In order to survive in 21st century America, you need a place to sleep and a means of income. That’s two distinct places to be at any given time (or at least it was before the pandemic). However, to go beyond survival and actually enjoy being alive, you need a third place.
The “third place” is a concept coined in 1989 by sociologist Ray Oldenburg that outlines the social necessity of a distinct space to socialize and be part of a community. Third places are your neighborhood barber shops, bodegas, churches, and bookstores. The show “Cheers”? That’s a show about a third place.
Community-building is an organic process, where spontaneity and freedom, mingled with goodwill and structural support, can coalesce into something magical.
Establishments like bodegas and hair salons, perennials of the commercial landscape, will always provide city dwellers with places to talk and dream, but there’s something more precious ― and more endangered ― that third places offer, and that’s the chance to put yourself out there. In a world of cultural metastasis, with every conceivable human whim available online, it’s hard to have your little voice heard in real time. Perhaps the greatest function of the third place is to foster gatherings ― battles of the bands, open mics, book clubs, knitting circles ― where free thought can be expressed. This is something humans will always need, and have always needed, since the very first sock hop at the union hall.
So then why is the ultimate third place, the independent music venue, facing such a massive threat?
Of course there’s the coronavirus. It’s impossible to socially distance yourself at a concert, especially at some of these hole-in-the wall joints, which puts venues higher on the danger list than restaurants and public pools. NPR reported in June of 2020 that Pollstar, a concert-industry trade publication, estimated nearly $9 billion in losses, and noted elsewhere that close to 90 percent of venue owners and bookers were considering permanent closure.
Yet one thing the pandemic was good at was highlighting how precarious an economic situation was to begin with. A Wired story from March of this year spelled out how major music industry corporations like Live Nation, Ticketmaster, and Clear Channel function like the monopolies of yesteryear ― but with less antitrust interference. Moreover, “(i)n late 2019, the Justice Department found that, for years, (live-music conglomerate) Live Nation had abused its monopoly by steering its artists and tours away from venues that refused to use Ticketmaster,” forcing participating venues to either play along or play themselves out.
The Wired article further articulated that a year into the pandemic, Live Nation announced that it was sitting on $2.5 billion in cash reserves ― all while live music as a whole lost 85 percent of its revenue and eventually had to be bailed out by the government.
Clubs with corporate protection fell victim to COVID just like their independent counterparts, proving that the so-called support of media conglomerates is better at fostering artificial competition than it is at fostering growth and empowerment.
Lack of industry support can lead to the death of an industry and the collapse of the culture it’s designed to support. This spells disaster not just for those who could potentially benefit from a creative community, but for the people who already are benefiting― in other words, the musicians who make an income from live performance.
According to Jay Moon, a performer with Lynn hip-hop collective Keep Moving Forward (Item, Oct. 6), the city has been struggling to support its artistic scene since before the pandemic struck, forcing hard choices on bookers, owners, and talent alike.
“Not a lot of people are given opportunities where they can actually even make money; most of the time we’re paying for the venue,” he said, adding that venue owners often devise “pay-to-play” scenarios, where performers are given a number of tickets to sell, “and if you don’t (sell them all), you have to come out of pocket.
“So that’s been going on for years,” he added. “And I think that’s one thing that holds us back from being able to successfully work with venues.”
Moon has still had success with concert venues in the city, such as the Fenix Bar & Restaurant (“we’re trying to work with the [Lynn] Auditorium as well”), and he noted that some solutions can come from the ground up, rather than the top down. For instance, he said, venues could start by splitting ticket sales with performers; alternatively, artists could keep ticket sales and the venue could keep food and drink profits.
“I do think that if promoters have better prices to work with, or better circumstances to work with, that they’d be able to make things better for the artist as well,” he said. “I’m not thinking that everyone’s out to get the artists all the time.”
As professional musicians, Moon and the rest of Keep Moving Forward (KMF) have been forced to get creative in the days of COVID-19, and they’ve learned that if a third place is not provided to them, they must fashion their own.
Since the pandemic wreaked its havoc, KMF has been putting on an event series called “Backyard Boogies,” where fans and friends can watch the collective and its associated acts perform in a safe, clean, outdoor environment.
While the Backyard Boogies allow the city’s hip-hop scene a lifeline, they remain an out-of-pocket cost for Moon and the rest of the collective, who decline to charge their audience entrance fees.
“We didn’t do any cover charges; we charged for food and that was it,” he said. “And we did pretty good because, at the same time, it wasn’t a high cost for that.”
Why go to all the trouble? There are myriad reasons to keep a scene alive, but for Lynners like Moon, the reasons are obvious ― and ingrained in the landscape.
“The world knows of this small place for many unique things, but when you’re trying to break out as a musician from here, it’s different than shoes or building airplanes or stuff in the military,” he said. “But when you’re the change you want to see in the world, it becomes more of a reality to other people.”
To Moon, the best thing offered by these creative third places is an opportunity for community youth to find a way forward, “getting them excited and inspired, and trying to get out to do more things besides falling into violence in the streets or drugs.”
Still, he acknowledged that the responsibility of maintaining creative third places goes beyond music industry insiders; rather, they rest with cities and towns that wish to keep their culture alive.
Ultimately, if conglomerates like Live Nation have turned a blind eye to small, independent concert venues, then the cities that lay claim to them have to take up their cause instead. They have to want to see them thrive. There has to be an interest in growth and a desire to protect.
“I think there’s a lot of good opportunities in Lynn right now, that’s how people get off the streets,” said Moon. “But I think that this is something that we’re missing ― home for musicians. And what I mean by that is the venues, the studios, the support from the city.”
