There was a genuine sadness in Richie Hawtin's eyes when he addressed the closure of Aslice last Thursday. Taking to Instagram, the techno legend described the revenue-sharing platform as "one of the most beautiful and important ideas for our scene," before taking aim at those he believes are to blame for its demise. "Aslice didn't fail," he asserted. "The famous, most followed DJs failed us all."

The statistics—published in an independent external review that coincided with Aslice's closure announcement—suggest that Hawtin has a salient point. For the platform to thrive, it was clear from the offset that it needed the support of a certain calibre of DJ: one who tours regularly, plays to large crowds and commands sizeable fees. After all, the model revolved around redistribution, and relied on these successful DJs giving back to the communities from which they emerged.

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But that support never materialised. Of the 15,845 "working DJs" (defined in the report as those with at least one upcoming booking) on the Resident Advisor database, just 5.9 percent shared earnings through Aslice. This figure fell to 4.7 percent for "the busiest DJs" (defined as those with five-plus bookings). A similar pattern was detected when popularity was used as a vector. For the RA artist pages with 10,000-plus followers, just six percent had used Aslice at least once, while 90.3 percent failed to even register an account on the platform.

Perhaps most frustrating of all is the report's suggestion that if just 40 more DJs "at the level of the current top ten users" had signed up, Aslice would've likely been able to continue. (Just one superstar DJ—say, Calvin Harris or Tiësto—would've had the same effect, but honestly, that sounds fanciful.)

It's yet another blow that questions the vague notion of dance music as a united community with progressive ideals. How long do we have to wait before admitting that these platitudes are usually little more than marketing spiel? "The closure of Aslice is the biggest disappointment I've felt towards our community since I've been a part of it," Hawtin continued, noticeably despondent. "How can a scene that preaches peace, love, community and respect (PLUR) exist without equality?"

Launched in 2022 by Zak Khutoretsky, AKA DVS1, Aslice operated a donation-based system where DJs pledged a percentage of their gig fee to the producers whose music they played. Five percent was the recommended figure, but the donation would be made anonymously, at the discretion of the DJ. It was an attempt to recalibrate a broken dance music ecosystem that sees producers scrambling for nominal streaming royalties while big-room touring DJs can earn four or five figures for playing those same songs.

Khutoretsky, a principled elder statesman as well known for his shrewd, honest takes on the state of electronic music as for being an exceptional techno DJ, recalled the immediate buzz that the announcement of the platform generated among his peers.

"I was so excited with this thing I came up with," he told RA last December. "And the further I spread the idea out, and shared it with more people in the industry, the response I received was, 'Damn, that's really good actually. Why not?' It's basically a way for DJs at any level—be that the $200 bar gig or the $20,000 headliner—to give a portion of their earnings back to the people whose music they're playing."

Across two years, the service gathered around 7,400 playlists from 935 DJs, who collectively shared over $422,000 of their earnings with more than 27,000 producers worldwide. The annual operational costs amounted to roughly $250,000, and the platform made just $63,000 during its time in business, before announcing its closure last Tuesday, September 3rd. The statistics from the external review are sobering. Only around one in 20 touring DJs signed up, and of the 2,389 who did, 60 percent didn't share money or even submit a tracklist.

This blatant "I'm all right, Jack" response Aslice received from the majority of high-profile DJs—the extent of which was laid bare in a lengthy Instagram tirade from longtime platform supporter Barker—leaves a sour taste in the mouth. "The reason it's ceasing operations is because many of the highest paid DJs in the world decided not to contribute," he wrote. "Classic house DJs who spent the pandemic shouting 'pay Black people!' didn't sign up. Festival DJs posting endless tour schedules didn't sign up. Fame demon influencer DJs didn't sign up. It really couldn't have been made any easier for you people."

Compounding the disillusionment is the fact that many of the DJs in question have cultivated a supposedly inclusive, politically conscious online persona. Yet when an opportunity to create equitable—and in some cases, life-changing—material change presents itself, they're nowhere to be seen. It betrays the hollowness of a certain type of low-stakes activism, where hashtags and infographics have replaced anything close to real collective action.

That said, it would be inaccurate to fully pin Aslice's collapse on DJs. Any business reliant on voluntary contributions is going to face challenges in the current economic climate, and the report also questioned the success of the firm's customer retention techniques. Canadian artist Jex Opolis believes the programme may have been hindered by its lack of reach beyond techno circles. "I was pretty shocked when I saw that Aslice was closing, because I'd just heard of it,” he told RA. "And I'm someone who spends a lot of time trying to get new revenue sources for my music."

Sardinian DJ and producer Elisa Bee believes that the anonymous nature of the platform likely failed to resonate with a generation of DJs obsessed with image and perception. "Aslice wasn't something you used to gain visibility," she told me. "And we know that visibility is what dictates how many artists behave these days."

Shattering as it is, Aslice's closure doesn't have to be the end of the road when it comes to reshaping dance music's stark financial inequalities. A lot of public discourse on the topic has centred around the idea of creating a mandatory platform, where DJs are legally forced to give back to the producers who they rely on. Others called for a wealthy investor to purchase Aslice and build on the strong foundations laid by Khutoretsky and his team.

But, right now, being optimistic about the next steps feels naive. When those at the top refuse to address the unsustainable disparities of a broken system, it's difficult to shake the feeling that dance music is locked into a race to the bottom. Perhaps the downfall of Aslice is the overdue wake-up call we all need. "It doesn't matter how good the knob twiddler is, or the dancer up on stage," said Hawtin. "Without music, there are no DJs. Where is our scene without great musicians?"