WHEN WILL MUSIC’S # METOO HAPPEN?
& MORGANE LAY S JONNY COCHRANE PHOTOGRAPH Music journalist Thea de Gallier has experienced inappropriate behaviour throughout her career – but feeling pressure to turn a blind eye has left her feeling uncomfortable
it was 3am. I sat up in bed in my box room in a London ex-council flat, having just been awoken by the buzzing of my phone. An email had arrived from a tour manager I’d met the previous day, asking me to join him in his hotel room and drink wine. I frowned, slightly taken aback, and ignored it. I remember the tour manager being the person I got on with best out of the band’s entourage and our conversations at the press call had been giggly and flirtatious. But something about his email made me uncomfortable, not least the time that he’d sent it.
I was 24, and working in my first job in the music industry, in PR. I’d moved to London just weeks before, and I was wide-eyed and inexperienced: suddenly I was around A-listers on a daily basis, and pitching to editors who I avidly followed on Twitter, hoping I might work with them one day.
I didn’t think to mention the email to my boss at the time. I was unsure of my own feelings – after all, I flirted, I told myself – and I was eager to please. But I couldn’t shake the discomfort.
I left that role after a few months to pursue journalism, which had been my dream job since childhood. At first, I felt that same wide- eyed wonder. My name was in print and on bona fide online publications. I was writing mainly about rock and alternative music, because that’s what I listened to. At first, it wasn’t the behaviour of anyone in the industry that threw cold water over my naive and hopeful notion that women were actually taken seriously in rock: it was guys on Tinder. I said ‘music journalist’ when they asked what my job was, but what they seemed to hear was ‘glorified groupie’. I began to count myself lucky I hadn’t been subjected to any creepiness from musicians – until I was.
At an industry party in 2016, I was introduced to a young frontman I’d previously interviewed on the phone. On the record, he was a staunchly sex-positive feminist, and I was keen to meet him in person. I admit I came across flirtatiously; I probably giggled and made eyes at him. But when his hand slid up my dress and grabbed a handful of my buttock, I felt that same unease the 3am email had elicited. Except this time it was amplified, and I knew exactly why I was feeling it. I could pinpoint the source of the feeling to the fingers digging gently into my skin. I giggled awkwardly and walked away, feeling disappointed that the guy I met was so far removed from the one I’d interviewed.
I found myself in a moral quandary. I wanted to say something, to tell everyone that the feminist ally wasn’t all he was cracked up to be, but I also felt guilty. I’d flirted, I told myself again. Maybe he was just drunk. The people who worked with him are my friends – did I really want to give them the kind of PR headache that would come from me publicly talking about this? I felt torn between loyalty to friends and colleagues,
and my desire to say something about behaviour that was out of order. I opted to run with the former (although, months later, I privately confronted the musician via message, and received a heartfelt apology).
Even before Weinstein and #Metoo, there were allegations of wrongdoing circulating in the music industry. The most extreme example is Kesha’s ongoing legal battle with her former producer, Dr Luke. In 2014, she sued him for ‘physical, sexual, verbal and emotional abuse’, and sought to be released from her contract with him and Sony Music. He countersued, and in 2016 a court declined to issue an injunction breaking the contract. Later that year, a judge dismissed Kesha’s claims, and she then dropped the charges, saying the lawsuit had been ‘so heavy on my once free spirit’. Sony claimed it was unable to terminate the contract because it was made with Dr Luke’s own company, Kasz Money. The producer has always denied the claims.
Last October, former Pussycat Doll Kaya Jones, who left the group in 2005, claimed it was a ‘prostitution ring’. ‘[ It was] bad enough that I walked away from my dreams, band mates and a $ 13m [£ 9.2m] record deal,’ she said at the time. The Pussycat Dolls released a statement calling her claims ‘false’.
Singer R Kelly, last week the focus of a BBC Three documentary, has faced allegations of abuse dating back to 1994, when he married the then15-year-old Aaliyah. In 2001, he was sued by an ex-intern at Epic Records, who said she had an ‘indecent sexual relationship’ with him. They settled out of court and, in 2002, he faced three more lawsuits, one for child pornography. He was found not guilty. Last year, a lengthy report alleged that he was holding several aspiring female musicians against their will in a ‘cult’, which he denies. His career has been largely unimpeded by the allegations – he even released an album and was nominated for an NAACP award at the time of the child pornography suit.
A host of other musicians have also been publicly accused of various kinds of sexual misconduct. Rapper Nelly, Crystal Castles’ Ethan Kath, Seal and Gene Simmons are among the more recognisable names, and all deny the allegations against them.
I personally have been contacted by individuals with allegations – that I can’t elaborate on for legal reasons – including an A- list musician repeatedly preying on underage fans and the use of non-disclosure agreements that prevent involved parties from speaking out in cases of alleged misconduct. Investigating these is thankless; the stock response is blanket denial and a threat of legal action, and I risk my relationship with industry contacts every time I follow up on any allegations.
Sometimes such claims do result in action, such as the rock band Brand New cancelling their tour last November when the frontman, Jesse Lacey, was accused of soliciting nudes from an underage fan. He released a statement apologising for causing ‘pain and harm to a number of people’.
In the rock and indie world, bands and labels have severed ties with members accused of misconduct. I began to ponder more on the issue of fans, bands, groupie culture and safeguarding. I started pitching pieces related to the topic over a year ago, and struggled to get anything commissioned. I know, in reality, that it’s because these stories are a legal minefield, but a part of me felt that there was too much cash at stake for music magazines to risk running allegations. I already knew there were rules in place not to upset big bands or labels, and I began to wonder if the money was more important than the truth. I finally had a piece published on the topic by The Guardian last month, after almost a year of pitching.
I was meant to be doing my dream job, but I was feeling increasingly disillusioned. My job had begun to feel like a charade. I’d lie in bed all day, aimlessly scrolling through Twitter and ignoring my emails, feeling terrified that pursuing my dream had been a huge mistake.
# Metoo has also highlighted the internalised misogyny in the industry: I heard women expressing desires that the whole thing would blow over, or that a band who had admitted sexual wrongdoing wouldn’t have their tour cancelled because they didn’t want to lose money. I heard a panel on women in music described as ‘a bunch of feminists who hate men’. And I get it; everybody needs a job to survive, and jobs don’t always fit perfectly with your personal moral code. But I felt increasingly complicit. I knew I wasn’t covering anything up, but I felt that by being in an industry that seemed wont to do that, I was ignoring the loud voice of my conscience.
Let me make one thing clear: not everyone I’ve worked with in music is a scumbag. In fact, 99% of the people I interact with are wholly decent and care as much as I do about women’s safety. Nor do I hate every element of my job; I’m grateful every day that I achieved my childhood dream, and the opportunities it’s given me both socially and career-wise. But there is a tendency in some corners of the industry to brush things under the carpet, and I felt emboldened when four women, including the musician Chloe Howl, recently spoke to the BBC’S Victoria Derbyshire show about the harassment, abuse and sexual blackmail they’d experienced at the hands of managers and execs. My dream felt a little less poisonous when I was suddenly not alone in feeling that something was wrong.
Positive steps are now being taken. Organisations like Safe Gigs For Women exist to promote the protection of women at live shows and events, and the Musicians’ Union has set up a confidential email account that those with concerns about sexual harassment can contact. I don’t know if the music industry will have its own Weinstein moment, but things are slowly starting to change. The reality of my dream job made me question my own moral fabric, but it also birthed in me a new dream: that the conversation keeps moving forward positively, and women in the music industry won’t have to choose between their morals and their job.