14/12/2025
A brutally funny and forthright breakdown of the state of the scene at the moment from Stelios Vassiloudis.
The Great Music Industry Heist: Where Everyone Gets a Cut Except the Poor Bastard Who Made the Tune
I’m Stelios Vassiloudis, professional button-pusher, part-time insomniac, and full-time idiot who still believes making electronic music is a sensible career choice after twenty-odd years.
The industry is broken. Not “needs a tweak” broken. More like “condemned building with a Soundsystem” broken. And today I’m handing you the guided tour. You finish a track: blood, sweat, 3 a.m. tears, the works. You export the WAV, send it to the label, they send it to the distributor, and six weeks later it’s on Spotify next to 87,000 other tracks released that day. In a just world, money flows back to you. In this world, you’re the last clown in a very long conga line watching everyone else stuff their pockets.
Now, before you roll your eyes and think, “Oh great, another whiny musician complaining about Spotify royalties,” let me assure you—this isn’t a sob story. No, this is more like a confession from a guy who’s spent half his life in studios, the other half on planes to gigs that pay just enough to cover the bar tab, and all of it wondering why the hell I’m the only one not getting a proper slice of the pie. Think of it as my version of Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, but instead of greasy spoons and strung-out chefs, it’s dimly lit booths and overcaffeinated studio sessions. Bourdain, that magnificent bastard, had a way of skewering the restaurant world’s absurdities with a knife-sharp wit and a dash of self-loathing—remember his tales of dodging health inspectors while high on whatever was handy? Well, channel that energy here. I’m not here to preach; I’m here to poke fun at the circus we’ve all joined, myself included. Because if I don’t laugh at this mess, I’ll probably end up busking on the streets with a sign that says, “Will Drop Beats for Food.”
Let’s start with the labels. Oh, the mighty record labels—those gatekeepers of yore who now mostly exist to slap their logo on your s**t and take a 50% cut for the privilege. Back in the day, when vinyl was king, labels actually did stuff: pressed records, schmoozed radio DJs, promoted product and maybe even fronted some cash for a tour van that didn’t smell like expired dreams. Now? They outsource everything, yet still demand their pound of flesh. I’ve signed with my fair share over the years and don’t get me wrong, some are gems run by passionate folks. But the majority? They’re like that shady uncle who borrows your car, wrecks it, and then bills you for the repairs. They get advances, free promotion, sync deals, and a share of your streaming pennies (more on that fiasco later), all while you’re out there hustling for playlist spots and gigs like a beggar at a banquet.
The truth about indie labels: they’re adorable little museums of denial run by people who think 2009 is “basically yesterday.” They’ll sign you with a contract longer than War and Peace, charge you for the artwork they stole off Behance, the mastering they sent to an intern, and the press release ChatGPT wrote in eleven seconds. In return they offer the prestige of having their logo in your presskit, which apparently still matters to them and exactly three of their mates in Berlin. They know absolutely nothing about playlisting, TikTok, or the fact that nobody under thirty reads Resident Advisor anymore, but they’ll gladly corner you at ADE for forty-five minutes to explain why streaming ruined everything (while uploading your release with metadata that looks like it was typed by a raccoon on ket). You’ll spend half your week soothing their egos, fixing their mistakes, and pretending to be grateful for the privilege of losing money slower than if you’d just set it on fire yourself. Honestly, at this point starting a label is the new midlife crisis: cheaper than a Porsche, same level of delusion.
And speaking of distributors—they’re the middlemen who make sure your track lands on Spotify, Apple Music, and that one obscure platform in Uzbekistan that pays out in goat cheese. They take their 10-15% vig, of course, for clicking a few buttons and sending automated emails. Fair enough, I suppose; someone’s got to handle the backend. But then come the managers and agents —each with their hand out. Managers get 15-20% for “guiding your career,” which often means forwarding emails you could’ve handled yourself and occasionally yelling at someone who stiffed you on fees. Agents book your gigs for another 10-15%, and lawyers? They charge by the hour to tell you why that contract you just signed means you’ll never own your masters again. It’s like a bad dinner party where everyone’s passing the bill around, and you’re the host left washing dishes.
But wait, there’s more! Enter the streaming giants—Spotify, the behemoth that turned music into a commodity cheaper than tap water. Bourdain would’ve loved ripping into these guys; he’d compare them to fast-food chains serving up McNuggets of culture, all profit, no soul. Artists get paid a whopping 0.003 to 0.005 cents per stream. Do the math: To make minimum wage, you’d need millions of plays a month. Meanwhile, Spotify’s execs are yachting somewhere in the Mediterranean, and their algorithms decide your fate based on whether your track fits some mood playlist like “Chill Vibes for Existential Dread.” The platform gets billions, the investors get richer, and me? I’m back in the studio, wondering if I should start a Patreon for “exclusive” behind-the-scenes content like me swearing at my DAW.
Now, here’s where it gets really absurd: As artists, we’re not just expected to create the music; we’re supposed to be the entire goddamn operation. Jack of all trades? More like master of none, fumbling through a dozen hats that don’t fit. Remember when I blogged about my favorite VST plugins? Or when I organized a remix competition for a release on Bedrock? That’s just the tip. Today, you have to be a social media wizard too. TikTok dances? Instagram Reels where you lip-sync your own track while pretending to be excited? Twitter threads explaining your “creative process” to bots and haters? Guilty as charged. I’ve got a modest following—nothing like those influencers with millions from unboxing sneakers or promising you their naked bodies on onlyfans—but every post feels like shouting into a void. Crickets, or worse, algorithm demotion because I didn’t use the right hashtags. It’s the grind behind the glamour, where you’re part therapist, part marketer, part clown. For me, it’s editing videos at 3 AM, learning SEO for my website, and networking at events where everyone’s too high or busy checking their phones to listen.
And touring? Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s a minefield. Promoters and agents take their cut, venues theirs, travel agents a slice for booking flights that get canceled anyway. You’re on the road, jet-lagged, performing for crowds who might know you or might just be there for the Instagram story (probably the latter). I love it—don’t get me wrong; the energy, the connection—but it’s exhausting. And the pay? Not even close to enough, with the real money going to everyone else in the chain.
Promoters, bless their black Amiri hearts, are a special breed. Most of them either dropped out of high school to sell pills at raves or graduated directly into low-level organized crime; sometimes it’s a two-for-one deal. These are the geniuses who answer professional emails sometime between never and the heat death of the universe, but will flood your WhatsApp with voice notes at 4 a.m. because “bro the lineup is fire, just confirm.” They refuse to speak to agents (“I only deal direct, man, trust issues”), then get offended when you don’t reply within six minutes because their life is “crazy hectic” (translation: they’re asleep on a pile of cash in Mykonos). You’ll chase a deposit for six weeks, fly eight hours, and discover the “club” is a half-finished rooftop with one CDJ and a generator that sounds like a dying lawnmower. But here’s the kicker: say no to these primates and you’re sitting home watching your ranking on Beatport slide faster than their moral standards. So you smile and you play the goddamn gig. Survival, baby.
And then there’s the mental health tax nobody puts on the rider. You’re expected to be a walking inspirational quote: sunrise jogs, green juice, studio footage with the caption “living the dream fr.” Miss one story and suddenly you’re “inactive.” Have a panic attack in the airport because you’re broke, jet-lagged, and your Rekordbox just crashed? Better turn that into a relatable Reel or the algorithm will bury you. Constant rejection: playlist no’s, label silence, promoters ghosting, fans telling you your new tune “slaps less than the old stuff.” Nobody asks if you’re actually okay until you either top yourself in a way that trends on Twitter or have a public meltdown juicy enough for a Mixmag think-piece titled “The Dark Side of Dance Music.” Until then, smile for the camera, keep the brand wholesome, and medicate with whatever’s in the green-room fruit platter. We’re all one cancelled gig away from rocking back and forth in the fetal position, but sure, post another photo of your setup and the sunset, the people need content.
Self-deprecation time: I’m no victim here. I’ve made my choices—chose this life because nothing beats that rush of a track coming together. But man, am I complicit? Absolutely. I chase trends sometimes, release EPs hoping for that elusive Beatport top 10, and yes, I’ve done the occasional sponsored post for gear I half-like. We’re all hustlers in this game, pretending we’re artistes while checking our analytics like stockbrokers.
So, why is it broken? Simple: The system’s rigged for scale, not soul. Labels and platforms prioritize data over discovery, turning art into content fodder. It’s not sustainable; burnout is real - as I’ve learned over the years - staring at unfinished loops and questioning my sanity. And the irony? Music’s more accessible than ever—anyone with a laptop can produce, like those AI tools I wrote about last time. But that floods the market, diluting value further. We’re competing with algorithms that churn out “mood music” faster than I can say “royalty statement.”
So yeah, I’ve hugged a club owner who smelled like tequila and broken promises while he swore the door money was “coming Monday.” I’ve flown Ryanair with a carry-on full of gear and vinyl just to play a 45-minute opening slot for a guy who goes by “DJ ###XXL” and whose entire set is one pre-made CDJ playlist and a fog machine timed to his v**e hits. But here’s the secret they don’t put on the vision boards: none of that s**t matters once the lights drop and the first kick lands. Because for four minutes, or forty-five, or four hours if things go well, you’re not an unpaid invoice or a streaming algorithm’s bitch. You’re the high priest of a sweaty little religion, and every hand in the air is speaking in tongues.
That’s the drug Bourdain chased in kitchens, and it’s the same one we chase behind the decks and in the studio: that fleeting moment when everything lines up, the crowd turns into one living, breathing animal, and you’re the one holding the leash. Doesn’t matter if it’s 5,000 people in a warehouse or 50 weirdos in a basement.
So keep your day job if it keeps the lights on, sure. But never let it keep the fire off. Release the weird little techno-polka track. Put reverb on a mariachi sample because it made you laugh at 3AM. Blog about the time you accidentally played a funeral home because the promoter gave you the wrong address. Tell the truth until it’s embarrassing. That’s the only edge we’ve got left. Embrace the madness. Be that jack of all trades—learn to code your own website, film your own videos, maybe even start a side hustle in artisanal coffee (mine’s called “Beats & Beans,” trademark pending). And to the industry fat cats: Thanks for the scraps; we’ll keep creating anyway, because without us, you’ve got nothing but silence. As for me, I’m heading back to the studio.
See you in the smoke, motherf**kers.
Stel
