アマンダ・パーマー「“お願い” するということ」

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Amanda Palmer: The art of asking

小さいことは気にすんなッ、主題と主張をつかもう！

何の予備知識もなく見ると、何のことやらさっぱり分かりません（笑）。

アマンダ・パーマーさんは、いわゆるインディーズのアーティスト（見た目はレディー・ガガみたい）ですが、かつては大手のレコード会社と契約していたこともあったようです。彼女を一躍有名にしたのは、キックスターター（Kickstarter）というクラウド・ファンディングを利用して120万ドルの活動資金を集めたことです。大昔のヨーロッパでは、音楽家や画家は「パトロン」という大金持ちに囲われて創作活動をしていましたが、やがてそれはエンターテイメントビジネスへと変わり、そして現代ではインターネットを駆使した新しい「パトロン制度のようなもの」ができています。この背景には、インターネットの普及により音楽や映像のコンテンツが無料でシェアされるために、業界の収入が激減しているという現状があるのでしょう。

【話題】アーティストの活動資金の調達方法

【時間】 13分48秒
【要約】
１．路上でパフォーマンスをしていた頃
　まともな大学を卒業したのに、音楽だけで食べていくことはできなかった。そこで私は路上パフォーマンスで投げ銭を稼いでいた。「仕事をみつけろ！」と怒鳴られることもあった。音楽ビジネスとは何か、路上で学んだことは多い。

２．人と触れ合う感覚
　ドレスデン・ドールズというユニットで演奏活動を始め、ある程度稼げるようになったので路上パフォーマンスは止めた。でも人との触れ合いは続けたいと思い、ライブの後にいろいろなゲストが合流して大騒ぎする仕組みができあがった。

３．ツイッターと泊まり歩き
　ツイッターを始めると、ファンにいろいろなことを頼んだり、ゲリラライブができたりするようになった。そして見ず知らずの人の家に泊めてもらいに行くようになった。見ず知らずの人の中に飛び込んで行けるのは、信頼しているからであって、「物乞い」をしているのではない。

４．メジャー契約と撤退
　バンドの人気は上がり、メジャーレーベルと契約した。アルバムを2万5000枚売り上げたが、ビジネス上は失敗だと会社は撤退を決めた。

５．Kickstarterでのクラウドファンディング
　ライブのとき、ファンが「友達のＣＤをコピーしたから」と直接お金をくれるようになった。そこで、音楽は完全に無料配信することにして、そのかわりにファンドを募ろうと思った。Kickstarterで2万5000人から120万ドルの資金を集めることができた。同時に批判もされたが、これは私からファンへの「お願い」であって、公平な信頼関係であると思っている。深いつながりと信頼があるから、「お願い」することは恥ではない。

６．アーティストはコミュニティーの一部
　昔からアーティストはコミュニティーを結びつけるものだった。手の届かないスターだけがアーティストではなく、身近な人々から支えられるものアーティストだ。そして、自由に共有できるコンテンツを作ることで人々のつながりを作るのがアーティストの仕事ではないだろうか。著作権を守り必ずお金を払わせる方法を考えるのではなく、どうしたら人々が率先して支援してくれるかを考えるべきだ。

【語彙】

upstanding ：まともな

liberal arts ：教養学部

smorgasbord ：バイキング料理

crate ：木箱

schlep ：骨の折れる仕事

neti pot ：鼻の中を水で洗浄するポット

couchsurfing ：ソファーで寝させてもらうために家から家を渡り歩くこと？

punk squats ：きたない粗末な家

crash pad ：仮の宿

psych ：怯える

burn ：ＣＤにデータを記録すること

torrenting ：BitTorrentでファイルを共有する？

tank ：ダメになる

counterintuitive ：直感に反した

vulnerable ：脆弱な、傷つきやすい、個人的には日本人の「恥」の感情によく似ていると思います

visceral ：理屈抜きの

make と let の違い：ググるといろいろ出てくるので、なんとなく感じでください

【transcripts】

(Breathes in, breathes out)

So I didn't always make my living from music. For about the five years after graduating from an upstanding liberal arts university, this was my day job. I was a self-employed living statue called the 8-Foot Bride, and I love telling people l did this for a job, because everybody always wants to know, who are these freaks in real life? Hello. I painted myself white one day, stood on a box, put a hat or a can at my feet, and when someone came by and dropped in money, I handed them a flower and some intense eye contact. And if they didn't take the flower, I threw in a gesture of sadness and longing as they walked away.

So I had the most profound encounters with people, especially lonely people who looked like they hadn't talked to anyone in weeks, and we would get this beautiful moment of prolonged eye contact being allowed in a city street, and we would sort of fall in love a little bit. And my eyes would say, "Thank you. I see you." And their eyes would say, "Nobody ever sees me. Thank you."

And I would get harassed sometimes. People would yell at me from their passing cars. "Get a job!" And I'd be, like, "This is my job." But it hurt, because it made me fear that I was somehow doing something un-joblike and unfair, shameful. I had no idea how perfect a real education I was getting for the music business on this box. And for the economists out there, you may be interested to know I actually made a pretty predictable income, which was shocking to me given I had no regular customers, but pretty much 60 bucks on a Tuesday, 90 bucks on a Friday. It was consistent.

And meanwhile, I was touring locally and playing in nightclubs with my band, the Dresden Dolls. This was me on piano, a genius drummer. I wrote the songs, and eventually we started making enough money that I could quit being a statue, and as we started touring, I really didn't want to lose this sense of direct connection with people, because I loved it. So after all of our shows, we would sign autographs and hug fans and hang out and talk to people, and we made an art out of asking people to help us and join us, and I would track down local musicians and artists and they would set up outside of our shows, and they would pass the hat, and then they would come in and join us onstage, so we had this rotating smorgasbord of weird, random circus guests.

And then Twitter came along, and made things even more magic, because I could ask instantly for anything anywhere. So I would need a piano to practice on, and an hour later I would be at a fan's house. This is in London. People would bring home-cooked food to us all over the world backstage and feed us and eat with us. This is in Seattle. Fans who worked in museums and stores and any kind of public space would wave their hands if I would decide to do a last-minute, spontaneous, free gig. This is a library in Auckland. On Saturday I tweeted for this crate and hat, because I did not want to schlep them from the East Coast, and they showed up care of this dude, Chris from Newport Beach, who says hello. I once tweeted, where in Melbourne can I buy a neti pot? And a nurse from a hospital drove one right at that moment to the cafe I was in, and I bought her a smoothie and we sat there talking about nursing and death.

And I love this kind of random closeness, which is lucky, because I do a lot of couchsurfing. In mansions where everyone in my crew gets their own room but there's no wireless, and in punk squats, everyone on the floor in one room with no toilets but with wireless, clearly making it the better option.

My crew once pulled our van up to a really poor Miami neighborhood and we found out that our couchsurfing host for the night was an 18-year-old girl, still living at home, and her family were all undocumented immigrants from Honduras. And that night, her whole family took the couches and she slept together with her mom so that we could take their beds. And I lay there thinking, these people have so little. Is this fair? And in the morning, her mom taught us how to try to make tortillas and wanted to give me a Bible, and she took me aside and she said to me in her broken English, "Your music has helped my daughter so much. Thank you for staying here. We're all so grateful." And I thought, this is fair. This is this.

A couple months later, I was in Manhattan, and I tweeted for a crash pad, and at midnight, I'm ringing a doorbell on the Lower East Side, and it occurs to me I've never actually done this alone. I've always been with my band or my crew. Is this what stupid people do? (Laughter) Is this how stupid people die? And before I can change my mind, the door busts open. She's an artist. He's a financial blogger for Reuters, and they're pouring me a glass of red wine and offering me a bath, and I have had thousands of nights like that and like that.

So I couchsurf a lot. I also crowdsurf a lot. I maintain couchsurfing and crowdsurfing are basically the same thing. You're falling into the audience and you're trusting each other. I once asked an opening band of mine if they wanted to go out into the crowd and pass the hat to get themselves some extra money, something that I did a lot. And as usual, the band was psyched, but there was this one guy in the band who told me he just couldn't bring himself to go out there. It felt too much like begging to stand there with the hat. And I recognized his fear of "Is this fair?" and "Get a job."

And meanwhile, my band is becoming bigger and bigger. We signed with a major label. And our music is a cross between punk and cabaret. It's not for everybody. Well, maybe it's for you. We sign, and there's all this hype leading up to our next record. And it comes out and it sells about 25,000 copies in the first few weeks, and the label considers this a failure.

And I was like, "25,000, isn't that a lot?"

They were like, "No, the sales are going down. It's a failure." And they walk off.

Right at this same time, I'm signing and hugging after a gig, and a guy comes up to me and hands me a $10 bill, and he says, "I'm sorry, I burned your CD from a friend." (Laughter) "But I read your blog, I know you hate your label. I just want you to have this money."

And this starts happening all the time. I become the hat after my own gigs, but I have to physically stand there and take the help from people, and unlike the guy in the opening band, I've actually had a lot of practice standing there. Thank you.

And this is the moment I decide I'm just going to give away my music for free online whenever possible, so it's like Metallica over here, Napster, bad; Amanda Palmer over here, and I'm going to encourage torrenting, downloading, sharing, but I'm going to ask for help, because I saw it work on the street. So I fought my way off my label and for my next project with my new band, the Grand Theft Orchestra, I turned to crowdfunding, and I fell into those thousands of connections that I'd made, and I asked my crowd to catch me. And the goal was 100,000 dollars. My fans backed me at nearly 1.2 million, which was the biggest music crowdfunding project to date.

And you can see how many people it is. It's about 25,000 people.

And the media asked, "Amanda, the music business is tanking and you encourage piracy. How did you make all these people pay for music?" And the real answer is, I didn't make them. I asked them. And through the very act of asking people, I'd connected with them, and when you connect with them, people want to help you. It's kind of counterintuitive for a lot of artists. They don't want to ask for things. But it's not easy. It's not easy to ask. And a lot of artists have a problem with this. Asking makes you vulnerable.

And I got a lot of criticism online after my Kickstarter went big for continuing my crazy crowdsourcing practices, specifically for asking musicians who are fans if they wanted to join us on stage for a few songs in exchange for love and tickets and beer, and this was a doctored image that went up of me on a website. And this hurt in a really familiar way. And people saying, "You're not allowed anymore to ask for that kind of help," really reminded me of the people in their cars yelling, "Get a job." Because they weren't with us on the sidewalk, and they couldn't see the exchange that was happening between me and my crowd, an exchange that was very fair to us but alien to them.

So this is slightly not safe for work. This is my Kickstarter backer party in Berlin. At the end of the night, I stripped and let everyone draw on me. Now let me tell you, if you want to experience the visceral feeling of trusting strangers, I recommend this, especially if those strangers are drunk German people. This was a ninja master-level fan connection, because what I was really saying here was, I trust you this much. Should I? Show me.

For most of human history, musicians, artists, they've been part of the community, connectors and openers, not untouchable stars. Celebrity is about a lot of people loving you from a distance, but the Internet and the content that we're freely able to share on it are taking us back. It's about a few people loving you up close and about those people being enough. So a lot of people are confused by the idea of no hard sticker price. They see it as an unpredictable risk, but the things I've done, the Kickstarter, the street, the doorbell, I don't see these things as risk. I see them as trust. Now, the online tools to make the exchange as easy and as instinctive as the street, they're getting there. But the perfect tools aren't going to help us if we can't face each other and give and receive fearlessly, but, more important, to ask without shame.

My music career has been spent trying to encounter people on the Internet the way I could on the box, so blogging and tweeting not just about my tour dates and my new video but about our work and our art and our fears and our hangovers, our mistakes, and we see each other. And I think when we really see each other, we want to help each other.

I think people have been obsessed with the wrong question, which is, "How do we make people pay for music?" What if we started asking, "How do we let people pay for music?"

Thank you.

アマンダ・パーマー「上手なお願いのしかた」