Unpaid Intern Maddy Court Talks About Life On The Street.

Editor’s note: Unpaid Intern Maddy Court recently quit her job as a street team member for a major music marketing firm. Here, she recounts the trials and tribulations of her former occupation.

The best advice I’ve ever gotten was to never to start an article with a quotation. The second best was from an ex-traveling salesman who said, “Sometimes in life, people won’t want want you’re selling and there’ll be nothing you can do.”

But what if you’re giving away something for free and people still don’t want it? As a former street team member for a music marketing firm, I was faced with that question on a weekly basis.

The first few times I went on a drop, passing out sample CDs or fliers to randos outside of concerts, I brought a friend with me for moral support. There is something truly terrifying about going up to a stranger, asking them to take your promotional doodad, and snapping their photo to prove to your boss that you didn’t just toss the Everclear frisbees (*) and call it a day. By my fourth or so gig, I developed an apathy to being told, “No,” ignored and/or ridiculed.

I call this the “rejection muscle” because it gets stronger with exercise. It also helps to know your demographic.

I aimed for people with bags or purses because “Gee, thanks so much but I don’t have anywhere to put it” is an excuse I g0t a lot. People with concert merch are the best because they’re already in an aquisitional mood. I looked for couples because they tend to be friendly, though it’s obnoxious when they only take one CD to share. People standing by themselves are the trickiest – I could never tell if they might want someone to talk to while they wait for friends, or want to be left alone because they’re cranks.

I steered clear of aging hipsters for obvious reasons.

For all my ire, giving free things to strangers was a chill-ass job. It was snapping the photo that complicated things. For about one out of every 15 people, this was a deal breaker. Sometimes people loosened up when I explained that I get paid per photo. If I couldn’t convince them to take a photo – even one from the neck down, I just let them keep it. After all, the shit I peddled was heavy. In fact, the only time I was ever glad about the impending death of print was while hauling a tote bag full of Julian Casablancas mini-magazines from Market East to South Street.

Every once in a while, someone thought the fact that I was giving out CDs made me an authority on music and the fact that I was on the street meant they could act like total dicks while I just stood there.

One crotchety dude wanted to talk about the greatness of Teddy Pendergrass and called me an ignorant fool when he found out I’d never heard of Teddy Pendergrass. I’ve since Googled.

My proudest moment was the time at Union Transfer when CSS was playing and I passed out 40 mini-mags in 30 minutes. My hardest gig was Dirty Beaches at the First Unitarian Church. That kind of lo-fi attracts some standoffish people, lemme tell you.

The highlight of my career was the We Came As Romans show at the TLA. I was scoping the crowd when I noticed a quintet of hoodied kids – apparently unaware that we now live in the age of Craigslist – looking for a scalper. They were seriously bummed about not getting into the show. Even for 14-year-olds, they looked miserable.

“I’m sure you can find someplace that will sell you beer?” I said, trying to cheer them up.

The prospect of underage drinking did nothing to raise their spirits, but they smiled just a little when I handed them each a Julian Casablancas mini-magazine. As I started my walk home, my tote light with the absence of Julian Casablancas mini-mags, the world seemed a tiny bit sunnier.

* Disclaimer: Never have I ever passed out Everclear frisbees or Julian Casablancas mini-magazines. It would be uncouth of me to expose the actual bands who mint such shit by the truckload, so I made up things to represent equally ridiculous, real promotional materials.