Category: media

You can’t have me: why I said no to Crikey

Nearly 20 years ago, my first piece of journalism was published. For a music fan, it was an auspicious beginning: I saw a young You Am I supporting rock behemoths the Beasts of Bourbon at the Mansfield Tavern, one of those great suburban beer barns that gave up on live music long ago. One band was at its peak; the other scaling theirs. My review appeared in a Brisbane street paper, and I was paid $35.

My path was set. Before the cheque had cleared I had spent it, down to the last cent, on an anthology of rock & roll writing. In it, I was introduced to all the greats of the genre: Nick Kent, Lester Bangs, Deborah Frost, Ellen Willis, Greil Marcus and the godfather of music criticism, Crawdaddy! founder Paul Williams, who had a significant personal impact on me. Collectively, these writers taught me everything I knew.

I could always string a decent sentence together, but it still took me years to find my own voice. Like most writers, musicians and artists, I derive little enjoyment from looking back at early work. There can’t be too many rawer forms of growing up in public, and while I still enjoy writing about music, it’s not often these days that I write straight reviews of records or shows, as I did with this piece on Television.

I was pleased with the piece and sent it to The Monthly, who knocked it back on the perfectly reasonable grounds that they already had a music writer. Undaunted, I then offered it to Crikey’s Weekender section. It wasn’t right for that, either, but encouragingly, they handballed it to the just-appointed editor of The Daily Review, Crikey’s newest forthcoming offshoot.

On the same day, a piece written by Tim Kreider for the New York Times appeared on my Facebook feed. I read it with interest. His story was depressingly familiar. “I now contribute to some of the most prestigious publications in the English-speaking world, for which I am paid the same amount as, if not less than, I was paid by my local alternative weekly when I sold my first piece of writing for print in 1989,” he said.

Readers of this blog will know that additions have become rarer in recent times. That’s because it’s almost always unpaid work. When I do get paid, it’s because a piece has been picked up and run elsewhere. Others are sad orphans, rejected by all and sundry, with nowhere else to go. Occasionally, I write something purely for its own sake, but not too often. There is too much other work to be done.

The other reason new entries have been sparse is more personal. For the first half of this year I was caught up in another one of those annoying battles with depression that flatten me from time to time. And a big part of that malaise was the dire state of my industry. I was 42, about to get married (my partner and I accomplished this milestone three weeks ago), and still driving a cab two nights a week to keep going.

The editor of The Daily Review contacted me with what appeared on the face of it to be a plum gig. Writing like mine, he said, was exactly what he wanted to publish. He’d seen the Television piece, and knew of my book. Would I like to be the website’s music writer, covering everything from big stadium events to smaller shows that might be worthy of wider exposure? Jobs such as this are rare indeed.

What’s more, I adore Crikey. A day is not complete without a good laugh (or occasional cry) at cartoonist First Dog on the Moon and a hot, caffeinated shot of federal politics from Bernard Keane. It’s smart, acerbic, funny, and asks questions the old media often won’t, or has forgotten how to. And Eric Beecher, the chair of Private Media, is one of the smartest media minds in the country, as well as a deadly earnest chronicler of journalism’s decline.

What’s coming will probably surprise no one. The Daily Review had no budget for contributors. Submissions would be accepted on a copy-share basis, so that anything published on the site would also appear here on Friction. There was the vaguely hopeful prospect, but not a promise, that I might be paid “something at least” when advertising increased at some time in the undetermined future. I’ve heard that one before.

Twenty years, I thought, and my asking rate has gone from $35 to zero.

Do I need to add it would be great exposure? I have no doubt plenty of eyeballs would have been drawn to this blog that weren’t looking before. And of course, there were all the free gigs I could handle, which actually was reasonably enticing, what with Leonard Cohen touring and the summer festival season at hand. But I have been doing this too long to be in it for the tickets.

What was implied, but unsaid, was that I would also attract eyeballs, and advertising, to The Daily Review. Is it arrogant to point out that I have 20 years’ experience, and have built a reasonable reputation within my field? Isn’t that what normal people do when they fill in selection criteria, submit resumes, and attend interviews? In this case, there was no need: for the first time in my working life, I’d been headhunted.

The sealer was this: the editor (a decent fellow who’d been around the traps for long enough himself; none of this epic complaint letter is directed at him) had sent out a plea on Twitter for a Brisbane-based music writer, and received many enthusiastic replies from people who frankly sounded a lot like me 20 years ago. But that wasn’t what he was after: he wanted “a Crikey-quality writer/reviewer”. And apparently I was the man.

I spoke to him on the phone the next day – after less than a full night’s sleep, having already changed my mind half a dozen times – and told him as politely as I could that if that was the case, then it was reasonable to ask for Crikey-quality rates. These are, by industry standards, rather low, but I said that would be OK, because I respected and believed in the publication, and loved the idea of writing for it regularly.

The editor understood, but there was nothing he could do, other than suggest that if content also suited the main Crikey site, I could be published on that as well, and thus be paid for those pieces. That amounted to the status quo. I suggested a three-month trial – doesn’t everything have a free trial period these days? Again, the spreadsheet said no. I didn’t want to waste any more of his time, or mine, so we paid our regrets, and left it at that.

I’d like to say this was an easy call. It wasn’t. After a while, one gets desperate for the smallest morsel of validation; even the most opaque promises of future reward can make the pot of gold seem close at hand. The desperate are just as easily exploited as the young and keen. But I have spent enough time in my life chasing rainbows. Besides, how would I justify working for free, at my age, to my newly betrothed?

I also thought of my peers, friends and colleagues. If I took the job, I would become complicit in undermining their careers, as well as mine. It felt like providing scab labour, just when so-called content creators were beginning to man the picket lines. I accept that, in writing this, I’m unlikely to get too many more offers from Crikey, but it feels more important to join the chorus of voices saying enough is enough.

I don’t know anything about the business models or balance sheets of Private Media, who publish Crikey. But I think it’s fair to assume that at some point, its principals, Beecher included, sat down in a room together, made a conscious decision to expand their arts and culture coverage, and sallied forth on this new adventure with no budget to remunerate the people best qualified to do the job. This is journalism on credit.

I fail to see how such a strategy does not leave Private Media in the same murky territory as, say, Mia Freedman’s Mamamia (see note and clarification below). Freedman (whom, incidentally, Keane never misses a chance to give a good kicking on Twitter) has done extremely well out of creating the sort of personal cult around herself that her followers are sadly only too honoured to pay homage to in the form of free content.

Unfortunately, I am sure The Daily Review will have no trouble attracting some bright young thing to do the job. There is always someone out there talented and enthusiastic enough, possibly still living at home, unburdened by the responsibilities of adult life. I’ve been watching them skate past me for years. But, while I can’t eat integrity, I couldn’t swallow what was being served up here, either.

(Update: this piece has been reprinted by mUmBRELLA, where Crikey editor Jason Whittaker has left a response.)

(Update #2: this piece has also been reprinted by Collapse Board.)

(Update #3: Mia Freedman has left the following response on mUmBRELLA):

“Hi Andrew,

I agree with Tim: don’t do anything for free if you don’t see a mutual benefit.

However you are incorrect in stating that Mamamia does not pay for content. We do and have been for some time now.

Mamamia and ivillage also employ 10 full time journalists, 8 part-time journalists and a growing number of regular columnists.

We are in the process of hiring more journos at a time when most major media organisations are making them redundant.

Would appreciate you correcting that.”

Apologies to Mia: I missed the news last July that, following prolonged criticism, Mamamia would begin paying its contributors a flat $50 fee for articles. However, as someone who was paid exactly ten times that amount – in 1995! – for my first op-ed column in a newspaper, and never less than $350 since, I have to say (as many others have already) that Mia’s insistence that “newspapers and magazines have traditionally not paid writers of opinion content” is simply not true. I find that a baffling assertion from a professional with so many years in the industry. I’m also sceptical that a profitable and exceptionally popular website that employs 18 journalists is somehow absolved from paying its contributors a fairer rate because it is “not a big media corporation”. Less than 12 months ago, Freedman defended not paying her contributors on the grounds that they were instead receiving, you guessed it, valuable “exposure”. Unfortunately, judging by the comments stream, many of Mamamia‘s fans still consider it an honour to write for the site for nix. So I’m letting that second-last paragraph stand, with a direction to this clarification…

(Update #4: A group of long-serving Crikey bloggers have penned an open letter to freelance writers, imploring them NOT to contribute to The Daily Review. One of the bloggers, Bethanie Blanchard – founder of Liticism – has had a planned paid piece on writer Christos Tsiolkos spiked by Crikey, although Crikey claims this is coincidental. The story has also been reported by The Australian (paywalled).

Brisbane will go on without you, Bridie

It was Tex Perkins who put it best – and most bluntly. “Brisbane you have to leave,” the singer known to his mum as Greg told the Australian edition of Rolling Stone. “You come out of your mother, you go to school, and then you think, oh shit – what am I doing here?” That was 20 years ago.

Young people have been leaving Brisbane for as long as they’ve been coming out of their mothers, to use Tex’s ever so delicate vernacular. It was almost compulsory during the Joh Bjelke-Petersen years – a musician friend of mine remembers the police telling him, point blank, that people like him weren’t welcome in Queensland.

That sort of harassment goes back a long way. Matt Condon’s book Three Crooked Kings, which describes how corruption was allowed to take root in pre-Fitzgerald Queensland, remembers how police commissioner Frank Bischof used to hand out starched and collared shirts and ties to the local bodgies and widgies in the 1950s.

Now, apparently, the writers, musicians and (gasp) hospitality workers are all leaving again, according to the recently decamped Bridie Jabour. I can’t blame her: after all, I too left Brisbane for Sydney when I was 25. I used to walk to work from Paddington to William Street thinking I’d made it. That was my first mistake.

It wasn’t until I accepted a $30,000 salary to be a staff writer on a well-regarded national publication, commuting a couple of hours a day from Bondi to the North Shore for the privilege, that my tempestuous love affair with the Emerald City turned toxic. I’d had her, she’d had me, and I returned to Brisbane, my tail between my legs.

It was a city in the middle of a metamorphosis. And at this point I should point out that I wasn’t originally a Brisbane native: I’d moved up from Melbourne with my parents as a teenager in 1987, the year of Joh for PM; The Moonlight State (as exposed by Four Corners) and the Fitzgerald Inquiry that tore the whole rotten system down.

It’s fair to say that moving from Melbourne to Pig City back then was more like being beamed down onto another planet. At the time, the local wallopers were busy ripping condom vending machines from the walls of university campuses on Bjelke-Petersen’s orders.

The premier had an ally in Bob Katter, then the state minister for Aboriginal Affairs. Condoms, Katter thundered, were despicable things that would do nothing to prevent the spread of AIDS but would encourage the community to have sex with gay abandon. Yes. He really said that.

I had been humbled by my Sydney experience and needed a reason to be back in Brisbane, so I decided to write a book about my adopted home town and its music scene – the same one depleted years earlier by harassment at the hands of Joh’s shock troopers; the same one that had, incredibly, given us the Saints and the Go-Betweens.

By the time of my return in 2000, Powderfinger was the biggest band in the country; Regurgitator (whose singer I’d been to school with) were local legends and Savage Garden – remember them? – had just sold 20 million records in America. From the Saints to Savage Garden: it sort of had a ring to it. How on earth did that happen?

It sure wasn’t by leaving for Sydney: if Bridie wants to find a local scene there, she’s going to have to dig way underground, into the city’s warehouses and house parties, especially now the Annandale Hotel has closed its doors. Once, Sydney was one of the world’s great music cities – in the decade between 1977 to 1987. Not any more.

Sure, others including writers, hospitality workers and maybe even a few tradies, as well as professionals, have moved – to Melbourne. But more have returned, or simply decided to stay, seeing not a responsibility to “take out the trash”, but the opportunities afforded by a growing city.

As a journalist who’s been there, I sympathise with Jabour’s need to leave a medium-sized town in search of new career challenges. But she seems stuck in the “slatternly, ugly” view of Brisbane so poetically described by David Malouf in Johnno. That was in 1975, and he was talking about Brisbane in the decades-past tense even then.

It’s simply not true to say that all the young artists are leaving anyway, as Jabour claims, citing as evidence an ABC story that, in fact, reports the exact opposite. Even if it was, the assumption that only people in their 20s can contribute to a city’s creative life is especially grating.

The truth is that lots of people have used Brisbane as a “professional stepping stone” before Bridie, and plenty more will in the future. The ones who choose to stay, or return, have taken the time to explore the river, and its mangrove-lined creeks and tributaries. They’re teeming with life – if only you have an idea where to look.

The price of outrage

Sometimes a story moves so fast it’s hard to keep up with. Such has been the case with the saga of Alan Jones. I wrote an open letter to 2GB on Saturday evening, shortly after news of Jones’ intemperate remarks to a gathering of Young Liberal students in Sydney broke. I then slept in on Sunday, prior to working my night job.

By the time I’d woken up, I’d already missed half the fun. Jones’ press conference yesterday, purportedly to apologise to the Prime Minister, has already been much discussed, and derided, for its transparent insincerity. To say Jones “doesn’t get it” doesn’t cover it. I shook my head, went to work, and after getting home at six in the morning, I slept late again.

While I was blearily shoving cereal down the hatch at midday, a petition launched by change.org to remove Jones from his duties was collecting over 30,000 signatures. I would guess that very few of them listen to 2GB, but that didn’t stop sponsors from withdrawing from Jones’ program: luxury car maker Mercedes-Benz; supermarket oligarchs Woolworths; tea-makers Dilmah; Freedom Furniture; the list goes on. The moral question for them now is whether or not they’ll resume their support for Jones when the opprobrium abates.

Jones has, of course, been pilloried from all quarters and all sides of politics, though, again, there’s been discussion about the timing and tenor of the condemnations: compare Malcolm Turnbull’s brisk and unequivocal condemnation to Tony Abbott’s relatively tardy and tame one. That’s all grist for the mill for commentators, and for the Labor Party. I’ll leave that there and return to the central theme.

Jones’ remarks would have created outrage at any time in any context. Outrage is, after all, part of his stock in trade. Nonetheless, it’s the timing here that’s really pushed his career to the limit; that forced him to “man up” (and note, even his apologies are gendered: the subtle implication throughout was that Gillard ought to do the same if she wanted to mess with the big boys).

Once, Jones would have scoffed at the most timid suggestion that he apologise. This time it’s different. It’s not just the sheer vindictiveness of what he said; it’s that it marks the symbolic bottoming-out of our public discourse that has been an increasing topic of debate essentially since Tony Abbott assumed the leadership of the Liberal Party.

It comes barely a fortnight after The Daily Telegraph, a newspaper with more than its own share of print-version shock jocks, launched a war on Twitter trolls. That it was a journalist from the same newspaper that broke the yarn (along with, it should be acknowledged, Twitter user @greenat16) is a wonderful irony.

As I wrote to 2GB, I wasn’t sure where they drew their own lines in the sand. But Australians, as I predicted, have drawn it for them, and sent a reminder to our political classes: the level of bile in public debate is starting to make us all sick. And, in this case, it’s social media users that stood up to the real trolls in our society. Not the twerps on Twitter; the ones with real power and influence.

Alan Jones is as entitled to his views as the rest of us. All of us occasionally say things that transgress the bounds of good taste, and nothing Jones said to a private gathering of young Tories was, as far as I can tell, defamatory, discriminatory or an incitement to violence. The same can’t be said of many of his previous utterances.

At the end of the day, the real question is why Jones and his ilk – Sandilands, Jackie O, Ray Hadley and the rest – should be afforded the continuing privilege of a microphone. That’s something that only their audiences, and the advertisers that enable their careers can really answer, but on the weekend they were reminded, again, that outrage cuts both ways – and trafficking in it comes at a cost.

Dear 2GB: an open letter regarding Mr Alan Jones

Dear 2GB,

First, an apology for wasting your time. I don’t listen to your radio station. I don’t even live in Sydney. And no, I’m no fan of Alan Jones; have even had a pop at him in print on the odd occasion. Given the respective size of our audiences, you could safely accuse me of pissing in the wind there.

Still, I feel compelled to write to you. And maybe I’m not even being fair, because Mr Jones didn’t suggest our Prime Minister’s father “died of shame” in his own daughter in the normal course of his duties on your radio station. He was freelancing, as it were, speaking to a gathering of about 100 Young Liberals in Sydney. Apparently they thought it was a brilliant speech. Perhaps I should take it up with them.

But the fact is that 2GB employs Mr Jones. He represents you – and your advertisers. And, as you would well know, he has form. It wasn’t that long ago that he suggested – repeatedly – that the Prime Minister be put in a chaff bag and dumped at sea.

I know, I know. The Australian Communication and Media Authority decided we shouldn’t take Mr Jones seriously there. That he, in his role as a mere entertainer, was simply expressing his contempt for the PM’s policies, and didn’t personally mean any harm. It’s not his fault if some whackjob out there decides one day he wants to make good on such threats.

The ACMA, presumably, doesn’t have jurisdiction over what Mr Jones says at a private gathering to a bunch of supplicating fans. That’s as may be. We do have freedom of speech in this country, and as abhorrent as his comments were, they weren’t illegal, nor should they be.

So I’m glad to take the opportunity to write to you, publicly and privately, to express my disgust.

And I did feel disgust. I know Mr Jones is paid well, in part, for his controversial views: we may not like them, but he’s difficult to ignore (much as, mostly, I do my best). But that couldn’t stop the wave of bile that collected in my stomach when I read of his comments, and listened to the audio. I was genuinely sickened. I’m sure most decent people would feel the same way.

You are doubtless aware of the increasing debate about the standard of public debate in this country, and the lack of civility in public discourse. And I am aware that, as a talkback radio station, you place a premium on broadcasters with robust views who attract a large and loyal base of listeners; not just Mr Jones, but Ray Hadley, Steve Price and Chris Smith. Yours is not an industry for shrinking violets.

My question to you, though, is simple. Where do you draw the line?

Well, I’m not sure where you draw it. But I suspect you’re about to find out where others draw it, because I anticipate that many of your advertisers won’t be too keen on continuing to extend their patronage to a broadcaster vicious enough to publicly heap shame on a grieving person for effectively killing her father.

You would also be well aware, of course, of the current debate surrounding trolling, since Mr Hadley has recently called on the government for “some form of regulation” of Twitter, after he found himself the subject of what he said were “criminally defamatory allegations” on the micro-blogging site. There has to be protection, he says, for “average people”.

Including, I would suggest, average people like the PM. Because Julia Gillard is not just a woman; not just the PM; she is a human being. Had Mr Jones made such comments on Twitter, they would – if reported – likely have seen him suspended or banned from the service.

Mr Jones is the voice of your radio station, if not the face. He is, of course, immensely popular with your listeners, and that has seen both he and 2GB through many a scrape together as he has repeatedly tested the boundaries of truth and taste in public broadcasting.

I put it to you that, on this occasion, Jones has gone far beyond the bounds of fair comment, and that even though his remarks were not made on 2GB, their extraordinary viciousness calls for some act of censure on your part. I therefore call on you to, at the very least:

* Publicly disassociate yourself from his statements, and

* Insist on him publicly and unreservedly apologising to the Prime Minister, both in writing and on his program, and

* Should that apology not be immediately forthcoming, demonstrate that you are serious about disowning his views by sacking him.

Because, as much as the bar has been lowered – and notwithstanding the role talkback radio has played in lowering it – there are still some standards, some benchmarks of common decency, to be upheld in public life. I hope this marks the point where 2GB quits playing limbo, and demonstrates that you have a mature role to play in public debate beyond rabble-rousing.

Calling out trolls from the cave

Amid all the brouhaha about trolling, trolls and what is to be done about them, one simple fact has been mostly overlooked. And that is at least in its more extreme forms, trolling is already illegal. You only have to look at Part 10.6 of the Criminal Code.

That part of the code provides that a person may be guilty of an offence if they use a carriage service to menace, harass or cause offence. This is defined by the “reasonable person” test: that is, what a reasonable person might find offensive “in all the circumstances”. Sounds a bit nebulous, doesn’t it?

Most reasonable people, though, would find the behaviour of Bradley Paul Hampson offensive. Hampson was sentenced to three years’ jail in March 2011 (later commuted to six months) for defacing the Facebook pages of two murdered children with child exploitation material.

A year earlier, a woman was handed a suspended sentence for a similar offence. The trolls who buried Charlotte Dawson’s Twitter feed under an avalanche of invitations to commit suicide might have cause to be nervous, as would the halfwit who taunted Wests Tigers’ captain Robbie Farah over his mother’s passing.

Then there’s James Vincent McKenzie. McKenzie is the nom de plume used by the person who has devoted years to systematically stalking/defaming writer Marieke Hardy on his Google-owned blogspot. The difficulty, as with the Twitter trolls, lies with finding the ISP behind the account, to unmask the person behind the screen.

Unfortunately, Hardy’s attempt to name and shame her persecutor on Twitter late last year backfired when she identified the wrong man, Joshua Meggitt. Hardy herself was then sued for defamation, and Meggitt is now also attempting to sue Twitter which – like Google – insists it is not responsible for defamatory content.

Of course, there’s trolling and there’s trolling. The majority of those who disrupt and derail online discussions are nothing more than perpetual irritants, and most of us simply swat them away as we would blowflies in a pub. Dealing with them is mostly a matter for moderators, not the law.

It’s how to deal with the Hampsons and McKenzies of the world that is causing such grief. What steps can we take to bring to account those abusing online anonymity in such a grotesque manner? And what are the wider implications, both for privacy and freedom of speech?

Just as importantly, how do we deal with such harassment and vilification when it touches us on a personal level? If ignoring bullies were easy, they would likely never have existed, either in the playground or the ether. Not everyone is born with a thick skin, and there will always be cretins who seek to exploit their vulnerability.

The bottom line is no one should have to put up with threats of physical and sexual violence, defamation of one’s character, or racist or homophobic taunts – not in the real world, not even on the football field (or in football crowds). So it’s hard to justify why it’s any more acceptable online, even in defence of privacy or anonymity.

One popular solution, adopted by Hardy, Dawson and Sady Doyle (who initiated the #mencallmethings campaign on Twitter) is to call out bullies through exposure: by retweeting comments, often to far more followers than a bully can hope to reach him/herself, the principle is to shame them into more sociable behaviour.

Here’s the problem with this method: it doesn’t work. There’s plenty of evidence showing trolls lack empathy for others, and it would be easy to assume they have no shame, either. But that would be wrong, since evidence also suggests that trolls suffer from profound lack of self-worth, feeling unworthy of acceptance and belonging.

Dr Brené Brown, a researcher specialising in shame and empathy at the University of Houston, Texas, writes that shame is likely to be a source of destructive behaviour, rather than a solution to it. She points out that it’s not shame that stops most of us from hurting or offending others; rather, it’s empathy and positive self-regard.

Since shaming is likely to further decrease self-regard, so too it inhibits one’s capacity for empathy. This reinforces to tendency towards anti-social behaviour. (There is a difference, too, between shame and guilt: shame is about the self, whereas guilt is about the behaviour: “I am bad” versus “I did something bad.”)

That insight has implications for not only how we deal with bullies in the online world, but also in the real one. Retweeting offensive comments works on about the same level as victim impact statements: it offers some emotional redress for the wronged, but sadly it’s likely to have little positive impact on the wrongdoers.

All this, I’m painfully aware, gets us no closer to a solution. For now, only the law as it stands offers any protection to victims of serious online bullying. The question is how to enforce those laws against those whose position in cyberspace, for now, keeps them beyond its reach.

First published in The Age, 12 September 2012

It’s OK to steal, cos it’s so nice to share

In 2001, American alt-country singer Gillian Welch released a song that, in her ever-so-quiet way, excoriated the download generation. Everything Is Free made a crucial observation: that musicians, artists and writers would keep creating content regardless of whether anyone actually wanted to pay for it or not.

“Everything is free now,” she sang plaintively. “That’s what they say / Everything I ever done / Gotta give it away / Someone hit the big score / They figured it out / That we’re gonna do it anyway / Even if it doesn’t pay.”

That drive – the physical compulsion to create – has always been at the centre of the artist’s core. They don’t choose to live in penury as such: poverty is simply the most common by-product of the fact that one doesn’t really choose to be an artist, either. It’s something that more often chooses you.

Welch wrote the song just before file-sharing service Napster was taken to the cleaners in the courts, but the damage was already done. Who wanted to pay for anything they could get for free anymore? Loudon Wainwright III put Welch’s viewpoint more pungently in another song, Something For Nothing: “It’s OK to steal, ’cause it’s so nice to share.”

Which brings me to a brief selection of comments on The Age’s website that followed the news [on 18 June] that it would be moving to a paid subscription model.

“There is no need to pay for news when it’s so readily available on the internet for free,” says “Problem?”. “People won’t pay for the news when an alternative source is just a mouse click away,” concurs “The Redback”. “You charge for online and you will be destroyed,” threatens “Tony”.

And then this: “If you want to sell more papers, inprove [sic] the quality of your articles and pay journalists what they are worth,” says “Homer Ridgemoore”. Pay them more? With what, exactly? You simply can’t pay for journalists, or anything approaching serious journalism, without a secure revenue base.

It’s the collapse of that base that’s resulted in the staff sackings, the outsourcing of sub-editing and rationalising of content. Most critically, the resources required for the pursuit of serious and lengthy investigations conducted in the name of the public interest are in real jeopardy.

There’s rarely the time for those investigations, either. The impatience of the 24-hour news cycle ensures that. A diminution of quality and diversity is the inevitable result. Fair enough, then, that no one wants to pay for a dodgy product.

We should surely, though, be prepared to pay for a better one.

Of course, readers never underpinned the salaries of journalists – advertising did that – so no one blames consumers for the parlous state of the industry. But if the likes of Homer and Tony don’t think their sense of entitlement isn’t even a little cog in this vicious circle, they’re kidding themselves.

It’s one thing to chip away at the already pitiful incomes of songwriters by downloading. Welch and Wainwright, with worldwide fan bases, are probably two of the luckier ones. And, as Welch promised, they’re gonna do it anyway.

But if you think you’re entitled to high-quality news content for free – and will continue to get it – then you’re not only deluded, you’re chipping away at something much bigger. Other than the ideologues concerned only with the destruction of their enemies, we’ve all got a stake in maintaining a plurality of voices in this country.

As Martin McKenzie-Murray pointed out, while it’s true the internet has provided us with a greater diversity of voices than ever before, we can’t expect citizen journalists to uncover the stories that really matter while working around their day jobs.

Nor can we expect their work to be treated with the same respect. That may sound like an odd thing to say, given that trust in commercial media is at a low ebb, but in the corridors of power at least, working for an old masthead still carries with it the force of imprimatur that a blogger will never have.

If readers genuinely want to see traditional news media survive and thrive online into the next millennium, then one thing they’re going to have to let go of is the idea that they can have it for nothing. Unfortunately, that idea’s been allowed to take root for more than a decade.

Without readers who are willing to take some ownership of the news media themselves – in the same way they used to when the morning papers they subscribed to were tossed on their front lawns, to be digested with their coffee and toast – the 1900 people about to be thrown out of work will be just the beginning.

Some of them, at least, might take solace in Gillian Welch’s words. “I could get a straight job / I’ve done it before / Never minded working hard / It’s who I’m working for.”

First published by The Age, 27 June 2012