Total Merch Tables

One thing I like slightly more than bands is band merchandise. Generally less disappointing long term.

There was one occasion when band merchandise let me down, at Ozzfest 1998 my Fear Factory t-shirt had a shocking hole in the back and I was too scared to return it in case they said it was my fault. Cut from lightweight cloth. But the real lesson there is I should’ve bought the Neurosis t-shirt instead, or, you know, Sabbath - Less disappointing long term.

In an ideal world all merch tables would have more affordable items than I can possibly afford. I genuinely want the hand-silkscreened patch of the band I went to see and that of their short-lived 2002 side project. I want the rest of their label’s catalogue on CDR. I want all the pins, all the stickers and a technicolour wall of tees, vests, hats, totes and posters that dazzles me with heartbreakingly difficult decisions. I’m just gonna go find a cash machine.

Unfortunately most bands are preoccupied with joyless pursuits like making music and compromising. And that’s okay, I understand. When it’s my job, I do my best to help by making a merch display so magnificent, so high on its own majesty, that people can’t resist stopping by to frown at it, which often leads to a sale.

Sometimes it’s a lost cause, so I safety-pin an ugly Gildan shirt to a curtain and check in on it infrequently.

This is a short series of merch tables from various tours 2017-2019. I didn’t get pictures of all of them, probably because I was still setting up or packing down after they’d switched off the lights.

Not playing shows for a year or more will cause all kinds of problems for some artists, particularly those uncomfortable with performing to their telephones. Please be encouraged by these photos to invest in t-shirts, music, zines, posters and more by your favourite artists. You know the ones who’ll really appreciate it.

From Hamburg to Copenhagen, Copenhagen to Oslo, Oslo to Stockholm and back to Copenhagen again, I sat in the back and sewed hundreds of gold stars onto a piece of gold fabric, spelling Okkervil River in freehand script. There wasn’t time before I left for tour.

The lighting wasn’t right so I measured 12.5cm increments and mounted battery-powered fairy-lights into the bamboo-enforced fabric frame.

Assuming everybody knew which show they were attending it’s unclear what purpose the sign served, besides easing the anxiety surrounding my need to earn money before making any more unnecessary artworks.

Which is not to say I don’t love selling merchandise. Especially a great spread such as this. Three tees (one baseball), four LPs, a tote, a poster, a patch and some cigarette papers swimming in four metres of noisy wax print fabric that I fortunately found time to sew gold fringe around.

On the last night in Dublin we sold out of every last item and somebody offered me £50 for the sign. It seemed too little for the time and effort that went into it. I listened to the voice from the internet telling me to value my work. I stood up for myself and held out for a better offer.

There were no more offers.

The sign lays dismantled in a box under my desk, reminding me to make more unnecessary artworks urgently, before I run out of money.

Twenty-two years ago, a small-town teen, I listened intently to the case for ‘selling out’. “If the band is popular and writing music people like, they deserve to make money; only an idiot would turn down the opportunity to make a living from their music,” was the verdict of the overwhelming majority. I stood at the back of the crowd, in the foyer at Brixton Academy, considering the colour and design, but I couldn’t make it fit.

Pretty Fly For A White Guy wasn’t for me.

It’s not the popularity part of selling out that I resent. It’s musical regression and the price of the t-shirts. Go ahead and be as famous as you like, but don’t make people pay €35-€40 for a box with sleeves.

And don’t tell me it’s not a requirement, I once bought a Ted Leo tee in ‘skinny fit’ XL, the one that goes in at the waist to contour your boobs, because it was the only size left. The merch table is not the mall. Nobody who’s ever loved a band enough to buy their shirt would knowingly approve such cynical exploitation of love. Unknowingly approving it might be even worse.

The Offspring’s merch manager arrives on the scene and follows his assertive introduction with a monologue about t-shirt price-matching and paying the venue’s €150 pitch fee. What happened to Ignition, Smash and Ixnay? I’m listening, sympathetic, non-committal. We have two shirts for sale and one of them is a parody of the Fosters logo. Asking €25 for it is already uncomfortable.

"I’ll see what I can do.”

But I'm still punk. With The Chats’ couldn’t-care-less spirit at my back, I do nothing.

As we approach the petty crime capital of tour, I shift tone. Waffles are once more an unwelcome distraction. I liberally pour fear and dread over the party; ask them to be hyper-aware, keep hold of their stuff, display total distrust.

Don’t make another Belgian cop turn away whilst saying “What do you want me to do about it?”. Don’t send me back to the US embassy for another temporary passport.

I’m probably over-playing it, but since I started this routine our combined loss has dropped from an average of one item (phone, laptop, bag or case) per visit to a steady none. This merch table presents the greatest challenge yet to that record.

It has to be here because the venue is small and circular, with tiered standing-room only. A public concourse, freely coursed by the attendees of three different venues, a restaurant and a botanical garden, seems innocent enough, but the street outside is the scene of some of my worst nightmares and they often wander through to see what’s up.

As the only crew member on this two person tour, my job involves selling the merch whilst also being side-of-stage, front-of-house and backstage switching the laundry loads. The nearest security guard clearly knows what’s coming and now he’s busy. Now he doesn’t speak English. I’m on my own.

I tape down the tablecloth, sell a few records in the brief pre-doors window, pack everything back in boxes and take them backstage. When Bedouine’s out for the encore, I carry it all out again, set up in record time and sell, with the dexterity of a warm pickpocket.

No sales lost, no items stolen and an anxious time had by all.

“Where does the merch usually go?”

I do accept that a venue is primarily for performance art, and while I work to make merch display a recognised artform, the merch table often lies low on, or absent from most people’s priorities.

I also recognise that some see rabid, unchecked consumerism as a vibe-killer and others want to sell beer, not serve free tap water to kids who brought their own bag and spent all their cash on vinyl. But I’m wondering where I can do my job and staff keep sending me here, to a tiny coffee table with no storage space, blocking the theatre’s only entrance and exit.

Later, as a queue of autograph enthusiasts slowly fills the room in every direction, I have an anxious flashback to London Astoria in 1999, where the crush of people in the lobby trying to leave a System Of A Down concert lifted me off my feet. I need to sit down, but then there’d be nowhere to display the t-shirt – “No tape on the wall!”

My modest rectangle of gingham is folded in half and topped with four records, three CDs, a picture frame and a string of lights, with no space to spare. I hover, awkwardly, beside the boxes, trying to catch someone’s eye, calling out to offer help, but I can’t tell if the line is looking or leaving.

My sales spreadsheets for Falmouth suggest the merch usually goes back in the van.

David grew agitated as he waited by the door inside a Bristol art store. I was still deliberating over buying two cardboard 'letter N's as a centrepiece for the Now Now merch table. He’d bought what he came for and I’d come to see what I might buy. I felt bad for holding up and generally pissing-off the most prompt person I know, but I persisted.

If I pay a combined £5 for the cardboard Ns, can I still afford the jazzy duct tape and space-themed bubble-stickers? If they end up looking ridiculous, can they be repurposed as anything other than Zs? Will the letters, when lit correctly, project two giant N shadows onto the back wall, potentially multiplying their impact? Is it idiotic to spend wages I’ve yet to earn on something so temporary and pointless?

I thought about the mortgage I’ll never have.

David was opening the door and saying “See you back at the venue, you’ll have to walk”. I tried to stay calm. I had a vision, and a custom tablecloth that I’d already invested in.

In my vision, the spread of merchandise appears elevated from the complementary-coloured tablecloth. Select items, displayed in perfect symmetry look up like longing eyes that say “Please take me, don’t make me walk”, whilst a hanging chevron of shirts drags your attention through two iconic cardboard Ns and their dramatic shadows. There, you catch my eye and order with absolute conviction.

Either the camera flash has impaired my vision, or I’m losing it. I remain indebted to all who tolerate me.

Someone upstairs just won’t let it go.

I’m surprised that our enterprising Irish promoter asked Dublin’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral to stage tonight’s show. Even more so that they agreed. It’s a functioning 12th century church and popular tourist attraction. The interior, acoustics and ageing congregation cannot comprehend what’s happening.

For the clergy however, there’s a problem emerging elsewhere. They’re unconcerned by the music style and the lyrical content and relaxed about the sold-out crowd commuting from nearby bars. They’ve even reacted coolly to an absentminded “God damn it,” yelled into the microphone during our stressful soundcheck. The real issue was uncovered whilst visiting the band’s website yesterday, it’s the album title, Nudes. It’s completely unsuitable. “We can’t have that on sale in the building.”

My merchandise table sits humbled in front of the trashy gift shop. I’m being watched, intermittently, by a tall man with long grey hair, not unlike the one from the statues only older and more appropriately dressed. He stands in the shadows, pensive and pained. He pretends to check the schedule.

I've opted to display the record back to front; an act of dogmatic defiance that goes completely unnoticed. It’s almost disappointing. On his final visit my would-be censor even compliments the display. So when the show starts, and the lights go down, I turn it around.

This really happened, I swear to etc.