Why I Quit My Dream Job In The Music Industry
I was eight when I realized all I wanted was to be a musician. Shy and new to our town, I was terminally anxious. I had a talent for hiding in plain sight. To find me, all you needed to do was look for a piano. Like friends, I sought them out, committed their locations to memory. Shoved into a gym corner, beside the auditorium stage, the choir room at the back of our church. No one locked me in a practice room for hours or told me I was gifted. Fragments of the dream introduced themselves quietly, pushing through like AM talk radio through bits of static. It was a powerful feeling. That year I wrote my first song. Where speech intensified my anxiety around others, music put me in touch with lucidity. Athletes call it “the zone.” An ability to lose track of time. I could pass through it, shape it, like a ghost between walls. I loved it and wanted to chase it forever. Then I quit.
Somewhere along the way, I internalized the uniquely American myth: Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. It became my personal cri de coeur. I’ve abandoned many things with a “don’t look back” tenacity. First, I dropped out of college with zero fanfare. There were partners I left, apartments I ditched, and cities I determinedly cast off. Jobs I grew so eager to leave, I practically skipped off into the sunset, heels clicking. “From now on, you can put the mayo on the side of that B.L.T. yourself—check ya later, losers!”
Quitting music was different. A bone broke, and I couldn’t reset it. No one saw the fracture, but I could feel it. I was now officially a member of the Quitting Class. For over a decade, I may have been a miserable girlfriend or your flakiest friend, but as long as I was a professional musician, none of that mattered. From the outside, my dream may not have looked ambitious, but it was more than I ever could have imagined growing up in a small town outside of Boston. At 20, I signed my first (very modest) record deal. I’ll never forget the day an executive took me aside to say “you’re gonna be a lifer, Case. I can tell.” I felt singled out; special. I put out records under my given name, and the nom de plume White Hinterland. I toured the world, often as the support act. I wrote and produced my own albums. Sure, there were weddings I missed, birthdays I forgot, loved ones who were buried. These were sacrifices I was determined to make if necessary. While those close to me grew tired of my long absences and excuses, I continued to believe love meant never having to feel like the Dream Job is work.
Let’s unpack this myth a little bit. First, it requires us to adopt a binary mindset: passion-based careers equal success, and regular jobs equal failure. Some people choose to succeed while others allow themselves to fail. It places the bulk of the responsibility on the dreamer and less on the dream itself. “Work the hardest,” whispers the myth, “and the world will be your oyster.” It requires us to suspend reality and buy into the idea the playing field is equal for everyone. By implying that passionate work frees us from the burden of feeling our work is a job, it puts an impossible expectation upon the dreamer.
Let me tell you, being a professional musician felt like work much of the time, and you’re talking to someone who once got fired for dropping a 72 lb. frozen wheel of parmesan worth $1,000 down a flight of stairs. Tour meant living in a bar on wheels; everything smelled like the morning after and stale beer, and my body matter consisted primarily of chips and salsa by the end. Just breaking even was considered a success. It was lonely. Usually, I was the only woman. I prided myself on my ability to be “one of the boys” but, in hindsight, I see someone longing for community in a field where many women feel isolated. Days or weeks might go by without having a conversation with a single woman. Routinely, stress led me to get very sick. Once, in London, I slept in St. Pancras station to make the earliest train to Paris for the next show, only to wake up with laryngitis so severe I needed to be put on steroids to sing. It didn’t matter. We had to cancel the tour by the time we got to Brussels. I was on vocal rest for about a month to heal, effectively ending the album campaign prematurely. Naturally, I blamed only myself.
Looking back, I believe my body was trying to tell me something. I never let my guard down on the road. I made some of my best friends while touring, many of whom I still consider my brothers, but they couldn’t protect me from those with darker intentions — ranging from low grade (rape jokes in the studio, micro-assumptions about women’s technical abilities) to serious. Complicated by the mix of alcohol, late nights, and a chronic imbalance of gender, race, and power, it’s no surprise how frequently lines blur or crash altogether.
On one of my earliest tours, a male musician invited me to talk about my work somewhere privately. I was 20. That was the first time I was sexually assaulted. The second time, I was 29, in a European city unfamiliar to me. After weeks of working with little rest, a drink with the opening band sounded nice. Afterward, one of the musicians offered to escort me back to my hotel for safety. He attacked me before we were even inside the courtyard. I was still wearing my ridiculous stage outfit. It was covered in sequins. When I rebuffed him, he spat at me, “I thought you were fat when I first saw you!” Purple sequins scattered all over the sidewalk like some hideous disco bird molted all of its feathers.
Instead of my brothers holding each other to account, I viewed whatever felt like “work” as the cost of my dream. Collateral. As the supporting act much of the time, I wasn’t so successful that I could dictate the terms of my safety, and grotesquely, I believed if I worked harder, I might one day be able to create these terms for myself. Think about that for a second. I assumed that the protection of my well-being was something I had to earn. Until then, it was my responsibility to take comfort in how much I loved my job. Failure to do so was on me. If I felt uneasy laughing about the creepy guy at the merch table who demanded a hug and threw a fit when I politely declined, it was a sign I couldn’t hack it. Eventually, I grew exhausted of having to explain my technical specs to yet another sound guy who only saw a girl attempting to play in the boy’s sandbox. There’s only so many times a person can laugh at a joke that comes at their expense. Only so many times you can endure watching male colleagues turn a blind eye to, if not outright congratulate gross misconduct. Once I tried to tell my story to a friend who was close to my abuser. Before I could finish a sentence, he stopped me. “Don’t tell me if it’s someone I know.” Best not to rupture the precarious design of our circus family. Each time I questioned things, a voice buried deep down inside told me “You must not love this work enough.”
What happens when our dreams land us in a toxic environment? How should we reckon with the shifting of our priorities over time? Love alone is not a cure-all. It can’t go to HR to deal with sticky issues like racism or harassment. It won’t secure more tours or negotiate your salary. We can’t love our way through a freak ACL tear that sidelines an entire career. The myth tells us love is the answer, and that quitting is our problem.
The danger with this thinking is that it fails to account for life’s messy realities. Talk to anyone who quit a marriage, or drinking, or moved to a new city for a fresh start. In the capitalist-driven success narrative, the cream rises to the top, yet there are a lot of layers in this shit tiramisu that make the “love what you do” theory a complicated trick to pull off. Privilege bestows critical advantages to some while excluding the rest. Careers flow in a continuum, as opposed to a tidy upwards trajectory. Sometimes, the only way to say yes to yourself is to say no to something or someone else. Even to your brothers. Each time something bad happened, I wondered who to go to for help. Who could help me say “no more?” Was it the label? The booking agent? Our tour manager? I know, even now, if they read this, they would likely bristle at it. Some might consider it an unfair accusation. But everywhere I looked there were men. My brothers. What if they thought I didn’t want part of the dream anymore? Would they still continue to work with me, knowing I might not be a “lifer” after all? If there’s one thing that Americans will go to any length to avoid, it’s becoming a quitter.
The other night, I was chatting with a friend of mine who’s considering shutting down her blog of over ten years. Would that decision signal it was all a waste of time? Often when we decide it’s time to say “goodbye to all that,” shame blooms in place of the dream, signaling there’s something wrong with us. American society tells quitters, be it implicitly or directly, that they have failed. The scarcity mentality tells us that there’s a finite number of opportunities, ideas, relationships, yadda yadda out there in the world. Yet, if there’s anything my life as an artist has taught me, it’s that failure is central to creativity. For every good song I’ve ever written, there are 50 abortive attempts no one will ever hear. Each failed song gets me nearer to the one I’m meant to finish.
Most entrepreneurs are people who quit ideas or folded companies at one point in time. Scientists and inventors fail all the time until something finally sticks. Did you know Edison, the guy who gave us the lightbulb, also came up with a talking doll that makes Chucky seem cuddly by comparison? Each time we say no to something, we also learn where to find our next yes. By the time I knew enough was enough, I was 30, almost broke, and living with my parents, relying on their assistance to put my records out and continue to tour. This was definitely not “killing it.” I was lucky I had a family to fall back on. Many others I knew didn’t. Slowly I dragged myself out of debt, built my own basic studio to cut down on cost, and put music out on my own. I bumped into an old colleague outside the Bowery Ballroom in New York. “Are you still doing music?” he asked me. The question haunted me. I wanted to crawl like a rat down the subway platform and touch the third rail.
So, how did the quitting go? At first, there was wine. Lots of wine. I cried for what felt like months. I dove deep into therapy — something I was privileged to have access to and highly recommend if you can manage it. It took about three years to mine my way into a new career, and along the way, I fielded countless false starts. When people asked what I was up to, I felt ashamed to say “I’m not sure” or “Nothing.” My identity was so wrapped up in music that without it, I felt naked. Each new job taught me something, even if it wasn’t something I wanted to do forever. For a few months, I painted backdrops for photo shoots. At one point, an art director, bewildered by how bad I was at painting giant candy canes red and white, asked me “are you sure you should be here?” A career in set design was ruled out on the spot. A friend invited me to buy props for a production overseas. You haven’t lived until you’ve driven across state lines to pick up a scary antique baby pram or scoured Craigslist past midnight for a “haunted-looking, FDR-Style” wooden wheelchair.
One of the lowest points came during Christmas one year. I should preface this anecdote by saying I feel like an asshole sharing it, but the irony’s too delicious. In a retail store where employees, including me, dressed in black like sea captains’ widows, I wrapped expensive, fragile gifts. The waiting line stretched towards the front door, though none of us widows could wrap presents fast enough. While packing a $400 serving bowl the size of a pizza, my song “Icarus” played overhead on the Sonos. When I looked up, the same customer who minutes before groused at my ribbon-tying — she was right, I was terrible at it — was mouthing along with the words. “Oh my god, I loved this song in high school SO MUCH!” Without skipping a beat, she turned to me, glared, and huffed “Can you hurry it up? I should have Amazoned my presents.” Stay humble, friends.
Yet, quitting freed my mind up in many ways. I learned I could be scrappy. I figured out how to freelance writing copy. Once I was out of debt, I saved up some money and traveled. I developed hobbies, like gardening and hiking. Contrary to my fears, the world didn’t collapse. Friends and family still loved me. If anything they enjoyed my company more because I wasn’t a fucking nervous wreck all the time. A subtle change took root. I surrendered. I was a Quitter, and as a result, I could define myself in other ways.
I came out to my circle about my quitting two years ago. Since then, I‘ve transitioned into something of the Quitter Whisperer. You’d be amazed how many people confide they’d like to quit scenarios of their own. To my fellow and future Quitters: I understand why you may wish to stay anonymous, but I believe in healing by drawing the curtain back. Shine some light in on your fears. Share your new life with your friends. My friend Allie had a perfect response for incoming quitter-status inquiries: “Currently, I’m at liberty.” I suggest you borrow it. It’s likely members of the Quitting Class exist already in your immediate circle, many who loved something very much, but found it time to walk away. No matter what you’re leaving behind, think of it as walking through the next door. Take heart in your courage to create a better possible future for yourself. You’re not rejecting the past, just expanding your options. What is the point of success if the end result feels terrible? What the hell does “making it” really mean anyway? You don’t owe your life to anyone else. Devote it how you wish. Make it mean something to you.
Love and loving something are not one and the same. Loving until we break is not romantic. There’s a song I’ve carried with me all my life, one so important it feels like a North Star, talismanic in the way only the best songs can be. It’s the song I turn to again and again for answers. In “All I Want,” Joni Mitchell sings “I want to make you feel free.” It’s a line so important she sings it twice. When I was younger, I wondered what that line meant. Did she love this person so much she wanted to make clear the shape of her devotion? I wanted to know how it felt to be set free by love. I see it differently now. “I want to make you feel free,” she sings twice. Once to her beloved. Once again. To herself. Imagine that. Being set free by yourself.
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