For years the musician booked his own tours, which in retrospect was either a noble experiment in independence or a slow-motion financial crime committed against himself. He did everything right. Clean emails. Polite follow-ups. Actual audiences. He behaved like a professional because he was, and because he still believed that reason had a place in commerce. This was his first mistake. When he contacted clubs directly, the offers came back light. Wispy, “Let’s see how it goes.” He was encouraged to be flexible, which in club-owner dialect means please absorb our risk so we don’t have to.

Then, as an experiment bordering on science fiction, he had an agent friend send the same inquiries. Same rooms. Same calendar. Suddenly money materialized. Guarantees. The tone shifted, apparently the possibilities sounded better delivered by proxy. Nothing changed. This was about perception and fear. When clubs dealt with the musician directly, they saw someone reasonable who would understand. When they dealt with an agent, they saw consequences. Someone who might say no and mean it. The lesson was not that agents are saints. It’s that access lowers your price and distance raises it. Clarity, backed by the threat of walking away, is what pays for gas.