Erl King Economics: When Your Voice Becomes the Price of Validation
How artists were trained to think of money like it's a dance with the Erl King.
Why even the thought of money can feel like a dance with the Erl King.
Before we dance, let’s recap what I wrote in the previous piece that gave me the idea for this (as I was working on Passagio Economics on my other platform):
The starving artist isn’t just a cultural myth. It’s a curricular outcome. Because how else can we explain why so many highly accomplished, highly educated artists are almost always broke by default? We don’t study role models for financial success as much as we study impoverished figures like Van Gogh and Schubert—so even the thought of money can feel like a dance with the Erl King.
Are you ready to swing and dance and sing?
"My son, why do you hide your face in fear?"
"Father, can’t you see him? The Erl King’s near!"
If you’ve ever felt irrational fear at the thought of asking to be adequately compensated, raising your official professional fees, or making a new paid offer—you’re most likey not weak, ungrateful, or broken.
Maybe you’ve just been trying to walk through the woods with the Erl King!
Because in the arts—especially for classical singers like myself—fear isn’t just emotional, it’s institutional.
We weren’t just trained to perform.
We were trained to doubt.
To sacrifice.
To undercharge or work for free as proof of our purity.
And to flinch at money as if it were a betrayal of our craft.
But here’s the truth most won’t say out loud:
The fear isn’t yours.
It was taught.
And someone, somewhere, is profiting from your silence.
Now let’s dive into what this iconic piece of literature really means, verse by verse:
"Who's riding so late through night, so wild?
It is the father who's holding his child;
He's tucked the boy secure in his arm,
He holds him tight and keeps him warm."
The Promise of Protection—Without Power
You’re young.
Gifted.
Enrolled in a degree program that says it will take care of you.
Your teachers, mentors, and institutions speak of “greatness” and “potential.”
They tuck you into a dream—and assure you it’s enough.
But they’re riding you through a dangerous economy without armor or a map.
"My son, why hide you your face in fear?"
"See you not, father, the Erl King near?"
"The Erl King in his crown and train?"
"My son, 'tis but a foggy strain."
The Denial of the Danger
You raise a hand. You ask the question:
“How will I survive with this degree?”
“What if I can’t afford to keep performing?”
You’re told not to worry.
“You’re too talented to fail.”
“It always works out.”
But you do see the Erl King.
You feel the hunger.
You sense the seduction of the “opportunity” that underpays, and the emptiness of applause with no rent money behind it.
And yet—they dismiss your fear as fog.
As long as you work hard and stay good enough, you'll find a way.
"Sweet lovely child, come, go with me!
What wonderful games I'll play with thee;
Flowers, most colorful, yours to behold.
My mother for you has garments of gold."
The Seduction of Stardom
This is how they get you.
Auditions. Artist residencies. Leading roles. A perfect bio.
Proof you "made it."
Proof you're better than what everyone else said you'd be.
“Exposure.” “Experience.”
“If you just say yes enough times, the right person will notice.”
You’re promised beauty, gold, legacy.
But you’re paid in “exposure” and applause.
And you’re supposed to smile and stay grateful.
You keep building that résumé...
"They just need to see you're getting consistent work to take a chance on you..."
"My father, my father, and can you not hear
What Erl King is promising into my ear?"
"Be calm, stay calm, o child of mine;
The wind through dried leaves is rustling so fine."
Gaslit by the Gatekeepers
You’re told it’s just “part of the journey.”
That “everyone struggles at first.”
That “it’s just how the field works.”
They dismiss your concerns as personal weakness.
They downplay the pressure as bad luck or bad attitude.
They call your panic leaves in the wind.
But you know better.
You know what it feels like to give your all—to your craft, your training, your work—and still be told you should feel lucky.
You call it structural neglect.
You call it gaslighted generosity.
You call it devotion weaponized against you.
But you also know better than to talk about it.
"Wouldst thou, fine lad, go forth with me?
My daughters should royally wait upon thee;
My daughters conduct each night their song fest
To swing and to dance and to sing thee to rest."
The Fantasy of Belonging—But Only If You Obey
The promise gets more specific now:
If you stay in line…
If you remain agreeable…
If you sing the song the way they taught you…
You might finally be invited into the halls of prestige.
But only if you don’t disturb the aesthetic.
Don’t ask for too much.
Don’t speak too loud.
"My Father, my father, and can you not see
Erl King's daughters, there by the tree?"
"My son, my son, I see it clear;
The ancient willows so grey do appear."
They See the Tree—But Not the Trap
Even the kindest mentors—even those who care—can’t always see the danger for what it is.
They’ve normalized it. They survived it.
They built their careers despite it, not because of it.
But the system wasn’t made for you to thrive.
It was made for you to prove yourself.
Again. And again. And again.
"I love thee, I'm aroused by thy beautiful form;
And be thou not willing, I'll take thee by storm."
"My father, my father, he's clutching my arm!
Erl King has done me a painful harm!"
The Cost of Artistic Consent
You were taught to seduce, not to lead.
To stay beautiful, not to build power.
To keep singing—while being drained.
Eventually, the system stops pretending.
You say no—and it retaliates.
You raise your price—and you’re called difficult.
You set a boundary—and you’re replaced.
And suddenly, the invitation becomes a threat.
The father shudders and onward presses;
The gasping child in his arms he caresses;
He reaches the courtyard, and barely inside,
He holds in his arms the child who has died.
What the Industry Refuses to Admit
This is what happens when institutions protect the prestige, not the people.
When you learn how to perform but not how to price.
When you master the physical voice but not its inner power.
When fear becomes the cost of belonging.
By the time some artists find their way out—they’re exhausted.
They’re broke.
They’re burnt out.
They’re told they “just didn’t want it enough.”
No one wants to admit what really happened:
The system killed the career before it could ever begin.
And Here’s the Real Tragedy
The real tragedy of Erlkönig isn’t just that the child dies.
It’s that no one believes him until it’s too late.
That’s what artists are still living.
And what this piece is finally naming.
Escaping the Erl King—Rewriting the Ending
In the poem, the child dies.
In real life, many artists’ careers do too—quietly, invisibly, behind perfectly filtered social media posts.
Not with a scream, but with a shrug.
Not with fire, but with fatigue.
Not because they lacked talent—
but because no one cared when they said the system was hurting them.
But you don’t have to ride that road forever.
You can name the fear.
You can see the myth.
You can recognize the ritual you were trained to repeat—
and choose not to play your part.
You don’t have to sing your way into sacrifice.
You don’t have to keep trying to prove that you’re pure, worthy, grateful, or “ready.”
You don’t have to wait for permission from those who benefit from your silence.
There is another path.
It’s not louder.
It’s not trendier.
It’s not faster.
It’s just structurally sound.
And it holds.
A path built not on fog and flattery,
but on structure, value, and resonance.
A voice not polished for applause,
but aligned for earning.
No more begging to be kept warm.
No more hoping someone notices your devotion and saves you from the cold.
It’s time to build your own fire.
One that doesn’t burn you out—
but lights the way forward.
Want help building the fire? Send me a message. Let’s talk.
And if you haven’t already, be sure to read the previous piece if you missed it:
🎤 Addendum: I Didn’t Just Analyze Erlkönig—I’ve also Sung It!
And not just once. I’ve performed Schubert’s Erlkönig few times over the years—and I would have sung it more often if not for its difficult piano accompaniment.
The particular performance below took place 15 years ago just outside the Fred Fox School of Music building at the University of Arizona, where I was completing my DMA. The UA happened to be hosting the International Tuba and Euphonium Conference.
Instead of a piano accompaniment, it’s an arrangement for tubas and euphoniums. The studio ensemble from University of Missouri-Kansas City needed a singer for this arrangement of the piece. My advisor knew I was still in town and gave me the assignment.
So I know what this song can feel like—in the voice, mind and body.
And I know what this story means now—in the lives of artists trained to obey, over-give, and never ask for financial safety.
I don’t just teach this metaphor. I’ve lived inside it. And now, I’m offering the map out of the woods. Enjoy:
🎓 Addendum to the Addendum—
One More Thought:
Just as I’ve asked whether we’ve studied impoverished figures like composer Franz Schubert too much—romanticizing their suffering instead of challenging the systems that caused it—it’s also worth asking:
Have we studied this particular piece—Erlkönig—too much?
It’s a question that cuts into both pedagogy and cultural mythology.
Short Answer: No.
You can almost never study a piece this rich too much. There’s always another layer.
In fact, I referenced Carl Loewe’s setting in my own dissertation—and even discussed why Richard Wagner preferred Loewe’s version to Schubert’s. There’s always more nuance and depth than meets the eye. There’s more than one truth in the material.
But even though we may have technically studied it—analyzed the harmony, dissected the phrasing, and performed it countless times—we also may have studied it too much in a way most people haven’t considered:
What we’ve really done is ritualize it.
We’ve ritualized:
The child’s helplessness
The father’s denial
The seducer’s unchecked power
The inevitability of artistic loss
And by placing this piece—and others like it—on so many recitals, juries, and syllabi without ever addressing the deeply embedded themes of disempowerment and silencing, we’ve helped generations of artists internalize the myth of their own expendability.
What That Means:
We study and perform works like Erlkönig as a vocal feat, but not as a structural warning.
We celebrate the singer’s ability to portray multiple characters under duress… while ignoring how many real singers are also expected to just smile perform excellence under institutional and financial duress.
We’ve taught this and similar pieces for generations as musical obstacle courses, while the emotional content—seduction, gaslighting, and death—gets passed off as metaphors rather than diagnostic realities.
And somehow—because it’s notoriously difficult to play on a modern piano—the only pain from the piece that’s safe to talk about happens in the pianist’s wrists. (And it’s the main reason I’ve chosen not to perform it more.)
What This Could Say About the System:
We teach Erlkönig and pieces like it as a technical rite of passage, without ever asking what it means that the artist dies in the end.
How many of us unconsciously accepted that as the price of artistic rigor?
How many students have sung this piece on stage… while quietly becoming the child offstage?
Maybe the problem isn’t that we teach Erlkönig.
Maybe the problem is that we never stop to ask:
Why do we keep telling the same story—
and who benefits when we keep ending it the same way?
READ THE REST OF “THE ERL KING TRILOGY”:
Part II:
Part III:
Some readers stop here, feeling seen.
Others go on to read the rest of the series.
And others may want to explore what my work could mean for their business, curriculum, or leadership strategy.
If you’re ready to:
• Undo the high-pressure “bro-marketing” habits baked into your business
• Starve the “starving artist” mindset that keeps you attracting the wrong clients
• Build a congruent structure to fuel your next level of self-actualizing success—or—
If you:
• Run a business
• Manage a high-performance team
• Lead a legacy-focused planning firm
• Direct an academic program
• Shape an artistic institution—and you're seeking next-level clarity, curriculum recalibration, strategic design, or discreet consulting—
Let’s talk—here or on LinkedIn.
Because the systems that hold wealth, trust, and talent—
should be designed to quietly endure.
P.S. – If you’re a voice-led business owner who appreciated how this piece used literary analysis of an iconic lied to unpack the emotional and structural realities of an artistic career, you’ll love my latest work on my other platform, The Lucrative Voice. In recent articles, I’ve used vocal technique and performance principles to help demystify business and sales so artists and entrepreneurs can start to build income models that actually hold. Check out the publication and consider also subscribing!
Gotta say, this one was a bit triggering now as a parent to a young son 😬