I sometimes think artist management is one of the strangest jobs in the music industry. You can spend months, sometimes years, helping somebody build a career, negotiating deals, organising tours, managing relationships and generally keeping everything moving, only to discover that much of what you've done is either invisible or taken for granted. That's not necessarily a complaint. A good manager should be working behind the scenes, and the artist should be the person receiving the attention. But the nature of the relationship means managers can become extraordinarily invested in somebody else's ambitions, sometimes at considerable cost to their own wellbeing, finances and personal lives. I've experienced the rewarding side of that relationship, and I've also experienced what happens when things go badly wrong.
One particular period stands out. I was managing several artists, all at different stages of development, and things were becoming increasingly busy. One band had an album approaching, another artist had recently secured a recording agreement, and a third project was generating considerable industry excitement. On paper, it was exactly the sort of situation a manager might hope to find themselves in. I was also working in higher education and had a family at home, so the practical reality was rather less glamorous than it might have appeared from the outside.
I remember attending The Great Escape in Brighton in 2019 and having lunch with two industry colleagues at Terre à Terre, a lovely vegetarian restaurant in the Lanes. One represented a record label, the other was a booking agent, and both were closely involved with an artist I managed. The conversation turned to the coming year and whether I would be able to cope with the workload. I assured them I could, although privately I was beginning to wonder whether they had a point. Three artists with significant releases and touring commitments, alongside teaching and family life, was going to require considerable juggling. Still, I was enjoying the challenge, and I wasn't particularly keen on having my capabilities questioned over lunch.
The suggestion was made that I consider bringing in a co-manager, and a particular company was mentioned. I wasn't immediately convinced, partly because I had reservations about the arrangement and partly because I wanted to retain some independence. I said I had somebody else in mind, which wasn't entirely true, although I had started thinking that sharing the workload might be sensible. It was one of those conversations that seemed relatively unremarkable at the time but became more significant when I looked back on it. I was being offered a solution to a problem I wasn't quite ready to admit existed.
Eventually, I did bring somebody else into the management operation. They had considerably more experience in certain areas of the industry than I did, and I thought our different approaches might complement one another. I've always been relatively people-focused in my management style, interested in the artist's development, creative ambitions and the relationships that help sustain a career. My new colleague appeared to have a more commercially assertive approach, and I imagined that combining those strengths could be beneficial. In principle, I still think that was a reasonable idea. In practice, it became one of the most difficult professional experiences I've had.
I'm not going to revisit the personal disagreements or identify the people involved. There are different perspectives on any breakdown in a working relationship, and I don't think a public article is the place to reconstruct every argument. What I can say is that our approaches proved incompatible, communication deteriorated and I increasingly felt that my position within the team was being weakened. Meetings became uncomfortable, responsibilities weren't always clear, and I found myself questioning decisions that previously I would have made with confidence. It was unpleasant, made worse by the fact that the artist's career was developing rapidly and there was considerable pressure from several directions. Looking back, what troubles me most isn't simply what happened but how I responded. I'm quite capable of expressing an opinion, as anyone who's worked with me will probably confirm, but in this situation I became unusually reluctant to challenge behaviour I found unacceptable. I allowed disagreements to continue without properly resolving them, and I sometimes remained quiet when I should have spoken.
Part of that was probably because I was intimidated by somebody whose industry experience and reputation seemed more substantial than my own. Part of it was because I didn't want to create further conflict around an artist whose career was at an important stage. Neither explanation makes my response particularly sensible, but both help me understand it. The experience also exposed weaknesses in the way I'd organised the business. I'd become accustomed to working through personal relationships, informal agreements and a degree of mutual trust. Much of the early work I'd undertaken with artists involved very little money, and the immediate priorities were usually getting records released, finding gigs and building enough momentum to attract opportunities. When you're working with young musicians who have almost no resources, it's tempting to postpone difficult conversations about contracts, commissions, responsibilities and what happens if somebody wants to leave.
You tell yourself you'll sort everything out when things become more established. Unfortunately, that's often precisely when those conversations become more complicated.I now regard that approach as a mistake. Trust is important, but it isn't a substitute for clear agreements. Artists should understand what their manager is responsible for, how they're paid and what happens if the relationship ends. Managers need the same clarity, particularly when working alongside other professionals. None of this is especially romantic, and I appreciate that asking a young band to discuss contractual arrangements when they're excited about their first single can feel unnecessarily formal. But the alternative can be considerably more unpleasant, especially when careers develop quickly and money begins to enter the picture. Eventually, the management relationship came to an end. By that point I was exhausted, frustrated and questioning whether I wanted to continue working in that particular environment. It took me a while to separate what had happened from what it said about my abilities.
With some distance, I can see that the lessons were useful, although I'd have preferred to learn them in a slightly less painful fashion. These days, when artists ask me whether they need a manager, I don't automatically encourage them to find one as quickly as possible. In fact, I frequently suggest they spend some time understanding their own career, developing their audience and identifying the areas where they genuinely need help. A manager isn't a substitute for having a plan, and signing a management agreement won't suddenly resolve every difficulty. Sometimes an artist needs a lawyer, an accountant, a booking agent or a few hours of independent professional advice rather than somebody taking a percentage of their income for the next several years.
I still enjoy working with artists, and I remain fascinated by the process of helping somebody turn creative potential into a viable career. I'm now more selective about the relationships I enter into and more comfortable acknowledging when something isn't right. I've certainly made mistakes, and I suspect I'll make a few more before I'm finished, but I'd like to think I'm better at recognising the warning signs and knowing when to challenge a situation rather than simply hoping it will improve. It's taken me a fair number of years to learn that, which is probably one reason I think the experience is worth sharing.
