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I love this exchange from Louis...no matter how novel his DIY startup-like strategy has been, it all comes down to grueling hard work:

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Q. You’ve spent the last several months on a tour where you sold tickets only through your Web site. How did that go?

A. Boy, did that work. It was so satisfying to get that done. The special, I didn’t need to do anything. I just made it and offered it. But the tickets were really tricky. The big ticket companies make exclusive arrangements with these rooms. They pay them just to not work with others. So if a company gives you 30 grand a year to stay away from anybody else, you need it. We didn’t attack their territory. We just went to places that they didn’t care about.

Does it matter that what you’ve achieved, with your online special and your tour can’t be replicated by other performers who don’t have the visibility or fan base that you do?

Why do you think those people don’t have the same resources that I have, the same visibility or relationship? What’s different between me and them?

You have the platform. You have the level of recognition.

So why do I have the platform and the recognition?

At this point you’ve put in the time.

There you go. There’s no way around that. There’s people that say: “It’s not fair. You have all that stuff.” I wasn’t born with it. It was a horrible process to get to this. It took me my whole life. If you’re new at this — and by “new at it,” I mean 15 years in, or even 20 — you’re just starting to get traction. Young musicians believe they should be able to throw a band together and be famous, and anything that’s in their way is unfair and evil. What are you, in your 20s, you picked up a guitar? Give it a minute.

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Cook Ting was cutting up an ox for Lord Wen-hui. At every touch of his hand, every heave of his shoulder, every move of his feet, every thrust of his knee, the ox came apart with a zip. He slithered the knife along with a zing, and all was in perfect rhythm, as though he were performing the dance of the Mulberry Grove or keeping time to the Ching-shou music. "Ah, this is marvelous!" said Lord Wen-hui. "Imagine skill reaching such heights!" Cook Ting laid down his knife and replied, "What I care about is the Way, which goes beyond skill. "When I first began cutting up oxen, all I could see was the ox itself. After three years I no longer saw the whole ox. And now -- now I go at it by spirit and don’t look with my eyes. Perception and understanding have come to a stop and spirit moves where it wants. "I go along with the natural makeup, strike in the big hollows, guide the knife through the big openings, and follow things as they are. So I never touch the smallest ligament or tendon, much less a main joint. "A good cook changes his knife once a year, because he cuts. A mediocre cook changes his knife once a month, because he hacks. I’ve had this knife of mine for nineteen years and I’ve cut up thousands of oxen with it, and yet the blade is still as newly sharpened. "There are spaces between the joints, and the blade of the knife has really no thickness. If you insert what has no thickness into such spaces, then there’s plenty of room, more than enough for the blade to play about in. That’s why after nineteen years the blade of my knife is still as newly sharpened. "However, whenever I come to a complicated place, I size up the difficulties, tell myself to watch out and be careful, keep my eyes on what I’m doing, work very slowly, and move the knife with the greatest subtlety, until -- flop! the whole thing comes apart like a clod of earth crumbling to the ground. "I stand there holding the knife and look all around me, completely satisfied and reluctant to move on, and then I wipe off the knife and put it away." "Excellent!" said Lord Wen-hui. "I have heard the words of Cook Ting and learned how to care for life!"