The Artistry of Agency.

To the general public, the common perception of agents, managers, promoters and artist representatives generally falls into two categories: greedy opportunists who happily fleece the public, and greedy manipulators of the artists under their charge. Two sides of the same coin.

For venue managers and other professionals in the performing arts, opinions about agents are more nuanced and largely shaped by personal experience. They recognize that some agents are unscrupulous individuals who exploit the artists they represent. However, there are also agents who are dedicated champions for their clients, striving diligently to cultivate and advance their talent for the benefit of both the artist and the audience. Maurice Strakosch is a prime example of the latter.

Prior to 1850, the modern division of labor between "artist" and "agent" didn't exist. Artists were either sponsored by the royal court or promoted themselves. Strakosch was one of the first to change that dynamic. Born in Moravia in 1825, Strakosch’s early life followed the usual trajectory of a musician. In addition to his training as a concert pianist, he trained as a tenor under the operatic soprano Giuditta Pasta. When she gently suggested his vocal gifts were insufficient, Strakosch didn't abandon the opera house; instead, he pivoted toward managing the career of others. Arriving in America in 1848, Strakosch came to a young nation that possessed great wealth but lacked any semblance of support for performing artists. It was here that he met the Italian tenor Salvatore Patti. Strakosch not only managed Patti's career, but he also married Patti's daughter, Amalia. Crucially, he also served as the musical mentor and mastermind behind the illustrious career of Salvatore's youngest daughter, Adelina Patti, who became a nineteenth-century operatic superstar. The Taylor Swift of her time, if you will.

Strakosch went on to have a long career in artist management, and was well known for his supporting, if perhaps paternalistic care for the artists under his wing. In 1886 he wrote his memoirs, Souvenirs d'un Impresario, and recalled a story about one of his singers, a young Minnie Hauck, preparing for her debut as Violetta in Verdi's La Traviata. Strakosch described the pivotal scene where the scorned Alfredo flings his gambling winnings at Violetta's feet to publicly degrade her: "She was not yet sixteen years old when she sang at the Théâtre des Italiens in Paris. At the rehearsals of La Traviata, she was so naive and knew so little of the ways of a certain world that she asked what she was supposed to do with the banknotes that Alfredo throws at Violetta during the ballroom scene. She did not quite know if she should consider them a gift and whether it might be proper to keep them." He also said that during rehearsals for La sonnambula (The Sleepwalker), instead of pretending she was asleep, Minnie actually fell asleep, and they had to wake her up.

When Strakosch died in 1887, the New York Times wrote: "Almost half a century of the history of Italian opera might be written with the biography of Maurice Strakosch, who knew well, or brought out himself, the stars that shone in it, vocalists, instrumentalists, and composers."

At the other end of the spectrum we find Phineas Taylor Barnum. A contemporary of Strakosch, he was nothing close to a musician, and more likely had a tin ear. Nevertheless, in 1850 he risked his fortune to launch the American premiere of Jenny Lind, the "Swedish Nightingale," which propelled his career as the premiere promoter of entertainment.

P.T. Barnum did not pretend to be anything other than a showman. He hired, promoted, and exploited anyone or anything that might make him a buck. His later foray into the circus didn't come until 1870. That venture, along with his "profitable philanthropy," would help burnish his image. But he was still at heart a huckster. When he died in 1891, the New York Times said: "To a great many people, the first thought that his death brings is that he was the prince of hum-bugs, but this is a notion altogether false and inadequate. It was his pride and boast, from the beginning of his career until the end of it, that he gave the people who went to see his various and diverse shows 'the worth of their money.'"

Strakosch's legacy was defined by the performers he discovered, nurtured, and developed. Barnum's legacy was defined by the transaction, which was anything that was deemed "the worth of their money." From P.T. Barnum to Elvis Presley's manager Colonel Tom Parker (another huckster with carnival roots), to "Boy Band" manager Lou Pearlman (at the time of his death serving a 25 year sentence for a billion dollar Ponzi scheme), it's not surprising that the general public maintains such a dim view of artist agents. They're only known because their notoriety is notorious.

In my experience, most artist agents and managers are decent, earnest, culturally savvy people. They can be found in small boutique agencies representing niche performing arts companies, and they can be found deep in the bowels of monolithic corporate agencies. They negotiate in good faith, and do their best to manage the interests of their clients, however challenging that can be at times. It's a tough, thankless job, and to the general public, nearly invisible. I am grateful to consider more than a few of them as my friend, and grateful that they are in the mix; continuing to find rare talent, and working to develop them into the artists they are meant to be. They are the unsung Strakoschites of this business.