San Francisco Chronicle - (Sunday)
Mental Health Resources
There’s no quick fix for mental health issues. But every artist The Chronicle spoke with emphasized that simply talking about what they were going through — whether with trusted friends or a therapist — had been a lifeline over the past year. If you’re looking to support someone struggling with their mental health, here’s a jumping-off point for resources geared toward artists.
Check Your Head: Mental Help For Musicians is a podcast hosted by musician life coach Mari Fong that features guest artists chatting with psychiatrists and other mental health experts. Fong, a former music journalist, was inspired to start the podcast in 2017, after Chris Cornell of Soundgarden and Chester Bennington of Linkin Park both died by suicide. “I thought, how could these musicians who bring people so much joy be living their lives in so much pain?” says Fong. “I do think (mental health issues) are being more recognized, but we need to get more of the record labels and people on the business side to really show their support for musicians and their mental health, to show that they care about their artists as people.” www.checkyourhead podcast.com
Backline is a nonprofit that connects professionals in the music industry to mental health professionals, support groups and other wellness resources. The organization has also partnered with the Black Mental Health Alliance to improve access to care for people of color in the music industry. https://backline.care
MusiCares, the nonprofit wing of the Recording Academy, helps musicians access financial support, health care and more. www.grammy.com/musicares
Rock to Recovery is a music-based support program that offers therapeutic services to those recovering from mental health disorders, substance abuse issues and more. https://rocktorecovery.org
The 73 Percent study offers insight and resources about the prevalence of mental health issues in the music industry. www.the73percent.com
choice for those who crave stability. Liam McCormick, frontman of the San Francisco orchestral indiepop band the Family Crest, says he is used to feeling like his work is one big gamble. But for someone who’s built his life around playing shows, the question marks of the past year have been allconsuming.
“You’re fine until you’re not fine,” says the 36yearold. “It comes in waves: You’ll be going along OK, and then all of a sudden you’re up until 6 a.m. staring down this black hole of, ‘When will touring start again? How many venues are gonna close before that? How long will it take?’ I’d say none of the artists I know are doing well.”
A few weeks before the shutdown, the Family Crest was preparing to release a record titled “The War: Act II,” and had a tour booked to support it. But due to the pandemic, the band held off on the release. Instead, McCormick has been performing livestream concerts on Facebook to a dedicated group of fans, some of whom return each week to chat in the comments.
“It keeps us connected to the community, and allows us to see the value of the work we do, because you do have people going through massive existential crises about the value of their art. And their value as artists,” McCormick says. “Not just monetarily, but to the world.”
He has also experienced fear and anger that the internet can’t ease: For McCormick, who is half Chinese, the surge in hate crimes targeting Asians and Asian Americans over the past year has only added “another layer to the anxiety,” he says.
After growing up hearing racial slurs as one of the only Asian American kids in a rural Calaveras County town, McCormick says he moved to San Francisco in his 20s in part for its mix of cultures. On tour, he and his wife/bandmate, Laura Bergmann, are used to checking the “hate map” published by the Southern Poverty Law Center to see where to avoid stopping for gas or a hotel. But over the past year, as former President Donald Trump persistently blamed China for the pandemic, McCormick stopped feeling safe even walking around his neighborhood in the Richmond District.
“There’s a weight that people of color carry that I think my Caucasian friends can’t understand,” he says. “We’re al
“I hear people say, ‘Oh, I’ve had a year, normally I would write a whole album in a year, but I can’t write.’ And then that just compounds these feelings of selfdoubt ... but this isn’t normal. And we’re not functioning the same way. I think you’re going to see a lot of great music a year or so after this is over, when people have had time to process.”
ways scanning, paying attention to our surroundings, subconsciously wonder ing if someone’s gonna come after us.”
Meanwhile, his life’s work remains on pause. As vaccinations increase, McCormick says he’d like to feel hopeful about the return of live music. But he’s nervous about situations in which the onus is on starving artists to decide whether a potential show is safe to play.
“Obviously we need to make a living, but we don’t want to put people at risk, either,” says the singer. “You wind up in this place where, if I don’t get back out there, I could die (figuratively) as an artist. But if I do get back out there, I could die, literally. And you’re responsi ble for other people. You don’t want to be the band that went out and played a bunch of shows and then people get sick.
“The bottom line is we have to look out for each other.”
Carlos says she’s trying to focus on the future. Right now, that means supervising her daughter’s distance learn ing, planning her next livestreamed performance, thinking about how to promote her forthcoming EP — and deciding what to do when her unemployment insurance runs out. According to the nonprofit Americans for the Arts, she’s one of the 62% of artists in the U.S. who have become fully unemployed because of the pandemic. (Some 95% have experienced income loss.)
The rapper is candid about how diffi cult the past 13 months have been. But her outlook is also impressively upbeat.
“I think some artists have taken this time to reinvent themselves,” she says, adding that she also believes the topic of mental health has become less taboo just in the past year.
“We’re all hurting,” she says, “and I think many of us didn’t realize how much of a privilege it was to have shows, with (the community’s support) at our fingertips. Especially now, when everybody’s in a similar headspace, I think people are realizing it’s OK to speak on it. We have to help one another through it.”
And when that community can gather in person again, she knows she won’t take it for granted. There’s a fantasy she keeps having, about the show she’s going to throw when this is all over.
“I want to rent out some big spot on a hot night, have it be under the stars, and everyone shows up: dancers, singers, rappers, DJs,” she says. “I can see it. I keep putting it together in my head. When everyone’s sweating, vibing, on the same frequency — you can’t replicate that on a phone screen.
“It’s gonna be like a welcomehome party,” she says. “It’s gonna be perfect.”