A handful of people know of what happened to me, years ago working in the music industry. It’s an aspect of my life I’ve kept hidden until recently. I’ve had some career successes as a music publicist. I’ve loved the people I work with, I’ve loved the bands I worked on, I love gigs, promo trips, festivals, drinking. Aside from early mornings, I usually have a smile on my face. But six years ago, I was raped “on the job”, and it has led to years of chaotic mental upheaval that I’m just now painfully reckoning with, two years shy of my 30s. My experience is not unique.
The music workplace is rich and varied. The classic four white-walled office where the boring stuff happens, gorgeous restaurants where deals are brokered over wine, interviewing your favourite artist in their favourite local boozer to give the piece that authentic air of pals just chatting about records. The industry is social and exciting and colourful and I find it beats the rigidness of the kitten-heel-skirt-and-smart-shirt combination that my mother wore Monday to Friday, nine-to-five during my childhood. Your 20s are the halcyon days working in the music industry – it’s like a second go at university but now with a wage, real bills and genuine responsibility.
As in any industry, predatory men are found waiting in the wings and it’s much easier for them to take advantage of music’s bent boundaries and soft safeguarding of women. Men dominate music: the making, production and selling of it, office and studio spaces, live performance, its media – they do so both physically and financially, so what would stop some of them from abusing their power?
They target you when you’re simply doing your job. In 2016, Miles Kane was interviewed for Spin magazine by journalist Rachel Brodsky, and she was met with lewdness. At that point, it appears Kane didn’t see a journalist but a potential conquest. Niceness was an opening, interview questions were an invitation, and with that a clear boundary was breached. As Brodsky put it herself: “this is about the ongoing culture of imbalance, be it writers catering to famous musicians, women catering to men, or women catering to society’s conciliatory expectations”. While this case was far from the most serious of examples, its points toward a much bigger problem.
The prevalence of assaults and attacks in the industry are known to many, but they’re only whispered about in corners of dimly lit Christmas parties or here and there in office gossip. Non-disclosure agreements and payouts tell you that some of the men that you thought were good are ghouls, but that’s usually as far as it goes.
Claims about men in the music industry tend to follow a clear pattern: use your access and privilege and take advantage of the power imbalance to get your end away, with very little risk of consequence.
In 2016, one story by Amber Coffman (formerly of Dirty Projectors) about Heathcliff Berru (founder and CEO of now defunct publicity agency Life or Death PR) encouraged swathes of testimonies from women who now felt powerful enough to move from those dimly lit corners to the bright and expansive landscape of social media and expose him. Berrus, for his part, apologised for “inappropriate” behaviour, while denying any illegal actions. A high-profile reckoning such as this was encouraging, but it remains rare that men are fully held accountable for their actions in the way that Berru, who resigned from his PR company, was forced to.
Recently allegations resurfaced about the DJ Tim Westwood and his conduct with young black women. He has since said “these allegations are false and without any foundation”. Westwood’s main employer, media giant Global Media, are still yet to offer anything close to an investigation.
You may wonder why do women wait so long to discuss these incidents? And why didn’t they leave this industry altogether? I can speak for myself here. I never uttered a word about the situation I faced because I was trying to distance myself from it. Why I never quit is more complex. I felt shocked, but to make sense of it, I thought of it like an unavoidable occupational hazard. I loved the job I was doing, and maybe sexual assaultwas just part of it.
I’m also a black woman in an incredibly white section of the music industry. I had to be strong to get as far as I am to cut through that ceiling. At the risk of sounding like a martyr, my trauma seemed insignificant when compared to being an example for more young women of colour to join me. As long as I could bury what happened to me (rather unsuccessfully), I could do that vital work.
These structures are embedded in the industry and in our minds, and it’ll take a lot of work to dismantle them. But it’s something so prevalent that however slow the changes may be, it has to start now. First the industry should answer for itself by calling out the people that uphold these toxic systems. Men shouldn’t get to hide behind NDAs when there has been wrongdoing; women should be allowed to do their jobs in peace. Music companies and mental health organisations should have sustained and embedded relationships allowing women dealing with trauma caused while on the job to have a professional that they can confidently speak to.
This industry has so much potential to be a safe haven for women like me who love music. We owe survivors of assaults, no matter the severity, in the music industry a fair chance of success, without repercussions for speaking up. There is strength in struggle but not nobility, and where it can be, it should be avoided and righted.
Michaela Coel’s acclaimed TV series I May Destroy You is a truly accurate depiction of a rape, and how one event can change you permanently. The flashbacks make you scared, you grieve for who you once were or who you might have been. You grow guilty, panicked, vengeful, numb, reckless – ultimately traumatised. “Humour is always there, in every party, funeral and war” said Coel, in a recent interview and I’ve been lucky to have that always. I still love the good bits of the industry and with the support of family, friends and therapy getting better doesn’t seem like such a steep incline.
But any woman’s trauma should feel like a collective trauma, and we should all be trying to stamp it out even if that is tough. As one of the characters in I May Destroy You says: “Doing what we have to do doesn’t always feel good.” The music industry – and many others – have a lot of hard work to do.
• Michelle Thandekile is a music publicist
