The opening acts were a classic rock revue- not the shit that classic rock stations play now. Van Halen is not classic rock; Eddie learned his moves from these guys. Steppenwolf, The Who, and The Guess Who played back-to-back short sets, reminding all that you can still rock without auto-tune or makeup. I was in high school, but these guys wrote these songs decades earlier. Once the drums had exploded, the roadies dragged them offstage and brought out the evening’s first headlining act.

Like a curveball nailing a batter smack in the ear, the concert shifted to Contemporary Christian music. I shit you not, Jars of Clay started off with that one song that got played everywhere. At this point I was in college and the popcorn was already half empty. Dan said thank you and made his exit, just as the man himself walked on with a guitar. He was three feet tall and smiling like some kind of weird celtic punk-folk pixie. The rest of the band took their places and Caedmon’s Call started their set.

They didn’t just play a few songs, they performed a strange drama right in front of me. The beginning of the set did something Christian music’s not supposed to do: it made me think. And it made me dance (I must have looked weird, all alone in that front row). The band realized their mistake, I guess, and started playing the typical praise-and-worship crap. Only the diminutive one seemed as disappointed as I by the change in mood. By the end of their set, the house was silent and unmoving. The band quietly disassembled their gear and walked off stage right, but Derek Webb exited alone, stage left. He’d be back later.

For a long time there was nothing. It was as though the stage manager realized they’d booked the wrong lineup and was scrambling to put together another show right then and there. When finally the stage lights went up again there was a tall skinny guy like me standing at the mic. Train played three whole albums worth of material while I watched. I didn’t mind, I was out of college and hated my job; I had nothing better to do. With Pat’s voice still ringing out in the theater, they performed a no-huddle play and switched to Jason Mraz. I got out a notepad so I could keep on top of the linguistic swordplay.

Then the strangest thing happened. Usually the independent acts are the first on stage so the real performers can make you forget all about them. At this show, though, the indies made up the heart of the event. Laura Clapp banged out a white-hot rendition of Joplin’s Bobby McGee. In a surprise twist The Peter Moon Band called me up on stage with them. The set was like a roller coaster off its tracks: fast, exhilarating, but probably going to kill me in the end.

Two men jumped up to save me: Kevin Reeves and Geoff Smith. Surrounding me with a defensive wall of pianos, they got me on my feet and back in the front row to enjoy the closers. By this time I was running my own business, so I didn’t have money for another bag of popcorn. As promised, Derek came back and played a single song without his old band. It made sense and reminded me why I loved his writing, but I had already moved on. All that remained was the final set as the weather got colder outside.

Two pianos appeared under hot lights, one real and one purple with flowers on it. The last two performers both played keys, just like me, and both hit the stage at the same time. Ben Folds stationed himself at a rickety old upright while Amanda Palmer perched behind her Kurtweil PC88. They were like the SWAT team of piano music- fast, efficient, and effective to the point of knocking me over backwards. My jaw wouldn’t close, nor would my ears. They played dueling pianos in front of me like two pirate ships trading volleys of cannon fire. Each song tried to out-wow the last.

Then Amanda died and no one could figure out who did it.

Their set ended at that point while the police crowded the stage. The house lights still haven’t come up yet, though. I’m still in that seat waiting to see who’s on next. Maybe by the end of the night I’ll play a set of my own tunes and someone else will be front-and-center, staring at me.

(If you hadn’t already noticed, every one of these links is an affiliate link to iTunes. If you want to hear the music that made me who I am, buy some of it and I’ll get a teeny-tiny kickback from the fruit company.)

As seen, heard, and read on WBUR

That idea doesn’t sit well with everyone, including Boston musician and rock critic Dave Wildman. “I don’t know, it freaks me out,” he says with a laugh. Wildman likens Ebel to a talented street performer on the information super highway.
WBUR.org

It’s success if that’s what he wanted, definitely. If not…then no, he’s still got more work to do.

My guess? Dude still has a lot more work to do.
Justin Boland, comment on Hypebot.com

These two comments, though lamentably myopic, are understandable. Believe me, I can level with these opinions by making only one assumption: Their definition of “success” is stuck in the coke-filled limousine of Motley Crue, 1985.

Back then, a “successful” musical act played to hundreds of thousands of screaming fans in any venue the bus rolled up to. Anything less wasn’t worthy of a mention by a VJ on MTV, let alone the envy of aspiring musicians around the globe.

Fast-forward to damn-near-2010 and see where that definition of “success” has left the music industry. The big-production high-overhead “success” acts are barely staying afloat through flagging CD and online sales while the record labels try to own more and more of the artist’s work. So far only one forward-thinking group of industry insiders has put their finger on the pulse of the problem:

For the past 50 years the Artist business has been fractured with multiple competing interests. A) Record Companies whose main interest was the exploitation of the artists recorded music (masters). B) Publishers whose interests are similar but share in mostly the same income pot as the Record Labels. C) Live concert promoters, focused on selling concert tickets and sponsorships. D) Merchandisers mostly focused on selling various clothing and souvenirs at concerts and traditional retail.

Mixed in with all this you have Business Managers, Lawyers, Agents and Artist Managers whose roles are to not only coordinate the Artists schedules and business strategies but also have all of the above parties cooperate with each other.
Terry McBride, founder of Nettwerk and co-founder of Polyphonic

So given the current state of the economy, the music business, and technology, this leaves us with the million-Euro question: What is Success in the Music Business? I believe it is the same success that has driven Apple since day one… profit. If a music act can continue to bring in more money than it spends, it’s a success.

Take it a step further and we arrive at the crux of my definition of success as an artist: If you can remain profitable and grow as a business, you are not a success– you are a series of successes. Every step up is another success, a bigger success, and another bit of weight to add to the momentum like Katamari Damacy building the moon.

1. I released self-produced albums. Success.
2. I backed up a star at the Grand Ole Opry. Success.
3. I no longer need a “day job”. Success.
4. I have thousands of fans in more than a dozen countries. Success.
5. I no longer need to play shitty 4-hour Journey-and-Bon-Jovi-laden bar gigs to pay my rent. Success like you wouldn’t believe it.
6. Update: I just got mentioned in Amanda F*cking Palmer’s blog. Success, if only ’cause she rocks.

Is Mr. Boland correct? Absolutely. I am only beginning this journey and God only knows where it will lead me. Am I where I want to be? Yes… but not where I’ll want to be tomorrow. That means I can’t rest on some deflated view of “success”, I have to move forward. Am I a failure because I don’t own a private jet powered by strippers and hundred dollar bills? Absolutely not.

We are only failures if we subject ourselves to the narrow limitations of others. I choose to be a success.