A Tale of Two Musicians

Musician #1

You’re a musician and you want more people to listen to your music

So you turn to social media

Your reels don’t get many views

So stand out, you start thinking about visual hooks

You spend more time on videography tricks than you do this music

It’s not really something you enjoy but you notice you get more attention when you do it

You eventually get on the algorithm’s good side and a reel pops off

Almost a million views

Thousands of new followers appear overnight 

Your music plays don’t go up that much though

You find that lots of fans earned from attention-grabbing reels just give it a like then move on

Even still, you have renewed motivation to put your music out there

You keep posting

This time, just you in front of the camera, playing your music

They don’t do well

So you return to the gimmicks

You start to get burned out

In desperation, you post a heartbreaking acoustic version of one of your songs

It blows up

You get a flurry of new fans who love you for your music

Labels and agents start to take notice. They ask about your backlog, your ambitions and offer to help you get there.

You sign with one. This is it. Your moment. What you’ve been working for all this time.

You get money upfront, access to professional content creators, you move to L.A.

You keep making reels. They consistently get thousands of likes.

Your follower count steadily grows

You get recognized in the street sometimes. You have fans who come to shows.

You feel the pressure of your label and your fans across the world. You don’t want to disappoint.

It’s still up to you to make content. Your livelihood depends on your continually making it.  

But you believe you have what it takes and you’re going to prove it.

You go on tour with an indie band as their opener. It’s a whirlwind of fun shows, gas station food and long stretches of highway. 

Then you go on a small headlining tour yourself. People sing your songs back at you.

It’s a dream come true.

As you return to your L.A. apartment, you realize how tired you are.

You’ve become a one-person music factory with a demanding quota.

You’re your own boss.

At the same time, you rely on your label for support, but all they’ve done lately is suggest you hop on the latest TikTok trends.

That doesn’t feel authentic. You do it anyway.

Between the touring and constant content creation, you haven’t had proper time to rest or process how your life has changed in years.

You have nothing to write about except the mounting pressure of a fledgling star, which almost no one can relate to.

Everyone back home is rooting for you. They’re proud of all you’ve accomplished.

You miss making music just for fun.

You finally release your first album.

It does alright. Not great, not good either. Just okay.

You end up making almost no money from it.

You make more sponsored content to pay the bills.

You find yourself alone in your room a lot, setting up cameras and mics.

Filming yourself in the hopes the numbers on your phone will go up.

You’re burned out but you decided long ago this was your dream, so you keep going.

Your friends back home have families and community.

You have a small group of people who know you who you are scattered around the country. You rarely see them.

You spend most of your time interacting with people online. It’s where you feel most at home now.

One night, lying in bed, you think about how many milestones you’ve achieved and how you’ve never felt this type of existential dread.

You wake up the next morning, set up your phone on the tripod and make a reel. 

Musician #2

You walk into Incubator House. Your band is waiting for you. It’s your weekly rehearsal and you’re excited to work on some new material.

The music advisor walks in and goes through the agenda for the session before walking out and letting you all work at your own pace.

You’re in 2 to 3 bands at Incubator (it changes season to season).

Each band is a different outlet for you. 

You’re the singer in a punk band. That’s where you let out your anger.

You’re also the guitarist in an experimental folk quartet. That’s where you can lay back and just play sick riffs on the acoustic.

You live with 5 other members of Accelerator a few blocks away from Incubator House in Accelerator House.

There, you host the more lowkey, cozy shows that Incubator puts on.

Your house facilitator comes in once a month to lead roommate meetings, mediate disputes and collect feedback.

Between the bands you’re in and working as event staff at Incubator events, you spend most of your time doing Incubator-related activities.

You don’t mind because it’s your community.

It’s where your friends are, it’s your artistic outlet and it’s where you live.

And because of all your contributions to Incubator, you live at Accelerator House for free.

You find living in a community home suits you. There’s people around when you want them. A place to escape to when you want to be alone. And you don’t even have to leave your house to see shows.  

It’s a Tuesday. You’re at practice when your band’s facilitator comes in and announces which songs will be on your upcoming EP.

Together, you set dates to record.

Then it’s a Saturday night in late September, which means it’s Incubator Prom.

You don’t have a date but that’s okay because you’ll have lots of friends there.

One of your favorite bands is headlining too, which you’re excited about.

After prom, you walk the few blocks back to Accelerator House and find your roommate noodling on guitar. You sit on a nearby cajon and accompany him.

It’s a month later. The songs you’ve been working on in your punk band are ready to be performed.

You go down the street to Incubator House with just the clothes on your back. The merch, sound equipment and everything else you need is already there.

You say hi to the sound engineer, who’s done sound for your band enough to know the setup by heart. 

You play a set to a packed house. You recognize a several faces in the crowd. You also see lots of new people. The audience is excited to hear you. You pick up on their energy and put on a great performance. 

A month later. It’s time to go on tour with your experimental folk band.

The four of you and your band facilitator hop in the van and drive 3 hours to a neighboring city.

You settle in at their Incubator. You unpack your clothes in your room. You’re there for a week so you want to get settled in.

You go downstairs to grab a snack. Dinner isn’t for another 4 hours.

After dinner, you’re shown around by the musicians who live there. 

You end the night as a band, rehearsing for the show the next day.

Your first show is thrilling. You didn’t know what to expect, but this city’s fans were excited to see a new band. They buy lots of merch and you meet lots of cool people at the aftershow jam/party.

The next day, you give a workshop at the Incubator on a niche songwriting subtopic you have a special interest in.

That night, you play another show to a new audience. 

The day after that, you have off.

You meet up with an old friend at a coffee shop.

They tell you they’re visiting home from L.A.

They talk about how much they’re hustling and how rewarding it is, but to you they mostly seem tired.

They don’t mention any relationships. Just career milestones.

At the end, they confess they’re afraid their label might drop them.

You invite them to an Incubator party that night where there’s an open jam, featuring a 3 song set by your band.

They show up to the event, but you find they sink into the background. Despite your efforts to include them, they seem out of place.

You realize this is your community, not theirs.

You realize wherever there’s an Incubator, you feel like you belong.

You realize how lonely it must be to travel alone, work with strangers and immediately move on to the next city over and over again. 

You think about the pressure you’d feel living with the implicit threat your support system would abandon you if you stop working. 

At the end of party, you say goodbye to your friend. 

As you walk up to your room, you feel a strange mixture of guilt and gratitude. 

You finish out the week in the first city on your tour.

Having made new friends and established a fan base there, you move on to the next city with your band.

You return to your home feeling like part of a community that spans hundreds of miles.

After a couple days of rest, you’re ready to continue expressing yourself through music with friends.

You walk down the street to Incubator House for band practice.