The "Overnight Success" Myth and the Cost of Making It
in Other Arts ·
I was thinking about this today while listening to some old demo tapes I recorded in my basement back in college. It’s funny how we romanticize the "climb." We love a good underdog story, don't we? We love the narrative of the hungry artist, playing for pennies (or even just for drinks/exposure) in half-empty dive bars, or some weird niche venue where the audience is more interested in their phones than the stage. There’s something inherently poetic about that struggle—the idea that the art is being forged in the fire of obscurity.
But lately, I’ve been wondering if we actually value the art, or if we just value the trajectory.
We live in a culture obsessed with the "arc." We don't just want to hear a good song; we want to know that the person singing it survived a series of indignities to get to the big stage. We want to see the transformation from the "scrappy outsider" to the "arena headliner." It’s become a metric of legitimacy. If a group stays small, we wonder if they aren't "good enough." If they blow up, we celebrate their "triumph." It almost feels like the actual music becomes secondary to the biography of the people making it.
I remember a friend of mine who spent nearly a decade in a local indie scene. They were incredible—true virtuosos—but they never "made it" by the industry's standards. They stayed in that niche, playing small clubs and community spaces. For years, people talked about them as if they were "stuck," rather than recognizing that they had achieved a level of pure, unadulterated creative freedom that most superstars lose the second they sign a massive contract.
There’s a specific kind of tension that happens when an artist moves from a space where they are part of a community to a space where they are a product. When you're playing for a handful of people who truly *get* you, the connection is visceral. It’s raw. But once you hit that massive, polished level of success, does the soul of the message get diluted to fit the widest possible demographic? Or is it possible to scale up without losing the very essence that made people care about you in the first place?
I also find myself thinking about the "message" aspect. We often expect artists to be our spokespeople. We want them to take stands, to represent our identities, to voice the frustrations of the marginalized. It’s a heavy mantle to place on someone who might just want to write catchy melodies. When an artist becomes a symbol for a movement or a specific identity, they stop being just musicians and start being icons. That’s a massive weight. It changes how they interact with their fans and how the industry handles them. It can turn a creative outlet into a political battlefield.
I'm curious to hear what you all think about this shift. Do you think the "struggle" is a necessary part of an artist's credibility, or is that just a narrative we impose on them? And for those of you who follow music closely, do you find it harder to connect with an artist once they reach a certain level of massive, global popularity? Does the "story" of the artist ever become more important to you than the actual work they produce?
But lately, I’ve been wondering if we actually value the art, or if we just value the trajectory.
We live in a culture obsessed with the "arc." We don't just want to hear a good song; we want to know that the person singing it survived a series of indignities to get to the big stage. We want to see the transformation from the "scrappy outsider" to the "arena headliner." It’s become a metric of legitimacy. If a group stays small, we wonder if they aren't "good enough." If they blow up, we celebrate their "triumph." It almost feels like the actual music becomes secondary to the biography of the people making it.
I remember a friend of mine who spent nearly a decade in a local indie scene. They were incredible—true virtuosos—but they never "made it" by the industry's standards. They stayed in that niche, playing small clubs and community spaces. For years, people talked about them as if they were "stuck," rather than recognizing that they had achieved a level of pure, unadulterated creative freedom that most superstars lose the second they sign a massive contract.
There’s a specific kind of tension that happens when an artist moves from a space where they are part of a community to a space where they are a product. When you're playing for a handful of people who truly *get* you, the connection is visceral. It’s raw. But once you hit that massive, polished level of success, does the soul of the message get diluted to fit the widest possible demographic? Or is it possible to scale up without losing the very essence that made people care about you in the first place?
I also find myself thinking about the "message" aspect. We often expect artists to be our spokespeople. We want them to take stands, to represent our identities, to voice the frustrations of the marginalized. It’s a heavy mantle to place on someone who might just want to write catchy melodies. When an artist becomes a symbol for a movement or a specific identity, they stop being just musicians and start being icons. That’s a massive weight. It changes how they interact with their fans and how the industry handles them. It can turn a creative outlet into a political battlefield.
I'm curious to hear what you all think about this shift. Do you think the "struggle" is a necessary part of an artist's credibility, or is that just a narrative we impose on them? And for those of you who follow music closely, do you find it harder to connect with an artist once they reach a certain level of massive, global popularity? Does the "story" of the artist ever become more important to you than the actual work they produce?