After two years of rescheduled shows, last-minute lineup changes and half-empty venues, club communities around the world are moving towards recovery mode. The rollercoaster ride of pandemic-induced shutdowns has been one of the most challenging periods in dance music history, producing lasting financial effects on everyone from lighting technicians to DJs to club owners. The impact on promoters has been especially harsh. Faced with a reduced playing field amid widespread venue closures, many can no longer afford the establishments that remain open. Meanwhile, rising artist fees, staff shortages and a general climate of uncertainty are placing pressure on an already vulnerable market.

In an effort to democratise knowledge at a time when many are being priced out of the industry, Resident Advisor reached out to three promoters around Europe for insights, tips and tricks of the trade.

Mother’s Finest, Berlin

Franklin De Costa formed the party series Mother’s Finest in 2013 as a “necessary alternative” to fill a musical gap in Berlin’s club landscape. After finding a spiritual home in Griessmuehle, Mother’s Finest cultivated a reputation for forward-thinking club music, but even with the support of a venue and a loyal community, the road wasn’t easy. “Promoting parties is exhausting,” he cautions. “It’s a lot of work, and there’s always a lot of competition somewhere like Berlin.”

Exorbitant venue fees are a major challenge. Clocking in at around €2000 for a 700-capacity club, Berlin venue fees are far higher than those of rival clubbing capitals. Rental costs have steadily increased over nine years, but they haven’t risen sharply, or at all, since the pandemic, De Costa says. With ticket prices on the low side, it can be tough breaking even. Clubs are generally unwilling to increase ticket prices–a dynamic that speaks to the grassroots spirit of Berlin’s underground club community. De Costa describes a scene born out of free raves and squat parties, where the idea of treating clubbers like consumers and charging them an inflated entry fee has always been resisted. That’s why he plans to keep cover for a Mother’s Finest party this June close to pre-pandemic levels.

Luckily for Berlin promoters, artist fees are lower than other nightlife hotspots. An international artist may have a general fee of €1000 but would likely play for €700 or €800 in Berlin due to the exposure of performing in such an esteemed dance music hub, according to De Costa. But artist fees have risen since 2020, the extent of which varies from “case to case,” he explains. The agents of DJs and producers who are currently on a hot streak are usually keen to “take advantage” of the situation by asking for double or triple their pre-pandemic rate. Others are asking for a far more modest increase since they “need to make up some income” after not playing for so long, De Costa describes. When booking overseas talents, travel and visa costs are typically split evenly between promoters. For example, if Mother’s Finest books a US artist who is travelling over for a ten-date European tour, the €500 return flight plus additional €300 flights in between cities are split between the ten promoters. Some non-EU countries, such as the US and Australia, also benefit from bilateral agreements with Germany, meaning artists travelling from these places are exempt from visa costs.

On the marketing front, De Costa recalls a time when spending €200 on promoting a Facebook event was a sure-fire way of gaining considerable visibility for an upcoming party. Now, the platform is “kind of dead” from a club promotion point of view, he explains. Instead, he now spends less than €100 on sponsored Instagram posts. At the end of the day, however, “direct contact” such as a regular mailout list and word-of-mouth communication are the most effective ways of promoting parties in Berlin, he says. Even as Covid-19 restrictions ease, De Costa acknowledges that many clubbers still aren’t ready to return to the dance floor.

Despite these drawbacks, he characterises Mother’s Finest as financially successful for the most part. Its willingness to present “something that you can’t get at Berghain or the other well-known clubs” has served it well. Rather than resting on one’s laurels, De Costa stresses the importance of working hard and continuously moving forward.

Alien Communications, London

Founded by Bays and Rise in Edinburgh, Alien Communications is a record label, DJ/producer duo and party. The latter is the main breadwinner behind the entire operation. After a handful of nights in their hometown featuring Nicolas Lutz, Binh and DJ Masda, the founders took the party to London and recruited Declan Law to manage the label and events. The key differences between organising gigs in London and Scotland are “longer opening times, meaning clubs want massive bar spends,” Law explains. “It’s obviously a bit easier given how expensive drinks are down here, but proportionately it’s more competitive than it is in Edinburgh or Glasgow.”

As a city, London may be more expensive than Berlin, but it’s still far cheaper to hire a venue here than the German capital. Many local clubs operate on a venue deposit policy, meaning a percentage of rent is returned to the promoter as long as a certain amount of money is made on bar sales. However, it is another rising cost. The fact that independent venues such as Canavan’s, Five Miles and Rye Wax, the nightclub wing of the Peckham record shop, have failed to reopen since the pandemic means less competition for those still in operation–a reason often used to justify a rental price rise that Law estimates to be around 10 percent.

Skyrocketing artist fees are an enduring problem for promoters across the globe. It's especially prominent in London. Acts previously booked for Alien Communications parties in Edinburgh now ask for 150 to 200 percent more to play in London. That’s mostly due to the presence of corporate clubbing brands. With pockets deep enough to price out the bulk of their independent counterparts, they can go far above the going rate. They also encourage artists to sign exclusivity agreements, which restricts an act from playing elsewhere in the city. That effectively gives corporate players a monopoly over high-profile DJs. Artist fees have been exacerbated over the past two years as the industry becomes “a bit cannibalistic” in its attempts to claw back losses incurred during Covid-19 shutdowns, according to Law. In his experience, booking agents have also been “chancing their luck” more, with one agency doubling the universally accepted 15 percent rate–a bill of hundreds of pounds that promoters are expected to pick up.

Inevitably, these higher costs lead to higher ticket prices as promoters try their best to stay in the green. The post-lockdown clubbing boom that many predicted simply hasn’t materialised due to two key factors, Law explains. The first is a general mood of uncertainty. Even if clubbers are interested in attending a certain party, they will typically wait until the last minute to purchase a ticket. The pandemic has also produced “a lost generation of clubbers,” Law notes. Teenagers who were deprived of their first nightlife encounters during lockdown have missed out on formative experiences that could have potentially made them lifelong clubbers, he argues. Moreover, older segments of the party population no longer feel youthful enough to return to the dance floor after a two-year absence. Whatever the reason, Law estimates an attendance decline of around 20 percent since the end of lockdown. Echoing De Costa’s views on social media marketing, Law insists that Facebook events “aren’t worth shit anymore” when it comes to promoting parties. He does stress the benefit of sponsored Instagram posts, particularly “eye-catching video content” that can stand out among the deluge of ads from competitors, and spends a minimum of €150 on these per party.

Brexit, meanwhile, has added another cost in the form of Certificate of Sponsorship (CoS) visas. Necessary for EU artists as well as those from further afield, these cost roughly €80 per artist plus VAT. It’s not a large enough fee to deter Alien Communications from booking international artists, but Law suggests that it will inevitably deter smaller, more DIY promoters from booking overseas guests.

Aspiring promoters are advised to have sufficient savings or some form of financial backing before starting out. “When you’re starting out there’s a good chance it’ll just be friends and friends of friends who turn up,” he says. “So make sure you’ve got a close-knit crew who are going to back you, and that you’re 100 percent behind who you’re booking. Passion has to be the driving force.”

ITHAKA Festival, Medellín

More than 1000 miles from London, the picture postcard village of Medellín in southwest Spain is home to ITHAKA Festival. Launched by a group of friends in 2018, its founding aim was to host an event “outside the classic nightclub context,” co-founder Guillermo Gonzalez Abad explains. “In Spain there are so many heritage sites that are basically unused, so we started looking in that direction.”

Medellín Castle, a 13th-century fortress in the Extremadura region, appeared to fit the bill perfectly, even more so when local authorities offered to rent the venue to ITHAKA free of charge. According to Abad, it’s not uncommon for Spanish authorities to waive hire fees for cultural events in public buildings. Despite valuable savings from this, Medellín Castle’s rural location and its lack of discernible festival infrastructure meant that organisers were forced to shell out on costs that the average club promoter would never have to consider.

For instance, roughly €3500 was spent on essentials such as a generator, fencing and portable toilets on ITHAKA’s maiden edition. A similar amount was spent on the sound system and accompanying sound technicians–a figure Abad insists could have been far higher had they not struck a favourable deal to hire the rig from a local rave crew. Upwards of €4000 went on what he describes as “general expenses.” This includes bar stocks, lighting (“we kept this very DIY”) as well as safety and cancellation insurance. These costs were small compared to the €8750 spent on on-site personnel–security, bar staff, cleaners and the like–as well as the artist costs. Agents fees, travel, accommodation, food and artist fees amounted to €14,000 all together. If ITHAKA had booked more international guests instead of domestic artists, that number could have been far higher. Less than five percent of the budget was spent on marketing, which largely came in the form of mailing lists and social media promotion. The social media strategy "wasn't as efficient as possible," Abad notes. On reflection, he believes he should have hired a social media expert. For a first-time festival, final costs will likely be considerably higher than the initial projections, Abad warns. He urges anyone interested in hosting such an event to plan for that eventuality. In the case of ITHAKA, the overall cost was around €35,000, 15 percent higher than anticipated.

To turn a profit, the team outlined three critical revenue streams: ticket sales, bar sales and external funding. The latter could either be in the form of brand sponsorship, a government grant or a combination of the two. The aim was to make at least 70 percent of the budget back on tickets and bar sales (55 percent and 15 percent respectively) while plugging the 30 percent gap with external funds. The festival’s inaugural edition made around €20,000 from tickets and bar revenue. While it fell short of estimates, it was still sufficient. The team was unsuccessful in securing external funding. “That proved really difficult to come across for this type of project,” Abad says wistfully. He points to the event’s modest capacity (500 people) as well as its lack of big-name headliners as reasons why brands weren’t interested in sponsorship. When applying for public funding, ITHAKA says it was a victim of both bureaucracy and snobbery. “There’s this idea that parties are parties, and they shouldn’t be regarded as culture,” Abad continues. “But we always considered ITHAKA to be a cultural event, so we applied for cultural grants. The grants structure turned out to be quite rigid and mathematical, and their criteria didn’t fit our activity.”

Ironically, ITHAKA’s desire to disrupt Spain’s festival circuit proved to be its downfall. The financial fallout was considerable: only 65 percent of the money spent was recouped, with all founders losing a large chunk of their investments. For the second edition in 2019, things slightly improved with the festival losing less than half of the money compared to the previous year. Frustratingly, it encountered the same external funding issues–a factor that Abad insists would have turned the loss into a profit. Projections for 2020 were positive but when Covid-19 hit, the team pulled the plug. “There comes a time when you no longer want to invest any more money into a passion project,” Abad concedes.

Nearly three years on from that debut edition, Abad has no regrets about ITHAKA. He only wishes there were more educational materials available. “When it comes to running an electronic music festival, knowledge and resources are not always democratic,” he insists. “Not because people hold onto that knowledge, it’s just simply not being written about. I would’ve loved to have come across some sort of festival-making guide but was never able to do so.”