Happy 17 July!
34 Years on....notes from The Pushworth Group on their anniversary.
When people ask me why I started this business, I usually offer the polite, safe-for-networking answer:
“To support artists. To build a better industry. To give venues a clear path to great live music.”
Which is all true.
But the real answer?
I wanted to fix it.
Yes—me. A young mama with a newborn. Freshly minted Private Agents Licence on 17 July 1991. A baby on one hip, contract in the other.
Convinced that the entire music industry was broken, corrupt, or at least stupidly inefficient, and that I—classically trained, award-winning vocalist, Conservatorium nerd turned rock-chick band-wrangler—was going to whip it into shape.
Because that’s what you do when you are green and young and have no idea but think that you do.
And you know what? Thirty-four years on, I’m not sure I was wrong.
Manny and I started with that shared vision—even if, on paper, you couldn’t find two more different resumes.
He was the award winning Double Bass guy. Eclectic Jazz. Punk. Cabaret. Touring the country, managing the Queensland circuit for Graham Hutchinson, running national rosters for Austotel back before ALH was even a twinkle in Woolworths’ eye. He could tell you the occupancy rates for half the pubs in Queensland by memory.
Me? I was the geeky kid in the lemon dress who sold vocal arrangements in Year 9, managed production for school events, writing and recording songs since I was single digits and played church organ on Sunday. Who, as a young singer, spent every spare minute corralling musos in various bands across SE Qld like an off-brand Cleopatra trying to herd cats.
But somehow this unexpected combination worked. We had this idea that it wasn’t enough to just book gigs. You had to engineer the environment—so artists and venues could both make money without wanting to murder each other.
People think the music industry is all green rooms, awards, and Instagram reels with moody stage lighting.
Sure. Sometimes.
But it’s also:
Restraining rock stars who tried to punch the caterer because there were no green MnMs on their rider.
Holding back hair for pop stars vomiting up their rider.
Getting death threats because we couldn’t book truly terrible cover bands.
Mopping up green-room toilets you wish you hadn’t looked in.
Chauffeuring coked up comedians who forget their own names.
We’ve burned through the midnight oil, the dawn oil, the three-days-later oil trying to get that final show locked, the artwork approved, the contract signed before someone changed their mind.
We’ve had artists crash in our spare room when their accommodation fell through. Taken calls during weddings, funerals, kids’ birthdays to save a last-minute show catastrophe.
Because the show. Must. Go. On.
We’ve worked with hundreds of employees, thousands of artists and promoters. Managed careers. Designed brands. Delivered everything from festival programs to local cover gigs to national tours.
And through all of it?
Our team.
Our partners.
Our family.
Michael and Mark—honestly, they’re not just partners. They are blood. Watching them talk artists down off ledges, celebrate hard won sold-out nights, go that extra mile to write that award nomination for that venue, sell in a new artist nobody’s heard of yet—that’s the work. That’s the craft. That’s the real industry.
And then there’s our actual family.
Our kids grew up in this business. They didn’t get a normal childhood—they lived the show life in microcosm.
Cue to me standing in the public bar of the Albion Hotel waiting for a meeting, holding a baby capsule and two little kids hands, while the manager at the time organised a line of punters jokingly denying they were the father. (Thanks Steve!)
Me again sitting in the reception of countless venues refusing to pay their Artists, giving my four young children sticky lollies and chocolates and letting them loose hoping that the ensuing chaos would encourage the venue to give me a cheque so I would go away. (it always worked)
Christmas Days spent with Granny ironing Elf costumes and then each of us in the car driving from gig to gig.
Manny in a Santa suit because the real one overslept.
Me doing a 2am dash to The Valley to collect door takings because the door person was asleep in the corner after one too many rums.
Christenings with musos barging into the church trying to pitch a new show
Funerals crashed by tour managers who lost their worksheets
Family dinners interrupted by desperate venue managers looking for a last-minute act.
Our children loved it. And they hated it. Sometimes both on the same day.
And the two of us, as parents, we missed things. Important things. And they let us know. And yet they still love us….mostly. :-)
Because this business wasn’t just our career—it was their environment. Their school. Their childhood.
And today, 34 years in, the deepest, truest thank you we can offer is to them.
If I’m honest now, decades later, I see that my big need to “fix” the industry was all about me. My childhood. I needed to commit a neatness.
And let me tell you—there is nothing neat and tidy about this business.
It’s messy. It’s chaotic. It’s a swirling mess of unhealed trauma, undiluted genius, desperate hope, massive egos, incredible raw courage, and the occasional miraculous moment of real human connection.
You can’t “fix” it.
You can only witness it.
Here’s the thing:
Art is a gift.
Standing on a stage and making strangers feel something? That takes a rare kind of nerve.
And so does being the promoter who bets their own cash and reputation on making that moment happen.
Front of house. Side of stage. Back of house.
None of it works without people who give a shit. Really give a shit …..not just phone it in.
People who want to make something real for an audience.
So thank you.
Thank you to every artist, every venue, every manager, every promoter who gave us their trust—even when the shit hit the fan. Because those moments, the shit hitting the fan moments, that is the hallmark of life…..and this industry.
Thank you for 34 years of showing us what it means to be human—at our most glorious and our most terrible.
We were so green when we started.
And now?
Now we’re just grateful….and a nicer shade of pink with much better hair. 🙂
34 years. 34 blinks. 34 Thank Yous.
Here’s to the next one.
Written by Nichola Burton. I work in partnership with Agents, Artist Managers and Event Producers, who juggle a diverse range of relationships in the Musoverse, to curate, manage and measure data in systems, experience, creative and content to support the entire Musoverse operation in my enterprise A Little Pitchy Copyright 2025
