter in economic terms, they are snubbed ideologically, through cultural and education policy. In this section, we have briefly discussed the pervasive effects of Eurocentric, colonial policy in popular music education. In the following section, we discuss state power enacted and reified as militarism and patriotism. In the continued absence of policies specifically for popular music in education, there appears little room for popular music in many schools in the United States.

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Militarism and money Any visitor to the United States is sure to notice the omnipresence of the Stars and Stripes flag flying on store fronts, shopping streets, homes, front lawns, post offices, public libraries, and trailing from civilians’ motorcycles, pickup trucks and cars. It is de facto policy in the United States to be proud of the nation from whence one hails, despite this being an obvious accident of birth. American patriotism extends seamlessly to honouring those who have ‘served the country’. Service to the nation is held in far greater esteem than more local altruism in, for example, one’s family, church, community garden or local music venue. It is also prized over extra-national work, like peace-making and diplomacy or striving to understand and manage climate change. Furthermore, service to one’s country always and only means current or prior military service. Restaurants, bars, shops, banks and amenities of all kinds offer military discounts. There is the ubiquitous priority boarding on airlines for military personnel, along with larger airports offering USO lounges for military employees and families (United Service Organizations 2020). School music education marches in lockstep with the US policy of valorizing military discipline and service, along with military musical styles and forms (Hebert 2015). This is perhaps nowhere more evident than in the ubiquity of the US national anthem played and sung at all school, university and professional sports matches, and through the highly competitive National Anthem Project, which from 2006 to 2007 became the largest project ever launched by the National Association for Music Education, in affiliation with military bands. It might seem incongruous, at any domestic sports event, to sing a war song whose lyrics taunt a defeated foreign enemy, particularly at events where children are competing. Nevertheless, the tradition of playing and singing the national anthem in US sports began at a baseball match in Boston during the First World War and has continued unabated ever since. The influence of militarism ‘has dramatically increased since [2001 terrorist attacks in the USA] 9/11’ (Hebert 2015: 77–8). Hebert (2015: 80) goes on to describe how the large ensemble model prevalent in American schools replicates: Military training [that] emphasizes discipline, acceptance of authority, and accurate and efficient execution of tasks perfected through drilling. Rather than encouraging empathy, militarism implies the inevitability of winners and losers in a world in which ‘might is right’ and winning is to be achieved at any price.

John Kratus (2019) points to how the Band Instrument Manufacturers’ Association spent the first quarter of the twentieth century seeking new markets for its members’ wares as civilian community wind bands (playing what had for a few decades been the popular music of the era) declined in popularity. With the advent of the School Band Contest of America in 1923, sales of wind band instruments soared as state schools sought to compete, and as retired military band personnel increasingly exerted influence in public school music (Hebert 2015). To this day, the ‘marching band is one of the most visible manifestations of music education in American culture’ (Stern, in press).

Popular Music, Policy and Education

Reification of this militaristic, colonial paradigm ‘reinforces patterns of White male domination and the ideals of White supremacy’ (Williams 2021). This in turn leads to a dearth of empathy, compassion and love (Giroux 2020; Williamson 1997/2018), with the means and ends of music education focused on aggression and victory rather than towards more ethical processes of artistic citizenship (Elliott and Silverman 2015) and human flourishing (Bowman 2006). Elliott and Silverman (2014: 57) envision music in schools as a means of countering the prevailing paradigm, urging: When music education is ethically-guided, when we teach people not only in and about music, but also through music … then students and teachers have opportunities to achieve life-affirming and joyful pathways toward achieving a ‘good life’ of well-being, flourishing, and happiness for the benefit of themselves and others.

In the meantime, however, bands in schools function largely to entertain the public (Fonder 1988; Mast 2002) through performances of militaristic, patriotic rituals that perpetuate and entrench the status quo. To be clear, the overall rhetorical point we wish to make here is not that young American musicians leave high school in droves to join armed forces bands (although the US military has 88 bands they can audition to join). Most high school band musicians never make music again (Mantie and Tucker 2008) due to a lack of opportunities to make ‘band’ music outside of school settings in a culture where popular musics prevail and musicians are generally regarded as mere hobbyists or celebrity social elites. Moreover, school music policy is dictated and constrained by a pervading cultural ideology that, for all of America’s liberalist individualism, favours an obedient, directed collective that follows instructions, with musical performances as ends in themselves, instead of serving as means for young people to become more fully and expressively human both in and beyond school. Inextricably woven into the traditions of marching, concert band and other ensemble performance in the United States is an ethos of fierce and intense competition (Abramo 2017). As Sean Powell (in press) argues, ‘the discourse of competition seems inescapable, and, furthermore, the ideology of competition operates in the unconscious background, constraining agency in a largely unnoticed manner’ (in press; emphasis added). Although largely debunked as an end or approach that benefits the majority of young people, during or after school participation, ‘the profession clings to the tradition of competition and contests with a level of single mindedness that defies logic’ (Austin 1990: 25). The prominence of the military is woven through American society, including in priorities of the federal government; the US government spends more on its military than the next ten nations combined (Plumer 2013). Crude though statistics like this are, they tend to suggest that ideologically the United States prizes breeding disciplined, focused warriors over empathic critical thinkers in touch with modes of self-expression and vested in international peace. The National Association for Music Education has a ‘vast array of military partnerships’ (Hebert 2015: 79), which it describes by saying it has partnered with the various military bands, including the Army Band, the United States Navy Band, the United States Air Force Band, ‘The President’s Own’ United States Marine Band, and the U.S. Army Field Band, for concerts as well as educational opportunities for

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students and teachers. NAfME also partners with the U.S. Army Field Band for the U.S. Army All-American Marching Band, which performs the half-time show at the U.S. Army All-American Bowl. (Fehr 2013)

Militarism thus operates powerfully and subtly in American public schools as tacit policy, part of the hidden curriculum. Akin to militarism in music education, Kratus (2019), following Ritzer (2008), has also pointed to the ‘McDonaldization’ of American music education, where large instrumental and choral ensembles with a single director are governed by rationales of efficiency, uniformity, conformity, quantity, outcomes and, as we have already seen, competition. These ideals are supported by the 2014 NAfME standards (National Association for Music Education 2014), which focus on musicalrational outcomes to the exclusion of more holistic or social ones (Kratus 2019). The focus on narrow versions of excellence and a myopic raison d’être throughout the profession and music education industry leads to a paucity of opportunities for students to engage in the type of activities provided through popular music, that can engage them more personally and allow them to explore and express their identities, or to develop skills and dispositions suitable to making art a meaningful part of their education and lives. The prevailing music education paradigm in the United States inhibits and discourages individual or collaborative creativity, or working diligently towards more personal, holistic and spiritual ends (Boyce-Tillman 2020; Matsunobu 2007) in a paradigm that recognizes musicmaking not as an anachronistic paramilitary activity confined to school, but as a life-long and life-wide (Jones 2009) domain of fulfilment, joy and eudaimonia (Smith and Silverman 2020). Numerous voices continue to urge practitioners to pursue a more peaceful path, such as music education philosopher, Estelle Jorgensen, who has argued that ‘music teachers need to take a measured approach that eschews fundamentalism, rampant militarism, and excessive patriotism’ (Jorgensen 2008: 7). These scholars are part of a movement in the United States and beyond, advocating for a music education paradigm much more focused on ethical welldoing (Elliott 2020) and on peace and peace-building (Shorner-Johnson 2019). This section described the inseparability of school music policy in the United States from an ideology of militarism and briefly imagined popular music education in alternative paradigms. In the concluding section, we summarize some overarching themes from this chapter before suggesting more alternatives to the current situation. We conclude with some words from the aforementioned Association for Popular Music Education white paper (2020b) and a call for music educators to engage with policy.

Conclusions As we noted at the start of this chapter, there is little written policy explicitly pertaining to popular music education. The Association for Popular Music Education presents in its White Paper an ethos for PME and describes, in broad brushstrokes, what popular music education is and could be (Association for Popular Music Education 2020b). Popular

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music education policy continues to be ‘written’ and created largely at the macro-level, often in more abstract terms, while it is enacted and realized ‘on the ground’ at the mesoand micro-levels by, for example, administrators and teachers. In order to harness the best that (popular) music education may have to offer, contemporary scholars in the field have been tugging on various threads that include creativity (Burnard 2012; Randles 2020); video game music (O’Leary and Tobias 2016); online learning and YouTube (Cayari 2020); compassionate music teaching (Hendricks 2018); networked, distance collaboration (Moir et. al. 2019; Pignato and Begany 2015; Smith, Moir, Ferguson and Davies 2020); collective and individual flourishing or ‘eudaimonism’ (Smith and Silverman 2020); social and political activism (Hess 2019b); anarchist and punk pedagogies (Niknafs and Przybylski 2017; Smith, Dines and Parkinson 2017); music-making as leisure (Mantie and Smith 2016); and the ethos of ‘amateuring’ (Regelski 2007) or amateurism (Kratus 2019). Popular music education seems capable of connecting to all of these in various ways. Elliott and Silverman (2014: 62) note that music making and listening involve personal and social-sonic (corporeal, visual, tactile, etc.) actions and events, interpersonal engagements, personal and collective emotions, and the relationships of all of these to the individual circumstances and needs of persons living with and for other persons.

Would that future policies for popular music education – both implicit and explicit – might take this fully into account? Smith (2019: 314) urges music educators to encourage learners in their care ‘not to succeed according to conceptions of success imposed by the institutions in which they find themselves’, but through mindful consciousness of their sociocultural context. He further urges a ‘punk pedagogical orientation’ (2019: 315) towards and ‘drawing upon the autobiographical … [where] punk is treated as the educator – the facilitator – that provide[s] a framework of enquiry, questioning and interrogation’ (Dines 2015: 21). However enticing aspirations like this may be, there is perhaps not much one can do in music education to change to be more socially just. It is important to emphasize, then, as Elliott and Silverman (2015) do, that education through music may be the most helpful and realistic way to imagine the field as potentially transformative. As Juliet Hess asserts, ‘while music education may not be [or provide] the most impactful means to effect social justice, it can contribute to creating the conditions for change-making in profound ways’ (Hess 2019b: 158). We are reminded of Schmidt’s (2017) and Kendi’s (2019) assertions that ‘policy’ includes far more than top-down, authoritative, official decrees, and we remain mindful of the importance of its more local, informal and implicit forms. Nonetheless, government policies impact upon education. The policies that have had the greatest impact on PME are economic policies that frame popular music education as tantamount to being trained in and for employment in the creative industries. Although the ‘creative industries’ policies of the UK Blair government in the 1990s had most significant impact on the higher education sector, in terms of relevance to PME, the framing of certain types of cultural activity as ‘industrial’, coupled with the strong links between popular music and commerce, has meant that much education in this area is frequently coloured by a product-driven, ‘free’

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market-influenced, capitalist mindset. If policy includes the ways governments and other authoritative bodies (formally or informally) enact their will and allocate values, then it is important for educators to be aware of and to engage in this conversation. As Schmidt (2017: 13) notes, policy ‘impacts the lives of educators and the quality of their work. It influences the nature of their programmes and it weighs on the educational decisions teachers make for their students’. He also argues that becoming policy savvy, that is, understanding the world of policy and how it can impact the music education field – from legislation to classroom instruction – is an essential capacity to be developed by educators at all levels. (Schmidt 2017: 4)

Despite the importance of understanding, critiquing and engaging in the development of policy, links between music education and politics remain unclear, at best, in the minds of many educators, with colleagues keen to state that they do not see music education as political (Moir, in press). Perhaps this is because many educators also recognize the obvious lack of policy text that specifically pertains to PME. It is imperative, however, that popular music educators are able to interpret policy in their own ways, and in ways that allow for their values to remain intact, and central to their practice. Popular music educators need to read and study policy (and politics more generally) and consider the ways in which we engage with, develop and promote policies which enact their will, and communicate their values and, more importantly, the wills and values of their students. Thus, engagement with policy interpretation and active participation in policy creation and enactment by music educators is required, if those with a stake in PME wish to avoid policy being left to be shaped by a hegemonic political, ideological and economic status quo.

Notes 1

2

3

Both authors are originally from the United Kingdom. Smith now lives and works in the United States, and Moir lives and works in Edinburgh, Scotland, hence our focus on these geographic areas. ‘New Labour’ refers to the way in which the British Labour Party branded itself from the mid-1990s (when in Opposition), and from 1997 to 2010, when in government. New Labour was arguably an attempt to find a ‘third way’ (Morisson 2018), i.e. not traditional socialism, or Thatcherism, but something in between. One of the key ways which New Labour departed from the traditional values of the British Labour Party was through the adoption of neoliberalist policies, and an abandonment of key principles of the party’s constitution such as the public ownership of industry and close links with trade unions (Leggett 2018). In 2004, the interdepartmental government report Skills in the Global Economy (HM Treasury) stated that ‘the comparative advantage of the industrialised world lies in more knowledge-based goods and services’ (2), and that for ‘the UK to be prosperous and successful it needs to ensure that it is well placed to succeed in these knowledge-based goods and services’ (Leggett 2018).

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4

5

These schools are the multi-site British and Irish Modern Music Institute, the Academy of Contemporary Music and the Detroit Institute of Music Education. They are vocational schools with curricula focused on skills and training for careers in the music industries. Hanslick famously advocated for the formalist view of classical music as absolute music, wherein the music means nothing but itself, thereby perpetuating the perverse notion that the meanings and values of Western classical music are purely intrinsic to the music, acontextual and therefore somehow universal.

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7 Music exports Shane Homan

Introduction The exchange of cultural goods and services, and their potential for healthy additions to the national trade ledger, has increasingly gained the attention of governments in the last three decades. This chapter focuses upon popular music as a set of sounds, rights, goods and services that are exchanged between nations and regions. Music exports are an interesting sector to explore in testing the practicalities of a set of industries where digital distribution has upended rights management, distribution processes and revenues; and where live performance remains essential to viability (Tschmuck 2016). Within their own domestic/national markets, musicians, their managers and the related infrastructure operate in a notoriously volatile market for touring, sales and production/distribution. In seeking new markets, such volatility substantially increases, with a new set of decisions to make about investments, promotion, finance, best use of local infrastructure, branding and so on. Of course, the music exports sector is one that is identified with the most naked examples of individual and collective creativity, transposed to individual, collective and national benefit. The fashionable practice to reconstruct national arts/cultural state departments as ‘creative’ (e.g. Creative Scotland; Creative New Zealand) infers a branded belief in the much broader role of [music] creativity as forms of economic and cultural value. In this sense, the nation-state retains its importance in marshalling various resources in the promotion of cultural trade. This also accords with the United Nations’ views on the role of the creative industries in trade, where music (along with film, television, gaming, animation, theatre, etc.) is an important component of creative exports as a new trade growth sector (UNCTAD 2018). Exports activity, then, lies at the heart of creative industries’ thinking that sees [popular] music as one of the drivers of creativity and economic growth. As nations turn their attention to export capabilities, they have also shone a light on domestic arrangements: the role of both subsidized and commercial music in preparing artists, labels and managers for forays into foreign territories. This chapter explores some of the key themes of the music export globally, and the specific policies of some national governments. I am drawing on work completed as part

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of an Australian Research Council Linkage project, The Economic and Cultural Value of Australian Music Exports, led by the University of Newcastle (Australia) in partnership with Monash University, the Australasian Performing Right Association, the Australasian Mechanical Copyright Owners Society, the Australia Council for the Arts and Sounds Australia (2016–2020).1 While a central aim was to assess the economic and cultural contribution of the Australian music export sector, the project also examined policy frameworks and international music export offices elsewhere (France, South Korea, Canada, the UK, Sweden, Finland and Norway) (Vella et al. 2019). As explained in our subsequent publication derived from the grant research work (Vella et al. 2019), the ‘born global’ concept, identified in business literature (e.g. Fan and Phan 2018), has increasingly been applied to music export sectors within nations. Those countries with smaller domestic music markets have argued that there is little choice but to look outward. For example, in 2015, the Swedish government argued that industries ‘such as IT, computer gaming, music, design and trade, start-up enterprises are global from the very beginning’ (Government Offices of Sweden 2015: 15). While definitions vary, here I am adopting the definition stated in our recent research report: the music export entails ‘income derived from goods and services derived from overseas, including income from live performances overseas, sponsorship, merchandising and synchronisation as well as income from recordings and royalties’ (Vella et al. 2019: 13).

The special case of music exports The music export is also part of wider debates about the extent to which public policy (and funding) should be attuned to cultural products. This has plagued the sector, with related welfare economics arguments for supporting arts and cultural activities that cannot survive in the marketplace (Seaman 2011). How to reconcile broader ‘quality-oflife benefits’ (Seaman 2011: 202) of state expenditure upon culture, and their ‘beneficial externalities’ (Baumol 2015: 10)? Further, how to place economic value upon non-market properties (such as more intangible cultural assets), especially if they are cultural icons (Seaman 2011: 201)? As we shall see, much of this debate has been sidestepped, given the obvious arguments to be made about economic benefits. Yet the export sector has also been associated with discourses of entrepreneurialism, with exports at the endpoint of the creative process that requires such skills along the entire value chain. At one end of the spectrum, individual creativity within the music industries (including songwriting and recording processes) is widely acknowledged, if little understood (e.g. Toynbee 2012). At the other end, how and why the state (local councils, regional and national governments) enacts specific policies to directly or indirectly inform popular music-making, including live performance, broadcasting and copyright has been less explored (e.g. Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole 2015; Street 2011).

Music Exports

Similarly, little attention has been devoted to collective strategies/policies that see the nation as ‘entrepreneur’. Here, I am framing the activity of music exports as the marshalling of different activities and discourses. This involves several interconnected layers attached to both artist and song: ‘individualized marketing strategies, self-promotion and social hardships’ (Lange 2014: 177); the cultivation of local/national networks (before export) by individuals and firms; and what Hjorth (2014: 102, 99) has termed the multiple ‘assemblages’ (‘forms of sociality’) and ‘organisation-creation’ that in turn allows ‘entrepreneuring’ (‘the new’ in the making). For potential artist-exporters, this involves engagement with various key actors that accord with older understandings of ‘cultural intermediary’ roles within the music/creative industries (Negus 2002). In acknowledging the multiplicity of roles potentially at play (incorporating artist, recording label, advertising/promotions company, artist manager, associated media companies, regional/national export office), here I want to emphasize the role of national governments in music export activity.

National identity and soft power A ‘global’ market is misleading in that regional patterns of import/export activities appear to be fairly consistent over time. Trading blocs have been evident since the 1960s. For example, Germany’s music exports from 2003 to 2007 were primarily to Austria, Switzerland, Finland and the Scandinavian nations (Ferreira and Waldfogel 2013: 646). Proximity and shared language are also strong factors (accounting, for example, for Canadian artists’ success within the United States and vice versa); some markets (such as Japan) remain difficult for English-speaking acts to break; and others exercise considerable scrutiny of music genres and acts to be imported (e.g. China). Another caveat here is the continued dominance of Western artists in recording sales contexts. While K-pop behemoth BTS are listed as the number one ‘global recording artist’ for 2020, the majority of the rest of the top ten are North American: Drake, Billie Eilish, Post Malone, Juice WRLD, Taylor Swift, The Weeknd, Eminem, Ariane Grande and Justin Bieber (IFPI 2021a). One Universal executive displayed an interesting perspective on global/local dynamism, with doubts about global domination as the initial strategy: I think, wherever we go, we have to start with creating great music that appeals to a local audience and grow it from there, as opposed to saying from the outset, ‘I’m going to focus on exporting this repertoire for the world first and everyone’s going to enjoy it simultaneously in the same way’. It doesn’t work like that; we’re not making widgets. What we can do is find great creative talent in a smaller region, maybe in a part of the world where perhaps limited resources and a lack of infrastructure make it difficult for them to develop their craft, their repertoire and their audience as they would like. That’s where we come in – with resources and a creative skillset to help. (Universal Executive Vice President, Market Development, Adam Granite, cited in IFPI 2021b)

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Nonetheless, countries have amassed ever-increasing resources in looking to foreign profits. The nation-state has been described as the ‘second-best option in avoiding the increasing uniformity of mass culture by protecting all that is counter, spare, original, and strange’, and as the only entity with the requisite power within global frameworks (Devlin 2004: 197). While export success can be very useful for music industries in revealing the value of local artists to domestic policymakers and audiences, it can also be employed in the cause of national identity construction. This could be national artists gaining overseas industry awards, dominating festival circuits or becoming visibly innovative across established genres. In Australian contexts, between 2015 and 2018, a number of Australian artists received GRAMMY nominations: Keith Urban; Sia; Iggy Aazalea; Hiatus Kaiyote; Tame Impala; Courtney Barnett; and Flume reflecting an astonishing diversity of genres (Vella et al. 2019: 37). A range of other acts with impressive international success (such as Troye Sivan, Gotye, 5 Seconds of Summer, Vance Joy) have reshaped ‘stereotypes of a sunburnt country where sweaty bands once played rock “n” roll in pubs carpeted with sawdust’ (Brandle 2016). While it is obviously difficult to place an economic value on national identity branding, recent Australian successes have refashioned international perceptions away from 1980s/90s hard rock localisms. Export strategies can also be useful in other forms of economic nationalism, not the least in waging cultural wars against larger trading neighbours. For Canadian policymakers eyeing relations with the United States: We share this border with the world’s biggest exporter of cultural product and so a certain degree of protectionism is really in our best interests, lest we be swallowed entirely, and that’s been part of our national identity from the get-go, as a longstanding part of our social contract. (FACTOR administrator 2017)

The notion of ‘soft power’ (Nye 1990) – the use of culture (especially film and television) to promote a set of national values in international contexts, with relations to wider meanings and practices of cultural diplomacy – has been taken up by several music export nations. For successive British governments, popular music and broader popular culture is one means to advance the national interest. As one British Council report has argued, a nation’s ‘cultural credibility and cultural credentials’ provide an entrée into international markets, with ‘long term’, ‘diffuse’ benefits (British Council 2013: 34). In this sense, a Bond film, an Ed Sheeran song, an Aardman animation or a Top of the Pops programme projects particular senses of ‘Britishness’ in different markets. In Asian contexts, evocations of Japan’s ‘pop culture diplomacy’, led by the international marketing of J-pop (Allison 2008; Iwabuchi 2015; Tsutomu 2008), were an indicator in the early 2000s of Asian strategies. While ‘K-pop’ is a misleading title for a national genre that contains many pop variants and aesthetics, it has perhaps been the subject of the most debate about the role of popular music in shaping perceptions of other national cultures. While Western media and music industries often perpetuate wider stereotypes of Asian performers in consumption and analysis (including racism), its hybridity (in both content and production) is becoming to be better understood in consumption contexts outside of South Korea. Spanish teen fans

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view their favourite artists as role models, and work through and beyond simpler Asian cultural constructs to take K-pop on its own terms (Yoon, Min and Jin 2020). Television, heavy social media strategies and live performances have increased direct and indirect interest from audiences in Mexico (Lopez Rocha 2012), Brazil (Jung 2015) and Peru (Bang et al. 2021) to invest more heavily in understanding Korean culture, visiting the country, or both. In addition, K-pop producers have mastered an ecosystem where ‘the value creation model is now approached in a multidirectional manner as creators, distributors, and consumers converge to co-create content and value’ and to construct loyalty (Kim et al. 2021: 3). For the South Korean government, investment in labour and financial resources has been rewarded with economic returns. This is primarily exercised through the Korea Creative Agency (KOCCA) working with selected companies in concert, production and songwriting support, including a ‘k-rookies’ programme. South Korea’s rise has been astonishing, with exports rising from USD34 million in 2004 to USD455 million in 2017 (CEIC 2021). In 2020, the nation was the sixth largest music market and the fastest growing (IFPI 2021b: 11). This is partly the result of the music-related segments within KOCCA working across government and industry (e.g. the Bureau of Global Business and the Korean Trade Investment Promotion Agency). Music is also used to establish a beach head for other Korean popular culture in different markets: We use k-pop as the big content to start talking about Korean culture – we bring the k-pop first, then we talk about other things, like movies. People think we have only k-pop, and only the dancing groups, the boys … we have a lot of genres, it doesn’t always equal k-pop – hip hop, punk and EDM [are now evident] … Unlike the American market, we train our artists very hard and they are well trained. (South Korea MU:CON coordinator cited in Vella et al. 2019: 150)

I have argued elsewhere that South Korea most closely aligns with the ‘engineer’ model (Craik 2007: 81) of governmental arrangements, which sees cultural policy directly aligned to other state policies of national culture and (semi-)ownership of cultural production from ‘planning (market research, concept selection)’ to ‘assessment (selecting artists for debut)’ (Korean Culture and Information Service 2011). Here, K-pop has played a leading role in nation-branding as a specific priority (directly related to the ‘Korean wave’ initiatives and successive Ministry of Culture, Sport and Tourism 5-year Plans). According to one South Korean university estimate, a single, heavily promoted BTS finale concert in 2019 – their final concert in Seoul completing their 2019 tour – ‘held a direct economic impact of 331 billion won (approximately $286 million) and an indirect impact of 592 billion won (approximately $511 million)’ (Soomoi 2019). Culturally, the concert attracted 187,000 tourists to the country, where ‘this sort of high quality cultural content can attract foreign tourists in numbers comparable to the Olympics, and potentially open a new form of service export’ (Soomoi 2019). This points to potentially significant exercises in soft power and branding; but more examination is required in assessing the extent to which popular music can shift much broader perceptions; and if this does indeed lead to concomitant changes in political and diplomatic landscapes.

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Industrial policy: The export office Of course, decisions made by governments about which forms of state intervention to fund and promote has fed into long-standing criticisms about such choices. As arguments for funding of the creative industries being attached to wider industry policy became accepted by governments, criticism remains in the distortion of otherwise free markets, bringing into question states’ practice of ‘picking winners’ as to what will harness future success (Bahkshi, Cunningham and Mateos-Garcia 2015: 7). The uncertainty of the ‘picking winners’ strategy in this context is twofold. First, the usual ‘nobody knows’ standard (Caves 2000) applies to the music product, where artists, managers and labels cannot be certain about what will be successful in domestic markets. Second, deploying artists with successful national backgrounds into other international markets carries at least equal uncertainty; thorough export planning cannot totally determine how foreign acts will be received in markets with very different historical contexts, industrial and consumption practices. However, the history of popular music trade reveals something about how such obstacles do not prevent artists from trying. Five years after the eruption of rock and roll, two nations – the United States and the United Kingdom – have dominated music exports since 1960. The UK has been less dominant, achieving global market peaks in the mid-1960s and mid1980s (Ferreira and Waldfogel 2013: 642–3). For countries with smaller music industries and global footprints, market share exceeding national GDP was usually the result of single, spectacular artist successes (Ferreira and Waldfogel 2013). While countries dabbled with export schemes from the 1960s – artist exchanges, early attempts at national export offices and mutual touring – serious funding for such activity became more evident in the 1980s. In the early 2000s, nations outside the usual global networks of popular music had come to recognize the worth of exports: I have nothing but envy for the Belgians, Scandinavians, the Dutch and especially the French … [the Spanish Government] behaves as if music does not exist … not one Spanish public institution has understood that the export of Spanish music constitutes a great business opportunity. (SGAE secretary-general Francisco Galindo cited in Llewellyn 2002: 87)

I have already signalled the ‘engineer’ model to describe the South Korean approach. To further align other music export nations with the Craik (2007) typology, the UK and Canada present interesting examples. Canada has been one of the most active in export activity in terms of funding and infrastructure. It has harnessed its older FACTOR funding model to a developmental/entrepreneurial ethos, which has in the past included Support for Eligible Music Companies and Music Entrepreneur: Aid to Canadian Music Publishing Firms grant programmes that sit within the Canada Music Fund. This situates key industry sectors/companies closer to government, acknowledging that some forms of expertise reside outside of the state that require encouragement to build international successes. Based on recent global successes (e.g. Drake, Shawn Mendes), the Canada Music Fund was granted funding increases in the 2019 national budget of CAD10 million for 2020, 2021 and 2022 (Government of Canada 2021).

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The United Kingdom has similarly placed popular music within broader cultural policy objectives. Music exports featured in the Creative Industries International Strategy (2014), with the Trade and Investment Ministry (UKTI) setting a goal ‘to more than double [cultural] exports to £1 trillion by 2020’ (UKTI 2014). Established through a combination of BPI and UKTI funding, the Music Export Growth Scheme (MEGS) has spent on average between £250,000 and £350,000 annually on showcasing, touring and promotion. A strength of the British export infrastructure is the patchwork of organizations contributing to different sectors and areas of expertise. This potentially sees, for example, ‘a British act obtain funding from the Momentum scheme (funded by the PRS Foundation) for domestic development; achieve PRS [Performing Right Society] funding for an International Showcase; and then receive Music Export Growth Export Scheme (MEGS) funding for more intensive, global activity based upon prior financial returns’ (Chen et al. 2021: 143). In 2019, music export revenue was calculated to be worth £2.9 billion (UK Music 2019). For most nations, governments and industry sectors have agreed to not only bolster traditional touring/recording support but to also establish (and often co-fund) dedicated export offices (e.g. Finland, Sweden, France). Others have constructed export schemes which play various support roles and in some forms mimic export office activities (e.g. Sounds Australia, Brasil Music Exchange). In 2021, offices/schemes exist (for example) in Ukraine, Chile, Morocco, South Africa, the Czech Republic, Estonia, Austria, Latvia, Italy and Ireland. In addition, several offices exist that operate within and independently of nations, such as Music Export Memphis and Music Nova Scotia. To different extents, they are similar to the UK and Canadian structures discussed above, in marshalling state– industry partnerships for artist/genre forays. While national offices and/or schemes are clear in the genres and kinds of artists to try out in different markets, there is also growing recognition that other parts of domestic infrastructure require continual attention. For example, PRS has in the past funded professional support for UK managers, and continues to attempt to increase the number of female artists and songwriters through its Women Make Music fund (PRS Foundation 2021b). Building on prior work examining the role of ‘cultural intermediaries’ in the cultural industries, music export office personnel are interesting representations here. It is the role of these offices in the considerable network of promotional events designed to increase the music export that I now turn to.

The showcase model Since the 1990s, national offices have felt the need to see, and be seen at, various promotional events. Some have long industry pedigrees (MIDEM); some are genre-specific (Jazzahead, Folk Alliance, Americanafest); while others incorporate music within a much wider set of media and cultural industry activities (South by South West). Many also incorporate industry seminars/conferences into the daily and nightly activities. A central outcome might be to present an energized live performance to place your band in the thoughts of an assemblage of local promoters, music-media and recording personnel; of equal importance

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for managers is the assemblage of industry contacts that might come to represent a network of local gatekeepers to call upon for engaging their artist(s) in different sectors of industry and expertise. Local knowledge is vital and must be earned. In interviews conducted with managers and export office personnel for the Born Global project, most emphasized the need to be comfortable with repetition. This spoke to not just the familiar structures of fairs and showcases simply being repeated in different locations; it also underlined that ‘instant’ success is rare. Advice is now often given that managers should travel to a major showcase event simply to observe and strategize before entering thoughts of introducing their act to the market. Given the networking-at-scale of such events, repeated attendance by both artist and manager is desired to build contacts and outcomes (such as a festival tour, publishing deal, recording contract, securing an international record producer). For those situated outside North American or European circuits, distance remains a challenge in planning and retaining a current presence in non-domestic markets. As one Australian manager has noted, one international showcase appearance might cost $15,000, with budgeting required for two return trips to make good on the initial foray (Vella et al. 2019: 8). However, when it works, it works. Australian ‘indie’ singer-songwriter Courtney Barnett’s career beginnings have entered into local mythology, where her 2016 introduction to South by Southwest was arranged as the base camp for a networked multimedia assault: ‘we had every single partner in place … Our booking agent was able to bring down every promoter in the country to see her shows, so obviously bookings came out of that, publicists were able to bring TV bookers down’ (manager Nick O’Byrne cited in Vella et al. 2019: 80). Prior to this, Barnett had received Australia Council funding for her first album; and Creative Victoria funding and Sounds Australia assistance for her first international trips. As Bennett (2020a) has argued, embedded, non-creative work remains crucial to a range of music industry enterprise; as with many cultural industries jobs, these can be ‘primarily administrative, technical, logistical or manual rather than creative’ (Coles 2016: 459). This is certainly the case with the export sector. Export offices perform a range of ‘back office’ duties, including tour/market preparation; accumulation of materials informing artists and managers about particular markets; and industry seminars, along with intensive preparation of individual showcase events. This is complemented by ‘front office’ work in fronting at showcases and trade fairs, coordinating a series of different meet-and-greets, national promotion events, seminars and ‘Get to know’ events. This also involves substantial ‘national cheerleader’ roles in safeguarding and propelling genres, artists and images: ‘you have got this story to tell to other countries’ (French export administrator cited in Vella et al. 2019: 106). It is not surprising that such roles attract outgoing personalities who are visible and memorable in the dense atmosphere of showcases. Export office workers, then, play hyper-intermediary roles, maintaining intense contact across artists, managers, national funding bodies, regional and federal governments, and key media gatekeepers. While most do not make judgements about who actually receives funding support, or who is invited to attend key showcase events, they consistently provide advice about the hard markers used in judgements of being ‘export ready’ (Chen et al. 2021: 68–91). Some of this work is routine and can be replicated from year to year.

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However, it requires constant judgements about national contexts; acting on sustained knowledge about specific markets; and aligning artists with appropriate events. Their unparalleled knowledge of gatekeepers (promoters, media bookers, recording executives, public relations firms, etc.) is brought to bear upon markets with very different histories and perceptions of the external artists. In addition, the accumulation of knowledge about markets brings benefits through repeated visits and networking: It’s all about contacts, it’s all about knowing people, the music is secondary … and our job is to say to the guys, ‘you should be talking with him, you should be talking with him’ … I say a trade fair generally takes about three years for you to win the confidence of the people who are there, and for them to begin to trust who you are, and so on. (Brazil music export administrator cited in Vella et al. 2019: 107)

Many artist managers consider the expertise of the export scheme/office CEO in situ to be far more valuable than underwriting the showcase trip (Chen et al. 2021: 105–9). Other senior CEOs were observed to abandon much of the daily showcase/trade fair activities, instead conducting more private meetings with other national industry figures; in this case, the costs of travel were still justified in knowing key people were assembled in the one location. In a digital music economy, in pre-Covid 19 times, the networked showcase model relies enormously on older themes of interpersonal communication and circuits of accumulated trust.

Case study: Scandinavia As explained above, certain advantages accrue to those nations deemed foundational to pop and rock (such as the United States and the United Kingdom), where they continue to possess large domestic and international industries. The effects of concerted export strategies have arguably been most felt within national industries of smaller capacities. The Scandinavian nations – notably Norway, Finland and Sweden – are good examples in managing greater inter-sector cooperation while ‘educating’ governments of the need for more funding. While each nation is worthy of sustained research, I am briefly examining Norway, Finland, Denmark and Sweden in their efforts to construct visible export growth. Taken together, these nations are also useful in considering broader music ecosystems, where continual refashioning of domestic structures informs export policies. For example, Music Export Finland was established in 2002 by twelve recording labels; a restructure in 2005 led to a new association including all peak industry bodies and stakeholders (unions, copyright bodies, record producers, composers); and in 2012, the Finnish Music Information Centre merged with Music Export Finland to become Music Finland. By 2018, the new entity employed eighteen staff with an annual budget of €3.3 million (Music Finland 2018b). Recent targets have been German-speaking markets, and forays into the UK market in 2012–13, prompted by an 8 per cent growth in Finnish music exports to the UK between 2011 and 2012 (Music Finland 2013). While Music Finland

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funds the usual export office activities (touring, showcases, workshops), they have been innovative in other areas. First, it is seeking growth in ‘song exports’ where Finnish writers have created content for foreign artists. In 2016, ‘a record 71 songs by Finnish composers and lyricists were released overseas. These tracks were created by 41 songwriters, with 22 of them scoring their international debuts’ (Music Finland 2017). Second, its 2017 Fast Track funding programme was launched to provide longer terms of support (of one to three years) for companies or projects, based upon economic viability, cooperation of international partners and other technical evaluation. Third, its related Export Company Incubator programme, Export Artist Accelerator programme and Export Strategy service programme are all designed to deploy combinations of mentoring, development and funding to grow artists, managers and labels through ‘road map’ strategies for long-term growth (Music Finland 2019a). While artists enjoy a relatively high demand for Finnish repertoire, the export efforts signify a determination to make a mark in key markets through growing reputations across jazz, metal, folk and classical genres. The Swedish music industry has enjoyed a longer history of export success since the 1970s (ABBA, Roxette, Ace of Base, Neneh Cherry, the Cardigans, etc.). As with Music Finland’s interest in ‘song exports’, Swedish writers have enjoyed global success through more recent company/hub structures established by leading songwriters such as Max Martin: ‘We have more superstars in the world of songwriting than we do superstar artists’ (Swedish performance rights administrator cited in Vella et al. 2019: 286). This has led to media judgements of Sweden as the ‘low-key Nashville of the Nordics, a hit-making heavyweight that’s one of the world’s biggest exporters of music relative to the size of its economy’ (O’Kane 2018). The country was one of the early movers amidst the renewed interest in exports in the late 1980s. Export Music Sweden (EMS) was established in 1993, incorporating STIM (the Swedish Performing Rights Association), SAMI (Swedish Artists and Musicians’ Interest organization) and IFPI (International Federation of Phonographic Industries). Additional funding is provided by the Swedish Arts Council (Kulturrådet), the Swedish Performing Arts Agency (Musikverket), the Swedish Agency for Economic and Regional Growth and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Regeringskansliet). Beyond an emphasis on export trade with its neighbouring Scandinavian countries, EMS has ongoing markets in Japan, Germany, the United States and the United Kingdom, with particular success in metal, pop and hard rock. EMS provides trade missions, seminars, mentoring, with other activities provided through co-funding: touring and cultural exchange (Arts Council); international collaborations/inbound partnerships (Musikverket); showcases/touring (Arts Grants Committee); and export activity between Nordic countries (Nordic Cultural Fund, Nordic Cultural Contact funding). Sweden has attracted the most media attention as the best per capita exporter nation (e.g. Garrett 2019; Hunter-Tilney 2013) where healthy club scenes provided the impetus for a strong ecosystem of writers, producers and DJs, particularly in nurturing pop production. However, the ‘flat pack pop’ (BBC 2019b) discourse of a nation adopting an IKEA model to popular music betrays not only the breadth of genres but also the role of the state. Other factors have been argued to account for Swedish success, primarily the

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coordinated funding of primary and high school music education, combined with the relatively high proportion of general cultural funding (Georgii-Hemming and Westvall 2010). In terms of traditional cluster arguments, the concentration of music and related companies in Stockholm provides intimate networks of like activities (Johansson 2010). The relatively small size of industries has been advantageous in promoting a sense of shared knowledge and cooperation. As the home of Spotify, others have argued that the Swedish music industries adapted early to digital markets. The Scandinavian examples highlight the importance of broader cultural funding levels. For example, Arts Council Norway’s Cultural Fund averaged 6–10 per cent of the Council’s total funding from the 1960s to the 1990s; with a significant restructure to incorporate a greater number of music programmes, the Cultural Fund averaged 22 per cent of the Arts Council’s funding from 2000 (Hylland and Stavrum 2018: 74). This included both recognition of popular music funding and (as with Canada) the need for some forms of cultural protectionism. Equally, the Scandinavian nations (to different extents and emphases) have invested in music education, with implications for both broader cultural participation and industry growth. For example, Sweden’s ‘tradition of well-developed municipal music schools’, coupled with extracurricular training, leaves ‘little doubt that this broad training has resulted in the emergence of talent’ (Burnett 2001: 17). In recognition of the size of their national industries in relation to other dominant exporters, Export Music Sweden, Music Export Denmark, Music Finland, Iceland Music Export and Music Norway joined forces in 2008 as NOMEX, a five-year programme administered by Music Finland. NOMEX was a platform ‘to develop pan-Nordic strategies and analyse the changes and challenges that the music sector faced due to digital developments … [and see] whether and how the collaboration between national export offices could complement each other’s work’ (NOMEX 2020). As ‘an amplifier for the national’ (former NOMEX Director cited in Vella et al. 2019: 104), the organization adopted a ‘Strength in Unity’ approach that emphasized national and intra-national promotions, playlists and mapping, while providing collective funding of showcase, trade mission and festival presences. Beyond linking popular music to national branding strategies, the approach enabled successful pan-platform events, such as The Nordic Lighthouse and House of Scandinavia at South by Southwest in 2016 and 2018 (Edlom 2019: 45–7).2 For Sweden, the process of securing ongoing government involvement has been a long one: It’s taken time to get some [trade] officials or government to understand that this is an industry like any other. We have been bad in the music industry with this communication. They have been much better at this in the gaming and film industry … In the past five years or six years when we started to show the statistics and talk with the politicians, we can now actually speak not only about the culture part but also to the economic structure as well. Really, we’re just at the beginning of these kind of discussions. (Swedish music administrator cited in Vella et al 2019: 290)

The country’s success as a small nation able to achieve next exporter status in music has been argued by some to mean that the state can provide less support. In 2019, Swedish exports

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were estimated to be SEK693 million (Export Music Sweden 2020). A 2020 report by EMS outlined the need for an urgent injection of state funding to expand on its current markets; increase its global streaming footprint: and offer more domestic support, especially in touring (Export Music Sweden 2020). In the Covid-19 era, the report makes an interesting argument that domestic growth is limited, with streaming services the central means to maintaining past glories.

Measuring the benefits A recent study of the contributions of popular music to Europe’s GDP estimated this to be €81.9 billion (Oxford Economics 2020: 4) for 2018. Of this, exports constituted a ‘conservative estimate’ of €9.7 billion (Oxford Economics 2020). Yet this is misleading insofar as this figure is reached by including all sound production/consumption hardware, radio and musical instrument sales. Implementing a simpler definition of revenues raised by sales of artist content and related goods and services, ‘record companies, music publishers, and music streaming services collectively earned €4.7 billion from the exports of their digital goods and services to the rest of the world’ (Oxford Economics 2020: 29). This excluded unavailable data related to international touring. Nations are getting better at reporting annual export statistics. For example, the UK has published an annual report since 2012 (its 2020 Music by Numbers report calculated exports to be £2.9 billion in 2019, a 9 per cent annual increase) (UK Music 2020d). However, as ever-increasing value is placed upon annual national export revenues, methods have not been consistent between nations in constituting what is defined as export income and what is not (cf. Fleischer 2016): are local concerts by overseas artists counted as imports or exports; should publishing royalties ‘washed through’ multinational branches count as local revenue; how should music ‘goods’ be defined – should wider sectors (overseas instrument sales, music hardware/software) be included? While the Swedish and UK industries have provided consistent reports and methodologies for some time, the lack of a global agreement on definitions and methods means that serious comparisons cannot be made. There are further methodological problems in practical policy terms. How to place an economic value on ‘outcomes’ such as business meetings or a showcase performance, and should these indeed be counted at all? Here we begin to wade into intangible benefits; most national reports emphasize that inclusion of these presences/activities garners both solid economic and intangible returns (e.g. CIMA 2016). And how to measure other indirect benefits, such as national branding, or if music tourism is a direct correlation to export success? Further, the often extended schedules in which expected income is finally gained – for example, recording sales income paid two years after a tour of a particular market – make simple identification of direct revenues difficult (hence industry ‘invest now, recoup later’ narratives to governments). While national industries can reveal economic growth to their governments, it is less clear about where growth is precisely occurring

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(i.e. which bits of the export chain have been the most efficient/effective). The ‘superstar effect’ also disguises who is really benefitting from export efforts: in Australian contexts, ‘approximately 10% per cent of artists earn approximately 97% of the total international royalty earnings’ (Chen et al. 2021: 41). This provokes structural questions about not just where the next local ‘superstar’ is coming from, but how to ensure that a much wider section of artists and managers are engaging in export activity. This, of course, has not prevented industries from using various successes to argue for the music industries’ place at the policy table. In British contexts, former UK Music CEO Feargal Sharkey stated in 2011 to a House of Commons committee that notions of the creative industries as ‘fluffy stuff ’ should be now viewed as ‘fluffy stuff that actually generates quite a lot of revenue … we want to be the number one exporter … producing some globally recognised, remarkable talent’ (House of Commons 2011: 57, 59). This has seen UK Music using its annual reports to good effect in simultaneously revealing annual export growth and arguing for further state support. A noticeable shift in discourses has seen industries argue that additional state funding is an investment in future returns, rather than mere subsidy: the Music Export Growth Scheme is ‘not a cultural fund, we’re not an arts fund, we are a business fund’ (MEGS coordinator Chris Tams cited in Malt 2017). In June 2021, BPI argued for an increase in MEGS funding based upon ‘a [historical] return of £12 for every £1 invested’ (BPI 2021).

Changes While the showcase circuit can demonstrate respectful competition – and even collaboration between music offices – in other spheres, the usual tensions surface to remind us of the complexity of many different national music ecosystems existing within various global legal frameworks. Artists remain frustrated about the ability to track individual sales, and to ‘follow the song’ through different markets (and, in relation, the current fierce debates about streaming royalty rates, and their transparency in distribution). One manager/ administrator has argued that the data needs to go straight from the DSP (Digital Signal Processing] to the artist in real time as it goes to the label and publisher … That will be really disruptive because then the artist could pull all their data together and even if they didn’t understand it, they could throw it to a brand and potential investor or sponsor. (IMMF administrator cited in Vella et al 2019: 119)

Digital music economies, driven by platform streaming sales, have provided opportunities for managers to respond in real time to sales peaks and the emergence of new territories, and plan touring and other activities accordingly. In one example, Sony in 2020 breathlessly announced a new model: In the analog era, artists were often in the dark about their income. Royalty payments came only once or twice per year, so musicians had to wait to see what they’d made. But last year,

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Sony Music introduced “real-time royalties” and “cash out” features to its Artist Portal. Now musicians can see immediately how much money they’ve received from streaming services and other digital partners. Better yet, they can draw down money at any time. They no longer have to wait until the end of a royalty period to be paid. For a better view of where each dollar is coming from, artists can even sort the royalties by region, source or time period. (Carter 2020)

Similarly, the current emphasis in most nations upon recording and touring will change as other parts of the ecosystem are brought within the exports umbrella. City policies looking at the potential of technology companies, and the role of start-ups in new production chains, might become more national concerns as platform cultures become even more powerful. For example, it has been observed that Sweden has been successful in constructing specialized (songwriting, production, video) services within the value chain, realized through digital distribution (Power and Jansson 2004). It seems, too, that export offices are increasingly adopting prior Swedish emphases not upon the artist, but the song. Songwriting camps have become common in (for example) Canada, Australia and South Korea as part of export funding, designed to instigate ‘masterclasses’ from established songwriters to local aspirants, encourage collaboration among local songwriters or both. In one sense, this is an expansion of the Tin Pan Alley mode of producing quality songs that can travel in various territories first, and then placing them with suitable artists for maximum impact. The monopolistic practices of iTunes, Spotify and its associated promises of a global smorgasboard of sounds and listening mobility have interfered with prior analogue borders: At the moment there’s a very small, finite number of curators who have got their hands on these playlists. Trying to filter, somehow, the world’s repertoire of music, which is a ridiculously complicated thing to do. When you’re trying to overlay on that some consideration around local contexts, Australian content, there’s a bit of pushback when we’re talking to digital services at the moment here, saying, don’t you think there should be a benchmark? Let’s not use the word ‘quota’, because that might upset people, but let’s use a benchmark for locally curated playlists. There’s a degree of pushback. There’s a feeling ‘we’re the new kids and we don’t want to be told what to do and what not to do; we want to be cool and free to do whatever’. But I think … we need to ensure that there’s an opportunity for Australians to be heard. (Australian music CEO cited in Vella et al. 2019: 120)

The settled local content quota systems for commercial radio and television that remain in Australia and elsewhere derive from much earlier discourses of national identity or cultural heritage. The immediacy of individualized digital music consumption has at the very least questioned the various nationalisms upon which the export office is premised. This reheats older discussions of the plight of ‘small’ nations’ popular culture and media in being visible within wider US/European networks (Malm and Wallis 1992). However, the music platforms’ emphasis upon communities of genres and tastes remains far from national imaginings upon which traditional policy is predicated.

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Finally, the ‘export moment’ has drawn momentum back to long-standing domestic concerns in various territories. Commissioned national export reports repeatedly point out the need for strong domestic infrastructure as the base for exports. This has included canvassing regulatory changes to live music venues; the impacts of gentrification upon local music infrastructure; the role of education systems in producing musically literate citizens; maintenance of local touring and recording funds; and other ways to ‘incubate’ artists for international success. These domestic issues were highlighted, of course, with the emergence of Covid-19 within national cultural networks.

Covid-19 All the themes discussed in this chapter depict a complexifying circuit of artists, genres, markets, company strategies, national policies, gatekeepers and networks in periods of ever easier air travel. The devastating effects of Covid-19 produced an initial tranche of funding for basic wage support provided by some music platforms, recording companies, touring companies and city and national governments (Chen et al. 2021: 178–80). Funding debates have been most acute in relation to music venues, where its associated workers (e.g. musicians, bar staff, venue bookers, security staff) have most viscerally felt the periodic lockdowns. For example, Colorado/Denver’s healthy live music sector experienced a 47 per cent downturn, estimated to be $163,022,200, with musicians, managers and agents experiencing a loss of 42 per cent of income, estimated to be $145,781,496 in lost revenue (Hunt, Gedgaudas and Seman 2020: 2). At the time of writing, as the pandemic continues, different forms of government assistance have been increasingly accompanied by various criticisms. These have included complaints that governments were unwilling to provide serious support to the cultural industries (Anatolitis 2020); or that support is designed to ensure that music industry/ cultural industries workers do not qualify (Morris 2020b). For the UK, the economic effects of the coronavirus have decidedly exacerbated the bureaucratic and economic losses that ‘Brexit’ (the Johnson Conservative Government’s decision to leave the European Union) has wrought upon the music industries, particularly in touring economies. It is also interesting, given the recent past efforts by music industries to advise governments to view music businesses like any other small business, that criticism emerged that distinctions (and different decisions to provide funding) have been made (Tingle 2020). As noted above, the extent to which front and back office export work still depends upon personal networks of trust and expertise in a digital informational age is considerable. While some of these functions and networks are no doubt being replicated and simulated online, nations face a new set of old problems: the tendency for countries to tighten borders; travel restrictions that have massively decelerated the global grid of trips, deals and a vast assortment of multi-sector work; and for most nations, less cultural funding overall. Should some of these political and logistical constraints prove to be permanent, it will provoke a fundamental refashioning of music offices/programmes, with more realistic limits placed

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on the kinds of support they can provide (and how they engage with each other). In the absence of continual export growth perhaps to point to, some music industries have already begun the shift in narrative, to one of the need for funding to rebuild lost domestic impetus, and to take advantage of new markets that streaming data is revealing.

Conclusion In the long and sustained efforts to convince national governments of the economic value of the popular music industries (and the cultural industries more generally), the music export is one sphere that has been carved out for attention as a ‘consistent performer’ in the past three decades. National music industries have been able to argue to their national governments that consistent funding models, coupled to a knowledgeable export professional labour staff, can make substantial contributions to GDP (with branding, national identity and other cultural benefits to be calculated later). The export sector is also a reminder of the importance of national cultural policy contexts (cf. Coe 2015). While the city may well have become an important context for production and consumption networks (see Chapter 19), the nation retains considerable force in marshalling resources and the right regulatory frameworks. Equally, the supposed latter stages of globalization – encompassing a free-for-all of market liberalization – have also seen nations keen to subsidize local production in the name of international trade revenues. As industries and governments become increasingly comfortable with aligned interests and funding for exports, it is ironic that industry advocacy bodies are providing less than subtle reminders that sectoral funding is not a substitute for continued attention to the entire national ecosystem. For example, a UK Music report in 2018 argued that the ‘talent pipeline’ was at risk due to lack of funding for school music education, venues closing and the lack of finance for emerging artists at the start of their careers (UK Music 2018: 3–15). In terms of future export office strategies, song production and building national capacity to produce quality songwriters for export (as opposed to artists) will become more popular. As the global music industries take their time in emerging from Covid-19 contractions, a valuable strategy for artists, managers and export offices might be to ramp up alliances of music with appropriate goods and services in particular territories (food, drinks, clothing, leisure products) for mutual branding opportunities. At the completion of our Born Global project, the Newcastle/Monash universities project team published our findings: Australian music exports were estimated to be worth $195 million annually, based on collation of a range of data from different industry sectors (Chen et al. 2021: 31). Amidst the media reportage on our subsequent Australia Council report, one arts newspaper headline stood out: ‘Beef, coal, and hot tracks: Aus music exports earn $195 million each year’ (Qian 2019). The emphasis in most reports on the economic figure did not surprise, given it was the original premise of the undertaking, although it predictably crowded out the more nuanced points in our report about policy, networks and national structures. In one sense, the headline can be regarded as a decisive

Music Exports

win for longer creative industries discourses: Australian popular music could take its place alongside export staples (beef, coal) as another national product. Yet there is the danger that the ‘cultural’ is excised from meanings and national practices of ‘cultural export’. The full range of popular music’s pleasures, and how these are interpreted as true and meaningful cultural exchange, must be accounted for in equal measure.

Notes 1

2

The Australian Research Council project members were Professor Richard Vella, Professor Stephen Chen and Dr Tracy Redhead (University of Newcastle); and Associate Professor Shane Homan (Monash University). In 2016, the former head of NOMEX, Anna Hildur, was appointed as Chair of the European Music Exporters Exchange. This new network of 23 export offices ‘join[ed] forces to increase the circulation of European music, both inside and outside of the continent’ (EMEE 2019). In 2018, the network was awarded European Commission funding to develop an export strategy for European music (EMEE 2019).

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8 Broadcasting and popular music policy J. Mark Percival

Introduction Let’s start this chapter with a statement that might seem a little like it is undermining the chapter title under which it appears. In the UK there isn’t actually any state popular music broadcasting policy. That is not to say that there are no policies in place that have consequences for popular music in UK broadcasting. But there is nothing that is specifically focused on music in ways that other nations have approached the issue. In 1993 Simon Frith argued quite correctly: British governments have never shown much interest in pop music (even if ministers have always been happy to exploit photo opportunities with pop stars). At least since the Beatles, the British music business has been successful enough not to need industrial support and pop has never been thought worthy of cultural subsidy. More than any other form of contemporary culture, it is thought to be best defined by market forces. (Frith 1993:14)

Frith’s point is still quite correct in 2021 despite the enormous disruptions in the economy and technologies of popular music since the early 1990s (Sun 2019). But if governments have had little interest in pop music as a policy issue since the Beatles and the seismic cultural shifts of the 1960s, they have shown even less interest in pop music broadcasting. There are a number of reasons for this, from interaction between neoliberal approaches to broadcast regulation and the BBC as the largest publicly funded public service media organization in the world to the historical resistance of the popular music industries (and in particular the recorded music industry) to formal state interventions in their sectors. In this chapter I will consider areas where more general policy on pop in the UK has been visible and explore some examples of policy that have had consequence for popular music broadcasting in the UK.

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Broadcasting and popular music Broadcasting, of course, includes both radio and TV, but in this chapter I’ll be focusing on radio as the media form on which most popular music has been broadcast since the formation of the BBC in 1922 – as Frith (2002) has argued, popular music has rarely been seen as being mainstream primetime content by television broadcasters in general and in particular in the UK. Only four years later in 2006, the BBC’s long-running mainstream music show Top of the Pops aired its final weekly episode, having been on air since 1964 (Beer 2006). Radio broadcasting in the UK then, is where to look for policy that has consequences for popular music. As I noted earlier there is little evidence of UK policy explicitly designed with popular music broadcasting as its primary objective. I hope to show that this is indeed the case and why the UK system developed as it did. There is, though, a very short answer to this question: none of the potentially interested players considered (radio) broadcast music policy at the state level to be a priority, or even necessary at all. The BBC makes its own music broadcast policy, and commercial radio in the UK organizes programming policy according to the broadcast marketplace and the constraints of the regulatory licensing system (Hendy 2000; Percival 2011). That system has in general worked well for both the record industry and radio stations and so there was (and is) no perceived need for explicit music broadcast policy. As Frith observed, in the UK there has been a post-1960s consensus that the music industries (and in particular the record industry) generally don’t need economic intervention from the state and are just fine functioning in a commercial world where success or failure is determined by free market competition.1 Rightly or wrongly then, the UK music industries have seen themselves as leading the world both commercially and creatively (Hon 2013) and have not felt threatened in any significant way by music from elsewhere in the world. There’s another reason that the UK music industries don’t feel threatened by external competition other than ongoing US–UK transatlantic scuffles (origins of punk rock, a couple of ‘British invasions’, for example): the default international language of pop is English and non-English-language vocal music has not had any significant presence in the UK mainstream pop markets. In the UK, with English as the lingua franca of pop, there is no perceived linguistic or cultural threat to the popular music industries. At this point I’d like to make it clear that I don’t plan to problematize the notion of the ‘British music industries’ in terms of the complex transnational organizational structure of the cultural industries (Hesmondhalgh 2019). Indeed, it is much more straightforward to think about policy in relation to broadcasting (as opposed to pop) given that policy and regulation still happens for the most part at the level of the nation-state. So when I talk about broadcasting and popular music here, I mean broadcasting that covers UK national territory and I am subsuming any on-demand or streamed content within that category, if that content was originally intended for linear broadcasting. Alongside UK music industry confidence is a similar cultural confidence in the status of the BBC as a world-leading broadcaster and cultural institution (Hendy 2013),

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not withstanding periodic hostility to the BBC from governments on the left and right over many years (Hendy 2007; Seaton 2015). The BBC’s funding model of the flat-rate annual licence fee payment was intended since its introduction in 1923 to keep the BBC at arm’s length from government influence. However, at various key points in UK broadcasting history the BBC has worked with government departments in both developing and influencing policy where details of how that policy would be executed in practice were left to the BBC (Briggs 1995; Rudin 2006). One example, to which I’ll return later, was the launch of BBC Radio 1 in 1967, which worked to minimize audience resentment at the government’s outlawing of pirate radio stations (Chapman 1992). A later example is the role that the BBC played in development of both broadcast infrastructure and content for digital radio (formally, Digital Audio Broadcasting), in support of government policy objectives to build a strong and mixed digital radio market in the UK (Rudin 2006). In contrast, the UK’s European neighbour, France, has had a long history of state intervention in the cultural industries and has also had explicit policy objectives in popular music broadcasting. An example of the former is the Fête de la Musique (Minister de la Culture 2021), the annual festival of free concerts that started in Paris in 1982 as part of an initiative of the Ministry of Culture. France’s proactive pop music policies have emerged from historic traditions of these more general state interventions in popular cultural industries. Such interventions are understood as required tools for resisting perceived external cultural threats and so therefore also associated implicit soft political power and potential influence. In broadcasting, these interventions have manifested as quota regulations for French-language songs (Hare 2003; Machill 1996). Hare identifies tensions between the free market in broadcast commercial radio and state policy objectives of supporting French language and culture. In 2016 the French government responded to many years of lobbying against quotas by the commercial radio sector by reducing the requirement for French-language content from 40 per cent to 35 per cent (Chazan 2016). This relatively small concession to the market seems to me to be a clear indication of French state commitment to the notion of quotas and to ongoing policy intervention in the private sector in pursuit of cultural objectives, despite pressure from commercial players. Elsewhere in the anglophone world, Canada has also imposed music radio broadcast quotas in support of its own music industries in the face of economic and cultural threats from the United States (Henderson 2008). From 1971, there were a number of key ‘Canadian’ attributes that any given record release could possess and although the details of Canadian Content (or CanCon) varied over the years, Henderson argues that it has been a broadly successful initiative, despite objections from commercial radio networks. The idea of the need for distinctive Canadian-ness in broadcasting goes back to the 1930s (Hutchison 1999) but CanCon was the first clear codification of Canadian-ness as it related to pop. It was (and is) a market intervention that was intended to buttress Canadian culture and industry against the threat of an overwhelmingly strong US American music industry.

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Where music policy lives The most important policy area in the UK, one that has the largest impact on popular music, is broadcast regulation. I’ll discuss key moments in the history of UK (radio) broadcast regulation in the next section, but I wanted to first discuss popular music and policy more generally in the UK. The point I want to make here is that, whilst I agree with Frith’s argument that UK governments are mostly not interested in the popular music industries, there are a number of important areas in which policy measures are developed and implemented. The UK state has therefore been interested in popular music more generally and especially where music overlaps with other areas of policy/political interest, like education, law and order, and economic regeneration. Whilst there is pretty much no popular music broadcast policy as such in the UK, there are plenty of other areas in which policies directly relate to popular music. Some of these policies have potential consequences for broadcast popular music, some less so. UK policymakers are happy to address popular music in a number of key areas but seem to be for the most part comfortable with an indirect, arm’s-length approach to popular music broadcasting. There are very occasional illuminating exceptions to this, one of which occurred in a House of Lords debate about how to award the then-new national commercial radio broadcast licences. On 23 May 1991, in a reply to a question about diversity, quality and choice in the new services, the Minister of State for the Home Office (Earl Ferrers) said: We realised that it was likely, unless we did something to regulate the programming format of the new channels, that all three stations could end up by being stations which would provide what is colloquially called ‘pop-music’. (Lords Hansard 1991: Column 420)

In this case, at least, a government department was directly intervening in the licensing process to mitigate the threat of ‘pop music’ taking over all three of the new national station slots (one on FM, two on MW (medium wave)). In due course the FM licence went to Classic FM and the MW licences went to Talk Radio (speech) and to Virgin 1215 (classic rock and pop). What is interesting about this case is that it illustrates the tension between the ideological position of a Conservative government’s neoliberal free market agenda and a more ‘old school’ Conservative nervousness about contemporary popular culture and its threat to what might be considered ‘traditional’ cultural values. A significant and growing area of scholarly research addresses music education policy, mainly at primary and secondary level (from 4 years old at the young end to school leavers at 17 or 18 years of age). Recent work has been critical of the UK government’s lack of support for state-funded music education. Bath et al. (2020), for example, have a useful review of contemporary policy in English schools. In a more positive article, Thomas (2021) discusses new approaches to policy on education for emerging and practising musicians in Wales. There is a significant body of scholarship around policy as it relates to live music performance, notably Shane Homan’s work over the last two decades looking at the

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cultural and economic impact of urban policy and popular music, either in solo writing (Homan 2000; 2002, 2011a, 2011b) or in collaborative work (Baker, Bennett, and Homan 2009; Gibson and Homan 2004). Whilst much of Homan’s work is focused on policy in Australia, it is also global in its perspective. Policy issues are often central to the historical narrative in the excellent three-volume history of live music in the UK from Frith et al. (2013, 2019, 2021). Elsewhere, Cloonan has developed his early work on censorship of popular music (Cloonan 1996) into a much wider consideration of state intervention in popular music (Cloonan 2007) and again later in collaborative work (Cloonan and Drewett 2016; Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole 2015). What much of this work illustrates is the willingness of the state to use policy to regulate popular music where those policies align with broader political objectives in fields not necessarily obviously directly related to popular music industry and culture, such as urban redevelopment or law and order. An example of the latter is the 1994 Criminal Justice Act that included provisions designed to control (and eventually eradicate) illegal raves in the UK (Cloonan 2007: 20). The music industries have attempted to influence policy development in copyright and intellectual property. Two key pieces of scholarship that critically and accessibly discuss the record and music publishing industries’ economies appear in Frith and Marshall’s (2013) edited collection on copyright. Laing (2013) explores politics and the music industries’ active pursuit of their economic interests at national and international levels throughout their own histories; and Frith (2013) assesses the exploitation of copyrighted popular music in other media forms, such as radio, television and film. What I want to show here are two things: first, that state and other policymaking entities are sometimes very willing to develop interventionist policies that have consequences for popular music industries and culture. An example of this is the 1990s’ UK (Conservative) government’s concern that popular music radio was probably not a good thing and that market intervention was necessary to balance the threat from a creative form (pop music) perceived to be low culture. Second, the stated primary objective of policy measures that have consequences for popular music is not necessarily explicitly about popular music as such. Elements of the 1994 Criminal Justice Act appear to be about controlling criminal activity in illegal gatherings but used music as a way of defining that illegal activity – the term ‘repetitive beats’ was used to characterize rave music (Cloonan 2007). As Cloonan suggests, the same legislation had a direct effect on cultures of consumption of electronic dance music (EDM) and was at least partly responsible for EDM’s shift of focus to more easily regulated urban spaces like clubs and warehouses. Just a final point before moving on to the next section where I discuss some UK policy initiatives that have had consequences for broadcast popular music. Not all nation-states are interested in popular music policy in the same ways or even for the same reasons. I would argue that this is crucial in understanding successive UK government’s seeming disinterest (for the most part) in making policy that directly intervenes in broadcast popular music. In the post–Second World War era, and in particular in the decades since the Conservative Party’s election victory in 1979, neoliberal discourse rapidly became mainstream for most UK political parties. One consequence of this has been that British governments have for the most part been generally cautious about policy interventions in

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the music industries, preferring to leave that field of cultural production to function in a more or less free market environment. There are exceptions to this, of course, such as the 1990s’ enquiries into CD price-fixing by major labels (Cloonan 2007:70). But where there have been interventions, these are more likely to broadly support the economic interests of the ‘British’ music industries, rather than those of the consumer. An example of this is the decision to implement a 2011 EU directive on extension to the period in which rights holders can continue to exploit their intellectual property. This was in response to significant lobbying from music industry representative bodies alongside several highprofile stars, as reported in the UK newspaper The Guardian (Halliday 2011). So, where and when are the policy interventions that have shaped popular music broadcasting in the UK?

Pop and broadcasting policy in the UK: Key moments There has been plenty of policy and subsequent legislation that has had often significant consequences for broadcasting of popular music. I have argued that few of these policy initiatives are explicitly designed to shape or constrain popular music broadcast practices. The reasons for this are embedded in the history of UK broadcasting, the centrality of the BBC to that history and relatively late arrival of commercial radio broadcasting to the UK. For more details on the history of radio broadcasting in the UK, see Crisell (2002) and Hendy (2013), the latter of which focuses on public service broadcasting. I draw on both of these sources here to present selected examples of the ways in which broadcasting policy in the UK, whilst rarely addressing pop directly or explicitly, has had significant consequences for popular music. In the 1960s, one of the most important policy interventions in radio broadcasting was forced on the UK government by a number of enterprising entrepreneurs and a loophole in international law that permitted radio stations with transmitters in international waters (more than three miles off the UK coast) to broadcast into the UK (Chapman 1992; Crisell 2002). From early 1964 the first of the 1960s’ pirate stations, Radio Caroline, started broadcasting pop music from a converted passenger ferry, the MV Mi Amigo, anchored off the Suffolk coast. This was the first time in the UK that there had been an opportunity for advertising agencies to use radio, even though there had been commercial TV franchises since 1955. The BBC had a radio monopoly at the time, one that was not broken until the market was opened up to commercial radio in 1973. The 1960s’ pirate stations proved that there was an appetite in UK audiences for US-style, DJ-led music radio as a viable business proposition. As other stations joined Caroline, concerns were raised in Parliament that pirate station broadcasts could interfere with legal use of the broadcasting spectrum and in particular that used by emergency services. The pirates were a threat to the existing broadcasting hierarchy and to the rule of law, but as they were based in international waters, the UK (Labour) government introduced an ingenious piece of legislation designed

Broadcasting and Popular Music Policy

to cut off their revenue stream. The Marine Offences Act of 1967 made it illegal for any British-based company to advertise on pirate radio and so within weeks most stations had closed down. While this example looks a little like an attempt to control music radio, it was really about enforcing the rule of law and exercising sovereign control over broadcasting in the UK; that it also closed down a number of music radio stations was almost incidental. In September 1967 the BBC launched Radio 1, the first national pop music station, and employed a number of former pirate radio DJs in a significantly more formal context. Music policy on BBC Radio was determined by the BBC, and there was no external policy constraint on how it should approach pop. However, as Chapman (1992) notes, the mandate for the BBC to create a continuous pop music station (more or less in the style of Radio Caroline and its competitors) originally came from government, appearing first in a White Paper on the future of UK broadcasting, published in December 1966. Chapman quotes Teddy Warrick, who became Assistant Head at Radio 1 at its launch, as being surprised at the Labour government’s response to the pirate radio stations. Warrick had expected the legalization of commercial radio broadcasting and instead saw a rapidly emerging government policy that would in part balance the potential political backlash from the closure of (very popular) pirate stations by instructing the BBC to create a service that could be seen to replace the pop music content of these stations. While this had profound consequences for popular music broadcasting in the UK – large areas of the country that had been unable to receive pirate radio broadcasts for geographical reasons now could hear daily continuous pop – the policy wasn’t about pop. It was about maintaining a broadcasting status quo in which the BBC retained its legal broadcasting monopoly and kicking the debate about UK commercial radio into the metaphorical long grass of the future. This is another example of Frith’s argument that UK governments don’t really care about pop music in and of itself. In 1967, pop music was instead a tool that was used to help achieve other policy objectives, in this case regulating radio broadcasting in ways that aligned with an ideological position that supported public ownership of monopoly infrastructure, and was sceptical about free market economics more generally. The pop music content of BBC Radio 1 when it launched was not a like-for-like equivalent of the US-style, DJ-led pirate stations. Hendy (2013) notes that in the 1967 BBC radio network reorganization, Radio 1 was seen as the station that would deliver rock and pop for a younger audience. There was, however, a problem with this delivery in the form of ‘needletime’, a restriction on the number of hours of commercial recordings that the BBC was permitted to broadcast in a given day (Garner 1993, 2007). ‘Needletime’ was the outcome of an agreement negotiated between one of the UK’s copyright ownership collection agencies, Phonographic Performance Limited (PPL), and the Musicians’ Union (MU), and dates back to the 1930s (Cloonan and Williamson 2016). Needletime is an intriguing balancing of interests between three entities: the publicly owned BBC and two representative organizations, the PPL for record labels and the MU for working musicians. The BBC wanted to play records; the PPL wanted the BBC to pay for the right to do so; and the MU wanted to protect the livelihoods of freelance musicians whose incomes depended

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on working for the BBC. The MU had for years argued that every commercial recording played on BBC radio was depriving a working session musician of a job, though by the peak-Beatles mid-1960s it was a more difficult position to hold. The implementation of ‘needletime’ remained in place for the BBC until 1988, after which the BBC was able to play (and pay rights holders for) as much recorded music as it pleased. In September 1967, however, the total number of record-playing hours available to the BBC, in a broadcast day running from 7 a.m. to midnight, across two national networks (BBC Radio 1 and 2) was seven hours, of which Radio 1 was allocated three hours. The ‘needletime’ agreement, then, was a constraint on the BBC, a consequence of the competing interests of two quite different external organizations whose activities were regulated by policy and legislation in areas quite distinct from popular music broadcasting (workers’ unions on the one hand and intellectual property on the other). There was a significant, unanticipated consequence of ‘needletime’ for both pop music broadcasting and popular music culture in the UK (Garner 1993). In order to fill Radio 1 and Radio 2 airtime with pop, the BBC used a large number of specially recorded sessions, made in BBC studios or on location in concert halls or clubs. Radio 2 recorded mainly jazz and big band dance music, while Radio 1 recorded a huge number of established and emerging signed artists from Marmalade, through to the Animals and Led Zeppelin. This was an attractive solution for the BBC’s ‘needletime’ problem – they paid musicians at standard MU rates and they did not have to pay the PPL when the session recordings were aired because the BBC owned the mechanical recording rights to those specific recordings for future use. Recording companies agreed to having their artists make session recordings because they were viewed as promotional tools for new or forthcoming record releases. The BBC, of course, did not own the publishing or author rights to the songs in the session (for an account of the complexities of UK music rights legislation, see Frith and Marshall (2013)). The existence of this unique and invaluable cultural archive of session music recordings originally intended for broadcast by the BBC is not just an example of a lack of formal, external pop music broadcasting policy, but also of unintended consequences, with session recordings regularly aired in the schedules of BBC Radio 6 Music since that station’s launch in 2002.2 The next significant moment in UK pop music broadcast history was the arrival of commercial radio in late 1973 under a Conservative administration ideologically committed to free market economics and the expansion of radio broadcasting beyond the BBC (Crisell 2002: 196). The model for commercial radio was the one that had been used when commercial television was introduced in the UK: regional franchises with no formal national commercial network, hence the term Independent Local Radio (ILR). There was, however, reluctance on the part of government policymakers to fully embrace free market competition in radio. ILR stations were required by a new regulator, the Independent Broadcasting Authority (IBA), to fulfil a series of public service mandates. These included significant commitment to (expensive) original news journalism, spoken word content and clear demonstrations of ‘local-ness’ (Barnard 1989: 74). Over time many of these requirements were quietly de-prioritized by the IBA, often depending, as Crisell (2002) argues, on the ideological position of any given government. Barnard (1989: 76) argues that ILR stations had not been intended to be music radio as such but had to become so

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to have any realistic expectation of luring listeners from the music-dominated schedules of BBC Radio 1 and 2. To allow for this to happen, the IBA (negotiating on behalf of ILR stations) reached a formal agreement with the PPL in 1976 allowing nine hours of daily ‘needletime’ for each station. So by the late 1970s, UK audiences had more pop listening options than since the mid-1960s peak of the offshore pirate stations. Why? Certainly not because any flavour of government or policymaker belief that more pop on air was in itself a good idea. More pop on air was instead a consequence of a policy that sought to liberalize the radio sector in the UK, while not particularly concerned with how that might actually play out in terms of broadcast content, beyond a slowly decreasing commitment to notions of ‘public service’. There was gradual development of the commercial radio sector in the UK throughout the 1980s and then further major expansion in 1990 under another Conservative government that set up a new ‘light touch’ regulator, the Radio Authority, where pop music dominated the schedules of most of the new stations (Wall 2000). That these broadcasting policy changes worked to consolidate the relationship between the record industry and radio in the UK (Barnard 1989: 93) was, again, incidental. In 2003 a new, integrated communications sector regulator, Ofcom (the Office for Communication), replaced five previous agencies with overlapping responsibilities, including the Radio Authority (Lunt and Livingstone 2012). By this time there were over 100 commercial radio stations, most of whose schedules were dominated by music formats. Ofcom presided over an expansion of the UK commercial radio industry, and in 2021 there were almost 300 stations; many of these are genre-, time-period or regionally specific variations of a parent station brand (Rajar 2021). At the same time there has been significant consolidation of ownership in UK radio, with most of the commercial stations owned by just three companies in 2021: Global Radio, Bauer Radio and Wireless Group (Collins and Bee 2021). Whilst patterns of ownership undoubtedly have consequences for station music programming policy, this is not a particular concern of the regulatory body, except in the most general sense. Ofcom cannot, for example, require a licensed station to offer a particular genre of music; but it can require a station to play music if its licence states that it will play music (as opposed to speech-based output, for example) (Ofcom 2015). It doesn’t really matter to Ofcom what kind of music is played as long as it is music. It does not really matter to station owners what kind of music is played as long as it maintains or grows audiences in station target demographics (Berland 1990). So, with only very rare exceptions (such as the debate around the granting of national commercial radio licences in 1992) there is no clear evidence of any coherent cultural policy in the UK that was explicitly concerned with music broadcasting. The question of the extent to which this matters to popular music industries and culture in the UK is more difficult to answer. The absence of explicit policy directed at popular music broadcasting works well for recording companies (lots of places to have their artists played and no government interference); the BBC (more or less free to determine its own music policy) and commercial radio (‘light touch’ regulation from Ofcom). It also works for governments that do not see pop on radio (or TV) as particularly important, content to prioritize music policymaking elsewhere.

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Conclusion The UK does not have explicit policy related to popular music and broadcasting. Instead, there is a web of interrelated policy areas where implementation of those policies has consequences for the place of popular music in broadcasting. The most significant of these areas is general broadcasting regulation and the ways in which this shapes music policy inside broadcasting organizations in both the commercial and public sectors. Second, the role of the music industries in the UK matters. Since at least the 1960s, the British music industries (or, more correctly, the music industries in Britain, given that there has been no British-owned major label left in play since EMI was broken up and sold off in 2012) have felt secure on the global stage. Whilst the consolidated industries representative body UK Music may have lobbied policymakers on behalf of its members in relation to live music or to copyright and intellectual property, the BBC-led broadcasting ecosystem has worked fairly well for the labels for decades. So there has been no sense of threat that would have required action from the state at a policy level. Third, there is little in the way of direct, formal state intervention in popular music broadcasting in the UK. This is in sharp contrast with nations that have a long history of state intervention and support for popular music (such as France). For the French, state support of the arts and creative industries is in part a consequence of buttressing French (and French language) audiovisual culture against the threat of successive waves of anglophone content. There is no stigma in producing popular music with the assistance of government policy and money, as exemplified by the Fête de la Musique, the annual festival of free concerts that started in Paris in 1982 as part of an initiative of the Ministry of Culture. In Britain, the UK music industries have been happier when government was not intervening and saw themselves as working best as private sector enterprises in a competitive marketplace. Publicly funded pop was usually looked down on – if an artist cannot be successful in the free market, then the music has no real value. So, explicit popular music broadcasting policy really exists only where (a) there’s a tradition of state intervention in popular culture; and (b) there is a perceived (international) cultural threat that policy needs to deal with.

Notes 1 2

For a very useful critical consideration of pop music ‘success’, see Hennion (1983). For example, the schedule of Gideon Coe’s show on 6 July 2021 featured BBC session tracks from McCarthy (May 1987), Iron Maiden (November 1979), Laura Cantrell (April 2011), Hot 8 Brass Band (June 2016) and Vic Goddard (October 2017) (BBC 2021).

9 Live music infrastructure Adam Behr

Introduction In late 2020, in the face of immense challenges brought about by Covid-19 and Brexit, the UK’s live music sector launched a new industry body and lobby group – Live Music Industry Venues and Entertainment (LIVE) – comprising individual sectoral representative organizations, covering a range of concerns including grassroots venues, concerts halls, festivals, ticketing, production services, artists, managers and promoters (LiveMusic.Biz). Its campaign points include ‘targeted financial support for the sector to protect jobs and infrastructure’ (Paine 2021). A report produced by LIVE in 2020 issued a stark warning about the future of live music as part of an explicit call for government intervention: [W]ithout further Government support, the sector is projected to lose the majority of its skilled people by the end of the year. If that happens, the UK’s world-leading creative hub will be set back significantly, with specialist skills disappearing from the sector, and infrastructure and organisations shuttered, some permanently. (Carey and Chambers 2020: 14)

The understanding of live music ‘infrastructure’ here was wide, as suggested by the range of organizations represented. Given the urgency of the crisis engendered by Covidrelated restrictions, this is perhaps unsurprising. The shutdown of the economy at large meant that every sector – from entertainment, through hospitality to transport and heavy industry – was in need of support of some kind. The broad spectrum call for support here, however, belies the multifarious concerns in play. ‘Infrastructure,’ as it pertains to live music, covers a variety of stakeholders. As John Williamson and Martin Cloonan (2007) have noted with regard to music more widely, there is value in an analytical framework that conceives of ‘industries’ in the plural rather than a monolithic ‘music industry,’ given the varied, and sometimes competing, interests involved. The same could be said of the multiple nodes in the live music sector. It is not a given that the interests of, for instance, a ticketing agency, a stadium, a small-capacity venue and a promoter are aligned at any given time. Notwithstanding that ‘infrastructure’ implies a set of activities, there are many

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relationships to unpick for policymakers or researchers within live music. Matters are complicated further by the fact that policy responses necessarily intersect with concerns beyond those of live music practitioners, and the musical world as whole. It is not the goal of this chapter to provide a comprehensive accounting of the many factors and participants at work in the live music infrastructure. Rather, I will focus on a key segment, and one that most obviously relates to everyday understandings of ‘infrastructure’ that is physically and geographically rooted: the venues themselves. A discussion of policy responses to venues – both those operating at the grassroots, and major projects like arenas – reveals the extent to which live music infrastructure is intertwined with a plethora of other policy areas, embedded in its geographical contexts (urban and beyond) and affected by various levels of government and funding from the local to national. The examples presented here focus primarily on the UK, and the underlying issues of how policymakers need to balance the needs of the live music sector with their overall responsibilities. I look first at major arena projects before moving onto the concerns of grassroots venues facing gentrification and then at a campaign for these concerns to be heeded by the national government.

Arena projects: The interconnection of private and public spheres Live music in any locality involves the interplay of venues of different types and sizes in a local live music ‘ecology’ wherein musical actors engage with their non-musical contexts and participants (transport, licensing, health and safety officers, etc.) – with policymakers key amongst them. An ‘ecological’ approach to live music infrastructure has the advantage of illustrating the ‘materiality of the buildings in which live music happens’ (Behr et al. 2016: 19) while simultaneously considering that a musical milieu involves ‘constant negotiation with people who are not part of a shared ideological construct’ (Behr et al. 2016) – local councillors, licensing officers and the regulators whose activities bear upon the venues and their occupants. Amongst the most obvious musical landmarks in a town or city are its major venues, and most prominent amongst these are the arenas that form a key part of the local infrastructure for music (and events more generally) as well as a link to the international touring infrastructure for acts at the upper end of the commercial ladder. Although clearly commercial in their operations, arenas demonstrate the entanglement not only of cultural and economic values around live music (especially popular music, broadly conceived) but also of the private and public sectors. With the exception of Newcastle, all UK arenas were built with considerable input from public money (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014: 8), the necessary capital precluding private companies alone taking on both projects of such size and the risks implied in the scale of the undertaking. There are various motivations at work here, with cultural and economic concerns overlapping. Public investment in arena projects can be viewed from the perspective of local authorities seeking to regenerate an area, and provide a boost for local businesses,

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while also making their city more competitive nationally (and internationally) as a cultural destination. The Glasgow SSE Hydro is a case in point here, revealing the network of actors involved, and the long-term trajectory of city policy that lies behind such projects. Although relatively unusual in being a dedicated entertainment venue (as opposed to doubling up for sports, or exhibitions), the history of the Hydro can be traced back to a much broader set of concerns around the city, with input from funding and policy at the national level. As Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole (2016: 94–6) show, the policy background is one of national input to alleviate a local problem: post-industrial decline and deprivation. Infamous in the 1970s and 1980s for crime and ill-health, Glasgow became the focus of activities for the publicly owned Scottish Development Agency (latterly Scottish Enterprise) which sought to use culture as part of its regenerative efforts, including a successful application to be the European Capital of Culture for 1990, and the opening of the city centre concert hall (2016). Amongst these initiatives was the opening in 1985 of the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre (SECC), which increased the city’s provision for larger indoor gigs, especially with the addition in 1997 of the 3,000-capacity Clyde Auditorium (known as the ‘Armadillo’ due to its exterior resemblance to that animal’s covering plates), funded by Glasgow City Council. However, the burgeoning local music sector found itself outgrowing the offer of the SECC. Although the main hall could serve up to 10,000 people, its multipurpose nature meant that promoters had to compete with exhibitions and conferences for dates – a difficulty when trying to promote the city as a key stop on the British circuit – and was nicknamed the ‘Big Red Shed’ (Behr et al. 2016: 16), while the 3,000-capacity ‘Armadillo’ could not serve the largest acts. The expansion into the Hydro (opened in 2013, with a capacity of 14,300) was thus derived from a combination of live music industry commercial imperatives and the city’s desire to sustain its economic growth, including the regeneration of the docklands home for the event complex. This mixture of motivations is reflected in the nexus of corporate and public financial interests. The Hydro Arena – like the Scottish Exhibition Centre and Armadillo – is operated by a company called SEC Ltd., in which Glasgow City Council has a majority stake. SEC Ltd. has a partnership with operator AEG Facilities, an arm of the international venue company AEG. Funding for the £116 million project came primarily from SEC Ltd., with £40 million from the public sector in the form of £15 million from the city council and £25 million from Scottish Enterprise, an arm of the Scottish Government.1 A further £15 million was provided by the energy company SSE (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014: 16), for naming rights, with corporate investment edging out the previously mooted label of the ‘national arena’. Glasgow’s top-end centrepiece venue is not alone in this amalgamation of corporate and public. The 13,000-capacity Leeds First Direct Arena (named for its sponsor, the internet banking company) arose out of a combination of public demand via a local authority strategic consultation in which ‘the city [was] criticised for a lack of specific major facilities such as a concert hall, arena, or conference and exhibition centre – a view which emerged strongly’ (The Leeds Initiative 2004: 20). Here, the model was different but comparable, with venue operations leased out to US-based venue operations group SMG (who subsequently

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merged with AEG). While the operator was brought in from the outset, and involved in the building specifications, public funding was still a sine qua non, including £10 million from the regional development agency Yorkshire Forward, and £22 million from Leeds City Council (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014: 21), half of which was a direct financial injection and half leveraged against the rent it would receive from SMG. What is notable here is the council’s response to public demand through the involvement of a transnational company in the shape of SMG with the simultaneous acknowledgement of the need for council funding. Martin Farrington, Director of City Development at Leeds City Council, spoke in 2012 directly of the ‘market failure’ at the point of getting arena projects up and running. What is the extent of that market failure, and therefore what is the minimum intervention that the council needs to make to move us from no arena to an arena … and the feedback that we got was that the right approach was to secure an operator first and to have a relationship with an operator where it’s a commercial relationship but where the development of the arena and the rent came from the operator and what the council is doing is effectively facilitating that development, providing some gap funding. And we recognized that we needed to make an investment … to address that market failure. (Live Music Exchange 2012)

Dedicated live music infrastructure at the apex of the commercial ecology, then, exemplifies the ways in which the material capacity of live music localities – and the physical geography of their surroundings – is directly shaped by the post-Keynesian state’s tacit imbrication in private enterprise as a means of fulfilling its obligations and responding to public demand. As Robert Kronenburg’s account of multiple arena building or refurbishment projects notes: Each of these projects has its own specific local context; however they share a similarity in brief that can be summarized in three key ambitions: to provide an improved customer experience that will … increase the arena’s appeal as a destination venue; to provide an improved operating experience that encourages repeat bookings; to provide a focus for development opportunity and urban regeneration in the cities in which they are sited. (Kronenburg 2015: 79–80)

Furthermore, where the operators of these venues would formerly have been named for their locality, they are now (as with the SSE Hydro) named for corporate sponsors (Kronenburg 2015: 80), further aligning the civic with the private sector. These initiatives resonate, also, with the broader trajectory of policymaking at local and national levels whereby live music serves the dual purpose of driving economic activity – evident in the growth of the ‘Music City’ as a policy objective (Van der Hoeven and Hitters 2019) internationally – and, within that, through the construction of ‘self-perpetuating mythologies based upon specific mixes of “creatives” and city infrastructure’ (Homan 2014: 149). The salience of such projects in city accounting and for tourism is relatively clear. SEC Ltd., for instance, projected an economic impact for the city of £12 billion, with its Director of Live Entertainment lauding the Hydro’s value in promoting Glasgow as a ‘top end music city’ (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014: 16). How far the benefits of major infrastructural

Live Music Infrastructure

projects trickle down the musical ecology is less obvious. If one of the desired effects of large-scale infrastructure projects is urban regeneration, this has its corollary in processes of ‘gentrification’ (Ballico and Watson 2020: 7) with knock-on effects in terms of property prices and shifting local demographics. Venue operators at the grassroots may lack the financial capacity – the business infrastructure – to weather such changes. It is to their place in the live music infrastructure, and local and national policy responses to it, that I now turn.

Grassroots infrastructure and gentrification In his address to the European Music Council Annual Forum in 2013, Simon Frith opened with a series of propositions, the first two of which were: First, policy makers don’t make music, musicians do. Second, a music industry does not create a music culture; rather, a music culture leads to the development of a music industry. (Frith 2013a)

If these observations do not stand in opposition to the raft of ‘music city’ policy initiatives at work in cities across the world, they do, at least, serve as a counterpoint to the more optimistic, top-down perceptions on the part of policymakers that infrastructural projects – like those described above – can, in and of themselves, engender a vibrant musical ecology. It is not, in other words, possible to create a musical culture. The emphasis, rather, should be on supporting it. Frith concluded by posing a pair of questions that speak to both sides of the relationship between music-makers and the policy realm: ‘What is good music for a country, region or city? What is a good country, region or city for music?’ (Frith 2013). A related observation here in terms of policymaking to support live music is that the most significant state policies for the making and unmaking of local music culture are not music policies at all but involve such issues as licensing and planning laws (which effect the distribution and regulation of venues) [and] housing and education policies. (Frith, Cloonan and Williamson 2009: 83)

As well as being at the opposite end of the economic spectrum from the multimillionpound state investment that gives rise to arenas, the smaller venues, clubs and pubs that form key nodes in any local live music ecology find themselves at the sharp end of such regulatory activity. Neither should such problems be deliberate attempts to curtail live music. In the UK, for instance, Dave Laing has shown how a 2003 attempt by the national government to standardize licensing regulations across England and Wales ended up removing a blanket exemption from licensing for small-scale musical performances in pubs – of two or fewer musicians – and, subsequently, led to a reduction in the amount of live music. Local authorities consulted a range of stakeholders in applying the new licensing regime – local constabularies, for instance – but not, among them, musicians or promoters (Laing 2016: 266).

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The law of unintended consequences, and a local policy response that paid insufficient attention to cultural activity without a robust commercial underpinning, were similarly evident in Melbourne licensing authorities’ attempts to curb late-night, inner-city violence. Security requirements such as CCTV cameras and extra staff that formerly related to latetrading, large venues were imposed on smaller outfits. With no reliable evidence that music venues were the source of problem, extra expenses were imposed in an attempt to address a public order issue deriving from businesses like large nightclubs and strip-clubs. As Shane Homan (2011a: 102) notes, The implications ranged from the serious to the absurd: a Greek Taverna with two men playing rebetika music; small blues and jazz venues with audiences of under 100 people: all required two security guards. Venues with no or little history of trading, police or licence breaches found themselves categorised as ‘high risk’ sites.

Business casualties included the highly regarded Tote Hotel, engendering a campaign – FairGo4LiveMusic (2011a) – to protect the interests of venues like the Tote. While this – like the lengthy process of lobbying in the UK that eventually led to the Live Music Act 2012 removing specific licensing requirements for small-scale events to mitigate the effects of the 2003 Licensing Act – demonstrated that smaller spaces for live music can draw on a ‘soft infrastructure’ (Comunian, Chapain and Clifton 2010: 6) of social networks, identities and traditions, it does not shield them from the hard economic consequences of urban development. ‘Policies designed to make city areas attractive to tourists, affluent incomers and inward investors’, suggest Frith, Cloonan and Williamson (2009: 83), ‘can effectively destroy their original bohemian appeal to music makers.’ They can also undermine their operating capacity in light of changes to the local population, and the surrounding character of the neighbourhood – not least increased residential building to service incomers. In this respect, policies to drive regeneration through culture can be the victim of their own success if pubs and grassroots venues find themselves operating at cross-purposes with new buildings and residents. In his account of a long-standing dispute between a Toronto nightclub and local residents, Saeed Hydaralli (2012: 232) observes that ‘noise represents a seemingly impossible dilemma for city dwellers and authorities alike’. Managing such dilemmas is, however, the job of policymakers, yet is often a direct problem for venues. There has been, historically at least, something of a disjuncture in policy terms between a view of music as culturally valuable in the abstract, as a means of putting a cultural gloss on a locality, and as problematic and disruptive when it comes to the conflicting interests of (often new) residents and venue operators who may face higher commercial rents on top of additional complaints (Ballico and Watson 2018: 209). Ambiguity about what, specifically, constitutes ‘cultural infrastructure’ (see Chapter 14) may work against low-capacity venues and music-oriented pubs. These do not also fit neatly into outward-facing, tourism-oriented policy frameworks. Here, cultural appeal is linked to marquee projects whose infrastructural role is as obvious as their physical footprint or else at a remove from the messy logistics of providing popular culture on the ground, scattered throughout and implanted within the myriad other concerns of local life.

Live Music Infrastructure

Live music infrastructure, then, sits across an array of policy priorities that encompass economic development, cultural provision and social cohesion. Inputs at one end – economic development, for instance – can have negative outcomes elsewhere – tensions between residents and musical practitioners, for example. An underlying factor is the perennial, and unresolved, ambiguity about what constitutes the ‘culture’ in ‘cultural policy’, whether in terms of explicit support for prominent musical landmarks, or quotidian regulatory work elsewhere. At the same time as the Director of Music for Glasgow Life – a charity that receives funding from and delivers services for the city council – described the citycentre Royal Concert Hall as a source of ‘civic pride’ (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014: 15), the Glad Café in the Southside of the city was engaged in repeated, and expensive, rounds of soundproofing to keep on the right side of local Environmental Health officers (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014: 13). No government, national or local, is a monolith and just as the owners of the Glad Café had variable experiences with Glasgow’s Planning and Regeneration Department (a positive encounter) and with its Licensing Board and Environmental Health (a more difficult relationship), there can be countervailing pulls between the cultural and the economic. Even supposedly sympathetic responses can have unforeseen effects. Carah et al. (2021) describe, for example, the designation of Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley as a ‘Special Entertainment Precinct’. The Precinct has, over time, led to an uneasy dichotomy between activity centred around alcohol sales and nightclubs and a more culturally focused set of practitioners hoping to foster a ‘scene’ geared towards original live music venues. The long-term effect is that ‘the performance of music became less embedded in the sociality of a scene and more in the consumption of a nightlife experience’ (2021: 632). The overarching questions are both definitional – what counts as ‘culture’ – and logistical – how does one differentiate between a venue’s role within the general cultural infrastructure, and as a site to be licensed and regulated in line with the numerous other calls on policymakers’ attention?

Lobby policymakers for the Agent of Change The last decade has seen some of these issues come to a head, as the wider-scale narrative of live music as simultaneously cultural good and economic engine has run up against the strains that the associated processes of gentrification have wrought. In the UK, this became apparent through a spate of venues coming under threat of closure in 2014 following conflicts with residents, planners and local councils (Behr et al. 2016: 10). This pattern is not unique to Britain but a feature of urban environments internationally. Ballico and Carter (2018: 208) describe a similar situation in Sydney, for instance, while Kane, Scholer and Van Houten (2020) assess early twenty-first-century tensions in San Francisco. The result of this, in Britain and elsewhere, has been the mobilization of independent venues and a pivot towards the kind of lobbying in which the recording industry has long engaged. A key locus of this activity has been a push towards the adoption of the ‘Agent of Change’

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principle to protect venues’ existing uses. The ‘Agent of Change’ is a planning provision whereby ‘the responsibility for noise management is on the newcomers (i.e. “the agents of change”) in an area’ (Van der Hoeven and Hitters 2020: 269). Developers building near an existing venue must take on the onus of any necessary soundproofing. By the same token, a venue opening near existing residential buildings would be accountable for managing any sound mitigation. Following its introduction in Perth, Western Australia, in 2007 (where it was called the ‘Right of First Occupancy’ (Ballico 2016)), Victoria in 2014 (Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole 2016: 92) and San Francisco in 2015 (Kane, Scholer and Van Houten 2020: 161), pressure began mounting in the UK. In 2014, the Music Venue Trust (MVT) was launched in the UK, initially with the goal of having local live music venues registered as ‘Assets of Community Value’ under the Localism Act 2011 to facilitate community buyouts of venues for sale and, as Mark Davyd, the CEO of the Trust, put it, ‘bring them into the cultural sector’ (Davyd 2014). It quickly pivoted more heavily towards its other goal of addressing pressure on venues from noise abatement legislation and adopted a wider remit of becoming a voice for the sector, campaigning for and advising individual venues under threat, and lobbying local and national government on behalf of dedicated grassroots music venues as a group, signing them up to its Music Venues Alliance. Its short-term achievements were twofold. First, it addressed the status of small venues in an attempt to ‘shift public perception away from a rather tired pejorative of the “toilet circuit” to a more celebratory narrative’ (Parkinson et al. 2015: 7). Here, it was largely successful, the ‘toilet circuit’ increasingly giving way to the MVT’s preferred nomenclature of ‘grassroots music venues’ (which it abbreviates as GMVs). Second, it worked to push the interests of smaller venues up the policy agenda, with the Agent of Change principle a centrepiece of its campaigning. What it sought to do, in the bigger picture, was to balance the equation of cultural infrastructure and legislative ambiguity by placing GMVs – as it called them – squarely on the side of culture in the mind of the public and, by extension, policymakers. Research – influenced by work in Australia, notably the Victorian Live Music Census of 2012 – backed up some of the MVT’s assertions. This included a Live Music Census of Edinburgh in 2015, and a nationwide exercise in 2017 (conducted with the MVT, Musicians’ Union and UK Music – the umbrella lobby group for the UK’s music industries). Forty-eight per cent of respondents to the UK Live Music Census venue survey reported being affected by ‘noise, planning or development issues’ (Webster et al. 2018: 8), with one interviewee summing up a widely felt sentiment thus: [W]e want a level playing field so that it’s not just you as the venue that’s having to pay out financially to fix the problem [of sound leakage]. It would also be good to see the council taking more responsibility and to invest in infrastructure rather than letting developers throw up yet another 13-storey apartment block without considering the impact on the locality. (Webster et al 2018: 60)

The series of report recommendations (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014: 24; Webster et al. 2018: 61) and ongoing industry pressure revealed the complications inherent in trying

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to bring about a governmental response to the grassroots venues as culture infrastructure in their own right, when their call was one that potentially stood in the way of a competing narrative of culture in service of economic development. Nevertheless, in 2018, following the lobbying activities from the music industries’ representative bodies, the UK Parliamentary cross-party committee with oversight of the government department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) launched an inquiry into ‘Live Music’. Concurrently, Opposition MP John Spellar had launched a Bill to introduce the Agent of Change into planning law to ‘protect existing music venues from closure or crippling cost arising from the development of new residential properties in their vicinity’ (House of Commons UK 2018, Col. 330).2 With a tailwind of widespread public support, the proposal was adopted on a crossparty basis in the UK Parliament in Westminster, with similar provisions taken up by the devolved Parliaments of Scotland and Wales. This was welcome news within the sector, but also revealed the limitations, or at least the intricacies, of the process. The ‘Agent of Change’ now sat within the National Planning Policy Framework (NPPF) which ‘sets out the Government’s planning policies for England and how these should be applied [and] provides a framework within which locallyprepared plans for housing and other development can be produced’ (Ministry of Housing, Communities and Local Government 2019: 4). It is not, itself, a statute as was the case with the Licensing Act 2003 (Laing 2016). There remains the matter of its implementation and interpretation by local authorities. The NPPF stipulates that [p]lanning policies and decisions should ensure that new development can be integrated effectively with existing businesses and community facilities (such as places of worship, pubs, music venues and sports clubs). Existing businesses and facilities should not have unreasonable restrictions placed on them as a result of development permitted after they were established. (Ministry of Housing Communities and Local Government 2019: 54)

Such decisions remain within the purview of local authorities; when the DCMS Committee produced a 2018 report it included the observation that, despite welcoming the inclusion of ‘Agent of Change’ in planning policy, ‘robust and consistent implementation … is crucial for it to be of meaningful benefit to live music venues’ (DCMS Committee 2019a: 27). It further recommended a statutory consultative body to promote the interests of venues, advise local authorities and monitor the implementation of the ‘Agent of Change’ principle across the country (DCMS Committee 2019a). But the cross-party committee lacks legislative bite and, while it can make recommendations, cannot compel governmental action. The government’s response to this point was a curt demurral – ‘The Government believes appointing a new statutory consultee at this time would not be appropriate’ (DCMS Committee 2019b: 7) – followed by vague acknowledgements of the importance of various government departments ‘working with the sector through regular meetings, sharing of evidence and exchanging ideas and good practice’ (DCMS Committee 2019b). What was notable about this round of parliamentary activity was that, despite almost two years of debate and discussion, and a remit running the gamut of industry concerns from ticket touting through taxes on business properties to local planning provision, it still did

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not address definitional questions around music infrastructure. The DCMS Committee’s report noted shortfalls in the physical, internal infrastructure of venues – such as lack of wheelchair access and ageing sound systems (DCMS Committee 2019a: 28–9) while, in relation to music education, calling for ‘a music infrastructure that transcends schools’ (DCMS Committee 2019a: 37) – a more nebulous concept. Venues and pubs alike were also listed in the NPPF outline of the ‘Agent of Change’ principle, and both referenced in concerns about business rates (DCMS Committee 2019a: 26). Yet the leap was not made towards explicitly acknowledging the assimilation of live music infrastructure into its social and economic surroundings and the blurred boundaries between them. Perhaps this was inevitable – necessary, even – given the already drawn out process and wide brief of the enquiry. The fact remains, though, that the nuances of the live music infrastructure in the UK (and elsewhere) are difficult to capture in the kind of policy activity that points towards specific legislative or funding outcomes. Even attempts to synthesize the concerns of stakeholders across a live music ecology are subject to the exigencies – both ideological and practical – of the organization conducting the work. Regardless of the value of evidence-based policies, the ‘range of uses to which evidence is put and the frames (emphasis in original) within which it is deployed may shift according to the needs of a particular governmental or arms-length organisation’ (Van der Hoeven et al. 2021: 8). In the case of the campaign for the ‘Agent of Change’, and the parliamentary and legislative activity that it brought about, these ‘frames’ required an understanding of ‘live music infrastructure’ that was sufficiently diffuse to include respondents from across the nation’s geography and musical cultures that traversed material, micro-level aspects of the term (like wheelchair access) and broad ranging factors (like the cultural value of a network of grassroots venues). This is in contrast to the tight geographical focus evident in local authorities’ arena projects, with direct and significant spending implications which militate towards a materially bound framing of ‘infrastructure’. These variously loose and tight conceptions of infrastructure are not necessarily mutually exclusive over the long term, or across the overall run of music-related policy. They do, though, exist in a delicate equilibrium where specificity in one dimension (the urban regeneration of arena projects, for instance) can run up against anxieties elsewhere (such as the precarious fate of small operators attempting to navigate the changeable dynamics of a competitive industry at the same time as their civic and regulatory contexts). Musical stakeholders must make the case not just for their infrastructural needs but, at times, for their status as part of the infrastructure itself. For policymakers responding to this, striking the balance between usefully vague and necessarily precise definitions of the term is one of the key challenges.

Conclusion Live music is a feature of both national and local – also urban and rural – cultures. I have not attempted in this chapter to enumerate the extensive elements of the live music landscape, and the many facets of live music policy. Some of these differ from the

Live Music Infrastructure

broadly urban perspective taken here. Rural areas, for instance, have their own individual characteristics – and a tendency towards being more focused on individuals than ‘scenes’  – with live music ecologies that are more ‘improvised and temporary’ (Rogers and Whiting 2020: 456). Yet just as there is common ground across cities and towns around the world in terms of the challenges facing live music ecologies, so their rural counterparts encounter similar problems to one another, like broadband connectivity, the additional costs of long-distance travel, the constraints that this puts on tourism capacity, and lower levels of material infrastructure (McKerrell and Hornabrook 2021: 16). Festivals, similarly, are tightly wound into international touring circuits as a prominent feature of national cultural calendars, evidenced by media coverage of the likes of Glastonbury. They also, of course, pose a range of material and social questions about live music infrastructure, in effect constituting the construction of small, temporary towns with all the necessary facilities thereof even before one considers the musical requirements of the event.3 They are unsurprisingly subject to regulatory attention in light of this (Anderton 2019: 73), and political wrangling on occasion. Festivals are also not quite sui generis – there are differences between touring events, static greenfield sites, city-based festivals and any number of generic orientations from opera to metal. But I have chosen to focus on the bricks and mortar of urban live music venues because, unlike the more temporary aspects of rural live music and festival sites, they illustrate the way in which live music infrastructure is inextricable from its physical and socio-economic backdrop, and the resultant policy challenges that this poses. The diversity of venues within cities and towns is also an indicator of the definitional issues surrounding the nature of the ‘live music infrastructure’ in policy terms. In between the grassroots venues and arenas described above sit concert halls, opera houses and a host of dedicated spaces (small to large) operated independently and by transnational companies like Live Nation. The UK Live Music Census, for instance, identified 241 spaces regularly hosting live music in Glasgow, 34 per cent of them pubs, with 32 per cent being dedicated music venues of all sizes, and a further 7 per cent concert halls, theatres and opera houses (Webster et al. 2018: 86). Business models across the country are similarly varied, from privately run enterprises, through to charities to buildings owned by local councils yet operated by Live Nation (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014: 5). The interdependence, and tensions, across different components of the musical infrastructure are also most obviously salient in towns and cities. If some venues like the London’s Royal Albert Hall or Sydney’s Opera House enjoy hallowed status, they are nevertheless tied into the fortunes of the city and subject to local and national policy, funding and branding decisions. Just as there are multiple understandings of ‘culture’– as a way of life, and as the product of a set of, often disputed, activities – so there are different understandings of what constitutes ‘infrastructure’. On the one hand, there are the physical containers for live music activity, and even here the demarcation between publicly funded landmarks and those sites that blend into the urban milieu allows room for interpretation. There are also the services, systems and networks of soft infrastructure that feed and support these activities. And there is no definitive policy approach to meet the needs of these disparate participants. As demonstrated above, city branding and regeneration efforts can have questionable

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consequences for the wider live music ecology. The concerns of the grassroots, meanwhile, reveal the fault lines within government. Planning, licensing and culture departments have their own understandings of ‘infrastructure’, and different ideas about how to support it. This is not, though, a counsel to despair. One upshot of the late-twentieth and earlytwenty-first-century adoption of ‘culture’ as an economic engine, and the deployment of music, as venue infrastructure and for its narrative value, into inter-urban competition as part of the ‘Music Cities’ trends, is a stronger voice for live music practitioners. There is a burgeoning of sectoral bodies to inform and lobby policymakers through campaigns such as that for the Agent of Change in successive countries, and the Fair Go For Live Music and SLAM (Save Live Australian Music) initiatives in Melbourne. As well as the establishment of the influential Music Venue Trust, the last ten years have seen the formation of bodies like the Association of Independent Festivals (in the UK), Live DMA (a cross European network of venues and festivals) and Sound Diplomacy, which operates as an international consultancy with offices in London, Berlin and Barcelona. This can be a double-edged sword, of course, and like any lobby groups, these will guard their interests closely, and respond to evidence accordingly. Nevertheless, increased communication between sectoral bodies across borders, and a stronger presence in national policy forums domestically, may offset the possibility of farragos like the UK’s Licensing Act 2003, or security measures in Melbourne and Sydney curtailing live music provision. It is, of course, difficult to mitigate entirely the actions of governments that are hostile to cultural activity – as per Donald Trump’s attempts to eliminate federal arts funding – or at best indifferent to it, as Brexit has unfortunately revealed (see Chapter 20). But while policymakers may not be bound by the concerns of cultural practitioners in general, or live music stakeholders in particular, they are now harder to ignore. The demands of policymaking, and competing interests within the political ecology, may mean that local authorities and national governments will be unable to square the circle of arriving at a stable understanding of live music infrastructure and its needs. They may now, though, be more strongly impelled to consider not only Frith’s first question (2013a) in their deliberations – how can music serve the city or country – but also his second: ‘What is a good country, region or city for music?’

Notes 1

2

3

Scottish Enterprise is a non-departmental government body which, in the UK, is a public body that has a role in governmental operations but does not sit within a government department or ministry. This applied in England only. Contemporaneous campaigns, supported by the same music sector organizations such as the Music Venue Trust, took place in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland to promote legislation in their devolved assemblies. With an overall attendance of 200,000, more people went to Glastonbury in 2019 than the population of, for instance, Dundee, Durham, Newcastle upon Tyne or Aberdeen.

Part III National frameworks

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10 Audible, visible and experiential: Reflections on South Korean popular music policy Soojin Kim

In the face of the massive international popularity achieved by the South Korean K-pop group BTS, the South Korean government responded in notable ways. The first was through a promotional video clip for tourism to Seoul entitled ‘See You in Seoul’. In the clip, released on 11 September 2020 through the Visit Seoul website (Seoul Tourism Organization n.d.), BTS members tell the viewer that when travelling resumes after the Covid-19 pandemic is over, Seoul is the top destination to visit. The second was a post from South Korea’s president, Moon Jae-in, on his personal Twitter account, in Korean and in English, after BTS’s ‘Dynamite’ reached number one on the Billboard Hot 100 singles chart in September 2020. The president tweeted: ‘BTS has achieved its first No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 songs chart, writing a new chapter in K-pop history as the first Korean band to do so … It is truly amazing. It is a splendid feat that further raises pride in K-pop’ (Moon 2020). A few days later, President Moon invited the members of BTS to his official office and residence, the Blue House, to formally mark Youth Day. BTS thus attracts the attention of not just fans around the world but also the South Korean government. This was already evident in 2018 when the government awarded BTS the Order of Cultural Merit for the group’s services to K-pop and to Korean culture in general (Yonhap News 2018). This Order is awarded every year to recognize outstanding work in developing Korean culture and heightening national prestige through cultural and artistic activities in the fields of literature, dance, visual arts, television, film, theatre and music, including classical, traditional Korean and popular music (Awards and Decorations Act 2013; see Korean Law Legislation Research Institute (2020)). BTS was the first idol group to receive the Order. In 2011, Yi Su-man, the founder of SM Entertainment and a pioneering influence in K-pop’s global success, had also been awarded the Order, with many of SM’s K-pop idol groups and singers, such as BoA, Girls’ Generation, Super Junior and EXO, having achieved substantial international popularity. The government’s

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responses to the global success of K-pop groups are an indication of the extent to which it includes popular music in its framing of national prestige and pride. At the same time, it strategically leans on this success to strengthen the country’s visibility to promote tourism and enhance the national image. Lie (2015) and Lee (2019) understand the government’s responses to K-pop as forms of nationalism and nationalist acclamation. While I agree that these responses are driven by issues of national prestige, they raise a few questions: How have these responses provoked change in musical production and reception? How and why did the distinct areas of tourism, K-pop and governmental policy become interconnected? This chapter examines South Korea’s popular music policy, which is closely intertwined with tourism, the economy and national prestige. I propose a triangle of connectivity between these three elements, each supporting the other two. The close correlation of the three points to the concept of popular music as commodity. In South Korea, the notion of popular music as cultural commodity, a culture industry and as a force in economic development has been increasingly emphasized since it was introduced during Kim Youngsam’s regime (1993–8) (Jin 2016; Lee 2013; S. J. Kim 2020). It is interesting to note that in previous decades popular music was not seen as a major element of national culture to be presented as representative of South Korea; rather, it was ‘the music most marginalized by culture brokers of the Korean government’ (Jung 2011: 72). Instead, it was traditional or folk music that was seen as the most suitable music for expressing national identity and transmitting images and symbols of South Korea; samulnori or p’ungmul and their typical imagery became standard in tourist brochures and guides. This situation has now changed a lot. As hallyu (the Korean wave) swept Asian countries in the late 1990s, images of popular music stars or idol groups started to be displayed as a way of representing Korea. Accordingly, cultural policy began to include strategies to enhance and promote popular music. Particularly since Psy’s ‘Gangnam Style’ (2012) became a surprise global sensation, popular music has become one of the most important considerations in the shaping of cultural policy.1 The popularity of Korean popular music has also drawn scholarly attention to K-pop and its relation to cultural policy. Before the world’s fixation with hallyu began around the end of the 1990s, most scholarly works focused on chronological examinations of the history of Korean popular music or cultural policy relative to each president’s regime. With the tremendous interest in hallyu and K-pop, works on popular music and its relationship with cultural policy have been on the rise (Fuhr 2015; Jin 2016; Lee 2013). In addition to scholarly interest, governmental bodies also release annual white papers. For example, the Korea Creative Content Agency (KOCCA) and Korea Foundation for International Cultural Exchange (KOFICE), both affiliated with the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism (MCST), have produced a considerable number of reports and sourcebooks, including the annual Hallyu White Paper (KOFICE) and Music Industry White Paper (KOCCA). Studies on Korean popular music policy are generally approached from the idea of music as a commodity. Focusing on the content of K-pop–related policy and situating popular music in the domain of industry and economics, these studies rarely examine how and why the broader political and economic contexts have shaped popular music policy,

Reflections on South Korean Popular Music Policy

and how and why this policy has shaped the production and reception of popular music. Thus, this chapter aims to interrogate popular music policy from the point of view of the government’s political economy–oriented concept of music. South Korean popular music policy is not merely concerned with policy itself: it is also a reflection of how the government views popular music and manipulates it in making and enacting policy. Elsewhere I have explored how the South Korean government has dealt with popular music, shifting from controlling it to supporting it (S. Kim 2017). South Korean cultural policy has become indispensable for state-sponsored plans (Park 2010) and the state agenda (Lee 2019). Cultural policy, more specifically popular music policy, does not stand alone, separate from the government’s broader political aims and purposes. Policy encompasses the visions, master plans and schemes that a government strives to carry out; it is not just politics translated into practice but also an idea and concept that a government advocates and pursues. Cultural policy in South Korea is ‘intrinsically instrumental’ to the accomplishment of ‘ideological, political, pedagogic and economic roles’ (Lee 2019: 9). It is indeed the most important among the policies that the government develops (Kim 2020: 284). In this chapter, I approach the way Korean popular music is treated by the government as a means to achieve its visions and agendas. In the first section I contextualize Korean popular music in terms of the wide range of policy that applies to it in South Korea. I then turn to the role of popular music in the way tourism is promoted by the government. While scholarly attention to the development of South Korean tourism promotion has almost exclusively focused on the period since the start of hallyu, I consider this from the 1960s, in recognition of the government’s strategic use of tourism in the pursuit of its modernization project. I argue that the exploitation of K-pop’s global recognition for tourism promotion greatly reinforces and enhances the idea of music as cultural commodity. At the same time, K-pop as a commodity has become a powerful instrument for the positioning of South Korea in the wider world as a leader in popular culture. Elaborating on the idea that the government’s perception of Korean popular music has changed from something that must be controlled to something that can be strategically promoted, I show how the government has in fact intervened in and contributed to shaping the popular music realm. More importantly, I show that the linking of South Korean popular music policy to tourism promotion and technology indicates a shift in policy from being one-dimensionally centred on traditional or folk music and its associated visual imagery to being centred on popular music, technology, aurality and virtual experience. Looking through the triangle of connectivity of economic profit, tourism and national prestige, I suggest that Korean popular music policy has presented music as an economic unit and focused on what content to project to audiences outside Korea. It is noteworthy that while a few works (Joo 2016; Kim 2016) take a critical approach to the government’s response to K-pop’s success, most focus on acclaiming the achievements of K-pop. While the policy aims to expand recognition and awareness of Korean popular music, it does not show evidence of any critical reflection of ‘how’ to project Korean popular music. Analysing Korean popular music policy provides an opportunity to critically reconsider what popular music represents for the South Korean government.

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National prestige and the economy: An inseparable unit in popular music policy As noted by Kim et al. (2018), studies on South Korean cultural policy have tended to take a chronological approach and examine it mostly from a public administration perspective (Nam 2019; Park 2015). Su Jung Kim points out that the word ‘culture’ was first used in South Korean official discourse during Park Chung Hee’s regime (1963–79), when it was exploited as a means to achieve modernization through the development, promotion, growth and progress of the state (2020: 304). This modernization project affected the whole nation. As noted by Hye-Kyung Lee (2019: 38), modernization was a top-down process with the specific aim of creating an affluent nation by ‘reform[ing] the populace via culture so as to nurture obedient political subjects, “healthy” citizenry and a productive workforce’. An emphasis on national culture was considered important in the pursuit of modernization. Cultural policy first focused on traditional Korean music. South Korea’s Cultural Property Protection Law was promulgated in 1962. Its purpose was to preserve and protect cultural heritage. Since then, several traditional Korean music genres have been designated as Important Intangible Cultural Property. In addition to this law, the Culture and Arts Promotion Act was enacted in 1972 (Joongang Daily 1973). The Act aims to support various types of fine arts, including music, ranging from traditional music to classical/art music including composition, vocal, opera instrumental music. Various music festivals, such as the Seoul Music Festival and the Korea Music Festival, and composition competitions, like the Korea Composition Competition, were established and financially supported under the Act (Nam 2019). The support of popular music was not explicitly referred to in the Act. The Park administration embarked on its Five-Year Plan for the Revival of Culture and Arts from 1974 to 1978. The plan was to foster national heritage, promote the arts and develop popular culture. While the plan included strategies to promote various classical and popular music genres, these were dealt with in different ways. While there were schemes to promote new music composition and establish a national opera theatre company, in terms of popular music, the plan aimed for its purification and ensuring that popular songs did not promote what was judged to be a negative influence or to be immoral or unseemly. Thus, while cultural policy supported the development of traditional Korean music and classical art music in that period, at the same time its intent for popular music was to manipulate it (Joongang Daily 1973). That popular music was considered as an object to be monitored and supervised is plain in the government’s implementation of censorship. The Broadcasting Ethics Committee and Broadcasting and Popular Music Review Committee were established in 1962 and 1965, respectively. Both censored popular music works, with hundreds banned and prohibited for being influenced by Japanese enka or for their tragic or unhappy song texts (a singing style considered vulgar) or the lyricist or composer having defected to North Korea. The ban was partially lifted in 1987 and fully lifted in 1996.2 In addition, the government promulgated a Purification Plan for Performance Activities in 1975, with the purpose of promoting righteous living and a respectable social atmosphere. Any performances deemed

Reflections on South Korean Popular Music Policy

to work against the goal of building national strength and economic development were to be corrected and sanitized. All existing popular music was comprehensively re-examined, leading to works being banned and the associated recordings destroyed (‘Kŭmjigok chijŏng’ n.d.). Cultural policy established under Park’s regime continued to be enforced in this way for the next two regimes, those of Chun Du-hwan (1980–7) and Roh Tae-woo (1988–93). While national prestige has remained a preoccupation for subsequent governments, this has been supplemented by the introduction of the notion of the ‘culture industry’, which had come to be seen as a means of achieving participation in the global market. Kim Youngsam’s administration (1993–8) made the competitiveness of Korean culture in a globalizing world a priority, and the culture industry was exploited as a means of fortifying the nation’s economy (Hwang 2019). As part of its neoliberal economic programme, the government accelerated its efforts to support Korean popular culture’s success in the world market (Lee 2019; G. Kim 2019; S. J. Kim 2019; Lie 2015). The 1997 Global Financial Crisis in particular led to substantial change in the view of culture towards something to be exploited for profit (Kang 2015: 51). As articulated by Dal Young Jin (2016), the socioeconomic move towards neoliberalism has resulted in the attention, in terms of cultural policy, being shifted from promoting traditional and Western classical/art genres to the commodification and industrialization of culture, especially popular culture. The term ‘culture industry’ was officially acknowledged when the Ministry of Culture and Sports founded the Culture Industry Bureau in 1994, with the culture industry now becoming an important part of cultural policy (Shin 2013: 82). Since Kim’s government, every succeeding president – Kim Dae-jung, Roh Mu-hyun, Lee Myung-pak and Park Geun-hye – has promoted the culture industry as a means of boosting the economy. At the same time, they have all maintained the concept of culture as fundamental to national prestige and the national economy. Kim Young-sam’s administration initiated a new Five-Year Plan for Korean Cultural Development as well as the Culture Vision 2020 strategy, both of which emphasize a neoliberalized culture industry. Kim’s neoliberal agenda intensified under succeeding governments (Fuhr 2015: 133), and the globalization of the economy reinforced the culture industry and cultural products as commodities. Mun (2018: 113) notes that Kim Daejung (1998–2003), who succeeded Kim Young-sam, brought traditional culture, the fine arts and the industrial economy together and valued the culture industry as an important economic force. What is notable regarding Kim Dae-jung’s administration is that it was his government that first included the word hallyu in its cultural policy statement and established the Bureau of Cultural Content Promotion in 2001. This new agency signalled the change in cultural policy from a concern with ‘culture’ to a concern with ‘cultural content’, with the use of the latter term reinforcing the commodification of music. The next administration, that of Roh Mu-hyun (2003–9), introduced its Vision for Culture Industry Policy and Strategies for Culture Korea (C-Korea) 2010 as well as the Music Industry Promotion Act. As noted by G. Kim (2019), the regimes of Lee Myung-bak (2009–15) and Park Geunhye (2015–18) positioned the culture industry at the core of the country’s economic development. The ‘culture–economy nexus’ was enhanced during these two regimes

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(Lee 2019), with K-pop in particular treated as a major product for foreign export (Jin 2016). Lee’s administration allocated a budget to cultivate an overseas market for K-pop including North America and Europe, considering hallyu and K-pop as ‘the nation’s strategic, new economic growth engine’ (G. Kim 2019: 7; see also Fuhr 2015: 143). In this regard, the Lee regime strongly favoured a market-driven popular music policy, and his administration initiated the idea of a national brand, strengthening K-pop as an export item. As Melissa Aronczyk states, ‘The knowledge identified as vital to maintain the nation now comes not from national governments, not from historical or social legacies, and not from civic sources of leadership, but from branding and marketing experts’ (2013: 5). Lee considered K-pop as an ‘effective means of nation branding’ (Lee 2019: 126). Similar to Lee, his successor, Park Geun-hye, saw K-pop’s economic potential and embraced the concept of the creative industry. Park’s government organized a council to promote hallyu that included the entertainment companies SM, YG and JYP, the ‘big three’ in Korean popular music. Its strategies aimed to broaden the reach of the hallyu experience, such as to foreign tourists (Mun 2018: 130).

Marketing place through K-pop Korean drama was the subject of much enthusiasm from the early 2000s, and the government saw its profit-making potential, eventually extending this view to popular music. Previous studies highlight how the popularity of Korean drama and music outside Korea attracted foreign tourists and how this popularity was exploited through the exporting of cultural products. These studies tend to focus on the history of tourism starting from the late 1990s or early 2000s and pay little attention to tourism in the earlier periods of cultural policy. In addition, most of the works on tourism driven by hallyu’s success sees tourism as part of the culture industry. There is no doubt that tourism is a highly visible result of hallyu and K-pop’s success (Fuhr 2015; Lee 2019; G. Kim 2019; Nye and Kim 2013). What has shifted since the late 1990s is that the government has extended the scope of Korean culture to include popular culture and has accepted the concept of a culture industry. In this section I demonstrate that tourism structured around K-pop’s success has enhanced the concept of music as commodity. When the Park Chung Hee administration proclaimed its cultural policy, it was not only to enhance national identity and prestige but also to strengthen the economy and westernize the nation. His presidency connected tourism to the economy. Park announced the Tourism Promotion Act in 1966. A few historic sites, such as Gyeongju in the southeast part of the country, were developed and hotels built in order to boost the economy through tourism especially targeted to foreigners. The Walkerhill Hotel opened in Seoul in 1963 and launched an evening show, known as the Walkerhill or Hanabi Show, featuring various kinds of performances including magic, ice skating, popular music, traditional Korean dance and newly choreographed dance. The opening of the hotel and the premiering of new show programmes at the Walkerhill were reported through the governmental news source

Reflections on South Korean Popular Music Policy

Taehan Nyus (Korea News). This example illustrates how the government aggressively pursued tourism as an important strategy for boosting the economy (S. Kim 2017). What is interesting is that the popular music featured in the Walkerhill Show was rarely Korean popular music, but rather from the United States or Europe. For example, when the hotel was first opened and its first production was running, Louis Armstrong visited Korea and performed there. At that time Korean citizens were not allowed into the show unless accompanying foreigners (‘Yipchangryo muryŏ 780 wŏn’ 1963). From the following year (1964) Korean citizens were permitted, but as the productions mainly targeted foreign visitors, most of the audience remained US Army personnel and Japanese tourists. The hotel was taken over by Sunkyong in the 1970s. Sang Yeon Lee (2015) provides valuable information on the content of the shows staged at the hotel. According to the documentation he collected, before the 1980s the main repertoire was a combination of Korean folk music and dance and cabaret or burlesque numbers like Mulangluge and Lido (from Moulin Rouge and Lido). While most of the Korean repertoire programmed for the shows in the 1960s and 1970s was based in Korean folk genres, from the 1980s popular music numbers began to be performed in a limited way. It is important to note that the presentation of music for tourists was designed to display either Korean or Western culture. It is clear from hotel show repertoires that the traditional or folk genres were programmed to represent Korea. At the same time, popular music selections from the West were exploited to prove Korea’s ability to display and interpret imported repertoires from the West in sophisticated ways. There has been a big change in the way Korea is represented to tourists. As Korean drama achieved international fame, shooting locations were developed as must-see destinations for tourists, and special tour packages were created. For example, when the drama Winter Sonata gained popularity in Japan, a tour package was created to take Japanese tourists to one of the filming locations, Nam-I island (Hirata 2008; Nye and Kim 2013). Regarding Korean popular music, a number of cafés in Seoul displayed photographs of K-pop singers at the entrance. Inside, fans and tourists were provided with photo opportunities and the chance to enjoy one’s tea next to a K-pop singer’s photo, the next best thing to being with the singer. Around 2012, when Psy’s ‘Gangnam Style’ became a worldwide sensation, the government turned its attention to Korean popular music as a source of national prestige as well as profit. An artwork in the form of a stylized stage was set up in front of the Gangnam subway station in 2012, and a gigantic artwork representing two crossed wrists recalling the song’s distinctive dance movements was installed in front of COEX Mall in Gangnam District in 2017. The government has also been involved in other projects, such as the opening of government-sponsored K-pop hologram concert theatres, in the aim of attracting tourists. K-pop stars are indeed ‘state-official representations as cultural ambassadors’ (Fuhr 2015: 128) and ‘recruited as Korea’s “promoters”’ (Fedorenko 2017: 506). The Korea Tourism Organization (KTO), founded in 1962 as the International Tourism Organization and renamed in 1982, has explicitly incorporated K-pop into its promotional material, such as its Visit Korea campaign, which also gave its name to KTO’s website domain, english.visitkorea.or.kr. This website provides a wealth of information on accommodation,

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restaurants, transportation, attractions and other topics for international visitors in fourteen different languages, including Korean. Included among the attractions presented as ‘Hallyu Tourism’ are Hallyu K-Star Road and K-Style Hub. K-Star Road, located in the Gangnam District, is dotted with life-sized, bear-like ‘idol dolls’ representing various K-pop stars. The K-Style Hub complex has a variety of zones with a strong focus on experiences around K-pop. Another example in the KTO site’s Attractions section is the Travel Highlights button, which leads to a page entitled ‘Hallyu Stars’ Favorite Restaurants Uncovered’. What is interesting is that the KTO uses visuals of K-pop idols to advertise places. Youjeong Oh (2018) analyses how South Korea’s municipal government sells and markets place by exploiting the sense of intimacy K-pop fans desire with their idols. Oh (2018: 11) argues that ‘sites represented in or linked to popular culture have become fantasy places that audience-tourists aspire to visit, and such desires have actually been materialized through a boom in culture-driven tourism’. The link between K-pop and tourism is a natural extension of the idea of K-pop celebrities as commodities. Olga Fedorenko (2017: 506) points out that hallyu celebrities, as commodities, are ‘objects of prideful nationalist identification, Korea’s “best face” for the world, and facilitators of economic profits for Korean companies’. Even though K-pop stars may not be specifically connected to place through the music itself, the government draws on their fame and visual images as resources for its advertisements for tourist attractions, viewing this as an efficient way of capturing tourist attention. The strategy of linking tourism promotion to K-pop intensifies the relationship between the economy and popular music and strengthens the notion of music as commodity.

K-pop as virtual yet experiential The government, in its engagement with Korean popular music, has brought digital technology into the K-pop music scene. Since 2013, in a new approach to marketing K-pop, a number of hologram and other virtual format concerts have been produced collaboratively by government-sponsored agencies with major entertainment companies. For the entertainment companies, the adoption of these new technologies is an efficient means of making a profit, while for governments it helps boost competence in opening up a new era for South Korea as a leader in the global music industry. Such technologies offer a new way to draw the attention and interest of international K-pop fans by cultivating experiential tourism, as opposed to mere sightseeing, while maintaining tourism-sector profits. Governments eager to tap into K-pop’s global success began to embrace science and technology, especially information and communication technology (ICT), with the Ministry of Science, ICT and Future Planning (MSIP) established in 2013 under Park Geun-hye (renamed the Ministry of Science and ICT in 2017). After Park’s impeachment, many MSIP initiatives were scaled back, yet it is obvious that the digital technology–driven popular music scene flourished under MSIP’s partnership with major entertainment

Reflections on South Korean Popular Music Policy

companies. In addition to K-pop groups touring and performing in the United States, Europe and elsewhere, the South Korean government collaborated with the entertainment conglomerates SM and YG to produce hologram concerts and open concert halls or complexes making use of the latest digital technology to provide immersive experiences. YG opened its venue Klive in 2014 with the financial support of MSIP and KT (Korea Telecom), the latter of which is the largest shareholder in the government’s National Pension Service (Yonhap News 2014). Klive was a hologram concert hall approximately 1,650 square metres in size, located on the ninth and tenth floors of LOTTE FITIN, a fashion mall. It showcased performances by Psy, 2NE1 and Big Bang using high-pixel imaging, surround sound and AR to create the sensation of being at a live K-pop concert. Also exploiting holographic imagery is an AR elevator in which visitors can ride ‘with’ their favourite K-pop stars and a Star Photo Box where visitors can take photos ‘with’ the stars. SMTown COEX Artium opened one year after Klive, in January 2015. SM is one of the first entertainment companies to have fostered K-pop idol groups and singers through a systematic and intensive artist training programme. Its six-storey Artium complex featured cafés, souvenir shops and a hologram concert hall. MSIP and the National IT Industry Promotion Agency supported SM and its subsidiary, SM C&C, to establish the Artium. The theatre, sited on the fifth and sixth floors, featured hologram concerts for SM artists Girls’ Generation, Super Junior, SHINee and EXO as well as the musical School OZ. A few months later, another YG project, the theme park Play K-pop, was opened on Jeju island (Korean Government 2015). This island, an hour’s flight from Seoul, is a major tourist destination, especially for tourists from China, Japan and other Asian countries. The theme park, Play K-pop, twice the size of Klive, was also subsidized by MSIP. It is significant that the openings of Klive, SMTown COEX Artium and Play K-pop between 2014 and 2016, all of which were established with government support, were reported in the daily newspapers. For example, on 13 January 2015, one article reviewed the SMTown Theatre show in detail (Yi 2015). Increasing media attention reflects the extent to which the government emphasizes K-pop’s partnership with technology as a means of propelling the genre. This raises important questions: How does digital technology affect the way K-pop is received and enjoyed? And why are governments investing in the use of technology in the K-pop realm? Although not written from a popular music studies point of view, Susana Bautista’s Museums in the Digital Age (2014) critiques museums as an institutionally fixed means of displaying and exhibiting diverse cultures. She proposes ways that museums can avoid objectifying and ‘museumizing’ culture. Many works have looked at how technology has changed music cultures, especially in terms of ways of listening to and appreciating music (e.g. Katz 2010). Jin (2016) analyses how technology plays a crucial role in the creation, dissemination, production and consumption of Korean popular music. However, up until now there has been little scholarly attention to the effects of hologram concerts and the use of VR and AR on music cultures, or on how a government may strategically promote the use of specific technologies in the music industry as part of its economic and tourism strategies. In this sense, Suk-Young Kim’s K-Pop Live: Fans, Idols, and Multimedia Performance (2018) is a groundbreaking work. Based on extensive fieldwork, Kim provides insightful analysis,

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noting that ‘the use of technology in K-pop productions and consumption is not always subordinate to the instrumental aspect and can become its own autotelic performance – its ultimate intention’ (2018: 5). Further, digital technology has become a major component in the projection of national strength and that governmental support and major entertainment companies ‘collaborate under the banner of the “creative economy”’ (2018: 109). Kim points out that K-pop is not just a sonic event but a multimedia performance, an experience the audience can choose and navigate through. It starts from sonic events but extends its scope to visual, multidimensional and interactive performance experiences. The government’s support for hologram concerts and multidimensional and interactive performance experiences is also connected to its plan for increasing tourism, which includes bringing in K-pop fans as tourists. This is explicit in the sites chosen for Klive, SMTown COEX Artium and Play K-pop – all located in places commonly frequented by tourists. Klive was in Dongdaemun, a fashion mecca near the centre of Seoul, in a building surrounded by large fashion-related retail stores, malls, markets and complexes. SMTown COEX Artium was in Gangnam (of Psy’s ‘Gangnam Style’ fame), a district well known as a commercial centre, with COEX mall, home to movie theatres, shops, restaurants, bookstores and an aquarium. Play K-pop is in Jeju island, where the atmosphere is completely different from other parts of South Korea. Media reports about the openings of all three mentioned their aim of boosting tourism. For example, one of them said that Klive was set to become a new tourist attraction (Yonhap News 2014). An MSIP press release said that Play K-pop would become a new tourism resource and extend the popularity of hallyu (‘K-pop digital t’aema pak Jeju gaeso’ 2015). The government’s collaboration with technology and K-pop illuminates its ambition to make the nation a world leader in technology as well as an important component of the culture industry. As Lee (2012: 139) states, ‘Culture, coupled with technologies, became a major governmental object of public policy and state management.’ This use of technology is also expected to pave the way for a new era of popular music culture and generate profits. Embedded in the policy of bringing K-pop into technology, and technology into K-pop, is a drive to establish and boost national political and economic influence and prestige.

Conclusion Jocelyne Guilbault and Timothy Rommen (2019: 9) evoke the importance of political economy considerations in the study of sound, music, tourism and culture, emphasizing that the economy and culture are inevitably connected. Popular music policy in South Korea is an example of this. Governments have emphasized and pursued the connection between popular music and the economy, along with national prestige. This chapter examined popular music policy in South Korea over its sixty-year history within broader political and economic contexts. This history reflects how the South Korean government has manoeuvred and operationalized popular music according to governmental agendas. The purpose of popular music policy has been to enhance national

Reflections on South Korean Popular Music Policy

prestige while reaping economic profit. Tourism is also closely connected with popular music policy, and it is indeed an effective means of executing and performing this purpose. In this sense, I proposed a triangle of connectivity between national prestige, economy and tourism, all of which have become important components in the policy. Klive has now closed its doors, its website is no longer live and it no longer appears on LOTTE FITIN’s floor map. SMTown COEX Artium closed in 2020 with the end of its leasing contract, with SM planning to construct a new SMTown in Changwon, a city in southern South Korea an hour from Busan. Still, the triangle of connectivity I propose is retained. The national government continues to vigorously respond to K-pop’s world fame, attempting to exploit K-pop’s phenomenal international success by turning it into profit, particularly through tourism. Popular music policy has evolved over sixty years, with the last twenty years focused on promoting hallyu and the last ten on articulating K-pop in and through policy. Discourse on Korean popular music has mainly involved acclamation and praise since 2010, when K-pop became an important element in hallyu’s continued popularity. However, it is necessary to situate the government’s involvement with popular music in political and economic contexts, which are interwoven, and read and hear the dynamics of popular music within it. South Korean popular music policy highlights how popular music can be enlisted in the promotion of national prestige and the generation of profitable commodities. It has been consistent with the government’s drive for political and economic achievement. In this regard, popular music has been commodified as an object. Global success in the music industry has been taken as a sign of South Korea as a world leader. It has been a visible and audible instrument in the government’s pursuit of its purposes. Joo (2016) critiques the excessive attention and interest pervasive in Korean society on commercialized and commodified cultural products that hallyu’s success has generated. As she argues, it is time to look back and ask: What is music, popular music and popular music policy? And what should this policy seek to achieve? These questions resonate with Joo’s penetrating insights. Critical insights on popular music policy may pave the way for how popular music policy can overcome its focus on sales figures and commodification and turn its attention to music as culture, a better reflection of the dynamics of Korean society.

Notes 1

2

There are a large number of scholarly works that discuss what K-pop refers to, what it stands for and how it is distinct from Korean popular music. Although such analysis is meaningful and worthwhile, it is not my focus in this chapter. I use the two terms interchangeably. The National Archives of Korea website includes a list of all the songs banned and the reasons they were banned (National Archives of Korea 2020b).

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11 The Canadian conundrum: Robust policies catching up with the times Richard Sutherland

On 9 September 2020, the Canadian Minister for Heritage, Steven Guilbeault, met with Canada’s music industry community in a virtual town hall over Zoom. Both the contents of the meeting and its logistics had everything to do with the Covid-19 pandemic. The Minister, panellists and attendees met remotely from homes to discuss the federal government’s plans for the recovery of the music sector in the wake of the pandemic. A number of panellists representing the English and French sectors of Canada’s music industries laid out the enormous challenges for artists and businesses as a result of the pandemic and the resulting shutdown of large parts of the economy (Bliss 2020). The panellists also expressed gratitude for the assistance they had received so far, while stressing the need for it to continue for the foreseeable future. In a crisis such as this, the importance of government policy for Canada’s music industries is as great as it has ever been. Alongside the tens of billions spent on more general programmes such as the Canadian Emergency Relief Benefit and wage subsidies, the government has devoted $500 million to the cultural sector, including millions of dollars for music. However, there is a limit to what such emergency funding can do for the survival of some music industry sectors. The measures taken to curb the spread of the Covid-19 virus have devastated the live music industry across Canada, as in much of the rest of the world. A survey conducted over the summer ominously suggested that a majority of Canadians would wait at least six months after physical restrictions ended to attend live music events (Coletto 2020). Given the precarious finances of most Canadian musicians, the loss of revenue from live performance threatens their ability to continue their careers. On the face of it, the dire situation described by the participants during this meeting stands in contrast to the last few years of growth for the Canadian music market, as, along with much of the global industry, it recovers from the lost years of the early twenty-first century. Since 2015, sales revenue has risen every year, usually by double digit percentages, with most of this growth derived from streaming (Music Canada 2014a, 2017a, 2017b, 2018, 2019a). In 2018, wholesale revenue from all sales was just over $510 million, with about 68 per cent of this figure derived from streaming (Music Canada 2018). This marks

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a considerable turnaround from the beginning of the decade, when sales hit their lowest point at $418 million (Music Canada 2014c). Even so, sales revenues are substantially lower than they were in 2007 (Music Canada 2014b), and lower yet than at the end of the 1990s (still the high watermark for record sales in the country) (Canadian Independent Record Production Association 2015). Another measure of the health of Canada’s music industries, and one perhaps more indicative of the relative success of Canadian material, is the royalties collected by Canada’s performing rights society SOCAN. In 2018, revenues stood at $375 million, the highest ever (SOCAN 2019: 2). Performing rights revenue did not see the same declines as record sales; generally speaking, they have risen over the years. SOCAN also takes in an increasing amount of revenue collected by performing rights organizations in other countries. This amounted to $87.5 million in 2018, again the highest it has ever been (SOCAN 2019: 4). SOCAN’s numbers speak to the considerable success of Canadian artists in the global market. If prominence on the world stage is a measure of success, Canadian music has had a good decade. Canada often touts its status as one of the top sources of talent (see, for instance, Campbell 2017). It would seem that the country punches well above its weight in global sales; Drake and Justin Bieber are consistently listed among the top selling artists of the 2010s (see Chapter 7). Newer arrivals, such as the Weeknd or Cara Alessia, are also successful on a global scale. Government policies continue to aim for the protection of Canadian artists, increasingly within the outwardly directed frame of trade, rather than the protectionist mindset within which they emerged. There is more emphasis on Canada’s status as a source of talent, globally, where it ranks quite well in relation to its population and the size of its economy (perhaps an implicit acceptance of Canada’s participation in an international music market in which it cannot reasonably expect to predominate). Yet it is surprisingly easy to separate the fortunes of the Canadian music industries and many of the most prominent Canadian artists. None of the artists mentioned above are signed to Canadian labels or even to the Canadian branches of the multinationals. This is hardly a new state of affairs. Going back as far as Joni Mitchell or Neil Young, a high proportion of the most successful Canadian artists have developed their careers with little or no input from the Canadian music industries. Even with the high profile of these artists, Canadian music’s share of its domestic market is still relatively low compared to many countries. Canadian artists accounted for only 10 per cent of domestic streams in 2016 (Press 2018). This is to say that Canadians may be amongst some of the most successful global music acts, but Canada’s domestic industry still struggles, and is often overshadowed by that of its neighbour to the south. Anxiety over the potential loss of cultural sovereignty implied by this state of affairs has formed the underlying rationale for much of Canada’s cultural policy generally for nearly a century. During the Covid-19 crisis, Canada has in many ways been in a very strong position to assist the music industries, with established funding programmes and a long history of involvement in the sector, especially sound recording. Canada’s federal government was amongst the first to develop policies aimed at supporting a domestic recording industry and artists. Canadian content regulations for radio (introduced in 1971) and the government’s funding programmes managed by private foundations FACTOR (Foundation Assisting

The Canadian Conundrum

Canadian Talent on Recordings) and MusicAction since 1986 have been models for others to follow, even if Canada’s music industry policy is no longer in the vanguard. While it is difficult to credit Canada’s system of broadcast quotas and subsidy programmes for the success of its very top artists (such as global superstars Drake or Shawn Mendes), these policies play a major role in nurturing or maintaining a great many successful Canadian acts. Here, the support available through FACTOR and MusicAction or other components of the Canada Music Fund has played a role (FACTOR 2016). Over the years it has been easy to find the FACTOR or MusicAction logo on discs from a wide range of artists, including Lido Pimienta, Destroyer and Grimes. Nonetheless, Canada’s approach to supporting music industries requires a substantial overhaul. Beyond the immediate crisis precipitated by the pandemic and the shutdown, the panellists and attendees at the September 2020 town hall also referred to the need to address some of the long-standing issues that threaten the viability of Canadian music companies and the careers of their artists. Most of these issues were broadly similar to those in many other parts of the world. As elsewhere, the ongoing struggles of the live music industry, particularly the loss of venues, have been a concern (even before the Covid-19 pandemic). The recording sector’s revenues may be stabilizing, and even increasing, thanks to streaming, but most of the money still goes to the multinational record companies, and artists’ share of streaming remains too low to provide adequate income for the vast majority (Wall Communications Inc. 2019: 2.3, 3.4). Many in Canada’s recording industry are still trying to adjust to the changes of the past twenty years. Music listening increasingly takes place over a small number of global digital platforms with few or no ties to Canada in terms of employment or investment (House of Commons Canada 2019: 14). Even with the last few years of growth, revenues are still trying to recover to the levels they enjoyed at the beginning of the century. The policies that are meant to support the sector were not designed to address most of these issues. Even in their intended aims, these policies require revision to remain effective or even relevant in the longer term. Canada’s music industries have access to more government and government-mandated funding than ever before. FACTOR and MusicAction, in particular, are relatively well funded and provided a great deal of emergency relief during this crisis. But they are not positioned to address the live music industry, nor, ultimately, to make up for the low revenues that arise from streaming. Moreover, the other key source of their funding comes from contributions by commercial radio, mandated by Canada’s broadcast regulator, the Canadian Radio-Television and Telecommunications Commission (CRTC). Radio continues to be a widely used medium, and, at the very least, the performing rights and neighbouring rights revenue that accrues from airplay is significant – in 2019 over $50 million for performing rights and $15.1 million in neighbouring rights (SOCAN 2020: 3; RE:Sound 2020: 27). The quotas and programmes have an ongoing function, and few would suggest that they be dismantled. However, it is apparent that an ever greater portion of the music industries falls outside of their reach. FACTOR’s and MusicAction’s financial and administrative alignment with radio might prove a threat to revenues (and relevance) in the longer term. Certainly, it has led to an uneven regulatory playing field between conventional radio and its digital competitors.

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Unlike radio and satellite radio, digital platforms such as Spotify do not provide financial support to FACTOR and MusicAction. Similarly, regulations that require most radio stations to programme at least 35 per cent Canadian content do not apply to digital media, limiting the exposure Canadian music receives via these increasingly popular platforms. It is only in late 2020 that the Canadian government has moved to address this situation with a proposed overhaul of the Broadcasting Act (Government of Canada 2020b). For the most part, policy at the federal level has remained fixated on a particular configuration of music industries with the radio-recording nexus at its centre, which, arguably, reached its height in the 1970s and 1980s when most of these policies were formulated. There has been little innovation at the federal level for some time – eight years since the last substantial revision of the Copyright Act, and until this year, nearly twenty years since there was any major change in the programmes targeted at Canada’s music industries. Canada’s communications regulator, the Canadian Radio-Television and Telecommunications Commission (CRTC), has stuck to the same approach of Canadian content regulation on radio and contributions to talent development from broadcasters for even longer. As 2020 began, there were the first signs of the federal government beginning to move to amend the music industry policy regime to address the music industries as they exist in the present. I will return to a discussion of these policies and their prospects for renewal. Meanwhile, over the last decade most of the new sources of funding and developments in music industry policy have been taking place at the provincial and even municipal level.

The provinces: More funding, more industries Culture is not an exclusive jurisdiction of either federal or provincial governments in Canada, but for much of Canada’s history, the federal government took the lead in funding both the arts and (later) cultural industries. Funding for music industries at the provincial level, where it existed at all, was relatively small and usually limited to very specific projects. Amongst the provinces, only Quebec offered support at levels comparable to the federal government. The situation began to change in the 2000s, as more provinces began to introduce project-based funding, with Ontario initiating a tax credit for sound recording, which remained until 2015. In the 2010s, provincial funding for music industries increased significantly, especially in Canada’s largest provinces, expanding the range of the targeted sectors, and addressing the differing conditions in their jurisdictions. While Quebec’s funding is of long standing, the generously funded programmes in Ontario and British Columbia are a much more recent development, in part the result of concerted lobbying by music industries and their representatives, such as Music Canada and the Canadian Independent Music Association, as well as British Columbia’s provincial music industry association. By 2018–19, funding from these three provinces alone exceeded the federal government’s, with over $45 million available across various programmes.1

The Canadian Conundrum

Much of this funding parallels the FACTOR and MusicAction programmes, directed at supporting recording artists and music companies. However, there is a much greater emphasis on live music industries. BC Creates granted approximately $2.3 million for music festivals and in 2018–19 (Creative BC 2019a: 28). Ontario provided $2.8 million over the same period for similar events. Music promoters, presenters and booking agents shared in the Ontario’s Music Futures programme for emerging entrepreneurs (Ontario Creates 2019: 30–1). Quebec’s status as a predominantly francophone province within a majority anglophone country (and continent) has led to anxieties about maintaining its distinctiveness. Support for culture is, of course, fundamental to this aim. This is recognized at the federal level (Canada is officially French/English bilingual). MusicAction, which serves only Quebec, receives 40 per cent of the federal government’s funding (FACTOR receives the remaining 60 per cent to serve the rest of the country). The existence of MusicAction is also a recognition that Quebec’s music sector is, in many respects, almost entirely distinct from the rest of Canada. However, responsibility for maintaining Quebec’s cultural sovereignty lies mostly with its provincial government, which, not surprisingly, has long had its own programmes for cultural industries, including sound recording. The granting agency for cultural industries, the Société de développement des entreprises culturelles (SODEC), has several programmes supporting both sound recording and live events, totalling $16.6 million in 2018–19, including a new initiative to assist in the transition to a digital environment (SODEC 2019: 22). Quebec provides perhaps the most comprehensive array of funding to music industries, supporting not only sound recording, but also the production of live music and variety events with tax credits as well as grants. The new programmes in Ontario and British Columbia have less to do with cultural sovereignty than the economic benefits that music industries provide. Along with Quebec, these provinces have the longest track record of cultural industries funding, particularly in film and television production, which contribute more than the music industries to the local economies of the provinces.2 Government support for music industries in the provinces has also taken a different form from that for television and film, relying on direct subsidy rather than tax credits for the most part. This reflects the different structure of these industries, and the way in which they benefit local economies. The aim of much of the film and television policy in the provinces is to attract direct foreign investment in the form of ‘runaway’ productions. With production costs much lower in the recording industry, opportunities for such investment are not significant, at least since the days when the major labels were building manufacturing and distribution infrastructure in Canada (see Fauteux, Sutherland, Taylor 2020). Instead, recordings and compositions by local artists, controlled by locally based labels and publishers, generate local economic activity through sales or licensing in both domestic and export markets. Live music generates most of its income through attendance by locals or tourists, as well as through local artists touring abroad. It is these activities that the newer provincial programmes support through project grants directed at music companies, including, in Ontario’s case, the Canadian branches of the multinationals. Canada’s largest province, Ontario, has a disproportionately large share of its music industries, particularly sound recording, with 79 per cent in 2013 in the Greater

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Toronto area alone (Music Canada 2013: 19). Most of the established English Canadian independent labels are also based in Toronto or nearby, and the city is the hub for music publishers, several studios, artist managers and promoters. Crucially, all three of the Canadian branches of the multinational record companies are based in Toronto. The city is also the third largest market in North America for live music, behind New York and Los Angeles (Music Canada 2013: 20). The impact of these industries on Ontario’s economy has allowed them to make the case for government support, reflected in the size and design of the Ontario Music Fund, which launched in 2013 with $45 million over three years. The Fund is divided between four programmes: Music Company Development, Live Music, Music Futures and Music Industry Development (Ontario Creates 2019: 55–7). About half of the total funding is directed towards the more established record companies (including the Canadian branches of the multinationals), music publishers, managers and artist-entrepreneurs. Music Futures is aimed more at emerging entrepreneurs and is divided between these kinds of enterprises and live music presenters/promoters and booking agents. The Music Industry Development programme is directed to associations and includes funding for export initiatives, many of which are carried out by the Canadian Independent Music Association (CIMA) under its Music Export Canada division. The Ontario Music Fund was renewed in 2016 but has since been cut back to $7 million for 2019–20, as a new Conservative government tries to reduce the provincial government deficit (CBC 2019). With C$47.4 million in revenues, the recording and music publishing industries in British Columbia on Canada’s west coast are considerably smaller than those in Ontario and Quebec, but still larger than those of the rest of the provinces combined (Statistics Canada 2020). As with Ontario, much of this activity focuses on the province’s largest urban centre, Vancouver, which is home to a number of other prominent recording, promotion and management firms, such as Bruce Allen and Associates (managers of Bryan Adams and Michael Bublé) and Nettwerk (guiding the careers of Sarah McLauchlan and Coldplay, amongst others). Vancouver is also Canada’s third largest site for live music (Nordicity 2018: 10), a sector which contributed $815.8 million to the provincial economy (Nordicity 2018: 5). British Columbia introduced its own music fund in 2015 with $15 million over three years. This was replaced by Amplify BC, which increased the funding to $7.5 million for 2018–19 (Creative BC 2019a: 10) and was renewed for 2020–1. The other seven provinces and three territories have some programmes that are accessible to the music industries (some explicitly earmarked for them), but these are much smaller, generally owing to capacity and the relative size of their populations, as in Manitoba, Saskatchewan and the four Atlantic provinces (New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island). In the case of Alberta, despite its relatively large size, there has never been a dedicated funding programme, although some grants are available to individual artists. With all of these new funds, federal programmes are no longer the only government support available to music-related businesses. Rather than a ‘one-size-fits-all’ approach, provincial programmes present some variation on the way governments address industrial

The Canadian Conundrum

support, with a broader conception of music’s economic contributions, and a different sense of how it contributes to local communities rather than to national identity (with the exception of Quebec, where these two conceptions converge). They also reflect the different priorities of their governments. For instance, Manitoba and British Columbia both highlight collaboration with First Nations peoples as key elements of their programmes. This can create not only local variations but also disparities in opportunities. Throughout its existence FACTOR has made considerable efforts to ensure its programmes are equally accessible across the country (apart from Quebec, which is served by MusicAction). Despite this, the music industries are disproportionately located in Ontario, Quebec and British Columbia. Given that the new provincially funded programmes are, of course, available only to companies and artists located in these provinces, these programmes are likely to exacerbate this state of affairs.

Canada’s music cities: A different perspective The increasing involvement of provincial governments extends to municipal governments. This is by no means unique to Canada, nor are its urban centres especially advanced in this regard. Only Toronto has a fully developed policy, with the creation of a Music Industry Advisory Council and a Music Sector Development Office. Montreal achieves some of the same aims, although it has no office or council specifically dedicated to music. Vancouver, Ottawa and some other cities have also crafted strategies aimed at supporting and expanding their local music industries and have begun to implement programme funding for artists. As elsewhere, the rationale for municipal involvement in music industries is based on their economic contributions, both direct and indirect. A vibrant music scene is viewed as part of the package of culture and lifestyle factors necessary to make cities attractive destinations for workers and businesses, as well as for tourism (Music Canada 2015: 15). One of the most interesting aspects of municipal music policy is its distinctiveness, especially its focus on live music. Apart from Toronto and Montreal, most Canadian cities have only a relatively small recording sector, whereas many have reasonably large live music industries. Municipalities are, of course, also better positioned to intervene in the live music sector, where issues such as conflicting uses of shared urban space and loss of venues to redevelopment or competing uses are the main challenges (Sutherland 2013). The contrast extends to the use of policy instruments more relevant to live performance, such as zoning, business and liquor licences, transportation and infrastructure. Much of what is proposed at the municipal level can look less interventionist than laissez-faire – getting out of the way of live venues by eliminating red tape and restrictive regulations. In reality, these venues often require active assistance from government in the face of competition from other priorities, amongst them residential and commercial development. Much of this policy is in areas of promotion and consultation, aimed at creating favourable

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conditions for music industries rather than offering direct subsidy, although some cities have implemented small funding programmes. In Toronto, the advisory council provides guidance on the integration of music venues with other planning and zoning concerns. With the increasing density of residential development of cities such as Toronto, music must compete with residential uses that are not necessarily amenable to venues as neighbours, as well as with the more profitable uses to which some of these spaces can be put. This is as much of a concern for existing venues as for new ones, with the result that many of the deliberations in Toronto have involved intervention to preserve such historic venues as the Silver Dollar Room on Queen Street West. Music is part of the ‘intangible cultural heritage’ that forms cities’ histories (Ross 2020: 27–8), although the infrastructure in which this history is manifested is all too tangible. While ‘music cities’ campaigns (see Chapter 19) have gained a lot of attention in Canada and resulted in some administrative support at the municipal level, it may be too early to assess the substantive achievements of such initiatives. In the case of Toronto, as Ross’s study makes clear, for every venue such as the Silver Dollar Room that survives, several more disappear, generally without much awareness on the part of the municipal government, as was the case for the Silver Dollar’s next door neighbour, Comfort Zone (a dance club) or Guvernment, a large dance-oriented venue in the East Bayfront Precinct of the city (Ross 2020: 103–9, 135–59). Clearly, there is more work to do in assessing and incorporating the interests of music communities in the planning process. Beyond this, there are few identifiable metrics that would indicate how success in these policies would be measured. Also, as Ross’s work indicates, government involvement in preserving such spaces raises questions as to precisely which kinds of heritage are viewed as worth preserving. While the Silver Dollar’s associations with rock, roots music and blues, and with performances from figures such as Bob Dylan and Blue Rodeo are acknowledged, venues associated with other genres such as dance and hip-hop have not necessarily received as much attention or favour. One of the more curious aspects of the campaign for ‘music cities’ in Canada was the leading role played by recording industry trade association Music Canada, including The Next Big Bang (2013) and The Mastering of a Music City (2015) reports, supporting specific initiatives in cities and provinces across the country. As its affiliation with IFPI would suggest, Music Canada’s core membership consists of the Canadian branches of the three multinational record companies, the business models of which, in Canada at least, have little or nothing to do with local live music. It is unclear whether this is an attempt to shore up the organization’s claims to its new name Music Canada (previously the Canadian Recording Industry Association), to increase the profile and public valuing of music generally, or simply to territorialize on Canada a sector of the recording industry that has less and less connection with the local. Regardless, Music Canada’s efforts have been influential in helping to establish municipal and even provincial music industry programmes. However, the organization’s involvement in this area of policy has reduced as it returns to a focus on copyright, a central plank of members’ interests and business plans and the sole jurisdiction of the federal government.

The Canadian Conundrum

Poised for renewal: The Canada Music Fund Even with the increased engagement with the music industries at other levels of government, the federal government still maintains its fundamental importance in music industry policy, as a result of its jurisdiction over matters such as copyright and communication (including broadcasting and telecommunication), areas of particular importance to sound recording and music publishing. In addition, the Canada Music Fund (CMF) remains the single largest source of funding, particularly for sound recording. After a programme review in 2019, the government increased its funding by $10 million annually for two years and significantly streamlined its administration. The CMF now provides about $37 million under two components: Individual Initiatives (support for music companies and artists); and Collective Initiatives (for showcases, trade missions and awards shows). Both components are administered by FACTOR and MusicAction for English Canada and Quebec, respectively (Government of Canada 2020). The changes to the Canada Music Fund are meant to address the greatly altered situation of Canada’s music industries, with streaming representing the main source of revenue for the recording industry, along with the difficulties faced by artists in maintaining sufficient income from a variety of sources, including live performance. The revision was a long overdue acknowledgement that these programmes were developed at a time when sound recording was a manufacturing industry, reliant almost exclusively on radio for promoting its products to consumers, while radio accessed these products as programming at a very low cost. Touring was viewed as promotion for recordings, not least in providing local radio with a focus for airplay and attention. The efficacy of Canadian content regulations was implicitly based on the assumption that if commercial radio played Canadian recordings, this would create demand for them amongst the Canadian public – to ‘use one industry to transform another’ as Will Straw (1996: 105) puts it. The Sound Recording Development programme (SRDP) was an extension of this logic, providing subsidies to produce a sufficient number of Canadian recordings for radio to maintain Canadian content levels. The private organization chosen to administer much of this funding, the Foundation Assisting Canadian Talent on Recordings (FACTOR), created in 1982, was itself the result of cooperation between the radio broadcasters and the domestic recording industry. This was a means of directing the spending commitments on Canadian talent required of broadcasters as a condition of licence towards the production of sound recordings that might be suitable for airplay. When the SRDP was introduced, MusicAction was created to fulfil the same function for Quebec’s largely francophone recording industry. The links between radio and recordings inherent in Canadian content and the SRDP have, if anything, been strengthened rather than diminished over the years. None of the administrative changes to the Canada Music Fund directly address this state of affairs. Rather, the thinking seems to be that leaving administration of the fund to FACTOR and MusicAction will provide the necessary flexibility to better respond to these conditions (Government of Canada 2019: vi). One of the most innovative features

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of the original Sound Recording Development programme was that it made these two private foundations responsible for much of the administration of a government funded programme. Although, initially, the government controlled a portion of the funding, by 1994 all of the programme was administered by FACTOR and MusicAction. When the Canada Music Fund was launched in 2001, replacing the SRDP, it reduced FACTOR’s and MusicAction’s role, introducing seven different components, only two of which (New Musical Works and Collective Initiatives) were left in their control. Over nearly two decades, all of the other components have been eliminated, leaving the CMF, ironically enough, looking more or less exactly like the programme it replaced. It is also somewhat ironic that the replacement of the SRDP by the CMF was also intended to address the digitalization of the music industries. Again, there were no measures specifically aimed at addressing these issues. The most significant innovation in the Canada Music Fund was the Music Entrepreneur Component (MEC), intended to address the long-standing issue of lack of access to capital for the domestic recording sector, providing structural funding for well established Canadian music companies that could be used for more strategic initiatives. For instance, one of the first recipients of this funding, DKD Enterprises, used the money to add to its existing labels Aquarius Records and Tacca Musique, purchasing another independent label (Indica Records) and starting up yet another (Last Gang Records) (Brown n.d.). The Music Entrepreneur Component was also specifically excluded from FACTOR and MusicAction oversight, as the 2000 government review of the SRDP suggested that the nature of the funding available through the MEC would occasion conflicts of interest among the board members of FACTOR and MusicAction, who were the most likely recipients of such funding (Government of Canada 2000: 13). Determining who would administer this new fund delayed its implementation by a year, with the government’s film and television funder TeleFilm running the programme for its first few years, before the government took direct control of the component. In 2018 it administered $9.5 million in financing. The elimination of this programme in 2019 is the most visible change to the CMF. FACTOR and MusicAction are experimenting with a new programme, Envelope Funding, which appears to be designed to replicate some of its features, with, apparently, no issues arising from conflict of interest. FACTOR and MusicAction have faced competition over the years from other programmes, including the MEP and, even more so, Radio Starmaker/Fonds Radiostar. These foundations, again set up and overseen by the music and broadcasting industries, were targeted at Canadian artists deemed to be on the cusp of commercial success, just as the Music Entrepreneur programme was aimed at more established companies, provoking some internal debate as to what constituency FACTOR (and MusicAction) should be serving.3 Focusing on emerging artists in the very earliest stages of their careers might serve to distinguish FACTOR and MusicAction from the new programmes, especially in an environment where fewer artists are signed to recording contracts. However, this is still in tension, with the emphasis on commercial success (both as a goal, and as a qualification for some programmes) that remains a key principle for both organizations, even if sales of physical product and radio airplay are no longer the only or even primary means by which this is measured.

The Canadian Conundrum

This has led broadcasters to reconsider their commitment to the organization. In 2006, at the CRTC’s radio policy hearings, the Canadian Association of Broadcasters proposed directing a greater proportion of their mandated contributions to Radio Starmaker/Fonds Radiostar, as the more commercially groomed artists funded through these programmes are a better bet to provide recordings suitable for the extremely selective parameters of their programming requirements (Canadian Association of Broadcasters 2006: 96). In the event, the CRTC strengthened the mandate for the support of FACTOR and MusicAction (CRTC 2006: 118). At the same hearings, FACTOR faced criticism from segments of the independent community accusing them of not representing or assisting truly ‘grassroots’ music production (CRTC 2006: 66). In response, amongst other forces, FACTOR and MusicAction have adjusted some of their programmes. Artists (regardless of whether they are signed to a label) have much more access to funding. For instance, FACTOR introduced the Artist Development programme in 2013. The first tier of this programme (General Artist) offers very small but widely available grants, while the second and third tiers (with much higher levels of support) require applicants to demonstrate some degree of professionalism through a range of flexible benchmarks, such as releases, sales, downloads or performances played or booked. However, support for live music remains contingent on promoting recordings (as FACTOR’s name would suggest) and there are no programmes for concert promoters or venues. These internal changes may illustrate some of the flexibility to which the CMF evaluation report refers. However, none of this, much less the CMF programme revision, addresses the continued reliance of both FACTOR and MusicAction on contributions from private broadcasters, which have always formed a significant part of their revenue. Radio broadcasters, including satellite radio provider Sirius-XM, make these contributions to Canadian Content Development as a part of their condition of licence, with the amounts of their commitments determined at the time of granting a new licence or renewal, and via a portion of the sale of radio stations. Broadcasters’ contributions to funding the music sector increased after 2000, thanks to a 1998 decision by the CRTC to require that 6 per cent of the purchase price in transfers of ownership within the commercial radio sector be designated to assisting Canadian Talent Development (CRTC 1999: 72). This involves redistribution of 2 per cent to either FACTOR or MusicAction; 1 per cent to any eligible Canadian Talent Development initiative; and 3 per cent to one of two new organizations established at the behest of the CRTC, Radio Starmaker or Fonds Radiostar, serving English Canada and Quebec. As a result, broadcaster contributions grew at a much faster rate than government funding. In 2019 broadcasters contributed $13.06 million to Radio Starmaker/Fonds Radiostar (Fonds Radiostar 2019: 4; Radio Starmaker 2019). In 2019–20, MusicAction received $4.95 million in broadcaster contributions (MusicAction 2020), and FACTOR received C$16.3 million (FACTOR 2020a: 12), $1.8 million more than it received from the federal government, even after the increase in CMF funding. Radio broadcasting is far from a dead industry, but it is declining slowly in terms of listenership and revenues while digital streaming platforms are growing rapidly in both. These platforms make no contributions to Canadian Content Development, currently exempted from such regulation. Until this changes, music industry programmes will lack

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any close connection with the increasingly dominant sites for music consumption. As of September 2020, the government has indicated that it is, indeed, envisioning such a change through revision of Canada’s Broadcasting Act, last updated in 1991.

Taking on the digital giants: Sovereignty in cyberspace Web giants are taking Canadians’ money while imposing their own priorities. Things must change, and will change. The government will act to ensure their revenue is shared more fairly with our creators and media, and will also require them to contribute to the creation, production, and distribution of our stories, on screen, in lyrics, in music and in writing. (Government of Canada 2020: 15)

The Liberal government’s Speech from the Throne on 23 September 2020 signalled that the federal government is reassessing its approach to the regulation of internet content. In contrast to the vigorous interventions in broadcasting developed over the 1960s and 1970s around Canadian- and French-language content, the government response as the internet became publicly available and more widespread in the last half of the 1990s was to adopt a ‘hands-off ’ policy. At that time, a greater emphasis was placed on removing barriers to access and commercial development in the new medium. The title of the body set up to examine the internet, the Information Highway Advisory Council (with the somewhat unfortunate acronym IHAC) indicates the degree to which the internet was already being positioned as commercial infrastructure, equivalent to roads or railways. Towards the end of the decade, the CRTC moved to determine how it would treat the provision of broadcasting content over the internet. The CRTC determined that, under the Broadcasting Act, such services were, indeed, broadcasting and that it did have the right to regulate them (CRTC 1999: 46). However, the CRTC also regarded regulation as unnecessary, pointing to a reasonable amount of Canadian content available on the internet (CRTC 1999: 71), posing no particular threat to conventional broadcasting (CRTC 1999: 104). Regulation was to occur within the Telecommunications Act, which excludes questions of content, leading to the CRTC issuing an exemption order for internet-based broadcasters, which has been renewed several times. The reasoning behind the initial decision may have been sound, but over time one of the effects has been to render the CRTC a bystander as online broadcasting has become firmly established and clearly competitive with conventional broadcasting. The unsustainability of the differing regimes for broadcast and digital media has been explored more prominently regarding television than radio, with the CRTC’s review of television policy in 2013–14. A picture emerged of a broadcasting sector labouring under Canadian content regulations and mandatory contributions to content development as its advertising and subscription revenues declined. Meanwhile digital platforms such as Netflix were seeing marked growth, but without any of the same obligations, or virtually

The Canadian Conundrum

any Canadian employees or requirement to pay sales tax. Netflix’s public refusal to share any of its revenue or subscription data with the CRTC became emblematic of the lack of accountability of these kinds of services. Under pressure from the federal government, Netflix did agree in 2017 to undertake $500 million worth of production in Canada over the next five years (CBC 2017). However, the situation made clear the gap between Canada’s regulatory regime for communications and the practices of a growing number of Canadians. There have been no similar confrontations with music streaming platforms; Canadian content policies risk becoming increasingly irrelevant to the ongoing business practices of the music industries in Canada. While radio still has a larger audience than streaming services, this audience is slowly declining, along with revenue, as streaming is achieving considerable growth with none of the same regulatory requirements. The result is an uneven playing field, and a business model that provides few benefits to Canada’s economy or its culture. In 2018, towards the end of its first mandate, the Liberal government established a committee to examine how and to what extent broadcasting and telecommunications laws should be updated. The Broadcasting and Telecommunications Legislative Review Committee (BTLRC) issued its final report early in 2020, calling for a major overhaul of the CRTC and its regulatory approach for internet-based media (Broadcasting and Telecommunications Legislative Review Committee 2020). Canada is by no means a leader in this regard. Other jurisdictions, including Australia and the European Union, have already proposed or adopted similar measures requiring more local spending and promotion of local talent from internet media platforms. In fact, the measures undertaken elsewhere have provided a useful precedent for Canada’s government, allowing it to introduce policies that are likely to be vigorously opposed by these platforms, and perhaps by the United States, where many of them are based. As of September 2020, the federal government has announced its intention to revamp the Broadcasting Act in the Speech from the Throne. Presumably, this legislation would provide the CRTC with the mandate to force such services to participate in the support of Canadian media content. However, many questions remain. How, or to what extent, would quotas be applied? The CRTC mantra of ‘discoverability’ does not guarantee audiences will consume Canadian content, just that they can find it. It is also unclear what level of spending commitments would be required. While FACTOR and MusicAction would perhaps be the CRTC’s first choice as vehicles for spending on music content, they do not currently have any connection with online platforms equivalent to their long-standing relationship with radio. Even if they complied with regulation requiring financial support of Canadian music, would online platforms wish to set up a new fund or would they demand some governance role in FACTOR, alongside broadcasters? None of this is even remotely clear at the time of writing, nor when the legislation will pass. The current minority government situation means that there is a strong chance there will be an election before the legislation makes its way through Parliament. This would require starting over, delaying the process by at least several months, if not longer.

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Copyright reform: A growing to-do list The current situation with the Broadcasting Act is reminiscent of the period from 2004 to 2011, when three successive attempts to reform the Copyright Act under minority governments died on the order paper when elections were called. It was only in 2012, after a year of a majority government, that the Copyright Modernization Act finally passed, clearing the way for Canada’s ratification of the WIPO Copyright Treaty and the WIPO Performances and Phonograms Treaty in 2014 (WIPO 2014a, 2014b). Prior to the passage of this revision of the Act, the status of music copyright on the internet was ambiguous. It was unclear whether unauthorized uploading and downloading were actually illegal, and there was certainly no enforcement mechanism. Much of the action in Canadian copyright policy was in the courts, as various parties tried to assess how copyright might actually apply in the new digital environment. In 2004–5 the Canadian Recording Industry Association (CRIA), inspired by the tactics of its American counterpart the Recording Industry Association of America, sought to sue a number of individuals for unauthorized filesharing. The suit foundered on the refusal of a number of Internet Service Providers to disclose the actual identities behind the IP addresses that the CRIA had targeted (Grant 2020: 644). In the Federal Court, Justice Konrad von Finckenstein dismissed the appeal, likening filesharing to using a photocopier (Thompson 2005: FP1). Another important decision in 2004 – SOCAN’s attempt to make Internet Service Providers subject to a tariff for their users’ use of music – brought mixed results. Turned down initially by the Copyright Board, SOCAN pursued appeals all the way to the Supreme Court, which upheld the Copyright Board’s decision that Internet Service Providers were merely intermediaries and not responsible for the content communicated over their services. The ruling did, however, provide an important legal precedent with implications for Canadian communication policy. The Supreme Court ruled that the Copyright Act applied to content transmitted over the internet to Canada, regardless of whether it originated in the country (Grant 2020: 632), establishing Canadian sovereignty in this regard. The Copyright Modernization Act clearly enunciated the rights of sound recording copyright holders on the internet, granting them sole rights to make a sound recording available to the public over telecommunications, where a member of the public would be able to have access to the recording at a place and time of their choosing. This would cover not only filesharing but also streaming. The Act also prescribed penalties for the violation of these rights by individuals in the form of fines of between $100 and $5000, different from violations for commercial purposes (Stastna 2011). Shortly after passage of the Act, the Supreme Court ruled that while downloads could not be contemplated as public communications, streams could. This effectively decided whether an internet music service would be paying a mechanical right or a performing right for musical works (Grant 2020: 726–7). This decision, along with the legislation, helped to finally establish many of the legal ground rules for the way the online market for music would operate, paving the way for services such as Spotify to enter the Canadian market.

The Canadian Conundrum

Several copyright issues remain priorities for music industries and creators, articulated most recently at hearings by the Parliamentary Standing Committee on Canadian Heritage in late 2018, assessing the compensation models for artists and creative industries in an increasingly online environment. Most of the submissions from the music industries, within an ad hoc Canadian Music Policy Coalition, focused on copyright, bringing a relatively consistent shopping list of recommendations aimed at eliminating various exceptions and exemptions in the Copyright Act, enhancing the scope of copyright in sound recordings and widening its applicability. This included an extension of the copyright term for authors to life plus 70 years and to close loopholes in Canada’s Fair Dealing provisions (equivalent to the American concept of Fair Use) that allowed some exemptions from copyright in areas such as education, parody or satire (CIMA 2018: 6, 17). Other recommendations were procedural, requesting substantial reforms to the Copyright Board and its procedures, in order to streamline the process of filing and approving tariffs (CIMA 2018: 9–14). Some of the demands more specifically pertaining to music concerned perceived gaps in Canada’s Neighbouring Rights regime. When the Copyright Act was revised in 1997 to reintroduce neighbouring rights (they had been removed from the Act in 1971), the definition of sound recordings excluded soundtracks in films, and more significantly, television. A number of briefs supported extending the definition to include soundtrack music. Given that one of the largest sources of revenue for performing rights society SOCAN is television, this change could mean a considerable increase in revenue flowing to recording artists and companies represented by Neighbouring Rights collective RE:Sound, as much as $45 million annually (CIMA 2018: 5). The 1997 Act also exempted commercial radio stations from paying Neighbouring Rights tariffs on revenues under $1.25 million, another provision the music industries would like to see removed. The Canadian Music Policy Coalition also wanted to expand the private copying regime which legalized ‘home taping’ in exchange for a tariff on blank recordable media (another innovation of the 1997 revision of copyright) to include devices such as smartphones. The 2000s had seen a protracted legal battle between the Canadian Private Copying Collective (CPCC) and various parties, including Apple Canada, over whether this could be extended to devices such as iPods. Two Federal Court decisions ruled against this, and the Conservative government of the day set itself against an ‘iPod tax’. Yet the enormous decline in the sales of recordable media such as CDR in favour of devices such as smartphones and hard drives might leave nothing for the CPCC to collect (CIMA 2018: 14–16). Music Canada, which has increasingly taken its own distinct path on copyright since the 2000s, filed a brief emphasizing the need to close the so-called ‘value gap’, again in line with the International Federation of Phonographic Industries. Their brief placed particular emphasis on cracking down on ‘safe harbours’ for piracy through Internet Service Providers. Significantly, it did not include reforming the private copying regime, which it has opposed in principle since the 2000s (Music Canada 2017c). The testimony from the various industry groups frequently invoked musicians’ and composers’ need to earn at least a reasonable living from their works. Nonetheless, it was also clear that the record companies and music publishers that owned or controlled copyright would be the biggest beneficiaries of the changes proposed, and that for the

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most part, such measures would increase the income of most individual artists only incrementally (Cultural Capital Project 2018). One of the more interesting briefs was filed by rocker Bryan Adams, proposing the reversion of assigned copyright to creators after twenty-five years (Adams 2018), a recommendation not proposed by any of the industry groups. While Adams clearly has more to gain from such measures than most artists, his proposal did serve to highlight the distinction between the interests of creators and creative industries. The committee’s report, Shifting Paradigms (2019), recommended almost all of the changes sought by music industry representatives, as well as Adams’s proposal. Clearly any weighing up of interests within the sector has been deferred for now. The report required no response from the government, and none was forthcoming; while it has hinted that it will move on copyright reform at some point, it does not appear to be a priority.

Conclusion: Beyond the music industries By most standards, Canada’s music sector enjoys robust support from all levels of government. After many years of relative stasis, the federal government appears to be finally making an effort to recognize how fundamentally the business of music has changed. There remain some major omissions, particularly for the live music industry, but provincial (and to some extent municipal) governments are helping to address some of these gaps. But the scope of what music industry policy entails is expanding beyond its traditional concerns. This is hinted at in the framework provided by the Department of Canadian Heritage for the town hall meeting discussed in the introduction (CIMA 2020). This framework identified four pillars that should guide measures to help the sector recover from the challenge presented by the pandemic. 1. Foster the sustainability of the arts and culture ecosystem by ensuring more stable sources of income for organizations and better remuneration for artists, creators and cultural workers; 2. Increase demand for Canadian art, productions and cultural products; 3. Increase the number of people from under-represented and equity-seeking groups who can earn a living through the creation and production of art and culture, including in leadership and leadership positions; 4. Reduce the ecological footprint of arts, culture and heritage (CIMA 2020). The first two pillars are more or less consistent with long-standing objectives of existing policy, addressed by measures such as the Canada Music Fund, copyright legislation and Canadian content regulations. Here they are rendered in fairly general terms that highlight the artistic and cultural side of the cultural industries. The latter two pillars, however, are more a reflection of the wider priorities of the current Liberal government, priorities that go well beyond the music industries. While, on the face of it, these developments may seem out of the mainstream of policy for the music industries, the fundamental rationales for most of Canada’s policy in the sector also arise, ultimately, from larger contexts. The

The Canadian Conundrum

pending reform of the Broadcasting Act is in response not primarily to music industry concerns as it is to those of the broadcast and media sectors. The changes in the music industries over the past two decades (and the requirement for policy changes to address them) are a result of changes in practices in the technology and telecommunications sector. Even the Canadian content regulations and their attendant programmes are not simply about the music industries or music, but Canadian sovereignty. They are part of a larger set of regulations that existed for at least a decade prior to being applied to music (Edwardson 2008). Canada’s involvement in cultural diversity is less about asserting its own distinctiveness than it is about embracing a more diffuse and multiple notion of ‘Canadian-ness’ that does not insist on a particular identity. This diversity is, to a limited extent at least, inherent in the notion of two founding nations, English and French, which remains a fundamental element of Canada, constitutionally and culturally; it continues to be central to the substance and structure of most cultural policy. There is an ongoing effort to elaborate Canadian nationalism beyond this, such that multiculturalism (an official policy since the 1970s) becomes an integral aspect of cultural policy. Canadian cultural identity, although frequently vigorously asserted, is in many respects ill-defined. If these new initiatives around diversity and inclusion do not clearly demarcate a unique Canadian identity, they do at least establish some of the values that might help do this, extending them into a wide array of policies, cultural and otherwise. Diversity has been slow to make it into music industry policy in a meaningful way. In the wake of Canada’s leading role in the development and subsequent ratification of the UN Convention on Cultural Diversity in 2005, the CRTC voiced a desire to see more diversity on commercial radio (CRTC 2006: 150). Filtered through its commercial imperatives and given the relatively ‘light touch’ regulation of the CRTC, this gained little traction. At about this time, FACTOR introduced a tagline on its Annual Reports, stressing its support of diversity and emerging artists. Yet apart from some metrics showing allocations of grants by genre, there was little concrete action. The tagline disappeared in 2012 and the metrics the following year. More recently FACTOR has again voiced its support for diversity and reintroduced some metrics that highlight cultural diversity, along with greater consultation with marginalized communities (FACTOR 2020a: 6). However, much remains to be done. Environmental sustainability has become a major feature of Canadian politics, an issue that has created major political cleavage both ideologically and regionally. However, unlike diversity, it has little or no history in cultural policy. While its inclusion as one of the four pillars for determining future policies for the music industries suggests that this will change, it remains unclear how this will work. While certain practices, such as touring, may be especially problematic for ecological sustainability, it is less certain how one would approach this for the circulation of recordings – assuming the reduction in consumption of resources. However, as Kyle Devine’s recent work suggests, assessing the ecological footprint of digital networks in comparison to physical distribution is far from straightforward (Devine 2019). If the first pillar for the national town hall was finding ways to provide Canadian musicians with a more stable income, then copyright reform, mandated contributions from

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streaming platforms and targeted programmes such as FACTOR and MusicAction may not, ultimately, be enough. A 2013 report commissioned by the Canadian Independent Music Association found that individual Canadian musicians, on average, earn about $7,000 per year, not even within hailing distance of the poverty line (CIMA 2013). There is little reason to believe that circumstances have improved since. Some of the suggestions from the attendees at the virtual town hall go well beyond the usual ambit of music industry policy, such as a universal guaranteed basic income. The 2018 Parliamentary Committee hearings also heard similar concerns from some witnesses. As in so many areas, the call for such measures has intensified as a result of the economic crisis occasioned by the pandemic, which has exposed pre-existing shortcomings in countless areas of government policy in almost every part of the world. A guaranteed basic income may not be, strictly speaking, music industry policy. It would certainly represent a fundamental realignment of priorities and instruments not just in that sector, but for every area of policy: another reminder that music industry policy is usually driven by larger contexts beyond itself.

Notes 1 2

3

This does not include Quebec’s funding for music and variety (e.g. Cirque du Soleil) events, which include tax credits worth nearly $14 million in 2018–19. Film and television production in Ontario totalled $2.16 billion in 2019 (ACTRA 2020). In British Columbia it was $3.2 billion in 2918–2019 (Creative BC 2019b). In comparison, in 2017 (the last year for which such figures are currently available), the revenue for music industry activities was $497 million in Ontario and $47 million in British Columbia (Statistics Canada 2020). In October 2020, a controversy erupted over a Comprehensive Music Company grant provided to Grimes’s Canadian record company Crystal Math. A number of media sources and members of the independent music community assumed that the grant was for Grimes and questioned why a globally successful artist (and partner Elon Musk, of one of the richest men in the world) should be receiving government support (Gurney 2020). FACTOR moved to clarify the situation with a release pointing out that the grant was not to Grimes but to Crystal Math, as well as noting that, in any case, the personal living arrangements of recipients was not a consideration in awarding grants (FACTOR 2020b). If nothing else, this episode reveals the scrutiny under which FACTOR and MusicAction operate, as well as the balance they must maintain between funding artists and companies with commercial potential and ensuring that this support is going to those who need it.

12 The new Great Leap Forward of China: National and local music policy in Chengdu Qian Wang

Cultural policy is a global issue; the context of sociopolitical and economic meanings, values and traditions is historicized in the principles and practices of different countries; and China is updating policies for reasons of a new image and power (Durrer, Miller and O’Brien 2018). Mao Zedong’s Yanan Talk on how literature and art should serve the people, the army and the revolution set the tone of Chinese cultural policy in 1942. President Xi Jinping’s talks on the interrelationship between the prosperity of Chinese culture and the great rejuvenation of the Chinese nation have updated cultural policies since 2014, which firmly call for a consensus of opinion on culture, nation and politics. The ideologies of Chairman Mao and President Xi display how politics interact with the production, circulation and consumption of culture, but are also driven by the demand for economic growth. The creative industries and industrial parks have mushroomed across China, which inevitably generate competition between different provinces and cities for the sake of the economy and officials’ political careers. The numbers of music industry parks, music festivals, music towns, music streets and music halls were part of the style of the Great Leap Forward dating back to the 1950s; however, these forms of music/economic activity have created a giddy illusion of cultural and economic prosperity in recent years. Based on one year’s fieldwork in Chengdu, this chapter will draw on information and opinions from interviewees to discuss how music policies vary from the national level to the local level within the administrative system and influence cultural practices.1 The importance and value of music are increasing due to its textual flexibility of being recreated and reproduced in the formation of convergence culture, and popular music has become one of the most ‘sellable’ elements for the design of cultural space, city images and trans-industrial business in many cities. National and local policies are made to guide the development of the music industries at different levels, but how the industries and musicians, nationally and locally, benefit from those policies is unclear. For example,

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there is no official judgement on whether the twelve national music industry parks (such as China Music Valley, with five parks located in Beijing, one in Shanghai, two in Guangzhou, two in Shenzhen and two in Chengdu) are the success of real estate projects or the failure of musical creativity. Keane (2013) believes that most of these creative industry sites are underperforming to very limited artistic and cultural effect. Wang and de Kloet (2016) point out that while the music industries, especially related privately owned companies, now work more closely with the government, changeable policies still restrict the production of music, the progress of the music industry and the formation of music culture. Instead of focusing on a specific issue of music policy in China, such as copyright (John et al. 2015), this chapter will examine a number of texts related to national and local music policies in the city of Chengdu, to analyse the extent of consensus and variance developed between them, and to discuss what impact they might have generated on the progress of music and culture. McGuigan (2004: 5) identifies three general discourses of cultural policy – state, market and civil/communicative – which are associated with the nation-state historically, social identity aesthetically and communicative interrelationships of discourse globally. Various forms of culture and artworks are employed to produce the sense of cultural citizenship and affective belonging in countries and regions. The political value of music in early China (Brindley 2012) and in modern China (Kraus 2004) shows similar aspects, such as order, rule and authority, where music could not escape from being utilized as a revolutionary weapon during the cultural revolution (Clark, Pang, and Tsai 2016). The progress of technology, such as communication technologies and mobile networks, has necessitated updating music policies for the new infrastructure of converged industries and the new model of music consumption. The government alters music policies to keep up with these changes, and leaders’ ideologies, economic demand, local competitiveness and administrative flattery are key factors influencing the making and practice of music policies in the political, social and cultural system of China.

Music policy as leaders’ ideologies Regardless of political systems and social environments in China or elsewhere, policy always reflects policymakers’ ideologies and will. In the context of politics in a leader-centred system, what the Chinese leaders believe in politics and culture has left their own mark on related policies, which function as political, economic, social and cultural mechanisms to propagandize, communicate, confine and capitalize different forms of cultures in order to consolidate power. Chan (2001) analyses the improvisation and spontaneity of policymaking in a Mao-dominated system, which exemplifies the positive and negative impacts of leaders’ personal charisma. Baihuaqifang (‘letting a hundred flowers blossom’) is the most famous policy conceptualized by Chairman Mao to address the diversity and democracy of culture in 1956, which offered the possibility of producing some classics, such as Laoshe’s drama Chaguan (‘Teahouse’) and Yangmo’s novel Qingchun zhige (‘Song of Youth’). The Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution initiated by Chairman

National and Local Music Policy in Chengdu

Mao, however, did profound damage upon society, economy and culture. For example, the dominance of politicized Yangbanxi (Model Peking Opera) advocated by Jiang Qing – Mao’s wife – and the disappearance of other forms of culture during those chaotic years symbolized the prevailing emphasis upon high culture. As an important gesture of political heritage, every leader’s ideologies on culture are compulsorily referred to show the solidarity of party politics in related speeches and documents. When President Xi delivered his speech at the symposium on literature and art on 14 October 2014, for instance, he stressed the continuity of political ideologies of all former leaders on literature and art: Essentially speaking, socialist literature and art is the literature and art of the people. Comrade Mao Zedong pointed out in his Yanan Talk: ‘why are the problems about human beings the problems of fundamental and principle?’ Comrade Deng Xiaoping said that ‘our literature and art belong to the people’ and ‘the people are the mother of literary and art workers’. Comrade Jiang Zemin required literary and art workers to ‘create art in the creation of people’s history, and develop art in the success of people’s development’. Comrade Hu Jintao emphasized that ‘only if [literary and art workers] consider the people at the highest position in mind, always stay with the people, and insist that the people are the centre of creative guidance, the tree of art can then be evergreen’. (Xi 2015: 2)2

After reciting predecessors’ cultural ideologies, President Xi raised five issues on this occasion to further explain his ideologies on politics and culture, which became the foundation and guidance of cultural policies and industry practices afterwards: Issue 1: to achieve the great rejuvenation of the Chinese nation needs the prosperity of Chinese culture. Issue 2: to create excellent works worthy of the times. Issue 3: to insist that the people are the centre of creative guidance. Issue 4: Chinese spirit is the soul of socialist literature and art. Issue 5: to strengthen and improve the leadership of the Chinese Communist Party on cultural and art works. (Xi 2015) Although President Xi did not address music policy in particular, his ideologies and understandings of music can be read by the names of musicians exemplified by him. For example, Bach, Beethoven, Schumann, Wagner, Brahms, Tchaikovsky and Debussy all represent the Europe-centric aesthetics and standards of music. President Xi only named two Chinese musicians – Nie Er (composer of the national anthem) and Xian Xinghai (composer of Huanghe Dahechang – the Yellow River Cantata) who also represent Western standard art music. Popular music – the most influential form of music in ordinary people’s daily life – is belittled. President Xi did say that any forms of foreign culture should be welcomed if people like it; surprisingly, he mentioned rap and street dance, but added that it is necessary to inject positive and healthy content into foreign cultures according to China’s own tradition and criteria, which confirmed the policy of local re-creation and reproduction to filter out unwanted elements (Xi 2015). In reference to Xi’s talks, national and local music policies do not indicate any specific music genres. Art music and ethnic music are favoured for the sake of artistry and Chinese

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identity. Traditional music, such as local opera, is protected for the sake of intangible cultural heritage as well as folk music in the name of Yuanshengtai (‘original ecology’) music. In contrast, popular music is driving the economic and industrial development and creating joyful cultural scenes for the masses. This differential treatment can be well observed on the National Youth Singer TV Contest broadcast on CCTV (China Central Television), where popular music is disguised as a singing style, Tongsu, to be performed, and contestants are generally from state-owned song and dance troupes. The public sphere and social space of music art have been divided into different parts in a structure of uneven power, which interact with music policymaking and practice profoundly. Since the 2014 symposium, Xi has delivered a series of pronouncements on cultural policy, including an urban working conference in December 2015; the symposium on philosophy and social science in May 2016; and the opening ceremony of both the literary federation and writer’s association in November 2016. He eventually conceptualized his ideologies within the key term of Wenhua Zixin (‘cultural confidence’ or ‘confidence in Chinese culture’). The emphasis on Wenhua Zhutixing (‘cultural subjectivity’) is obviously a long-term strategy for the ultimate prospect of China. Zhongguomeng (‘the Chinese Dream’) will be achieved through the two-step process of Liangge Yibainian (‘Two Centenary Goals’): the build-up of Xiaokang Shehui (‘a moderately prosperous society’) and Shehuizhuyi Xiandaihua Qiangguo (‘a great modern socialist country’) in all respects. President Xi’s other term – Shehuizhuyi Wenhua Qiangguo (‘socialist country with advanced culture’) – explicitly regards culture as a social productive force to make the Chinese dream come true. Considering Yi dai yi lu (the Belt and Road Initiative) and Renlei Mingyun Gongtongti (‘a Human Community with a Shared Future’) also conceptualized by Xi, culture has been prominent in outlining wider goals for the Chinese nation and nationality. The highlighting of cultural confidence and cultural subjectivity suggests an important transfer of musical preferences from the West back to China, modernity to tradition, entertainment to education, and artists to the people. Lutenist and Professor Liu Dehai from the China Conservatory of Music, for example, feels that he and other educators/musicians have been inspired by Xi’s talks. Liu argues that contemporary Chinese musicians are more confident and paying more attention to the expression of Chinese characteristics, style and manner in their music, which truly reflect the cultural confidence of Chinese musicians (Dong 2017: 5). A fundamental problem, however, is the big gap between music policy at the top and cultural practice at the bottom, even as governmental support has been granted (as Rees (2012) has discovered in her studies on intangible cultural heritage and Chinese ethnic music). From the perspective of the leaders, it is necessary to prioritize the need of the people in cultural policies; as a story Chairman Mao tells of Heshui Buwang Wajingren (‘when you drink water, think of those who dug the well’). Also, the prioritization of the people might be a strategy of replacing an outdated term – Wuchanjieji (‘the proletariat’), which no longer accords with the modern picture of China in the twenty-first century. From the perspective of the people, a paradoxical situation remains: does defining who ‘the people’ are remain too conceptual and abstract, which leaves too much room for

National and Local Music Policy in Chengdu

formalistic and bureaucratic practice? In relation, President Xi redefined ‘the people’ in his 2015 speech: The people are not only the creators and characters in a play of history, but also the witnesses and play-writers of history. To well reflect their heartfelt wishes, literature and art must insist to serve the people and socialism, which is the fundamental direction … A people-centered approach is to satisfy the intellectual and cultural needs of the people as the starting point and objective of literary and art works. Regarding the people as the subjectivity of literature and art, and as the connoisseur and judge of literary and artistic aesthetics, literary and art workers have to serve the people as their bounden duty … The people are not abstract symbols, but concrete persons one by one with blood and flesh, affection, emotion, and dream … [literary and art workers] cannot substitute the feeling of the people by their own, but have to learn from the people and their daily life, absorb nutrient from people’s great practice and wonderful life. (Xi 2015: 2)

In terms of politics, this definition is solid, as all people have to be included in the one big picture; but in terms of cultural formation and consumption, the distinction of cultural taste in France discussed by Bourdieu (1984) has demonstrated the impossibility of cultural consensus in the context of social classes. The Chinese government has especially acknowledged the existence of social stratification and ten social classes from the top elite governors to the poor jobless at the bottom (see Zhongguo Wang [government] website 2021). Therefore, the big challenge for literary and art workers is how to learn from the people and their daily life instead of practising Deng Xiaoping’s famous metaphor Mozhe Shitou Guohe (‘wading across the river by feeling for the stones’). Based on the true story of Wang Hongzhi, the director of Ningxia modern drama troupe, CCTV released a public service advertisement, Weile Shei (‘For who?’), in 2019, which illustrated the interrelationship between literary and art workers and the people as an official statement, and re-confirmed the emphasis of cultural policies on land, motherland and cultural land by Wang’s narratives: Thirty-five years ago, I was just standing here [at the side of the Yellow River] and thinking about the question of [literary and art works were made] for who. Our plays grow out of the mud by the Yellow River, and its fruits should naturally be given back to this land. Plays are like seeds as well as fertilizers, blossom and bear fruit while nourishing the land. [When literary and art workers] walk into the fields, [literary and art works] walk into the heart of the people … People’s art is for the people.3

Also in 2019, CCTV released another public service advertisement, Woshishei (‘Who am I?’), for the 95th anniversary of the founding of the Chinese Communist Party, which spontaneously resonated with ‘For Who?’, and made an emotional statement: ‘I am the Communist Party of China, and I will always be with you.’ Reading President Xi’s talks, ‘tradition’, ‘history’, ‘morality’, ‘belief ’, ‘spirit’, ‘ideology’, ‘sublime’, ‘warmth’, ‘harmony’, ‘enlightenment’ and ‘positive energy’ are key words frequently referred to highlight the value of culture, which send a clear message to literary and art workers and cultural

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organizations nationwide what kind of culture should be created, produced and promoted. These criteria reflect the good wishes of humanist thought and should be able to serve the cultural needs of the people in theory. However, bipolar development – politicization and commercialization – has influenced cultural practice in the context of ideological education and economic demand.

Music policy as economic demand Although President Xi has emphasized that literary and art works should never compromise on economic development and commercial benefit, an undeniable fact is that music businesses have become an engine for industrial growth and economic innovation nationally. The percentage of the cultural economy’s contribution to annual GDP has been explicitly regarded as an important index to judge the performance of local officials at the province and city levels; one interviewee (Mr W) feels the pressure of developing the cultural economy at the county level. The task of Xiangcun Zhenxing (‘rural revitalization’) and Jingzhun Fupin (‘targeted poverty alleviation’) requires officials to find an innovative approach to Sanchan Ronghe (‘convergence of the primary, secondary and tertiary industries’) in a situation where local people do not know what the ‘cultural economy’ is. The Economic Daily reports that the annual average growth rate of the cultural economy from 2005 to 2018 was 18.9 per cent, 6.9 per cent higher than the growth rate of the national GDP during the same years, and is read as a positive signal of industrial transformation (Lin 2019). The Zhongguo Yinyue Chanye Fazhan Baogao (Development Report on China’s Music Industry) has been published to summarize and analyse the development of the music economy annually by Zhao (2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2020). Research is conducted under the guidance of the State Administration of Press, Publication, Radio, Film and Television, and the China Audio-video and Digital Publishing Association for its authority. The collaboration between academic institutions and industrial organizations reinforces its credibility. Although the data is not completely reliable, since official statistics might be slightly or heavily adjusted by persons in charge to show their work achievement, reports perfectly depict the rapid progress and economic importance of the music industries for the government, which prove that music policy in practice has been redirected to the economy while political ideologies are under the spotlight. There is no insightful analysis on music, musicians and musical cultures in these reports, which raises a question of whether the convergence of politics and entertainment, ideological education and cultural economy could produce people’s music for the people. While the growth rate of national GDP slows from 7.3 per cent in 2014 to 6.6 per cent in 2018, the growth rate of the music industries speeds up from 4.97 per cent to 7.98 per cent during the same period. This increase is understandable as Chinese consumers have entered into the stage of cultural consumption due to the accumulation of economic capital and family fortune, which has allowed more Chinese families, especially middle- and upperclass families, to heavily invest in their children’s music education as an artistic marker

National and Local Music Policy in Chengdu

Figure 12.1  The development/growth rate of the music market, 2014–18 (Zhao 2020). Unit: RMB (billions).

Figure 12.2  National GDP growth rate (State Statistics Bureau 2019, see Xinhua Wang [government] website 2019). Unit: RMB (billions).

of social class. An investigation of the music education of middle-class children shows that Guzheng (the Chinese zither) and guitar are no longer favourable; even the piano has dropped to the bottom of the musical Bishilian (‘chain of contempt)’, which foolishly prioritizes pipe organ, harp, cello and violin as the rare or expensive instruments for public showing off and competitiveness within social life (Jia 2020). According to one interviewee, one upper-class parent spent over 50,000 RMB for his daughter’s cello courses and cultural activities in two years, arguing that it is all about his wife’s imagination of social class and female elegance, while his daughter absolutely hates it (Mr L). The government has released a number of policies related to children’s music education since 1949, such as a music syllabus for primary and secondary schools in 1979; overall planning for art education in

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1989; and a national music curriculum standard in 2001. Yet school music education is highly standardized in a boring way and cannot meet with the cultural demand of stratified families, which make music education a market-oriented lucrative business. The output value of ten subdivided industries in Table 1.1 well displays the controversial methodology of statistics, which only regard music and music education as business, commodity and economy, definitely not what the leaders have considered as a cultural medium for the communication and edutainment of nationalism, patriotism and the great rejuvenation. Arranged in order of value, the number one industry is karaoke, a form of entertainment in relation to leisure and recreation that is not at the industrial centre in many other countries’ industries. Karaoke bars are a social space occupied by middle-aged and elderly people (mostly women) in the morning and the younger generations in the afternoon and at night, where the entertainment and service economies have been disguised as part of the ‘music economy’. Local, provincial and national statistics need this enormous figure to portray a lively music scene. Music education and training is ranked at number two. These comprise businesses targeting children generally for the purposes of grading tests and awarding certificates, which might help students to win offers from prestigious schools. Three interviewees (Ms M, Mr D and Mr S), working at music training schools, have noticed that most students will drop out as soon as they receive their certificates, and they believe the functionalism of music will be negative for the cultivation of music talents. The market size of digital music is increasing steadily due to the influence of smartphone, apps and multi-channel networks, but its position at number three actually reveals an awkward situation: that the convergence of economy, industry and culture has further squeezed the survival of the recording industry. IT giants, online video entertainment platforms and social networking service companies such as Tencent, Alibaba, China Mobile and Tik Tok have completely dominated the market. Only a very tiny part remains for traditional recording artists and companies. Under this circumstance, it is difficult to bridge the ideological gap between the leaders, business people and musicians who have

Table 1.1  Subdivided industries’ output value, 2018 (Zhao 2019). Unit: RMB (billions). Industry category

Subdivided industries

Core industries

Music textbook and audio product Music performance Copyright, agent, and management

Correlative industries

Extended industries

1.338 18.221 0.546

Digital music

61.242

Musical instrument

42.45

Music education and training

85.27

Professional audio equipment

55.72

Radio and television music Karaoke Film, game, and animation music

Total

Output value

8.23 101.07 0.708 374.795

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imagined the function of their music or musical products as ‘representation, repetition, and composition’ (Attali 1985) separately. The field and the soil from which cultures grow (in Wang Hongzhi’s words cited above) have been clearly contaminated by industrial interests. Music is uprooted from what President Xi has stressed – the daily life of the people – and further complicated in the process of simulacra and simulation (Baudrillard 1994). Politics and industries together produce the hyper-reality of people’s music in their (un)real daily life. The National Copyright Administration enacted a Notification of Ordering Online Music Service Providers to Stop Distributing Musical Works without Authorization in 2015, while the State Administration of Press, Publication, Radio, Film and Television also released its Opinions on Vigorously Pushing the Development of China’s Music Industry in 2015. The General Office of the State Council published The Outline of the National Plan for Cultural Development and Reform during the 13th Five-Year Plan Period, which clarified that the development of the music industries was now included in the list of major cultural industry projects in 2017. All these policies confirmed that music policies in the industry realm are about economy, market and profit. Yinyue Chanye Cujin Gongzuo Weiyuanhui (the Music Industry Promotion Committee) and Zhongguo Yinyuejia Xiehui (the Chinese Musician Association) represent the central government to execute the implementation of various policies, but this hierarchy of administrative power has caused problems between policies and practices, culture and economy, and, most importantly, between literary and art workers and the people. Li et al. (2018) have rightly pointed out the competitive situation and policy outlook of China’s provincial economy in the 13th five-year period, where new changes, norms, situations and challenges related to provincial economies are now reshaping local music policies extensively.

Music policy as local competitiveness When the Chengdu government publicized an astonishingly ambitious plan – San cheng san du (three cities and three capitals) in 2017 – people laughed about it as the stereotyped exaggeration of Fang Weixing (‘launch a satellite – accomplish startling achievements’) back in the Great Leap Forward period. Chengdu is undoubtedly a city with rich history and cultural heritage, but it is still bold to position it in such a position above Beijing, Shanghai and many other cosmopolises. The ‘Three cities and three capitals’ hierarchy indicate the categories of Shijie Wenhua Mingcheng (‘world famous cultural city’), Shijie Lvyou Mingcheng (‘world famous tourist city’), Shijie Saishi Mingcheng (‘world famous game city’), Guoji Meishi Zhidu (‘international capital of delicacy’), Guoji Yinyue Zhidu (‘international capital of music’) and Guoji Huizhan Zhidu (‘international capital of exhibition’).4 A detailed plan is to succeed in branding Chengdu as a world city and international capital, to be imagined regionally in 2020, internationally by 2035 and globally in 2050 (Wang 2018). Although this ‘launch a satellite’ plan looks like a strategy of publicity, the Chengdu government has prepared for this grand plan in advance, and music is identified as a key cultural form of

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city images and a driving force of industrial innovation. In similar ways to music policies in Liverpool, Berlin, Austin and Melbourne (Homan, Cloonan, and Cattermole 2013; Strong et al. 2018), a vital policy, Opinions of Chengdu Municipal People’s Government on Supporting the Development of the Music Industry, was released in August 2016, which carefully illustrated how music and related industries are designed to strengthen the competitiveness of Chengdu (see Chengdushi Gonggong Qishiye Danwei Banshi Gongkai [government] website 2016). This policy firstly echoes with President Xi’s ideologies on culture; but the four basic principles (market, enterprise, brand and high-end industry oriented), along with the two core components (music creativity and music copyright), reveal how the Chengdu policy is about industry, market, business and profit. The Chengdu government set an incredible goal: that the annual output value of music business would reach the milestone of 35 billion RMB in 2018; 50 billion RMB in 2020 and 100 billion RMB in 2025. This requires the growth rate of music businesses to be maintained at 25 per cent every year. A complicated scheme is divided into five sub-projects to fulfil this mission: (1) create an original music chart, and promote its global influence to the level of Grammy Awards recognition; (2) staging an outdoor concert and a music and poetry concert; (3) a focus on music talents, music enterprises and music facilities; (4) a plan to build four industrial bases for music production, musical instrument, copyright trading and music performance; and (5) to design the layout of five musical spaces with one core site and four district centres. This mega-scheme is in typical governmental style, which portrays a great picture too far away from the present and the general public. Few of the experienced interviewees I spoke to (such as Ms L and Mr T) admit that they understand what the government will do in reality. In the same way, the Sichuan Conservatory of Music has developed a music street as a part of this mega-scheme. Its title of ‘one centre, one axis, and five blocks’ produces the illusion of magnificence, which sounds great in official reports (Gu 2016). In order to avoid the farce of ‘launch a satellite’ over-reach, the Chengdu government has clarified the amount of music special funding in this policy. If well-established foreign music companies register a regional headquarters in Chengdu, the maximum comprehensive subsidy is 10 million RMB; but only 5 million RMB of this is reserved for Chinese music companies. If local companies invest in a music business, the government will refund them 15 per cent of their investment (to a maximum of 2 million RMB). When the annual value of music enterprises reaches the target of 5 million RMB, they will receive a 200,000 RMB bonus from the government, increasing to 500,000 for 10 million output value, 1 million for 50 million and 2 million for 100 million. If a local music company is floated on the stock market, they will receive a 5 million RMB bonus. This money-dominated policy promises that if well-known veteran musicians, producers and agents open new companies in Chengdu, they will receive a maximum subsidy of 2 million RMB. Music studios will get a half million RMB subsidy per project. The original music chart sub-project receives 20 million RMB fund every year, and the government will subsidize every influential play and festival maximum 5 million RMB (see Chengdushi Gonggong Qishiyedanwei Banshi Gongkai [government] website 2016). All in all, this policy has nothing but incentives and investment rewards in the name of industrial growth. The long list of music towns,

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parks and streets proves that music has become a perfect disguise for real estate projects and other businesses, which benefit a community of shared interests as an administrative privilege. For example, I visited Anren music town (about 40 kilometres southwest of Chengdu) three times. The town was empty without officially arranged activities. Local residents told me that not many tourists are around (except on weekends when the weather was nice), and they were confused about the situation as to why there were so many new estate projects, such as a creative industrial park and street, since the local youth generally moved to Chengdu downtown and other big cities. Regarding the question of how much industries will benefit from this policy, the Chengdu government has promised through written policy statements that to discover and cultivate music talents is a key job for the goal of increasing music capital. According to two interviewees (Ms Y and Mr Y) who are folk musicians, there is an invisible and unbreakable wall between insiders and outsiders. Musicians, researchers and civil servants who belong to the Conservatory of Music and state-owned music organizations are insiders who are the beneficiaries of this policy, while non-governmental organizations and musicians are rarely supported by this mega-scheme. Governmental bodies promise that this mega-scheme will be implemented smoothly, such as the Human Resources and Social Security Bureau, Education Bureau, Planning Bureau, Land and Resources Bureau, Construction Committee, Bureau of Culture, Radio, Film, Press and Publication, Literary Federation, Investment and Promotion Committee, Office of Creative Industries and the Commerce Commission. Yet according to Ms Y’s experience, this governmental coordination is a nightmare of administrative inefficiency and corruption and allows the game of ‘kick the ball’ to happen easily. For example, Ms Y once ran around several governmental offices for the approval of a music project, but she was rejected by all. She had to find someone to introduce her to an official, and the official’s network helped her to get the job done. This hierarchy of administrative bureaus also produces a negative orientation of safe operation. In order not to risk their political careers, officials are unwilling to produce and promote avant-garde or experimental music which might make a significant breakthrough for Chengdu. In contrast, three female pop idols from the music talent TV show Chaoji Nvsheng (Super Girl) are officially praised for their annual economic value: Zhang Liangying achieved 1.1 billion RMB; Li Yuchun earned 0.9 billion RMB; and Tan Weiwei was worth 0.5 billion RMB in 2016 (see Chengdushi Renmin Zhengfu Xinxi Gongkai [government] website 2016). For some musicians, including Mr Y and his friends, the value of music creativity has been ignored. Mr T – a veteran working for a state-owned company – argues that some officials are happy with the one nickname for Chengdu, Xuanxiu Zhidu (‘the Capital of Music Talent Show’), because a TV entertainment programme is politically safe and economically lucrative. Questions of what kinds of music, and who for, are certainly not their concerns; they only desire to improve the competitiveness of Chengdu in the national arena, which might benefit their long-term political careers. In terms of music genres, those officials probably do not understand that the practice of ‘safe’ policies has actually generated very negative impacts upon the city in achieving its goal of ‘international capital of music’. Within music and cultural circles across China,

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Chengdu is never famous for producing female pop stars; instead, Chengdu rock music (since the 2000s) and hip-hop (since the 2010s) have impressed fellow musicians and music lovers nationwide. Chengdu rock bands such as Axiuluo (Asura), Masaike (Mosaic), Tongdang, Haigui Xiansheng (Mr Sea Turtle) and Shengyin Wanju (Sound Toy) have won awards and reputations for the city. These bands have been influenced by the rebellious history of Chinese rock dating back to the 1980s, evident, for example, in the politicization of Cui Jian’s Yiwusuoyou (‘I have nothing’) and related social turmoil. Rock music is still often regarded as something rebellious, or at least sensitive and ‘unsafe’ by local officials. One interviewee, Mr T, has organized a number of music festivals performed by rock bands in Chengdu. His experience is to interchange the words of Yuedui (‘band’) and Zuhe (‘group’). The former might raise the alarm in the process of licence applications; Mr T always uses the latter, as Zuhe implies the use of commercial pop groups, whom officials will not worry about. The Chengdu rock scene is rather active and lively in reality. Xiao Jiuguan (‘the Little Bar’) is the holy site for local and national rockers and a must-visit attraction for tourists. Since its establishment in 1997, it has gradually developed into an art salon, an indie label and a culture company in similar ways to the Cavern Club in Liverpool. Some music projects of the Little Bar have been financially supported by the Chengdu government. However, the history and reputation of Chinese rock music has confronted a paradoxical situation: officials want to reach the goal of being labelled the ‘international capital of music’, but they do not even think about popular music when a decision is related to politics (and more importantly, their political careers). Chengdu rock music has been sacrificed in silence. The same story can be told in relation to Chengdu hip-hop. Local rapper Xie Di (Boss Shady) appeared on Zhongguo Hao Gequ (Sing My Song), a TV singer-songwriter contest programme broadcast by CCTV in 2014. Xie impressed the judges and the national audience with his Sichuan dialect rap. His song, Laozi Mingtian Bu Shangban (‘I am not fucking going to work tomorrow’), progressed into the semi-final of the programme. Xie’s presence and success on Sing My Song unveiled the local hip-hop communities and cultural scenes to the general public. Local hip-hop communities, including rappers (e.g. Listen Family, Big Zoo, Onstyle, Cypher, Melo, Masiwei, High Brothers, Ty., C.P.G. and A.T.M.); labels (e.g. Mintone Records); and fashion brands (e.g. 1807) have become more widely embedded in people’s daily life in Chengdu. The occasional clash and competition between Chengdu hip-hop and Chongqing hip-hop demonstrates its cultural influence.5 Unlike the politicization of Chinese rock, sex, sexualization, violence and ‘gangster’ cultures have become the morally sensitive tag of hip-hop, which worries local officials for its rebelliousness and rudeness. Some officials clearly know about Chengdu hip-hop’s influence and value. For example, when a patriotic flash mob Wo he Wode Zuguo (‘I and my motherland’) was arranged to perform and celebrate the 70th Anniversary of the Founding of the People’s Republic of China at Kuanzai Alley on 8 February 2019, local hip-hop group Tianfu Yinyue (Sichuan Music) were involved. When they rapped ‘I and my motherland cannot be separated for a second because she is the one I rely on’,6 they demonstrated that hip-hop could be positive. While Chengdu hip-hop is full of energy, passion and local life experience, it remains potentially transgressive and ‘anti-social’; local officials will prefer

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‘safe’ music genres, such as Western classic and ethnic music. Chengdu hip-hop has lost the opportunity to officially represent the city in music, even as the hip-hop economy is booming. The annual value of the music industries in Chengdu had increased to 39.786 billion RMB in 2018; and to 48.119 billion RMB in 2019, with the growth rate of 20 per cent every year exactly matching the 2016 plan. Over 1700 large- and small-scale music performances were organized, 448 new music companies registered in Chengdu and 5 music towns were built in Luodai, Bailu, Jiezi, Anren and Pingle near the city (Chen 2020; Zhi 2019). After signing ten international music projects at the 8th City Conference of Music Capital in April 2019, the Chengdu Daily could not wait to make a thrilling statement: Yinyue Zhidu, Weilai Yi Lai (‘[Chengdu] – ‘the capital of music, and the future has arrived here’) (Wang 2019). With the exception of Beijing, in economic terms, Chengdu has become the number one music city in China, and the new Great Leap Forward of a music capital is not a false promise, at least in terms of the data. Other cities eventually reacted to and updated their music policies in response to Chengdu’s ambition. On 31 December 2019, the Beijing government publicized Implementation Opinions on Booming the Development of Beijing’s Music Industry by the Director of the Beijing Municipal Bureau of Press and Publication Wang Yefei. This policy will subsidize all kinds of music projects as the Chengdu government does and confirm that Beijing will also be branded as the international capital of music, as well as the global centre of sinophone music. To defend its long-standing dominance, the Beijing government demands the annual value of its music industries reach 120 billion RMB in 2025, 20 billion RMB higher than Chengdu (see Zhonghuarenmingongheguo Guowuyuan Xinwen Bangongshi [government] website 2019). The household registration system is less important now, but it is still very difficult for ordinary people to get an account of registered permanent residence in Beijing, and this policy has a special ‘green channel’ for top music talents (both Chinese and foreigner) to apply.7 As the birthplace of Chinese popular music, the Shanghai government started branding ‘Shanghai Culture’ internationally and initiated ‘the Yangtze river delta music industry alliance’ to compete through its regional strength in August 2019, and officially formed it in December 2020 (Liao and Liu 2020). The Guangzhou government released its Implementation Opinions on Promoting the Innovative Development of Cultural Industry in December 2018, which regarded the music industries as a core, with digital music as an especially competitive force (see Guangzhoushi Tianhe Zhongyang Shangwuqu Guanweihui [government] website 2019). The Bluebook of Guangzhou: Annual Reports on Cultural Industry of Guangzhou has been edited by the Guangzhou Academy of Social Science since 2012. It analyses the contribution of each industry with detailed economic figures, but like Zhao’s national reports, there is no analysis of what music and culture in the once-dominant Guangdong music industries offer to the national consumers. Other cities, such as Nanjing and Wuhan, also produced policies to promote the local music economy and cultural competitiveness (see Zhonghuarenmingongheguo Wenhua He Lvyoubu [government] website 2017 and Wuhanshi Renmin Zhengfu [government] website 2020). Noticeably, the music industries have been found to reside in the economically advanced regions and

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cities, which further strengthens their hegemony of economy and culture, and widens the gap between the rich and the poor, the cosmopolitan and the local, and the creators and the imitators. Music, and music culture, are continuously homogenized. Music tradition, authenticity, aesthetics and identity have been shattered by the forces of political ideologies and economic demand as many Chinese cities with distinctive historical heritages are now synchronized in one vague style.

Music policy as administrative flattery In a leader-centred system, administrative officials play a vital role in policymaking. President Xi has criticized the bureaucracy and demanded all officials integrate themselves into the people and grassroots units. Yet a common practice of administrative flattery still exists within the system, which generally puts policymaking and implementation under the shadow of interpersonal relationships and networks. According to interviewees’ experiences, it is very common to over-interpret leaders’ opinions on any issue in order to perform actively while reserving room for adjustment. For example, if a provincial official expects a city to develop three music projects, the local officials will demand their subordinates finish five or ten projects; or if a senior official feels that a cultural phenomenon might be politically sensitive, local officials will simply ban it. From top to bottom, officials at every level of the administrative system commonly conduct the same practice, which unavoidably blurs the border between obedience and flattery. To pursue the title of international capital of music is obviously a part of the mega-scheme of Chengdu, but when it happens that the mayor of Chengdu, Luo Qiang, is a passionate opera fan, to a certain extent, there is a possibility that some music projects might be catered to his pleasure by his subordinates in a situation that he may or may not sense it. On 28 April 2019, a music video containing the song ‘I love you, China’ was performed by Mayor Luo and released online. It is understandable that his vocal performance is not as outstanding as that of professional opera singers, but netizens and journalists immediately nicknamed him ‘Pa Wa Luo Qiang’ in reference to the great tenor Luciano Pavarotti’s Chinese pronunciation of ‘Pa Wa Luo Di’. ‘Pa Wa Luo Qiang’ became an internet sensation and made Luo the ‘internet celebrity mayor’ (Wanghong Shizhang) for a while (Zhong 2019). It is absolutely absurd if anyone dares to claim that those opera theatres and music halls are built to please Mayor Luo, but if music projects are favoured by the leaders, the possibility of being approved by the government will be certainly higher. It is this unverifiable linkage conceiving the possibility of administrative flattery and even corruption. As a music industry veteran, one interviewee, Mr T, shared his successful business strategies in dealing with local government. The first and the most important step is to identify which leader has said what about different music genres or music projects; they will make a project proposal to precisely match with the leader’s imagination, and utilize their interpersonal relationships and networks to get informal approval from related

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governmental offices, such as oral agreements, which may offer them the green light to go through the approval process much quicker that increases negotiating power with business partners. They do not really consider what culture the people need, but they always say that their music projects are designed to enrich the cultural life of the people as an important political gesture and business strategy. Local officials understand clearly that they need a popular song to promote Chengdu as an international capital of music, but the only choice is an urban folk song, ‘Chengdu’, written by singer-songwriter Zhao Lei from Beijing in 2016. The majority of interviewees firmly claim that this is not the right song for Chengdu, which pictures the city from the perspective of tourists, and fails to catch the local spirit of culture, tradition and good lifestyle. According to interviewees Ms L, Mr Li and Mr T, to write a new theme song and replace Zhao Lei’s song has been confirmed as an urgent task for related cultural departments. However, the logic about what song is the ‘right’ one for the city is always judged by those officials with no relevant professional experience. Even if public voting is sometimes conducted by smartphone, officials will always have the final say as the demonstration of their administrative power. When the 18th World Police and Fire Games were opened in Chengdu on 8 August 2019, a top prize song of 2017 Chengdu Music Talent Studio Contest – ‘Jinse’ – was played to welcome the global guests. ‘Jinse’ has the double meaning of ‘Color of Chengdu’ and ‘Bright and Beautiful Color’, and the song is produced in the style of fusion which Peking Opera and popular music form an interesting combination with the new popular style of traditional opera as an important gesture of cultural confidence. An important question, however, is why musicians and producers ignore the local music genre related to Sichuan Opera, containing several hundred years of musical tradition and live practice in Chengdu, where many artists work at the Sichuan Opera Troupe and Chengdu Opera Troupe? Mr Li, a division head of a government department, reveals that from the beginning, ‘Jinse’ is tailored for the director of the Chengdu Peking Opera Academy, and it is publicly favoured by a minister of the propaganda department. Under this condition, it is impossible to judge whether the making and presentation of ‘Jinse’ has symbolized spontaneous creativity or administrative flattery. Yet the mix of top-down power hierarchy and bottom-up business interests continuously influences music policies and practices in Chengdu and other Chinese cities. None of my interviewees liked ‘Jinse’, preferring Zhao Lei’s ‘Chengdu’ to symbolize the city. On another music project designed for a top tourist attraction in Chengdu, when three teams came together to finalize their implementation plan, they did not discuss how they understood this project and what music should be performed in terms of artistry, creativity and authenticity. Nor did they assess how to meet the imaginary demands of their general manager, or the mismatch of various themes in their manager’s imagination. For example, this project was proposed as a lively ceremony mainly for young people, such as high school students, but the manager demanded a ceremony in ‘European court’ style. If it was a preference for cosplay subculture, it might surprisingly work well, but they believed that the manager did not like cosplay. They spent two hours guessing what music the manager might be satisfied with. Although this is just a project of a state-owned company

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at the rather low level of the administrative system, a leader’s personal opinion and/or imagination has fully overshadowed cultural practice. A few weeks later, a new general manager was appointed, the project was suspended and the finalized implementation plan became invalid.

Conclusion: Music policy as simulated reality The Great Leap Forward of the music economy is double-faced. It is a positive development in terms of the cultural economy, which has created the joy of daily life in the form of entertainment. But it is also a negative development in terms of music because this fever of the music economy does not accelerate the creative convergence or fusion of different music genres and cultures. On the contrary, various forms of music have been further separated into distinctive social spaces and public spheres. Politics is more tolerant now, but the differential treatment indicates the unavoidable possibility of incorporation by the government and/or the industry. For example, a big hit show, Yuedui de Xiatian (‘the Big Band’), has caused intensive debate online about whether Chinese rock should be presented on this kind of commercialized entertainment programme, since the genre has been regarded as an ideological weapon for decades. For example, Shou (2019) publicized his question – can the Big Band really bring the ‘spring’ to Chinese rock? On the one hand, the popularity of most rock bands seemingly represents the success of occupying the entertainment market for the first time; on the other, the playful atmosphere of the Big Band represents the possibility of being capitalized as an ideologically tamed recreation. Some popular bands, for instance Xin Kuzi (New Pants) and Jiu Lian Zhenren, appeared on a number of commercial advertisements immediately after the show. In this case, the Big Band demonstrates a simulated reality. Senior and junior rock bands clearly have different understandings of the ‘rock spirit’ in terms of music, politics, society, success and responsibility. Politics and entertainment, art and fame, expression and play all blend in a situation of simultaneous being and nothingness, in which Chinese rock music effectively creates a ‘new’ music business, while failing to challenge the political perspectives of the government. Music policies play a role in creating this simulated reality. At the top level of leadercentred policymaking, the leaders prioritize the cultural needs of the people, and demand literary and art workers to serve the people for a harmonious society. Yet this people-centred principle is not practised in reality, especially at the administrative level of those provinces and cities where economy-centred policies dominate music practices for the sake of local competitiveness. The creation and production of music does not follow a top-down process from policy to practice. Rather, a performance of simulacra and simulation, interacting with numerous leaders’ ideologies and preferences at every administrative level, results in two simultaneous systems for politics and economy at the price of music completely

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losing its discursive power. One system is to produce and present highly politicized music works for individual and collective review within the official system. Another is to produce marketized music products for the economy and profit, such as stereotyped pop stars and standardized love songs. The most powerful Chinese New Year Gala of CCTV, for example, will invite some pop idols to perform every year, but the majority of music works performing on the Gala are not ‘sellable’ products in the market. Officials, at least some interviewees, clearly understand that, but why the situation remains unchanged for decades again confirms the existence of simulated reality, which programmes the Great Leap Forward of music economy as ‘amusing ourselves to death’ (Postman 2005) for everyone and for no one.

Notes 1

2 3

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7

The list of interviewees is as below, and interviews are all conducted in Chengdu in 2020: Mr D, a music training school teacher; Mr Li, a division head of a governmental department; Mr L, a successful businessman; Mr S, a music training school teacher; Mr T, an industry veteran; Mr W, a former county official; Mr Y, owner of a folk music bar and the head of a musician group; Ms L, multi-network media professional; Ms M, a music training school teacher; and Ms Y, owner of a folk music bar. One year later, the full text of President Xi’s talk was published in the official newspaper People’s Daily (Renmin Ribao), 15 October 2015. Texts are recorded from Wang Hongzhi’s narratives in the advertising, which is frequently broadcast on CCTV, and can be observed on many video websites, such as Bilibili: https:// www.bilibili.com/video/BV19J411d7tg?from=search&seid=2007007837453531013 Zhao Zhian published the general report of 2019 Development Report on China’s Music Industry at the 6th Music Industry Forum in 8 November 2019. Data is from Zhao’s conference presentation and news reports: https://www.sohu.com/a/352593180_152615 (accessed on 16 January 2021). For example, the Three-year Action Plan for Chengdu to Build a World Famous Cultural and Creative City 2018–2020 is a 109-page document published by the Chengdu government to clarify how to reach the goal of ‘three cities and three capitals’ in detail. Chongqing is the most populous Chinese municipality, and also the largest directcontrolled municipality in China. Chongqing is southeast of Chengdu, roughly 350 kilometres away. Historically and culturally, there are too much similarities between the two cities, but people and artists from the two cities seemingly like to address their own distinctive characters; for example, the most common metaphor is that Chongqing is much wilder in masculine style and Chengdu is much gentler in feminine style. Text is recorded from the video of this flash mob at 3:09 minute: https://www.bilibili. com/video/BV1Qb411z7gj?from=search&seid=15027044477865750242

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13 Australian popular music policy Sarah Taylor and Shane Homan

Introduction In this chapter we focus on key aspects of Australian popular music policy, including media, indigenous music, copyright and education policies (see Chapter 7 for a brief discussion of Australian music export policy). A particular emphasis here on live music contexts is appropriate, given the prominence of live music venues – especially the Australian rock pub – within national popular culture (and arguably where most reform has occurred). We also examine the associated rise in the organizations of music policy, noting that a number of advocacy bodies at state and federal levels have emerged in the past two decades. We argue that such bodies have become important because local policymaking (in this context, at the local council, regional or state tiers of Australian government) has assumed greater importance with relation to popular music policy, and federal government policies (and interest in cultural policy) have receded in recent times. While Australian policy debates have often mirrored those elsewhere (e.g. in the shifts from traditional ‘arts’ to ‘creative’ policy implicitly prioritizing a hybrid of culture and industry) (see Chapter 1), this broader trend has also interacted with the particulars of Australian contexts: its tiers of government and associated regional differences in the minutiae of policies affecting popular music, and the basic geography and demography of a nation which is large and sparsely populated, and grappling with the legacy of colonization. In the twenty-first-century Australian popular music policy landscape, a renewed emphasis upon regional (and local) influence and governance has been asserted. On the one hand, this is a classic case of ‘glocalization’; on the other, we can also see the persistent and impressive power of national organizations and policies that are able to traverse distance and jurisdictional differences: for example, the make-or-break clout of national youth broadcaster, Triple J, and the importance of federal legislation for broadcasting quotas, community radio, tertiary education and copyright in influencing local conditions and individual careers.

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What is the ‘national’ in Australian contexts? Nations are simultaneously ‘imagined communities’ (Anderson 1983) and boundaries with non-imaginary consequences for the movement of human resources (which, in a popular music context, would include musicians and audiences); capital (the financing of recordings, live performances, related infrastructure and livelihoods) and individual and collective identities (notions of local, regional and national identities forged through particular genres and artists). Any attempt to analyse music in a particular place (such as a nation) grapples with the broader complexity in human geography regarding the significance of place (Massey 2005). Like many other human activities, music evades attempts to be fixed in place, but is also self-evidently spatially uneven, its movements closely linked with material and legal practicalities, as well as with technology (Connell and Gibson 2003; Leyshon et al 1995). Further, music activity operates at multiple scales: individual, neighbourhood, city, nation, global. This is the case with Australian practices, where the formulation of policy has been (often messy) combinations of policies across different administrative scales, and music performers navigate different scales of activity in their own ‘musical pathways’ (Finnegan 1989). Local venues, national gatekeepers and the challenging task of attempting success beyond national borders have long played a part in the careers of Australian performers (Homan 2000; McLeay 2006; Milsom et al. 1986; Taylor 2020). In similar ways to Canadian arrangements, music policy must work with (or against) the tripartite system of Australian government, consisting currently of 537 local councils; six state and two territory governments; and a federal government. According to 2017 figures, the federal cultural budget represents 39.8 per cent of all national cultural funding, with the states at 33.7 per cent, and local government cultural spending at 27.3 per cent (Australian Government 2018). The divisions of responsibility are both regulatory and financial. Local governments can provide financial and administrative assistance to music venues and to individual music projects (including local music festivals), they can delineate busking areas and policies, and make local planning decisions and building approvals with considerable ramifications for noise complaints. The states oversee broad building, planning and dispute resolution procedures, as well as liquor licensing and gambling laws and they have greater capacity to fund specific projects. Federal policy sits across copyright and intellectual property, taxation, broadcasting, tertiary education and exports policy with a diminished ‘Arts Office’ and Minister with powers to fund a range of music programmes. However, ‘popular music’ federally remains in the shadows; opera and classical music retain the vast bulk of Australia Council for the Arts funding (Westbury 2010).1 Considerable overlap exists between powers: for example, recording and touring support programmes exist at both state and federal levels, while both local councils and states provide different forms of music venue assistance. The collective tiers have rarely been in sync in terms of aspirations and a consensus about the ‘right’ policy approaches. In this sense, music activities can be affected as much by other portfolios (broadcasting, education, urban planning, liquor licensing) as centred music ambitions and policy.

Australian Popular Music Policy

In the broadest of strokes, Australian music policy has been divided by political party ideology. For federal Labor governments, the Creative Nation (1994) and Creative Australia (2013) policy documents bookended an era which emphasized cultural nationalism, during which popular music played its part in national identity. Federal Coalition governments (Liberal and National Parties) have shared this to some extent, while also emphasizing ‘excellence’, and by extension, primary concerns with funding of classical and art musics (Breen 1999; Craik 2007; Homan 2013). However, in the past decade, these broader frameworks have become complicated by three ‘detours’ from both sides of politics. Firstly, increasing calls for the further internationalization of Australian music – particularly valuing greater exposure and prominence of artists overseas, as opposed to national prominence – are evident in policy documents (e.g. Vella et al. 2019). This reflects a subtle shift in descriptions of how the local population values and uses popular music; and greater concentration upon how valuable Australian sounds are in representing various forms of ‘Australianness’. Secondly, Coalition governments have been persuaded to embrace some forms of industry assistance previously forbidden, such as funding a national Live Music Office in 2013, and increased funding towards export activity. While such support has been grudging (Carter 2016; Crittenden 2016), partly because they reflected prior Australian Labor Party policy, it also acknowledges the need for the state to support other parts of the national ecosystem (even as they are still labelled ‘commercial’ activities within ‘free market’ dispositions). Third, it is no coincidence that successive federal governments, of different party affiliations, have shown increasing interest in industry policies, given the rise in ‘creative industry’ discourses since the 1990s (Cunningham 2004; Hesmondhalgh 2013a; Holden 2004). This presented a new ‘emphasis on there being those segments of the economy concerned with the generation of intellectual property … that is, of a shift in emphasis from aesthetic to economic goods and value’ (Luckman 2015: 344). Since the days of the Industries Assistance Commission report of 1976, the local music industries had been entertained by federal governments for their capacity to contribute to GDP (Homan 2013). The Australian music industries, then, were well positioned to promise economic returns on targeted state support. However, budget constraints wrought by the Global Financial Crisis, and successive conservative federal governments worried about ‘fashionable funding’ of popular culture (Brandis 2013), have in effect stalled more imaginative policy formation since the death of Creative Australia in 2014. While traditional support structures remain – such as federal touring and recording grants – increased impetus has come from more localized concerns, with acknowledgement that particular places of creativity warrant attention, beyond the highly aggregated national level. State governments have picked up the slack, seeing the promotional and economic benefits in selling their capitals as ‘music cities’: local music industries have emphasized their live music infrastructures as both the bedrock of local music economies and at the centre of thriving night-time economies (Arts Victoria and Deloitte Access Economics 2011; Beer 2011; City of Sydney 2013; Creative Victoria 2016). The shift to creative cities discourse in Australia has unfolded over decades. In 2004, Rise of

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the Creative Class author Richard Florida was invited to Melbourne to explore how the city could increase its economic and creative prominence; his chief recommendation was to capitalize on the existing music scene (Green and David 2004). However, the first ‘creative city’ report was for Brisbane in 2001 (Flew 2001). The differing extent to which respective local music industries have captured state government leaders’ attention is revealed in the opposing cases of Sydney (New South Wales) and Melbourne (Victoria), cities which have, since federation, competed for human, financial and promotional resources The introduction in 2014 in Sydney’s CBD of 1.30 a.m. ‘lockout’ and 3 a.m. ‘last drink’ laws (established by the NSW State government after several ‘one-punch’ assaults and deaths) provoked many venue closures, with one report claiming the laws to have cost the state an estimated $16 billion in revenue from domestic custom and tourism (Deloitte Access Economics 2019: 34; Homan 2017), and another study pointing to significant impacts on still operational music venues from reduced foot traffic (Ballico and Carter 2018). In 2018, the New South Wales Opposition Labor Party established a shadow Minister for Music and the Night-Time Economy, in part acknowledgement of the damage wrought by the earlier lockdown policy. In Victoria, the Labor State government announced a $22 million ‘Music Works’ package in 2015, including an acoustic soundproofing programme for venues, exports assistance, music heritage programmes, touring and funding for the Melbourne Music Vault, a local history exhibition eventually located within Hamer Hall at the Victorian Arts Centre complex (Creative Victoria 2016, 2017). This was deemed part of a wider State Creative Industries Strategy of ‘strengthening the creative industries ecosystem … to stimulate entrepreneurship and develop a stronger capacity to commercialise ideas and capture economic returns’ (Creative Victoria 2016). These initiatives have been accompanied by vigorous promotion of the city’s music credentials by peak advocacy body Music Victoria, with key music organizations (The Push, Music Victoria, Victorian Music Development Office) quartered in the new Collingwood Arts Precinct funded by the state government. The broader shift from creative nations to creative cities does not, however, invoke the end of the nation-state; as we examine below, ‘the nation’ still resonates across various areas. Yet as has been pointed out elsewhere, we are a long way from earlier ideas of ‘nationing’ as nation formation and nation-building, where both economic and cultural policy was more firmly tied to national identity politics (Rowe, Turner and Waterton 2018: 4). Instead, arguments for national benefit are won or lost upon singular industry initiatives and marketization; or worse, a fragmented situation wherein ‘[f]or politicians, there has been the consequent benefit of putting difficult decisions at arms’ length, while gradually assuming the status of a natural or inevitable process’ (Rowe, Turner and Waterton 2018: 10).

Media policy Broadcasting policy and related initiatives have been important, especially at the federal level, in the promotion of Australian music. In similar ways to Canadian settings, popular

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music has been part of a broader media social contract where ‘a minimum level of Australian content and other prosocial content regulations were the quid pro quo for a highly restrictive policy regime that entrenched the privileged position of incumbent commercial freeto-air broadcasters’ (Flew 2006: 293). This has translated over many decades into steady increases in local content quotas designed to ensure airplay of local (Australian) artists. For Australian radio, quota levels for commercial music stations (with exceptions for different genres outside of rock and pop) have risen from 2 per cent in 1942 to 25 per cent in 1999. Commercial radio has long seen quotas as an imposition on their business practices.2 Before imposing Code of Practice changes in 1999 on the amount of ‘oldies’ they could play, many stations fulfilled quotas by playing Australian hits from several decades past. The Report on the inquiry into the Australia Music Industry (Commonwealth of Australia 2019) reinforced the need to monitor observation of the Code, while stating that stations should regard the quota as ‘an obligation inherent in gaining access to the finite analogue and digital spectrum … In exchange for this privilege, commercial broadcasters have a responsibility to provide access to Australian music’ (Commonwealth of Australia 2019: 52). Local ‘obligations’ have been meaningful within the public broadcasting sector. The ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) has aired a range of TV programmes that have sustained local music industries. Six O’ Clock Rock (1959–1962), followed by GTK (Get To Know, 1968–1975), was a programme that reassured audiences that local artists were as important as the international talent. Given its popularity as ‘appointment programming’ for youth at 6 p.m. on Sunday nights, the unashamedly pop programme Countdown (1974– 87) proved vital in allowing local acts to develop national audiences, allowing bands to undertake more developed national touring for the first time (Milsom et al. 1986; Stratton 2006). For guitarist Red Symons, part of Skyhooks, one of the more successful acts in the 1970s, ‘If you were a Melbourne band … Countdown … made it possible to go and play [regionally and interstate] in Shepparton, Orange, Cairns’ (ABC Radio 2016). Fulfilling the absence of Countdown in different ways, the late-night Rage (1987–) has played an important role as a long-form video clip programme catering to national audiences either staying up late or arriving home late on weekends, with guest programmer spots that allow music industry identities to reveal their influences and, simultaneously, to promote key moments of Australian music and its histories (Giuffre 2018). The ABC’s establishment of a national youth radio platform has been arguably the most influential policy for the promotion of Australian talent domestically. Converting Sydney’s 2JJ programme to the national Triple J in 1989, the formation of a national youth station allowed a sense of connection between youth across city/rural divides, establishing a formidable and loyal audience (Albury 1999; Eltham 2009). Questions have always been asked about the station’s programming directions; and the monopoly-like powers of the network to break artists, with many arguing that without high rotation on Triple J, national tours are not feasible (Lancaster 2018). Building on the talent-search format developed by SBS TV’s ‘Pick Me’ programme, which had launched Newcastle (NSW) band Silverchair in 1992, the Triple J ‘Unearthed’ programme has successfully launched several domestic careers, including Missy Higgins, Killing Heidi, Grinspoon, Thelma Plum and REMI. ‘Unearthed’ now comprises a staged series of regional and city events designed to discover

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emerging talent, including a dedicated radio channel, and specialist competitions for high schools and for indigenous performers (Maalsen and McLean 2016). The nationwide audience of Triple J, combined with persistent activity in programmes like Unearthed and the ‘Hottest 100’ yearly poll of popular songs, along with its commitment to airing 40 per cent Australian content, has provided a vital R&D component that in some ways has replaced the earlier functions of youth music television. Radio, and in particular national radio, is vital to the viability of performers’ careers. Yet the supercharge of geographical range provided by radio play is unevenly available. Gender divisions remain within radio, with consequences for airplay and subsequent careers. A 2018 report, By the Numbers, revealed the continuing dominance of male artists in terms of airplay (across public, community and commercial stations), with similar patterns for artist awards, those studying music and royalties/wages (McCormack 2018). Community music radio (often music stations derived from education/university and other specialist community licences) maintains strong linkages between audiences and musicians, with a strong training component for ‘amateurs’ who later have commercial careers (Foxwell 2012). Recent surveys by the Community Broadcasting Association of Australia have found that ‘the top reasons Australians give for tuning in to community radio are specialist music programmes (34%) and Australian music (29%)’; and ‘no less than 37% of music broadcast on community radio is from Australian artists, well surpassing the Codes of Practice requirement of 25%’ (Community Broadcasting Association of Australia 2018). This includes AMRAP (the Australian Music Radio Airplay Project), an initiative established in 1998 to promote new Australian music on air and online (AMRAP 2021). Community radio works closely with local music scenes, typically confined to city and sub-city broadcast areas, but is underpinned by federal legislation introduced in the 1970s (Milesago 2021). If we consider copyright law and its relationship to Australia popular music, we encounter a set of concerns that are familiar both from broader media policy and from other geographic regions: Australian music industries have not been immune from global shifts affecting copyright, and over many decades have replicated other national industries in seeking protection of musicians’ (and recording companies’) intellectual property in light of technological shifts (McLeay 2006; Rowe 2001). This has included the (failed) 1993 attempt to impose a levy on blank cassette sales to offset royalty losses from copying; and a 1990 Prices Surveillance Authority report arguing for the introduction of parallel importing of recordings (removing exclusive national copyright) as a means to reduce the unusually high prices Australians had paid for CDs (over $20 per unit, not adjusted for inflation) as a result of national copyright conditions (Baker 1993; Breen 1992, 1999). In a much later era, after such concerns had been superseded by online distribution formats, the 2012 Convergence Review into the future of content regulation in Australia argued for a ‘converged content production fund’ that would allow Australian contemporary music (and other local creative producers) to offset the lack of visibility on global online platforms (Homan 2013). The various proposed solutions for the protection of musicians’ viability in the digital age point to the difficulties for Australian governments in fulfilling the broad ‘social

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contract’ in the age of truly global, networked media. How Australian musicians fare on Spotify, iTunes, Tidal, Soundcloud and other platforms is moving to the centre of national regulatory debates: At the moment there’s a small, finite number of curators who have got their hands on these [platform] playlists … but let’s use a benchmark for locally curated playlists … there’s an obligation. You’re in this territory; we need to ensure that there’s an opportunity for Australians to be heard. (Australian music body CEO cited in Vella et al. 2019: 120)

The governmental response in recent inquiries has been vague: streaming services should ‘publish clear, consistent, and transparent information regarding how payments for artists are calculated’ (Commonwealth of Australia 2019: iii); and there should be an air of ‘encouraging’ streaming services to work with the Australian music industry to establish benchmarks for Australian content on locally curated playlists (Commonwealth of Australia 2019: 56). In lieu of legislation, ideas of such ‘encouragements’ remain distinctly utopian. ‘Encouragement’ means that cooperation does not extend beyond the door of parliamentary enquiry discussions.

Indigenous policy Indigenous music presents a compelling example of nations being, as described earlier, simultaneously ‘imagined communities’ and boundaries with non-imaginary consequences. Colonization has wrought enormous influence on the lives of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people. Music is, of course, just one facet of this. But while indigenous Australians share many experiences within national boundaries, these subnational geographic areas correspond to differences in language and local histories that are of immense importance, analogous to ‘nations within nations’ (Dunbar-Hall and Gibson 2000; Gibson 1998). Federal policies have played a prominent role in the dissemination of indigenous popular music, in comparison to state or local government. The relatively large scale of federal influence can be attributed to the wide geographic distribution of indigenous people, and to their frequent marginalization from urban centres and performance spaces which state policies have tended to influence. Federally funded education centres and broadcasting initiatives such as Central Australian Aboriginal Media Association (CAAMA) and Centre for Aboriginal Studies in Music (CASM) were frequent features in the careers of indigenous performers active in the late twentieth century (see Gibson 1998, and examples in McFarlane 2017), suggesting that such organizations were important, even if they did not act to overcome other forms of marginalization. No Fixed Address, an indigenous rock and reggae band active in the 1980s, presents an interesting example of the intersections of institutions and policy layers. The band met and formed in 1979 at the Centre for Aboriginal Studies in Music (CASM), a federally funded study centre at the University of Adelaide established in 1972; their demo tapes were played by Adelaide community radio, itself a relatively new presence enabled by

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federal legislation; signing with multinational PolyGram, they appeared on Countdown in 1982, the first indigenous performers to do so. While their 1982 album was launched by Prime Minister Bob Hawke, singer and drummer Bart Willoughby later reflected that their message was uncomfortable for music industry decision-makers, because it was unambiguously political, and that this impacted upon his career (McManus 2017). Several high-profile songs in the 1990s have served as unofficial soundtracks to policy changes in the same era: Archie Roach with ‘Took the Children Away’; Yothu Yindi with ‘Treaty’; Paul Kelly and Kev Carmody with ‘From Little Things, Big Things Grow’, reflecting various policy flashpoints: the Mabo native title case (1992); and Stolen Generation enquiry (1996). This was augmented by different cultural works (e.g. the stage musical Bran Nue Dae (1990); Clinton Walker’s Buried Country (2000), a study of indigenous participation in country and folk music from the 1940s to 1990s). Nonetheless, veteran performer Kev Carmody was cautious about seeing increased recognition of indigenous performers in the 1990s: ‘I don’t see the floodgates opening for Aboriginal music, I really don’t. There seems to be a structural resistance in the industry’ (Kev Carmody, quoted in Mitchell 1993: 334). This comment proved accurate, although indigenous performers have continued to receive incrementally greater recognition, assisted by restructuring of the music industry, with smaller organizations and lower recording costs lessening the influence of individual industry gatekeepers. Skinnyfish Records, an independent Darwin label, was established in 1999 to record and promote remote indigenous performers. It released the solo debut album from Gurrumul (Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu) in 2008. An indigenous singer and songwriter from Elcho Island, Northern Territory, Gurrumul garnered both critical acclaim and significant sales in both national and overseas markets. The directors of Skinnyfish later reflected that online music sales, nascent at the same time as the label was established, had been helpful with offsetting geographical isolation and introducing indigenous performers to wider audiences (Lyons and McLaren 2019). While several indigenous performers have achieved a high profile nationally (Christine Anu, Yothu Yindi, Gurrumul), these have been the exceptions rather than the rule. Others (Briggs, A.B. Original, Thelma Plum, Mojo Juju) have constructed solid domestic audiences while producing politically charged albums. The Indigenous Contemporary Music Action Plan report (Cultural Ministers Council 2008) recommended working with Austrade to develop international marketing strategies for indigenous music, and aligning indigenous exports with the contemporaneous Commonwealth Strategic Contemporary Music Industry Plan. While this plan did not proceed, Sounds Australia has been active in showcasing indigenous artists at international events. Typically, these are performers who have established national audiences (e.g. A.B. Original, Baker Boy, Thelma Plum), where Sounds Australia assists in showcase events. In 2016, Sounds Australia established the position of First National Export Producer, to ‘provide decision-making, advice, engagement and guidance to Sounds Australia’s export strategy, ensuring cultural protocols and processes in promoting Indigenous artists internationally is practiced’ (Sounds Australia 2016). With increased federal funding in 2019 (Fifield 2019), Sounds Australia will continue to have capacity to assist exports of indigenous performers. In its submission to the federal enquiry into the Australian music

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industry, Sounds Australia stated that it intended to include indigenous performers at all international showcases (Commonwealth of Australia 2019: 63). A common theme of the many reports produced in the name of indigenous music production (e.g. the 2010 Song Cycles report, investigating barriers to indigenous participation and employment in music (Australia Council 2010)) is that that general social and economic disadvantage was fundamental to these challenges, indicative first, of a fundamental division in the Australian population; second, of a heightened interest in addressing this; and, third, of the very limited means for direct music funding programmes to overcome broader societal barriers to popular music participation. More recent additions to indigenous music organizations and policy (the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Music Office in 2008; and the $2.7 million Indigenous Contemporary Music programme in 2019) and commitments by state bodies to increase indigenous promotion (such as QMusic and Music Victoria) contain potential. In 2021, the landscape for indigenous popular music in Australia includes multiple organizations committing to increased indigenous representation, sitting alongside some de ja vu problems regarding barriers to participation.

Live music Live performance is a prominent feature in descriptions of Australian popular music, prominent in musicians’ accounts (e.g. Seymour 2008) and policy documents (e.g. Arts Victoria 2011; City of Sydney 2013; NSW Parliament 2018). Given that touring is rarely financially viable across the sparse and distant population centres, live music (most often, the neighbourhood pub/bar) can be sensitive to the prospect of local infrastructure deteriorating rapidly. Sydney in the 1990s presented the idea that these venues ‘vanishing’ was at least possible, even in a large city with a previously thriving infrastructure (Johnson and Homan 2003). Over several decades, different waves of reports and interventions have increasingly focused on live music as a city scale issue: that is, an issue primarily influenced by the use of city space. For example, the package of legislative changes passed by the New South Wales State government in 2020, which included licence discounts, music precincts and further streamlining of venue regulation (Live Music Office 2020), was designed to unpick multiple legislative hindrances found across multiple domains, with impacts upon use of city space (including planning, liquor licensing and building codes) that presented barriers to live music, especially in Sydney (Wardle 2008). These were underpinned by cross-party support for a contemporaneous vision of night-time economies focused less on containment and more on encouraging dispersed and varied entertainment options, achieved with the help of the federal Live Music Office. The relevant policies implicated in live music have attracted attention in periodic reviews and activism, evident in three broad stages. First, during the ‘policy moment’ described by Marcus Breen (1982–96), state and federal governments showed interest (for the first time) in popular music, broadly framed as a potential source of employment, export and tourism

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revenue, and as a youth activity. A report on live infrastructure, Stayin’ Alive (Ausmusic 1994), acknowledged that there had been considerable decline for live music in suburban pubs, but did not focus on live music as a competing use of urban space. The Ausmusic reports primarily recommended further training for musicians to navigate the changed market conditions (Ausmusic 1991, 1993; Breen 1999: 162–73). When expressing concern about the decline of a once lucrative live music circuit, high-profile industry participants looked to broader causes, such as broadcasting quotas, copyright and changing tastes (Casimir 1990; Jinman 1998; Scatena 1991). Second, the period of the late 1990s to the mid-2000s saw heightened focus on live music as a competing use of urban space. The live music sector sought to save particular venues from immediate threats relating to urban change: most notably noise complaints, but also the growth of poker machine gambling, and gentrification more broadly. Various taskforces and reports from this era sought to mediate the competing demands and ideals of residential amenity and the night-time economy, stopping short of positioning live music as inherently desirable (e.g. Burke and Schmidt 2012; Carbines 2003; Gibson and Homan 2004; Live Music Working Group 2001; Lobato 2006; Shaw 2005). Third, the era from 2010 to 2020 found state live music sectors pushing against inprinciple support for live music which had not translated to practical policy reform. There were two very high-profile waves of city-based activism against policies which framed live music as ‘risky’: the SLAM (‘Save Live Australian Music’) rally of 2010 (Homan 2010, 2011b); and Sydney’s ‘lockout laws’ established in 2014 (Homan 2017). Both provoked multiple reports which pointed to the broader social and economic benefits of live music (e.g. Creative Victoria 2017). Various strategic initiatives (such as the Victorian State government’s ‘Music Works’ programme) were no longer concerned primarily with saving existing music pubs, but also removing hindrances to new types of venues. This was significant in framing the live sector as an activity suited to active encouragement rather than just saving, although difficult to achieve in practice (e.g. NSW Parliament 2018). Patterns of growth and decline of live music in Australian cities add important context to why some issues have been of concern to musicians and venue operators at particular times. From the late 1980s through to the mid-2000s, live music sites did not decline in aggregate but became more concentrated in inner city areas. Musicians were increasingly acting in a DIY fashion, taking on the work of organizing live shows and recording themselves, rather than working with recording companies and booking agencies (Taylor 2016, 2020). Live venue increases tended to be located in the inner city, where pressures from gentrification and densification were more noticeable. In turn, perversely, the associated ‘buzz’ of the lively rock pub/club encouraged gentrification and new developments: a familiar story of creative industries contributing to but not benefitting from urban change (Burke and Schmidt 2012; Gibson and Homan 2004; Shaw 2005). In this context, it is not surprising that noise complaints were a prominent source of live music conflict from the late 1990s. The loss, or near loss, of famous venues (such as The Press Club in Brisbane, Governor Hindmarsh in Adelaide and Esplanade Hotel in Melbourne) provoked grassroots campaigns in different cities, led by passionate organizations such as FairGo4Live Music in Victoria, headed by venue owner Jon Perring, and Save The Music

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in Brisbane. The Queensland State government took a novel approach to managing noise complaints by enabling local councils to designate ‘special entertainment precincts’ in their planning codes, wherein standard noise and liquor licensing laws could be altered, a strategy of mediating conflict through zoning. The Fortitude Valley Special Entertainment Precinct was established by Brisbane City Council in 2004. This formed a spatially delineated exemption to normal noise complaint procedures within an existing inner city entertainment precinct. The precinct idea was not without its problems: concentrating music venues in one area; less variety of venue types; greater competition and, most obviously, less live music available elsewhere in Brisbane (Burke and Schmidt 2012; Rogers 2008). Nonetheless, the ‘entertainment precinct’ strategy removed the element of uncertainty, the core concern expressed by music venue operators with regard to noise complaints. In other states, the ‘order of occupancy’ principle was advanced as a way of defending venues against complainants who arrived after them, intended to also reverse the onus of responsibility for noise mitigation that was placed upon the venue. ‘Order of occupancy’ was inserted into the 2007 Liquor Act in NSW, to little obvious effect (Homan 2011a). However, Victoria’s establishment in 2014 of ‘agent of change’, first suggested in 2003 (see Carbines 2003), has greater potential for enduring change. Situated within the Planning Act, the new emphasis that the ‘primary responsibility for noise attenuation rests with the agent of change’ (venue or resident) (s.53.06) in changing either uses or conditions, places venues on a more equal footing with other urban development and uses. This legislative principle has since been replicated in Britain (Behr et al. 2020). Poker machines (a type of slot machine, known colloquially as ‘pokies’) were also briefly a concern for live venues, particularly in Sydney. Different distributions between respective states contributed to considerable variation in their impacts upon live music, especially when combined with other local differences (Taylor 2018). In New South Wales, the ban on ‘pokies’ in pubs was removed in 1997; virtually all hotels installed a small number of poker machines within a short period of time, in some cases replacing live performance entirely, in other cases continuing both within the same venue. This was a source of concern and awkwardness for live music participants already grappling with the pressures of gentrification (Johnson and Homan 2003). In Victoria, the trend was towards de facto segregation between pubs with large numbers of machines (‘pokies pubs’) and pubs with no machines at all. South Australia also quickly converted to ‘pokies pubs’, but with fewer pubs overall in the state, this contributed to a sense of rapid local live music malaise (Sutton 2015). As a policy issue at the time of writing, the ‘pokies’, and their concentrations in particular (working class) suburbs, are something of an embarrassment for state governments (Livingstone 2015), so that, in contrast to live music, few policymakers would publicly admit to wishing to promote their expansion. A proportion of revenue from poker machines is now directed towards the live music industry in some states (Elbourne 2013; MusicNSW 2007). Another governmental area related to risk management for state governments is liquor licensing. Since the 1970s, the rock pub – fuelled by healthy alcohol sales – has been at the centre of profitable suburban live music circuits (Homan 2008; Milsom et al. 1986; Taylor 2018). While there is some consistency in regulation between states – such as the legal

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drinking age and a general inheritance of British-style prohibitions on times and locations of alcohol consumption – there is great variation on other areas (trading hours, fire laws, ‘responsible’ service of alcohol, etc.). The national Live Music Office had done a great deal in bringing the different states into alignment on such issues (see Live Music Office 2021). After the repeals of six o’clock closing in most states in the 1950s and 1960s (Homan 2003; Oldham 2014), the most significant liquor licensing policy change in Australia was the Niewenhuysen Review and subsequent liberalization in Victoria in 1986–7. The Liquor Act 1987, based upon the 1986 Review recommendations, freed drinking beyond the pubs, relaxed regulations stipulating meals with drinks and modernized licence categories (Harden 2009: 81–97). For live music, opportunities increased in smaller venues, especially restaurants, cafes and small bars. Other states have belatedly sought to emulate the core elements of the Victorian ‘small bar’ model, particularly since it was not followed by increased per capita alcohol consumption or decreased licensing revenue, and was accompanied by a proliferation of trendy bars which were a selling point for the city (Beer 2011; Homan 2014). Coordinated by musician and lobbyist John Wardle (who would later manage the federal Live Music Office), a successful ‘Raise the bar’ campaign was initiated in NSW in 2007, which also saw the removal two years later of the Place of Public Entertainment (PoPE) requirements for hosting live entertainment (Burke and Schmidt 2012). Western Australia introduced a small bar licence in 2007, with South Australia following in 2014. In broader terms, live music advocates (venue owners, musicians, fans) have had obvious difficulties when arguing against policies and practices that frame it as a ‘highrisk’ activity through its association with liquor sales. Later policy successes have derived from pointing to the additional economic and social benefits of live music, and where high pedestrian foot traffic is an important aspect of a ‘safe’ night-time economy. For Sydney advocates, the substantial impact of the ‘lockout laws’ (2014–20) was eventually countered by the admission of the Conservative state government that the economic losses to the night-time economy were too great, even as it did not admit that the laws did not solve the initial problem (e.g. Ballico and Carter 2018; Homan 2017). For Melbourne advocates, Labor government insistence that venues were ‘anti-social’ and causing ‘alcohol-fuelled’ violence was countered by a coordinated campaign that revealed venues’ roles in city/state branding, especially within portrayals of Melbourne as a ‘liveable’ city; and the lack of evidence from the government that venues were a major inner city or suburban public order problem (City of Sydney 2013; Homan 2010).

Education In relation to national music education policy contexts elsewhere, Australia has been arguably slower in realizing reform. Yet Australian advocates have shared international goals, including working towards the ideal of music (and arts) education being universally accessible to all school children; and promoting its intrinsic and extrinsic benefits (Barrett

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and Westerlund 2017). Popular music has been part of global shifts in broadening curricula beyond classical and jazz forms, and recognizing hip-hop, pop, rock and other genres as part of young people’s everyday lives that also includes informal learning (Christopherson and Gullberg 2017). The usual problems of interstate governance with an additional layer of input from the federal government were finally and partially overcome in 2015 with a mandated national arts curriculum for use across primary and high school systems. Challenges remain in ensuring enough trained teachers to deliver the curriculum. The nation’s primary music education advocate, Richard Letts, foresaw various obstacles to the 2015 national agreement: there was a lack of university resources to train school teachers; the existing teacher population had few trained in music; state teacher accreditation did not include music competence and the recent federal emphasis upon numeracy and literacy testing for schools (the national ‘NAPLAN’ tests) would divert resources away from the arts in general (Letts 2015). Given that the earlier recommendations of a national review of school music education in 2005 had also been ignored, it was easy to argue that ‘music education has now been in the “too hard basket” for at least a generation of Australian students’, and that ‘[w]e continue to suffer a malaise in long-term governmental policy direction’ (de Bruin 2019). A 2020 study funded by the recording label and publisher Alberts emphasized (and reiterated) the central arguments regarding music education from the past thirty years. Its Music Education: A Sound Investment report argued for the recognition that ‘all children are musical’, with the need for early, sustained education from three to seven years’ length, with commensurate investment in quality teacher training and delivery (Collins, Dwyer and Date 2020: 7). Presently, access to quality music education was allied to class and income: Independent schools and large Catholic schools which have greater per-student funding and freedom continue to value music and this is believed to contribute to the sustainable delivery of exceptional music programmes. Government schools, various Catholic schools, and regional and remote schools are falling behind. The result is a user-pays system in which music education is regarded as a privilege rather than a right. (Collins, Dwyer and Date 2020: 51)

The report was silent on the role of popular music within pathways to various cognitive and development benefits. However, the assumed emphasis upon older discourses is briefly revealed: Instruments such as complex strings, wind, brass and percussion take years to master and require consistent effort, but it is this effort that will result in positive cognitive development. Simpler instruments such as ukuleles, simple percussion and recorders are great starting or gateway instruments to the more complex instruments. (Collins, Dwyer and Date 2020: 7)

An important national initiative (which has also proved to be a tool for advocacy) is the Music: Count Us In programme. Facilitated by music education advocacy body Music Australia since 2005, over 3,500 schools participate in learning the same song, to be collectively performed on ‘National Celebration Day when more than half a million students

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sing the same song, on the same day, at the same time – the annual programme Song’ (Music Australia 2021). However, in 2021 federal government funding for the programme was withdrawn, ‘due to their decision that these funds should go directly to schools for them to disperse as they see fit via their performing arts budget’ (Music Australia 2021). This has meant the programme operates on a ‘“User-Pays” model’, with a low fee attached to each participating student to be organized by each school (Music Australia 2021). A significant increase in music industry education over the last decades is also evident, ranging from private providers, such as JMC’s Bachelor of Entertainment (Business Management, to the TAFE (Training and Further Education) sector, such as Box Hill Institute’s Bachelor of Applied Business in Music Industry, to universities, such as RMIT University’s Bachelor of Arts (Music Industry). This comprises a complex ecosystem for industry training, comprising different state regulators mandating basic competencies and content; music industry stakeholders with some input into broad course design; aspiring students; and a rich mix of institutions governed by different traditions, cultures and bureaucracies. Like related sectors in other nations, there are ongoing associated debates, for example, about the types and extent of WIL (Work Integrated Learning); and how to teach aspects of ‘entrepreneurialism’. Less tangible meanings of ‘creativity’ confront increasingly popular promises (including by universities) to offer both students and industries ‘real-world’ learning and opportunities. In addition, the rise in the music industry education sector has accentuated longer conflicts between older industry veterans who argue that industry/business skills and instincts cannot be learned, and those who believe that greater formalization of career paths and knowledge is beneficial to the industry (see, for example, Dyce and Smernicki 2018). Interviews with both Australian educators and industry figures for one recent research project have revealed difficulties in teaching to set curricula (including newer emphases upon digital/marketing skills); and, beyond agreed professional skills, the roles/ responsibilities of institutions in turning out graduates with ‘resilience’ (O’Hara 2021).

Organizations We have already noted some of the complexities related to three tiers of governance, and the more recent trend of states’ arts funding approaching federal allocations. To this we can add the rise in industry organizations, who exist with or without state approval and funding. All states and territories now possess a collective body (usually co-funded by industries and state governments) tasked with advocacy for musicians, venue owners and other related stakeholders, and with oversight of some funding programmes: e.g. WAM (West Australian Music); MusicNSW; QMusic (Queensland); MusicNT (Northern Territory). In turn, each state body is a member of the national network AMIN (the Australian Music Industry Network). Such organizations have largely succeeded in presenting a more unified stance to their respective governments, serving (ideally) as a means for local issues to be filtered up to Arts Ministers. It is also a natural progression, if we consider, first, the ongoing shift from arts policy to creative industry policy, where industry concerns

Australian Popular Music Policy

are receiving an appreciative hearing from the state; and second, the high visibility of city contexts driving wider national policy. The floundering of the federal music initiative in the 1990s (Ausmusic) can be contrasted with the shared momentum of multiple state, local government, and grassroots city organizations in the twenty-first century: balkanized but, incrementally, more impactful. This is not solely an Australian experience – similar organizations certainly exist in other nations and regions – but the mix of stakeholders can become interesting in particular debates and issues. The viability of live music venues is a useful example to consider here. Led by the ‘Agent of Change’ noise laws argued by Music Victoria, states have successfully implemented noise law reforms. Yet the work by state-level advocacy bodies tells only part of the longer history, if we consider the local activism of FairGo4Live Music led by venue owner Jon Perring in the early 2000s; and SLAM (Save Live Australian Music) led by studio owners Helen Marcou and Quincy McLean, with reputations for providing unvarnished advice to policymakers (see, for example, SLAM’s 2010 protest rally in Homan 2016). Nationally, the strength of calls for change has been reinforced by AMIN engagements with different sectors and governments. The Federal Live Music Office, established in 2013, was a further force for change, harnessing expertise of regulatory mechanisms and detail to enact some standardization of noise reforms, in effect creating league tables of venue reforms across and between states. The national copyright body, APRA AMCOS, has also consistently advocated for taxation and other assistance to music venues as another important voice in arguing that venues are the basis of local music economies (APRA AMCOS 2021). It also works in partnership with other organizations on a range of initiatives, such as the federal Live Music Office to achieve reforms of New South Wales legislation relating to live music, and with the Australia Council to support the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Music Office. The relative success of organizations and campaigns to ‘fix’ the sustainability of music venues has been made easier by the happy coincidence of shared views by the state and industries about the economic worth of the live sector. Yet this has also reflected better strategies by these organizations in presenting (often alternative) evidence to governments, and in demanding better flows of policy discussions between stakeholders. Further, it has reflected a greater confidence in arguing beyond economic concerns, and for broader community/city benefits from music. There is evidence of similar ‘joint tickets’ by multiple organizations in other areas, such as copyright, where there is a shared and consistent call for rights and income protections. This is not to say that disagreements don’t occur; however, the rise in such organizations does point to a new model of policymaking (and power broking) that has to some extent filled the gap left by the lack of federal music policy.

Conclusion At the time of writing, in an era when popular music in particular cities and its distribution online are afforded much greater attention than in the late twentieth century, we can observe how Australian national boundaries continue to impact upon popular music in

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two key ways. First, there is the basic geography and demography of Australia. Isolated from other nations by sheer distance, and sparsely and unevenly populated within, every musician in Australia, sooner or later, faces this fundamental logistical challenge. Second, the tripartite system of government allocates some key areas of music policy to the federal government – broadcasting, copyright and trade – but leaves a gamut of residual powers to the states. The differences in policies (such as liquor licensing, gambling and planning) have led to considerable variation in working and living conditions for musicians. In lieu of a coherent national music policy, many policies indirectly related to music, handled by state and local governments, have assumed greater importance. Over time, musicians have noted the differences between cities and states, and have often moved to particular cities where conditions are easier, or, more recently lobbied for local changes that mimic better results seen in other states (notably, in the trend towards the small bar licensing system begun in Victoria in the 1980s). Within the different levels of funding (federal, state and local), priorities are constantly split between competing values – of ‘excellence’ versus ‘accessibility’; and individuals versus infrastructure – as well as being underwritten by the fundamentally small amount of money available, relative to the barriers of distance and isolation. The features of local live music scenes that are most praised (local placemaking and accessibility for many performers) are seldom in keeping with the priorities of federal funding, which have understandably tended to prioritize national identity rather than specific cities or suburbs, and to fund individuals and individual programmes (through the contestable criteria of ‘excellence’), rather than the generalist infrastructure of small- and medium-sized live music venues. In its idealized narrative, local music infrastructure provides the accessible ‘breeding ground’ for performers, who may then graduate to greater geographic scales of distribution (national, international) with federal assistance. In practice, the relationship has always been more tense: federal funding is provided to a limited number of performers, based on criteria that are subject to some dispute. Indirect federal government assistance (such as television and radio quotas and copyright laws) has also been uneven, with national gatekeepers like Triple J holding make-or-break powers of national airplay. One of the central problems of music policy in Australia, then, remains the lack of a national cultural policy on popular music. To borrow from another national context, federal policymaking remains a ‘series of initiatives, rather than a coherent policy’ (Williamson, Cloonan and Frith 2003: 133). Music organizations have filled the gap in coherent policy to some extent; and tracking various restructures of respective music organizations, both within government and advocacy and lobby groups, provides insight into the shifting policy priorities. Recent funding to ameliorate the impacts of Covid-19 reinforced, for some, the prevailing belief that federal government help for music and creative industries is usually belated and reluctant (see, for example, Morrow and Long 2020; Caust 2020). As a reminder of the impact of tripartite government in Australia, which has historically seen great variation in local conditions relating to state-level powers like liquor licensing and gambling, the Covid-19 restrictions impacting live music venues have been uneven across respective states. As a recent example of the importance of multiple industry and advocacy

Australian Popular Music Policy

organizations on the policy landscape, a long list of organizations (including but not limited to AMIN and its affiliated state and territory peak music industry bodies, Sounds Australia, the Australian Festival Association and ARIA) has supported the Australian iteration of the ‘I Lost My Gig’ (2021) platform, tallying the outcomes of Covid-19 restrictions on performers. Within this present context, national policy continues to take shape on the fly. However, a national framework that coherently links different spheres of governance and industry remains elusive.

Notes 1

2

This remains a source of contention for the popular music sector. The Australia Council also informed the Australian Parliament Inquiry into the Australian Music Industry in 2018 that applications to music programmes far exceed the funding available, leading to ‘a high proportion of unfunded excellence’ (Commonwealth of Australia 2019: 81). From May to October 1970, radio stations stopped playing the majors’ local output after recording companies proposed charging for the supply of content.

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14 More than dots on maps: Locating live venues in the German music policy framework Niklas Blömeke, Jan Üblacker, Johannes Krause, Heiko Rühl and Katharina Huseljić

Introduction Music policy is in a constant process of iteration between policymakers from a wide range of sectors. In recent years, live music associations and industry professionals seemed eager to demonstrate their sector’s economic value. Beyond this, research from various disciplines provides insights into the social and cultural values attributed to live music and their implications for live music policy (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014; Flath, Behr and Cloonan 2019; van der Hoeven et al. 2021). Live music venues can be regarded as crucial institutions, not only in terms of their important role in the (live) music industry but also in terms of their social and cultural function within their music ecologies (Behr et al 2016; Holt 2020; Rühl et al 2021; van der Hoeven and Hitters 2019). Unsurprisingly, recent studies highlight the increasing relevance of cultural policy in general and live music policy more specifically, especially for small- and medium-sized venues (Behr, Brennan and Cloonan 2014b; Webster et al. 2018) and especially in times of crises (Banks and O’Connor 2021; Meyrick and Barnett 2020). So far there is no detailed policy analysis of the German live music sector. Hence, the aim of this contribution is to introduce the policy framework around live music venues in Germany. We do this by focusing on the specific players, policies, legal regulations and support schemes. To understand the German live music policy framework the different administrative and political levels have to be taken into account. Thus, the ‘Live music venues’ section illustrates the German federal system. Narrowing down to the field of live music policy, this structural description is complemented by the evolution of live music associations described in the ‘New players’ section. We then provide detailed information on the regulation and funding

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structures in Germany emphasizing the most discussed legal framework conditions and most important national funding schemes in live music policy. A case study on the city of Cologne is used to further illustrate the complexity of live music policy in Germany. The final section of the chapter is dedicated to a synopsis of recent and ongoing developments in live music policy. It features programmes in relation to the Covid-19 pandemic as well as general approaches, instruments and agendas.

Live music venues in German multilevel governance The Federal Republic of Germany is structured in a federal way, which means that there are (at least) three levels that have to be considered with regard to policies relevant to live music venues: the federal level (Bund), the Länder level (Bundesländer) and the municipal level (Kommunen). Due to the Grundgesetz (basic law, the German constitution), the Länder have far-reaching rights in the cultural domain; for example, a general competency for cultural affairs (the so-called Kulturhoheit, cultural sovereignty). Nonetheless, there are initiatives and institutions in which the Bund and all sixteen Länder coordinate their activities, for example, the Standing Conference of the Ministers of Education and Cultural Affairs of the Länder in the Federal Republic of Germany (Kultusminister-Konferenz, KMK). In terms of cultural affairs, the main task of the KMK is to enable the cooperation of cultural institutions, as well as the cooperation of educational and scientific institutions. Because of the general competency for cultural affairs on the Länder level, the KMK can only define broad guidelines which have to be implemented into concrete policies by the Länder and respective municipalities. This mixture of responsibilities for cultural policies makes the German system relatively complex and leads to a patchwork of regulations and funding which varies between the Länder. Another aspect exemplifying the complexity of cultural policy within the political sphere is the allocation of political responsibilities for cultural affairs within the ministerial structure of each Land.1 When newly elected coalitions form a government, they have the right to decide how subject areas (e.g. culture, economics, urban development, integration) are bundled in the ministries. Thus, the specific combination of policy fields reflects political directions and standings within the government, which is typically represented in the ministry’s name. In Hessen, cultural policies are resolved in the Ministry for Higher Education, Research, Science and the Arts (under the leadership of CDU2), while North Rhine-Westphalia has a Ministry for Culture and Science (independently led). In Thüringen, the Ministry for Culture also comprises departments for European and federal affairs (under the leadership of Die Linke). The municipal state of Hamburg concentrates cultural affairs in the Council of State for Culture and Media (under the leadership of SPD). Berlin has a Senator for Culture and Europe (under the leadership of Die Linke). Lower Saxony has a Ministry for Science and Culture (led by a CDU minister). The range of partypolitical representatives also results in different policies and responsibilities. Consequently,

More Than Dots on Maps

the variation of responsibilities, which compile in different ressorts (‘departments’) stems from the relevance of culture within the administration of the Land and can as well be seen as an indicator of the organizational skills of the cultural players in that Land. The diversity of responsibilities for cultural policy continues at the municipal level. Much like the Länder ministries, the policy competencies of the Dezernate (departments on the municipal level) are not uniform and can be reorganized with every legislative period. Culture can be located at the Dezernat for social affairs and culture (for example, in Münster), at the Dezernat for sports and culture (for example, in Bonn) or the Dezernat for culture and tourism (for example, in Dresden). Each of these Dezernate supervises the local cultural office (Kulturamt) as well as museums, public theatres, local archives and libraries. The reason for disparities in municipal administration is rooted in the German constitution reinforcing the principle of subsidiarity and granting each municipality a right to self-governance. In addition, some cities like Bremen or Stuttgart created so-called Popbüros (‘pop offices’) that are supported with budgets of economic departments. Usually they have different legal forms (like public–private partnerships) and thus operate more independently from the municipal administration. As a consequence, there is great variety between municipalities across the country concerning political emphasis on certain subfields of cultural policy, the importance of independent scenes versus established actors, funding opportunities, administrative contact persons and possibilities to influence local policies. With regard to support programmes for live music venues, the multilevel administration is not the only factor that contributes to the complexity. Usually, owners of live music venues can approach both economic and cultural ministries for funding. The fact that live music venues can apply to two ministries for funding means that both ministries tend to reject applications, each referring to the responsibility of the other. As a consequence, there is no central body that provides and implements a universally applicable funding guideline. Political framework conditions are very diverse due to federal, Länder and municipal conditions. From a practical point of view, the municipal level is particularly important because professional networks between local politicians and cultural professionals are established due to the spatial proximity. In comparison, the Länder level has traditionally been less relevant (and accessible) for live music venues although it is gaining significance recently. In this context, different local, regional and federal live music associations were founded and articulate needs engaging in policy discourses in a wide range of topics. That is why the next section is dedicated to these associations that entered the stage of music policy and do not have a long tradition in Germany.

New players, new policies? The emergence of live music associations in Germany To reconstruct the spatial and temporal development of formal organizations of the German live music sector we conducted website research and contacted experts in the

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branches. The following description refers to a part of live music venues that are organized in formal associations (usually with the legal form of incorporated associations or registered societies). Other less formal networks (e.g. online groups or regulars’ informal meetings) or established associations from the sphere of jazz music or sociocultural centres are not covered. The latter have a longer history dating back to the 1950s, and have a slightly different status and perspective which they often highlight, separating themselves from pop cultural live music clubs and venues. Most of the associations portrayed in this section do not only represent live music venues and clubs but also have festivals, promoters and agencies among their members. Our research led to a total of nineteen associations across Germany, from which nine are on the Länder level, including the municipal states Berlin, Bremen and Hamburg. Eight are on the municipal level and one on the national level (see Figure 14.1). The oldest associations are both from southern Germany and were founded in 1989. A noteworthy development is the substantial increase of associations since 2010, which ranges across all policy levels and led to the regional spread of associations. There are two factors that might serve as an explanation for the professionalization of the sector. First, from 2010 many German cities were confronted with increasingly tense housing markets that put development pressure on previously unused or underused land (Rink and Egner 2020). New build developments on former industrial brownfields and gentrification confronted venue operators with new problems such as noise complaints and displacement pressure. Second, after the Love Parade tragedy in July 2010 (see below) many industry professionals observed an increase in safety concerns and regulations. Both of these developments required venue operators to professionalize and form political representations. This professionalization was supported by the European live music association Live DMA (founded in 2012) and the evolution of the Reeperbahnfestival to a regular conference and meeting point for professionals across the branch since 2008. In 2019 the live music sector in all larger German cities is organized in associations. The only exceptions are the cities of the Ruhr region (namely Bochum, Dortmund, Duisburg, Essen) and Länder with smaller cities such as Rhineland-Palatinate or SchleswigHolstein. In addition to the increasing number of associations, there are two other federal developments that underline the relevance and political recognition of live music in Germany. With the foundation of the Initiative Musik in 2007, the conservative German Commissioner for Culture and the Media, Bernd Naumann (CDU) created a federal infrastructure that promotes and supports the German music industry. The initiative is a cooperation of the federal government and the music business (see below). Moreover, the parliamentary forum, ‘club culture’, was founded in February 2020 by a cross-party initiative of five members of the federal parliament to preserve and support live music clubs in Germany. This forum serves as a place for exchange between politicians and associations. Members of the forum work on applications and statements. While the forum has an informal character, their position is much noticed in both politics and the media.

More Than Dots on Maps

Table 1.2  Live music associations in Germany. Association

Policy level

City

State

Founded

Kulturring Karlsruhe e.V.

local

Karlsruhe

Baden Württemberg

1989

Verband der Münchener Kulturveranstalter e.V.

local

Munich

Bavaria

1996

Klubkomm

local

Cologne

North-Rhine Westphalia

2010

Kulturliga Nürnberg e.V.

local

Nuremberg

Bavaria

2012

Clubs am Main Frankfurt e.V.

local

Frankfurt am Main

Hessen

2012

Clubkollektiv Stuttgart

local

Stuttgart

Baden Württemberg

2013

LiveKommbinat Leipzig e.V.

local

Leipzig

Saxony

2014

Klubnetz Dresden

local

Dresden

Saxony

2012

Eventkultur Rhein Neckar

regional

Mannheim

Baden Württemberg

2012

VPBay

Länder-level

Alteglofsheim

Bavaria

1989

IMPULS/ LAG Soziokultur Brandenburg

Länder-level

Potsdam

Brandenburg

1996

PopKW

Länder-level

Rostock

MecklenburgWestern Pomerania

1999

clubcommission

Länder-level

Berlin

Berlin

2001

clubkombinat

Länder-level

Hamburg

Hamburg

2004

Kulturwerk MV

Länder-level

Rostock

MecklenburgWestern Pomerania

2010

Clubverstärker

Länder-level

Bremen

Bremen

2013

Klubnetz

Länder-level

Hannover

Lower Saxony

2015

livekomm

national

Hamburg

Hamburg

2012

Regulating and promoting live music venues in Germany As live music venues are commercial enterprises, gastronomies and bars, meeting places, concert halls, places of cultural creation and talent development at the same time, they face a variety of regulations including zoning, sound protection, tenancy, labour and employment, licensing and audience safety. However, this multifunctionality as well as

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their cultural and social purposes makes them eligible for funding and support from policy areas that go beyond the possibilities of a ‘regular’ economic enterprise. The following section discusses the most controversial topics in terms of regulation in Germany.

Key fields of regulation Music venues and clubs face a wide range of challenges in different sectors (van der Hoeven and Hitters 2020). In the policy context there are two areas that seem particularly important. First of all, live music venues and clubs are under a lot of economic pressure, especially in growing and dense cities and their gentrified areas; it can be increasingly difficult for club owners to operate their businesses without funding (Rühl et al. 2021: 69). In addition to rising costs, many venues are located in districts that see drastic changes in residential development. As a consequence, noise complaints and other issues with neighbours seem to occur more frequently. Second, regulatory conditions are often described as very restrictive (Davyd et al. 2017; Parkinson et al. 2015) and industry professionals demand extensive ‘red tape’ reductions reminiscent of the times of greater opportunities and an absence of bureaucracy after the fall of the Berlin Wall in the 1990s. But after the Love Parade tragedy in Duisburg in 2010 the public, political and professional discourses have seen an increase in calls for stricter requirements for events with big audiences. Twenty-one people attending the Love Parade died from suffocation and hundreds were injured due to mismanagement in the planning and production of the parade. The event is permanently cancelled, and its tragic 2010 edition still affects both event organizers and administration. It can be regarded as a collective traumatic experience whenever safety issues are discussed in relation to cultural events that attract audiences outdoors and indoors. While regulations for live music venues in Germany are generally complex, it is important to keep these specific historical developments in mind. In general, there is no such thing as a distinct German live music policy but a wide range of regulatory fields. Depending on the context, they are subject to general or very specific provisions. Moreover, the sixteen Länder of the Federal Republic make use of their rights to install their own legislation in some fields. The following section discusses key areas of live music policy in Germany.

Zoning law The Baunutzungsverordnung (BauNVO) is an ordinance regulating land use on premises. As a federal law, it affects planners, administration and music entrepreneurs in every German municipality. It specifies the permitted land use, defining areas as commercial, industrial or residential districts. In addition, the BauNVO provides a framework defining which types of buildings can be erected and operated in the respective areas. According to current law, music clubs are considered Vergnügungsstätten (‘places of amusement’). Although a recent resolution in the Bundestag (the federal parliament)

More Than Dots on Maps

seeks to change that, music clubs continue to be bundled in one category together with brothels, discotheques, gambling halls or strip clubs, banning them from certain areas in cities. Classifying music clubs strictly as institutions of amusement not only refuses to acknowledge their cultural relevance but also reflects the general dichotomy in the wider cultural discourse in Germany in which culture is often considered either ‘E’ or ‘U’, Ernst or Unterhaltung; serious art or entertainment, high or lowbrow (Rösing 2018: 16). Regardless of this categorization, the BauNVO does not leave any scope for decision-making for local administration when evaluating openings of new music clubs and live music venues in certain areas.

Sound protection and noise issues The so-called TA Lärm (technische Anleitung zum Schutz gegen Lärm, a technical manual for noise protection) was developed as an administrative regulation manual in the context of the Federal Emission Control Act (Bundes-Immissionsschutzgesetz, BImSchG). Among other environmental issues, it sets different benchmarks and guidance levels for a variety of sound emissions such as construction sites, traffic and other acoustic noise (like music). Club owners and music professionals often lament the fact that the TA Lärm does not distinguish between noise and other acoustic sound waves. In addition, the instructions on how and where to measure noise (or music respectively) can be challenging noise complaints within dense neighbourhoods. In many cases, volume is measured on the outside walls or windows of buildings close to the music clubs. In a lot of cases, it is not the music itself that exceeds the threshold but the noise of the visitors entering and leaving the venue. These regulations typically favour those who complain about noise because club owners are obliged to establish sound protection to be allowed to continue to operate their business. German law prescribes a Rücksichtnahmegebot (a requirement for consideration) that regulatory authorities must enforce. In general, residential functions often take precedence over other land uses in mixed-use areas, which also affects workshops and small industrial uses within building blocks. Due to this asymmetry in negotiations, mediation between neighbours and club owners can be very challenging.

Commercial tenancy law German commercial tenancy law is fundamentally different from housing tenancy law and offers less protection for (commercial) tenants. Whereas landlords have little room in private housing contexts when it comes to raising rental prices or terminating rental agreements, commercial business owners are not granted the same rights. As a consequence, live music associations keep red lists of venues at risk and often report alarming cases of short-term notices of termination, especially in urban contexts and gentrifying areas. Addressing this problem, the foundation Bundesstiftung Livekultur was established in March 2020. It seeks to support music clubs (and festivals) by acquiring land and/or buildings and thus taking them out of speculation.

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Licensing for hospitality businesses In order to be allowed to sell alcoholic beverages, live music venues need a permit (like any other business in the hospitality industry). The so-called Gaststättengestz (Hospitality Act) therefore applies in the same way it does for bars or restaurants. It is rooted in the jurisdiction of the Länder but only nine out of sixteen Länder have their own Gaststättengesetze. Hence the federal Hospitality Act is applicable in seven Länder. It is in close interplay with the Jugendschutzgesetz (Youth Protection Act) to prevent under-age customers from the consumption of alcohol. When opening a new venue, those who will operate the business are required to prove their overall reliability. This does not only include tax arrears or criminal records but also (former) alcohol and drug abuse. Provisions concerning curfews have been loosened over the last decades. As a result, Hamburg and Berlin do not impose a curfew at all and in most bars or clubs there is a curfew between five and six in the morning. Once businesses are approved, they receive their Konzession (‘permit’) which states details on business hours, especially when there are indoor and outdoor areas.

Audience safety Depending on the size of the music venue, club owners need to consider different regulations to ensure the audience’s safety. Unless a venue’s capacity is below 200 people, most provisions are regulated in the Versammlungsstättenverordnung (Ordinance on Places of Assembly), and this applies for all sorts of locations where audiences gather (including trade fairs or festivals for example). After the Love Parade tragedy in 2010, industry professionals observed an increase in safety concerns in administration. Before opening a venue, club owners need to hand in drafts and floor plans with detailed information on emergency exits, positions of fire extinguishers, escape routes and other safety precautions. At the municipal level, administrative departments called Bauordnungsamt and Ordnungsamt evaluate and approve these plans, in a lot of cases at the same time as evaluating general licensing.

Initiative Musik: National funding programmes Discussing funding schemes and programmes for live music institutions in Germany is challenging due to the multilevel perspectives that need to be taken into consideration. The Länder highlight their general competency for cultural affairs (see section 2) which makes it difficult for federal institutions to offer extensive funding programmes. As a result, one can observe disparities between different Länder. The so-called Stadtstaaten (federal city states) have developed dedicated funding schemes. Berlin, Hamburg and Bremen – the three city states – consequently emerged as outstanding examples for music cities. There

More Than Dots on Maps

is a wide range of funding schemes on the municipal and Länder level. Due to the limited space in this contribution, we refrain from discussing them here and focus solely on national contexts. On a national level, the Initiative Musik is the largest and most important organization responsible for funding and supporting pop culture including jazz. Founded in 2007, it is the promotion and export office for the German Federal Government and the music industries. Its main sponsor is the Federal Government Commissioner for Culture and the Media; but it is also subsidized by other government departments, and the Deutscher Musikrat (German Music Council), GEMA (German collecting society for music authors, Germany’s equivalent to ASCAP, PRS for Music, SACEM or APRA) and by GVL (the German collecting society for music copyright). Besides supporting artists with sponsorships or grants for recording and touring, Initiative Musik also offers funds for infrastructure, networking events and exchange. The two suspended programmes Digi-Invest (funding digital technology) and TE-SA (funding technical upgrades and renovation) were dedicated to supporting live music venues. In 2020, Initiative Musik launched a new funding instrument for live music venues, Live 100. It is designed to help ‘grassroots’ venues pay (small) fees for support acts and local talent. Music clubs receive €100 for artist fees and another €100 for their own expenses. Initiative Musik also honours music clubs with its annual award Applaus (established 2013) and Deutscher Jazzpreis (established 2021). Music venues’ applications are reviewed by a jury of music business experts. Depending on the venue’s programme (i.e. its amount of shows promoted in the year before), winners are paid up to €50,000. Since its first edition in 2013, the Applaus award has been given to more than 500 music clubs to reward exceptional live music programming.

Case study: Live music policymaking in Cologne This section illustrates the interplay between local live music associations, urban planning and municipal administration and their embeddedness in multilevel governance and legal regulation by using the city of Cologne as a case study. Situated in Western Germany close to Belgium and the Netherlands, Cologne is the fourth largest city with around 1.1 million inhabitants (City of Cologne 2021). As with many other major German cities, Cologne has experienced a rapid rise in land prices and rents since 2010, resulting in inner city gentrification, development of brown fields and an increasing competition of different types of land uses (Leßke and Üblacker 2020). The city’s administration comprises ten departments (Dezernate). Department VII entitled Arts and Culture supervises the Cultural Office (Kulturamt) with a subunit for popular culture and film. Departments VI (Planning and Construction) and IX (Urban Planning, Economic Affairs, Digitalisation and Regionality) are equally important when analysing the specific live music policy framework in Cologne.

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Klubkomm, Cologne’s live music association, was founded in 2010 and currently represents around 100 members, mostly music venues and clubs but also local promoters and festivals. Klubkomm engages in different fields ranging from legal assistance, support in acquiring funding to training staff. In addition, they have their own podcast series and operate their own app, Klubköln, mapping and promoting clubs and venues in the city. Klubkomm members promote around 8,000 concerts and live events per year. In 2016, Klubkomm commissioned a research project portraying the sector’s economic and cultural impact in the region (Rühl 2016). In 2014, Klubkomm supported a campaign to save one of its most prestigious members, the Gebäude 9. Located on a former factory site, Gebäude 9 has promoted shows since 1996. With a capacity of around 500, it is one of the busiest and well-known music venues, attracting both national and international artists. When new plans for the residential redevelopment of the area, a former industrial site, emerged, Gebäude 9 was threatened due to conditions placed on noise protection that a music club could not fulfil. The plans to transform the premises caused an outcry among music fans, club-goers, music professionals and local politicians who were campaigning for the local elections at the same time. Within only a few weeks, the plans were revised. The municipal Director of the Department for Arts and Culture advocated for its preservation and asked the Director of the Department for Planning and Construction to reconsider the original decision. A mediation between administrative staff, municipal politicians, the developer and the venue operators paved the way for an integrated approach in the redevelopment of the premises. In May 2014, the urban development committee approved a modified resolution preserving Gebäude 9 with its current cultural use under planning law. The plans were adapted accordingly, taking into account noise protection measurements. These events can be seen as a turning point in live music policy in the city of Cologne. Although in 2017 another established music venue, Underground, had to close after almost thirty years in a similar case of redevelopment, municipal administration, Klubkomm and other stakeholders intensified exchange and cooperation culminating in an extensive study promoting the preservation and expansion of creative spaces (Dewey Müller 2020). As a result, the city’s administration has formed three working groups on the topics of (i) urban development and real estate strategies; (ii) planning and approval basics; and (iii) conflict management to facilitate internal processing. This expresses a move away from dealing with individual cases as local authorities work to remodel their internal competencies and tasks. Taking inspiration from local, national and international best practice cases, the city of Cologne compiled a catalogue of measures and instruments for integrating creative spaces into urban planning. The strategy list is technical and comprises a total of twentyfour measures in five policy domains (and that is why only a few exemplary measures from the first two domains can be portrayed in this chapter). The first domain relates to urban development emphasizing real estate and planning. The idea is not only to make public properties available for cultural use at a reduced price, reflecting welfare-oriented urban development, but also to obligate investors and developers to plan for creative spaces at an early stage. Municipal departments are currently developing indexes to indicate a need for creative spaces. If the erection of new

More Than Dots on Maps

buildings displaces existing creative spaces like music venues or art galleries, these lost spaces need to be compensated. The city of Cologne plans to set up municipal, non-profit urban development agencies to help negotiate between authorities, investors and local artists or cultural entrepreneurs. The second domain focuses on an integrated planning concept which aims to include creative workers in strategic planning as early as possible. Under this guideline, municipal planning shifts towards a more proactive approach. By mapping the city’s cultural institutions, creative spaces and fallow land, municipal authorities initiate a process that systematically favours creative spaces. In line with a proposal in the German parliament (see below), music clubs and venues are re-classified as cultural institutions, granting them not only a new status but also a way to be considered differently in planning processes. In a remarkable interpretation of federal law, the municipal authorities pave the way for an experimental adaptation of the ‘agent of change’ principle (which is actually not compatible with German law). Certain urban zones can be categorized as Sonstige Sondergebiete (‘other special zones’), an open category in zoning law which leaves a lot of room for manoeuvre for the respective authorities. Other measures include the support of existing and new networks for exchange, municipal management of temporary use, marketing and PR, or mediation services. What is striking is that most of the measures can be assigned to urban development. The case of Cologne illustrates that municipal authorities have a logic of their own, depending on their department, but are willing to cooperate under a precise guideline. Although an ongoing process can hardly be evaluated, it can be noted that administration and politics started to consider voices and needs that were not heard to the same extent before.

Recent developments in Germany’s live music policy discourse The outbreak of the Covid pandemic in early 2020 had a huge impact on different social fields and economic sectors. This section illustrates recent changes in the policy discourse and the measures that were taken in response to the challenges concerning live music (venues) in Germany. Regardless of fighting Covid, the live music policy discourse had already been under the influence of different upheavals in legislation and jurisdiction. That is why this section outlines non-pandemic developments and new approaches in cultural policy before presenting Covid-related measures and aid programmes.

Tools and integrated approaches in live music policy In light of general European developments like the Leipzig Charter (BMI 2020) or concepts such as the ‘creative’ or ‘music’ city (Barber-Kersovan, Kirchberg and Kuchar 2014), live music policy is subject to shifting paradigms and approaches. Bolstering integrated urban

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development, the Leipzig Charter aims to give guidelines and principles for national, regional and local authorities. Consequently, the live music policy discourse picks up and processes emerging topics such as sustainability and aspects of welfare as well. In August 2020, an initiative of various actors and organizations published a joint statement urging policymakers and municipal administration to consider culture in urban development (Livekomm 2020). Their demands and arguments became even more important due to the impact of the Covid-19 pandemic, which challenged live music venues and sociocultural venues beyond the problems of gentrification and unbalanced funding policies. Due to Germany’s federal structure (as discussed above), actors and organizations from different Länder proposed different strategies to meet both old and new problems, two of which are presented as examples in the following section, which also discusses a motion for a resolution in the Bundestag to modify legislation in a way that classifies music clubs as cultural institutions.

Club-Kataster: A planning tool in urban development Berlin and Hamburg pioneered the implementation of the Club-Kataster (‘club cadastres’) as a tool in urban development. The idea is to integrate needs from the sphere of club culture in planning and urban land use at an early stage. Following official standards in cartography, the Club-Kataster helps to map the current location of music venues in cities. In the case of Hamburg, it automatically transfers data to the Landesbetrieb für Geoinformation und Vermessung (State Office for Geoinformation and Surveying). As a result, authorities not only have access to this data but integrate it into planning processes, facilitating dialogue and trade-offs before conflicts of interest arise.

Schallschutzfonds: A municipal fund for noise protection In late 2018, the Berlin Senate commissioned the local live music association Clubkommission to design a programme to improve noise protection around music clubs and venues. Identifying noise complaints as a serious problem in Berlin’s dense neighbourhoods and quarters, the Senate intends to mitigate or avoid conflicts in this matter. With an allocated budget of around €2 million, a jury decides which applications can be accepted for funding expertise and reports on potential measures. The city of Hamburg installed similar procedures for maintenance and renovation measures in the context of noise protection.

Bundestag resolution: Re-classifying music clubs In May 2021, the Bundestag (the federal parliament) approved a motion for a resolution to modify the Baunutzungsverordnung (Land Use Ordinance). According to the resolution, music clubs are categorized as facilities for cultural purposes, granting them the same

More Than Dots on Maps

status as opera houses or theatres. This groundbreaking, cross-party decision urges the federal government to present a legislative proposal that accepts music clubs and venues as integral elements in culture. Specifically, members of parliament expect the Federal Ministry of the Interior, Building and Community to develop innovative and culturally sensitive solutions in the context of noise protection in cities. This initiative is mainly driven by the Parlamentarisches Forum Clubkultur (the parliamentary forum for club culture), the informal union from different parliamentary groups and political camps that had already delivered an open letter to the relevant federal minister, Horst Seehofer, in July 2020, demanding an amendment to the law in this matter.

Covid-related actions and aid programmes In May 2021, the German Bundestag published a report on the impact of the measures fighting the Covid-19 pandemic on cultural life in Germany (Bundestag 2021). Although both the Bund and the 16 Länder developed cross-sector and sector-specific support programmes, artists and cultural entrepreneurs suffered from the health protection

Table 1.3  Federal Covid-related aid programmes in Germany. Programme

Funding Period

Sector

Calculation Principle

Soforthilfe

March & April 2020

Cross-sector

Lump sum up to €25,000

Überbrückungshilfe I

June - August 2020

Cross-sector

Up to 80% of fixed costs

Überbrückungshilfe II

September December 2020

Cross-sector

Up to 90% of fixed costs

November- & Dezemberhilfe

November & December 2020

Cross-sector (mostly culture, gastronomy, retail and travel)

Up to 75% of turnover in the previous year

Überbrückungshilfe III

November 2020 June 2021

Cross-sector

Up to 100% of fixed costs

Kurzarbeitergeld

March 2020 December 2021 (simplified access)

Cross-sector

Up to 87% of salaries of employees

Sofort-Programm Neustart

May & June 2020

Culture-specific

Up to €50,000 (hygiene measures)

Neustart Kultur

July 2020, ongoing

Culture-specific

Dependent upon music venue/festival capacity and purpose

Sonderfonds

July 2021, ongoing

Culture-specific

Insurance/closing financial gaps for shows & festivals

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measures in a way that cannot be fully compensated. These findings fit with the scepticism music club owners expressed in a survey with regard to recovery from the impact of Covid (Rühl et al. 2021). This section presents instruments and programmes launched to help the cultural spheres. All of them have proven to be relevant in live music policy, although not all of them have been designed to help the cultural and creative industries specifically. Figure 14.2 lists the largest federal programmes and can be regarded as an update to an earlier analysis of aid programmes in Germany (Dümcke 2021).

Cross-sector aid programmes When imposing the first shutdown in early 2020, the Bund and Länder developed the Soforthilfe (‘immediate aid’) programme. Companies from all sectors could apply for financial support. Depending on the number of employees and their liquidity shortage, they were granted up to €25,000 to cover expenses. With the ongoing crisis, the Bund soon established Überbrückungshilfe I–III (‘bridging aid’) helping businesses from the summer of 2020 onwards. All three editions of Überbrückungshilfe are complex and depend on individual business figures. The amount of financial support can vary over time and between different businesses as different indicators were considered for different periods of time (for instance, the decline in turnover in 2020 compared to 2019). So far more than 200,000 businesses made use of the third edition of Überbrückungshilfe designed to sustain businesses from January to June 2021 with an estimated budget of €18 billion (BMWI 2021). When the second wave and shutdown hit the culture and creative industries in November and December 2020, the Bund launched yet another relief programme called November- und Dezemberhilfe which aimed at helping those sectors that were most affected by the second shutdown. With aid worth around €7 billion, this programme especially helped businesses in the performing arts, club owners, tour promoters, booking agencies as well as the hospitality industry. Another instrument to prevent crisis-induced unemployment is the so-called Kurzarbeitergeld (‘short-time working allowance’). Kurzarbeitergeld is not a new programme but has been used by businesses during different crises in the past to limit the impact of recessions. Businesses and their employees can agree to reduce working time and pay for a certain period of time. Using the budget of the federal unemployment insurance system, the state makes up for most of the otherwise lost wages. This mechanism applies only to employees subject to social security contributions and therefore does not benefit freelance staff who often make up a significant proportion of the production team working in music clubs and venues.

Live music-aid programmes On the federal level, live music policy has seen two culture-specific programmes. The largest, Neustart Kultur (‘restart culture’), comprises funding of €2 billion. Addressing different cultural actors and institutions, Neustart Kultur holds sixty programme lines for

More Than Dots on Maps

several cultural sectors ranging from cinemas, theatres, libraries to museums, festivals and clubs. In the field of music (performance) Neustart Kultur supports artists, authors and music clubs alike. Funded by resources of the Federal Government Commissioner for Culture and the Media, the two institutions GEMA (the collecting society for music authors) and Initiative Musik (the federal music promotion and export office) coordinate two components of Neustart Kultur. Initiative Musik helps music clubs and festivals to execute musical performances under difficult logistical or financial conditions. The budget of around €100 million can be used only for programme-related costs and seeks to close the gap in production costs in case of audience capacities’ restrictions (Initiative Musik 2021). In addition, the budget of €69 million allocated to GEMA can be used for investments in infrastructure, improving hygiene and safety of audiences and artists. GEMA is tasked with the stabilization and preservation of the musical landscape in Germany (GEMA 2021). These funding programmes are unique in the history of the Federal Republic of Germany. The Covid-19 pandemic hit the cultural industries hard, especially the performing arts. Usually, all cultural affairs fall within the remit of the Länder. But in times of crises, the Bund is the only political entity with the fiscal power to provide the scale of budgets needed to cushion the immense economic impact. However, the Länder did develop their own strategies and programmes. A large part of these programmes address freelance artists and entrepreneurs with one-off payments or scholarships.

Conclusion and outlook The aim of this contribution was to describe and characterize the policy framework of live music venues in Germany. First and foremost, it became clear that the policy framework reflects the federal structure of the country. Although federal institutions are important, especially in interplay with regulation and funding, a live music venue’s daily business is deeply affected by municipal policymaking processes. Much of the policy framework’s complexity is due to the multifaceted nature of references and a fragmented landscape of responsibilities that can leave novices puzzled. Analysing live music policy in Germany is not limited to strictly cultural issues but has important ties to planning and urban development domains. Seeing live music venues as vulnerable stakeholders exposed to gentrification and urban development processes in cities is not a new phenomenon, neither in Germany nor in other countries. But by depicting and situating live music venues in various relevant policy fields, the quality and quantity of linkages to urban policy domains are striking. In contrast, rural areas and smaller cities with less competitive structures are neglected in the current policy discourse. Regardless of the governance level or spatial contexts, the Covid-19 pandemic has not only hit the live music industry hard but also affected the entire policy discourse around live music venues. Support from the public sector is at an all-time high, with billions of euros allocated to live music venues. In Germany, most of the programmes set up by

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federal institutions and live music professionals have long lamented the lack of support from the Länder level. With all the problems emanating from the Covid pandemic, it will nevertheless be interesting to observe the long-term impact of the crisis. There are indicators of a paradigm shift in legislation and a change in attitudes towards live music venues that could in turn change their regulation and funding in the future. With a resolution put forward in the German parliament to re-classify live music venues as cultural institutions, it seems the live music industry could benefit from the momentum of the discourse in order to receive more appreciation and recognition and to initiate fundamental legal amendments that could be game changers in the future. Live music venues’ concerns have never been seen as more legitimate than now. Most policymakers do not question their eligibility for funding any longer, putting a preliminary end to normative discussions arguing about the cultural and social values of these spaces. Future research could pay more attention to aspects of the policy discourse to identify similarities and differences between political parties, municipalities and governance levels, in particular with regard to funding and other support requirements. Interdisciplinary research projects could further investigate the intensifying interplay in the policymaking processes on the municipal level, particularly with regard to new needs in the future once problems around urban planning are resolved. Furthermore, empirical research should examine the long-term consequences of the corona-induced lockdown and the long road back to ‘normal’ business. This may also help to develop targeted policies to support live music venues.

Notes 1 2

The results presented in this chapter were compiled in summer 2021. The following abbreviations for political parties are used: Christian-Democratic Union (CDU), a conservative, centre-right party; Social-Democratic Party (SPD), a social democratic party, centre-left; and Die Linke, a left-wing party.

15 From national identity to the well-being of future generations: Popular music within devolved Welsh policymaking between 1999 and 2020 Luke Thomas and Paul Carr

Introduction With a particular focus on policy initiatives designed to intervene in the development of Wales-based musicians, this chapter surveys the changing position of popular music within Welsh policymaking during the process of Welsh devolution (1999–2020). Drawing upon key texts, reports and Welsh policy developments that emerged during this period, a ladder of publicly funded support mechanisms emanating from Welsh policy is identified.1 Politically, in its role as a Western component of the UK, ‘Wales has historically been reliant on London government’ (Hill 2007: 12). However, as illustrated in Figure 15.1 (Murray 2020), the Welsh devolution process began when the National Assembly for Wales was created as a result of the narrowest margins in the devolution referendum of 1997. In 1999, the Government of Wales Act 1998 came into force and the National Assembly for Wales began work, though the powers provided to it were ‘limited and closely prescribed’ (Drakeford 2005: 497). And, ‘Even with the establishment of the National Assembly for Wales in 1999, very few matters concerning domestic political life in Wales [were] determined on her own soil’ (Hill 2007: 12). The National Assembly and the Welsh Government were formally separated in 2007 following the Government of Wales Act 2006, where the National Assembly gained increased powers to make laws for Wales in defined areas. However, as noted by Murray (2020), it was not until 2011, when the people of Wales voted in favour of granting the National Assembly additional powers, that Wales became able to pass its own laws without

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requiring the case-by-case agreement of the UK Parliament. As outlined in Figure 15.1, in May 2020, the National Assembly became known as the Senedd. At present, Wales remains a ‘stateless nation’,2 though many areas of public policy including education, town and country planning, aspects of the creative industries, culture, tourism and economic development have been devolved to the Welsh Government. While other areas such as broadcasting and copyright remain reserved to Westminster, it is clear that Welsh policymakers do have the potential to influence the popular music experience in a number of ways. Foremost, as illustrated in Figure 15.2, the devolution

Figure 15.1  Murray’s (2020) Welsh devolution process diagram.

Figure 15.2  A snapshot of the flow of public funding in devolved Wales (1999–2020): Opportunities for policymakers to support Welsh popular music.

Popular Music within Devolved Welsh Policymaking

of some strands of public funding means that Welsh policymakers have been able to support, develop and finance popular music as they see fit. Indeed, McElroy et al. (2017) explain that devolution means that policy is no longer the preserve of the state. Rather, devolved governments – including the Welsh Government – now have greater influence in using the arts to express national identity, further attempts at nation-building and pursue goals of autonomy. Furthermore, there has been a global shift from ‘cultural policy’ to ‘cultural industries policy’ (e.g. Behr and Brennan 2014; Cunningham 2008; Frith and Cloonan 2008; Homan et al. 2016), where popular music has changed from being treated as ‘a matter of social or cultural concern’ (Frith and Cloonan 2008: 189) to being treated as ‘a matter of economic concern’ (Frith and Cloonan 2008). As a result, government policymakers across the world, who would initially have questioned whether or not to encourage popular music, are now asking ‘how and by how much [?]’ (Homan et al 2016: 276). The growth of creative industries discourse,3 and shift away from viewing the arts as cultural activity towards treating them as part of the creative economy, occur in the same time frame as the devolution and evolution of Welsh policymaking. Understanding that policies are formulated in order to ‘achieve precise cultural, economic or political ends’ (Homan et al. 2016: 4), Carr (2010: 280) has suggested that Welsh policymakers must strive for balance between culture and economy if they are to ‘facilitate the environment through which […] performers and composers can flourish’.4 This chapter explores how Welsh policymakers, as ‘gatekeeper[s], curator[s] and agenda-setter[s] of popular music policy’ (Homan et al. 2016: 202), have positioned popular music within their policymaking throughout the last twenty years.

Welsh popular music policy timeline (1999–2020) As part of Thomas’s PhD research (2021), a timeline of Welsh popular music policy and initiatives following the creation of the National Assembly for Wales in 1999 was collated. Given the complex mix of bodies that contributes to the development and sustenance of arts and culture in Wales (see Figure 15.2), the timeline documented postdevolutionary developments within the Welsh Government and the Welsh Assembly, as well as developments within government-sponsored bodies such as the Arts Council of Wales and Welsh Local Authorities. The timeline primarily served as a list of key policy documents and initiatives, making it possible to highlight case studies for the PhD study, while understanding their position and significance within the wider picture. Initially, it is acknowledged that Ap Siôn (2009) and Carr (2011) have already broadly documented Welsh popular music policy developments occurring within the first decade of Welsh devolution. Therefore, this chapter’s documentation of the first half of the timeline largely draws upon and reiterates what was written in previous reports. In comparison, the second half of the timeline is considered to be under-explored. The narrative that

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accompanies the second period therefore treads new ground, where it becomes evident that the breadth of governmental support for Wales-based popular musicians has widened significantly.

First term (1999–2003): Labour/Liberal Democrats Coalition government In the early years, direct references to ‘music’ within the Welsh Assembly itself were rare, and much of the conversation that took place centred around the music provision of local authorities. According to Braithwaite (2011) and Carr (2018), the reorganization of local government which took place in 1996, when an initial eight Welsh counties were split into the twenty-two unitary authorities of today, meant that ‘smaller [local authorities] found it difficult to sustain the previous level of music provision’ (Braithwaite 2011). Additionally, Carr (2018: 3) explains that funding for local authorities was further stretched, with ‘central budgets now being delegated to schools’, meaning that extracurricular music activity was under even greater threat. In 1999, the then–secretary of state for Wales, Alun Michael, reacted to this by initiating the Music Development Fund, which was established with funding from the Welsh Assembly Government and the Arts Council of Wales. Braithwaite (2011) and Carr (2018) describe how £8 million was distributed to local authorities’ music services over four years, specifically aimed at financing extracurricular activities. The Music Development Fund was ring-fenced until 2003, before being extended for a further year (2004–5) on a reduced budget of £1.9 million. However, given that the funding was no longer ring-fenced for music, local authorities ‘began charging for instrumental lessons in increased numbers’ (Carr 2018: 4). Access to musical tuition in Wales therefore became a ‘post code lottery’ – ‘depend[ent] on where you live and whether you can or cannot pay for lessons’ (Braithwaite 2011). In 2000, Rhondda Cynon Taf County Borough Council established its SONIG Youth Music Industry programme. This Arts Connect5 initiative was set up in order to support the personal, learning and career development needs of young people (aged 8–25 years) with diverse skills and backgrounds, and residing in the region. Initially commissioned by Rhondda Cynon Taf County Borough Council, and later funded as part of the Welsh Government’s ‘Families First’ initiative, it aims to support young people in reaching their potential through developing confidence, self-esteem and raising aspirations. Some of the programme’s aims centre around enabling young people to create original music, participate in rock and pop, and learn about and access the music and creative industries. It also aims to provide support and ongoing development for individuals and bands already involved in the local music scene (Vale of Glamorgan 2019). This programme later provided the foundation for the Young Promoters Network (2021) and Forté Project (2018) initiatives. Also in 2000, the Welsh Music Foundation was established via a grant from the Welsh Development Agency.6 Later core funded at £160,000 per year by the Welsh Government as part of its strategy for the creative industries,7 the organization acted as the Welsh music

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industry development agency for the next fourteen years. Aiming to ‘assist, promote and advocate for a sustainable music sector’ (Cerdd Cymru 2013), its work encompassed all areas of the music industries in Wales where an economic or sustainable focus was either developing or established. This included working with recording studios, rehearsal rooms, record labels, managers, live venues, festivals and musicians – ‘regardless of genre or language’ (Cerdd Cymru 2013). It involved offering information and advice through seminars, e-bulletins, mentoring sessions, research projects, professional development, promotion, networking opportunities and international trade missions. It also offered the music sector ‘a voice’ (Cerdd Cymru 2013), by representing its interests to policymakers and partner organizations in Wales and the UK. As discussed later in the chapter, despite positive reviews (Hargreaves 2010), the Welsh Music Foundation closed in 2014 after losing its Welsh Government funding.

Second term (2003–7): Labour government While the industries-focused support of the Welsh Music Foundation continued into the Assembly’s second term, it is evident that the Welsh Assembly Government also began to embrace popular music within its Welsh language strategy. This materialized through the Welsh Language Board (replaced by the Welsh Language Service in 2012), which was established in 1993 to administer the Welsh Language Act 1993. Formerly accountable to and funded by the Welsh Office, it became answerable to the National Assembly under the Government of Wales Act 1998. Initially receiving annual government grants of £13 million, later increasing to £40 million (Welsh Language Service 2020), the Board’s main aims have been to ‘make it easier for everyone to use Welsh in all walks of life; to increase people’s confidence in their ability to use the language; to encourage more people to speak, read or write it in new situations; and to pass on the language to their children’ (Welsh Language Service 2020). In order to achieve this, it has offered core and project funding to a range of organizations to ‘promote and facilitate the use of the Welsh language across communities in Wales’ (Welsh Language Service 2020). These organizations have included Mentrau Iaith Cymru (Wales’ Language Initiative), Urdd Gobaith Cymru (Welsh League of Youth) and Eisteddfod Genedlaethol Cymru (National Eisteddfod of Wales). Ap Siôn (2009) explains that support for Welsh-language popular music has been driven by such partnerships. Indeed, it is evident that during the Assembly’s second term, the Welsh Language Board enabled a series of popular music initiatives to emerge. Firstly, Ciwdod – a longterm partnership between Community Music Wales and the Welsh Language Board was initiated in 2004, ‘dedicated to increasing involvement in Welsh-language music making’ (Community Music Wales 2020). This included providing recording opportunities for Welsh-language bands and artists and supporting them with their first releases. Acts such as Radio Luxembourg, Derwyddon Dr Gonzo, Plant Duw and Yr Ods are cited as examples of musicians who have benefitted in this regard. Ciwdod has also provided grassroots

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support for those interested in Welsh-language music through ‘a variety of workshops and mentoring sessions’ (Community Music Wales 2020), covering aspects of the music industries including ‘promotion, marketing, management, [and] design’ (Community Music Wales 2020). This strand of support has been delivered both independently and as part of Ciwdod’s partnerships with the BBC and S4C, which have enabled the annual Taith C2 school tours. Ap Siôn (2009) documents the mechanics of the school tours which took place between 2004 and 2006. The first tour, for example, reached 20,000 young people in sixty primary and secondary schools during an autumn term. The aim of these tours was ‘to promote a more widespread use of the Welsh language amongst young people’ (Ap Siôn 2009: 21). Ap Siôn describes their impact: These tours appeared to confirm the lack of awareness towards Welsh [language] popular music amongst young people, but also showed that they were very responsive to new experiences and reacted positively to performances. This in turn was reflected in increased audience ratings for S4C programmes aimed at young teenagers, such as Planed Plant (Kids’ Planet). Likewise, Radio Cymru monitored hits to their youth website C2 before, during and after the tours, and noted substantial increases. (Ap Siôn 2009)

Writing more broadly about the impact of popular music initiatives enabled by the Welsh Language Board, including the Welsh Music Foundation’s Dan y Cownter project, Ap Siôn (2009: 23) states that they have ‘fostered positive responses towards the Welsh language and increased its general use, [evidenced by] increased audience figures on Welsh television, radio, and Internet sites’. As well as increasing the use of the language, it is noted that the Board has ‘played an important role in funding the Welsh music industry [by] raising awareness of the Welsh music scene, increasing community activity, promoting the development of the industry, and planning and coordinating activities’ (Ap Siôn 2009). It is arguable that this is simply a positive by-product of the language strategy for the industry, as opposed to being a central aim. As discussed in more detail later in the chapter, aside from the Welsh Music Foundation and the Welsh Language Board, there was a distinct lack of government support for popular music in Wales during this period (Ap Siôn 2009; Carr 2011; Hargreaves 2010). In fact, Ap Siôn stated that ‘activities relating to Welsh popular music [were] more likely to receive institutional support through language-related initiatives than music ones’ (2009: 68). This emphasizes just how important the Welsh Language Board’s initiatives were in terms of developing Welsh-language popular music at the time. Significantly, this also informs our understanding of how popular music was positioned within Welsh policymaking. It is clear that it was considered to be valuable in its contribution to fostering the Welsh language, but perhaps also suggests that it was not yet being fully embraced as a sector of the creative industries. Finally, as noted earlier, the Music Development Fund closed at the end of 2005. Following its final year, music educators and musicians tried to ‘persuade the Welsh Government to redress the decline in financial support for music’ (Braithwaite 2011). This included a letter sent by thirty-two of Wales’ prominent musicians to the First Minister on

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10 March 2006, calling for a National Music Manifesto and the restoration of the Music Development Fund. However, this was unsuccessful.

Third term (2007–2011): Labour/Plaid Cymru Coalition government The Assembly’s third term proved to be pivotal in the context of Welsh popular music policy due to significant changes that took place at both the level of the Welsh Assembly Government and the Arts Council of Wales. A series of academic reports emerged during this period, providing the first significant reflections on developments in the field, and informing the aforementioned changes. Ap Siôn’s (2009) Building New Business Strategies for the Music Industry in Wales focused largely on Welsh-language popular music policy, while Carr’s (2011) report for the Welsh Music Foundation, Investigating the Live Music Industry within Wales: A Critical Analysis, provided a more holistic examination. These reports were complemented by Hargreaves’ (2010) broader review of Welsh creative industries policy for the Welsh Assembly Government, which was published in between the two. Hargreaves’ (2010) report, The Heart of Digital Wales: A Review of Creative Industries for the Welsh Assembly Government, has proven to be particularly influential in the years since its publication.8 It reflected upon developments instigated by the Welsh Assembly Government’s Creative Success: A Strategy for Creative Industries in Wales, which was published in 2004. Of the strategy itself, Hargreaves (2010: 6) wrote that it ‘set out to accelerate the growth of creative businesses in Wales by selective public investment in creative businesses on commercial criteria, improved training and by more expert and better targeted business support […] building upon Wales’ strengths in creative sub-sectors such as music’. Overall, Hargreaves was critical of the strategy, writing that it had ‘failed to establish a sufficiently coherent strategic approach’ (Hargreaves 2010: 1), remaining a ‘work in progress’ (Hargreaves 2010: 6). Hargreaves outlined that the strategy’s key activity had been the introduction of a £7 million Creative Intellectual Property Fund in May 2005, ‘designed to secure work for Wales and its creative businesses […], providing appropriately skilled business support for creative industries and better targeted training and education’ (Hargreaves 2010: 11). Also acknowledged by Carr (2011), Hargreaves (2010: 19) described the fund as ‘better suited to the film industry than television, music or digital media’ with ‘investments in music remain[ing] non-existent’. In the report’s recommendations, Hargreaves (2010: 19) suggested that the Creative IP Fund should be replaced with ‘a new and broader Creative Industries Fund […], accessible to all digital media industries’, including music. It is suggested that the Creative IP Fund’s long-term equity investments of between £50,000 and £700,000 were not suited to music, and that the new fund should ‘be designed in a way to ensure that it makes an impact on the music industry’ (Hargreaves 2010: 42), therefore including ‘some form of small grant/

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seed grant programme’ (Hargreaves 2010). Hargreaves (2010: 41) stated that this ‘would enable well timed support to be made available, for example to a small label seeking to break a band into the touring circuit or to achieve a distribution deal’. Immediately reacting to the Hargreaves (2010) review, the Welsh Assembly Government appointed a Digital Wales Advisory Board and Creative Industries Sector Panel in the same year. Hargreaves (2010: 55) suggested that a new ‘Creative Industries Strategic Hub’, guided by these panels, should ‘connect to an increased number of sub-sector spokes’ (Hargreaves 2010) – including one for music, operated by the Welsh Music Foundation. The report also stated that the hub should ‘oversee all of the Assembly Government’s creative industries work, including [the] proposed new Creative Industries Fund’ (Hargreaves 2010). Reflecting upon the Hargreaves recommendations, Carr (2011: 9) suggested that this was a good opportunity to ‘explore the means through which it is possible to empower musicians and live music enterprises’ at a time when many participants in the industries had given Carr ‘the impression that they reach a plateau in their career, after which they either change career or move out of Wales’ (Carr 2011: 10). Despite these developments, the Welsh Assembly Government’s creative industries policy – beyond its continued funding of the Welsh Music Foundation (until 2014), and new Major Events Unit9 – would not begin to directly and positively intervene in the Welsh popular music industries until nearly ten years later. This is discussed later in the chapter. Until this point in the timeline, it is also evident that the Arts Council of Wales had not embraced popular music within its funding programmes (Ap Siôn 2009; Carr 2011). Carr’s (2011: 9) report stated that there was ‘room for improvement’ in this area, arguing that popular music’s superior economic contribution, when compared with classical and opera musics for example, justified increasing its funding allocation: Popular Music can be seen to clearly represent the most significant contribution to the Welsh economy, a fact that begs the question why it is described as ‘Other’ and attracts so little funding […] there is still no exclusively funded popular music included in its [The Arts Council of Wales] ‘Revenue Funded Organisations’ (RFOs), which are still dominated by the BBC National Orchestra of Wales and Welsh National Opera. (Carr’s 2011: 1–2)

However, the Arts Council of Wales’ Investment Review in 2010 – outlined in Renewal and Transformation: Building a Stronger Future for the Arts in Wales (Arts Council of Wales 2010) – highlighted this imbalance and suggested that it would be addressed (Carr 2011). Indeed, responding to the Hargreaves (2010) findings, the Arts Council of Wales (2010) stated: the vast majority of our investment in music is channelled into opera and classical music […] It’s an imbalance we wish to address. Our challenge is to find a credible and practical approach to the development of non-classical music. (Arts Council of Wales 2010: 29)

As such, the Art Council of Wales (2010) highlighted three recommendations within the Hargreaves (2010) review which it intended to explore in conjunction with the Welsh Assembly Government: (a) a re-drawing of the Welsh Assembly Government’s IP Fund to

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provide smaller or seed-investment funding (micro loans) as part of a package of support, which would include appropriately expert business support service; (b) examination of the case for well-judged public support for popular music events in Wales (such as the Green Man Festival) and (c) research into the physical infrastructure (e.g. music rehearsal rooms) to see if existing facilities should be enhanced and/or extended. Further to these commitments, the Arts Council of Wales (2010) set out a series of new funding programmes that would be distributed from early 2012. These included a new Festivals Fund, and a Music Industry Development Fund. The latter, which had ‘a specific brief to invest in the development of professional performance opportunities, investment in musicians, composers, research, training and business mentoring’ (Arts Council of Wales 2010: 31), was described as a potentially ‘important support mechanism for the Welsh [popular] music industry’ (Carr 2011: 31). As discussed below, this has proven to be the case. Heavily influenced by the Hargreaves (2010) review, developments in Wales within this period reflected the global shift towards creative industries policy. As a result, the Welsh popular music industries were brought more clearly into the minds of Welsh policymakers than ever before, greatly benefitting Welsh popular musicians.

Fourth term (2011–16): Labour government As suggested above, it is evident that the Hargreaves (2010) review began to shape governmental support for popular music in Wales during the Assembly’s fourth term – particularly at the level of the Arts Council of Wales. Further to the introduction of its new funding programmes during this period – the Festivals Fund, and the Music Industry Development Fund – the Arts Council of Wales struck up a strategic partnership with the BBC to support emerging popular musicians through its new Horizons schemes; and the Wales Arts International arm of the Arts Council of Wales began to accept International Opportunities Fund applications from export-ready popular music acts. This clear incorporation of popular music within the Arts Council of Wales’ funding strategy demonstrated a significant shift, in which it embraced creative industries policy, and came to view popular music as both worthy and in need of support for the very first time. This is outlined in one of the Music Industry Development Fund’s guidance documents, where the Arts Council of Wales states: We’re interested in culture in its broadest sense and the central role it plays within our everyday lives. So we want to support music in Wales beyond the traditional genres such as the orchestral and operatic repertoire. The music industry in Wales needs to grow and develop. The traditional investors in contemporary music talent (the record labels) are no longer able to support the development of this talent. (Arts Council of Wales 2018b: 1)

The Music Industry Development Fund, which was originally introduced in the Renewal and Transformation (Arts Council of Wales 2010) document, has remained open for

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applications ever since. It aims to develop a sustainable and vibrant music sector in Wales by investing in projects and new ways of working that can support band and artist careers at crucial points in their development. The Arts Council of Wales (2018a) explains that ‘we want to support bands and artists who create original music and are at a “tipping point” in their career, or support projects led by music enterprises or organisations where there is a clear benefit to a “tipping point” band or artist.’ As this description suggests, the programme is split into two strands: a Music Industry Development Fund for Creative Professionals and the Music Industry Development Fund for Organisations. The Music Industry Development Fund for Creative Professionals enables artists to apply for funding packages of between £250 and £5,000 to develop their careers and welcomes applications ‘from artists who create original music and are at a “tipping point”’ (Arts Council of Wales 2018b: 2). Given that the fund aims to enable applicants to ‘break through to the next level’ (Arts Council of Wales 2018b: 1), they are asked to ‘clearly demonstrate how it will make a difference to their career as an artist’ (Arts Council of Wales 2018b: 2). The guidance document suggests that a ‘tipping point’ can be demonstrated via a series of indicators including (a) recent radio airplay, national music press and social media presence; (b) performing regularly live at recognized venues and festivals beyond the artist’s locale; (c) a strong fan base evidenced by social media statistics and (d) investment or backing from music industry professionals. Applicants are also specifically asked to demonstrate that they ‘have partnerships in place with appropriate stakeholders or that they have received investment or backing from music industry professionals. This could be from a label, manager, live agent, PR plugger, or publisher with a relevant track record’ (Arts Council of Wales 2018b). As illustrated in Figure 15.3, given its relatively advanced eligibility criteria, the Music Industry Development Fund is positioned at Step 4 within the ladder of support. The Music Industry Development Fund for Organisations allows applications for small grants of between £250 and £5,000 and large grants of between £5,001 and £30,000. According to its guidance document (Arts Council of Wales 2016), like the Music Industry Development Fund for Creative Professionals, these grants must be used to support ‘tipping point’ artists in their career development – in this case, via representative organizations (e.g. labels or management companies). Again, applicants are asked to ‘clearly demonstrate how they will make a difference to the career[s] of the band[s] or artist[s] that [are] the focus of the application’ (Arts Council of Wales 2016: 2). Additionally, large grant applicants are asked to provide three-year development plans, including for (a) achieving ambitions for sustainability and growth whilst demonstrating financial viability and diversification of income streams; (b) evaluating activity each year and using this intelligence to influence subsequent activity; (c) building and sustaining audiences or participants; and (d) demonstrating legacy and impact on both the economy and sector in Wales. As discussed later in the chapter, this funding strand has enabled Forté Project to undertake much of its work. Further to its Music Industry Development Fund, the Arts Council of Wales also introduced its Festivals Fund in 2012. In the fund’s guidance document, the Arts Council of Wales states:

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Festivals play a vital role in the cultural make-up of Wales […] Festivals can provide a much needed focus for a particular artform or area, and can be a shop-window for Wales by attracting visitors from further afield […] Their successes contribute to the wider agendas of regeneration and economic growth and they have a role to play in the ever growing market for cultural tourism. (Arts Council of Wales 2018c: 1)

This, again, demonstrates the shift towards creative industries policy, where the Arts Council of Wales is acknowledging both the cultural and economic value of Welsh art. While not directly aimed at developing popular musicians, this fund has enabled popular music festivals renowned for showcasing Welsh artists to undertake some of their work. These festivals, including Sŵn Festival (2021) and FOCUS Wales (2021), have been able to apply for small grants of between £250 and £5,000 and large grants of between £5,001 and £80,000 – up to a maximum of 75 per cent of their project’s total eligible cost. During this term, the Arts Council of Wales’ shift towards supporting popular music was also reflected in the work of its international arm – Wales Arts International. It is evident that at the same time the Arts Council introduced its Music Industry Development and Festivals funds, Wales Arts International began to accept applications from popular music artists for its International Opportunities Fund. According to its guidance document (Arts Council of Wales 2019), the purpose of this fund is to help develop and enrich artistic practice and international ambition; raise the profile of Welsh arts internationally; and strengthen international artistic connections back to Wales. It has enabled popular music acts to apply for packages of financial support worth up to £5,000 to fund overseas opportunities which might ‘significantly develop the artist’s international career’ (Arts Council of Wales 2019: 5). For example, a Wales-based band may be offered a slot at a showcase festival or conference such as SXSW in Texas and would therefore be eligible to apply for financial support to enable this activity to take place (via funding for travel and accommodation). This fund was made directly available to popular musicians through Wales Arts International up until 2017. Wales Arts International then partnered with PRS Foundation to make Wales-based artists eligible for the similar UK-based International Showcase Fund (PRS 2021a). Given the relatively high level of ‘professional experience and proven track record’ (PRS 2021) required by applicants within the fund’s eligibility criteria, the International Opportunities Fund sits at Step 5 of the ladder of support (see Figure 15.3). As briefly noted in the Introduction, the Arts Council of Wales also formed a strategic partnership with the BBC in 2014, offering two new support mechanisms to emerging Welsh popular musicians. The BBC Horizons scheme – jointly funded by the BBC and the Arts Council of Wales – was established two years after the Arts Council of Wales’ Music Industry Development Fund, and may therefore be interpreted as an effort to plug a gap in providing developmental support for artists with earlier career needs. Managed by Bethan Elfyn (a BBC Radio Wales DJ), the initiative offers two distinct strands of support: the BBC Horizons Launchpad Fund (BBC 2021a) and the BBC Horizons 12 scheme (BBC 2021b). The BBC Horizons Launchpad Fund provides popular music acts (aged 18+) across Wales with the annual opportunity to apply for financial support packages worth up

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to £2,000 to develop their careers. This financial support may be used to enable activities such as professional recording, touring costs and equipment purchase. Given that the support is designed for acts ‘starting out on their musical journey, at a crucial point in their development’ (Horizons 2018), the BBC Horizons Launchpad Fund is positioned at Step 2 within the ladder of support (see Figure 15.3). The second strand of support – the BBC Horizons 12 scheme – annually provides twelve popular music acts (aged 16+) across Wales with the opportunity to ‘receive guidance and support in crafting careers in the music industry’ (Horizons 2018). This has included providing access to live opportunities at festivals and radio sessions, while the Horizons team works alongside them to ‘promote their music, support their development and raise their profile in Wales and beyond’ (Horizons 2018). Again, this initiative is tailored towards acts ‘starting out on their musical journey’, but specifically targets those who are deemed ‘most likely to make significant advances in their careers across the year’ (Horizons 2018). As illustrated in Figure 15.3, the BBC Horizons 12 scheme is positioned at Step 3 within the ladder of support. Running parallel with these important developments at the Arts Council of Wales, a particularly significant development also occurred at the level of the Welsh Government. As alluded to earlier in the chapter, the Welsh Music Foundation was forced to close in 2014 after losing its Welsh Government funding. According to a BBC (2014) news article that was published at the time, in its final year of activity, the Welsh Music Foundation helped to attract and stage the 2013 WOMEX world music showcase in Cardiff, injecting more than £3 million into the local economy; provided nearly forty training events in areas such as music copyright, royalties, radio play, live music promotion and festival organization; launched a Wales music directory serving more than 1,700 music companies in Wales; and promoted Welsh music overseas at events including SXSW in Texas, Porto Musicale in Brazil and Primavera Pro in Spain. The Welsh Government’s decision to halt the Welsh Music Foundation’s funding appeared to directly contradict the recommendations of the Hargreaves (2010: 41) review, where it was described as having ‘done a good job in promoting understanding of the best approaches to enabling talent to generate sustainable business activities’. Responding to the Hargreaves review at the time, Carr (2010: 278) agreed, writing that the Welsh Music Foundation was ‘already attempting to address a number of [the] issues [raised by Hargreaves] either directly or through serving as a conduit for the country’s music industry’: Internal strategies include free access to music lawyers, numerous training activities ranging from marketing to music management, and the facilitating of Welsh artists obtaining exposure at international showcase events, such as South by Southwest (SXSW) and Womex, all of which represent a positive basis in facilitating work and opportunities for Welsh musicians. Moreover, a recently launched toolkit aimed at enabling musicians, labels and composers to better understand the means through which they can position their music with media production companies is an indicative example of the measures being undertaken by the Welsh Music Foundation.

At the time of the Welsh Music Foundation’s closure, the ‘Welsh Government said it was exploring options to develop an advice service for all creative industries’ (BBC 2014). On

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the surface, this appeared to align with Hargreaves’s (2010) call for a ‘Creative Industries Strategic Hub’. However, Hargreaves was also very clear in recommending that the Welsh Music Foundation ‘should continue to operate as the music industry’s “spoke”’ (Hargreaves 2010: 42). The creative industries advice service in question was not established until the turn of the decade, leaving a substantial six-year gap in direct governmental support for the Welsh popular music industries. The limits and nuanced nature of policymaking within a devolved political culture were exemplified via a Welsh-language popular music policy dispute during this period. As outlined earlier, the complex strands of Welsh popular music policy mean that some powers are owned by the Welsh Government, while others that also impact Welsh music are either reserved to Westminster, or are organizational strategies and practices owned by British institutions such as the BBC. In 2013, with broadcasting reserved to Westminster, the Welsh Government was unable to intervene in a dispute between the BBC and Eos regarding proposed royalty payment cuts to Welsh-language musicians being played on BBC Radio Cymru. Powerless, the Welsh Government was confined to writing to both sides asking for a swift resolution, but the dispute eventually ended with Welsh-language musicians suffering significant reductions to their annual royalty income streams (BBC 2013). Contrary to this, exercising the new powers it gained in 2011 (see Figure 15.1), the National Assembly for Wales passed the Well-being of Future Generations (Wales) Act in 2015. Murray (2020) has subsequently described the Act as ‘a very unique policy framework’ in the global context, which provides Wales with an opportunity to make particularly innovative popular music policy. According to its website (Future Generations 2020), the Act ‘requires public bodies in Wales to think about the long-term impact of their decisions, to work better with people, communities and each other, and to prevent persistent problems such as poverty, health inequalities and climate change’.

Fifth term (2016–): Labour minority government Thus far, the Assembly’s fifth term has encompassed a series of significant popular music policy developments which have broadly demonstrated Welsh policymakers’ growing support for popular music. In particular, the Welsh Government’s establishment and financing of two new organizations – Anthem and Creative Wales (see Figure 15.2) – indicate the potential for support to augment further in the immediate future. Before discussing these organizations in more detail, it is important to point out that when utilizing the Arts Council of Wales’ Music Industry Development Fund for Organisations, Rhondda Cynon Taf County Borough Council built upon its previous SONIG Youth Music Industry Programme and Young Promoters Network, by providing young popular musicians in the area with a new support mechanism – Forté Project. This initiative, which

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has existed since 2016, annually provides ten young acts (aged 16–25 years) residing in the Arts Connect region of South Wales with the opportunity to develop their careers. It offers access to bespoke mentoring, workshops, masterclasses and music industry opportunities, aiming to ‘improve chances of achieving successful, long-term professional careers’ (Forté Project 2018). Given the early point at which this support is designed to intervene in an act’s development, Forté Project is positioned at Step 1 within the ladder (see Figure 15.3). While this support mechanism is limited to the Arts Connect region of south Wales, it is also notable that there are no other recognized, publicly funded initiatives catering to popular musicians at this early career level across the rest of the nation. During this period, a series of significant developments also took place within one of the Arts Connect region’s neighbouring local authorities: Cardiff Council. In 2017, preceded by the city’s history of live music venue closures due to noise complaints,10 planning applications to build flats on Womanby Street – widely regarded as the hub of live music in Cardiff – threatened closure of several more key live music venues. These venues, including the prestigious Clwb Ifor Bach, have been vital to Welsh popular musicians crafting and honing their skills in a live setting. The reactionary 2017 ‘Save Womanby Street’ campaign is a key example of devolved Welsh policymaking working to protect and strengthen the popular music industries in Wales. The community-led campaign became the first to take advantage of the new 5,000 signature threshold brought in by the Petitions Committee earlier that year. This eventually resulted in the Agent of Change principle (see Chapters 13 and 19) being brought into Welsh planning policy in an attempt to protect live music venues across Wales. The campaign also catalysed Cardiff Council’s decision to employ Sound Diplomacy in a revision of the city’s music policy in 2018. Sound Diplomacy’s 2019 report outlined how Cardiff might become the UK’s first fully-fledged ‘music city’, by incorporating ‘music urbanism into its city structure, from planning and licensing to social wellbeing and tourism’ (Sound Diplomacy 2019: 5). In addition to providing recommendations on artist development, the Sound Diplomacy report also made a series of broader recommendations, such as that Cardiff Council should appoint a Music Officer to ‘deliver [the report’s] recommendations’, working alongside a Music Board which would ‘empower music stakeholders to represent and champion Cardiff as a music-friendly city’ (Sound Diplomacy 2019: 5, 33, 38). Responding to the report in a blog post, Carr (2019) acknowledged its value, but rightly pointed out that, without reference in the Sound Diplomacy report, many of the same recommendations had been made nearly ten years earlier in his report for the Welsh Music Foundation (Carr 2011). The list of ten recommendations that Carr (2019) cites as being among those that were regurgitated includes (a) that Cardiff council should have a dedicated music representative; (b) the need for a mid-size venue in the city; (c) the need for a consideration of transport issues and (d) issues around developing relevant training. Carr’s observation is important because it points out that these are long-standing issues that require action to ensure that they do not re-appear in future analyses. As such, Carr (2019) states, ‘if the Sound Diplomacy report ensures these recommendations happen – it is great news!’ At the end of October 2019, Cardiff Council appointed its Music Board, though it is yet to appoint its Music Officer (BBC 2019a). At the time of writing, it is too early to consider the

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report’s impact, but it will certainly be interesting to survey Cardiff Council’s music policy developments in the months and years to come. In January 2015, at the end of the Assembly’s fourth term, the then-minister for education and skills, Huw Lewis AM, commissioned a ‘task and finish group’ to review issues surrounding the delivery of Music Services for young people in Wales (Welsh Government 2019). This was followed by Carr’s (2018) report, International Best Practice in Music Performance Education Models and Associated Learning Outcomes for Wales, and the National Assembly for Wales’s Culture, Welsh Language and Communications Committee’s subsequent Hitting the Right Note Inquiry into funding for and access to music education (2018). Carr (2018: 4) contextualizes this work by outlining the ‘significant challenges that Welsh Local Government has experienced […] with a £1.2 billion reduction within the Welsh Block Grant since 2010 and a duty of law to balance budgets’. The 2015 task and finish group found that this had resulted in decreased and varied opportunities for young people to access instrumental tuition across local authorities. Carr asserts that this inevitably meant ‘more responsibility being placed on parents to finance instrumental lessons’ (2019: 7), furrowing deeper inequalities across access to music education in Wales. These discussions are important in the context of this chapter – first because they suggest that an aspiring popular musician in Wales may never be offered the chance to reach Step 1 in the ladder (see Figure 15.3), due to a lack of music provision in their local authority area. Second, the task and finish group’s recommendations significantly led to the Welsh Government’s consideration of a National Endowment for Music, to be worked on in collaboration with the Arts Council of Wales. In 2017, Kirsty Williams AM and Ken Skates AM each identified £500,000 within their respective budgets for the £1 million Endowment. In 2018, a new and permanent legal entity, Anthem, was established to deliver this Endowment (see Figure 15.2). Anthem’s website describes the Endowment’s aims: to make musical opportunities more accessible to all young people aged 3–25; to develop musical opportunity in all genres and in all communities; to identify and nurture talent and ability; and to support career pathways in music and the music industry. It also acknowledges that these aims ‘dovetail with the Wellbeing of Future Generations (Wales) Act, supporting the objectives that are based upon the notions of sustaining a vibrant culture, an equal, healthier, more resilient and prosperous Wales’ (Anthem 2020). As pointed out by Carr (2018: 7), ‘The fund is aimed at encouraging further donations, with an aim to raise a further £1m per year in future.’ Currently focusing on this fundraising task, Anthem’s (2020) website states that it is ‘unlikely that any funding will be available from this scheme until at least 2020/21.’ At the time of writing, Anthem is yet to distribute any funds, though it does promise a potentially significant increase in popular music support across Wales for the long-term future. Appearing to align with Hargreaves (2010) much earlier recommendation of setting up a creative industries hub, the Welsh Government stated in its culture strategy, Light Springs through the Dark: A Vision for Culture in Wales (2016), that it would ‘establish “Creative Wales” to support the creative industries’ (Welsh Government 2016: 7). The strategy document outlined that the new body should ‘sustain at least 850 jobs and £40 million a year in production expenditure’ (Welsh Government 2016). Several years later, during

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2020, Creative Wales was established within the Welsh Government (see Figure 15.2). In a new document entitled Priorities for the Creative Industries Sector in Wales, which is hosted on Creative Wales’ website, the Welsh Government states: The creative industries has been one of the fastest growing parts of the Welsh economy for a number of years. The sector doesn’t just create jobs and wealth – it contributes to a strong national brand and helps to promote Wales and its culture and talent to the world. A creative society in its widest sense promotes well-being and a more inclusive society. (Welsh Government 2020: 3)

Embracing the creative industries – as a means of fostering national identity, contributing to the Welsh economy, and achieving broader policy aims – Creative Wales appears to be well positioned to provide the popular music industries with the support they have required since the demise of the Welsh Music Foundation in 2014. In terms of the development of Welsh-language popular music, it is notable that Creative Wales must also play ‘a key role’ (Welsh Government 2020: 3). It has done so thus far by funding PYST (2021) and AM (2021), as well as underwriting the costs of three sets of mini tours – each taking three different Welsh-language bands to three venues across the UK (Poetry Club, Glasgow; Yes, Manchester; The Victoria Dalston, London). This work is taking place in the context of the Well-being of Future Generations Act (Wales) 2015, which encourages a thriving Welsh language; and the Welsh Government’s subsequent ‘Cymraeg 2050: A million Welsh Speakers’ (Welsh Government 2017) strategy, aiming to achieve a million Welsh-speakers by the year 2050. This involves safeguarding the Welsh language as an integral part of contemporary culture and has included the introduction of such initiatives as the Welsh Language Service’s ‘Welsh Language Music Day’ (2021), which has taken place each year since 2016. In the final stages of writing the chapter in March 2021, and as this term moves towards its end, a series of remarkable developments have occurred both at the local and global levels. The year 2020 will be remembered for the global Black Lives Matter movement and the Covid-19 pandemic – both of which have led to a recalibration of popular music policy and funding in Wales.11 It will also be remembered for Britain’s exit from the European Union, which brings with it a level of uncertainty around Wales’ future funding resources, as well as Welsh musicians’ ability to tour across Europe, for example. Finally, within Wales itself, Senedd Cymru’s Culture, Welsh Language and Communications Committee has undertaken a large live music enquiry.12

Conclusion This chapter has highlighted key developments in the changing position of popular music within devolved Welsh policymaking throughout the last twenty years. It has documented the work of the complex mix of bodies contributing to Welsh popular music’s support and development (see Figure 15.2), unearthing key initiatives specifically relating to the development of Welsh popular musicians (see Figure 15.3). It is evident that the Welsh

Popular Music within Devolved Welsh Policymaking

Figure 15.3  A snapshot of the ladder of popular music support initiatives emanating from Welsh policy (2012–20).

Government has always valued popular music as a means of fostering Welsh identity – specifically the version of Welshness which hinges upon the Welsh language, thereby resonating with cerddoriaeth bop Gymraeg (exclusively signifying Welsh-language popular music). This was initially demonstrated via the Welsh Assembly Government’s support for Welsh-language popular music initiatives such as Ciwdod and the Taith C2 school tours via the Welsh Language Board. Support for Welsh-language popular music therefore appeared to take precedence in the early years. However, this support was the by-product of purely linguistic policy goals, meaning any positive impact on the Welsh-language popular music industries themselves was incidental.

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Alongside these early Welsh-language initiatives, the Welsh Music Foundation had also been established, driven by economic goals and the pursuit of sector sustainability. This organization was designed to support musicians and businesses working in both linguistic categories, aligning with the term cerddoriaeth bop Cymru (signifying Welsh popular music in either linguistic category). However, as outlined in reports by Ap Siôn (2009), Carr (2011) and Hargreaves (2010), aside from the Welsh Music Foundation, there was no other substantial governmental support for cerddoriaeth bop Gmyreig (primarily signifying English-language Welsh popular music) at this time. Following the aforementioned reports, and particularly influenced by the Hargreaves (2010) review, Welsh policymakers began to embrace the creative industries in such a way that Welsh popular musicians working in both linguistic categories would potentially be able to benefit. Hargreaves criticized the Welsh Government’s initial creative industries strategy, suggesting that the popular music industries had not been able to sufficiently benefit. The Arts Council of Wales reacted in its Renewal and Transformation (2010) document, later opening up its support to popular musicians. Welsh popular musicians working in both linguistic categories were therefore presented with direct opportunities to develop their careers through public funding for the very first time, specifically via the Music Industry Development Fund and International Opportunities Fund. The later establishment of artist development schemes such as BBC Horizons and Forté Project increased this offer. During this period of change, Carr (2010: 265) conveyed concerns around the dichotomy of ‘national identity’ and ‘commerce’ within Welsh popular music, stating that ‘both the [Welsh] government and the music industry need[ed] to negotiate the grey area between economics and cultural authenticity, leaving musicians free to portray their “Welshness” as they see fit’. The later introduction of the Well-being of Future Generations Act (Wales) 2015 means that Welsh policymakers now have the tools to support popular music with the aim of achieving a much broader set of policy goals. In addition to the original linguistic and economic motivations, they are now forced to consider implications for health, equality and the environment, for example. Working within this new framework, Welsh policymakers have been liberated from the old ‘identity versus commerce’ dichotomy, meaning they are now able to support popular music much more broadly, and with these new policy incentives in mind. The recent establishment of Creative Wales and Anthem within this context means that support for popular musicians across Wales is likely to expand quite dramatically in the coming years, with the potential for much wider impact.

Notes 1 2

This ladder (see Figure 15.3) and its associated research were developed as part of Thomas’s (2021) doctoral study. As discussed by Law and Mooney (2012), the term ‘stateless nation’ was foregrounded by McCrone (1992), and later applied by Minahan (2002) based upon three criteria: self-identity as a distinctive group; possession of national symbols; and a political

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organization demanding self-determination. While Wales, like Scotland for example, has a degree of statehood (a devolved government), it is still best described as a ‘stateless nation’: ‘an imagined community with considerable institutional autonomy, and, at least as yet, no sovereign parliament’ (McCrone 2001: 6). 3 The term ‘creative industries’ was first adopted in the context of UK policy by the Department of Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) in 1998. DCMS defined the sector as comprising ‘those activities which have their origin in individual creativity, skill and talent and which have a potential for wealth and job creation through the generation and exploitation of intellectual property’. The sector was seen as having thirteen subsectors: ‘advertising, architecture, crafts, music, design, fashion design, computer games, performing arts, TV & radio, publishing and software’ (Hargreaves 2010: 5). 4 Shuker (2008: 282), for example, has described a New Zealand government that has achieved a sensible balance by ‘supporting local culture and identity’, while expressing ‘a more pragmatic concern for the economic value of the industry’. Additionally, in Finland, Mäkelä (2008: 264) has related musical success in international markets to a reconfiguration of government music policy, where there became ‘no discrepancy between the need to protect local products and the need to appeal to the international market’. 5 The Arts Connect region of South Wales encompasses Rhondda Cynon Taf, Vale of Glamorgan, Merthyr Tydfil, Bridgend and Caerphilly. Under a Memorandum of Understanding, the Arts Connect initiative is a collaboration between the arts services within these neighbouring Local Authorities. It aims to provide new opportunities for people of all ages and abilities to engage with the arts at a local, regional and national level, based upon sharing expertise and bringing added value to improve the quality and range of opportunities on offer. It also has a strategic role in influencing policies of relevance to the arts, for example in addressing child poverty and contributing to community safety and healthy living (Vale of Glamorgan 2019). 6 The Welsh Development Agency was established under the Welsh Development Agency Act 1975 with the objectives of: furthering the economic development of Wales; promoting industrial efficiency and international competitiveness; creating and safeguarding employment; and improving the environment having regard to existing amenity. Under the Government of Wales Act 1998, it became an Assembly Sponsored Public Body – directly funded by, but operating at arm’s length from, the Welsh Assembly Government (National Assembly for Wales (2004)). 7 The Welsh Assembly Government launched Creative Success: A Strategy for Creative Industries in Wales in 2004. The impact of this strategy is discussed later in the chapter. 8 As discussed later in the chapter, the review is still influencing policymaking today – ten years after it was published. 9 As part of the Welsh Assembly Government’s Major Events Strategy, popular music festivals in Wales, including Festival No. 6 and the Green Man Festival, received investment through the Major Events Unit. 10 For example, Cardiff Bay’s The Point was forced to close in 2009 (Deacon 2021). 11 For a useful analysis of Covid-19’s impact on the Welsh music industries, see Carr’s (2020a) report, The Welsh Music Industries in a Post-Covid World: A Report for the Culture, Welsh Language and Communications Committee. 12 The final report entitled Turn Up the Volume: An Inquiry into the Live Music Industry (Senedd 2020) was published in December 2020.

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Part IV Contemporary debates

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16 Ticketing: Why is it a problem? Michael Waterson

Amazon is one of those companies that people want to hate, but still buy from in staggering numbers. The reason for using them is that they have thought through the selling business from the consumer point of view. It is almost frighteningly easy to choose and buy something through the one-click ordering system and it arrives with startling speed. Hence the consumer gains almost instant gratification, feeling no pain (until the credit card bill arrives). Generally, consumers favour a seamless and straightforward experience. In the case of event ticketing, this means not only discovering an event they want to attend and obtaining a ticket for that event in a smooth manner, but also receiving the ticket they paid for (preferably, soon after purchase) and achieving subsequent easy and safe entry into, and egress from, the venue. Buying tickets for a concert, on the other hand, can be fraught with difficulties. Commonly, in Britain at least, tickets come on sale at a relatively inconvenient time, like 9 a.m. on Friday, and appear to sell out almost immediately. People, who may have taken time off from work specifically for the purpose, hover over their browsers tensely, and, if lucky enough to get to the front of the queue, are faced with a choice of seats that is commonly lacking in detail. Moreover, as they get to the payment stage, they find extra fees added on. Some find themselves in the hands of secondary sellers, maybe unknowingly through a Google search, when the process may be worse. Then comes the long wait for tickets, which may not arrive until a couple of weeks before the event, even though the sale took place maybe six to nine months beforehand. Though possibly exaggerated, this scenario largely rings true and brings with it a question of how it has become like this and whether the situation can be improved. This is the topic of the present chapter. The problems lie both with purchasers and, of course, ticket sellers and those they represent, the performers and event organizers. The music event industry started becoming important around sixty years ago (Brennan 2010), with the development of what were then called pop concerts. Initially, and at least into the 1970s, the main purpose was to showcase upcoming groups (bands) and solo singers in order that the participants went on to buy LPs (long playing records). Hence a typical evening’s bill in the early days might include up to six short slots by groups of increasing fame over the evening. The tours were intensive – the Rolling Stones played both a matinee and an

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evening show on most dates of their Spring tour in 1971 and tickets for their opening show of the tour in Newcastle upon Tyne were priced at 75p, or under £10 in today’s money. They played nine venues, criss-crossing the country in 11 days. This followed a 22-venue tour of mainland Europe across 40 days in Autumn 1970. The main source of tickets for the British tour was the relevant theatre box office and tickets were rationed by queueing. The first famous music festival, Woodstock, in 1969, was (retrospectively) a free event. But an LP in 1970 cost the equivalent of almost £30 in today’s money! The point of the above paragraph is not to wallow in nostalgia, but rather to set the background which influences the ticketing industry to the present day – namely the desire by some parties to keep prices low. This is despite recorded music now being staggeringly cheap, whilst the typical concert now involves a vast expensive stage, lighting, sound system including mixing desk, and often pyrotechnics, a world away from four or five men (almost always men) in a line on a bare stage, feeding music into the theatre’s PA system. The concert (and, for the most popular acts, song writing) is where money is made, and tours are organized around new music releases. In fact, both the history of the industry and its market structure, which differs significantly from country to country, together with general social attitudes and consumer behaviour, influence ticketing experiences. This chapter explores these intertwined features, attempting to cast light on the ticketing process and problems.1

Industry structure The music industry has many levels. The main reason people want to attend is the artist who is to perform.2 The artist may have strong views about pricing; in the course of becoming famous, they may well have endured years of relative penury (Ed Sheeran, for example, appears to have been homeless for over two years whilst in London (Sheeran and Butah 2014)). Their experience will have coloured their views and influenced the feeling that they want their concerts to be affordable to people with relatively limited means, including their early followers. This is, of course, laudable, but it can mean that some events are likely to be over-subscribed. Wrapped up in this is the question of the artist’s moral rights. In most print copies of books in Britain, there is a sentence at the front stating in effect: ‘The author has asserted their moral rights.’ In France, the moral rights of the artist are strongly enforced by law, through the mechanism of banning resales of tickets. Other countries take a less rigid view, but subject to the important proviso of receiving an acceptable fee, an artist may have a particular view as to prices to be charged. This view will normally err on the side of low pricing, partly because the artist wants to feel popular – no one likes the feeling represented by the auditorium being only half full. Indeed, it is possible, in many quarters, to encounter the view that demand does not vary with price, making price a free choice variable. The artist will be represented by a manager for business and organizational purposes and will commonly have an agent who is tasked with finding them work. The agent will

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negotiate with a promoter when putting on a tour; indeed, the agent may invite several promoters to propose tours along with financial arrangements and choose the one which seems most promising, with the agent receiving a proportion of the forthcoming funds. Promoters in turn negotiate with venues in putting the tour together; clearly, they will have had venues pencilled in beforehand. In some countries, such as Britain, all these stages are likely to be separate. In others, particularly where Live Nation has a substantial presence (such as the United States), they may be linked, that is, vertically integrated. Live Nation manages some major artists, acts as a promoter, is a significant venue operator and also owns Ticketmaster, one of the leading ticketing agencies, although there are several other agencies. Some countries, such as Ireland, have a practice of sole agency. In countries like Britain and Germany where the industry is not integrated, multiple ticket agencies are commonly used. For example, the promoter may have agencies they commonly use, but the venue may also have their usual ticket agencies. Hence a large tour, such as for Ed Sheeran, might have six different ticket companies legitimately selling tickets for the event. Nevertheless someone, be it the promoter or the integrated firm, must take a risk that the event will lose money. Many of the costs are fixed at the outset, such as the artist’s guaranteed fee and the venue’s rental charge, and these will have to be covered even if audiences are disappointingly low, so if a concert tour goes badly, the promoter has lost a lot of money. Attending a concert is a social activity. Since promoters are well aware of this and are keen to offset their costs as quickly as possible, it is common to build a certain amount of hype around a tour, through trade papers and increasingly through the internet. This helps to ensure that there is a large crowd keen to buy tickets the moment they are put on sale. In fact, before they go on general sale, there are commonly various presales, perhaps to people in the artist’s fan club and to people on the venue’s mailing list or people on a sponsor’s list. Therefore, there tends to be a rush for tickets, and the possibility of a ‘sell-out’, even if it turns out later that the event has seats available. Ticket websites have to be built so as to allow very substantial sales over a comparatively short period of time, so intending purchasers commonly have a very short time window in which to complete their purchase, creating tension. Clearly, a degree of hype is important in selling an event – it has a party-type characteristic of people wanting to go if others are also going. But arguably the over-common ‘sell-out’ status is counter-productive. Few events actually sell out, so that the time-consuming and inconvenient rush for tickets following a release scheduled at a particular time (when most people are likely to be at work, given the timing) is actually unnecessary, and can drive people into the hands of secondary sellers. Commonly (some) primary sellers have tickets available whilst people concurrently rush to secondary sites to obtain tickets. A lesson on consumer search behaviour coming from energy markets is that people don’t like searching online much, and don’t necessarily undertake searches in a logical manner. Added to this, many customers are not particularly experienced in ticket purchases, and someone with a limited record of attending events is not likely to be easily targeted for publicity by a particular primary seller, if last time they purchased an event ticket from another source.

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These are key reasons why secondary platforms often pay to be at the forefront of a Google search, although tickets may still be available from primary sellers.

Pressures on ticketing Ticketing is a complex business. There are few industries where the aim is to sell substantially all the inventory (in this case, tickets) on the first day they are on sale for a perishable good that the consumer won’t appreciate until maybe nine months have passed. The resultant hype about ticket sales for the event persuades people into buying quickly, committing increasingly significant funds to attend, without knowing whether something might intervene to prevent that, and normally with no possibility of a ‘cooling off ’ period. Returns/resales policies differ widely, although ticket insurance products are increasingly offered at the point of sale to help protect consumers against being unexpectedly unable to attend the event at short notice. People also buy for others, commonly without specific people in mind, or without intending to go themselves, for example as a gift. Given the time pressures on ingress at a typical venue, entry controls can be limited, so paving the way for policies previously carefully determined by ticket sellers or event organizers to be abandoned on the night, despite best intentions. Restrictions imposed after the fact in response to rapid sales, rather than being instituted before the event goes on sale, work poorly and annoy consumers. The internet has enabled greatly increased distribution, and hence sales, of tickets by comparison with the system whereby the box office plus a couple of record shops sold physical tickets. But it has also enabled the growth in the secondary market. Promoters carry most of the risk associated with an event and have limited means of offsetting that risk. Competition between promoters to stage a popular act leads to them committing to almost all the ticket sales revenue (after costs) going to the artist, based on substantially all the venues being full. Thus, commitments to the artist where the guaranteed fee and percentage of the door amounts to 90 per cent of the gross are not uncommon. This clearly creates a problem for the promoter if ticket sales are going badly, and also creates conflicts of interest when the tickets are selling quickly, and demand clearly exceeds supply at the preset price. Just like in an internet business selling goods, various scenarios happen and need planning for. Internet clothes retailers need to develop a streamlined process for returns, given that people are buying the clothes without trying them on. Similarly, internet ticket sellers need a mechanism for providing refunds if the artist has to cancel or reschedule, or ticket sales are subsequently found to breach previously set controls. The ticketing industry, like any sector that has migrated online en masse, has grown from far simpler roots which affect its response to the internet. Many of the people in the industry first encountered it in the days when event staging was negligible, many ticket purchases were made on the night, and artists treated the show as a means to sell vinyl, or later tape and then CD copies of their work, along with T-shirts and other merchandizing. That was a more free-booting era. There were always ‘touts’, or ‘ticket scalpers’ in US

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parlance; the characters in the routes to the venue offering to buy or sell tickets, but they were tolerated, and possibly even cautiously welcomed by the primary ticket sellers. A ticket seller, after all, is in the business of selling tickets. In a multi-vendor scenario such as the UK, each vendor may be competing with other sellers to gain their commission and at the risk of having to hand back stock to another primary seller who has sold their original allocation. The quicker they sell, other things equal, the better for them, so primary sellers have an incentive to sell quickly. Some aspects of the industry, in Britain at least, still reflect this earlier era. Smaller promoters are quite often individuals who have a feel for which artists will sell, and in what quantity. Pricing is not a particularly scientific business, and there is a clear but not always recognized need to ensure costs are held within the bounds represented by what consumers will reasonably pay. Demand can be fickle.2 Competition amongst larger promoters for the most popular acts plus significant risks results in lower achieved margins. Ticket sellers still rely on very near-time allocations of selling space in the venue, perhaps not receiving their share in the manifest until the evening before the event goes on sale at 9 a.m. the next day, and then in a non-user-friendly form, such as an email. Indeed, the commonly used Friday 9 a.m. on-sale point is itself a relic of the past. Venues and artists have become somewhat more sophisticated and particularly in the United States, there is a good deal of vertical integration, with Live Nation owning significant venues, plus a major ticketing operation (at both primary and secondary levels) and quite commonly being an artist’s promoter and sometimes also their manager, as for example with U2. Essentially, as a consumer you should only notice the ticketing brand as important if it uniquely enables you to go to see what you want. People go to Expedia or Booking.com to book flights and accommodation because they provide what people want, a seamless experience, but for most purposes do not mind which of these delivers the experience. While constantly striving to improve, event ticketing companies often fall short in terms of a straightforward customer experience; rather, their processes are commonly seen as a challenge that people feel lucky to get through. The worst are slow to confirm, poor at answering emails and the phone, slow to send out tickets, and even slower to provide refunds. It is rare to be able to see complete availability within the venue. Yet for classical concerts, the cinema and often the theatre, you choose your seats online from a venue map and make the purchase, under clearly stated terms regarding fees, etc., when you want, and receive the tickets a few days afterwards. Why the difference? There are many reasons. One possible explanation is that some other art forms are subsidized, but this has no clear impact on ticketing strategy in popular music. Another is that venues undergo some reconfiguration for different performances, or they change how they sell based on demand, for example selling ‘best available’ for a high demand on-sale before letting customers choose their own seat once the initial demand has been serviced; however, this is marginal. Third is a keenness to ensure a reasonably full venue to maximize intra-crowd experience and satisfy the egos of performers regarding their continuing popularity. But surely a fourth reason is that the music event ticketing industry has developed piecemeal, essentially regardless of consumer desires and casual about consumer experience and venue control, and instead keen on quick sales at

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inconvenient times. It is apparently uncommon to have any form of automated inventory management used by all ticket sellers or an online distributed ledger to provide information about the validity of any given ticket regardless of where it is being listed for sale or resale, which some may say are basic tools in improving consumer experience and confidence. A convenient fiction is created of near instant ‘sell-outs’ and hence the need for speed is maintained, creating a market for secondary sales by professional operators who, using computers or multiple agents, tie up primary ticketing websites at the crucial time. Some secondary sellers have a tendency to duplicity, but they do provide the service of being able to purchase at a later occasion. They also provide a guide to prices people are willing to pay, which in turn affects primary sellers’ pricing strategies. Vertical integration is not the answer. Here it is useful to discuss the experience in the United States, where Live Nation permeates the entire music event industry (Davies 2018). This dominance makes competition at individual stages extremely difficult. Live Nation’s dominance is likely to be a key contributory factor in the high ticketing fees charged by primary sellers there. In an essentially market-based economic system the general presumption is that competition is a ‘good thing’. Competition amongst sellers generally leads to lower prices and greater efficiency since the inefficient seller will tend to lose custom to the efficient seller. The same is broadly true of the ticketing market. Here it is useful to contrast the UK and US ticketing markets. In the United States, there is one dominant player in ticketing: the aptly named Ticketmaster. In a US Government Accountability Office (GAO) report on event ticketing published in April 2018, their investigation found average primary seller fees at 27 per cent (Government Accountability Office 2018: 16). The same report (Government Accountability Office 2018: 29–30) quotes a Department of Justice investigation that found primary sellers’ fees to be high due to the dominance in the US market of Ticketmaster. The UK ticketing market is likely much more competitive and has much lower ticketing fees as a result. At least since medieval fairs, the idea that competition is beneficial to consumers is tempered by the potentially conflicting idea that competition requires a clear set of standards. In the medieval market, this meant a set of standard weights and measures, to be applied by all traders. In ticketing, it is also a question of what you will get for your money. This applies equally to primary and secondary markets. The ‘what’ includes not only the ticket itself and the location within the venue, but also any conditions applied to it, when (at least approximately) it will be delivered and in what form, and a clear means of recourse if the seller falls down on their obligation, or if the event is cancelled by force majeure. Unfortunately, and despite legislation designed to give the consumer such rights, some traders, particularly in the secondary market, do not adhere to these conditions, so need to be forced by competition agencies to do so. To illustrate, CMA (2020) summarizes the details of efforts by the Competition and Markets Authority to achieve compliance by secondary sellers with the Consumer Rights Act 2015 in the face of reluctance by StubHub and viagogo.3 Clearly, these conditions cannot be met through secondary sites’ sale of speculative tickets, since a seat is not a homogeneous good in the way a pork belly or copper wire bar is. The Government Accountability Office report (2018: 31–2) notes three consumer issues regarding speculative tickets: the buyer may

Ticketing: Why Is It a Problem?

never get the ticket; the seat location is not guaranteed and the potential for consumer confusion (for example, because tickets have not actually gone on sale at the time the speculative ticket is advertised). Competition works most efficiently within a centralized marketplace, so that the consumer can quickly and easily make comparisons. The modern equivalent is the price comparison site, or some common reference system or ledger. A potential problem of competition amongst ticket sellers is that one seller may sell out their allocation whilst another seller has ample stock. Less problematic, one seller may have a cheap seat, but in an unattractive location within the venue, whilst another may have a somewhat more expensive seat in a much more attractive location that the consumer might be willing to pay a premium for. Finding and making this trade-off is problematic for consumers in the absence of comparison sites or common systems. In practice there are two non-monetary issues for consumer information. One is prior knowledge of whether an event will take place – is the artist touring? The second is whether there is availability at the chosen venue. Decentralized competition ameliorates the first problem, by reaching out to a wider audience, but worsens the second problem, unless there is a centralized or decentralized dynamic inventory control mechanism. Such a system could enable a consumer to see whether there was availability on the primary market, even outside of the ticketing site on which they have landed. It could be facilitated by a comparison website or through a decentralized ledger mechanism operated via blockchain or an equivalent.

Booking fees Few people would object to the idea that if a seller provides an additional service, then they are entitled to make a reasonable charge for it. If I buy something from IKEA, I can choose to take it home myself, or ask them to deliver it, or even assemble it, for an extra charge. What does irritate consumers is the ‘administrative’ charge for actually being able to complete the normal purchase. This was a notorious issue in relation to ‘low-cost’ airlines, with charges even for using any common means of payment being demanded by some operators without there being a single reasonable means of paying without a supplement; charges for using the airport; printing at home, etc. Settling that issue took so much legislative time and effort that tackling it by legislation is probably not worthwhile in the ticketing industry. One solution to the booking fee issue could be that rather than having a number of sellers with possibly different booking charge levels, having a single seller, who is chosen by the organizers on the basis of the fee they will charge consumers, a ‘Chadwick auction’ in which the prize goes to the ticket seller offering the best deal (i.e. the lowest booking fee) to the consumer rather than the best deal for the venue, or the promoter. This is competition for the right to be the seller rather than between active sellers. So far as I am aware, this has not been tried, although it may have been done under commercial confidentiality.

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An alternative is for ticket sellers to post clearly and prominently their fees early in the purchase process, enabling the consumer to make a clear decision, something that the UK has sought to address through legislation – the Consumer Rights Act 2015. The problem otherwise is as follows: suppose the consumer goes to a comparison website (assuming one exists, which it does) to make their purchase. The click-through then takes them to the ticket seller’s website to complete the purchase. If booking fees are not disclosed until a very late stage and are substantial,4 the consumer unwilling to pay such a fee faces the cost of either paying it or going back to the comparison website to see if other sellers make a similar charge, by which time availability may have changed. Technically, there is the problem, for consumers, of a ‘Diamond equilibrium’ – in the face of a small search cost, faced by everyone, prices (in this case of booking fees) can be much above the competitive level from all sellers, without there being a competitive tendency to bring them down. Do booking fees affect consumer decisions? It was argued by one market participant in the Government Accountability Office report (2018: 44) that consumers would not change their mind about going to an event when faced with a booking fee of, say, 30 per cent. It could be argued that for expensive high-demand events, most consumers would attend no more than twice a year, so that total ticket cost is more important than the split between face value and booking fee. A further argument with less plausibility is that the impact on food and beverage spend and merchandise whilst at the venue is not heavily impacted due to the temporal distance between the ticket purchase and attendance for these types of events. Indeed, this is itself directly contradicted by market participants’ statements earlier in the GAO report (Government Accountability Office report 2018: 8) that the more a consumer pays for a ticket, the less they spend at the venue on merchandise, refreshments, etc., and the fewer times they attend an event of this type. The nature of the primary ticket market, which has the feature of persuading people to purchase quickly for an event many months in advance, is likely to lead to a proportion of purchasers making decisions they later regret, or timings they are unable to make. Evidence that this is the case comes from the academic literature (Cooke et al. 2001; McManus and Kumar 2015) and the GAO report but also, in Britain, that many of those who make their way through the first stage of the Glastonbury on-sale decide not to take up their option (and hence lose their deposit) when the next payment stage is reached.5 In such cases, these tickets are, of course, recycled since there is normally excess demand and Glastonbury has a well-honed system to tackle this issue. A primary seller (of a ticket or anything else) has a presumptive right to set a price for that item (which may be different from the price of a near-identical item, as for example in airline ticketing), and to dispose of the item as it sees fit, including imposing conditions on resale, subject to the law. The law may baulk at unduly restrictive terms imposed by the seller, for example, refusing refunds under any circumstances, and consumer rights preventing such terms exist in many jurisdictions. Primary sellers increasingly have developed systems to recycle tickets for people who cannot attend. On the other hand, what rights does a reseller have? Secondary ticketing is a phenomenon that attracts strong emotions, as discussed below.

Ticketing: Why Is It a Problem?

A related legal conundrum relates to what a ticket actually is. It is not a good, but on the other hand it is not a service; according to New York law, ‘A ticket is a license, issued by the operator of a place of entertainment, for admission to the place of entertainment at the date and time specified on the ticket, subject to the terms and conditions as specified by the operator’ (New York State Senate 2020). Some ticket sellers therefore take the view that it is a revocable licence to attend. This is convenient for a primary seller, since it gives them the right to determine, after the fact, that some tickets are invalid (and the New York definition rules out certain such actions). But it is questionable whether consumers in general take this view of a ticket, particularly when it is a physical object. Most people, I suspect, would view the ticket as something giving them the right to attend, indeed, the right to dispose of it as they see fit, for example, to a friend or relative, or even a stranger.

Issues with secondary markets One of the biggest issues regarding ticketing concerns the role of secondary sellers. There is a powerful view amongst consumers that equity matters in event ticketing. This can be seen through the many newspaper exposés of high prices charged by ‘touts’ on the secondary market for popular events.6 It has also been discussed in the academic literature in relation to ticket scalpers (Roth 2007). The secondary market is instead firmly located in efficiency in the sense that those people who pay the most for a ticket are those for whom it has the highest value. Neither position is entirely clear and logical. This brings us to a topic that attracts strong emotions and is an important component of the ticketing process. In some corners of the ticketing market, resale is a generally accepted practice. Examples include the London commercial theatre, where agents, usually with physical offices or booths, sell often short-dated tickets for events, enabling the casual visitor to ‘see a show’ on that day or the next. Many of these tickets are discounted and on average, tickets for the London commercial theatre sell at a slight discount to face value. Another generally accepted example is the resale of specific dates from a season ticket as in football, where the owner knows they cannot make a particular date within the overall programme. Several British football clubs have established mechanisms for handling this which satisfy the constraints of the applicable law. These examples highlight the potential benefits of secondary markets. In the theatre case, with spare seats for that evening’s performance, it is preferable for the theatre to discount sales rather than leave them empty, once those who book in advance to ensure their evening’s entertainment have made their commitments. Indeed, there is an analogy with the practice of hotels, albeit in reverse: in retaining rooms for that night when customers turn up at the desk, the organizer is trading off a definite sale earlier against a higher price later, but with only some probability of selling the room. In the season ticket case, the season ticket holder’s known absence means the seat would be empty but retains some prospect of being filled by another supporter of the team. It is worth highlighting that, on a rough estimate provided by the proprietor of a comparison site, around 30 per

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cent of the music tickets for sale on secondary sites are priced below the face value of the ticket, presumably resulting from events where tickets are going poorly. In this sense, secondary markets provide a form of insurance, just as underwriters of share issues do in financial markets (see The Mirror 2019). Particular artists who have an aversion to touts and secondary ticketing are commonly amenable to resales with a cap of (for example) 10 per cent above the original price (and possibly less than the original price) through authorized secure exchanges such as Twickets – Ed Sheeran provides such an example. Such a mechanism ensures that purchasers who genuinely intended to attend but now cannot, or a close associate of theirs who they failed to get to attend, are able to achieve some recompense and at the same time allow someone who failed to obtain tickets originally to attend the event. This strongly suggests that the aversion is not to the principle that a ticket cannot be exchanged/resold, but rather to the idea of a buyer deliberately amassing significant stock for profit, tying up primary ticketing websites. This is likely compounded by the secondary ticketing site also adding a substantial fee to the price the broker/seller set. Indeed, FanFair Alliance state on their website that the problem they identify can be summed up in two words: ticket touts. In fact, commercial secondary ticket sellers, despite their occasional assertions to be primarily sources of tickets from those who cannot attend, receive the majority of their tickets from people who harvest tickets in bulk. What is puzzling about the secondary market is why the percentages added on as fees are so high (secondary fees in the United States are on average around the same level, 30 per cent, but they are barely different from primary fees, according to the GAO report), yet have not been reduced through competition between sites. One plausible reason for high secondary fees is payments for prime listings on search machines; another is unreliability and possible criminal activity amongst their large-seller communities.7 ‘Ethical’ sites, focusing only on people who cannot now attend, can work on much smaller margins yet remain commercially successful for both consumers and consumer advocates. Overall, this suggests a nuanced view of the secondary market in which some advantages should be recognized, but these are not necessarily enough to outweigh the disadvantages of consumer confusion and feelings of being ‘ripped off ’. Secondary sites that are approved or authorized by organizers and set a cap on ticket prices, together with low fees, are subject to broad approval. Following the closure of Seatwave and GetMeIn (latterly owned by Ticketmaster), all major UK primary vendors now operate capped resale, often through a partner, as a part of their service. In terms of the arguments that secondary platforms make of creating value, it is worthwhile distinguishing between the concepts of value and price. Adding to the price of an item is not the same as adding value. Arguably, adding liquidity to the market adds value. It means that someone who finds out well after the on-sale date that they can after all attend an event has some chance of doing so. A secondary seller also absorbs some of the risk otherwise assigned to the promoter, thereby acting as a form of insurance – they may find they need to price below face value in order to cut their losses when they mistakenly thought demand would be stronger than turns out to be the case, but can recoup this in cases where demand is strong. Simply adding a significant premium through

Ticketing: Why Is It a Problem?

immediate purchase and then resale on the same day does not add value, though it may add considerably to price and to the reseller’s income. One argument that secondary platforms have made is that they create efficiency by selling to the highest bidder, being the person who most values the ticket. The flaw in the secondary market position regarding efficiency can be explained as follows. Suppose that everyone had the same overall income. Then if I choose to buy a ticket to a particular event with my money, rather than spending it on a special meal out, for example, I value the ticket more than the meal out, whilst someone else might value the meal out more highly. Then it is efficient if I outbid the other person for the ticket, as I might do through the secondary market. The efficiency argument carries less weight once we move to the reality of widely differing incomes. I may be willing to pay a relatively higher proportion of my income on a ticket than someone else; yet be outbid by that person because they have a substantially total greater income. In a sense, I value the ticket relatively more highly, but fail to get it, so is this efficient? Or fair? There are also problems with the equity argument. Most people would prefer to be in the first few rows of the audience for an event.8 So if a ticket in row 5 is priced (almost) the same as a ticket in row 45, is this equitable? Possibly it is if the person who gets the ticket in row 5 does so because they were amongst the first 100 on the website, having prepared thoroughly. But are they worthy of being favoured if they happened to be on the website five seconds before the person who gets the ticket in row 45, who also prepared thoroughly? There is also the question of fan club presales, venue partner/sponsor presales and other effective purchase limitation mechanisms. These remarks suggest that an outright ban on secondary sales leads to losses that the secondary market or more flexible arrangements can alleviate (see Courty 2019).9 Yet actions through the secondary market can make it more difficult for consumers to purchase tickets in the first place and can lead to substantial gains for people who have no interest in the product itself but simply view it as a money-making mechanism. Secondary sales may make the market less transparent to consumers by implying no primary tickets remain available. Worse are the bad actors who take advantage of consumer lack of knowledge to ‘sell’ a product they have limited or no intention of delivering – rare, but extremely frustrating outright fraudulent action. Added to this, the high fees charged by many secondary sites, together with the aggressive tactics some platforms use and the opacity of who the ultimate seller is, leads to a negative feeling about the secondary market process as a whole. At the same time, there are also events where secondary ticketing might be generally viewed as inappropriate or even immoral by most consumers. For many events, the artist has views on the nature of the audience that should ideally be incorporated within the nature of any resale. To take an example outside music: the pope, giving a mass audience that is ticketed for convenience, surely does not wish the tickets freely given out to applicants to be subsequently sold on a secondary platform. Promoters of an event organized to benefit a charity may take a very negative view of others making money through reselling entry to the event. It is here that differences between norms across countries and events are at their

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starkest. Some countries’ traditions are much more ‘free market’ in orientation, whereas others take a view much more seated in equity considerations. Most consumers would accept that secondary ticketing sites which price at a maximum of, say, 10 per cent over face value provide a useful service. It follows that the concept of reselling tickets is not the issue which excites the public imagination, but rather the means of sale and the price premium charged by fully commercial secondary operators (particularly for events where there is a specific societal element to the performance, such as charity concerts). This opprobrium, incidentally, extends to the actions of those who hold debenture rights to particular seats at venues such as the Royal Albert Hall and seek to resell at substantial premiums, as well as the more general opportunistic resellers. Some events organizers solve the problem of a widely ranging willingness to pay by having tickets at a wide range of prices across the venue, with those likely to be more valued being higher priced. In principle this can meet both efficiency and equity concerns (in the economic jargon, prices can be ‘Ramsey-optimal’ (Ramsey 1927)). It is common, of course, in theatres and for classical works such as opera and ballet and is used by various football teams (e.g. Barcelona). It is largely not favoured by music events, because the performers actively involve at least the first several rows in their performance (rather than, as in classical works, where rapt silence is the norm), so if the occupants of those seats are (rich and) staid, the performance is less exciting for all. However, Ticketmaster has successfully introduced ‘Ticketmaster Platinum’, with tickets sold like airline tickets at prices according to prevailing demand. An alternative means for tackling the problem is for those seats likely to be most valuable to be subject to a ballot amongst long-standing fans, so luck plays a part. This neglects the efficiency side of the trade-off in favour of the equity side, and also requires measures to prevent the lucky ballot winners subsequently selling their tickets to the highest bidder. A third issue is that the secondary market responds to short-term efficiency in its pricing of tickets for a particular event. There is no concern for the possibility of building an audience for the act by pricing low to attract new people to experience them. If I am not sure whether I will like an act, I will be willing to pay less than someone who is sure, and that person can outbid me even if our incomes are similar, since my expected benefit is lower; but from the artist’s viewpoint the subsequent expanded group of enthusiasts may be more valuable. Long-established acts commonly developed through a system in which prices were lower in real terms, so they built their audiences over time, whereas newer acts do not have that luxury. The general point to be drawn from this discussion is that there is no obvious holistic means of tackling the equity–efficiency trade-off. But the issue needs to be considered so that rules applying to the ticketing distribution strategy meet the artist’s and audience’s expectations as fully as possible. Typically, and particularly at an early stage in their career, artists have a specific view on which categories of consumer they would like to privilege in attendance (for example, long-standing fans). Whilst I would not argue for the moral right of artists to extend beyond asserting their right to control dissemination of the event through unauthorized recording, etc., to who specifically attends, both artists and the audience benefit from a lively event.

Ticketing: Why Is It a Problem?

Legislation regarding secondary ticketing differs widely from country to country, as do attitudes to it. According to a useful summary produced by the European Consumer Centre France in June 2016, there is/was no specific legislation regarding secondary ticketing in Sweden, Finland, Austria, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Slovenia, Romania, Bulgaria, Greece and Luxembourg. Indeed, in some of the countries (e.g. Sweden), it remains legal, despite constraints the originator may put upon tickets. Moves to introduce specific legislation in Ireland appear to have stalled, although in the Netherlands, some legislation was under way; currently it is unclear as to its status. Also, very recently, Italy has made substantive moves described in more detail later. The UK also has rules which are discussed in more detail below. For those European countries which do adopt specific legislation, the impact on secondary ticketing differs significantly. Most (e.g. Germany, Portugal, Belgium, Denmark, Croatia and Norway) allow individuals to resell at the value paid, or thereabouts. Germany is more positive regarding secondary sales, confirming a general right for consumers to resell non-personalized tickets. How and whether individual consumers, as opposed to traders, are identified in these countries is unclear. France stands out as taking the firmest stand against secondary sales in Europe, with a general prohibition punishable by fines. Spain also has a broad ban, although the regulation differs across the country and there is no specific legal framework regarding online ticketing. Italy is the latest European country to devise legislation to ban secondary ticketing. It prohibits the ‘sale, or any other form of placement [on the secondary market], of tickets’ by anyone other than the issuer (Chapple 2016). Here, the proposed legislation is relatively draconian. Britain also has made significant strides regarding a specific legislative framework, although the vehicle of choice for its trading standards organization in prosecuting secondary sellers is fraud within the definition of the Fraud Act 2006 (which gives rise, on conviction, to significant jail sentences). Australia and the United States are countries where legislation differs widely from state to state within the country. Some (such as New South Wales and New York (Schneiderman 2016), strictly control secondary ticketing, whilst others (such as Western Australia and many US states) do not. The focus of attention in US legislation is very much on technology that buys up tickets rapidly for placement on the secondary market, commonly described as ‘bots’. A difficulty arises in the United States in that states do not have jurisdiction over out-of-state operators. Hence, a ticket operator based in New Jersey is not naturally subject to New York’s legislation, even if it relates to an event in New York. This difficulty may be lessened by the Bots Act (Better Online Ticket Sales Act 2016), passed into law in the last days of Barack Obama’s presidency.

The role and curse of technology It is common, in the course of purchasing a ticket to a musical event, to encounter a stage at which you need to tick to show you are not a computer, or to interpret an annoying set of disguised alphanumeric characters, or to answer as to how many squares contain traffic

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lights. These are technological barriers put in place aiming to conquer ‘bots’, computer programmes owned by touts or traders that buy significant numbers of tickets rapidly to sell them on, at the same time clogging sites, making it difficult for genuine purchasers to complete their transactions. Primary sellers describe their processes as a constant technological battle with increasingly sophisticated individuals ‘harvesting’ tickets in bulk to place them on secondary platforms. In fact, simpler methods have been used to obtain tickets in quantity: a large set of credit cards loaned to the operator, or a set of people armed with the same, together with a bank of computers, can equally harvest tickets. Some ticketing websites fail to recognize repeat customers, who go on to buy another maximum quantity from the site a few minutes after the first purchase. Thus, it may reasonably be said that primary ticketing platforms see technology as a problem, whereas companies that have grown up in the internet age, such as Uber and Amazon, see technology as a solution (in some countries, Ticketmaster owns secondary as well as primary platforms, which means it faces a different trade-off to most sellers). Yet, in principle, it is feasible for technology to solve ticketing problems and provide benefits in the sphere of ticketing. One example of this is to develop a ‘blockchain’ approach, where there is a dispersed inventory keeping track of tickets through the whole process. The various challenges that this throws up – the need for the inventory to be updated very rapidly, the need to allow for purchases for minors or for friends as yet unnamed – can be solved. The ticket can be an app-based product on a mobile phone, maybe only coming alive as the purchaser physically approaches the venue. All this can ensure two things: that the organizer has an accurate picture of who is actually in the venue at the time of the event (useful for security purposes); and that the role of undesired secondary sales can be reduced to a minimum. Resales can still be allowed, but subject to rules that the organizer acting on behalf of the artist permits and inputs into the system at the time of ticket issue. However, this requires a meeting of minds across the whole industry, from artist to ticket issuer to venue, incorporating a mechanism for refunds, etc. The weak link is often the security at the venue, both because commonality of standards is unlikely to be present and because it has to cope with very large numbers of people descending on the place in very close proximity, testing the ability of the system in place to cope with queries of various types. This is not generally a problem with festivals, since people arrive gradually. Indeed, one of the longest running festivals, Britain’s Glastonbury, has gradually honed its system which has an end-to-end quality, from initial sale to entry. Any queries at the site can be dealt with in real time (and without sophisticated technology) by moving them to a different location for greater scrutiny. Such events, where the ticket contains your photograph, make for an efficient system.

Concluding remarks I start this chapter where I began. Event ticketing in music is a convoluted set of arrangements that have grown up in different ways across different countries. It is seldom a joyous process.

Ticketing: Why Is It a Problem?

I have attempted to explain the challenges, but I leave it to the ingenuity of others to suggest how the system might be improved. Governments can provide a framework, but legislating is not sufficient, since the legislation needs to be policed against unscrupulous actors in the market who are determined to find loopholes. The industry can assist by creating a common, outlet-neutral standard for labelling tickets to provide certainty and reduce fraudulent behaviour, along the lines of the ISBN system (which was itself originated by the book-selling industry). Moreover, rather than pushing the public into acting quickly in response to so-called sell-outs, which leads to frantic rushed searches for tickets, an acceptance that consumers will gradually sign up as the event approaches would lead to consumers making more considered decisions. Possibly the lessons of Covid-19, which led to the widespread cancellation of events and subsequent refund of tickets purchased in advance, may give the industry space for thought about an alternative model.

Notes 1

2

3 4

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6 7 8

9

This chapter draws heavily on my working paper: Waterson (2018). It also draws on knowledge of the industry gained in the course of writing a report for the UK government, Waterson (2016). However, the chapter should not be taken as representing the views of this or any government, or indeed any other organization with which I am or have been associated. Do you remember the occasion, or the special effects? Would the event have been much the same if the lighting was not quite as sophisticated? What venue controls am I willing to pay for? These are among questions a promoter needs to ask themselves in costing and pricing an event, bearing in mind the artist’s appeal. As an example, Katy Perry had very poor sales for her ‘Witness’ tour in 2017, following disappointing album reviews and television performances (Sanchez 2017). More recently, the CMA has been considering the proposed merger between StubHub and viagogo and seems likely to propose substantial restrictions on, or prohibition of, the merger. A common complaint relates to the high fees imposed by secondary sites late in the process. More generally, according to Brignall (2014), the UK Consumers Association has found 80 per cent of ticket buyers consider booking fees a rip-off. Personal telephone conversation with one of the Glastonbury Festival organizing teams. The origins of such tickets are opaque, but one might be tempted to make a guess that some promoters on occasion use this route to dispose of tickets. Although secondary platforms claim to pay sellers only after the event, this rule does not apply to their bigger suppliers, which naturally creates a potential problem, given the gap between sale and event. Maybe not the first row, but certainly near enough to see the expressions on the faces of the performers, that is, no more than 15 metres away.

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17 Gender and popular music policy Sam de Boise, Maura Edmond and Catherine Strong

The popular music industries have significant problems when it comes to gender equality. There is now ample evidence that major barriers exist that prevent women and nonbinary people from participating fully in almost all activities related to music-making (see Strong and Raine 2019 for an overview). In this chapter, we consider how cultural policy approaches have attempted to address this issue, and to what extent they have been successful, by comparing examples from the popular music industries in Sweden, the UK and Australia. We show that the wider national policy contexts of a country and the ways in which women, and music and the creative arts more broadly, have historically been included in policy considerations, leads to different expectations and outcomes for interventions in this area. We conclude with an examination of how policy responses to the Covid-19 crisis in 2020 may be shifting the ground on this issue. Gender and popular music has most often been studied through analysis of representation, by way of close readings of performers, songs, music videos and marketing (see, for example, Leonard 2007; Lieb 2013) as well as subjectivities, identities and subcultures (see, for example, Morgan 1999; Rose 1994). In contrast, our focus here is on the inequalities of participation in the popular music industries, and the extent to which these gender inequalities have been shaped and addressed by policy. In doing so, the chapter builds on wider research into gender, cultural labour and the creative and cultural industries (see Banks 2007; Banks and Milestone 2011; Conor, Gill and Taylor 2015; Gill 2002, 2014; Hesmondhalgh and Baker 2015; Tams 2002). A central goal of this work has been to document the persistence of gendered inequalities within a broadly post-feminist cultural context that has insisted feminism is no longer necessary, and that any lingering obstacles to women’s fulsome participation in work and social life can be overcome simply enough through careful self-management and self-improvement. This research has shown that ‘there is a clear disparity between the rhetoric of the new, creative economy and the realities encountered by workers charged with its reproduction’ (Banks and Milestone 2011: 73). So despite the widespread introduction of laws to protect equal pay and outlaw sex discrimination; post-Fordist work regimes that valorize ‘feminine’ attributes of passion,

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curation, communication and connection, and the widely held belief that the arts are inherently more meritocratic and libertarian, more ‘cool’ and ‘progressive’, the cultural and creative industries are in fact ‘marked by stark, persistent and in many cases worsening inequalities relating to gender, race and ethnicity, class, age and disability’ (Conor, Gill and Taylor 2015: 1). While this existing research has analysed the gender inequalities afflicting the creative sector in broad terms – encompassing film, fashion, theatre, advertising, art, media and so on – in this chapter, we examine in detail the specific dynamics of gender and policy within the popular music industries. Popular music is a globalized and commercialized art form long considered less ‘worthy’ than classical music and other ‘high’ art forms, and so cultural policy approaches have varied greatly between and even within countries over time as to what extent the state should be involved in its processes, and to what end (see Homan, Cloonan and Cattermole 2015). It is therefore unsurprising to find that policy on women in music has developed unevenly and slowly, with the state often following in the wake of grassroots and industry innovations in this area. By investigating three case studies in some depth, we hope to illustrate these complexities at work.

Sweden There is a long tradition of state intervention in Swedish music policy (Larsson and Svensson 2001: 83). While Sweden was a feudal state until comparatively late, and a largely rural economy even later – losing a third of its population to emigration to the United States in the late 1800s – there was a strong emphasis on ‘fine culture’ in the early formalization of cultural policy at the state level (Larsson and Svensson 2001). This was continued under the Social Democratic government in the 1930s, with an emphasis on educating workers in the ‘fine arts’ (Frenander 2007: 397) and music education for the working populations with the aim of ‘cultivating’ tastes rather than responding to them. The Swedish Folkhemmet (‘People’s Home’) saw large public investment from the 1940s to the 1960s, which was aimed at building a collective national identity based on social democratic principles, including access to the established arts irrespective of class background (Frenander 2007). During this period, successive Social Democratic–led governments more formally established initiatives aimed at supporting the development of music, and specifically popular music. For instance, there was large investment in ‘People’s Parks’ (Folketspark) where ‘folk’ dances and popular music could be staged as well as ‘People’s Houses’ (Folketshus) and ‘Culture Houses’ (Kulturhuset), which are still municipally run and communally accessible spaces (Edström 2017). As early as the 1960s, popular music education was instituted in Sweden as part of a broadly democratic agenda to encourage music participation (Georgii-Hemming and Westvall 2010). The Swedish Arts Council (named Kulturrådet after 1988) was formally established in 1974, amalgamating a variety of different governmental departments. As was the case in many countries, including Australia, the 1970s saw a shift from imposing cultural policy

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purely ‘from above’ to a more active attempt to focus on what people were ‘actually doing’. In Sweden this included a number of government reports being commissioned in order to see what the general public was listening to (Lundberg et al. 2003: 212) with a view to investing in activities that the majority of the population could and wanted to participate in. This can be understood as a broadly ‘cultural democratic’ approach (Mangset et al. 2008), in that state funding priorities are seen to reflect a variety of groups’ musical interests, rather than simply attempting to shape them which saw the allocation of financial resources for popular music. In the preliminary governmental report leading to Kulturrådet’s establishment, the importance of ‘contributing to equality’ in terms of artistic output and decision-making is highlighted as one of the key aims of the new council (Riksdagen 1974: 86, 255), though ‘equality’ (jämlikhet) is only vaguely defined in the report and not concerned specifically with gender equality (jämställdhet). However, a reply from the Opposition Party’s women’s section (Moderaterna kvinnoförbund) – who were presumably tasked with credibly raising the spectre of Cold War state intervention in pushing for equality in cultural policy – instead argued that the aim of the new organization should be to promote ‘freedom of choice, cultural freedom and quality’ (Riksdagen 1974: 36) rather than equality specifically. As Duelund (2008: 11) argues, cultural policy should not be understood in the narrowest of terms as the direct financing of the established arts but the establishment of a framework in which artistic activities are produced, regulated and consumed. The current Swedish model of cultural policy should be understood as both top-down and bottom-up (Söderman and Westvall 2017) in that, contrary to popular belief, since Kulturrådet’s inauguration, Swedish cultural policy has also emphasized the role of both the market (Vestheim 2012) and voluntary organizations as key components. Crucially, within the Swedish model there are different levels at which cultural policy is enacted and policy decisions are not imposed from above, but resources are allocated to the Swedish Performing Arts Agency (Musikverket) under the jurisdiction of Kulturrådet. Municipal authorities also have a large degree of autonomy over their own budgets and major conurbations even further still. One thing that is particularly unique to Sweden – or at least the Nordic and Germanic countries – is that as part of the trade union movement, various workers’ education groups and societies (föreningar) were established under the umbrella of trade union–like organizations known as Studieförbund. Societies are eligible for financial support from national and local governments as well as the umbrella organizations themselves. Whilst societies are often run on a voluntary (unpaid) basis, they must have an agreed-upon, formalized set of organizational statutes (stadgar) and publicly publish their budgets as a condition of their funding. The extent to which these networks are utilized means that, oddly enough, even anarchist feminist organizations have secured state funding to host events at municipal-run Kulturhuset. However, despite Sweden’s international reputation for gender-equal – and even feminist – policies in other areas, in cultural policy it suffers from many of the same problems as other countries in terms of gendered representation of music industry boards and in its uneven allocation of state funding to projects (de Boise 2019). This also becomes a problem for a

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state that has viewed its cultural policy in terms of promoting participation from all social groups. As with other trade union and socialist movements, the focus on the working class has often tended to exclude women from equal participation through emphasis on specific types of manual labour jobs which have historically been dominated by men. This is something Lundqvist (1999: 585) identifies as common during the Folkhem as a result of a rapidly urbanizing society with entrenched rural, patriarchal traditions. Historically, Sweden has instituted policies of gender mainstreaming in education and government institutions since the 1990s (Sainsbury and Bergqvist 2009); but it was not until 2006 that gender mainstreaming, and specifically reporting on how agencies are working to ensure gender equality, was applied to the financing of activities through Kulturrådet (SOU 2006/42). This decision was based on a report published the previous year which emphasized the aim to ‘change women’s and men’s qualitative rights and opportunities [because] equal representation is not enough for women to access actual power’ (SOU 2005/06: 50). In fact, one of the reasons given for the dissolution of the organization preceding Musikverket (Rikskonserter) in 2009 was a perceived ‘old boys’ network, which failed to take into account gender and diversity in its choice of touring artists and was too focused on classical repertoires. Swedish academics and organizations in the 1990s were already highlighting severe discrepancies in terms of how many hours were allocated to male and female composers (Öhrström 1993) in concert house repertoires. Indeed, the mapping of the proportion of representational inequalities on Swedish live stages, in both popular and Western art music traditions, is something which has continued under voluntary organizations which have received stipends via FeJM (Jämställd Festival 2016; KVAST 2016). In this respect, Sweden fared similarly to Australia (Macarthur 2014) and other anglophone countries (discussed below), which had also documented profound gender gaps in terms of whose music made its way onto the stage. Despite these known problems, it was not until the 2010s that the issue of gender equality in cultural policy was placed firmly on the political agenda. This was given further impetus in the wake of the #MeToo movement, where calls for stories of harassment and abuse from women musicians in Sweden revealed a staggering 2,192 unique stories from women (Grönberg 2017) working across the music industries, from established concert houses to well-known studios (and from well-known Swedish artists such as Zara Larsson and Robyn). One major step to address gender equality seriously in the music industries more broadly was started in 2011 with the establishment of Musikverket and later with Musikverket’s establishment of a major national initiative För ett jämställt musikliv (‘Toward a GenderEqual Music Life’ – FeJM) which ran from 2015 to 2018 to provide financial support for organizations or projects which aimed explicitly to promote gender equality in music. During this period, Musikverket introduced ‘gender impact assessments’ into its regular funding applications for project financing, working via outreach to increase women’s access to its Stockholm-based studio (EMS) and with gender mainstreaming repertoires in its music library. In terms of applications, Musikverket has had a relatively even number of men and women who have applied for financial support since 2014. For instance, in 2019, women made up 51 per cent of approved applications compared to approvals for men

Gender and Popular Music Policy

at 49 per cent (Musikverket 2020: 11); but this is not a significant difference from 2014, where women made up 48 per cent and men 52 per cent. Again, the mix of top-down and bottom-up approaches allowed for groups to suggest projects, while the state provided the framework and opportunities for financial support for popular music activities. However, government departments also instituted goals to introduce quotas for women in decision-making positions within the Kulturrådet and Musikverket, with a government report in 2014 (under the previous centre right government) championing the fact that Musikverket was led by a woman and that 8 million SEK had been allocated to Musikverket for promoting gender equality projects, of which FeJM was a part (Regeringskansliet 2014: 40–1). Unlike the Swedish Film Institute which introduced quotas into its regular planning activities (Jansson 2017), Musikverket has not mandated employee quotas, though women make up a majority of employees at the organization, with 67 per cent in leadership positions (Musikverket 2020: 48). There are also a number of large, interconnected networks aiming to promote gender equality in music, which exist informally and virtually. Prior to the coronavirus pandemic, organized gigs and events with a specifically feminist agenda were common. As in other countries, a number of international networks (such as Ladyfest in Gothenburg, Malmö and Stockholm) have been established as föreningar. While many of these networks tend to be concentrated in one of the three large cities, less populated cities and towns in the North also have thriving feminist networks with links to established state-funded cultural institutions in both popular and classical music. For instance, Konstmusiksystrar (‘Art Music Sisters’, a network for composers and artists), in combination with Norwegian conductor Cathrine Winnes, staged concerts interpreting Clara Schumann’s work with the Stockholm Wind Symphony Orchestra. Within an environment of vocal state support for gender equality in musical life, corporate Swedish actors have also looked to embrace calls for gender equality within the music industries. Most significantly, Spotify, as the largest international Swedish music organization, implemented its ‘Equalizer Project’ in 2018 which, it claimed, aimed to ‘[amplify] women’s voices in the music business’ (Spotify 2018b). The project held networking dinners, ran music production courses with famous women and non-binary musicians and producers, and hosted podcasts on the issue. These seemed to be largely paying lip service to gender equality in the industries, especially given the evidence for gender bias in the Spotify recommendation algorithm towards male-identifying artists (Werner 2020a). This has an impact on music consumption practices and thus unevenly gendered patterns of pay for musicians whose music is streamed on the platform. With regard to promoting greater representation amongst young women and girls in popular music, Popkollo girls’ rock camps have also existed in Sweden since 2003 in a similar way to girls’ rock camps in the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia and elsewhere. These have received funding via Studieförbund, Kulturrådet and relevant local municipalities. While there is a nominal fee, this is waived in cases where participants are from low-income families. Popkollo has also expanded in subsequent years from being primarily a rock camp to incorporate other genres and aspects of music creation, taking on board intersectional critiques which have pointed to the whiteness and ethno-centricism

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of the rock and pop industries. Municipal authorities have also financed a number of initiatives aimed at promoting women’s visibility (e.g. Women in Jazz) (Björck and Bergman 2018). This has included financially penalizing (though more symbolic rather than in severely financial form) organizations and venues which have failed to at least try to ‘book more equally’ (de Boise 2017). It is also worth noting that the focus on gender mainstreaming in terms of quantitative ‘balance’ has tended to marginalize BAME women in Sweden (de los Reyes 2016).

The United Kingdom In contrast to Sweden, rigid and deeply entrenched class divisions in the UK throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries meant that there were few attempts to provide state financial support for music initiatives aimed at a wider public; and the state has historically financed only a handful of elite concert houses (Behr et al. 2014). As an early and intensely capitalist society, England, especially, tended to leave popular music to profit-making venues, such as the music halls which first appeared in the mid-1800s in the wake of mass urbanization (Russell 1997). Following the Second World War and in direct rhetorical reaction to the Soviet Union’s Zhadanovschina, the British government assumed what Chartrand and McCaughey (1989) have characterized as a deliberately ‘arm’s length’ cultural policy approach to music (see Looseley 2011), tending to characterize all forms of state finance in the arts as a form of totalitarian interventionism, instead preferring to let ‘the market’ determine financial support for popular music (Breen 2008). The Department of Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS, previously the Department for National Heritage) consolidated a number of established cultural departments relatively late in 1992. Indeed, while the 1960s and 1970s saw an explosion of British popular music, there has been a tendency for the state to characterize popular music-making as not in need of state support because there is a market for it (Cloonan 2016: 405). If anything, music institutions and networks have often been in a directly antagonistic relationship with the British state, which has played out in a variety of ways, from outright criminalization to the use of policies to suppress music activities over the past three decades. The 1994 Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, most famously, saw the criminalization of unlicensed events targeted specifically at ‘illegal’ raves in rural spaces in a way that also had implications for the prosecution of ‘noise offences’ in urban conurbations. More recent forms of state intervention curtailing music in urban areas have included Form 696, the name of a risk assessment form which club promoters have to fill out ahead of an event in order to be granted a licence to play music. The form has been used by the English Metropolitan Police to disproportionately stop grime events under the racist premise that these contain the possibility for a greater threat of violence because of grime’s association with Black British communities (Charles 2016). The Metropolitan Police also recently sought a court order to stop drill group 1101 making music altogether

Gender and Popular Music Policy

and petitioned YouTube to remove drill videos, a sub-variant of grime, from their site. Under ‘New Labour’, harsher licensing restrictions under the 2003 Licensing Act saw the penalization of venues which hosted live music, leading to a 5 per cent reduction in the number of venues providing music in the space of three years, according to the British government’s own conservative estimates (Ward 2011: 7). Further, in an ideological commitment to shrink the state following the 2007–8 Global Financial Crisis and subsequent recession, the Conservatives’ austerity policies saw an overall reduction of 30 per cent to Arts Council England’s budget in 2010 and a subsequent decline of 16 per cent across local council spending on arts in England from 2010–15 (de Boise 2017: 4). This (superficially) laissez-faire, market-driven approach to popular music economies has had a marked impact on the way in which gender equality is articulated in UK music policy. National organizations who advocate for musicians’ and composers’ rights, as well as government legislation surrounding musical value in the UK, generally place a greater emphasis on the economic case for gender equality in music, compared with Sweden, where the ethical case is more often foregrounded (see de Boise 2017). Yet this framing emerges as a counter-response to (predominantly male) industry executives who argue that representational gender inequalities on the stage are a by-product of objective consumer demand (see de Boise 2019). Because UK industry executives and government officials tended to treat the market as objectively determining quality, rather than shaped by socioeconomic factors, advocacy organizations are forced to respond in kind. For instance, UK Music highlights ‘The Business Case for Diversity’ on its website (UK Music 2020a) while the DCMS’s (2008b) Equality Scheme formulated the case for equality in cultural policy in purely economistic terms: ‘there is a strong business case for involving all sections of society in both our workforce and our policies’ (DCMS 2008b: 5). Given this lack of intervention from the state, it is perhaps unsurprising that private sector actors and grassroots networks have taken on the main role pushing for equality in music policy. Networks such as Yorkshire Sound Women have received Arts Council England funding to provide sound engineering and music technology workshops for women and girls, though initiatives like these that have received funding are few in number. The recent European Union-financed Keychange initiative, spearheaded initially by Vanessa Reed, head of the UK Performing Rights Society (PRS) in 2015, was a huge step in advocating for greater representation on live stages (Raine 2019). PRS also previously ran Women Make Music, aimed at promoting women, trans and non-binary identifying artists specifically (PRS 2016), while advocacy body UK Music launched its equality and diversity taskforce in 2015. These initiatives have been aimed at advocating for equality within recording industry bodies, but it is difficult to assess their impact given that UK Music only produces partial surveys on percentages of those who work in the recorded music industries, which do not necessarily evaluate changes as a result of their initiatives. Though UK Music’s ‘Diversity Survey’ has noted a 4.3 per cent increase in women’s participation in the music workforce from 2016 to 2020 (now at 49.6 per cent), it is worth noting that during the same period, women’s representation in ‘senior’ roles increased at a smaller rate, from 37.9 per cent in 2016 to 40.4 per cent in 2020, with women making up 64.7 per cent of entry-level positions (UK Music 2020b: 15). With the UK now having left the EU, it is also

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unclear what PRS’s continued role in Keychange will be and whether British organizations who have signed up to the pledge to commit to booking 50 per cent majority women acts will continue to (at least rhetorically) honour their commitment. Crucially, signing up to the Keychange pledge is a non-binding commitment and carries few financial or symbolic incentives for non-compliance. The UK has a historically strong network of underground and independent music venues since the 1950s (Frith et al. 2013), no doubt due in part to an historic lack of direct state support for popular music and facilitated by relatively looser licensing laws than in other countries such as Sweden. These venues have been crucial to the establishment of feminist networks such as those associated with Riot Grrrl in the 1990s and early 2000s (Downes 2012; Leonard 2007). It has also been crucial for autonomous, member-led or activist spaces, which still support queer scenes today and which actively provide sites for music and musicians who actively subvert normative gender expressions and advocate for gender equality (Pearce and Lohman 2018). Yet as with Form 696 above, which has impacted disproportionately upon grime nights organizers being denied permission to be hosted, dependency on the goodwill of the local council and police can mean that they are the arbiters of what music is allowed to be put on. Their decisions, in turn, are shaped by preconceptions of which groups are associated with the music. In a previous project interviewing advocates for gender equality in relation to music (de Boise 2017) in an interview with a feminist collective, who organized heavy, electro-influenced hip-hop nights, they clearly articulated an understanding of how such policies are racialized. When applying for a Temporary Event Notice (an application for stand-alone music events which was introduced under the 2003 Licensing Act) they stated that they changed the wording on the application to make it ‘unthreatening’: ‘we always say it’s a “woman-focused party” … [in a fake posh voice] No! “A Woman-Focused Art-Event!” [laughs]’ (de Boise 2017). In this way, the politics of ‘respectable feminism’ tend to be invoked in implicitly racialized ways specifically in relation to musical spaces (Scharff 2011).

Australia Australia achieved a series of early and important successes in its adoption of broader gender mainstreaming and other gender equality policies even earlier than countries such as Sweden, which has enjoyed a greater international reputation for feminist policy. As detailed by Rimmer and Sawer (2016: 745), ‘Australia was regarded as being in the forefront of the development of women’s policy machinery.’ Among many important milestones that saw Australia lead the way for women’s policy in the 1970s, Australia’s official delegate to the 1975 United Nations World Conference on Women was a feminist activist appointed to the newly created position of Prime Minister’s Women’s Advisor in the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet (Sawer 2007: 20). The Australian government soon began to produce women’s budget statements, which required departments to account for the gendered impacts of their different policies and projects, an approach later disseminated

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and recognized as good practice by the United Nations (UN) (Sawer 2007: 21). Australia was the first country to table a women’s budget statement at a 1984 OECD meeting, a model that was later taken up and improved by other nations and eventually became a recommended practice by the OECD (Rimmer and Sawer 2016: 745). However, the success did not last. ‘Having been an early starter in the development of women’s policy machinery,’ argue Rimmer and Sawer, ‘progress faltered in the 1990s and Australia fell behind many other countries. By 2011, the OECD found that Australia had the fewest requirements for gender impact assessments of legislation, policies or budgets of 19 countries surveyed’ (2016: 746). Having once been a leader in developing women’s policy machinery, since the 1990s, under both conservative Coalition and Labor governments, there has been a retreat from high-profile policy campaigning on gender issues. Gender budget statements have been ‘effectively abandoned’, and there has been resistance to scrutiny of the gender-specific effects of neoliberal policy (Rimmer and Sawer 2016; Sawer 2007). The most recent federal budget, delivered in October 2020, cemented these trends, resulting in swift and widespread criticism of the total absence of women’s policy or gendered analysis of budget decisions, despite women having been most affected by the lockdowns, closures and job losses associated with the Covid-19 pandemic (Dent 2020; Schultz 2020). The story of gender equality policy within the arts and cultural industries in Australia maps closely on to the history of the nation’s broader gender policy architecture. Similarly galvanized by the UN World Conference on Women, the late 1970s saw the production of important reports on the status of women in the media, arts and cultural industries, which were undertaken with the support of key government departments and agencies on and off throughout the 1980s and into the early 1990s. Key studies included Selected Case Studies of Women Working in the Australian Mass Media (1976); Women in the Arts (1983); Women in Australian Film Production (Ryan et al. 1983); and Women in Australian Film, Television, Video and Radio Industries (Cox and Laura 1992). The reports document significant participation gaps in creative fields and identify a range of structural obstacles to women’s participation, from sexist industry practices to ‘the second shift’ of caring, reproductive and domestic labour. Very little of this research examined contemporary music in detail, but it did observe that the gender imbalances elsewhere in the cultural sector appeared to be even more pronounced for popular music (Women in the Arts 1983). Once again, though, the interest did not last. In the subsequent three decades, from the 1990s until very recently, there were no equivalent efforts to track the status of women in these fields. As had occurred in other areas of policy, explicit discussion of gender was minimized and even erased from the policy discourse, and there was no detailed consideration of the gender-specific effects of new (often neoliberal) cultural policy directions. In keeping with the policy amnesia – the ‘problem of policy memory’ (Meyrick and Barnett 2017) – that beleaguers so much cultural policy in Australia, both the research and the language necessary to identify and address gender inequalities in the arts disappeared from Australia’s formal cultural policy discourse and has only recently begun to be remembered. Within the Australian cultural policy sphere, two paradigms have dominated since the 1990s, both of which have gender-specific impacts. The first is the conservative concept

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of artistic ‘excellence’, most closely associated with support for national performing arts bodies and traditional ‘high’ art forms, which has influenced Australian cultural policy since its inception in the 1950s (Homan 2013; see also Chapter 1). ‘Excellence’ skews support for the arts towards established canonical norms, high production values and highly individualized notions of creative excellence, ignoring newer work as well as the collectivist, craft and lo-fi traditions where women artists have often ‘excelled’. As Eltham (2015) writes of the preoccupation with ‘excellence’ in Australian cultural policy, it ‘favours the dead, the white and the male over the living, the not-white and the female. It favours the old over the new’. In reference to music composition in particular, MacArthur (2014) argues that meritocratic notions such as ‘excellence’ are now deeply intertwined with neoliberal agendas, which see a handful of ‘exceptional women’ celebrated and incorporated into existing canons and histories, providing tokenistic justification that the underlying ‘rules of the game’ are fine as they are. Even as Australian cultural policy has developed to address more popular and contemporary cultural forms (notably film funding), concepts of ‘excellence’ have remained entrenched. Within popular music, film, television, games, contemporary literature and visual art, there are clear and persistent gender gaps in the key measures of ‘excellence’ such as critical recognition, prestigious awards, festival headlining, big budgets, major grants and canonical recognition. Galvanized by the current moment of highly visible and popular feminism (BanetWeiser 2018), both top-down and grassroots responses have been recently re-energized in Australia, as has been the case in many countries, including Sweden and the UK. New research and grassroots advocacy across the arts and cultural industries have helped challenge some of the sector’s most pervasive excellence and meritocratic myths.1 Echoing the findings of earlier reports, new research into the contemporary music industries has shown the extent to which men overwhelmingly dominate positions of influence and decision-making, such as industry boards, record label management, music journalism and radio station DJs (Cooper et al 2017: 8–10; McCormack 2017, 2018; Strong and Cannizzo 2017). In response to these findings, several key peak bodies and industry member organizations have committed to improve the gender balance among their senior staff, advisory boards and award judges (and sought to introduce a range of mentoring and leadership-oriented projects, as discussed further below). While ‘excellence’ discourses still prevail in many areas of cultural policy and funding, there is, for now, greater awareness and scrutiny of the dominance of men in influential leadership positions, of the nepotistic and opaque ‘old boys’ club hiring practices that shape the sector, and the ways such structures distort our perception of ‘merit’ and ‘excellence’ in contemporary music. The other important policy direction for the Australian arts and cultural sectors over the last three decades has been the embrace of a ‘creative industries’ and ‘creative economy’ rhetoric. This influential policy paradigm champions the economic potential of creativity and creative workers (very broadly defined) and has manifested most often in support for a range of city-focused tourism, urban renewal, ‘night-time economy’, ‘knowledge economy’ and digital industries programmes. Articulated early on in the Keating Labor government’s 1994 Creative Nation policy, the creative industries agenda has also had a robust presence

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in the UK, particularly under the Blair Labour government’s support for ‘Creative Britain’ (Flew 2012a; Smith 1999). With regard to popular music, this approach is clearly evident in Australian policy platforms and discussion papers, from The Music Industry: An Economic Evaluation Report (Australia Council 1987) to the Strategic Contemporary Music Industry Plan (Commonwealth of Australia 2010); The Music and Arts Economy in New South Wales (2018); and the Labor government policies Creative Australia (2013) and election platforms, for example, Creative Industries, Creative Country (2016). All have framed support for the contemporary music industries in terms of the amount of money and jobs the sector generates. Other significant policy discussion has focused on sites of tension between different parts of the new ‘creative economy’. One preoccupation has been digital disruption – digital piracy, streaming services, digital radio – and ‘how the arts, cultural and media economies confront an increasingly sophisticated digital economy’ (Homan 2013: 383). Another key point of policy debate has been the interaction between rapidly gentrifying inner city suburbs and the night-time economy (live music scenes and ‘cosmopolitan’ drinking and dining cultures), which had made those neighbourhoods desirable and lucrative for developers in the first place. Across all these policy directions and discussion papers, however, there was little to no consideration of the gender inequalities in the music industries, or assessment of how these new directions might further impact on the existing gender gap. Creative industries’ approaches and economic rationales for the support of the arts continue to be central to Australian cultural policy, evident in the language and agendas of state-based government arts departments and funding agencies, as well as industry peak bodies and member organizations. Yet like ‘excellence’, creative industries–influenced policy and programmes have a range of significant gender impacts that exacerbate existing barriers to women’s equal participation in the creative sector. There is ample research that demonstrates the gender-specific obstacles to participation on digital and social media platforms which are now so central to the visibility of contemporary music artists. This includes research that documents the pervasiveness of online abuse and harassment of women (Duggan 2014, 2017) to the gender-based biases of influential digital music recommendation and streaming platforms such as Spotify (Werner 2020a, 2020b). There is also important research into the gender-specific dimensions of the night-time economy and ‘experience economy’, with particular attention on sexual assault in live music and festival environments (Barnes and White 2019; Fileborn 2015; Fileborn et al. 2020). At a more structural level, these industry-oriented cultural policy directions further entrench the gender inequalities of creative and affective forms of contemporary labour (Conor, Gill and Taylor 2015; Gill 2014; McRobbie 2018). The (feminized) ‘labouring subjectivity’ of the new creative worker of the post-1990s cultural economy – flexible, agile, competitive, individualistic, entrepreneurial but also insecure to the point of ‘radical uncertainty’ (Gill 2014: 511, 516) – presents serious problems for women artists and cultural workers. As Gill (Gill 2014: 511) writes, ‘In its injunctions never to be ill, never to be pregnant, and never to need time off to care for one’s self or others, it may pose particular challenges for women.’

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The gender-specific impacts of ‘creative industries’ and ‘excellence’ paradigms are now well documented, discussed in academic literature and increasingly in popular feminist discourse, but they continue to be much less well attended to in Australian policy practice. Gender equality goals are instead most often addressed indirectly and implicitly by way of vague statements of support for the principles of ‘diversity’, ‘inclusion’ and ‘access’, ‘regardless of cultural background, age, gender or ability, or where they live or what they earn’ (Creative Victoria 2016: 28). These principles are broadly defined (access and inclusion of all Australians or the community for the benefit of everyone) and are rarely attached to specific benchmarks or quotas. For example, industry diversity is a ‘focus goal’ for the City of Melbourne’s Melbourne Music Plan 2018–2021, and the plan makes repeated reference to grassroots ecosystems, inclusivity and cultural diversity as essential for a heathy music city and for a safe and inclusive live music economy. Despite high-profile discussions of the gender gap elsewhere in the sector, including research and guidelines to help tackle sexual harassment in live music venues, gender is not mentioned elsewhere in the plan. In recent years, there have been developments that give cause for some optimism. A handful of key contemporary music agencies have made more ambitious ‘commitments’ to addressing gender equality. In response to a 2015 study of women in the contemporary music industries, Victoria’s industry peak body for contemporary music made a commitment to ‘supporting, promoting and celebrating gender diversity in music’ involving targets of at least 40 per cent women and 40 per cent men across its activities ‘where practicable’ (Music Victoria 2016). The response involved the establishment of a Women’s Advisory Board and KPIs that ‘aim to achieve’ gender equality and diversity balance in all Music Victoria’s activities including the board, advisory panel and organizational staffing (Music Victoria 2016). Music Victoria also supported an updated version of the Best Practice Guidelines for Live Music Venues to address the problems of sexual assault and harassment in Melbourne’s ‘night-time economy’ (Music Victoria 2018). In NSW, a 2017 parliamentary enquiry into The Music and Arts Economy in New South Wales finally considered gender-based sexual assault and harassment in live music spaces, formally recommending workplace codes of conduct and awareness campaigns to address concerns about performer pay and safety (though without naming sexual assault or gender specifically). The Australasian Performing Right Association and the Australasian Mechanical Copyright Owners Society (APRA AMCOS), the agencies responsible for music rights and licensing, introduced a 40/40/20 gender equality goal for its membership programmes and also committed to ‘strictly’ limiting external funding ‘to grant applications showing at least 40 per cent female participation, or a commitment to tackling gender disparity, where possible’ (APRA AMCOS 2017). In contrast with recent commitments to gender equality in other areas of Australian cultural policy (notably, Screen Australia’s Gender Matters platform), there is lack of transparency and monitoring that makes it difficult to track success at those agencies which have made public commitments. Aspirational rhetoric, a lack of sufficient benchmarking and qualifying terms such as ‘where possible’ and ‘where practical’ ultimately make the commitments vague and annual reports (to date) do not sufficiently monitor or evaluate progress. Moreover, there appears to be a tendency to meet aims for better gender

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representation through the introduction of programmes that are positioned as adjacent to the primary business of these organizations: ad hoc and short-term ‘women’s programmes’, the vast majority of which are focused on professional development, networking, mentoring and leadership. As discussed elsewhere in more detail (Edmond 2019), ‘confidence’ is regularly identified as a major cause of the gender gap in arts and cultural sectors, a problem both ascribed to women by the industry and also identified by many women artists surveyed and interviewed who say they want more confidence. In response, there are initiatives like Music Victoria’s ‘Cultivate’ leadership development programme and its ‘You Can’t Be What You Can’t See’ activities, or the ‘Women in Music’ mentorship programmes organized by APRA AMCOS and by the various state music industry development association (see the ‘Levels’ programme by NSW Music or ‘Women in Music’ by Q Music). As Gill and Orgad (2015: 333) argue, these kinds of confidence discourses encourage women to see themselves as ‘part of the problem’ involving ‘a turning away from any account of structural inequalities or of the way in which contemporary culture may impact upon women’s sense of self ’. What is important about these types of ‘confidence’ and ‘leadership’ initiatives is how clearly they demonstrate the extent to which neoliberal policy directions continue to shape Australian cultural policy, as well as the difficulties of disentangling agencies from these logics sufficiently to address gender inequality in contemporary music. In keeping with the trajectory of Australia’s gender policy architecture more generally, gender continues to be marginalized within cultural policy discourse. Gender equality is instead most often explicitly addressed through initiatives that focus on helping women to overcome their lack of leadership skills and confidence. It is not central to the policy logic of relevant cultural agencies, and there continues to be no critical accounting for all the ways existing rhetoric, programmes or funding might undermine gender equality goals.

Policy, gender and the early post-Covid-19 music industry The above case studies show that since the early 2000s, there has been more direct engagement with the question of women’s participation in music than ever before. This has not always translated into useful policy outcomes, and there are limits to the effectiveness of policy caught up too closely with neoliberal ideologies that either only focus on music’s relationship to the market or attempt to deflect the responsibility for finding solutions on to individual women (who are called upon to be either ‘exceptional’, ‘more confident’ or perform music that appeals more to the market). Regardless, the problem was being acknowledged in a variety of ways, and some uneven progress was being made, even if grassroots organizations continued to do more of the heavy lifting on this issue than might be seen as ideal. However, the arrival of the Covid-19 pandemic drew an abrupt end to a large proportion of activity that had been taking place in music, whether grassroots, government sponsored or commercial. The impacts of the pandemic have been detailed

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elsewhere; but suffice to say that live performances of any sort were one of the first casualties of the virus, and the loss of one of the primary modes by which people engage with music had severe flow-on effects. Musicians, venues, road crew, booking agents and other associated businesses lost their livelihoods almost overnight, and audiences lost the positive impacts of live music experiences, whether social, spiritual or in terms of mental health (see Carr 2020a; Hall 2020; Strong and Cannizzo 2020). To understand how this is playing out in relation to gender and music policy, it is first important to note that the impacts of the Covid-19 virus are fundamentally gendered. Gendered differences in labour and caring meant women were adversely affected more than men. Women are over-represented in industries where people were more likely to contract Covid (such as healthcare), or lose their jobs (hospitality), or both (Azcona et al. 2020). Women’s caring work was also increased with the closure of schools and childcare. This was quickly shown to be having greater detrimental effects on women’s work performance in comparison to men (see, for example, Kibbe 2020; Pandey 2020). In addition to this, the policy decisions made in different countries about how to deal with the fallout of Covid-19 had different impacts on men and women. In Australia, for example, the conservative Liberal/National Party federal government propped up industries such as construction, with mainly men in their workforces, at the expense of women-dominated professions such as childcare (Tomevska 2020; see also Morris 2020a). In poorer countries, all these types of effects were exacerbated further. These impacts were such that a UN report argued that the gendered economic and social impacts of the pandemic … need attention as they are already predicted to bring more and broader harm to women and girls, exposing and reinforcing entrenched gender norms and inequalities. This impact will continue for generations, and if unchecked it could reverse gains in gender equality and poverty alleviation in many countries. (Azcona et al. 2020: 1)

Similarly, McLaren et al. (2020: 87) noted a current failure of policy to reflect the gendered impact of disease. Many of the factors that are impacting negatively on women in the crisis more broadly will be impacting women in the music sector, and they are in most cases exacerbating pre-existing causes of inequality that have kept women out of this area. Musicians and people working in the business and support side of music tend to have ‘portfolio careers’, where they work multiple jobs and music-related work is supplemented by employment in other industries (Bartleet et al. 2019; Strong et al. 2019). This is often in areas such as hospitality, where women are also being heavily impacted by Covid-19. While research is still emerging on the exact impacts of the crisis (much of which is not examining gendered impacts as yet) there is already some evidence of women being disproportionately disadvantaged or impacted in creative areas. A study of the impacts of Covid on the music industry in Victoria, Australia (Strong and Cannizzo 2020), did not find that men, women and non-binary/gender non-conforming (GNC) people had been differently impacted in terms of loss of income or paid work during the lockdowns in that state, as the strong

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negative impact in these areas across all demographics showed the scale of the damage to the industry. However, women and non-binary/GNC people had been more impacted by increased caring duties, were less likely to have felt productive during lockdown and were less likely to have learned new skills. In addition to this, two small-scale studies completed by industry and lobby groups in the UK, for example, have shown that in the creative industries, women were more likely to have been made unemployed or taken a salary reduction than men; a majority of people surveyed believed Covid-19 would ‘worsen diversity in the industry’ (Kiefer 2020); and that the majority of parents and carers in the performing arts sector (including music) were considering abandoning their careers (PIPA 2020). In the responses that appeared in the rush to respond to the destruction Covid-19 wreaked on the music industries, and the creative sector more broadly, funding and grants tailored specifically to women have been conspicuous in their absence. Taking our case study countries as examples, Sweden’s work to mainstream gender equality in its cultural policy received special acclaim for the European Council on Gender Equality (EIGE 2016), though recent years have seen a much more muted response, where the pandemic has seen gender equality drop largely off of the political agenda. The Swedish government has announced 150 million SEK to ‘strengthen cultural activities in Sweden’ (Regeringskansliet 2020), allocated directly to local and municipal authorities, with a further 319 million allocated to established institutions and 500 million SEK which can be applied for by individuals and individual organizations (reference). Kulturrådet also early on in the pandemic announced ‘support packages’ for concerts and concert venues, though these could only be applied for by established organizations (including föreningar). There are currently no clear guidelines for how these will take gender into account in terms of the allocation of financial support, and there are no grants that have an explicit gender focus. In Australia, there was also a lack of gender-focused grants, but the ways in which grants were administered provided some consideration of diversity. The federal government initially announced a AUD27 million package for the arts in April, followed by a more substantial AUD250 million in late June. The larger package included the AUD75 million Restart Investment to Sustain and Expand (RISE) Fund aimed at restarting cultural events. One of the eligibility criteria for this fund is that events provide access to creative and cultural experiences that are inclusive and safe spaces for performers and audiences, including youth, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, women, gender diverse artists and artists with disability. (Office for the Arts 2020: 10)

Similarly, as an example at the state level, Creative Victoria’s ‘Victorian Music Industry Recovery programme’, while delivering specific funding for First Nations and Deaf and Disabled people, had no targeted gender-based funding available, instead including a caveat that consultation with industry representatives and organizations is being undertaken to ensure ‘there is diversity in the process from inception to delivery’ (Creative Victoria 2020). While there are no gender-specific grants or funds (cf. Sweden), there are requirements within the funding process to take gender into consideration. This was also the case in the

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UK, where an early Emergency Response Package of £64.8 million, administered through Arts Council England, delivered 54 per cent of its funding to female-led applications (Arts Council England 2020). The UK Government in July went further in announcing a onetime investment in UK-established arts and cultural institutions of £1.57 billion to combat the economic impact of the ongoing coronavirus pandemic (UK Government 2020a). It is unclear how this will be distributed amongst different venues, individuals and projects, nor what the gendered impact will be. This highlights one of the potential advantages of a music industries recovery led (at least initially) by government funding in countries where diversity requirements have to some extent become embedded in policy, especially within competitive grants. Transparent outcomes and diversity considerations that are written into guidelines and principles for funding bodies may provide a way to circumvent the ‘boys club’–based distribution of resources that has often been identified as a barrier for women’s participation. In the absence of funding specifically tailored to ensuring women’s continued presence in popular music, pre-existing government and funding body guidelines on diversity and inclusion can provide the framework that dictates to what extent gender equality needs to be considered in the administration of Covid-19 emergency funding. To this extent, the work done pre-2020 in highlighting issues in music, and more broadly in ensuring that gender needs to be considered at all by the machinery of government when decisions are being made, has proved valuable. However, uneven reporting of diversity outcomes and a lack of focused programmes that can be tailored more specifically to the types of issues that are particularly impacting on women in this crisis – and caregiving responsibilities would be one key area here – means the adverse effects of Covid-19 will still play out in unequal ways, which, as always, will be exacerbated further for BAME, queer, and Deaf and Disabled women. This will be more so in countries where government support for the arts during Covid-19 has been less forthcoming.

Conclusion The case studies in this chapter have given some insight into the complexities of gender, popular music and policy. While women and Gender Non-Conforming (GNC) people are unequally represented in music-making activities around the globe, the specific ways in which policy approaches can be brought to bear to provide ways to counteract this depend on the policy histories relating to gender and to culture in particular countries. This can change very much over time; and as the rise and fall of women-focused policy in Australia shows, progress in relation to gender issues does not always take an upward trajectory. The extent to which music is regarded as a public good that should be available to all, as in Sweden, or a commercial activity best left in the hands of the market, as in the UK, influences the extent to which popular music-related policy exists at all, let alone in relation to gender. Despite these differences, gender inequality in music remains entrenched, with grassroots and community organizations continuing to shoulder much of the burden of

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keeping this issue on the agenda and pushing governments and other industry players to improve. There is, however, at least the potential for policy to be used to even the playing field to some extent for women and GNC people in music. As examples from other areas in the arts show, when government funding is distributed with strict diversity guidelines in place, the participation of previously marginalized groups does improve (Screen Australia 2015). While the devastation Covid-19 has caused in the music industries will take some time to repair, there is a danger that an entire generation of women may be lost, where women with caring responsibilities in particular may lack the support to continue with music-making. Yet there is also an opportunity for resources to be more equally distributed in recoveries led by government funds.

Note 1

See, for example, Screen Australia’s Gender Matters (2015) report on women in film and television; Women in Theatre (Lally and Miller 2012); the Countess reports on women in contemporary visual arts (Richardson 2016); Stella Counts reports on Australian literature overseen by The Stella Prize; and the ‘Mates Over Merit’ report on Women in the Media produced by the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance (MEAA).

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18 When music becomes datafied: Streaming services and the case of Spotify Jonas Andersson Schwarz and Sofia Johansson

Introduction In the 2020s, significant aspects of the consumer experience of mediated music took place through so-called music streaming services or digital service providers (DSPs). The biggest ones are Spotify, Apple Music, Google Play Music, YouTube, Amazon Music and Tidal. This chapter is an attempt at critically engaging with the empirically observable structure of this mediation of music, as well as providing a summary of key literature in the area. Spotify, arguably the world’s most popular DSP at the moment, was founded in Sweden and will serve as our quintessential example. There is an emerging corpus of critical research on Spotify, most of it in English, and as Swedish scholars, we have the advantage of being able to draw also on some of the journalistic reporting written in Swedish. Another reason for us to focus on Spotify is that it was one of the first music streaming providers to gain popularity, even before 2010 and the advent of smartphones. Therefore, Spotify seems to stand as a metonym for music streaming in a lot of popular discourse. Another reason for choosing Spotify as our primary example is that it serves as a case study of the platformization of culture – that is, a novel form of functional and formal management where users and institutions are bound to use a proprietary data infrastructure controlled by a private corporation in order to access the media that they desire. This brings us to a third reason to use Spotify as an example: the corporation’s professed use of behavioural analytics in order to cater to audience taste patterns. This latter aspect of the datafication of music is exemplified by the Spotify subsidiary The Echo Nest, and has been covered in the literature as a case study in so-called big data management, where inferred patterns in the data are thought to be used as part of a general system of cybernetic feedback, where users’ preferences are thought to be discerned in the aggregated patterns of how they use the service in question. Spotify’s combination of normative popularity (market dominance),

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functional platformization (‘locking in’ users) and behavioural analytics (inferring intelligence from user data) is what this chapter will focus on. We will begin by observing some logics of (i) streaming and the music industries; to then move on to the notion of (ii) data as a tool for planning and prediction; and (iii) the political economy of platforms that this ubiquitous datafication gives rise to; to finally assess how this brings to bear on (iv) playlists and musical curation.

Streaming and transitions in the music industries As the internet has evolved from a complementary tool for music listeners in the 1990s, significant primarily to dedicated music fans and filesharers, to becoming part of ‘normal’ everyday music consumption (Prior 2018), digitalization has for more than two decades been considered a cause for both concern and celebration for recording companies, music artists and listeners alike (e.g. Jones 2011; Messaris and Humphreys 2006). Whilst the recording industry and associated stakeholders have often been depicted as threatened as a result of falling revenues from physical sales and illegal filesharing, scholarly analysis of the music industries has more recently shifted to underlining adaptation and business reconfiguration. For instance, the decline in record sales across the world has been contrasted with a revitalization of music publishing and live music (Rogers 2013), whereas streaming services have likewise introduced new business models. Hence, the music industries can currently be described as involving a very wide range of actors – from promoters to streaming services – and a great deal of diversification in different sectors and markets (Nordgård 2016; Rogers and Preston 2016). That being said, the rise of streaming and DSPs has led to a substantial revival in the fortunes of the recording and music publishing industries. Once illegal filesharing was deemed a terminal threat to the recording industry (see below), commercial streaming services were heralded as a solution for recording companies. Making music consumable through branded digital interfaces, whilst at the same time aggregating large datasets that chart the listeners’ behaviours and habits (Vonderau 2015: 717–8), streaming both centralizes the supply and allows the listener to access music from different devices, whilst making personal ownership of the physical music redundant. Spotify, launched in 2008, emerged as one of the leading streaming services after striking deals with the major companies in the music industry, mainly record and music publishing companies, which made them shareholders. It operates through a business model based on a pay-per-stream system for record company remuneration streams, whilst gaining revenue from subscription and advertising. Contributing to an increase in revenues in recorded music and at the same time competing with digital music sales (Rogers and Preston 2016: 64–5), categorizing DSPs is, however, not so straightforward. Spotify, for example, is sometimes described as a media company, and sometimes as a technology company agnostically distributing content (Fleischer and Snickars 2017: 133–5).

When Music Becomes Datafied

Similarly, there continue to be uncertainties as to how streaming has, more precisely, reshaped the music industries. The impact on music artists and their opportunities to make a living has been especially contentious. An oft-discussed issue is whether the transfer of revenue to music artists is fair. This is also related to concerns about the possibilities for smaller artists and independent labels to survive in the new music landscape. The remuneration systems used by streaming services are particularly controversial, as the DSPs seem to make infinitesimally small payments per stream, whilst their distribution of reimbursement is often understood to reward major and known artists, with top songs and artists making up a high proportion of revenue (see Marshall 2015; Nordgård 2016). Such claims are scrutinized by Hesmondhalgh (2020) in a recent analysis, where he notes that the question of how musicians are to make a viable living from music is a long-running issue, related to the wider problematic system of music and ownership. Importantly, he points out, the present system does not entail any actual ‘pay-per-stream’ arrangement. Rather, the system is usually called ‘pro-rata’, where revenue is divided according to the proportion of total streams achieved by an individual file within a set period, and that is not at all the same thing as a ‘per-stream’ system. Hence, a limited focus on the pay-perstream rates of DSPs may lead to analytical neglect of the system as a whole and may also distract from the multiple sources of income available to musicians today. Although acknowledging remaining inequalities and poor working conditions for many music artists, Hesmondhalgh (2020: 18) tentatively concludes that ‘it may well be the case that more musicians rather than fewer can now earn money from recorded music’, whilst noting that the current system retains the inequalities and generally poor working conditions that characterized also older retail and radio models of distribution before the advent of DSPs. One of the potential alternatives to the existing pro-rata system that he examines is the ‘user-centric’ system that has been proposed by industry commentators (Hesmondhalgh 2020: 16).1 Although the discussion of musicianship in the era of streaming primarily concerns the economic contexts of music production, it ultimately dovetails with questions around how music streaming might shape the practices of music consumption, too. Here, scholars have stressed how software interfaces, algorithms and systems for archiving and contextualizing music reward certain listening modes and musical experiences (e.g. Kjus 2016; Maasø 2016; Morris and Powers 2015), such as providing ‘more of the same’ based on previous choices (see Snickars 2017; Åker 2017), or guiding listeners in specific ways through music recommendations as part of the digital content delivery (Eriksson and Johansson 2017; Werner 2019a). Music streaming in conjunction with social media, likewise, should be understood as a complicating factor for notions of live music (Kjus 2018; Kjus and Danielsen 2014), as well as raising questions about how users understand the sharing of music as part of the wider transformation of public and private communication (Hagen and Lüders 2017). Some research in this field aims to explore how streaming as a means of delivery interlinks with contemporary meanings of music more broadly, as integrated into the routines and contexts of everyday life (Johansson et al. 2017; Hagen 2015a). Although music has, of course, been portable and played in a range of public locations long before

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streaming, the notion of ‘ubiquitous music’ is often said to be a formative element of current music cultures (Kassabian 2013; Quiñones et al. 2015). Hesmondhalgh and Meier (2018) approach contemporary networked, mobile, personalized services for recorded music as something of a testing ground for the introduction of new cultural technologies more broadly, connoting larger sea changes in contemporary capitalism. One such sea change is the turn to software services being provided on a rental, pay-as-you-go basis instead of individual ownership, and another one is the infrastructural arrangements whereby entire media industries come to rely on even larger service providers in the consumer electronics, information technology and telecoms sectors, something that also Andersson Schwarz (2017) notes as one of the constituent elements of a techno-economic ‘platform logic’. The studies at hand all emphasize how the musical experience itself is altered by the accessibility, ubiquity and flexibility of streaming services as part of daily life. Clearly, digitalization and the development of DSPs have led not only to significant transitions within the music industries but also to overarching questions around music production as well as a form of music consumption increasingly inscribed in online environments. In order to gain a fuller understanding of these transitions, however, it is necessary to pinpoint the fundamentals of music as data, which we will attempt to do in the following section.

Music as data It is a key material observation that digitalization, by way of transcoding analogue soundwaves into digital signals (by way of sampling, i.e. the Nyquist–Shannon theorem) allowed, during the twentieth century, for engraving of such signals in physical carrier media (e.g. compact discs), improving fidelity and durability. The late twentieth century saw the invention of data compression (by way of formats like MP3) which – combined with the boom in consumer-facing internet connections – enabled the large-scale copying of entirely digital artefacts, effectively regardless of the physical media carrier. The paradigmatic historical situation this gave rise to could be understood as one of filesharing (Andersson Schwarz 2013). The untenable legal situation that this entailed, however, with copyrights being ignored on a vast scale and illegitimate business interests encroaching on the established music industry, incentivized the copyright-based industry to quickly establish a new paradigm, that of streaming media. Spotify should be understood as emblematic of this shift (Eriksson et al. 2019) that has had two structural components: (a) Consumer access to data streams can be restricted through extensive technical interventions; so-called digital rights management (DRM). By enforcing so-called platform solutions, where users have to be logged in under realname policies, making their participation dependent on continual payment, subscription-based business models are the norm, alongside less restricted, albeit ad-financed, access solutions.

When Music Becomes Datafied

(b) Thanks to the identification policy enabled by discrete user accounts, the DSPs can continually track and harvest all available data points about user behaviour on their sites. This creates functional opportunities – and potential secondary markets – of media-usage metadata.2 Hence, business and consumer dynamics are fostered that are in some ways different than those of the era of disc- and tape-based recording media, whilst new logics are created that resemble business logics of old. Another functional shift is the relative loss of importance of ‘albums’ in relation to the apparent increased importance of ‘playlists’. There is no physical cap on running times of the recordings, yet it could be hypothesized that music producers are incentivized to make songs short, so as to maximize revenue, as any song longer than 30 seconds would generate a copyright claim, and music producers want to maximize the amount of songs consumed in any finite time period. This, however, would not be functionally very different from the AM and FM radio eras of the last century, where there was also an economic aspect to song lengths. Another similarity to radio can be noted in the ways in which copyright claims per song are miniscule, their pricing being more comparable to radio airplay than sold recording media.3 This has created a landscape where, at least for commercial artists, ‘maximum airplay’ is pivotal, much like in the preceding landscape of radio. The key component of DSP airplay, however, is the phenomenon of tailor-made playlists officially published by DSPs like Spotify. Here, a particular structural property of DSPs arises: the dual role of being both a distribution mechanism (akin to the FM radio network) and being the editorial selector (akin to the radio DJ or the artist-and-repertoire office of a record company). This latter role is particularly notable, given the massive influence that the service provider has to unilaterally promote content on its inventory, without requisite transparency. Artists and labels are incentivized to be included in such playlists, since this is the primary way to market their inventory. Aguiar and Waldfogel (2018) have found clear statistical evidence that Spotify has the power to influence consumption decisions through their customization of playlists. Spotify has been heavily promoting the playlist format since at least 2012, appearing to actively push listeners to consume music through playlists in place of other formats (Prey et al. 2020). Services like Spotify Radio (an automated way of keeping music playing when a playlist or album ends; see Snickars 2017) and Spotify Stations (a radio-like service, intended to appeal to casual users) have emerged as auxiliary functions to this central editorial function of providing playlists. One of the pivotal innovations in this personalization of digital music delivery is Discover Weekly (Prey 2018). With this feature, launched in July 2015, Spotify pioneered a form of algorithmic music curation, where every Monday, each user was provided a new playlist populated with 30 songs that they had not previously heard on Spotify, based on a largely automated reading of what the user in question would be likely to enjoy. Arguably, the apex of this technocratic notion of serving users playlists that are automatically customized to fit the moment was seen in the launch, in October 2016, of Branded Moments. Here, as Prey (2018) points out, brands are invited to collaborate with Spotify, with the idea that they are thought to be able to directly engage with Spotify

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listeners, on an individualized basis, by serving users the mood-enhancing sound backdrops that the Spotify system deems appropriate for that particular moment – be it archetypal ‘lifestyle’ activities such as driving, relaxing, partying, eating dinner, etc., or a plethora of other instances, such as ‘major life moments, real-time mood states, and seasonal events’ (Prey 2018). This renewed role of playlists and display marketing has come to allow for what has been described by some industry insiders as a contemporary version of payola. Rolling Stone magazine recently uncovered confidential documents showing that the company pursues a policy of requiring artists or labels to spend money for premium positioning in its inventory (Leight 2019). A similarly controversial example is noted by Prey et al. (2020). In the summer of 2016, it was reported that a lot of highly generic tracks by unknown producers were found on so-called mood or chill playlists, oriented towards ambient and background music, some of which having generated hundreds of thousands and, in some cases, millions of streams (Ingham 2018). It was alleged that Spotify had been paying producers a flat fee to create tracks under pseudonyms, perhaps as a way to dilute the pool of claimants to royalties, under the abovementioned pro-rata model (Ingham 2016). These allegations were corroborated by former Spotify employees (Trakin and Aswad 2017). The company emphatically denounced the claim that it would have created ‘fake’ artists and put them on Spotify playlists (Gensler 2017). However, as Eriksson (2020) notes, this does not rule out the possibility that, whilst not being explicitly ‘fake’ artists per se, Spotify could have purposefully added highly generic material to its editorial playlists (Eriksson 2020: 423), especially seen as one of the key aspects of digital playlists is their explicitly functional role: Spotify purposefully makes playlists for yoga, meditation, sleep, workout, eating dinner and all sorts of mundane practices. We will return to this functional role of music in our conclusion below. Underneath the business model of DSPs lies the notion that ‘play counts’ would closely match actual listening patterns. Of course, a media player can sometimes be playing without someone actually listening – but in terms of data analysis it is sufficient that, most of the time, a file is playing. Another arbitrary data point is the fixed time stamp of 30 seconds which is the generally agreed length of time to count as a ‘play’, thus generating a royalty (Snickars and Mähler 2018). This ties in to a more general modern arbitration of fixed properties of music, such as itemizing music as ‘songs’ to begin with. Another highly arbitrary presupposition is that any such ‘play count’ would be an expression of appreciation. It need not always be the case that songs are played out of strong partiality to that particular song or artist; it should hopefully be clear (to industry analysts and academic ones as well) that media users can hold a variety of sentiments towards the content on offer; nevertheless, the data economy that the new paradigm of streaming has given rise to appears to hold as self-evident that all ‘play counts’ count, and are counted alike. In one way, the data point is similar to the ways in which radio stations crudely infer ‘listeners’ from audience estimations or record companies count ‘sales’ regardless to how qualitatively important each sale would be to each buyer – but in another way, the data generated by DSPs is often heralded as being more granular, and thereby more sophisticated than such metrics, as several repeated playbacks of a song by one and the same user would, for example, indicate strong positive attachments to that song.

When Music Becomes Datafied

What is truly new with these DSPs, however, is the data feedback loop they generate in real time, making it possible to trace when and how often songs are actually played in the user’s own private setting (Prey 2016: 32). Spotify was not the first company to engage in such algorithmic extrapolation from online music listening. Arguably, the first case of ‘turning a community of file sharers into cybernetic commodity’ (Morris 2015: 38) was when music data ‘infomediary’ BigChampagne began harvesting metadata from Napster in the year 2000, one of the first instances of this type of back-end, server-based institutional brokerage, generating data ‘from inferences about audience preferences, even in seemingly non-commercial systems for “free” exchange’ (Andersson Schwarz and Burkart 2015: 3). This way of doing business online has since then gained monumental popularity. In a sense, Spotify is not much different from a glut of digital apps and interfaces that all strive to categorise users at a distance (Cheney-Lippold 2017). What is new about such algorithmic individuation, Prey (2018: 1096–7) argues, is not so much its modulatory nature, but rather that it enacts a form of surveillance whilst remaining hidden from view from the subject. Most listeners are, Prey argues, unaware of precisely why they are recommended a particular song through Discover Weekly. As users are not made aware that the algorithm apparently gives more weight to songs from playlists with more followers and from Spotify’s own in-house playlists (Pasick 2015), there is a risk that users might believe the recommendations to be more unique and personal than they really are. Throughout the company’s ten-year history, Spotify has prided itself in its ability to infer behavioural patterns from user data, something that can be analytically combined with pattern recognition of the actual musical artefacts as well (inferring, e.g., genre from the timbre of the sound). The notion of sophisticated music recommendations based on users’ behavioural patterns became an industry trope, especially once Spotify began co-operating with music data intelligence company The Echo Nest in 2011, subsequently acquiring it in 2014 (Snickars 2017). Here, data analysis is understood as a means of prediction (e.g. estimation of particular genres, or playlists according to mood, time of day, etc.). In addition to the explicitly functional playlists noted above, this, too, appears to entail a functionalist notion of music, apparent, for example, in how contemporary muzak (e.g. McDonalds store playlists) can be catered on a very granular level, to particular settings and environments, and particular demographics of listeners. As Eriksson (2016) has noted, metadata does not merely operate in the background as an aid to those who actively search for it; it is actually co-constitutive of the entire online economy, shaping its modes of access and interactivity, transforming the ways in which digital music objects are conceptualized: In a digital landscape where music is steadily linked and woven together with contextual information, it is no longer viable to think about audio files as autonomous entities. A music file found and enjoyed through the Web is just as much a product of metadata. (Eriksson 2016: n.p.)

More recently, observing how the management styles of Spotify meet archival legacies, like those of public service broadcasting (Burkart and Leijonhufvud 2019), this co-constitutive role of metadata becomes even more pronounced, as we shall see below. When it comes to royalty remuneration, the overall decrease in sales of recorded music has shifted priorities to licensing. A plethora of licensing deals are now available for artists

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and publishers, where streaming is one source of income in parallel with touring and events, as well as inclusion of music scores in games, adverts and movies. Licensing deals are between rights holders (mainly record companies for the ‘master rights’ and music publishers for the ‘song rights’) and DSPs. In some cases, artists are rights holders; but only artists with substantial catalogues will be involved in negotiation over terms. Whilst DSPs’ measurements of actual listening might be very exact, distribution of payment is not. As Hesmondhalgh (2020) explains, the most important determinant of musician income would be the contractual terms that the musician has agreed with the rights holders. These collecting society agreements enter into the frame only once the total sums have been settled between the DSP and these rights holders (mainly recording and publishing companies). The actual distribution of royalty is therefore much more premised on the agreements of collecting societies and negotiating parties instead of being a direct 1:1 mirror of actual ‘play counts’. Major labels can demand higher rates of pay for their music, whilst smaller labels have a tougher challenge in pricing negotiations. In order to get more leverage in such negotiations, many smaller, independent labels have united into collective negotiating organisations (e.g. Merlin; see Hesmondhalgh 2020). Moreover, the global market is increasingly complex, with hundreds of different DSPs in different markets. For the handful of big global DSPs there are numerous contingent factors affecting their revenue calculations, such as different subscription tiers, differently priced listening scenarios and radically different local markets. Due to global disparities in purchasing power, monthly subscription fees differ a lot in price between national markets (Peoples 2018). This opacity and complexity of revenue streams has made it possible for some artists and labels to ‘game’ the system, such as illicitly manipulating ‘play counts’. In 2019, Spotify was sued by an independent music company whose proprietor claimed that it was deprived of royalties for 550 million streams, as Spotify had unilaterally erased play counts and blacklisted the company’s artists and songs in 2017. In Spotify’s countersuit, the claim is that the company had in fact engaged in large-scale manipulation of Spotify’s system (Rys 2020).4 Swedish newspaper Dagens Nyheter uncovered another case (Lindkvist and Ahlström 2020) which illustrates how similar manipulation is possible also for serious recording artists.

Datafication, platformization, ‘Spotification’ There is now vast literature on the political economy of internet platforms (see, for example, Dolata 2017; van Dijck et al. 2018). In fact, the story of Spotify provides a key lesson in how market power is gained in digital ecosystems – and in Sweden, the concept of spotification has emerged as a way to understand platform power. Spotification is useful also when addressing other critical phenomena in the digital political economy: the frequent rhetorical invocations of an ethos of sharing; and the expansionist resolve of technology companies, meaning that they often advanced into adjacent industries.

When Music Becomes Datafied

As Spotify gained popularity in Sweden, inquisitive critics turned the verb around, so as to highlight what ‘spotifying’ something appears to be. The term should primarily be attributed to Swedish activist and academic Fredrik Edin in 2009, when the debate on digital piracy was at its peak. Alongside other thinkers (Ågren 2012; Fleischer 2012), he helped to expand the speculative notion of spotification, seeing it as a template for neoliberal management in the era of re-centralization of the internet. What is enacted is a form of enclosure, as commercial service providers take something which was originally free or common, curtail its supply, whilst restricting its technical quality and setting up rules for how it can be used and, lastly, impose a fee for using it – either through advertising, subscription, or (in the case of quasi-markets) through a subsidy model where other institutions pick up the bill. Andersson Schwarz (2013: 112) summarizes spotification as a tendency among commercial operators to harness once unbridled user agency and force it into walled gardens governed by cloud computing, made possible by massive data centres. Usage would thereby converge toward a ‘more institutionally sanctioned, regulated, recaptured Internet where surfing is de-anonymized, linked to the user’s true identity and credit card’ (Andersson Schwarz 2013: 115). More recently, Burkart and Leijonhufvud (2019) brought the term into a policy context. They, however, approach the concept slightly differently. In their critique of a recent overhaul of the Swedish public service radio music archive, Grammofonarkivet, they point to an inherent duality of spotification. Through a dual process of digitalizing and outsourcing, a technical and organizational shift is conducted, where careful cataloguing of artefacts is replaced by a centralized, highly automated process of storing music as streaming media files, risking immense loss of both metadata and the actual integrity and provenance of the very music recordings in question. Spotification, in their understanding, is what happens when cultural policy becomes more market- than quality-oriented, and they tie it to larger shifts in the role of public service media in landscapes suffused by hyper-commercial infrastructure operators: In each case, a complex political economy of cross-subsidies among national state media agencies and private industries is faced with competition from ‘platform’ operators with concentrated and global market power in advertising and e-commerce. (Burkart and Leijonhufvud 2019: 181)

Alongside policy researchers such as Dolata (2017), they pry open pervasive myths of decentralization, democratization and open innovation that surround digital cultural policy, as if these were developments that would naturally follow digitalization. Instead, what actual spotification shows is a track record of market concentration, control and power struggles. There is an idealistic notion that the internet would beget things such as ‘free sharing’ and ‘exchange’.5 However, with contemporary DSPs like Spotify, such rhetoric must be taken with a pinch of salt. What is shareable for the users are playlists and links, metadata that refers to the actual music, which is nevertheless stored on central servers and thoroughly copy-protected (access restrictions through DRM). Playlists are shareable, providing a

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mode of exchange among internet users, even allowing for integration with car stereos, home entertainment systems and other platforms. For that purpose, Spotify publishes its own application programming interface (API) for developers to build integrated apps and other services linked to the Spotify DSP. Whilst Spotify clients run on most devices, it is not interoperable with other DSPs (Burkart and Leijonhufvud 2019: 174). It is apparent that there is currently a process of further consolidation of internetbased markets, not only through the use of APIs for cross-platform functionality, but also through tying other services to one’s offering (e.g. Apple’s use of music identification service Shazam to exclusively funnel new users to their services) and integrating new markets into one’s access-restricted systems (e.g. Spotify’s venture into podcasting). Vonderau (2019: 3) describes Spotify’s ability to fold markets into each other as a ‘Spotify effect’, in which the ‘aura of Nordic cool and public benefit around its use of music’ has been a key element serving to disguise an aggressive, deliberately loss-making financial growth strategy. It is a common position amongst social media platforms and online content aggregators to oppose being characterized as media companies (see Napoli and Caplan 2017). It is imperative to their stock valuation that such organizations are seen as technology companies whose remit and scope for possible expansion is virtually endless. If Spotify was to define itself as merely a ‘web radio’ service, that would put a cap on its potential future valuation. Instead, it is instructive to consider the imperative among companies of this kind to be manifestly expansionist. Consequentially, Spotify has experimented with expanding its range of services on offer, whilst also venturing into new geographic markets and new vectors of functional interoperability. During the company’s first ten years of existence, it has shape-shifted; it is ‘neither particularly Swedish nor solely about music’ (Eriksson et al. 2019: 3). In 2013, Spotify launched a format called Spotlight, adding metadata to playlists as a way to enrich the media experience with music and artist commentary. More recently, Spotify has attempted to launch another new multimedia format, also called Spotlight, which introduces visual layers to podcasts, audiobooks, news, and other audio content, feeding photos, videos and text alongside the audio playback. In addition to this, the company has disclosed ambitions to build a comprehensive, universal data system for music publishing rights (Spotify 2018a): Spotify Publishing Analytics is an endeavour to reduce the complexity of music industry licensing and copyright structures – especially as these change from country to country and from agreement to agreement. As Spotify became a public traded company in 2018, new pressure has mounted to become profitable; throughout its first decade, the company was continually running a deficit, and has only sporadically been profitable since the last quarter of 2018. At the present conjuncture, it is podcasting that seems to be its new target for reterritorialization, alongside an increased rate of advertising aboard the Spotify inventory (Leight 2019). Prior to these ambitious plans, failed attempts should be noted, like the attempts announced at the time of the Spotify IPO to include television content (Nicolaou 2018), and also so-called app integrations (Spotify Everywhere), where Spotify becomes accessible through other companies’ platforms.6 During the latter half of the 2010s, Spotify mimicked the rapacious behaviour of larger tech giants, making numerous corporate acquisitions:

When Music Becomes Datafied

From 2014 to 2020, Spotify bought 15 companies, companies that build everything from data analytics to music and audio production tools to audio ad tools to licensing platforms, and podcasting networks. These companies included the Echo Nest (2014), Seed Scientific (2015), CrowdAlbum (2016), Sonalytic (2017), MightyTV (2017), Mediachain (2017), Niland (2017), SoundTrap (2017), Loudr (2018), Gimlet (2019), Anchor (2019), SoundBetter (2019), Parkast (2019), and now The Ringer (2020). (Stoller 2020)

Recently, Spotify acquired some of the biggest companies in podcasting – production agencies like Gimlet Media, networks like The Ringer – and made an exclusive deal with celebrities including Joe Rogan and Michelle Obama, making their podcasts exclusive to Spotify’s burgeoning Podcasting service. Historically, podcasting has always been dependent on non-proprietary standards of distribution, such as RSS, a standard originally developed by advocates of the open Web. Whilst corporations like Apple have been running dominant podcast apps, they have never been able to exclusively tie consumers and producers to its own proprietary standard or, for that matter, privileging its own content and building automated ad insertion systems like Spotify Podcast Ads (Leung 2020). With podcasting, Spotify once again seems to attempt to privatize an already existing industry by shifting its distribution standards from open to proprietary modes. It can be regarded as a continuation of the company’s original impulse, as Spotify’s original business idea was to privatize a large public commons – with the difference that, whilst the commons of the late 1990s and early 2000s was a largely illegal, clandestine netherworld of online filesharing, this time the commons is one that is already highly functioning, perfectly legal and of high public value. Therefore, pundits like Stoller (2020) are not mincing words, likening it to Google’s and Facebook’s legacies: ‘They took over an already massive web organized by open standards and democratic participation, and pretended they built it so they could control it.’ Such strategies all hark back to key imperatives of tech firms: utilizing differential pricing, gaining exclusive control on distribution (Shapiro and Varian 1998), effectively monopolizing markets (Thiel 2014). An additional imperative is to funnel internet users into one’s service to maximize user engagement and time spent. This strategy is apparent in various implementations ranging from different forms of gamification aboard the DSP’s own inventory, to controlling adjacent services like Apple’s acquisition of music identification service Shazam, which acts to drive traffic to Apple Music.

Data-driven A&R, playlists and musical curation The datafication of music, then, can be perceived of as having provided a starting point for the twin processes of platformization and ‘spotification’ in the digital music economy. These mutual processes, furthermore, have had consequences by extension for the marketing and production of music. Historically, Artists and Repertoire (A&R) refers to

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the divisions of recording companies that are in charge of talent scouting, liaising with artists and publishers, and managing the artistic and commercial development of the affiliated recording artists. If we take the term at face value, the repertoire is an established term for the range of output on offer; how it is presented to (potential) listeners, brought to market and promoted. With recorded music, a lot of the marketing takes place through the music itself – songs function as marketing tools for touring artists, and when songs are played (for example) on the radio, they serve as free tokens to the general public, marketing the artists, as well as their recorded albums. In the present era of entirely digitally distributed music, playlists are often said to have eclipsed albums as the primary container of musical programming (Eriksson 2020), even as albums continue to play a prominent role in Spotify’s visualization of music and in the way that music is organized for users within the service (see Åker 2017). Moreover, free (i.e. ad-financed) radio airplay has in large parts become superseded by similarly ad-financed airplay on free-to-use DSPs such as YouTube (and the non-premium version of Spotify). This is said by industry insiders to have incentivized shorter songs, and even a re-structuring of the standard pop song format (Glaser and Oremus 2018; Mack 2019). In any case, Spotify playlists, as noted previously, can be regarded as an essential means for many listeners to organize ‘their’ music within the service. Personal playlists, created by individual users, can have a great deal of personal meaning for the individual who constructed them (Nylund Hagen 2015b) and playlists curated by persons or third-party agents with large followings can undoubtedly gain influence among wider audiences. Yet the in-house curated playlist, often based on genre, ‘mood’ or activity, is likely to generally be more influential as a tool for marketing music, in terms of audience reach. For artists, the in-house curated playlist is equally a potentially important source of income, as it will increase the number of plays of a song. Together with other aspects of music recommendation on Spotify, including auto-generated song suggestions based on previous choices, and featuring artists or recordings on the interface, these playlists can, then, be regarded as a gatekeeping mechanism which prioritizes certain recordings over others. The procedures behind this playlist production are not fully known, though Spotify (and other DSPs, such as Apple Music and Google Play) appears to use human creators in combination with algorithmic forces. According to Morgan (2020: 36–9), the significance of the playlist as a marketing tool has led to new music industry roles involved in pitching playlist curators, as well as marketing and promotional services aimed at helping artists gaining access to playlists for a share of the revenue. In recent work, Maasø and Hagen (2020) conclude that music industry professionals make conjectural analyses out of the metrics provided by DSPs, driving decision-making and strategy. Algorithms are programmed to make content more or less visible, or more or less salient; moreover, such sorting might beget reinforcing feedback loops where content which is already salient will be even further highlighted. Their conclusions echo the debates on remuneration, where datafication ‘risks reinforcing only the most salient data, thereby becoming a tool best suited to making superstars and global mega-events even bigger, at the expense of smaller acts and local events’ (Maasø and Hagen 2020: 30).

When Music Becomes Datafied

Grave concerns appear, in the scholarly debate, regarding the seemingly inherent normativity and bias of streamed media. Whilst a ‘long tail’ of small, independent artists is allowed to persist on the platforms, the bulk of remuneration is rewarding a small subset of extremely popular artists. An overlooked aspect seems to be the fragility of softwarebased systems that are dependent on cash flow. Imagine a not-too-distant future, where music aficionados will want their grandchildren to inherit an historical knowledge of actual recorded music. For the vast majority of today’s music listeners, what will be passed on to future generations will be intangible playlists, which will work only if the service is still running, licensing contracts are still upheld and interfaces to the centralized servers are still accessible. Compare this with those music listeners who once bought recorded artefacts, most of which will likely be playable also a few generations from now. In other words, there is today a primacy of centralized planning and predefined accessibility of content which should be compared to the much more dispersed, decentralized scattering among the general public of artefacts that remain playable and thus accessible. This observation is even more striking when contrasted with dominant discourses of digitalization that make it appear as the very ethos of fully digitized music is indeed its instant accessibility and its distributed nature. Clearly, there is something at odds here, between dominant neoliberal discourses of granular, distributed marketplaces where millions of micro-decisions are tracked so that order and evolution can emerge and obscure consumer preferences can be met, and the actual centralized planning of DSPs.7

Conclusion: New music formats, functions, experiences and policy challenges In this chapter, what we have intended to show is that recorded music, in the era of digital streaming on demand, possesses a number of functional properties that were perhaps not easy to foresee only ten years ago. The shift to streaming models lends new functional properties to music distribution and consumption. The concept of ‘spotification’ allows for a poignant discourse that addresses key concerns inherent to the political economy of platformization. In this paradigm, repertoires and playlists have new operational properties, arguably, to a larger extent than what would have been the case with previous modes of distribution of recorded music. The act of consumption becomes a data product, in real time, enabling recording industry executives to utilize aggregated metrics on audience preferences so as to invent new formats (virtual radio channels, playlists) and aesthetics (functional music – ambient soundscapes for meditation (for example), or shorter song lengths as a way to maximize per-song revenue). This opens new avenues for future research, as such operational and aesthetic shifts in recorded music are likely to have ripple effects also in the civic sphere of everyday meaning-making. Not only does ‘Spotify’ stand as a metonym for music streaming more broadly, ‘Spotify’ also stands a metaphor that gets filled with very different meanings, as ventures across the globe have been lauded as the next ‘Spotify for books’, ‘Spotify for movies’, ‘Spotify for

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journalism’ and so forth (Fleischer 2020). Therefore, it is even more important to see some of the problematic features of ‘spotification’ in terms of media policy, market functionality and regulation. What is clear, from our survey of the critical academic literature on Spotify and related music DSPs at the beginning of the 2020s, is that there are a number of issues relating to structural separation that must be addressed by future policymakers. First of all, Spotify seems to be guilty of the same type of structural distortion that is addressed in the large academic and policy discourse on ‘net neutrality’ (see, for example, Stocker and Knieps 2019). There is a lack of separation between editorial functions (the design and mass distribution of playlists) and infrastructural functions (the mechanisms for playback of the actual music, and the user-to-user functionality for sharing metadata). This is particularly worthy of highlighting, regarding the company’s new venture into podcasting, as it allows Spotify to act as both producer/commissioner of a podcast (retaining copyrights to the actual content) and as the exclusive distributor. Moreover, this venture into podcasting, whilst arguably introducing podcast content to wider audiences, is troubling for other reasons. The manoeuvre to integrate podcasting (a heretofore open, highly user-friendly market, in terms of standardised openness of its technical protocols for access, playback, and dissemination) into the established ‘walled garden’ model of music streaming that Spotify is known for, is to enclose a previously open market into a centralized, contractually and technologically closed system, where user access can be restricted to paying customers only, and where the business-to-business contracts between podcasters and Spotify as platform provider contain exclusivity clauses, restricting these podcasters from publishing their content on other platforms. Further risks, which we observe as potentialities (not as manifest and urgent as the abovementioned problems), are related to the extensive role that data plays in the new digital media enterprises. One such risk is overconfidence in data – that the behavioural data generated on DSPs such as Spotify, no matter how fine-grained and extensive, is awarded too normative a role and is naively understood to mirror reality in a simple 1:1 fashion; in relation, data-driven conformism – that editorial programming comes to resemble a closed loop, where little in terms of novelty or idiosyncrasy is allowed into the composition of playlists, feeds and user experiences – is an ongoing concern. Similarly, from a consumer perspective, handing over private taste preferences to a large company ought to raise some questions regarding personal privacy. For a lot of people, music listening is a highly personal activity, and music experiences are often described as extremely intimate experiences. Some of the respondents in Johansson et al. (2017: 54–6) recounted how they saw some of their listening as rather embarrassing and did not want to share this with others. At the same time, Spotify – as a structural ‘infomediary’ – would register any and all such potentially embarrassing experiences. This might be even more pertinent for those users who listen to music a lot, and therefore generate a larger than average data trail inside corporate media consumption systems, making possible even more detailed and specific inferences about potential music habits. As Prey (2018:1087) notes, such users provide media industries with fine-grained consumer data which allow for more precise targeting and personalization.

When Music Becomes Datafied

Finally, Keith Negus (2019) has noted how the establishment of the DSP model has changed the music industry in several ways. Primarily, digital recordings have acquired value as data, rather than as a commercial form of artistic expression, as musicians in the online realm have found themselves redefined as ‘content providers’ rather than creative producers. We interpret this as being related to a twofold historical change. Not only has the commodity form of recorded music shifted from (singular) product to content (flow), but the income structure for active musicians has also shifted, so that larger emphasis is now on gigs and various forms of licensing, and less on recordings as artefacts. A product, Negus emphasizes, ‘is manufactured, packaged, promoted and purchased’ (2019a: 371): a linear chain, where each step entails an identifiable economic transaction and potential point of profit for different intermediaries and occupational groups. In contrast, digital content ‘is uploaded and circulated in the hope that it will be “used” in a manner that allows it to be “monetized” (an opaque buzzword for generating revenue)’ (2019a). Keep in mind that out of the 8 million digital tracks sold in the United States in 2011, 94 per cent sold fewer than 100 units, and 32 per cent sold only one copy (Elberse 2013). Negus argues that this over-abundance of content has increased even further in subsequent years. The number of newly released albums in the UK in 1994 was 11,654, whilst this number had risen to 47,751 in 2014. As a reflection on this observation, it is possible to argue that whilst the twentieth-century model also saw an abundance of ‘flops’, the techno-economic conditions of our present era of musical output risk creating much poorer conditions for salvaging potentially valuable musical artworks. In the old model of music-as-product, there was a near-constant output of new singles and albums. Being so centred around ‘shipping product’, it was a feature of this system that the majority of releases actually flopped and were quickly shifted to the ‘bargain bin’. This meant that artefacts were somehow salvaged, albeit in a sometimes erratic and non-foreseeable way, ending up in private record collections, libraries or flea markets. Some of these once-discarded products turned out to have enormous artistic merit, and there are still rarities that keep being rediscovered to our day, providing valuable contributions to our shared cultural history. In the digital, music-as-content system, on the contrary, what will happen with the virtually endless registers of datafied music on hard drives that contain the ‘flops’ of our present time? Will they be salvaged; and, if so, how can media and cultural policy seek to improve the conditions for such salvaging to actually come about, increasing the likelihood of artefacts being archived for posterity? There are numerous challenges for cultural archiving – not only documenting data quality, integrity and possible decay (Svärd 2017); institutional (Burkart and Leijonhufvud 2019) and legal challenges (Sarikakis et al. 2016), but also the problem that, for data-based artefacts to be retrieved and played in the future, the techno-material settings of the software in question need to be re-enacted, a problem that is far from trivial (Lynch 2017). Therefore, we propose that significant endeavours ought to be made also regarding Spotify as an agent of cultural heritage and stewardship. The authors wish to thank Professor David Hesmondhalgh (University of Leeds) for his very helpful comments on an earlier draft of the manuscript.

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Notes 1

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The topic of remuneration and contractual arrangements within music streaming industries is one that is rarely covered in the critical political economic literature, with the notable exception of Nordic scholars such as Maasø (2014), Pedersen (2014) and Muikku (2017) making pioneering studies. The question is to what degree such market opportunities are operationalized. As the bulk of Spotify’s revenue is derived from subscription, presumably its advertising tier is relatively modest, and hence the uses for behavioural data rather secondary. Apple, largely funded by revenues from its hardware sales, would have little incentive to be involved in such secondary markets at all. Recent estimates from different music industry insiders (e.g. Soundcharts blog, The Trichordist, Digital Music News) quote rates ranging between $0.003 and $0.005 per stream for the large DSPs. When briefly noting the material posted by this company on other DSPs (i.e. Soundcloud), the ‘songs’ on offer are just loops from freely available sample packs and with virtually no listeners. See, for example, Andersson Schwarz (2013) and Hindman (2018) on how the rhetorical ethos of ‘open’ and ‘free’ stands in stark contrast with the re-centralization of the Internet implemented by large tech companies at the turn of the 2010s. Spotify is accessible through dedicated apps on smart-TV platforms and videogame consoles; until March 2020 it was accessible through a dedicated function on PlayStation (for example). In 2011, the company briefly tried launching an app on a short-lived Facebook app platform. This is a central tenet of the philosophy of Friedrich von Hayek (Vaughn 2013).

19 Music cities Sarah Taylor

Introduction One might expect ‘music city’ to be a tautology. Instead, the term carries certain connotations in contemporary research and policy. By way of introduction to the topic of the music city, this chapter describes (respectively) (i) the broader connection between music and cities, or simply music in cities; and (ii) the music city specifically, and its respective policy influences. The chapter concludes with some examples of music city ideas in practice. What is a music city, as opposed to a city with music? Broadly speaking, the music city is a bundle of ideas about a well-functioning city that can be made more possible with music. These ideas have coalesced and gained traction for policymakers and music advocates, particularly in the last decade. Music city ideas are primarily deployed in decisions about what to do with city space and/or how to talk about it. Shane Homan (2019: 501) describes the music city as a convergence of policy discourse areas: Prior discourses of ‘the night-time economy’, the ‘cultural/creative city’ and the ‘liveable city’ have arguably converged in the emergence of the ‘music city’ that performs a series of industrial, governmental, symbolic and performative linkages. At its simplest, the music city manages a combination of spaces and industries … with significant attention to state policies, funding and infrastructure.

Toby Bennett (2020b) describes the ‘Music City’ (with capitalization) as, first, part of a wider set of ideas ‘demanding hybrid cultural-industrial policymaking’, as distinct from older cultural policies which sought to protect culture from markets; and, second, as a specific set of ideas distributed by ‘intermediary coalitions of industry actors, trade bodies, consultancies and local urban strategists’ who do the work of persuading others of the value of pursuing Music City strategies. This work, he argues, is a juggling act of appealing to different visions of what music can achieve for a given city. A document often seen in this juggling act is the 2015 handbook prepared by Music Canada and the International Federation of the Phonographic Industry (IFPI), The Mastering of a Music

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City: Key Elements, Effective Strategies and Why It’s Worth Pursuing (IFPI/Music Canada 2015). This document offers something close to a definition of a music city, by identifying five ‘essential elements’, namely: (i) ‘artists and musicians’; (ii) ‘a thriving music scene’; (iii) ‘access to spaces and places’; (iv) ‘a receptive and engaged audience’; and (v) ‘record labels and other music-related businesses’ (IFPI/Music Canada 2015: 13). However, it notes that beyond these essential elements, there is a great deal of variation in what constitutes a music city. Given that books on music cities were published in both 2019 (Baker) and 2020 (Ballico and Watson), the music city is very much a live concept at the time of writing, open to deliberation about what is and is not meant by the term and what can be achieved with it. An unofficial shorthand appears to have emerged: that Music City (with capitalization) refers to the ideas formalized by the combination of the Mastering a Music City handbook; the 2012 report Accelerating Toronto’s Music Industry Growth: Leveraging Best Practices from Austin, Texas report (Rowling 2012); and the Sound Diplomacy group (established in 2013) and its associated Music City events. The Mastering a Music City handbook has circulated widely, and at the time of writing, Sound Diplomacy is globally active in organizing Music City initiatives. As referred to in the 2012 Toronto report, Austin, Texas, is an influential benchmark of what can be achieved when city policymakers seek to capitalize on music industry activity. Relative to its population, Austin plays an outsized role in the global music industries, due in large part to local government initiatives. For Austin, the process of government ‘buy-in’ to music began in the 1980s (Grodach 2012b; Shank 1994). But Austin is, of course, just one example of a music city, and an unusually successful one at that. Where a certain amount of discord can be detected in discussion of music cities, Music Cities (with capitalization), and/or music in cities, different levels of acknowledgement of their dual nature are often at the core. Music participation can be both social and commercial; the music industry can be both a good and bad employer; nightlife can be both ‘vibrant’ and ‘seedy’; music investment can pay off or pay nothing at all, and so forth. Policymakers and policy persuaders, by the nature of their work, have less space than researchers to acknowledge both the ‘yin’ and ‘yang’ of music in cities. Their tendency to be either too harsh in their assessments (by under-counting the economic contribution of music, or by over-regulating live music venues) or too glossy (by over-promising the economic and social potential of investing in music) is a source of frustration in writing related to music cities (Behr and Brennan 2014; Bennett 2020b; Cloonan 2020; Forsyth and Cloonan 2008; Homan 2019; Shaw 2013). The ‘creative’ city, the night-time economy, and the ‘liveable’ city are summarized in this chapter, since it is difficult to conceive of a music city policy without some reference to each. First, however, it is instructive to introduce the range of literature that engages with the topic of music and place, including but not limited to music in cities. The current traction of music city policies owes much to this prior research, but it is fair to say that its more glossy and boosterish aspects sit awkwardly alongside detailed research about music in cities: the good, the bad and the elusive.

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Music in cities As in all literature examining music and place, when connecting music and cities it is challenging to describe both the ability of music and musical styles to transcend distance, alongside the tendency of the people who make and listen to music to be less mobile (Connell and Gibson 2003; Leyshon et al. 1995). Music is so closely linked to people and their places in the world that it should be unsurprising to find, in a contemporary context, that the distribution of music seems to both transcend and to reinforce boundaries, analogous to the broader phenomenon of globalization, which is also characterized by concentration of resources into particular cities (Massey 2007; Scott 2006). Befitting the complexity of the relationship, the literature connecting music and place tends to be multidisciplinary. Valuable contributions to the present understanding of music and place can be found in ethnographic research of localized music practices (Cohen 1991a; Finnegan 1989; Shank 1994); in cultural studies engaging with the concept of the ‘music scene’ (Bennett 2002, 2004; Hodkinson 2002; Straw 1991); and in geographical research taking turns towards music (Connell and Gibson 2003; Kong 1995; Leyshon et al. 1995; Smith 1994; Watson et al. 2009). In summary, these are either research areas normally focused on music or culture taking a ‘spatial turn’ (see Withers 2009) to engage with geographical themes, or, conversely, geographical research taking a ‘musical turn’ to engage with a topic that, while certainly not obscure, has also never been particular common within geography. Geographic research into music can rather bluntly be divided into ‘old’ and ‘new’ approaches, with the mid-1990s forming the changeover point. ‘Old’ geographical research on music, beginning in the late 1960s primarily in the United States (for example, Ford 1971; Nash and Carney 1996), incorporated richly detailed case studies but were later assessed (perhaps unkindly) as being ‘descriptive and conceptually limited’ (Hudson 2006: 626), and of treating music ‘as “more of the same”: as something else to be seen diffusing in space, trickling down hierarchies, attached to the landscape and so on’ (Smith 1997: 504). This earlier body of music geography work was limited by a tendency to frame music activity around ‘regions’, implicitly conceived of as cohesive zones of cultural exchange, and ‘diffusion’, a smooth movement of comingling ideas. This somewhat hydrological framework – analogous to liquid flowing across landscapes – was difficult to reconcile with the complexity and tension of music distribution as it related to globalization and the latetwentieth-century popular music industry. Several key works in the mid-1990s denoted the beginning of ‘new’ geographical approaches to music (Kong 1995; Leyshon et al. 1995; Smith 1994). Thereafter, geographic research into music showed a more conspicuous engagement with the messiness, overlapping scales of activity and mix of commercial and social interactions encountered in music (Connell and Gibson 2003; Hudson 2006; Smith 1997). New geographical research also extended to an interest in how the idea of music in place was constructed (Carroll and Connell, 2000), alongside the physical manifestations of people and products involved in music (e.g. Florida et al. 2010; Leyshon 2009; Scott 1999; Watson et al. 2009).

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Sound Tracks: Popular Music, Identity and Place (2003), a collaboration between geographers Chris Gibson and John Connell, synthesized a wide range of work relating to music and place. Its core framework was to differentiate between aspects of ‘fixity’ and ‘fluidity’ in music, meaning the aspects of music that are relatively fixed in place, and those that move across boundaries with ease, but it also distinguished discursive connections made between music and place from material connections. The authors observed that the notion (bordering on geographic determinism) of music having a strong connection to place, to the extent that a location can be heard in the ‘sound’ of music made in it, holds enduring appeal to people, even though it rarely holds up to scrutiny. This is evidently a way that people like to imagine and to talk about music, and it has long been a means to market both music and music tourism (e.g. in Seattle, Liverpool, Detroit and Memphis, or the pub rock sounds of Australia). While Sound Tracks looked critically upon the tendency toward environmental determinism in popular music discourse, it did not discredit a connection between music and geography. Further, the authors noted that imagining and talking about a connection between music and place could eventually lead to tourism or investment when enough people ‘invest in the myth’ (Gibson and Connell 2007: 169). The fact that ‘investing in the myth’ can pay off is relevant to present-day music cities discourse, as it is not necessarily a folly talk up the musical credentials of a city. Predating the new wave of music research in geography, and then converging with it, various ethnographic studies have focused on everyday music practices, and in so doing contributed greatly to literature on music in place (Cohen 1991a; Finnegan 1989; Maxwell 1994; Rogers 2008; Shank 1994). Typically, these studies used cities as spatially prescribed limits for in-depth observations of everyday music practices, rather than foregrounding the geography of music. However, the spatial constraint has facilitated better understanding of how, in practice, music relates to place. Ruth Finnegan’s Hidden Musicians (1989) described the many different networks of music activity in Milton Keynes, an English ‘new city’ not known for vibrant cultural activity or popular music (not, in short, a ‘cool’ city). Finnegan’s work emphasized the enormity of music undertaken in a small city, often in a volunteer or low-profit capacity, from choirs to jazz groups to parades to pub bands. Finnegan emphasized the extent to which music activity made and maintained social relationships, and also put forward the idea of a ‘musical pathway’: the long-term activities of career or hobby musicians, seemingly chaotic to outsiders, but on closer examination always found to be working within the available constraints and opportunities. Sara Cohen’s Rock Culture in Liverpool: Popular Music in the Making (1991) chronicled the overlapping music-making practices of two young rock bands in Liverpool in the 1980s. This work explicitly linked the localized rock music practices to (difficult) local economic circumstances and attitudes to gender and work. Cohen did not regard it as coincidental that there were many rock bands forming alongside a high local unemployment rate: ‘in a city where the attitude of many young people was that you might as well pick up a guitar as take exams, since your chances of finding full-time occupation from either were just the same’ (Cohen 1991: 3). While the infrastructure of Liverpool was critically important to these bands and their respective ‘music pathways’, so, too, was the hope of ‘making it’ (and, implicitly, making it out of Liverpool) by being signed to a recording company. Liverpool

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as a city was important, but rock musicians in Liverpool were not a permanent creative community, nor even a sign of an economically prosperous city. Sara Cohen later authored a range of additional work on popular music and cities (Brown, O’Connor and Cohen 2000; Cohen 1991b, 1995, 2012; Lashua, Cohen and Schofield 2009), including Decline, Renewal and the City in Popular Music Culture: Beyond the Beatles (2007). This work used the example of Liverpool to examine the relationship between music and cities – chronicling the material and social importance of different people and places to the history of music-making within Liverpool, but also casting a critical ear on assertions that there was any discernible ‘sound’ of Liverpool music. An examination of Liverpool over time also presented an early opportunity to examine proto ‘music city’ policy in action. In common with several other restructuring UK cities with Labour-led local councils in the 1980s, Liverpool city council looked to music as a postindustrial regeneration strategy, and in particular sought to utilize its historical links to popular music in city branding, including a (very early) ‘Music City’ report (Cohen 1991b). Liverpool is notable for having capitalized on music heritage, in common with some (but not all) well-known music cities, such as New Orleans, Memphis, London and Nashville (IFPI/Music Canada 2015: 20). A combination of ethnography and cultural studies, Barry Shank’s Dissonant Identities: the Rock ‘n’ Roll Scene in Austin, Texas (1994) documented the local music scene in Austin, Texas, from the 1960s to the early 1990s. Shank made clear that the idea of ‘Texan music’ was not only spurious but also rife with gender and race politics (Shank 1994: 20–39); just as other researchers have concluded similarly in their respective case studies (Bell 1998; Homan 2000; McLeay 1994; Nevarez 2013). But Shank also identified that particular types of venues did materially influence the music scene in Austin. Crucial to the development of the progressive country style was the spatial and aesthetic phenomenon of ‘honky tonk’ bars, inadvertently brought into being through liquor licensing policies. Foregrounding the impact of liquor licensing in relation to music was a novelty at the time of publication – implicitly, music was conceived of as being independent of policy intricacies – but by the 2000s, the impact of liquor licensing in opening and closing music spaces was recognized (Ballico 2016; Burke and Schmidt 2012; Frith et al. 2010; Homan 2000, 2017). As with Sara Cohen’s work in Liverpool, Shank was also able to note the impacts of prototype ‘music city’ policy. During the 1980s, policymakers in Austin began to actively invest in music as a city branding strategy, a task with which it was largely successful (see below). Music scene as a term started in popular music journalism to informally refer to a hub of events and social connections. The framework of a ‘scene’ was adopted within cultural studies in the 1990s as a means to analyse popular music trends without recourse to subcultures or communities (Straw 1991; Bennett 2004). While ‘community’ or ‘subculture’ implies adherence to a group and its fashions and music tastes, scenes are looser and less permanent combinations of people with common musical interests. The scenes framework has proven more resilient for making sense of music in different contexts. Music scenes can exist in local, translocal or virtual contexts (Bennett 1997, 2002; Bennett and Peterson 2004; Hodkinson 2002; McLeay 1994). They can shift and overlap, comprising impermanent alliances of people in different life stages (Anderson 2009; Davis 2006). Will Straw observed

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that scenes were dynamic but also space-hungry, shaped by a variety of public policies that (often inadvertently) opened up spaces to ‘seize’: Public policies of all sorts help to shape the spaces within which cultural scenes coalesce as moments in a city’s collective life. Scenes actively seize these spaces in their own restless, creative quests for opportunity. (Straw 2004: 419)

Membership of a music scene is rarely permanent, nor are the scenes themselves. But like the ‘musical pathways’ which appear random and chaotic on the outside (but on closer examination trace logical circuits of opportunity through available infrastructure), local music scenes are built around nodes, shifting but not formless. While not exhibiting a fixed, essential connection to locations, local music scenes are built from interactions of people tracing pathways through available infrastructure. Particular kinds of spaces are recurrent in descriptions of vibrant local music scenes, such as warehouses, basements, bars, garages, community centres, record shops, pubs and bars (Bennett 1997; Gallan 2012; Hermes 2012; Shank 1994). The exact form of these places has differed, but a common feature is being accessible, flexible and possible to meet people in. Research into different local music scene case studies established that it was possible for music to become much harder to participate in, when enough of these spaces became inaccessible (Taylor 2016, 2020). It was also possible that things could all work at once for a local music scene, seemingly by magic, such as the Manchester/Madchester scene in the 1980s (Winterbottom 2002), or punk, hip-hop and disco in New York in the 1970s (Corra 2007). It was also possible that, by the same apparent magic, it could vanish (Cohen, Lashua and Shofield 2010; Johnson and Homan 2003). As noted elsewhere (Watson et al. 2009), a relatively small proportion of newer geographic studies into music were undertaken by economic geographers. Among them, Andrew Leyshon revealed a particular interest in digital music formats and the associated havoc caused to recorded music industries and recording studios (Leyshon 2009; Leyshon et al. 2005); Allen J. Scott (1999), on the geography of the United States, recorded music industry as a parable of new economic clustering; and Richard Florida conducted high-profile and oftentimes controversial work on creative cities and the ‘creative class’ (2002, 2005a, 2005b inter alia), which also included the music industries specifically (Florida and Jackson 2010; Florida et al. 2010). Characteristic of Florida, these pieces use a methodological framework of inter-city comparison, examining labour force and business data for the music industries in respective US cities, pointing out that some cities (such as Nashville) had succeeded in attracting more music businesses relative to their populations. This inter-city perspective in Florida’s work can sit jarringly alongside ethnographic or cultural studies research which concentrates on one city or group of musicians. Different scales of music research tend to emphasize different perspectives on music and place: either highly mobile, cutting-edge and money-making, or small in scale, dependent on local infrastructure, making social relations more than making money. Evidence exists for both perspectives, and they are not mutually exclusive, but they can be hard to reconcile. Of final note regarding literature on music in cities, Adam Krims is something of an anomaly for not beginning in geography, ethnography or cultural studies. A musicologist

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who has taken an interest in urban geography, Krims’s Music and Urban Geography (2007) theorizes on the relationship between popular music and post-industrial cities, examining how popular music sounds in cities (literally, how it sounds in these spaces), and what those cities make music sound like (how cities inform the content of popular music). He describes popular music and post-industrial cities as mutually constitutive, venturing close to the essentialist notion of a city having a ‘sound’, but, crucially, placing this in historical and socio-economic context, so that all the difficulties of making sense of both music and cities are, in a bigger, global sense, the sound of cities in a globalized economy. The global economy brings perspective to how music sounds in cities, but also why it would be of interest to policymakers, which I turn to next.

City v city In the most optimistic of lights, music in a city can create employment in the creative industries, foster a thriving/buzzing/safe nightlife, and, to top it all off, help people to be happier and get along better. These are all measures on which a contemporary policymaker is likely to at least pay lip service to, especially since they correspond to a set of comparisons in which a city may fall behind or get ahead on. Existing research into music and place indicates that the relationship is more complicated than that, and not always a happy one. Nonetheless, there are compelling reasons for policymakers to look into what music can do for a city. A characteristic feature of contemporary economic and policy discourse is to compare cities as cities. That is, to assess how well a city produces city life, as distinct from the physical products which may be produced within it. A vivid example is Manchester, UK, which in the nineteenth century was known primarily for producing physical objects for export (so that ‘Manchester’ could also refer to cotton mill products). Yet by the late twentieth century it was known primarily for producing itself; the idea of Manchester as an exciting and vibrant city to live or invest in (Ortiz-Moya 2015). This task was helped by its association with popular music (Brown, O’Connor and Cohen 2000). In the global competition between cities, a range of suffixes can be attached to ideal city types: the ‘liveable’ city, ‘smart’ city, ‘global’ city, ‘sustainable’ city, ‘cultural’ city, ‘healthy’ city and so on. Some of these ideals have indexes attached to them that aggregate and simplify different features of a city in order to arrive at a score chart (Hartley, Potts and MacDonald 2012; Landry and Hyams 2012; McArthur and Robin 2019). Relatively speaking, the music city is a recent hybrid, having shown the most momentum in the last decade. Of particular relevance to the formation of the music city is the creative city that emerged in the 1990s (Hall 1998; Landry and Bianchini 1995), became a veritable juggernaut in the 2000s and can now described as being somewhat passé (but with undoubted ongoing influence on the use of city space and how this is talked about). Music has been implicated in this journey. When organizing a conference on ‘the place of music’ in 1993, one group of geographers noted that

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We organised the conference with some trepidation. The critical analysis of music seemed to be a field relatively unexplored by geographers and one temptation was to let the topic alone. The appeal of music was in part as a significant element in our lives that was not subject to academic reflection. Would making a geography out of it ruin things? (Leyshon, Matless and Revill 1995: 423)

With hindsight, this trepidation was at least partly prescient. As discussed above, the influential outputs of economic geographer Richard Florida (2002, 2005b) explicitly linked economic prospects of cities to their capacity to attract and retain the ‘creative class’ – workers who are drivers of economic growth and exemplary survivors of the new economy, who choose the cities in which they live and work based on what the city can offer. The concepts of the ‘creative class’ and ‘creative city’ reversed the traditional assumption of human geography that culture followed industry, and instead posited that industry (and survival in a global economy) could be cultivated by investing in local culture. While a full description of Florida’s work is outside the scope of this chapter, suffice to say, the timing of his publications was impeccable, and his ideas were the subject of considerable media and policy buzz. The creative cities ‘script’ to attract creative workers offered an explanation and a solution for pervasive anxiety about global economic restructuring and its ability to make ‘winners’ and ‘losers’ out of different cities. A substantial set of geographic research formed to critique the assumptions and promises of creative cities (Gibson and Brennan-Horley 2006; Luckman, Gibson, and Lea 2009; Pratt 2008). These criticisms included the over-promising of economic gains (Scott, 2006), bias towards particular kinds of Western cities (Luckman et al. 2009) and bias against suburban areas (Flew 2012b) or women (Parker 2008). The latter works picked up on the fact that designating some people and places as ‘creative’ implicitly designated others as ‘uncreative’. The music city and creative city are not mutually constitutive – it is possible to be a creative city but not a music city – but they overlap. First, because music is a creative industry (on the occasions that it does make money); and second, because the presence of musicians and a visible music scene was posited by Florida as a desirable feature for interurban competitiveness: ‘I like to tell city leaders that finding ways to help support a local music scene can be just as important as investing in high-tech business and far more effective than building a downtown mall’ (Florida 2002: 229). On the one hand, this cast local music scenes in an unexpectedly positive light, in comparison to historical norms of being ignored, over-regulated or viewed as a charitable concern. On the other hand, the neoliberal assumptions bound up in these statements, and the unsubtle manner in which they filtered through to policymakers, were enough to make many researchers and creative workers uneasy for at least the next decade (Long 2009; Markusen 2014; O’Connor and Shaw 2014; Waitt and Gibson 2009). The idea of the liveable city dates back over fifty years and has shown remarkable durability (McArthur and Robin 2019). Indexes of city liveability are produced by a range of organizations, including (but not limited to) the Economist Intelligence Unit Global Liveability Ranking and the Mercer Quality of Living Ranking. While based on defensible ideals about quality of life (e.g. recreation, schools, safety), the indexes vary in their calculations, do not always disclose their sources and are derived from aggregate

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city measurements which do little to account for variation within a city, and thus skew heavily towards the preferences of wealthy and mobile people (McArthur and Robin 2019). Nonetheless, city representatives have been happy to claim titles of ‘most liveable city’ and utilize this in city branding and good news stories, without wanting to dig into the details about how these score charts are calculated (Holden and Scerri 2013). The idea of the creative city overlaps with the music city, but the liveable city provides a key context in the parent trend for comparing and ranking cities. The night-time economy is an umbrella term for a range of commercial activities that take place largely at night, excluding non-leisure industries like cleaning and logistics, and excluding industries like sex work and gambling that are already highly and specifically regulated (Beer 2011). Many night-time economy venues utilize music as a core part of operations, as well as alcohol, or combinations thereof. Unlike creative cities, smart cities or global cities, there is no suffix for ‘night-time city’: the night-time economy is understood to be an aspect of a city, which can be either an embarrassment or a selling point, depending on how it is managed. It can be associated with vibrancy, buzz, socializing and tourism, but equally so with disorder, danger, nuisance, conflict and violence (Beer 2011). Historically, the night-time economy was primarily subject to containment strategies. In cities where the primary products were material outputs, the night-time economy was a by-product, tolerated at best, but not encouraged. More often, they were contained with zoning strategies intended to minimize conflict with residential areas or (implicitly more interesting) sites of daytime production and consumption. Responding in some way to night-time economies has long been a task for city policymakers; the key difference in the twenty-first century is that it is now viewed as being a potential asset. When the key product of a city is the city, its nightlife is important. The night-time economy as a specific area of policy interest first gained prominence in UK cities in the 2000s (Roberts 2006). The idea gained traction in other European cities, where many cities have since established the role of a ‘Night Mayor’ (Seijas and Gelders 2021). Making the most out of the night-time economy requires concerted balancing acts with other contemporary city ideals, including inner-city residential developments to reduce urban sprawl. Music is frequently implicated in this balancing act. The ideal of the night-time economy is to attract many people to go out in the city, spend and socialize at night. The problem is when it does exactly this. Conflict over noise is one point on which the alluring sides of the night-time economy come head-to-head with other city ideals. Residential development near music venues can lead to noise complaints (Gibson and Homan 2003; Shaw 2013). The issue of noise complaints for live music venues was fought out in Australian cities in the 2000s, in an era when a vibrant night-time economy was, on paper at least, something that policymakers were interested in (Flew 2001; Lobato 2006). Different strategies were arrived at in different cities, helped by grassroots music activism, sophisticated industry representation and an incrementally stronger foothold for live music as a desirable feature of cities. The Queensland State government adopted a zoning approach, designating a special entertainment district around the existing nighttime economy precinct of Fortitude Valley, while Victoria and NSW adopted variations of the ‘Agent of Change’ principle, stating that responsibility for noise mitigation should fall

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to whomever is instigating change to land use (Baker 2019: 241–65; Burke and Schmidt 2012; Homan 2010). While conflict over noise now has some best-practice examples and clearer paths for music advocates to negotiate (Behr et al. 2020; IFPI/Music Canada 2015: 41–3), the association between the night-time economy, music and risk is a trickier balancing act. As an accompaniment to alcohol consumption, music can benefit from liquor sales but can also be a backdrop to binge drinking and violence (Forsyth and Cloonan 2008). Australian cities, in particular music advocacy groups, have steered live music towards being viewed as a counterbalance to the more dangerous and ‘seedy’ sides of the night-time economy (Cook and Wilkinson 2019). This position, however, was hard fought by advocacy groups, and emerged from necessity, when live music venue opening hours were affected by blanket risk mitigation strategies: ‘lockout’ laws in Sydney in 2014 (Homan 2019), and ‘high-risk’ venues in Melbourne in 2009 (Ballico and Carter 2018; Homan 2010, 2011a, 2016). In both cases, live music venues were impacted by state government responses to violence in other licensed venues. Live music advocates were able to gain some concessions by appealing (with considerable effort) to wider social and economic benefits of live music, and its place as a more appealing aspect of the night-time economy: in short, by appealing to the ideal of the music city. The package of legislative changes intended to remove barriers to live music, passed by the New South Wales State government in 2020, was made easier by the contemporaneous status of live music as a more desirable and less risky component of the night-time economy (Live Music Office 2020).

Defining the music city The ideal type of a ‘music city’ still has momentum over a decade since the creative city was most in fashion and then (arguably) out of fashion. Where (or who) does this momentum come from? Two organizations warrant a specific mention for currently taking a role in designating and defining music cities: Sound Diplomacy and the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Creative Cities of Music Network The Sound Diplomacy group launched in 2013 and has organized Music Cities Conventions since 2015. While based in the UK, Sound Diplomacy’s founder – Shain Shapiro – previously worked for Music Canada (Bennett 2020b), and the scope of the organization is global. The list of host cities for the Conventions is suggestive of the kind of city where it has found the most footing: Brighton; Berlin; Memphis; Melbourne; Lafayette; Chengdu; Seoul; Alberta. Washington, DC (Sound Diplomacy 2020). A mix of mediumsized cities – mostly but not only Western – with some recognizable claim to music fame, but not global powerhouses such as New York or London. As of 2020, Sound Diplomacy also runs Music City Awards, with categories such as ‘Best Use of Music to Drive Tourism’ (Sound Diplomacy 2020). They promote music city strategies with generalist goals to make cities more vibrant and workable, not targeted at city policymakers wishing to ‘win’ the entire global city race, but, rather, to those that have some music activity already and would like to leverage this: ‘A strong and sustainable music industry is the most cost effective path

Music Cities

to build, sustain and enhance vibrant, smart and economically prosperous cities’ (Sound Diplomacy quoted in Crittenden 2015). The goals presented by Sound Diplomacy are tailored towards general city improvement and vibrancy rather than direct employment. The reference to ‘vibrant, smart and economically prosperous cities’ also harks to the discourse of inter-city comparisons, but the ‘cost-effective’ part keeps scale modest. The music city ideal tends to be utilized, as by Sound Diplomacy, as a more niche and tailored strategy for medium-sized cities, rather than a strategy for global domination. Intuitively, this makes sense: New York may be well known as a centre of music production (Corra, 2007; Hermes, 2012; Goodman, 2017), but it is also a centre of many other creative industries and does obviously not stand to gain much by branding itself as a music city. By contrast, Austin, Nashville, Liverpool, Brighton, Manchester and Melbourne all are Western cities described at some point as music cities. These are medium-sized cities (relative to their respective nations) for which musical heritage and/or the ‘buzz’ of local music activity are a point of distinction, a likeable local feature to leverage, but not something that would seriously be considered as a tool for substantial economic change or global domination. The UNESCO Creative Cities of Music Network is a subset of the UNESCO Creative Cities Network created in 2004. Its stated aim is to ‘promote cooperation with and among cities that have identified creativity as a strategic factor for sustainable urban development’ (UNESCO 2021). Representatives of a city must nominate for it to be considered as a UNESCO City of Music. The decision of conferring the title rests with UNESCO, who consider that the city should ‘illustrate six variables, the most obvious variable being music heritage, along with five other variables such as excellent background in musicmaking, education, community involvement, regular high-profile local music events, and international music events’ (Baker 2017a: 5). The list of UNESCO Cities of Music comprised 39 cities at the time of writing, including Kansas City in the United States, Hamamatsu in Japan, Adelaide in Australia, Glasgow in Scotland, Lliria and Seville in Spain. Only occasionally are these the largest cities in their respective nations, or even the more obvious ‘music city’: in the case of Australia, Melbourne is the more conspicuous candidate for the biggest music city, while Adelaide can lay claim to a longer history of festivals, like WOMADelaide and the Adelaide Festival of Arts (Baker 2017b). Accreditation as a UNESCO Music City list entails, for Adelaide, staging a series of branded events with an emphasis on inclusivity, developing a music city strategy and addition to the network of similarly branded cities (Adelaide Festival Centre 2021). In addition to Sound Diplomacy and UNESCO, a range of other organizations across different jurisdictions have played important roles in the development of music city policies. This has not proceeded in a linear fashion, but rather in a global stop-start of ideas formed in local contexts. Music Canada, the IFPI and Titan Music Group (an Austinbased consulting firm) have contributed to reports that have since been in wide circulation (IFPI/Music Canada 2015; Rowling 2012). These reports, in turn, draw on a longer history of music policy and advocacy groups dating back to the 1980s, some of which are included in the examples below. Other important examples can be found in recent works (Baker 2019; Ballico and Watson 2020).

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Music city examples Austin, Texas, presents a very early example of a city government actively investing in music, and arguably the biggest success story and benchmark of what music branding can achieve for a medium-sized city, albeit with the associated problems that success can bring. Beginning in the 1980s, the Austin Chamber of Commerce and the Texas Music Association worked together to encourage music businesses to reside in the city, and to promote live music as a special feature of the identity of Austin (Grodach 2012b; Shank 1994). The rationale was indirectly economic: they hoped that promoting the city’s existing music scene would provide an attractive enough lifestyle to encourage high-tech research companies to also locate in the city. The task of marketing of Austin music was greatly aided by the long-running public television programme Austin City Limits (1976–), and the incrementally more giant annual music industry festival, South by Southwest (1987–). Austin was, objectively, already a music city in the 1980s, with a long-running and active live music scene; these additional assets also meant that it could be easily promoted as such (Shank 1994; Tretter 2015; Wynn 2015). In 1989, the local government formed a Music Commission and in 1991 its tourist bureau began to self-brand Austin as the ‘live music capital of the world’. Austin policymakers were unusual for being so early to regard a local bar scene as a potential commercial and lifestyle asset, rather than solely as an activity in need of containment. They drew on the cultural cache of these venues to promote Austin as a place to visit or to relocate, and, by and large, were successful in doing so. However, this brought its own problems. In a now-familiar script, investment and urban renewal did occur, spaces were hard to find and rising rents made it difficult for musicians to live in the city (Grodach 2012a). The ‘Keep Austin Weird’ campaign was initiated by local small businesses in 2000, in reaction to the perceived homogenization that had come with urban renewal (Long 2009). The example of Austin has been very influential on later music city strategies; Richard Florida described it in glowing terms, such that Austin became ‘the undisputed archetype of creative development at the outset of the 21st century’ (Long 2009: 214). The city is still used as an exemplar of best practice in music cities (Baker 2019; Rowling 2012). But Austin is simultaneously a global archetype and a unique city. By and large, the ‘Keep Austin Weird’ campaign was successful in altering the standard script of gentrification; it is still a recognized music city ‘after’ creative cities. Looking at the example of Austin, Carl Grodach argues that ‘contemporary policy is not simply due to the rise of the creative city discourse, but is an evolving product of past policy structures mediated by local institutions and actors’ (Grodach 2012b: 82). In parallel to Austin’s initial ventures into music city policies, nascent municipal interest in local music industries occurred in Labour-led local councils in the UK, beginning in the 1980s and continuing into the 1990s (Brown, O’Connor and Cohen 2000; Cohen 1991b, 2007; Frith 1993; Street 1993). Wider UK politics and the impacts of de-industrialization give important context to these initiatives. With a Conservative central government, local city initiatives were a chance for Labour councils to produce tangible outputs whilst on the periphery of national politics. The effects of deindustrialization and unemployment

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were also high on the agenda, as local councils looked to creative industries as urban regeneration strategies in cities hit hard by manufacturing job losses. After much wrangling over which direction to take (Cohen 1991b), Liverpool City Council eventually pursued a city rebranding strategy which drew heavily on its musical heritage, particularly sites associated with the Beatles (Cohen 2007). This was successful in promoting music tourism while marginalizing newer forms of music (Lashua, Cohen and Schofield 2009). Liverpool was awarded the title of European Capital of Culture in 2008, and a UNESCO City of Music in 2014. Liverpool is among the ‘usual suspects’ (IFPI/Music Canada 2015: 11) of well-known music city examples, having capitalized significantly on its popular music heritage. Sheffield and Manchester also both invested in creative quarters as urban renewal projects with ‘the local city state attempting to respond to globalisation’ (Brown, O’Connor and Cohen 2000: 438). Manchester also began to utilize its association with popular music in city branding, particularly the ‘Madchester’ 1980s dance scene associated with Factory Records and the Hacienda nightclub. Reflecting on the mix of outcomes in these projects, the chief problems derived from a lack of understanding of how music relates to cities, and from a narrow focus on prospects for economic renewal: there may be a case for widening the scope from ‘music industry’ … This would have to recognise the wider ‘culture’ of the city and how this relates to actual participation in the production, consumption and distribution of music. In which case local authorities would have to think much more profoundly about the relationship between the city, culture and globalisation than the ‘quick fix’ which the music industry seems to hold out. (Brown, O’Connor and Cohen 2000: 450)

In the two decades, the scope for municipal interest in music has indeed widened. Music city policies are not premised on a script of magic economic renewal, and they speak to a wide range of possible outcomes (Bennett 2020b). The multifaceted nature of music city discourse is evident in a range of policy outcomes in Australian cities, included in Chapter 13 of this book. Here, the discourse surrounding the creative city and night-time economy assisted greatly in bringing popular music on a more even footing with other uses of city space. However, in Australian cities as in the global progress of music city policies, this process has not been linear. Instead, it has been characterized by an accumulation of ideas built from flashpoints of conflict over different city-specific issues, and gradual (but hardwon) increase in bargaining power for music industry representatives, advocacy groups and grassroots organizations.

Conclusion Music is important to cities, and vice versa. Cities are, and have been, important centres of music production and distribution. A range of authors agree that there is not an essential relationship between places and music. But the same wide range of authors who have gone to some effort to note the non-existence of essentialist geography of music are also in agreement that there is an uneven geography to music. The bone of contention is only that

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the relationship of music to place is just not as simple as would like to be imagined. Music is made and listened to by people who can move in and out of places, participate in music scenes locally, translocally and virtually, or simply hear music in a passive way. People can engage with music as a commercial or social venture, or both, and sometimes they engage in music as an anti-social venture (Johnson and Cloonan 2013). They may or may not earn a living from music (most do not) but are likely to continue anyway because music is part of everyday life. Nonetheless, this constant hum of music activity does have a shape. Music is not fixed in place, but it is not formless. The material infrastructure of meeting places, recording studios, live music venues, music shops, music schools, radio stations, rehearsal studios and so forth are nodes through which multitudes of people construct their own ‘musical pathways’ (Finnegan 1989). They are the spaces that music scenes will restlessly seek out (Straw 2004). Cities, as material accumulations of such infrastructure, have held a special place in the history of music (Watson et al. 2009). Music can be, and is, made almost anywhere, but it is much easier to hear when this occurs in cities where people can meet, access infrastructure for rehearsing, performing and recording, and connect to global chains of music distribution. These are the ingredients found in some of the larger music cities with established music tourism industries: Memphis, Liverpool, New York, Nashville, London. Only occasionally does this all happen in one city, and even less occasionally have city policymakers taken an interest in this. Music distribution operates at multiple scales, and these are not mutually exclusive, but it is important to note that thinking about music in cities brings a particular perspective. As described elsewhere in this book, the role of the nation-state is by no means redundant when considering contemporary music distribution. As for the global scale, far from being at odds with music cities, it has been the centre stage upon which the concept has been discussed from the very earliest initiatives of 1980s, in Austin, and in the deindustrialized English north. In recent decades, for a variety of reasons that can nonetheless be grouped as ‘globalization’, more city policymakers have taken an interest in cultivating or capitalizing on the music within their boundaries. When they do, various conundrums await, many of which can be anticipated by research into music and place that preceded contemporary music city ideas, including: ●

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A thriving local music scene does not mean other aspects of a city are not going well. Some of the celebrated music cities of the past took place in cities with significant unemployment, such as New York (Hermes 2012) or Manchester (Nevarez 2013) in the 1970s, or Montreal in the early 2000s (Stahl 2001). City policymakers are bound to exactly the kind of precise geographical boundaries that music is not bound to. Music distribution channels work across multiple scales, and music scene participation is more fleeting and fragmented than the notion of a ‘community’ or ‘music industry’, which city policymakers will need to reference. Music industry participants may not want to engage with policy makers, and may prefer to sit at arm’s length, either because they regard themselves as businesses not

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in need of help, or because government intervention is antithetical to what they value in music. Successfully capitalizing on music can create ironic outcomes. Music heritage sites can compete directly with new music or highlight some styles over others. Successful urban regeneration can make a city more expensive to live in, or to operate a music venue: the classic script of urban regeneration not benefitting the creative workers who helped to start it. Success can be utterly elusive and making music ‘work’ is not straightforward. Many have tried to make money from music; not many have succeeded; and this applies to cities as well as people. Success in music is more analogous to fishing than to farming.

For city policymakers, working with precise jurisdictional boundaries, juggling competing demands and timelines, in a policy environment where interest in music is still something of a novelty, a detailed engagement with the complexities of music and cities is rarely in scope. This is true also for music scene participants who need to argue a case on an urgent issue and who would, in the past, have found few angles to work with. A friendly ‘handbook’ will likely hold considerable appeal. The cheerful glossing over of details that this entails can, in turn, irritate people who have spent time engaging with the complex relationship of music to cities. Nonetheless, research into local music scenes has established that whether consciously or not, local policy does impact upon the spaces available for music: performing, living, rehearsing, meeting and recording do matter to the ‘musical pathways’ of people navigating available opportunities. These spaces have been crucial to local music scenes, whether or not policymakers were aware of their role in opening or closing them. Hence there can be an inadvertent ‘music city’ policy in place (perhaps a very bad one) whether or not this is written directly or formalized. The idea of the music city, as distinct from music in cities, is a relatively new phenomenon. It is a hybrid of persuasive policy discourses, most notably those of creative cities, liveable cities and the night-time economy. In turn, persuasive policy discourses about cities are ultimately related to globalization and the push to make comparisons between cities. Being more modest in goals, and more easily tailored than any of its substituent influences, the music city appears to be a more resilient vision of city improvement. Its ambitions are not too big. It is a city policy card that is not too flashy or overreaching that has had particular value for smaller regional cities of the Western world, many of which have become exemplars of music city ideas in practice: Austin, Nashville, Liverpool, Manchester, Melbourne. Music cities are likely to be associated with the ideals of the creative city for some time yet. The two ideals – creative cities, music cities – have shared histories, and, obviously, leveraging the potential of local music scenes figures prominently in both ideals. The creative city paradigm was most influential in the 2000s, and still carries considerable baggage relating to the task of selling the lifestyle and nightlife of cities, in competition on a global scale. This task has been a slightly uneasy ‘band mate’ with music for some time. In 1991, Sara Cohen observed the Music City initiatives (and consequences) undertaken

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in Liverpool in the 1980s, part of the earliest wave of interest in music as a regenerative strategy for deindustrializing cities: The 1980s in Britain became the decade of urban entrepreneurialism and aggressive placemarketing … This process of selling particular cities leads to competition between them at a time when regional collaboration would be more beneficial. It also results, perhaps, in the creation and presentation of particular images, sounds, and heritages which marginalize or exclude others. (Cohen 1991b: 345)

This comment has proved prescient in every respect except identifying the 1980s as the decade of place marketing, which has only increased in the ensuing decades. The unease described, boiling down to the pitfalls of selling a city on a global stage, remains relevant. However, music cities discourse appears to be outliving its predecessors. Contemporary Music City entities like The Mastering of a Music City handbook and the Sound Diplomacy group speak to the above histories of music in cities, and of city branding, but do this with a cheery tone, moderate ambitions and great networking skills. Like musicians pragmatically navigating paths of available opportunity, we can expect to hear more of this.

20 Brexit and the UK live music industry Patrycja Rozbicka, Adam Behr and Craig Hamilton

Introduction On 24 June 2016, the result of the previous day’s national referendum was announced – the UK had voted to leave the European Union (EU). Following a fraught campaign, the citizens of the UK voted by a margin of 52 per cent to 48 per cent to ‘exit’ a political and economic union of European member states with a GDP estimated at that time as $13.887 trillion, set to increase to $15.626 trillion by 2019 (World Bank 2021). Abandoning its largest trading partner, the UK had to open negotiations on a number of international agreements and arrangements previously covered by its EU membership.1 Like many a break-up, this was less a one-time event than an ongoing process, and it brought uncertainties to a range of sectors in the UK’s economy and society. The UK’s live music industry is one such sector, now facing questions about the shortand long-term costs and benefits of post-Brexit scenarios. These questions raise concerns amongst a wide range of live music stakeholders. Most obviously, this includes musical participants themselves (e.g. bands, venues, promoters, agents and associated crews), but also affected are the local and regional authorities where the live events take place and where venues are part of vast supply chains (Wall 2007). These concerns are aggravated by the lack of progress in the negotiations (even at the point of writing this chapter) after the signature of a Withdrawal Agreement. There is still a lack of clarity about the touring activity, work and visa permits for UK bands and their crews performing in the EU, and for their EU counterparts coming to the UK. The analysis of Brexit’s impact on cultural production at large is an ongoing process. This chapter focuses on some possible short- and long-term outcomes resulting from Brexit in a specific sub-sector of the UK’s music economy: live music. We start with a quantitative overview to assess the significance of live music sectors to the UK economy.

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The goal there is to clearly establish what, and who, will be affected by the Brexit fallout. In the next step, we take into consideration two contextual perspectives to get a sense of the possible contours of the post-Brexit situation. First, comparisons are made to the EU’s arrangements with Norway and Switzerland, and then to the United States and Canada, with a view to assessing possible scenarios for a way forward for UK touring musicians and their crews. Next, we look at Birmingham, UK, and its local live music ecosystem (Behr et al. 2016) to add nuance to the broader sectoral perspective of the first section and point towards the intersection of local, regional and national impacts.

UK live music and Europe (when it all started back in 2016) Europe (and in particular countries within the EU) matters greatly to the UK’s music industries. Economic estimates provided by the government’s Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) suggested that the cultural sector overall – of which music is a part, along with film, television, radio, photography, crafts, museums and galleries, cultural education, and heritage – contributed £26.8 billion GVA (gross value added) to the UK economy in 2016 (DCMS 2016: 6). The sector as a whole employed around 654,000 people, accounting for 2 per cent of all UK jobs, with an estimated 142,208 employed just within the music sub-sector (House of Lords European Union Committee 2018: 10 – based on UK Music and Musicians’ Union approximations). Almost half of those were self-employed (with around 10 per cent being non-UK EU citizens; House of Lords European Union Committee 2018: 10–11). The music sub-sector relies heavily on consultants and freelancers working on a project basis or working on multiple projects at one time. In 2016, according to UK Music – the sector’s umbrella lobbying organization – the music industries generated £4.4 billion (UK Music 2017a: 11) with confirmed continuous growth from £4.1 billion in 2014. Music exports contributed £2.5 billion in 2016 to the UK economy, most of which went to US and European markets (equal share) and they constituted 70 per cent of the UK music publishing market. Live music events are a cornerstone of the sector. The data indicates that this sub-sector has been generating continuous surplus. In 2014, live music brought in £924 million and supported 25,100 full-time employees (festival organizers, promoters, agents, production services for live music, ticketing agents, staff at concert venues and arenas), with 16 per cent growth in relation to 2013 (UK Music 2015: 6). In 2016, the sub-sector reached the £1 billion mark in terms of contribution to the UK economy, with 17 per cent growth in comparison to 2015 (UK Music 2017a). When we also include the performing musicians themselves, this figure increases to almost 142,208 full-time equivalent (FTE) jobs based in the UK. Taken in total, more than 17 per cent of income within that sector was generated while performing in the EU. Furthermore, UK Music’s figures showed that 24.9 million people attended live music events in the UK in 2016, an increase of 2 million from 2015 (UK Music 2017c: 5). In 2016,

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overseas ‘music tourists’ (overseas music audiences) on average spent £850 while visiting the UK (UK Music 2017b: 6). Given the UK border/visa/entry requirements and the costs of travelling from areas further than Europe, it is safe to assume that many of those visitors were from the EU’s member states. These numbers clearly show the value of the live music sector to the UK economy. But they also indicate the importance of the European market to the British music industries, in particular its sub-sector focused on live events. The main actors within the sector undoubtedly agreed over the referendum debate, with two-thirds supporting the ‘remain’ vote including, for example, Universal Music UK, Beggars Group, the Music Managers Forum, and individual artists such as Bob Geldof and Paloma Faith (Booth 2016; Hunt 2017). Looked at from this perspective, then, it is clear that there are a number of elements and stakeholders to consider when negotiating the UK’s relationship with the EU and two complementary sides of the equation to balance regarding freedom of movement. First, we have musicians and supporting crew who seek to tour in Europe. Additionally, we have the gig-goers, venues and their staff, and production companies hoping to welcome touring acts from Europe. In the next section, we focus on scenarios regarding touring activities. The two readily available scenarios are based on the existing arrangements with Switzerland and Norway (non-EU countries in close proximity to the EU, similarly to the United States), and with the United States and Canada (the EU’s largest economic partners when it comes to the music industries, but outside of any preferential trade agreements).

Touring Europe in the post-Brexit scenarios Switzerland and Norway Neither Switzerland nor Norway is a member state of the EU. While located in close proximity (with Switzerland in particular surrounded by EU member states), both countries decided on a special arrangement in their interactions with the EU, which is the largest trading partner for both nations, with Germany on top of the list of single nations for Switzerland and, interestingly, the UK for Norway (directly followed by Germany, the Netherlands, Sweden and France, all of which are EU members), underlining the importance of keeping such arrangements in place (World Bank 2019). Both solutions to trading outside of the EU grant certain privileges (in comparison to third countries, as in the case of Canada and the United States, discussed later) and obligations (in particular for Norway, associated with larger ‘membership’ fees). While at first seeming quite straightforward, both approaches, however, include legal loopholes with potential and actual negative side effects for touring musicians and their crews. The Swiss solution is based on a series of bilateral treaties in which Switzerland adopted various provisions of the EU acquis (the body of common rights and obligations that are binding on all EU countries) in order to have privileged access to the Union’s market. Consequently, most of the conditions around the free movement of people, goods, services

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and capital that apply in the EU as a whole also apply in Switzerland. For example, preBrexit, it guaranteed that UK musicians and their crews (e.g. sound engineers, tour managers, drivers and even merchandise sellers) could perform and support gigs in Switzerland without any additional costs or administrative burdens. The arrangement is, however, quite fragile. The Swiss 2014 prohibitive referendum on quotas for migrants to be allowed to enter Switzerland violated the EU and Switzerland agreement on the free movement of people, risking the termination of all bilateral agreements (Traynor 2014). The issue was resolved in December 2015, with Switzerland backing off. However, the potential termination of the bilateral agreements put at risk the capacity for anyone from the EU seeking to perform in Switzerland to do so, substantially increasing red tape, including a requirement for temporary work/visa permits which would be particularly cumbersome for the self-employed. This is significant, given that over 70 per cent of UK professionals working within the live music industry are self-employed (Webster et al. 2018), without labels or large management structures. Even with a bilateral arrangement between the EU and UK similar to that which exists between the EU and Switzerland, their situation, as this example illustrates, would be tenuous, with potential for substantial administrative burdens and livelihoods at least partly dependent on the stability of UK-EU relations. The Swiss example is particularly disenchanting. Starting with paying for a Swiss motorway ‘vignette’2 (costing around £45, but amendable on a yearly basis), which adds to the tour’s costs and especially affects those bands travelling on a ‘break-even budget’, it also includes the ATA Carnet, a temporary export document that covers professional equipment and goods being tentatively exported for display at trade fairs or exhibitions, including live performances. This eliminates the need for ‘customs declaration at border points and the deposit of a guarantee, bond, or cash deposit in the country of temporary importation’ (London Chamber of Commerce 2016). Simplifying the jargon, the Carnet should list all the equipment used by the touring crew while performing and transferring through Switzerland (e.g. musical instruments, sound desks, projectors, lighting equipment used in the show). Obtaining the document takes 24 hours, with an additional fee for an ‘express’ option, taking one hour. Each carnet is valid for a year and can be used on multiple trips (assuming, of course, that the band and its crew always take exactly the same equipment). The price of the yearly ATA Carnet is £325.96 and requires payment of a security deposit based on a percentage of the value of equipment (UK Government 2021). Except for situations where there are severe delays at the borders, where the document is a check against the contents of the touring van/bus, and the administrative hassle, the price of the Carnet increases the costs of tours even further. A single Carnet for multiple EU countries is a better solution than separate documentation while crossing individual borders. However, it was previously not required at all for UK touring bands, except when visiting Switzerland. Touring in Switzerland also poses a further challenge. Bands often travel with saleable merchandise. Upon entry to Switzerland, the touring crews are required to pay VAT on their merchandise upfront according to expected sales, which is later followed by a refund on unsold items upon exiting the country. This severely limits the potential for lowbudget and ad hoc touring. The bands have to provide money upfront to cover VAT, and

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there are significant delays on the refund payments, further locking the budget for other tours. Anecdotal evidence suggests that a very thorough customs search for undeclared merchandise rarely takes place. However, the same cannot be said about the experiences on the UK-French border for UK crews entering EU territory (Foster and Parker 2020). Norway is associated with the EU through the European Economic Area (EEA), the effect of Norway’s membership of the European Free Trade Association. The EEA agreement grants Norway access to the EU’s internal market for the price of partial implementation of EU laws. The arrangement facilitates free movement of goods, capital, services and people with various provisions: freedom of movement of goods includes freedom from customs fees (so no ATA Carnet required); and free movement of people specifies freedom of movement for workers, allowing EU citizens to work in Norway on the same conditions as Norwegian citizens (with a reciprocal arrangement for Norwegian citizens seeking work in the EU). In this scenario a lot would depend on the UK’s willingness to accept the reciprocity condition. The response from the UK government has so far been consistently negative about that option, from the Brexit White Paper in 2018, to collapsed negotiations in 2020, followed later by the constraining Immigration Act 2020 (Henley 2017, Home Office 11 November 2020). The ‘Norwegian scenario’ is a bit more flexible and possibly less dependent on the political relations between the two actors. However, it could be impacted by the prevailing economic situation. The Norwegian krone, its national currency and its high foreign exchange rates discourage domestic bands from performing abroad (Rozbicka and Conroy 2018). A strong standing of the Norwegian currency against other EU coinage reduces revenues from foreign tours to the point of not being profitable (especially in the era where digital technologies provide other options for dissemination). The data from Music Norway confirms this. A disproportionally small percentage of national music industry revenues were generated from live performances by Norwegian artists abroad when its currency was particularly strong. In 2013 it was only 5 per cent, with a marginal increase in 2014 (Music Norway 2014). The 2016 post-referendum drop in the British pound (GBP) increased expenses for touring artists almost immediately (Stewart and Stotland 2016). It was later followed by currency fluctuations, which were highly dependent on Brexitrelated political debates (Samson 2017). This brought further uncertainty about possible touring income and affected especially crews that were on tour at the time.

United States and Canada The EU’s relationships with the United States and Canada are similar to the Swiss scenario insofar as they are based on bilateral agreements (although negotiations for a much broader arrangement, the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership, failed in 2018). When it comes to touring, arrangements revolve around existing regulations on visa entry. Based on the Citizens’ Rights Directive (Directive 2004/38/EC), self-employed EU citizens can work and travel within the EU without restrictions while they are exercising their EU Treaty rights. Third country nationals, such as US and Canadian citizens, and now also

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UK citizens, are subject to EU rules on migration where applicable, or to the domestic immigration laws of individual member states where no EU legislation exists. US and Canadian bands and crew are disadvantaged by the visa application procedures in terms of European touring. Their operations are classified under paid activities in the EU area (European Commission 2021) and can be subject to different regimes. Countries such as Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, or Lithuania, Poland and Slovenia, allow visa-free entry for paid activities for US and Canadian citizens, albeit with various time limits. In contrast, Spain, France, Italy, Austria, Hungary and Czech Republic require a temporary work permit while performing for income. The lack of a unified approach can be confusing and is certainly an extra bureaucratic consideration for artists and their management teams. The main issue is increased paperwork: the work permit procedures have to be supported by proof of a beneficial economic impact for the country of visit, confirmation of employment (such as an invite issued by a Europe-based promoter), and an assurance that the operation can be fully financed by the band’s own resources. The procedures are time-consuming and costly and particularly affect smaller bands and self-employed individuals (House of Lords European Union Committee 2018: 14). There is, again, an issue of the affordability of the tour, where bands have to roll out a substantial sum in advance of the tour, with no guarantee of returns or income. Further, obtaining an offer to perform from a promoter, who may not be inclined to invest time in extra paperwork for smaller, unknown acts, and whose shows do not guarantee a full house, could be even more problematic. Previously, EU membership gave UK-based artists a right to work anywhere in the EU without a special work permit (based on the Treaty on the Functioning of the European Union, art. 45). The current situation for UK bands resembles the US and Canada scenarios, highly disadvantaging smaller touring bands through extra red tape, which is prohibitive to them going out or obtaining tour support from labels (Smirke 2016). A short-term solution is omitting from tours the states that require work permits (e.g. transferring through France, but not doing paid gigs). Leaving aside the curtailment to activities that this implies, in the long term, not many bands can afford to perform for free, at showcase festivals like Spain’s Primavera, for example, that come with visa waivers for non-paid participation. The UK government has so far issued a few proposals for how to solve this quandary, with various degrees of plausibility. Proposals in 2016 that toyed with preferential and reciprocity-based arrangements with the 27 EU member states (House of Lords European Union Committee 2018: 2) failed due to the hard-line stance of the UK government on migration that developed over time (see, in particular, the Immigration Act 2020). Similarly, as in the case of the US model, the options also include permit-free festival arrangements (see, for example, South by South West, where UK crews are allowed to perform at the US festival in Austin, Texas, based on special, temporary visa waivers), and extending the permitted paid engagement, both based on the visa waiver option, or a multi-country, multi-entry short-term touring visa. However, as in the Swiss and Norwegian scenarios, and unlike the US model, any final agreed solution will require a reciprocal commitment about which the EU has been quite clear and which the UK refuses to countenance

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(Peretz 2021). Again, artists and their crew who have not yet made a name for themselves are likely to be the most affected. The various scenarios presented above have focused on the post-Brexit situation from the perspective of musicians and their supporting crews. Looking forward, a lot depends on UK bands and their crews being able to sustain as far as possible relative freedom of movement and capacity for working within the EU. The solutions based on the Swiss and Norwegian scenarios offer access for performing artists and their support staff to the EU market with minor red tape, but with notable financial costs especially affecting younger and/or less-known acts. In comparison, the United States and Canada scenarios bring more complexity due to their visa/work permit requirements and the variety of applicability across the EU member states. As indicated above, that type of an arrangement would also require reciprocity. Given the present UK government’s stance on freedom of movement and work for EU citizens in the UK, this constitutes a major obstacle. The musicians and supporting crews are key stakeholders when it comes to touring and movement of UK citizens to the EU. Additionally, we should not forget that the changes introduced by Brexit will also impact stakeholders at the other end of the spectrum. Those British gig-goers, production companies, venues and their staff, who host and watch touring acts from the EU, will not remain untouched by the post-Brexit scenario. In the following section, we change the perspective from artists on the road to domestic stakeholders and concentrate on Brexit’s impact on the live music industry at a local level, through the case study of Birmingham, UK.

The Birmingham live music ecosystem and Brexit3 Birmingham’s music scene has contributed significantly to the UK national music portfolio. The city has produced acts such as Black Sabbath, UB40, Steel Pulse and, more recently, grime artists Lady Leshurr and Jaykae. With a rich musical history, the urban cultural economy of Birmingham and its surrounds bring around 877,000 music tourists to the region, spending £252 million and supporting around 2,453 FTE jobs in 2019 (UK Music 2020c). The Birmingham Live Music map,4 which at present includes 195 venues that host live music, demonstrates that Birmingham has a wide variety of venue types, ranging from social and student clubs (~14 per cent), all the way to medium-sized and large dedicated live music venues (~3 per cent). Another prominent feature of Birmingham’s musical ecology are its pubs, bars and small venues (49.36 per cent) with capacities below 400. Consequently, the music offer in the city is quite broad, without a predominance of any particular genre or level of artist (both internationally recognized stars and beginners in the industry can be easily accommodated due to the variety of venue sizes). This makes it a useful indicative example for the effects of the issues described in the previous sections. Since the 2016 EU Referendum, there has been considerable uncertainty about the potential costs and benefits from Brexit to the live music industry in the city. Beyond the

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provisions around touring activity and work permits/visa regimes, several issues are very specific to the local (although with the potential to be replicated at national level; Rozbicka et al. 2019). On the ground in Birmingham the issue of disruption to just-in-time supply chains is one source of anxiety. Festivals and large-scale performances in the region, for instance, reveal the practical issues associated with hosting major touring acts, which are reliant on such just-in-time supply chains. These include (for example) matters like the ad hoc provision of rigging, extensively large PA systems or simply allowing entry at the border to crews and accompanying stage equipment. The usual response to this issue is securing storage space. However, the disruptions and delays at the UK and EU border created lost opportunities. Both the UK as a whole and Birmingham specifically now have a shortage of warehouse space (Butler 2019) – previously mitigated by the just-in time supply chains characteristic of pre-Brexit operating conditions – which has resulted in an increase in the cost of storage. The laws of supply and demand suggest that the remaining space may eventually become prohibitively expensive for smaller stakeholders. Another local concern is the future of the high number of production companies (handling matters related to lighting, staging and tour management) located in Birmingham. These companies have been important regional employers in terms of youth training and employment opportunities in the sector and for more established, skilled technicians in sound and lighting. As the UK and, to a degree, Birmingham have historically often been a staging post for international acts touring the EU, the latest visa and work permit regulations directly impact those companies which are markedly less competitive against companies located in Ireland, an EU member also in close proximity to the continent, and other EU countries, such as the Netherlands. There are also concerns over the recruitment of skilled employees following Brexit. When it comes to the West Midlands region, for which Birmingham is the primary urban centre, 29 per cent of businesses linked with the creative industries (including music) employ non-UK nationals (Bakhshi and Spilsbury 2019: 22). The new restrictions on employment for EU nationals in the UK (and the minimum income cap; see the Immigration Act 2020; UK Government 2020a) will make it harder to bring in low-skilled employees from EU nations, while also curtailing work opportunities for skilled workers and specialists who are at an earlier stage of their career. This applies to employment both ‘front of house’ (orchestral musicians, for instance) as well as backstage (technicians and production crew). A possible longer-term consequence of this could be a general decline in diversity across the performing arts sector. Another background worry expressed by stakeholders (Rozbicka et al. 2019: 11), difficult to quantify, though nonetheless very real, is the potential reputational damage to the UK caused by Brexit. Lesser-known bands from the EU will find it more difficult to tour in the UK without additional funding to cover potential visa costs and other fees, due to the increased costs and administrative processes for venues and promoters hosting EU acts, thereby making the hosting of less famous European bands financially unviable. Beyond the immediate practical constraints of coming to the UK to perform, there is the associated concern that a sense of being unwelcome – or of it being too much trouble to make the effort

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– might dissuade some acts, over time, from coming to the UK. Given the sometimes toxic rhetoric around Brexit, there is a related concern about a drop in the number of inbound music tourists from EU countries. The economic fallout here would spread beyond the live music sector to tourist-related business and the service industry more widely. A related matter here is the possibility of a slide towards more homogenized events due to the smaller pool of potential acts from abroad for venues and promoters to draw upon. The effect here might be felt in local venues – particularly those less able to take on extra expenses or administration associated with handling visiting acts from countries covered by newly stringent rules around freedom of movement. If such venues have to trim their financial sails accordingly in light of new restrictions around movement of musicians, crews and merchandise, this could have a bearing on their appetite for risk-taking in their booking policies. A workshop with local practitioners in 2019 – including venue operators and promoters – revealed this relationship between risk and Brexit derived regulations as a key underlying tension: Given that the local music scene has a high proportion of small and mid-size venues (i.e. those holding fewer than 500 people), and that promotion in those venues is often handled by freelance promoters, there is widespread concern that the local sector may not be able to provide sufficient support to extend invitations to bands visiting from abroad, an issue that may compound problems of stagnation. (Rozbicka et al. 2019: 13–14)

Stakeholders expressed unease (Rozbicka et al. 2019: 11) that this would be potentially followed in the long term by degradation of the range of influences on, and inspirations for young people, in cultural terms and economically, a decrease in music tourism. Risks to the various elements mentioned above, which impact domestic and foreign visits, could have knock-on effects beyond live music to cultural, touristic and service-related businesses at large (e.g. food and drink, hotels, local transport services). A diminished cultural (and therefore tourism) offer would obviously threaten employment prospects in those sectors, but could also reduce the attractiveness of the city and region for inward investment-based success, thus contributing, in a worst-case scenario, to stagnation or decline. As well as the negative impact of Brexit, there are also some possible, if somewhat contingent, opportunities. The industry remains determined to manage the situation, referring to sectoral perseverance and an ‘entrepreneurial spirit’ driving innovation in the face of adversity (Michael Kill, Night Time Industry Association, interview with authors). One respondent to a survey of Birmingham live music stakeholders, for instance, also noted the chance that ‘the potential restrictions of EU travel could see more UK bands touring more regularly in the UK with more gig goers staying in the UK rather than [going] abroad’ (Rozbicka et al. 2021: 40). In other words, the gap created by fewer visiting artists could be filled by local acts, with a decline in foreign travel driving an uptake of domestic cultural consumption. Whether this would offset the lost opportunities for European touring, or lead to ‘overplaying’ the domestic market, is an open, and fraught, question. While the responses presented here focus on Birmingham, other cities and their live music ecosystems will likely be similarly impacted; Liverpool, Manchester and Glasgow

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have comparable profiles. London is an outlier here, hosting some of the largest venues and labels in the country and thus potentially facing an even greater shock to the system, though with a large local market and its status as capital city as a possible limiting factor in declining international visitors. The issues of disruption to just-in-time supply chains and the lack of warehouses are a major national concern. These are coupled with others: increased administrative and financial costs to host EU bands and the need to replace the missing workforce previously handled by the unobstructed inflow of EU-based, skilled employees to the UK in turn further threaten high-end production companies and their role as trainers and employers. On a more subjective level, the damage to the UK’s reputation as a positive and open place to visit, together with visa issues, could impact negatively upon cross-border cultural exchanges with a ‘domino effect’ leading to a decrease in music tourism, the livelihoods of UK musicians and music sector professionals; and a slow deflation of the overall cultural outlook for the city, region and country. This somewhat gloomy prognosis can be weighed against a live music culture and industry that has proven itself resilient and resourceful (e.g. in the face of Covid-19). Nevertheless, to properly mitigate the constraints imposed by Brexit will require a government response that displays a similar degree of imagination and fleet-footedness to that displayed both by the sector itself and in the government’s rapid deployment of support measures during the Covid-19 crisis.

The British jigsaw As the previous sections have shown, live music is a sector where the UK has traditionally excelled. This was the case in 2016 when the Brexit referendum was held, and it continued to be so thereafter, with a £5.8 billion contribution to the UK economy in 2019 (UK Music 2020c). The challenges it faces arising from the UK’s departure from the EU are, however, significant. The most problematic aspect of the ongoing situation, and for the future more broadly, is uncertainty around the government’s position on future negotiations and an expected rise in red tape, both from a touring perspective and local hosting of EU artists and their crews. The political debate about these negotiations has been ongoing since 2016, punctured by occasional flare-ups and initiatives undertaken by various industry representatives (UK Music, Music Venue Trust, the Musicians’ Union) to push the DCMS to engage more in the negotiations and better represent its constituency. Various proposals have been mooted, including a reciprocal ‘touring passport’ for musicians operating between the EU and the UK (Musicians Union 2020) – a petition backing this gained 109,000 signatures in short order. A wide-ranging ten-point plan proposed by opposition MP Harriet Harman also suggested a cultural exemption from the ‘cabotage’ and carnet rules that govern movement of goods and people; a Music Touring Fund; a designated Minister to work on re-negotiating cultural travel arrangements and the creation of a Music Export Office (Harman 2021: 3). While the secretary of state at DCMS at time of writing has indicated tentative interest in a cultural export office, the core proposals

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around touring have fallen prey to the current administration’s more intransigent stance on immigration and, therefore, movement of goods and people as part of its broader hard line in discussions with the EU. It was revealed in early 2021, for instance, that UK negotiators had rejected an offer from their EU counterparts to include reciprocal exemptions from work visas for musicians (Merrick 2021). An optimal solution for the live music industry thus looks currently unlikely. A survey by the Incorporated Society for Musicians and the Musicians’ Union showed that 94 per cent of respondents had been negatively affected by the post-Brexit agreement, with 77 per cent expecting their earnings from Europe to decrease; only 43 per cent still planning future shows or tours in the EU; 42 per cent considering relocation; and 21 per cent considering a change of career (ISM 2021). As one respondent put it: ‘it seems a complete nightmare … As it is, we see no way to recover our pre-Brexit working schedule making survival very difficult’ (ISM 2021). The national contexts previously discussed (the Swiss and Norwegian, US and Canadian scenarios) could be copied across to the UK case, but would require greater levels of reciprocity than the current government is prepared to accept. Part of the problem is that the live music industry – indeed, culture at large – appears not to be a governmental priority in the UK’s negotiations with the EU; leisure, hospitality and entertainment take a back seat to financial services, manufacturing and agriculture (Trendell 2021). Indeed, a dispute over fishing rights was a major sticking point in the withdrawal negotiations despite the fact that its value to the economy as a whole is around £1.2 billion (Cunliffe 2020), as opposed to £111.7 billion for the creative industries (DCMS 2018: 4), with £5.2 billion for music, including a £1 billion live sector (UK Music 2019: 6–7) – whose concerns were treated as a second-order matter, at best.5 While live music’s economic significance has, then, been clearly established, the consequences of Brexit for this sector have been largely overlooked by the government. The export of recorded and live music has served the UK well in the past but its current policy of cleaving to nationalism looks likely to stand in the way of future accomplishments in the EU market. Proponents of Brexit have cited the success of rock giants in the 1960s whose careers were launched before accession to the EU, but those were different times. Counterparts of the Beatles would struggle to gain a residency in Hamburg today, for instance. Further, the number of smaller touring acts now compared to the early 1960s is considerably greater and the industry has grown massively, creating fierce competition. Only more developed bands can realistically hope to achieve international success and thus be able to have the kind of industry infrastructure that could support the visa entries required to perform. Finally, tours are more than just one venue in Hamburg. While the Beatles in those early years did not need access to the rest of Europe, one gig in Germany is not enough to provide a sustainable income or the building of a fan base in today’s environment. Although industry bodies, and political opposition, are lobbying hard for measures to ameliorate the effects of Brexit, the road ahead does not look straightforward. Constructive ideas abound, however, and it is to be hoped that as the dust settles from the initially fractious withdrawal process and given music’s social and cultural contributions to the nation, the political climate will soften towards making the most of the solutions on the table.

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Notes 1 2 3

4 5

In 2015, UK exports to the EU were valued at £223.3 billion, while UK imports from the EU stood at £291.1 billion (Office for National Statistics 2016). A ‘vignette’ is a pass displayed on a vehicle windshield that is a legal requirement for motorway travel in Switzerland. Insights in this section are based on workshops and interviews conducted within a project titled ‘The UK Live Music Industry in the post-2019 Era: A Globalised Local Perspective’, made possible by a grant from the Creative Industries Policy and Evidence Centre (PEC), which is led by Nesta and funded by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council. The research took place between February 2020 and January 2021. The Birmingham Live Music Map is available at: https://livemusicresearch.online/blmp/. The sources and data sets for the overall creative and industries and for music are different, since DCMS does not disaggregate specifically for live music. The underlying point still pertains that government negotiators engaged in brinkmanship over fishing, while passing over the concerns of the creative industries despite their greater value to the economy.

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Index

Agreement on Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Law (TRIPS) 49 Allocation for Music Producers Act 36 Amazon 8, 14, 26, 38, 255, 268, 289 American Music Modernization Act 38, 42 Apple 14, 26, 38, 44, 78, 177, 289, 299–300 Apple Music 289 Application Programming Interface (API) 298 artist copyright issues 49, 51–2, 61–2, 65–8 digital fan connections 14 government policy 94–6, 103 innovation 28 legacy and heritage 78–9, 83, 86, 90 local sustainability 9–10, 46 moral rights 15, 256–7 music exports 109, 111, 114–18, 120–4 new music landscape 291 secondary ticketing, aversion to 264 Artists and Repertoire (A&R) 299 Asphalt Jungle, The 66 Association for Popular Music Education (APME) 91 Australia AMIN (the Australian Music Industry Network) 212 cultural policy 279–81 federal funding approaches 212–13 gendered representation 278–83 grassroots advocacy 280 Indigenous music 205–7 lack of gender-focused grants 285 Liquor Act 2007 209–10 live music 207–10 media policy 202–5 music advocacy groups 314 Music: Count Us In program 211 music education policy 210–12 national context (popular music) 200–2

neoliberal policy 283 OECD model 279 SLAM (Save Live Australian Music) 213 Stayin’ Alive (report) 208 twenty-first-century popular music policy 199 Australian Music Vault 78, 85 Authorised Heritage Discourse (AHD) 75 ballet 2–3, 266 BBC 11, 28–9, 127–9, 132–6, 238, 240–1, 243–6, 250 Beatles Museum (The Beatles Story) 12 Beggars Group 35, 323 Beijing Treaty on Audiovisual Performances 50–1 Berne Convention on the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works 49–50, 61–2, 64–8 Final Protocol of the preparatory conference 62–3 moral rights under 65–6 revision at Stockholm in 1967 63–4 Blair, Tony 94–5, 105, 281 Creative Industries Mapping Document 1998 5 Brexit 9 Birmingham live music ecosystem 327–30 live music and Europe 322–3 touring acts, challenges 330–1 Britain 24, 136, 143, 209, 255–7, 259, 262, 267, 281, 320 national policy contexts 10–11 New Labour government (1997–2005) 23, 94–5 popular music censorship 4 treaties with Prussia 61 broadcasters 7, 28–9, 49, 51, 64, 128, 166, 171, 173–5, 203 broadcasting copyright issues 49, 51, 63, 110 cultural politics 28–9 of popular music 128–9, 132–5

404

Index radio as the media 128–9 UK regulations 130–2 Brown, Gordon 94–5 Bureau of the International Union for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works (BIRPI) 60–1 Canada Broadcasting Act 166, 174–6, 179 Canada Music Fund (CMF) 171–2 Canadian Independent Music Association (CIMA) 168 Canadian Music Policy Coalition 177 communication policy 176 content regulations 171–3 Copyright Act 166, 176–7 Copyright Modernization Act 176 copyright reform 176–8 Covid-19 pandemic 163–5 CRTC’s radio policy 173 digital platforms 174–5 English and French music industries 163 EU relationship 325–6 FACTOR (Foundation Assisting Canadian Talent on Recordings) 164–7, 169, 171–3, 175, 179–80 federal music policies 165–6 MusicAction programs 165–7, 169, 171–3, 175, 180 music cities in 169–70 Music Entrepreneur Component (MEC) 172 music radio broadcast quotas 129 provincial project-based funding 166–9 radio broadcasting 173–4 SOCAN 164–5, 176–7 Sound Recording Development Program (SRDP) 171–2 Spotify 166, 176 Telecommunications Act 174 WIPO Copyright Treaty 176 WIPO Performances and Phonograms Treaty 176 Chatham House Rules 40 Chevigny, Paul 4, 27, 31 China administrative flattery, music industry 194–6 Chengdu government, music plan 189–94 copyright policies 182

cultural policy 181–6, 189–90 Cultural Revolution of Mao 182–3 digital music market 188–9 Great Leap Forward 181–2, 189, 193, 196–7 Jiang Qing (Mao’s wife) 183 Laoshe’s drama 182 Mao Zedong’s Yanan Talk 181 music economic policy 186–9 National Copyright Administration 189 national music industry parks 182 policymakers’ ideologies 182–6 political heritage 183 traditional music 184 2014 symposium 184 Churchill, Winston 64 City of Music scheme (UNESCO) 89–90 classical music 2–3, 23, 28, 101, 200, 240, 272, 275 Classics Protection and Access Act 36 collective management organizations (CMOs) 37, 39, 45 Congress on Literary and Artistic Property (Brussels) 61 Consumer Rights Act 2015 260 content quotas 5, 8, 42, 122, 129, 175, 203, 324 state intervention cultural industry 129 copyright authors vs. technologists 51–5, 66–7 economic reasons 50 exclusive rights 49–50 international structure 61 notion of property right 68 owners and developers of technology 67–8 prehistory 52–5 social and political issues 50–1 Stationers’ Company of London 54–7, 60 technology and 62–4 copyright law 8, 25 Covid-19 17, 22, 123–4, 285 creative industries Australian gender specific approach 281–3 COVID-19, impact on 285 linkage of arts with industry 5–7 local, national and supranational contexts 6–7 music city’s role 311 paradigm shift 6 regulating for the effectiveness 17 cultural industries broadcasting 128–9

Index Canadian 178 copyright issues 43 Covid-19 impact on 123, 231 cultural intermediaries role in 115 culture, concept 5 economic policy 94 export sector 116 gendered inequalities 271, 279–80 internet context 6, 13 National Centre for Popular Music (NCPM) 88 provincial level funding 166–7 Welsh policymaking 235 cultural institutions economic characteristics 79 examples 78–9 heritage performance 84–5 cultural politics broadcasting system 28–9 censorship 30–1 education system 23–4 familiar features 23 licensing 26–7 market practices and regulators 26 power dynamics 21–2 promoting 29–30 subsidizing 27–8 trade union for musicians 22 culture, governmental conceptions 5 Dickens, Charles 61 Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA) 67–8 digital music industries business models and revenue streams 33 Digital Single Market 36 interconnected businesses and markets, political issues 34 international policy-making 33–4 political considerations 42–4 traditional music industries vs. 44–5 digital service providers (DSPs) 289, 291, 297–8 Elbow (band) 22 Electronic Commerce Directive 67–8 Ellington, Duke 73 English Bach (Christian, Johann) 60 Eric B. & Rakim 73 Ethnomusicologists musical forms 76

European Union Copyright Directive 34, 36, 38, 42–3, 45–6, 50 Digital Single Market 34, 36, 39–40, 45, 67 France abolition of the monopoly of the Comédie française 58 copyright legislation 57–8 Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen 1789 58 Decree of 19 July 1793 58 1789 Revolution 57 society according to statut 67 Garvey, Guy 22, 25 GATT (General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade) 8 gender and popular music ‘feminine’ attributes 271–2 inequality 283, 286 post-Covid-19 scenario 283–6 women and Gender Non-Conforming (GNC) people 286 Germany audience safety 224 Bundestag 228–9 Club-Kataster 228 commercial tenancy law 223 copyright legislation 59–60 Covid pandemic and aid program 227, 229–30 cross-sector aid programs 230 Federal Emission Control Act 223 formal associations of live music 219–20 funding schemes and programs for music 224–5 Gaststättengestz (Hospitality Act) 224 Jugendschutzgesetz (Youth Protection Act) 224 key fields of regulation 222 KMK’s cultural policy 218–19 licensing for hospitality businesses 224 live music venues 218–19 music regulations 221–2 Neustart Kultur 230 policy making in Cologne 225–7 Schallschutzfonds 228 sound protection and noise issues 223 specific aid program, live music 230–1 tools and integrated approaches in live music 227–8 zoning law 222–3

405

406

Index

Le Chapelier’s law, copyright 1791 57–9, 66, 68 Leisure and Cultural Services Department (Hong Kong) 79 live music diversity of venues 147–8 gentrification 141–3 grassroots infrastructure 141–3 lobbying 143–6 private and public spheres 138–40 range of organizations 137 LPs (long playing records) 255

creative versus liveable 306 definition 314–15 ethnographic studies 308–10 examples 316–17 geographic research 307–8, 310–11 indexes of city liveability 312–13 local scenes 310 night-time economy 313–14 popular music journalism 309–10 music education 91–100, 102–4, 210–12 music exports sector industrial policy 114–15 national identity and soft power 111–13 public policy and funding 110–11 showcase model 115–17 music heritage 3, 5, 12, 28, 73–90, 94, 122, 154, 163, 170, 177, 178, 183, 184, 202, 309, 315, 317, 319 music industry conceptualizations of heritage 77–8 Cost Benefit Analysis’ (CBA) 38 dysfunctional structures 44 economic value 38–40 key stakeholders 34–5 structure 256–8 technology companies 45 Music Modernization Act (MMA) 34, 36, 43, 45 music streaming services. See also Spotify consumer experience 2020 289 current culture 292 digitalization of recording companies 290 economic contexts 291 illegal file sharing 290 impact on music artists 291 invention of data compression 292–6 platformization and spotification process 299–301 policy challenges 301–3 political economy of internet platforms 296–9 music tourism 80, 88

May, Theresa 10 Mills, Martin, Billboard Industry Icon Award (MIDEM) 35 Musical Work Modernization Act 36 music city branding 316 concept 12–13, 305–6

NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement) 8 Napster 44, 50, 295 National Association of Music Merchants (NAMM) 99 nation-state, role in music industries 10, 12, 33, 37, 109, 112, 128, 182, 202, 318

Global Repertoire Database 45 Google Play Music 289, 300 GRAMMY Organization 99 Guilbeault, Steven 163 Hanslicks, Eduard 101 Historic England 76 Holly, Buddy 73 Indian Music Experience Museum 79 International Convention for the Protection of Performers, Producers of Phonograms and Broadcasting Organisations (Rome Convention 1961) 49 iTunes 122 iTunes Store 44 Jae-in, Moon 151 Jazz music 2, 4, 24, 28, 77, 82, 100–1, 118, 134, 142, 211, 220, 225, 308 Jinping, Xi 181, 183–6, 189, 194 Johnson, Boris 10, 16, 123 Kant, Immanuel 59 k-pop 11, 111–13, 151–3, 156–61. See also South Korea Kristiansand Roundtable Conference 35, 39–40, 43–4, 46

Index New York City 83–4 cabaret laws 4 Norway EU interactions 323–5 NOMEX 119 Obama, Barack 267 Obama, Michelle 299 opera music 2–3, 147, 154, 184, 194, 200, 240, 266 Peking opera 29, 183, 195 Pop, Iggy 73 pop music 2–3, 11–12, 94, 112, 117–18, 127–32. See also South Korea broadcasting policy in UK 132–5 popular music Anglo-American dominant paradigm 77 commercial forms 76 cultural subjugation 101 Europe’s GDP 120 fan activities 80–1 heritage 74–7 international digital markets 36–7 international politics 8–10 internet, production and consumption context 13–15 music city paradigm 12 policy contexts 7–8, 12 rights and royalties 15–16 urban heritage 12 useful components 1–2 various branches 3–4 popular music education Academy of Contemporary Music (ACM, UK) 100 British and Irish Modern Music Institute (BIMM) 100 Detroit Institute of Modern Music (DIME) 100 economic systems and political ideologies 94–6 Eurocentric presumption 100 in Finnish schools 98 institutions and stakeholders 91 Little Kids Rock (US NPO) 98–9 national policy, (UK example) 94 in the Nordic countries 99 Rock and Rock Hall of Fame 99 specific policies 91–3

popular music policy democratization and inclusivity concepts 86–7 engagement metrics 85–6 governance objectives 81–2 performance, definition 84 preservation of objects, spaces and places 82–4 promotion 87–9 social, cultural and political contexts 73–4 post-Covid-19 music industry gendered differences 283–6 loss of income 284–5 scale of damage 285 Pub Rock (National Portrait Gallery of Australia) 79 Reay, Diane 100 Rockheim 78 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum 78 Rolling Stones 255 Royal Opera House 95 Royal Shakespeare Company 95 Scandinavia, music exports sector 117–20 Sound Diplomacy group 148, 246, 306, 314–15, 320 South Korea BTS 151 cultural and artistic activities 151–2 Culture and Arts Promotion Act 154 history of tourism 156–7 hologram concerts 160 K-pop groups 151–3, 156–61 Music Industry Promotion Act 155 Park Chung Hee administration 156 popular music policies 152–60 public administration perspective 154–60 Tourism Promotion Act 156 Spotify 8, 14–16, 22, 26, 78, 119, 122, 166, 176, 205, 275, 289, 292–303. See also music streaming services Strategic Action Field (SAF, Fligstein and McAdams’s theory) 39 Su-man, Yi 151 Sweden cultural policy 272–3 duality of spotification 297 financial support to popular music 275

407

408

Index gendered representation 272–5 Popkollo girls’ rock camps 275 Swedish Arts Council (Kulturrådet) 272–4 Switzerland copyright issues 61–2 EU interactions 323–5 Germany’s music exports to 111 ticketing in music industry booking fees 261–3 brand, significance of 259 competition 258–61, 264 consumer issues 260–1 European countries 267 event organizers’ role 266 internet’s role 258–9 legislation, secondary ticketing 267 non-monetary issues 261 pricing issue 255–6, 264 promoter’s negotiation 257, 259 ‘Ramsey-optimal’ 266 returns/resales policies 258, 260 secondary sellers role 263–7 sell-out status 257–8 technological barriers 267–8 ‘Ticketmaster Platinum’ 266 UK an and US policies 260 venue control 259–60 Tidal 205, 289 Trump, Donald 8 United Kingdom. See also Britain; live music; Wales approach to intellectual property 59 BBC Radio 129, 133–5 Berlin Act of the Berne Convention 64, 68 British Royal Commission on Copyright 1878 51, 64 broadcast policy and regulation 132–5 Cable and Broadcasting Act 1984 64–5 Competition and Markets Authority 26 Conservative government’s neoliberal free market agenda 130 Copyright Acts 1838, 1842, 1844, 1852, 1911, 1956, 1984 60–1, 64–5 Copyright (Computer Software) Amendment Act 1985 65 Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 65

Criminal Justice Act 131, 276 Department for Culture, Media and Sport 22, 94, 95, 251, 276, 277 Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) 276, 322, 330, 331, 332 digital tracks, sales 303 Emergency Response Package 286 financial support for music initiatives 276 forms of state intervention 276–7 Fraud Act 2006 267 gendered representation 277–8 government arts funding cycle 95–6 Immigration Act 2020 325–6, 328 International Copyright Act 1838 61 laissez-faire, market-driven approach 277 Licensing Act 1662, 2003 54–5, 142, 145, 148, 277–8 licensing restrictions 276–7 Live Music Act 2012 142 Live Nation and Ticketmaster 26 Localism Act 2011 144 Marian Stationers’ Charter 54 Marine Offences Act of 1967 133 Metropolitan Police, use of Form 696 27 music export 120–1 music venues 278 Music Venue Trust (MVT) 144 National Centre for Popular Music (NCPM) 88 New Deal for Musicians 28 New Labour’s music policy 23–4, 28 pop music 132–3 Rome Act 63, 65, 67 Royal Commission on Copyright of 1878 64 Select Committee 22 Statute of Anne 55–7, 60 UK Music 9–10, 80, 120–1, 124, 128, 134, 136, 144, 277, 322–4, 327, 330–1 United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Creative Cities of Music initiative 73–4, 88, 315 ideas about heritage 75 International Society for Music Education (ISME) 99 United States Bots Act (Better Online Ticket Sales Act 2016) 267 Cold War diplomacy 29 Consumer Rights Act 2015 260, 262

Index Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA) 67 digital tracks, sales 303 EU’s relationships 325–6 Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA) 96–7 first Copyright Act 56 Licensing Act 56 militarism 102–4 Music Modernization Act 36, 38 NAfME Standards 97 Orrin G. Hatch-Bob Goodlatte Music Modernization Act 36 patriotism 102 school music education policy 102–4 Wales Anthem 245, 247, 250 Arts Council of Wales 235–6, 239–45, 247, 250 Creative Wales 245, 247–8, 250 Government of Wales Act 2006 233, 237 Labour government (second term) 237–9 Labour government (fourth term) 241–5 Labour/Liberal Democrats Coalition government (first term) 235–6

Labour minority government (fifth term) 245–8 Labour/Plaid Cymru Coalition government (third term) 239–41 popular music policy timeline 235–6 popular music support initiatives 249 public funding in devolved Wales 233–4 Well-being of Future Generations (Wales) Act 245, 247–8, 250 Welsh Language Act 1993 237 Welsh Music Foundation 236–40, 244–6, 248, 250 Western nations, arts and cultural policy 2–5 WIPO Copyright Treaty (WCT) 49, 63 WIPO Treaty on Performances and Phonograms 50 World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO) 50, 62–4, 176 World Intellectual Property Organization Treaties on Copyright and on Performances and Phonograms (WCT, WPPT 1996) 49, 51, 63 YouTube 14, 78, 105, 277, 289, 300

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