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For Rock Bands, Selling Out Isn't What It Used to Be
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Alternative musicians, once shielded by the cocoon of their modest ambitions, suddenly face a new
field of opportunity and of ethical quandary. Putting an obscure song in an ad may be different
from using a well-known hit, which hints of endorsement. But it still confers the music's flavor to a brand
or product. When the ad world gets this hip, where lie the parameters of selling out? "We're putting money
back into that fringe of popular culture," says Barnes, who has sold advertisers on such odd fellows as the
Sea and Cake, Faust and the experimental jazz drummer Milford Graves, besides the Apples. "We're able
subversively to put some of these groups into the living rooms of America. Certain fans may get upset.
But I don't really know how to answer that."
 y the time Robert and Hilarie and their band mates had to make their
decision, the ad world was already a jukebox for just the sort of band the Apples considered themselves.
"The Lilys had done two commercials," Robert says. "Spiritualized and Stereolab were on ads for
Volkswagen. They were putting all this really cool music where there used to be just lame, sub-Top 40
jingles."
In theory, commercial licensing gives musicians a way around the gatekeepers of the music business.
Musicians traditionally need record companies to manufacture, distribute and promote their work. The rise
of Napster and MP3, which allow music to be distributed over the Internet, already threatens the need for
manufacture and distribution. Licensing, in turn, can provide operating money and blanket exposure --
through commercials, film and television soundtracks, even toys and video games. This means freedom
not just from record companies but also from the boundaries of radio and MTV.
The trailblazer along this new path is Richard Hall, better known as Moby, the electronic musician
(and descendant of Herman Melville) whose album "Play" proved the power of advertising to sell not just
soap but CD's as well. When it first came out in June 1999, the album's beguiling mixture of electronic
beats and old gospel and blues recordings drew great reviews, but radio and MTV didn't have a
spot for it.
Blocked at the conventional routes, Moby started to license songs for commercials, movies and
television shows. Suddenly, his music was everywhere: on sitcoms and movie trailers, on ads for
Nordstrom and American Express. The label made deals for every song on the album. "It was very
short-lived, but we made a lot of money," says David Steel, head of special projects, including licensing, at
Moby's label, V2. In all, Steel says, they signed more than 100 licenses in North America alone, for which
Moby's cut is approaching $1 million. More important, the exposure opened doors at radio and MTV,
pushing sales of the album past seven million copies worldwide.
But there was also a downside to the success. Since the campaign, some advertisers have cut the
prices they're willing to pay for songs, figuring that the musicians profit from the exposure. Steel says he
recently licensed a song for half what he could have charged before the Moby juggernaut.
Robert and Hilarie had always imagined that advertising meant striking a Faustian deal with a
soulless corporation. But when the call came, it was nothing like that. It was their friend Tim, a fan
of the band. He had directed its first video. He was as indie as the band was, as genuinely interested in
music. This made a big difference. "You imagine that it's a crass process," Robert says.
"But it's not like Sony used our song in the commercial, which is how it looks to the indie kid. It's just one
guy who liked our music."
Continued
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