3 days Ago By Athanasia Sakoutis
When the offer came through for me to support a legendary international act on its Australian tour, I cried. It was the kind of moment emerging artists like me dream about: a national stage, exposure, and the chance for my music to truly be heard. In our industry, being a support act or landing a festival slot is often the only way to get traction and gain credibility.
But once the adrenaline wore off, reality hit. I’d be joining them across Australia entirely out of pocket with no support for travel, food, accommodation or even equipment. And to be clear, this wasn’t a small indie band pulling together a DIY tour, this was a huge international act.
Suddenly, I was weighing the difficult choice of investing thousands of dollars into a career opportunity I could not afford or decline and miss the moment I’d spent years working towards. When asking around, most people said the same thing: “that’s just the price you pay to be an artist” Spoiler alert, I declined this opportunity – unsure if I’d ever be offered something like it again. It’s not revolutionary to say, making it in the music industry has always been hard.
That’s why the words “struggling” and “artist” are so often paired. But at what point does the struggle become unsustainable? I’m currently studying for my second bachelor’s degree – not because I want to step away from music, but because I feel I have to cover my bases in case it doesn’t work out. It’s a safety net, and one I know many artists quietly build behind the scenes.
Just a few months ago, I recall I was deep in my semester, completing compulsory unpaid placements during the day, gigging most nights to make an income, juggling a casual retail job, hosting late-night radio to build my portfolio, and writing music whenever I had a spare moment. And that’s not even counting the time spent uploading content to socials to keep my name visible, rehearsing with my band to deliver quality shows, or applying for grant funding in the hopes of pushing my project just a little further. Emerging Australian artists are finding the climb steeper and more slippery than ever.
As arena acts get bigger and local venues get quieter, the question many of us are asking, “is the Australian live music scene quietly dying?” Local venues and pubs in Sydney still regularly book live acts, but those nights often feature nearly empty rooms. Walk into a bar on a Wednesday that’s been promoting live music, and you’ll likely find more bartenders than audience members. I’ve felt this shift firsthand and once had someone ask me mid-gig, when my set would finish so they “could turn the footy back on”.
Booking local live music now is often an afterthought, which is a stark contrast to previous decades, when pub rock thrived and Australians would flock to local venues hoping to catch the next big thing before they made it. While it’s tempting to assume Australians have fallen out of love with live music, that theory falls apart when you look at the masses packing stadiums for Lady Gaga, Taylor Swift, etc. The passion hasn’t disappeared but instead has shifted.
With rising living costs and post-COVID lifestyles, most people prefer to spend on one big, familiar show rather than take a chance on something new at their local venue. Even as a regular supporter of local live music, I’m still struck by how little attention it gets – despite the extraordinary talent emerging across the country. I don’t blame audiences for gravitating towards what they know, but it’s worth asking what impact these choices have.
This week we heard Bluesfest, Lost Paradise, Yours and Owls, Listen Out and Field Day from the NSW government, with Labor’s granting other festivals across the country $100,000 or less each, but they need more than that in if they’re going to make back , to host one. Costs global conglomerates like Live Nation – with festivals including Spilt Milk and including Melbourne’s Palais Theatre in its portfolio – and TEG, which owns festivals including Laneway and venues including Sydney’s Qudos Bank Arena, can theoretically afford to pay up front. After all, they’re like Post Malone, Stormzy and Charli XCX for (usually exclusive) appearances, guaranteeing fans will pay exorbitant ticket prices.
So maybe the real question is, if the appetite for live music is still there, how do we redirect even a fraction of that attention back to our own talent? One way this used to happen was through international acts having to select local openers, but . More often than not, when I’ve missed out on a touring opportunity, the support slot has been filled by an artist flown in from overseas or one backed by a major label team. Another suggestion often thrown at smaller artists is to focus on social media, as it’s now seen as the new pathway to success.
And while platforms like TikTok have helped artists connect with listeners beyond their local scenes, I don’t think they’ve replaced the need for real-world opportunities – but instead only reinforced existing inequalities. Big artists have the marketing budgets to dominate the digital conversation. TikTok is strategically flooded by global players with concert clips that only help create FOMO, driving up demand and ticket sales – helping the biggest names grow even bigger.
Meanwhile, smaller artists struggle to cut through the social media noise, and the pressure to go viral often shifts the focus away from the music itself and onto creating content just to stay visible. And, if they do go viral and then get played on the radio, mean they don’t get much money from featuring on the airwaves. I don’t believe there is a singular villain here, but instead a conversation to be had about the growing gap between the support we give international names versus how to better support our own.
If we don’t back the artists right in front of us, we risk losing the very live scene those stadium shows were built on. When I think back to that touring offer I was given, that left me torn between financial survival and artistic opportunity, I realise it was never just about myself as an artist but instead reflected a bigger story. One where emerging Australian artists are expected to work, sometimes in ways that may not align with their values, for exposure, fund their own growth, and hope for a break that’s increasingly further out of reach.
However, unless we create more space and opportunity for local talent to grow, we might one day find ourselves with nothing local left to champion..
