Catalogs and Cash:

Category: Culture

  • The End of The Late Show Is a Blow to the Middle Class of the Music Industry

    Stephen Colbert wrapping up The Late Show is more than the end of another late-night program. It’s the end of one of the last mainstream stages for the middle class of music.

    Late night was never really about superstars. Taylor Swift doesn’t need The Late Show. The real value was for legacy acts, indie bands, respected touring artists, and musicians one great performance away from reaching a wider audience.

    That was the power of the format.

    You came for the monologue. You stayed for the celebrity guest. Then suddenly there was an artist you weren’t looking for — maybe an Americana band, a rock legend, a jazz act, a rising singer-songwriter — performing live from the Ed Sullivan Theater in front of a national audience.

    That kind of discovery matters because algorithms don’t really create discovery anymore. They create prediction.

    Spotify, TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram increasingly serve users what they’re most likely to engage with next. Late night operated differently. It was curated. Human. Sequential. You sat through things that weren’t necessarily optimized for you personally. And sometimes that friction introduced you to artists you never would’ve searched for yourself.

    That ecosystem disproportionately helped music’s middle tier.

    The biggest stars will survive. The Taylor Swifts and Dua Lipas of the world have massive built-in distribution. But the musicians in the middle — the artists who can sell out theaters, tour successfully, and build meaningful careers without dominating streaming — just lost another major promotional platform.

    And these performances mattered historically, too.

    For decades, late-night television quietly built one of the most underrated live music archives in entertainment. Thousands of performances across Letterman, Colbert, Conan, Fallon, Kimmel, and others now exist scattered across corporate vaults, YouTube uploads, licensing limbo, and forgotten hard drives. Some are online. Some disappeared. Some may never officially resurface.

    That’s part of the hidden catalog story here.

    The death of late night isn’t just about television ratings. It’s about the erosion of cultural infrastructure — the slow disappearance of shared mainstream spaces that once helped sustain careers between obscurity and superstardom.

    And when those spaces disappear, the people most affected usually aren’t the elites at the top.

    It’s the middle class.

  • Does the Popular Music Canon Still Matter in the Streaming Era?

    The popular music canon used to feel easier to describe. There was a clearer sense of which artists, albums, and songs “everybody knew,” and mass media reinforced that hierarchy. Radio, MTV, major magazines, retail displays, and a smaller field of choices all helped create concentration. In the streaming era, that concentration has weakened. Audiences have more music, more access, more algorithms, and more ways to build highly individualized listening habits. So the question is worth asking: does the popular music canon still matter?

    It does, but not in exactly the same way. The canon may be less centralized than it once was, yet it still shapes behavior, value, and cultural memory. In fact, the catalog market depends on it. When investors pay serious money for older songs, they are making a bet that some works have durable recognition beyond temporary trend cycles. That is another way of saying they believe a canon still exists, even if its borders are blurrier than before.

    One change is that the canon is now more modular. Instead of one universally agreed upon ladder, we have overlapping canons. There is the rock canon, the hip-hop canon, the country canon, the R&B canon, the classic pop canon, and increasingly micro-canons formed by online communities, fan cultures, and generational nostalgia. This fragmentation can make the culture feel less unified, but it does not eliminate the economic importance of recognized works. It simply means recognition may live in clusters rather than in one national monoculture.

    Streaming has changed the mechanics of familiarity. People may hear more total hours of music than earlier generations, but their attention is spread across a vastly larger field. That can weaken the concentration once enjoyed by the most dominant catalog artists. At the same time, streaming also makes rediscovery easier. A song from decades ago can reappear through playlists, social media clips, movie placements, or algorithmic recommendations. That means the canon may be less imposed from above, but it can still regenerate from below.

    Another important shift is that image, context, and narrative now play a larger role in how listeners approach older music. A younger fan may not arrive at a classic artist through linear radio exposure. They may arrive through a fashion story, a documentary, a TikTok trend, a podcast, or a biopic. Canon formation is no longer purely musical. It often depends on adjacent cultural channels that reactivate interest.

    This has consequences for catalog value. The old idea of canon implied permanence. The newer version implies resilience. A canonical work today is not simply a song everyone was once told was great. It is a song that can survive format change, playlist culture, algorithmic competition, and shifting audience attention. That kind of resilience is precisely what makes older catalogs investable.

    Still, there is a real challenge. If attention continues fragmenting, it becomes harder for any one body of work to dominate the way previous generations’ giants did. Future canon formation may be weaker, slower, or more contested. That matters because today’s catalog valuations often rely on assumptions about long-term cultural durability. If the culture becomes too diffuse, the economic premium attached to canonical status may become harder to sustain.

    Yet there is a counterpoint. In times of abundance, trusted reference points can become more valuable, not less. When listeners face overwhelming choice, they often return to the familiar, the validated, and the emotionally legible. Canonical songs retain an advantage because people already know what they are. They carry memory, social proof, and repeat utility. Weddings, parties, movies, playlists, sports events, and background listening all reward songs that are already embedded in shared life.

    So does the popular music canon still matter in the streaming era? Yes, but it behaves differently. It is less singular, less top-down, and more dependent on ongoing cultural reinforcement. It is not obsolete. It is evolving. For artists, estates, and investors, the lesson is that catalog value now depends not just on historical greatness, but on the ongoing ability of that greatness to stay visible in a crowded world. The canon still matters because familiarity still matters. And in music, familiarity remains one of the strongest economic assets there is.