My name is Kylie Fox. I am twenty-three years old, born and raised in the cosmopolitan metropolis of Saint John, New Brunswick.
I have nine Spotify followers.
Today I am starting my second tour as an independent, unsigned musician and I’ve called it Grampy’s Lexus Tour. My intent for this blog is to recount the hilarious, spontaneous, lonely, and lame truth of being an artist on the road.
The music industry is a ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ business. We pay for our own photo shoots and social-media the heck out of ourselves until we are no longer doggy paddling in the kiddie pool that is being an “emerging artist”, (which I think is a laughable label for us, considering most of us may never actually “emerge”, and what exactly are we “emerging” ourselves into?) It could be a terrible idea to reveal the secrets of this rockstar livin’,-spoiler: I paid to be on Spotify!- and the other rock stars like me might resent that I’m “un-faking it” for all of us. Oh well, I think you’ll get a kick out of it. “You”, I’m guessing, are family and friends who are hoping that I am still alive in three weeks after carting my little Lexus, packed with Diet Coke and a gross amount of shoes, throughout New Brunswick, Quebec, Ontario and November.
As a DIY, independant, unsigned artist, I am my own manager, publicist, promoter, chauffeur, accountant, and until recently, my own booking agent. Sometimes I play a show and make hundreds of dollars and receive emails from strangers saying they want to help me, or heard one of my songs and related to it. Sometimes I play a show and get thirteen dollars and end up giving it to a hooker wearing uncomfortable-looking shoes who can’t get a cab. Sometimes you get to the club and it smells like a urinal and there’s a punk show upstairs that you and your band just can’t out-play and you wonder what is splattered all over the ceiling. Sometimes you open for an Australian guy who is apparently famous in Ottawa and sells out his show and bing bang boom there’s a line down the street to get into your own gig. Sometimes the pool is closed at the hotel and you and your band get in your swim suits and squish into the bathtub. Sometimes a man dressed as Santa comes over mid-song and offers you drugs. Living this DIY rockstar life means other rockstars you meet on your travels will stay with you on their tours and get drunk with you and Dad around a campfire. It means making your own posters, hustling for opportunities, applying for a new grant every week and having all six CDs in your Lexus’ “Six CD Rotator” albums put out by your friends. Touring is a mess of google maps, parking tickets, bumming wi-fi passwords and hoping the club will give you a free pint.
Until I have “emerged” into having a tour bus, a gaggle of groupies and lines of cocaine in the green rooms (jokes mom!), I will write this blog, and I will do it with absolute sincerity regarding my doubts and my triumphs in this goofy, narcissistic, touching, hard, hardcore line off work.
And if you are living in Bristol, New Brunswick, I better see you around 7pm sharp.