His forecast regarding the music industry is bleak, but realistic:
"It's going to have to default back to people who are willing to do more work for less money, basically. You have to kind of do it out of love, and doing it by living within your means and getting to an end of what you want to do, other than worrying about 401(k)s and insurance and all that crap that comes with being paid by someone else [so] you [can] coast."
Jamie Peachey
A cask of wine from Merkin Vineyards
Courtesy of Maynard James Keenan
In the first week of September, Keenan harvested nearly 85 percent of the 2012 vintage.
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It makes sense that Keenan focuses on Puscifer. Tool records for Volcano, a subsidiary of Epic Records, owned by industry giant Sony. A Perfect Circle recorded for Virgin Records, bought out in 2007 by Capitol. The majors continue to consolidate as the market share decreases, making Keenan's small, locally sourced business approach to Puscifer look as much like a necessity as a creative capital choice.
"The illusion is gone," Keenan says. "There's no longer blank checkbooks. I remember playing a show ages ago, where Helmet got offered a [record deal worth a] million dollars. Oh, my God! A million dollars. Of course, all that did was make every other band with ego throw its dicks on the table and say, 'Well, I want a million five.' 'Well, I want two million; I'm more popular.' There was never any rhyme or reason to what those numbers ended up translating to at the end of the day. If you go back and track what somebody actually paid for something, it's not nearly as dialed-in as, say, a video-game corporation saying, 'No, we're going to sell exactly this many units of this game.' It was never that calculated. The people running [the business] weren't qualified to run it."
For a band to survive takes more than T-shirts and CDs, Keenan says. Embracing digital distribution makes too much sense to ignore, he says, but the MP3 model comes with downsides for someone interested in creating a complete package.
"I don't know, I feel like I'm kind of torn," he says. "There's two sides of my brain fighting with each other. There's something about connecting with that physical piece of property, and also things you don't know about. When you download the song, there's nothing. Sometimes it comes with a booklet, sometimes it comes with an image, but usually it doesn't. It's just this disconnected thing that you can't touch and feel and experience. [There are] other nuances to the songs. Some images and artwork that are totally connected and related to the song you're hearing, and you make the connection by seeing that image, and it completes the joke or completes the thought; that's a little disconnected.
"However, as an independent project — no funding, no record label, no underwriters, nothing — the whole digital route is a lot more sustainable. You're not wasting a lot of paper or plastic products, except for the manufacturing of computers, which apparently go out of date every week. Thank you very much, Apple. But you're able to get that music out there and have a direct connection to who you're selling it to — and actually fund your project."
Keenan splits the difference. Puscifer's music is available via digital outlets like iTunes, Amazon, and eMusic, but just up the hill from the Caduceus Cellars Tasting Room in Jerome, you'll find the Puscifer Store, a brick-and-mortar outlet devoted to Keenan's physical esoterica: CDs and vinyl from Puscifer, DVD copies of the Bikini Bandits films, Puscifer whole-bean coffee, jewelry, framed show posters, T-shirts, and releases from like-minded collaborators such as "America's Funnyman," comedian Neil Hamburger.
"You have to turn to weird stuff," Keenan says. "We just released a limited-edition giclée of an image [designer and photographer] Tim Cadiente and I put together, and we're being criticized because it's 250 bucks. But if you go online, Mickey Mouse giclées are 800 bucks. Am I Mickey Mouse?"
Keenan doesn't claim to have the solution for the ailing music industry, but he thinks it generally will sort itself out. Innovative bands will figure out a way to reach fans, while those that won't adapt to the new landscape — bands that refuse to take on the ever-increasing workload — simply will go away.
"We have our own thing figured out," he says. "I think that's how the pieces are going to settle into place. It's going to default back to people who want to do this and are willing to do this. Once people find their own way and find their own audience, they might kind of peek their head up over the crowd long enough to see that there's an entire movement happening, and we did it individually. It's critical mass; it all disseminates in a way that you go, 'Oh, this is the new thing now.' People just did it naturally, and people just did it in their own ways, in their lines and their mediums and surroundings. They'll all step back and realize they've all come to the same place."
Surrounded by round wooden casks cradled by sturdy metal racks at Four Eight Wineworks, Keenan is just about finished with his photo session. The camera's flash illuminates the recesses between the barrels, each worn and stained with the deep reds and purples of the wine within.