Devin S. Norris is a Los Angeles-based composer whose music has appeared in thousands of productions from M3GAN to Euphoria. He’s also created music for brands including Microsoft and Mercedes-Benz, as well as a T-Mobile Super Bowl commercial. He enjoys making music for his lo-fi artist project dv/sn and writing about the absurdity of the music industry.
Across the world of music composition, there’s titans and peasants. There’s superstars and street buskers. Like any industry, the upper-crust feasts. Even while composers stuff their faces in decadence, they can be as mercurial as a diva complaining about the Skittles color in the green room. To be a composer that’s landed an A-list gig, they’ve been through some shit. Years of assisting more established composers, demanding under-appreciated work, and middle-of-the-night Budapest studio sessions. I had my opportunity to enter the A-list film composition world at the bottom, but when faced with having to abandon all my side hustles and gigs, I decided to continue my grind. Upper-crust composers understandably have standards for what they’re willing to write, and demand to be paid above market value for extra work. When problems arise, that’s when I get a call. The Roomba under the table gobbling up the musical crumbs.
Behind every public facing star, there’s hordes of worker ants keeping the lights on. We work in the dark, ignored by recognition and awards. We sully our hands with the refuse of our fields, sweating through our white collars. We’re not the top shelf liquor, but the well stuff that’ll get you just as tipsy. Few people study our music, or even notice it. Yet they hear it.
A client reached out needing a remix. It would be a satirical remix, the kind of stuff you see on social media. Imagine a politician repeating the same mispronounced word set to a dance beat. The idea was that a kid at a party would remix the clip to a beat, humiliating the voicemail’s author. Somehow in my career as a professional composer, I’d found myself making a troll remix, as if I were back in a dorm room smelling of body odor and stale beer.
Why was I called? Composers aren’t always willing or able to compose niche music like this. It also may just not be worth the headache to re-open contract negotiation. I, on the other hand, was hungry for work. I immediately said yes, and would figure out the details later. I pumped the remix out within 24 hours, dropping any plans or projects to prioritize the joke song.
In the show, the character made the remix in a matter of seconds, vocal chops, synth instrumentals, and sound design composed with a few clicks on his phone. Teenagers around the pool started chanting the remix to my beat. I can imagine nobody bothered to think where this bizarre remix came from, nor could they have found the author if they tried. But that didn’t matter, the crumb had turned into a meal. As I watched the final scene, I realized the show had portrayed my intricate arrangement as achievable with but a few swipes on a phone. I cackled to myself. The absurdity was like creating of a fine oil painting in a minute.
I’m used to the lack of recognition. But how should I feel when my work gets attributed to a fictional character? Comments on the scene’s YouTube video praised the character for their clever remix, with little thought to the true author behind it. I’m no stranger to working in the shadows, but fighting for recognition with an imaginary person was something new.
Often, productions will need music that doesn’t exist; that’s where I can help. A production was searching for a muzak version of a Phil Collins song, an incredibly niche request. They wanted cheesy ‘80s music. The type of stuff you might hear in an elevator as you stand next to a stranger smelling of tuna salad. The kind of music used as the wait song when holding for the IRS. This kind of music has poor connotations, but I didn’t care. I bumped up the “cheesy” knob on my keyboard and created the most boring, realistic elevator song you’ve ever heard. My artistry was no longer influenced by my integrity at all, I had become an unfeeling mercenary. And I loved it.
The thing about feeding on crumbs is you don’t get to choose your meals. An annoying golden doodle doesn’t get a menu when offered your sister-in-law’s burnt brussels sprouts under the table. While I’ve trained my whole life to create high quality music, what happens when a client needs bad music?
I was once required to masquerade as an amateur musician, as the production needed music for the rehearsal of a garage band. My team did our best to authentically record bass flubs, wrong keyboard notes, and the inane noodling of a guitarist that can’t help themselves. I’m always asked to create high quality music, but this strange turn into Guitar Center needed the kinda shit that makes you call the cops on your mid-life-crisis neighbor. I kept thinking to myself, I’ve dedicated thousands of hours to my craft to be able to mimic wannabe musicians.
There’s one question every commercial artist must ask themselves: can there still be artistic integrity in functional art? Like a medieval balance scale manipulated by the greedy merchant, the commercial establishment cheats by paying my bills. On the other side, the pristine beauty of uncompromised creation sings its sweet song in my ear. In my youth, I thought I could juggle careers of both commercial success and artistic integrity. As I’ve matured, I now know that was but a foolish dream. I kept my mouth agape for more scraps.
When productions use a song, they like to have the instrumental version handy for editing purposes. They may want to take out vocals during dialogue, or sometimes just use the instrumental version in full. This can be a problem when instrumental versions of older songs aren’t available. That’s when we were contacted, to re-create the instrumental for a popular punk song. We went second by second, matching each sound exactly to the original (minus the vocals), and in the end I could barely tell the difference between our product and the original. As I tuned in to watch our song in the show, it was used for three seconds as a hold song. All our work had achieved a three-second joke.
Every kid dreams of stardom, but does anyone strive to be a quality control specialist for blenders? Glamour is a mirage, and the baggage that comes with true fame hell on its own. While some view their artistic integrity as a shield, my lack of it acts as a catalyst for my earning power. Each step feels inconsequential until suddenly you’re the ornate crumb catcher at the edge of a steakhouse table. All that being said, I wouldn’t change a thing if I were to do it all over again. I wake up each morning excited for what the day may bring. And I’m damn good at what I do.
Having a career in music is insanely difficult. Out of the masses of supremely talented musicians I’ve known, only a fraction remain in the industry. One must find their niche, or amalgamation of niches like a high stakes game of musical chairs. Those without a chair have to ask mom and dad if their old room is still available. Some may consider the work I do demeaning, or artistically bankrupt. I’ve seen particular condescension from those pursuing music as a hobby, or bankrolled by daddy’s trust fund. To these artistic purists, I keep my head down and keep grinding. I get to make music every day. In the naivety of my youth, I may have been disappointed with the type of music I make. Now, with the hindsight of a veteran, a fatigued smile crosses my face as I make my mortgage payment each month.
