Mind over Music

For more than a year, Joy Daniels B.M. '07 toured as a backup vocalist for Sam Smith and Stevie Wonder, appearing on almost every major talk show and performing on Saturday Night Live and at the American Music Awards. By any definition, they were a success.

Yet, instead of feeling good, Daniels felt sad.

“The most visible time in my music career was also my most challenging time,” recalls Daniels, who identifies as nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns. “My loneliness confused me.”

Daniels found that the people they considered friends were willing to cast them aside if doing so meant being able to take advantage of an opportunity. And Daniels got tired of meeting with producers who made promises that never panned out.

“I worked on a project for a whole year and nothing ever came of it,” they say. “I was heartbroken.”

Then, the pandemic hit.

At the time, Daniels couldn’t afford therapy, so they bought meditation and spirituality books, read about how to stay focused on positive experiences, and began taking stock of the music industry itself, which they felt was the cause of their problems.

For many people, music can be a source of comfort in difficult times, an emotional outlet we can access by selecting just the right sound—and volume—for  our mood. But making music can be a trigger in and of itself: Paying gigs can be sporadic, compositions and performances are subject to constant critique, and success depends on the whims of the consuming public.

For Daniels and other Berklee alumni, making a living in the music industry means making mental health a priority even when that requires slowing down or pausing in pursuit of their dreams.

“I got burned a lot,” Daniels says. “I said, ‘Okay, I feel shitty, but there’s got to be some way to correct that. For me to continue in this way would be a form of abuse. I gotta step back.’”

Sounding the Alarm

In 2018, the Music Industry Research Association, Princeton University, and MusiCares, an organization designed to support the health of the music community, partnered on a survey of more than 1,200 musicians in the United States. The results, which the authors describe as “an approximation, at best,” revealed that 12 percent of those surveyed—including many who were clients of MusiCares—reported having thoughts that they “would be better off dead” or of hurting themselves at least several days over the past two weeks, compared to what only 3 percent of the general population reported.

Another study in 2019, conducted among independent artists by Record Union, a Swedish distribution platform, found that 73 percent of the nearly 1,500 musicians surveyed had experienced stress, anxiety, or depression in relation to their music, with the most common contributing factors being fear of failure and financial instability.

Studies like these have been cited to suggest that musicians are more likely to struggle with their mental health than are members of the general public. But there is also growing recognition that artists may just be especially in tune with their emotional states. When they’re feeling sad or angry, their emotions may be more obvious to them and, because part of their job is to express themselves, these feelings may be more apparent to those around them as well.

“A dancer may not be as energetic in a performance or rehearsal or in class—that slowdown could be a symptom of depression,” says Jeff Klug, associate dean for student health and wellness. “But if an accountant slows down, you’re probably not going to notice.”

Joy Allen, chair of Berklee’s Music Therapy Department and the founding and acting director of the Music and Health Institute, agrees: “We don’t have enough research to say artists are more prone” to mental health issues, she says. “What we can say is that musicians externalize [their struggles] through their gifts.”

Under Pressure

Both the MusiCares and Record Union surveys were conducted before the pandemic, which took a mental health toll on everyone. According to a Kaiser Family Foundation analysis of census data, four out of 10 adults were experiencing anxiety or depressive disorder in January 2021, up from one in 10 adults in 2019. Musicians suffered similarly: A more recent MusiCares survey, from 2021, found that more than half of respondents had low or very low confidence in their ability to afford basic living expenses during the pandemic,  and 26 percent reported feeling moderate to severe levels of depression.

Daniels was affected too. “I had a list of things I was going to do for my music career in 2020,” they recall. “When it became apparent that none of it could happen, that forced me to look at my life.”

But even under so-called normal circumstances, musicians face challenges in their work that make them vulnerable to certain conditions, including anxiety and depression. One contributing factor is the pressure to succeed, which can start early.

“Music is something a lot of us start as children—you put an instrument in our hands and then you attach this gift of applause to it,” they say. The message to musicians is “You’re going to do this thing, and everybody’s going to clap,” Daniels adds. “This thing that we love to do is being used to elicit approval.”

When approval is no longer forthcoming—or is harder to come by—that can be a problem.

“Now this thing you’ve built your identity around is broken,” Daniels says. “You’re not getting the claps.”

Allen says artists also sometimes struggle when the music they love becomes a source of competition or—especially in the case of musicians who become well-known or famous for a certain sound—they feel pressure to continue making or performing songs that no longer feel genuine.

“Often the tool that once provided solace or relief—that gave to you—becomes the thing that’s taking from you,” she says. “You question your own authentic self.”

Ayanna Jacobs-El B.M. ’18 says the stress she experienced as a student at a performing arts high school in Alabama triggered her first manic episode when she was 16. Later diagnosed with bipolar 1 disorder, she strives to maintain a balance between her mental health and her music. For instance, in 2019, she left a job as a composer’s assistant because of the unreasonable demands her boss placed on her.

“Not having a clear schedule, that really took a toll on me because of the amount of work I was expected to complete,” Jacobs-El explains. “That was detrimental to my mental health.”

Jacobs-El started her own production company so she could pick and choose the projects that make the most sense for her. Some of her recent work includes composing a big band piece for her former high school and working on music for web series.

Daniels also downshifted, taking a yearlong break from music at the urging of their wife.

“She said, ‘You don’t need this. It’s okay if you’re not doing music every day, every minute,’” they remember. “I allowed myself to have hobbies. I got into flag football and Marvel movies. I started exploring these other parts of myself.”

Last fall, they accepted a technology-related job. Now, “I have more money and more comfort than I ever had in my life as a musician,” they say. “I have this woman that I really love, and we want to have kids. This is more than I could have ever thought for my life.”

Meanwhile, Daniels adds, “The inquiries [to work in music] never stopped.” Eventually, they began accepting jobs that felt like a good fit. They also returned to their own music.

“Recently, I started creating again in a really intentional way,” they say. “I don’t feel like if this doesn’t work out, I’m going to die. The stakes aren’t so high. I say yes to what I feel like saying yes to, and I say no to what I feel like saying no to. My relationship with the music industry at large has changed. I try to keep myself away from those circles that were very toxic to me.”

For Ro Rowan B.M. ’13, music provided a way out of an unhealthy lifestyle. After the death of their grandmother, who helped raise them, Rowan, who had played cello since they were a child, stopped playing the instrument.

“It was too painful,” says Rowan, who uses they/them pronouns. “I didn’t have the tools for grief. I couldn’t listen to cello music at all; I would just start weeping. It was like breaking up with the love of my life, but I didn’t know that at the time.”

Rowan began drinking and partying and didn’t stop until a chance meeting in college with someone they used to play cello with.

“That was the turning point,” they say. “I auditioned for the orchestra and made last chair. That was just the little lift I needed. Music has been tied to my sobriety more than anything.”

Rowan has since found success in the industry, recording for film and television scores, performing as a pit musician, and appearing in nearly 300 concerts nationally and internationally, including with Lorde, Annie Lennox, Melissa Ferrick, and Willie Nelson.

Rowan says in part because of the struggles they faced before attending Berklee, they learned to put their own well-being above everything else.

“I understand that the most important thing in my life is my sobriety, which is a.k.a. my mental health,” they say. “I don’t compromise that. That’s always my priority because I know my music is contingent on that.”

But that doesn’t mean the work is easy. Although Rowan loves to perform, they also have “a lot” of performance anxiety. “I really look at, ‘Why am I afraid to be seen? Why do I have this feeling?’” they say. “It’s because I don’t feel like I’m good enough. And that still lives in me, but I have learned the tools to really love and be entertained by my humanness.”

Toward a Better Future

At Berklee, the Health and Wellness team is focused on meeting the unique needs of musicians who also happen to be college students, and who happen to be coming of age in a global pandemic. In recent years, there has been an increase in mental health concerns in university settings, and the COVID-19 shutdowns have only added to a collective sense of isolation and lack of control.

Berklee offers traditional wellness services, such as counseling and mental health awareness programming, but also caters specifically to the needs of its future music professionals.

Last year, Dāna James, associate director of Alumni Affairs in Los Angeles, organized two virtual panel discussions about mental health and music careers, which Jacobs-El, Daniels, and Rowan participated in. A signature initiative of the Health and Wellness Department is Reach Out, which includes a visiting artist clinic series in which professional musicians share their experiences with mental health, substance abuse, sexual assault, and domestic violence. The goal is for students to see how others have made healthy decisions that have contributed to their career success and longevity. Past guests include Darryl McDaniels of Run-DMC, Kinky Boots star Todrick Hall, and gospel star Kelly Price.

Counseling Services also offers same-day appointments for students in Massachusetts to accommodate unpredictable schedules and provides on-demand access to clinicians in several languages.

“We have to meet the general needs of any college student but also ask ourselves, ‘What are the unique needs of our musicians, dancers, and actors?’” Klug says. “How can we inoculate against some of the common strains and stresses that come along with the industry?”

Daniels, Jacobs-El, and Rowan each relied on therapists at some point in their mental health and professional journeys. They have also learned how to take care of themselves as best they can.

During the pandemic, Jacobs-El tried to stay connected to her family—even though she couldn’t be with them physically—and got a dog, which has helped her remain active and meet new people.

Rowan returned to some of the strategies they learned in the early days of their sobriety. “The pandemic brought up a lot of anxiety and fear that felt very buried,” they said. “I had to take a look at that and really step back: Take it one day at a time, call a friend and ask how they’re doing, do some writing, take it easy, keep it simple.”

There is good news for artists who are struggling. Klug says musicians carry within themselves some of the best coping skills for dealing with difficult times, including an ability to be okay with uncertainty—a familiar feeling for anyone who spends their time conceiving ideas and then struggling to bring them to fruition.

“The creative process allows musicians, artists, dancers, and actors to tolerate ambiguity,” Klug says. “You begin with an idea, but the outcome may be very different from what you originally planned—in a beautiful way. Yielding to the process, being open to instruction and critique—that takes a remarkably strong ego.”

This article appeared in the spring/summer 2022 issue of Berklee Today.