Sugar Man

Sixto Rodriguez. Creates two beautiful albums of Dylan inspired Psych-folk in the early 70s. Nobody buys them, he disappears. Develops a following through word of mouth and bootleg tapes in the southern hemisphere, but doesn’t find out until his daughter reads about it on the internet in the late 90s.

It’s a tale that gives hope to all of us out there just waiting to be discovered: the self-satisfied, self-anointed creative elite - the scandalously ignored artistic geniuses among us. Of course you might need to be willing to wait 30 years, and may only develop a cult following in countries that don’t have markets big enough to financially reward you for your patience.

Sixto’s story shows the kind of luck involved in commercial success. Producing good music is not enough. You have to whore yourself out to promotion duties, which Rodriguez was unwilling to do, and catch the ear of the right radio DJ or A & R exec. Nothing is guaranteed, and talent often goes unnoticed. If manufactured pop stars are rewarded for their meager abilities in the millions, then it is only just that Sixto should be able to afford a nice beach house somewhere. But justice and the music business do not share strong ties. Bad taste conquers common decency, which turns out not to be as widespread as its name would suggest. Yet Sixto is still out there, pedaling his decades old tunes to those with the sense and goodwill to listen, playing the old dive bars he sung about, searching for the sugar man. Turns out you can’t keep a good dog down.