A cut-out-and-keep guide for dealing with pesky music journalists like me.

In a rapidly shrinking industry, some seem to have forgotten how this goes.

A while back, I tapped out an email to someone I’ve known a while, a promoter who was putting on a show the following weekend.

The artist was someone I’d never seen perform live, so I thought it might be worthwhile heading along, capturing that moment, and writing about it here for us to discuss, like we’ve done many times over the past year.

The following day, that promoter called me. They ranted about the state of music journalism. They raved about the struggling touring circuit for the kinds of acts they bring here. They complained about the lack of coverage their tours get.

Then they asked me: “What’s a Substack?”

I calmly explained the situation, told them the same things I’ve been discussing here regularly, that newsrooms are shredding staff, that music and entertainment reporters are always the first to go, that concerts aren’t being covered because there are very few of us are left, and that I am trying to do something about it with this, a newsletter I send out several times a week to an audience of committed, passionate readers.

A RNZ headline from 2023.

My words didn’t calm them down. This person seemed to want things to go back to how they were, to return to a world that no longer exists. Nothing I said could persuade them to accept this new reality.

After a chat that lasted about 25 minutes, I hung up the phone. I felt exhausted.

I didn’t go to that show. After that conversation, I just couldn’t be bothered.

That negative attitude is something I’ve encountered again and again over the past year. Since October, I’ve been trying to grow an audience here, to do my little bit in the face of rampant journalism cutbacks.

I’m keen to give back, and to keep something that I believe in alive.

Some people get it. They jump at the chance to talk to me, to have a conversation, to hook me up with artists, who thank me for what I’m trying to do.

Some don’t. They seem to think I’m to blame for the state of things, and they take it out on me.

Like the person who, when I emailed them, introduced myself as a journalist, requested an interview, then showed up, recorder in hand, armed with 40 minutes worth of questions, only to be accused of tricking them, deceiving them, “betraying” them, eliciting words they wouldn’t have otherwise have said had I not been taping our conversation, allegedly in secret.

Or the manager who accused me of quoting them in a story when I hadn’t named them, hadn’t used a direct quote, and used only information that is readily available and already out there in the public domain via a quick Google search.

That story was so overwhelmingly positive it verged on PR.

Yet that manager was so furious about it they let me have it.

I like to think I have a thick skin, but that one really ruined my day.

Look, complaints are something every journalist gets. You learn to deal with them. Sometimes it’s my fault, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes you can build those bridges back up. Sometimes you have to let them burn.

But I think something bigger is happening here.

I have a theory, so hear me out.

I believe music journalism has disintegrated so badly that many in the industry have forgotten what it’s like to deal with a journalist.

They’ve forgotten what it’s like to be asked a question, to respond, and then to see those words written about for everyone else to read.

They’re not used to dealing with journalists because it’s just not something they have had to do much of lately.

So they’ve forgotten what we do and how we do it.

Are they scared about what might happen?

Frightened?

They needn’t be.

I’m not Kim Hill. I can only dream of being as devastatingly good as Tova O’Brien. I’m not going to give you the 60 Minutes treatment, I’m not going to Jami-Lee Ross you. I’m not trying to unearth anyone’s deepest, darkest secrets. Sure, I like a good story, but I already do the heavy stuff in my day job. This is the fun part. At least, it should be.

So, for future reference, I have compiled a cut-out-and-keep guide to dealing with pesky people like me when we show up at your door requesting an interview.

Are you ready?

Here it is.

Be nice. 

That’s it. That’s really all it is.

Be nice.

I’m a person, just like everyone else. I have feelings. Like many, I’ve had a rough couple of years. We fled our family home over a nightmare neighbour. We recently buried our beloved elderly cat. A close family member has just spent three months in ICU. (Hi Mum! Glad you’re better! See you soon!)

So, perhaps, while we’re talking, remember where I’m coming from. No one else is writing these kinds of stories anymore. If no one’s asking you for interviews, or requesting review passes, it’s because those jobs just don’t exist.

But I’m here.

I may have only my nights and weekends available to devote to this, but I’m trying. This doesn’t make me much money. But I show up and I do it and I care because I love it, I don’t know what else to do, and it fills a gaping hole that’s only getting bigger.

The more people that back this, that contribute, that join in, discuss, chat, like, subscribe and share, the bigger this community grows and thrives.

Eventually, we might end up at a place where there’s a sustainable newsletter available that doesn’t have just my voice in it, but many others too. That’s a pipe dream. It seems a long way away. But crazier things have happened.

So, sure, yell at me if I’ve truly messed up.

Scream at me if I’ve got something horribly wrong.

I’m not perfect.

Otherwise, please…

Be nice.

That’s all I ask.

Thanks for being here, for reading, for chiming in and for supporting what I do. I appreciate all of you. This is a reader-supported newsletter, so if you’d like this thing to keep going, you can show your appreciation by upgrading your subscription. I’m running a special for the next week: you can claim a discount here.

Everything you need to know.

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