In the vast music market, carving out a spot has never been easy. And in 2012, it's even tougher—bands are fading out. Pop, hip-hop, and R&B are taking over, leaving barely any room for bands to grow.
You can see it in The Voice, which kicked off in April 2011. Plenty of crazy-talented band vocalists are jumping ship to go solo on the show. The future for bands in this tidal wave of change is looking narrower by the day—they're forced to break out on their own.
For King For A Day, it's no different. Even with their manager Trystan's help, convincing a record label is a long shot.
Without a deal, recording a new album feels like a pipe dream. The band's been sliding into the rut of commercial gigs.
These "commercial gigs" aren't concerts—they're "guest performances." Think clowns, magicians, circus acts, or puppet shows—same level. They play at grand openings, year-end parties, birthdays, weddings, you name it, just there to hype up the crowd.
No denying it, the cash rolls in fast—straight-up money in hand, decent pay for a single gig. But these gigs have zilch to do with music, albums, or dreams. It's a whole different game, with a different path and end goal.
And the pay? It's all about volume. To cover the band's practice costs and daily expenses—split four ways, plus Trystan's cut—they need a steady stream of gigs. Slack off, and it's barely a drop in the bucket.
In the early days or during a slump, leaning on commercial gigs to get by and snag some stage time makes sense. But drag it out too long with no progress in sight, and you're stuck—like a "wedding singer," forever the clown, trapped in a cycle of gigs with no time to write new songs.
Before they knew it, the band slipped into another trap. The rosy glow of their dreams dimmed, and the uncertainty of the future paired with real-world pressure felt like drowning—sinking into cold, suffocating water no matter how hard they fought.
Should they give up?
Should they keep going?
They don't have an answer. Life just stumbles along in a haze, veering way off its original track.
They've sat down with Trystan before, face-to-face, digging into all this—future plans, goals, the mess they're in—swapping thoughts.
Maxim even gave Trystan an ultimatum: if they couldn't sign with a label—or at least land an interview—in three months, they'd ditch the management contract. The band's fate would be up to them, win or lose, no more Trystan.
It worked.
Two months ago, things finally shifted—Trystan scored them a tour. Not commercial gigs, not a full concert tour, but a bar tour.
It's a deal to play thirty bars across the U.S. Not commercial, sure, and it's pure performance, but it's not a real stage either—just the bottom rung of touring.
It's far from perfect. Still, tons of indie bands have cut their teeth this way, especially back in the '80s and '90s rock heyday. Most UK and U.S. indie acts—including The Beatles—grinded through gigs like these. It's up-close with the crowd, plus a shot at exposure and experience. Win-win, right?
Better yet, Trystan lined up two label interviews—one in New Orleans, one in Chicago.
Record execs would show up at the bars, watch them play, and judge for themselves.
It was thrilling news—enough to make them lose their minds!
So, the band hit the road for the bar tour, brimming with hope and hype.
But dreams are sweet, and reality's a gut punch. The ugly truth dragged them back toward the abyss.
First off, the bar tour.
It's nowhere near what they pictured. These places don't have proper stages—think "piano lounge" at best. Not much different from their old commercial gigs, except the venues and audiences are rougher and worse.
Even the pay's a hassle, split two ways: some cash, some covered dinners. The food part drags down the cash offer. You can tell right there what tier this is—bottom of the barrel, scrappy and desperate.
Then, the label interviews.
Chicago went fine. After the set, the rep laid on the small talk thick—gushing about their performance, piling on compliments. But it didn't go anywhere. They said they'd "discuss it back at the company," no quick answer possible.
A tiny flicker of hope lingered, but they all knew how slim it was.
New Orleans? They got stood up. The label guy never showed.
That last little bubble of hope—popped.
Five gigs left on the bar tour.
But Trystan? He bailed early. Behind their backs, he cashed out the pay for those last five shows, swiped the earnings they'd scraped together so far, and vanished. With three months left on the contract, he terminated it ahead of time—
When the lawyer's letter hit the motel, that's when they realized they'd been ditched.
That was two days ago.
It's over. Everything's over. All their struggling and pushing—it's like it's done. Ronan, crushed by the blow, caught the flu, burning with fever, drifting through two days in a fog. Then tonight, mid-set, he passed out, landing them right here.
Trystan dumping them is a done deal. The broke, dead-end mess they're in? Undeniable too.
Like Cliff said, those last five gigs—should they bother? Even if they play, there's no cash coming, just a free meal at best. No crowd, no hope, no point—so why perform?
Worse, they'd have to shell out their own money to travel to five different spots, all while Ronan's in awful shape… Does the band really need to do this?
That's what Cliff and Maxim were fighting about tonight. Dreams and futures can wait—they're back to scrambling for survival, just like all these years. Fighting, hanging on, but never really seeing a light at the end.
The scariest part? Trystan bailing felt like a death sentence:
You're not worth it.
(End of Chapter)