The Streaming Prosperity Illusion

How Platform Capitalism Keeps Artists Poor by Design

For decades, we've been told that digital streaming platforms are the great democratisers of music - that technology, competition, and global reach would naturally lift artists out of poverty and give everyone a fair shot at musical success. This idea has been repeated so often by tech evangelists and music industry leaders that it's rarely questioned.

Yet the evidence increasingly shows that platform capitalism doesn't just fail to create artist prosperity - it actively deepens musical poverty while concentrating unprecedented wealth among a tiny elite of tech billionaires and global superstars.

Welcome to the streaming prosperity illusion, where musicians work harder than ever just to stay afloat while the rewards flow upward to people who've never created a single note of music but are really, really good at building addictive apps.

In Australia, one of the world's most developed music markets, and most developed economies, talented unsigned artists have become a permanent fixture at below-poverty-line incomes. According to recent research, the majority of professional musicians earn less than minimum wage from their craft, while streaming platforms post record profits and their CEOs buy increasingly ridiculous mansions. Despite creating all the content that generates platform revenue, most artists cannot afford rent, equipment, or basic living expenses from their music alone. Many survive on a diet of instant noodles, second jobs and broken dreams, seasoned with the occasional "exposure" payment.

Far from ending musical poverty, platform capitalist policies have entrenched it, rewarding tech shareholders and algorithmic manipulation while punishing creativity and cultural contribution. It's like a reverse Robin Hood situation, except instead of stealing from the rich to give to the poor, we're stealing from the creative to give to the already-stupidly-wealthy.

Globally, the picture is even more stark. In many parts of Africa, Asia, and Latin America, streaming platform expansion has devastated local music economies with the efficiency of a corporate wrecking ball. Radio stations that once supported local artists are replaced by algorithmic playlists favouring international hits (because apparently what rural Kenya really needs is more Ed Sheeran). Local music distribution networks get dismantled by global platforms that extract revenue offshore faster than you can say "tax haven." Traditional music industry jobs disappear while the new "opportunities" created are often precarious gig work with no rights, no security, and payments so small they're essentially worthless.

“This isn't accidental or a temporary market inefficiency that will eventually correct itself. Platform capitalism depends on this inequality like plants depend on sunlight. It requires a constant pool of desperate artists competing for algorithmic scraps, surplus creative labour willing to work for exposure instead of payment (because you can't pay rent with TikTok engagement, despite what influencers might suggest), and dispossessed musical communities surrendering their cultural infrastructure and their collective bargaining power to maximise tech company profits. Artist poverty isn't a bug - it's a feature.”

Alan Krueger's "Rockonomics" brilliantly demonstrates how the music industry has always been characterised by extreme inequality, but streaming platforms have turbocharged this dynamic beyond anything we've seen before. The old music industry had problems (oh boy, did it have problems), but at least successful artists could build sustainable careers from album sales and radio play. Platform capitalism has eliminated even that possibility for all but the most globally successful acts, turning most musicians into digital sharecroppers working someone else's algorithmic plantation.

The trickle-down economics of streaming promised that platform growth would eventually benefit artists, that global reach would create more opportunities, that technology would democratise success. But after more than a decade of streaming dominance, we can see clearly that wealth doesn't trickle down - it flows up in a torrent to platform shareholders. And why we thought it would be different, frankly, confounds me.

We have to understand this. The music streaming economy operates on the same extractive principles as any other form of platform capitalism. It’s not different because it's a little harder to feel sorry for artists when they're doing something "fun". Uber drivers work harder for less money while Uber shareholders get richer. Amazon delivery drivers struggle with impossible quotas while Jeff Bezos builds space rockets that look suspiciously like compensation for something. Spotify artists need millions of streams to pay rent while Daniel Ek invests in military AI technology, because apparently underpaying musicians wasn't morally questionable enough for one portfolio.

Platforms extract value from the workers who generate all the value, then redistribute that wealth to shareholders who contribute nothing except capital and the kind of technological control that would make even the most cynical dystopian novelists say "that's a bit much, isn't it?" It’s not new, and it’s not fair.

The global expansion of streaming platforms replicates colonial extraction patterns in digital form. Just as historical colonialism extracted raw materials from colonised territories to enrich imperial centres, streaming platforms extract cultural content from local music scenes to enrich massive tech companies. Local artists create the music, local communities provide the audiences, but the profits flow to distant shareholders who view culture as just another resource to be mined and monetised.

The few success stories get highlighted endlessly - the artists who "made it" through streaming, the overnight viral sensations, the global breakthrough acts that make everyone believe they could be next. But these exceptions prove the rule rather than contradicting it. Lottery advertisements always feature winners rather than the millions of people who bought losing tickets. For every artist who achieves streaming success, millions more struggle in digital poverty and invisibility, competing against impossible algorithmic odds designed to favour already-successful acts with major label marketing budgets the size of small country GDPs.

The streaming prosperity myth relies on confusing technological possibility with economic reality. Yes, any artist can theoretically upload music to streaming platforms and reach global audiences. But practically, reaching those audiences requires competing against major label artists with million-dollar marketing campaigns, playlist placement deals, and algorithmic manipulation tools that independent artists could never afford, unless they happen to have a tame billionaire lying around (and if you do, can I borrow them?).

Having access to the platform doesn't mean having access to the platform's benefits. That’s akin to saying everyone has equal opportunity to succeed in capitalism because everyone can start a business - while ignoring that success requires capital, connections, privilege, and market power that aren't equally distributed. It's like saying everyone can become a professional athlete because gyms exist, while ignoring that most of us (read: me) can barely touch our toes without making embarrassing grunting noises.

But to us, all of the grossness aforementioned aside, the most insidious aspect of streaming platform capitalism is how it's convinced artists to be grateful for their own exploitation.

Musicians celebrate getting onto playlists that pay them fractions of cents per stream - and we're talking actual fractions here, not the kind your maths teacher pretended were useful in real life. They compete desperately for algorithmic attention while the platforms profit massively from their desperation. It's a masterclass in making exploitation seem like opportunity, taught by professors who graduated magna cum laude from the School of Corporate Gaslighting.

“The solution isn't to reform platform capitalism or hope that tech billionaires will suddenly develop consciences about artist welfare (bahahahahaaaaa). The solution is to support and build genuine alternatives that prioritise artist prosperity.”

The Pack Music Cooperative represents exactly this alternative - an emerging streaming platform owned by artists and communities rather than extractive shareholders, with transparent economics that ensure 70% of revenue flows directly to creators rather than disappearing into corporate profit margins.

When artists own the platform, the incentives change. The power structures change.

If we're serious about ending musical poverty, we have to stop pretending that platform capitalism is a neutral or benevolent force.

It isn’t. It's a system that deliberately prioritises profit extraction over artistic sustainability, and until that changes, musical poverty will remain not just widespread, but systemic.

The streaming prosperity illusion has had its day. It's time for streaming prosperity reality - and that reality is cooperative. Join us today - you won’t regret it.

Join The Pack here. Support our Crowdfunding Campaign here.