As I write this, the price of gold is about $94 per gram. Gold has an agreed-upon value, meaning a bar of it is worth the same in Beijing as it is in London.
But how much is a song worth? And who decides?
Songs aren’t traded on the stock market. There’s no universally accepted price. Yet, we know “Yesterday” made Paul McCartney a very rich man. Artists sell their back catalogues for millions, relinquishing ownership of their work for an often hefty sum. Their songs, at least in financial terms, have immense value.
But what about Dave from Coventry, who has spent years honing his songwriting craft? His wife and friends agree he’s talented, but will a company pay for his back catalogue? Highly unlikely.
Dave’s songs are worth next to nothing in monetary terms.
Of course, they mean a lot to Dave. Maybe they matter to a few others, too. And if he enjoyed writing them, then his time wasn’t wasted. Monetary value is just one form of worth. Maybe that’s enough for Dave.
But what if, deep down, he believes he’s written a truly great song—something that could stand alongside McCartney’s best? How does he shift the perception of his work from worthless to valuable?
He uploads it online, crafts eye-catching thumbnails, pitches it to companies. He plays it live wherever he can. Still, nothing. The song gains no traction.
Does this mean it wasn’t as good as he thought? Maybe. But is it that simple?
Talented songwriters have watched their albums sink because record labels failed to push them. The songs weren’t bad—other professionals praised them—but praise doesn’t pay the bills. Meanwhile, certain artists are famous more for their image than their music, yet they rack up billions of streams. Their songs might be painfully generic, but their commercial value is undeniable.
This tension got me thinking about Seth Godin’s The Practice. He argues that if your work isn’t resonating, you need to work with more empathy. You can make art solely for yourself, or you can make art for an audience. But if you try to do both, you’ll be trapped—forever trying to convince others to see what you see.
So what does this mean for Dave? Should he stop writing from the heart and start studying the Spotify Top 10? Should he strip out personal lyrics, simplify melodies, and ensure his songs are festival-friendly bangers? More bass drops, more synth stabs—don’t forget a catchy pre-chorus.
Godin surely can’t mean this, because elsewhere he argues that mediocre work is neither loved nor hated—it’s simply ignored. Yet the reality is, bland and predictable songs do become valuable commodities, while thoughtful, well-crafted ones often go unheard.
Why?
Maybe there are a thousand answers. But here’s mine:
If a song is reasonably good but poorly packaged and marketed, it doesn’t matter how good it is or how empathetic the songwriter might be. An attractive pop star in the right clothes, with the right attitude, in the right moment, is infinitely more important than the song itself. And if the artist isn’t willing to relentlessly promote their work and make serious personal sacrifices, the song might as well not exist commercially speaking.
I’d go even further:
The Beatles had the songs, but just as importantly, they had the packaging, the hustle, and the perfect timing. Their music isn’t worth millions today just because of its quality. It’s because of the effort that went into pushing it into the public psyche. Without that, Paul from Liverpool might have done something else entirely, his songs buried on an old tape—just like Dave’s are on his hard drive.
There’s no guarantee that a good song will bring financial reward. It doesn’t matter how well you listen to your audience or how much you sacrifice.
Rick Rubin put it best: “Make art for yourself. Not the audience.” When it comes to songwriting, that rings true. You have to move yourself before you move others.
Selling, on the other hand, requires constant iteration until you hit what the market wants. But real art isn’t business.
Art ceases to be art when it’s refined to maximize mass appeal.
That’s why the music industry is filled with soulless, manufactured hits. Just because millions of people eat burgers at a fast food restaurant doesn’t mean they’re good food. Just because Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran dominate the charts doesn’t mean they’re making quality music.
I’m not saying they aren’t.
I’m just saying: business and art should not be confused, and the value of a song should not be determined by how well known it is, or how it performs commercially. Some songwriters have even dismissed their biggest hits as lacking real quality.
This leads to a difficult realisation: if money and popularly don’t determine the actual value of your song, what does?
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