A House Divided

It's after 10 p.m. at the Westcott Theater, and concert promoter Dan Smalls paces the back of the venue, shaking his head. He thought Rogue Wave, the white-bread indie rockers behind hits like "Eyes," would draw a crowd to the theater on a Saturday night. But the band on-stage looks out at a bored bartender, their own merch guys, and a small cluster of girls by the stage. The hot blue stage lights illuminate patches of sticky floor. Without a crowd, the gutted movie theater looks cavernous. And Smalls, a tall, cool-Dad type with bright brown eyes and graying sideburns, leans against the back wall and shrugs his shoulders.

"Doesn't anyone in Syracuse like indie rock?" He asks, not quite expecting an answer. "Where are all the indie kids?"

In hindsight, it's hard to say exactly where fans of vaguely alternative, minor-label rock partied on that particular night. Maybe they crammed into someone's living room and listened to their friends play guitar. Or maybe they cleared out someone's basement and head-banged to a student band. Whatever the case, the "indie kids" of Central New York — a prime concert-going demographic — stopped seeing bands like Rogue Wave in late 2010. Instead, they flock to house shows to see young bands without record deals or widespread fame. The wildfire popularity of these niche acts fueled a resurgence in the local indie music scene, say the band and fans associated with it. But for promoters, that renaissance also poses a problem: Ticket sales for Smalls' major indie shows are down 20 percent, and

bringing those bands to CNY costs money.

Reece Lazarus knows both sides of the struggle firsthand. A milk pale 22-year-old with a horseshoe mustache and curly brown hair, Lazarus stood near Smalls at the Rogue Wave show, running errands as needed. From 2008 to 2010 he ran most of Smalls' club shows, maintained the company's website, and promoted events. He also books shows for Ithaca College, where he has played in the bands Caution Children, The Tundra Toes, and Tropical Punk. Caution Children formed in a house near IC's campus. Tropical Punk, his current band, recorded one of their EPs at an attic party.

In Ithaca, a town known for its music culture, basement-born bands are hardly an anomaly. But the scene changes radically from year to year, Lazarus says. Seniors graduate, freshmen come in, and new bands form to vie for the loyalties and fixed incomes of concert-going students.

"I've been here four years now and played in three different bands," he says. "Each one sort of had its year where the band plays a lot and you get a following. Then people graduate and it kind of disappears."

On those off-years — years when few student bands form or when house shows are infrequent — students who want to see live music have no options outside of marquee shows like Rogue Wave. But during on-years, when student bands command large followings, Smalls' shows are less in demand. That might explain what's currently going on in Syracuse, say student radio DJs, musicians, and others associated with the house show scene. The quality and number of student bands at SU surged in 2008, pulling many concertgoers away from traditional venues and into nearby basements and attics.

Take the case of Marina Zarya,

the general manager of SU student radio station WERW. Zarya became active in local music four years ago as a DJ at the station. She still loves going to local concerts. But now, she's far more likely to shell out five dollars to see a band at a house party than to pay $20 or more for a Westcott show.

"There are significantly more and better bands on campus than there were when I was a freshman," Zarya says. "It's absolutely a different scene. Not only is the music better, but it's better promoted and more prevalent than it used to be."

The possible reasons for this upswing vary widely. Zarya credits the advent of websites like Soundcloud, Bandcamp and Twitter, as well as the recession, the creation of SU's music industry program, and the university's new push to support entrepreneurial student projects.

Jett Wells, a 2010 alumnus who now covers music for No Tofu, Whoa and MTV News, sees another possible cause: the birth of student-run record label O, Morning Records in 2008. The label promoted artists like singer-songwriter Sarah Aument, folk-rockers The Northbound Traveling Minstrel Jug Band, and hip-hop duo Mouth's Cradle. In the process, they held dozens of house shows in the East Campus area.

Wells remembers trekking out to one of the shows, a packed six-band

production, in February 2010. Band after band played in the house's humid attic, illuminated only by a few strings of Christmas lights. Cameras flashed; fans cheered their friends; drunk girls gyrated against boys with plaid shirts and oversized glasses. In the basement, another round of bands played beneath bare light bulbs. Sweaty, tired, but usually ecstatic, attendees climbed out to the roof for gulps of fresh air and clustered in the alley for smoke breaks between sets.

"House shows definitely improved that year," Wells says. "O, Morning organized that scene, put on a ton of shows, and brought in a lot of new artists. It wasn't like some band playing

in a basement for their friends anymore. It actually seemed organized, like it had a theme."

Rochester also saw house shows improve over the last two years, thought for entirely different reasons. In 2008, Rochester police began a citywide crackdown on unauthorized venues. City authorities served three of those venues — The Landfill, Treehouse, and A/V — with cease-and-desist orders. Officials claimed that building code offenses, zoning violations, and disruptive behavior prompted the shutdowns. Within the music community, however, some speculated that established venues were to blame: Tim Avery, who books shows for The Bug Jar, a

prominent indie haunt, still thinks the city's marquee venues tipped off police in order to knock out the competition.

Whatever the original cause of the crackdown, rules have since relaxed. As a result, Avery says at least six or seven houses that regularly host shows, including his own home, the Shark Tank.

"The house scene is way more than vibrant at this point," Avery says. "It's almost too much to handle."

Like Lazarus, the IC student who works for Dan Smalls, Avery

sits at the contentious crossroads between established venues and DIY shows. While he might host house shows at night, his 9 to 5 job involves sifting through press kits and finding bands to play the Bug Jar. There, he sees firsthand the influence that the house scene has on established venues. The outlook isn't good.

"Because of the house scene, it's kind of hard to get people to come out and pay for shows," he says.

Analysts have noted this phenomenon elsewhere in the music industry: in fact, it's the same reason people

no longer buy albums. No one wants to pay for something they can get free, or cheap, elsewhere. Last September, Dan Smalls booked a Vampire Weekend show at Rochester's Main Street Armory. The Billboard-charting indie pop stars sold out three nights at Radio City Music Hall that week, but only 4000 tickets sold in Rochester. The $39 ticket price spooked fans, many of them accustomed to paying just four or five dollars for a house show. Avery stayed home.

"That lineup was awesome," he says, looking back. "But it was also almost $40 ticket, so I didn't go. I'm broke."

Zarya also says she won't pay for big shows anymore — not unless she already knows and loves the band. And even if she does love a band, she can't justify more than $50. This

leaves promoters like Avery and Smalls little room to book big acts, at least for the time being. Small says that if sales don't improve, he will stop "taking chances" on indie bands. Avery, for his part, wants to see more taste-making bands in Central New York, but knows that the business model can't sustain itself if people don't pay for the shows.

"I don't do this to make money, I do this to make awesome," He jokes. "But that's not really a currency yet, and until it is I'm still going to be broke."

Meanwhile, Zarya and WERW started throwing shows of their own, often in their own houses. Last November, Zarya invited Sarah Aument and Brooklyn-based band Soft Landing to play in her basement. The dim-lit, low-ceilinged space — "one of the dingiest basements you could find," Zarya says — just fits a band,

a washing machine, and a small crowd. Zarya cautioned people not to run into the drainpipe. It's loose and falls with a crash when touched.

Despite the lack of light, space, and ambience, kids packed in by the dozen: friends, friends of friends, unknown freshmen, wandering hipsters. Each paid five dollars at the door. Down the street, the Westcott lay silent. Despite the prime weekend slot, the venue booked no shows that night.