Where you stand: where your project is, and what to aim for

Before we tell you what to write, we are going to tell you who not to write to. A band got in touch once, a bit deflated: "venues don't reply". We had a look. Four gigs played, all in their own city, and about fifteen emails to rooms of 400 to 800. The email was not bad. The target was.

That mistake costs you twice: nothing today, and a name the promoter will find in his inbox again the day you are actually ready, because these people have a very good memory for names. So before you write to anyone, ten minutes to put your project where it belongs.

A promoter does not judge your music in the abstract. He asks whether you are the right size for his room, on that night, with his crowd. Answer that for yourself first.

Tier 1, starting out. Under five gigs, no live video, a crowd of mates and family. Within reach: open mic nights, the pub back rooms of your own city, DIY all-dayers, a support slot for a band you know. The money comes later; for now you are building what you lack: a video where we can see your faces, photos, five dates.

Tier 2, local roots. Five to twenty dates, a live video, a hundred people you can bring out at home. Pub back rooms and grassroots venues of 30 to 150 within two hours become realistic, through the promoters who put nights on there, along with local festivals and BBC Introducing.

Tier 3, regional. Twenty to fifty dates, an EP with a bit of press, promoters who book you again. Supports at arts centres and 150 to 400 cap venues, mid-sized festivals. Towards the end of this tier a booking agent becomes useful: they sell your dates on commission, 10 to 15 per cent roughly, and only sign you if you already bring dates in.

Tier 4, national. 300 paid in a city far from home, a team around you.

No shame in tier 1, everyone has been there, including bands now playing academies. What hurts is writing to tier 3 rooms with a tier 1 kit.

Dave puts on guitar nights in Manchester, in a pub back room on Thursdays and a 200 cap grassroots venue once a month. He has a day job. He reads band emails on the tram at half eight, one thumb, two stops. Tuesday, this one:

Subject: Gig request
Dear Sir/Madam,
We are an alternative rock band formed in 2023, influenced by Radiohead, Fontaines D.C. and Arctic Monkeys. We have played several highly successful shows and would love the opportunity to perform at your venue. Please find attached our press pack (8 pages) and three tracks in WAV format.
We look forward to hearing from you.
Kind regards.

He archives it without opening the attachment. The email was not rude. It was addressed to nobody: no first name, not one of his nights mentioned, not a single number, "your venue" to a man who owns a PA lead and a Facebook page, and 60 MB of WAV on a phone contract.

Whatever the size of the room, three questions run through Dave's head, through Sam's, who books a funded venue in Leeds, and through anyone else's, in this order.

Does it fit my room? Style, energy, format. A pub that does blues on a Thursday will not take your electro duo, however good.

Will it bring people in? This is the one that decides, and it is asked about his city, not yours. Twelve hundred monthly listeners tell him nothing; a hundred and eighty listeners in Leeds are worth a date in Leeds. A promoter thinks in paid-in numbers; a landlord thinks in bar take.

Will it be easy? A band that replies quickly, sends a readable tech spec, turns up for get-in on time and shares the event is worth more, to him, than a slightly better band that is a pain to deal with.

You will notice what is missing: your bio, your influences, the story of the band. The crowd cares about that, and it is useful the day you get a yes, when the venue has to talk about you. Not in the first email.

Your turn. Count honestly, leaving out open mics, pay-to-play nights and birthdays. What you write here follows you to your campaign plan: your project's name and your five words will go in your emails.

"Do a tour" is not a target, it is a wish. A target has a number and a date. Why 90 days? Because that is the time it takes to send a first wave, follow up, let the slow replies arrive (there are always some) and start playing. Shorter, you have no perspective. Longer, you drift.

What to expect, roughly, and it varies a lot with genre and region: on forty or so well-chosen targets, with a clean kit and one follow-up, five to ten replies, a good share of them "not right now", and one to three confirmed dates.

Before, on the practice room wall: "We should get out and tour the North this spring."
After: "Five support slots in Manchester, Leeds and Nottingham between March and May, promoters only, forty contacts. First wave 12 January, second 2 February, review 15 May."

The difference: the second one can fail. If you get less, look at your targeting and your email before you conclude anything about your music. If you get more, move up a tier sooner than planned. And silence, which will be your most frequent reply, almost never means no. It means not read, not now, or not a priority.

Two one-hour slots a week, kept without exception for three months. That is all, but it is that. Not one all-nighter sending two hundred emails in one go, which gets you two hundred silences and an excellent reason to pack it in.

In the first slot, you write. In the second, you follow up and update your spreadsheet. The rest of the week you rehearse and let the replies come in. Regular beats big, and it shows: a promoter who gets your follow-up on the day you said already knows you will be there for get-in on time.

You know where you stand, with no birthday party in the count, and what you are aiming for in 90 days. You also know what Dave is looking for in forty seconds: does it fit, will it bring people in at his night, will it be easy. The rest of this guide is about answering yes three times.