The Temptation Of Superfly

Experience Economists

By any measure, Superfly pulled off a tremendous coup in taking its act from trippy nocturnal groovefests to full-blown, mega-sponsored weekends of peace, love, and profit in the Tennessee cow country. "I didn't think mass eclectic festivals could ever happen again," says John Scher, co-CEO of MetropolitanHybrid and former tour promoter for the Grateful Dead. "Superfly not only pulled it off logistically but also made it profitable. It's an extraordinary feat."

The promoters also managed to align themselves with a music trend that fed right into their business model. "People are interested in a broader range of music now than they used to be," says Chauncey. "What is rock? What is alternative? There's so much cross-pollination." Indeed, at Bonnaroo you can listen to Alison Krauss fiddle away on one day and watch My Morning Jacket grind it out on another. It's the in-person equivalent of Jack radio, the FM format that randomly plays songs from a range of genres and time periods. "We're just programming what our music collections are," says Farman. "When you look at what people have in their iPods, it's everything from hip-hop to indie rock to jazz to folk. A million different things. That's where our program concept comes from."

But after a year-over-year decline that saw Bonnaroo's attendance slip to around 80,000 in 2005--a fall of 10,000 people, with approximately $1 million in lost revenue--Superfly's carefully cultivated cred has come up against the cold reality of commerce. With other major festivals sprouting up around the country, pulling in the Subaru-driving hordes is becoming a nasty competitive challenge. "There's only so much money out there," says Paul Tollett, president of Goldenvoice Concerts, which produces Coachella, a rival festival in southern California. "We're probably already at the saturation point."

Which means Superfly must evolve or risk evaporation. It has already shipped its Bonnaroo model west to Las Vegas, where last Halloween it inaugurated Vegoose, a 45,000-person bash. And now, faced with growing competition from satellite radio, free and fast digital downloads, and the increasingly crowded festival calendar, it's looking for nonmusical ways of reachings its fans. "We're moving beyond the music space," says Mayers. "We want to use Superfly as the umbrella company to build our brand. Real estate, restaurants, hotels, resorts--we're open to everything."

"It's right on trend," insists James Gilmore, coauthor of The Experience Economy, which argues that people will pay for experiences they see as unique and memorable. As services become increasingly commodified, he says, companies are forced to wrap those services in ever more elaborate packages. And just as Armani has diversified from selling suits to suites in its new hotel--and just as Chuck E. Cheese's has made the humble birthday cake the center of a megabusiness--Superfly could make a killing by becoming a lifestyle brand. "There's no reason why Superfly can't create a Branson, Missouri, for the younger generation," Gilmore says, referring to the town that has become the Las Vegas of traditional values. "Superfly should definitely be moving into the hospitality landscape. Bonnaroo ought to be its flagship that points to a whole portfolio of experiences."

Gary Bongiovanni, editor-in-chief of the leading industry trade publication Pollstar, isn't so sure. "Jimmy Buffett can have his Margaritaville, but what can Superfly sell other than raingear or mud boots?" he asks. Well, we can see it now: the microbrew bar set next to a Costa Rica-themed jungle pool; an indoor Ultimate Frisbee park; hemp bathing suits and PABA-free sunscreen in the gift shop; a "drug-free, all-night rave" followed by a breakfast bar featuring fair-trade coffee and smoothies cosponosored by Odwalla; a hacky-sack on every pillow.

The Hard Shill

Superfly's Greenwich Village office--it set up a New York branch in 2003--has the rote iconoclasm of a freshman dorm room. There's the obligatory picture of the Sgt. Pepper album cover on the front door and a Gov't Mule poster on the wall; Johnny Cash beats himself up on the stereo. But as the partners lounge around the conference room, punching BlackBerrys and pecking at iBooks, they sound more like junior execs at Goldman Sachs than descendants of Bill Graham. Speaking of their stable of sensitive, furry musicians, they use phrases such as "profit center" and "economics of regional promotion" without irony. Farman, whose sartorial dishevelment belies an Apprentice-like intensity, describes their business model with Trumpish candor. "It comes down to numbers," he says. "We sit there and look at our spreadsheet and see how many people we need to draw to make a profit."