Imagine you’re a cock-rocker. You’ve got the crazy hair, the pout, and most importantly the legs to pull off those sewn-on faux snakeskin trousers. You’ve nailed that look, FUCKING NAILED IT.
However, you find yourself in a difficult situation. You’re passe – a one-trick pony taken out to pasture – and what’s more, by a chunky-looking farmer with one cartridge in his shotgun and a determined look on his face. Your one-hit-and-run-wonder has long been locked away, and possibly executed for Crimes Against Music.
What now? Where’s that market ?-That niche in the musical echelons with your name wedged in it?