Westergren rallied. He began by calling other webcasters, who together founded SaveNetRadio, then hired a D.C. lobbying firm, Qorvis, which has done work for AOL, Amazon.com, and Halliburton, to get behind it. The firm helped place op-eds and solicit endorsements from nearly 7,000 artists and managers. It arranged a tour of Capitol Hill, where small groups of broadcasters and musicians met with congressional staffers, explaining their side of the story. The coalition also named June 26 a day of silence for Web radio; when listeners tuned in to Pandora, Yahoo Music, Live365, and other online broadcasters, they'd hear no music, just a message telling them about the rate changes and directing them to contact their representatives.
Westergren realized he had a huge weapon in his arsenal: his customers. Westergren sends a welcome e-mail to everyone that signs up. It's an automated e-mail from an alias address, but whenever anyone replies, he replies back. Last year, when he was touring the country looking for new music, Westergren decided to begin holding meetings with listeners. He'd choose a locale, post it on the Pandora blog, and invite anyone in the area to attend. Four people attended the first meetup in Austin, but as he traveled to a senior center in Phoenix, a taco joint in San Antonio, and a lecture hall at MIT, the groups grew, and soon dozens, even hundreds, of listeners were attending. All the effort spent courting nonpaying customers might seem excessive, but it lets Pandora spend next to nothing on marketing. In any case, the listeners responded. Some have become so fanatic that they've written songs about the site, sent boxes of fudge, and even made donations.
That work turning customers into fans, Westergren realized, meant he could rally them behind the royalty rate issue. So he sent an e-mail to all the Pandora listeners that identified their representative and senator and asked them to write in. Pandorans responded. Westergren estimates that about one million e-mails, phone calls, or faxes were made or sent by Pandora listeners. California Democratic Senator Dianne Feinstein received 25,000 e-mails; in the office of Jay Inslee, a Seattle-area representative, correspondence about Internet radio equaled that concerning the Iraq war. Inslee and Illinois Representative Don Manzullo drafted a bill that brought Internet radio rates in line with those of satellite stations; in the Senate, Sam Brownback and Ron Wyden sponsored a companion bill. "I said, 'Oh, my gosh, this is a bombshell ready to explode with the small radio stations," says Manzullo. The legislation has been referred to committee.
The bills show little chance of passing. Even Manzullo points out that "the last thing you want to do is have Congress regulate [royalty rates]; industry should regulate them." But the threat of legislative action seems to have pushed SoundExchange to the negotiating table. The group has agreed to meet with broadcasters and is making conciliatory gestures. "Both sides are working toward resolving it," says John Simon, SoundExchange's executive director. "These are our partners. They pay us royalties. We want to make sure Internet radio survives and thrives because they do pay us." The new fees kicked in on July 15; for now, Pandora is paying them as it hopes for a reprieve.
After the SFMoma announcement, Westergren stayed out until midnight--listeners were invited to a postparty at a South of Market art gallery with Pandora employees--but he is in the office the next morning at 7. The offices are in a rundown section of Oakland and look cash-strapped but cheerful. There are beige cubicles, but also columns painted with famous album covers and a metal cabinet full of free Kit Kats and Slim Jims.
Over on the side of the room, there are several rows of tables where the music analysts sit. It's an odd sight at a tech company that's pushing the music industry forward, these rows of humans clicking through screens and mutely analyzing songs at a rate of two to six per hour. All 50 of them work part-time. They have an incredible knowledge of music. On one job application for a music analyst opening, the applicant sketched out the chord structure of David Bowie's "Life on Mars"; another analyst explained the classical music genome (which hasn't yet launched) using terms like homophony versus polyphony versus antiphony, even though he wasn't a classical musician. The part-time arrangement gives analysts time to work on their own music, and anyone who works 20 hours a week gets health insurance. "Almost everyone that works here is an active working musician, and an active working musician needs supplemental income," says Rick Higgs, a silver-haired analyst who teaches guitar. "You can hardly find anything better for a musician. This stuff makes a lot more sense than landscaping."
At this early hour, thanks to musicians' schedules and last night's party, there's no one in the office but Westergren. He has a bunch of interviews today. He'll talk to an NPR reporter about the rate increase, then chat about the same thing with a sympathetic podcaster named Jeremy. Westergren's cell phone isn't working, and the Internet and VoIP in his office are both down. With the forbearance that only eight years at Pandora could give, Westergren isn't fazed. He tries some different lines, tries his cell phone, and shrugs. It's not the first time things haven't gone as planned and it won't be the last. "I've never, ever given up, even when we were in the most depressive bleak times," he says. "I always thought it was a good idea and would have a day." When the phone finally rings, it turns out to be a listener, calling with a question about his Pandora station. Westergren jots down his number to call him back later. He's finally got the adoring audience he always sought, finally figured out how to make a living at music. He thinks he's got it right at last. If not, another change of tune will be easy to make, given all the practice he's had.
