Has Music Sold Out Even In Nova Scotia?

In The Survival Economy: Musicians don’t even get to sell out anymore—they have to buy in

I’ve always thought music performance, most importantly, was about giving something to others. I like bands that are giving it all they’ve got. All the soul that’s in them.

Pay-to-play is the ultimate economic gut-check for musicians. It’s a cold, hard proof that their need to play—be it for passion, recognition, money, or sheer compulsion—far outweighs the venue’s need for their music. Supply and demand in its cruelest form. It’s the market saying they’re taking not giving.

When venues charge bands to play, they’re signaling that live music, at least in that moment and in that place, is a commodity with negative market value. It’s not just that the venue doesn’t need your music; it’s that they view it as a liability, a cost. The cost of putting a band onstage—sound techs, bar staffing, licensing, potential lost revenue from alternative entertainment which is in infinite supply, or simply silence in a noisy world—is greater than the benefit the band provides. So the financial burden shifts.

And musicians pay. Not because they should, but because they must. Because for many, the drive to perform is not purely economic—it’s existential. It’s desire. A biological impulse akin to hunger or lust. The venue doesn’t share this impulse. They don’t need live music in the same way. So they charge. And the band, if desperate enough, pays.

It’s an inversion of the traditional model. Once upon a time, a venue booked a band because live music was a proven draw. The band provided something valuable: entertainment, atmosphere, a reason for people to come and buy drinks. But in a world of infinite digital entertainment, where anyone can stream music anywhere at any time, the mere presence of a live band no longer guarantees value. In some cases, it’s an annoyance—an interruption to customers who’d rather drink and talk than endure an unknown act offering nothing new of value.

Pay-to-play exposes this harsh reality. It separates the hobbyists from the professionals, the desperate from the strategic. Because musicians still willing to pay to perform prove an uncomfortable truth: their willingness to play is not matched by the demand for them to do so. The market has spoken. And it says: You need this more than we do.

And if that’s the case, who should be paying whom?

One thing is for sure. Government funding can’t, and shouldn’t buy us out of this. We have to face the fundamental problem head-on. We need to answer Yogi Berra’s famous question... If people don't want to come to the ballpark, how are you going to stop them? If government invests in anything it should be helping create a product of unique and enduring value. In business school terms - a unique value proposition with a competitive advantage that the industry system can not undermine.

The Two-Tier Music Economy

The music industry operates in a two-tier economy: the desperation economy at the bottom and the scarcity economy at the top.

At the bottom, musicians are paying venues to play, competing against an oversupply of talent and a dwindling demand for live music in small and mid-sized spaces. At the top, the biggest acts are charging thousands per ticket, leveraging scarcity, status, and a captive audience willing to pay anything to be part of the spectacle.

The divide in the music industry comes down to oversupply at the bottom and controlled scarcity at the top. Digital tools have made it easier than ever for musicians to record and distribute music, creating a glut of performers fighting for too few stages—driving prices down to the point where artists must pay to play. Meanwhile, at the top, stadium acts operate under manufactured scarcity, with limited tickets and rabid fans willing to pay anything for an exclusive experience. Small venues rely on casual audiences who treat live music as background noise, while superstar tours thrive on die-hard fans who see concerts as must-attend events. The corporate machine has turned big tours into financial behemoths with high-margin VIP packages and secondary markets, while small venues struggle in a low-margin game that forces costs onto musicians. Streaming killed the middle-class musician by replacing record sales with micropayments, making touring the only real revenue stream—but mid-level touring is prohibitively expensive, leaving only the biggest acts profitable. The final nail? The experience economy. High-end concerts aren’t just about the music; they’re about status, FOMO, and social proof. Meanwhile, no one brags about seeing a $10 local band. The industry isn’t just unequal—it’s structurally designed to keep it that way.

The Brutal Truth

The music industry has become a barbell economy—huge money on one side, all of us on the other, and almost nothing in between. The gap isn’t just wide—it’s systemic. The top-tier acts have the leverage, the brand, and the machinery to extract maximum value from their audiences. The rest? They’re left fighting for scraps, hoping their passion outweighs the costs.

And the worst part? The next big stadium act almost never comes from the local bar scene anymore. That ladder—playing clubs, grinding it out, climbing to the top—is broken. Instead, stars are manufactured through viral moments, algorithmic exposure, and big-label backing.

So musicians at the bottom keep paying, chasing a dream that the industry itself has stopped believing in.

The Death of Demand and Selling Out by Buying In: What It Means for Music in Nova Scotia

So where are we? Is selling out a thing like it was in the days of rock and roll? Or is that just a naive and childish way of talking now discarded because being in business means putting away childish things? Is it time to tell people to ‘smash that like button’ and work on our immersive brand synergy, tailor-made for infinite replayability and seamless integration into the passive listener’s lifestyle ecosystem? Or is it time to stop putting a dollar sign in front of every f#$%ing thing in this short life?

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This isn’t about nostalgia, nor is it an elegy for a bygone era. It’s a once-upon-a-time story as a reminder of what matters and what doesn’t. It’s about understanding the mechanics of music today—where it works, where it fails, and what that means for the future. If we want to reclaim what once made music a force beyond commerce, we need to start by recognizing what we’ve lost, and what’s still worth fighting for.

Once upon a time, the worst thing you could call a band was a sellout. It was the scarlet letter of rock and roll, the accusation that could tank a career and exile an artist from the pantheon of authenticity. To sell out meant betraying the music, the fans, and the ideals of independence. Neil Young sneered at it, Fugazi built a fortress against it, and Kurt Cobain carried its weight like a millstone. In the early days of Halifax’s ‘80’s music renaissance, it was a core criticism of the big traveling top 40 bands that ruled the Maritimes. They were sold out by definition - playing the hits of the day for people too drunk to care that they weren’t really White Snake or Billy Idol or whatever. But here we are, in the fully sold-out age, where the very concept of selling out is not only dead but dismembered, its parts repurposed into sponsored content and algorithmic optimization.

Frank Zappa famously used the phrase We're Only in It for the Money as the title of a 1968 album by The Mothers of Invention. The album was a scathing satire of both the hippie counterculture and the commercial music industry.

Zappa was poking fun at the hypocrisy of the '60s movement—calling out how the so-called revolutionaries of the time were often just as shallow, conformist, and commercially driven as the system they claimed to reject. The title was an ironic jab at both the music business, which commodified rebellion, and at bands who capitalized on the hippie aesthetic without truly challenging the status quo.

The album itself was a parody of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, with an intentionally absurdist cover and experimental, biting lyrics about consumerism, conformity, and social decay. Zappa, ever the iconoclast, wanted to remind everyone that while rock stars claimed to be about peace, love, and freedom, they were often just as eager to sell records as any corporate executive.

Nowhere is this shift more evident than in Nova Scotia, where music has long been a refuge from the corporate machine. This province has always been the land of the purist, the home of the barroom poet and the kitchen party savant. Yet even here, the old rules have been rewritten, or perhaps erased entirely. The question is no longer if an artist will sell out—it’s how quickly and for how much.

In 2011 The Guardian reported on an unlikely old-fashioned indie values champion. "I don't want my name anywhere near another brand," declared Adele. "I don't wanna be tainted, or haunted, and I don't wanna sell out in any way. I think it's shameful."

I can imagine Neil Young grinning, “This Note’s For You” Adele.

Coming from a 23-year-old in 2011, let alone the biggest pop star in Britain, these words seemed quaintly archaic. In the 1900’s, "sellout" was the most damning insult in rock. If you licensed a song to an advert you were, in the words of Bill Hicks's memorable routine, "off the artistic roll call forever. You're another whore at the capitalist gang bang … Everything you say is suspect and every word that comes out of your mouth is now like a turd falling into my drink."

But the days of the hard-line are gone. As a writer for The Onion put it: "Most of us are past the point where 'selling out' is something that really matters anymore." The summer festival season is a sea of brands. Corporations sponsor not just tours but, increasingly, algorithms just push playlists. TV shows and adverts are rife with songs from credible artists. Explains Geoff Travis, founder of the Rough Trade label: "A major source of income for all record companies, musicians and publishers now is having your music on ads, on TV and in films."

So is there any space in music left for arguments about integrity or are we seeing the last days of the sellout in the rearview mirror?

The Meaning of Selling Out, Then and Now

In the old world, selling out had clear parameters: signing with a major label, licensing music for commercials, and softening the sound to chase radio play. It was Bob Dylan going electric, Metallica cutting their hair, The Clash signing with CBS. Even The Beatles, those patron saints of rock and roll, were derided as sellouts when they stopped playing sweaty clubs and started crafting albums in the studio. I’m not saying these were fair criticisms. But the perceptions ultimately held music and musicians, and even the industry, to a higher standard.

Today, these lines are laughably quaint. The entire economic model of music has collapsed, replaced by a survival economy that demands total submission to corporate partnerships. Musicians don’t sell out anymore—they buy in. They write songs with streaming playlists in mind, pitch themselves for sync deals before recording an album, and turn their personal brands into the main event, with the music as a side hustle. The business is no longer about making art; it’s about making content.

What Happened to the Idea of Selling Out?

For me personally, the concern about 'selling out' has always been a tentpole feature of my musical world. It was the central concern of my community, both as a fan and later as a musician, and part of a genuine music scene in Halifax. Now, the term is seldom heard. I want to dig in, research, and reflect on this. Is it just Nova Scotia? Just certain scenes that thought this way? What really happened to this idea?

It’s possible that industry support and the maturity of the business unintentionally destroyed this—what might have been considered a naïve or childish view of music. Has the industry, in its bid to professionalize, neutralized the moral questions about authenticity? The narrative used to be about integrity versus commercialism, but today’s musicians don’t have the luxury of making that choice. The battle has shifted from "selling out" to simply "surviving."

The Modern Industry: No Room to Sell Out

Musicians now carry all the costs of production, promotion, and distribution while making fractions of a cent per stream. The economics are brutal: Spotify pays roughly $0.003 per stream, meaning a song needs millions of plays just to pay rent. Touring, once the financial lifeline for artists, has become a losing game due to monopolistic ticketing, outrageous fees, and rising costs. Musicians are expected to be their own marketers, managers, and financiers, while the major labels double down on repackaging old hits.

At the top, hedge funds and investment firms have taken over. Music catalogs are now financial assets, not cultural artifacts. Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and even Neil Young sold their publishing—not to music lovers, but to investment firms hungry for passive revenue. The result? The industry isn’t just selling music anymore; it’s monetizing nostalgia, algorithmically feeding audiences the same songs over and over while new musicians fight for scraps.

Nova Scotia: From Kitchen Parties to Corporate Strategy

Nova Scotia’s music scene has always been defined by its resistance to the mainstream. The province has a long history of musicians who did it their way—recent examples… Joel Plaskett rejecting major label advances to build his own independent empire, Sloan signing a major deal only to reject the industry’s pressures and carve out their own cult career. Sarah M. finding her own audience and going her way with the folks at Nettwerk Records just along as the crew of the ship. Even The Rankin Family, for all their mainstream success, kept a deep connection to the roots of Cape Breton.

But now, a younger generation of artists faces a different reality. The venues that once provided a proving ground are disappearing. Bar owners are less interested in developing local talent than in maximizing bar sales. Funding models encourage music-as-tourism rather than music-as-art. The pressure to monetize through brand partnerships, sync placements, and social media engagement outweighs the old romantic notions of playing for gas money and sleeping on couches.

For many emerging artists in Nova Scotia, the only path forward is one that would have once been seen as selling out. The CBC, which once helped incubate Canadian talent, now prioritizes diversity quotas over raw talent. The East Coast Music Awards, once a celebration of the region’s best, now feel more like an industry networking event with little connection to fans. The folk circuit, long a refuge for the independent spirit, has been subsumed into the festival industrial complex, where the right grant application matters more than the right song.

The New Sound of Selling Out

In today’s world, the biggest sellouts aren’t even musicians. They’re influencers, YouTubers, and TikTok stars who treat music as an accessory to their personal brand. The music industry no longer seeks out raw talent; it chases engagement metrics. Success is measured not by record sales or concert attendance but by TikTok virality and Spotify algorithm placement.

For Nova Scotia musicians, this means that making it on their own terms is harder than ever. The infrastructure that once allowed artists to survive without industry gatekeepers—record stores, independent radio, underground venues—is mostly gone. The ones who thrive are those who can master the corporate game while pretending they’re not playing it.

What’s Lost When Selling Out No Longer Matters

There was a time when a musician’s defiance meant something. When fans rallied around artists who refused to play by the industry’s rules. When there was nobility in struggle, in scraping by, in doing it for the love of the music. That’s harder to find now, not because the passion is gone, but because the avenues to express it without compromise are vanishing.

Nova Scotia still has its holdouts—the musicians who refuse to bend, the bands that play for beer money rather than sync deals, the songwriters who prioritize poetry over playlist placement. You know who they are. But they are the exceptions now, not the rule. The saddest part of the fully sold-out age is not that artists are selling out. It’s that there’s nothing left to sell out from.

The revolution is over. The corporations won. The only question that remains is whether the music will survive anyway.

A Nova Scotian Perspective: The Luminate Report and the Local Struggle

The Luminate Report (you can get it here for free) is one of the most comprehensive annual analyses of the global music industry, tracking streaming trends, artist revenue, and audience engagement. It provides a stark reality check for musicians, exposing the deepening inequality in the music business. The latest report reveals that over 90% of all streaming plays go to the top 1% of artists, leaving the vast majority to fight over what little remains. It also highlights how catalog music—older songs owned by major investment firms—continues to dominate, leaving new artists with fewer opportunities to break through.

For artists in Nova Scotia and other smaller markets, the findings of the Luminate Report only reinforce what musicians here have long felt: the odds are stacked. This isn’t just about global megastars dominating the charts—it’s about how mid-level and emerging musicians can barely make ends meet. Here in Nova Scotia, a province with a rich musical heritage, musicians have always relied on live performance and regional support to survive. But as venues shut down, costs rise, and streaming revenue remains a joke, even that lifeline is disappearing.

The industry is more concentrated than ever, with fewer major players controlling everything from streaming algorithms to live event ticketing. This means Nova Scotian musicians—despite their talent—are often left competing in a game rigged against them. They’re expected to handle everything themselves: recording, marketing, distribution. And in an era where TikTok trends can make or break an artist overnight, longevity in music feels like a relic of the past.

Hope in the Grassroots and Glocalization

Yet, despite all of this, music is not dead. There is still hope in grassroots music venues, independent labels, and direct artist-to-fan relationships. There’s still joy and music as an end in itself. Our friends at LSE are talking about glocalization. Musicians who can bypass the corporate machine and build their own communities—whether locally or through niche global networks—stand a chance. New measures of purpose, meaning, and success are appearing.

The industry may be rigged, but music itself can still thrive. The fight isn’t over—it’s just moving back to where it started: outside the machine.

As always, the answers are hidden in plain sight. Here are a couple of Case Studies.

Meet Canada’s most popular cover band… Dwayne Gretsky. Moreso, meet their passionate engaged audience in the rapture of a unique experience.

Next Cozy up to Rankin’s Winter Warmer.

Rankin’s Winter Warmers at the Marquee Club in Halifax have become a legendary local tradition by blending high-energy Celtic rock with a communal, almost ritualistic celebration of winter. Spearheaded by Rankin MacInnis, these shows tap into the East Coast’s deep love for kitchen-party-style gatherings, offering a raucous mix of music, storytelling, and pure Maritime revelry. The event’s success lies in its ability to create an atmosphere where the audience isn’t just watching a show—they’re part of it. With a rotating cast of top-tier musicians, a packed dance floor, and an electric, whiskey-fueled vibe, Rankin’s Winter Warmers aren’t just concerts; they’re a seasonal rite of passage for anyone who loves live music in Halifax.

In business terms, it’s a unique, inimitable entertainment product that’s ‘secret sauce’ is its localness, it’s experiential quality, and its indie insider, if you know you know, vibe.

Rankin’s Winter Warmers thrive because they aren’t just concerts—they’re experiences deeply rooted in local culture, scarcity, and community identity. The event's "secret sauce" is its inimitable blend of East Coast tradition, insider appeal, and a sense of participation rather than passive entertainment. For local indie musicians and scenes looking to carve out similar success, there are a few key takeaways:

1. Local Identity as a Brand – Rankin doesn’t try to be for everyone; he leans into what makes Halifax, the Marquee, and the East Coast music scene special. It’s notably a family event - and a matinee. Indie artists can embrace hyper-local culture to create a unique offering that can't be replicated elsewhere or by the music industry machine.

2. Exclusivity and Scarcity – Winter Warmers happen only in the winter, creating anticipation and a must-attend mentality. Limited-time, themed, or seasonal events build demand and urgency—rather than trying to fill a venue every weekend, make your shows feel like rare, unmissable experiences.

3. Community & Participation – The event isn’t just about Rankin—it’s a rotating cast of musicians, friends, and fans who feel like part of something bigger. It’s a family matinee, almost unheard of in modern music. Building an audience means making them feel in on it—through collaborations, traditions, or even rituals that turn casual fans into dedicated evangelists.

4. Lean Into The Indie/Insider Vibe – The "if you know, you know" aspect is crucial. Not everything needs mass marketing—sometimes, letting word-of-mouth, personal invites, and organic growth fuel the buzz makes an event feel more authentic and desirable.

5. Experiential Marketing – It’s not just about the music—it’s about the show. The whiskey, the dancing, the camaraderie, the sweat—Rankin sells an experience, not just a setlist. Indie musicians should think beyond performance and focus on curating a whole atmosphere that keeps people coming back. As a sidebar - this is also how we built the Johnny Favour Swing Orchestra.

The big lesson? Make it about more than music. Create something people want to be part of—not just watch.

If we started over, with new goals in mind, and built back better from the ground up, it would start with a plan for Grassroots Music Venues. Here’s how that could work:

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