“Music That Keeps You Afloat”: Why the Industry Still Isn’t Ready for Real Vulnerability
For the past decade, mental health has become one of the most overused — and least examined — phrases in popular culture. We talk about it constantly, but usually in controlled, comfortable environments: therapy offices, wellness podcasts, Instagram captions framed by candles and soft light. This version of mental health assumes stillness, privacy, and time.
Touring musicians have none of those.
The numbers alone dismantle the myth of the
“naturally resilient artist”
“naturally resilient artist”
Multiple international surveys show that over 70% of musicians experience symptoms of anxiety or depression at some point in their careers. A recent survey of independent artists found 73% reporting active mental health symptoms — a rate dramatically higher than in the general population.
To put that into context:
In the U.S., the annual prevalence of major depressive disorder among adults is roughly 8%. Among music industry workers, more than half report high psychological distress, compared to about 15% of the general public. That’s not a marginal difference — it’s structural.
To put that into context:
In the U.S., the annual prevalence of major depressive disorder among adults is roughly 8%. Among music industry workers, more than half report high psychological distress, compared to about 15% of the general public. That’s not a marginal difference — it’s structural.
The severity of outcomes is equally alarming. More than 1 in 10 music professionals surveyed reported seriously contemplating suicide within a single year — more than double the rate among U.S. adults overall.
Musicians mental health exists in motion. In heat, noise, pressure, adrenaline, sleep deprivation, and constant exposure. It exists in airports at 5 a.m., in vans without silence, on stages where emotional intensity is not optional but required.
And yet, these same artists are expected to function not only as professionals, but as emotional anchors — for audiences who use music as a coping mechanism, a release, sometimes a lifeline.
This contradiction sits at the center of the modern music industry: artists must stay mentally stable in conditions that actively destabilize them, while producing work that helps others survive.
At THE OTO, this tension has been central to our ongoing investigation into music and mental health — not as branding, but as lived reality. And the more we talk to musicians, the clearer it becomes: the conversation isn’t about vulnerability as an aesthetic. It’s about sustainability as a biological, psychological, and cultural problem.
And yet, these same artists are expected to function not only as professionals, but as emotional anchors — for audiences who use music as a coping mechanism, a release, sometimes a lifeline.
This contradiction sits at the center of the modern music industry: artists must stay mentally stable in conditions that actively destabilize them, while producing work that helps others survive.
At THE OTO, this tension has been central to our ongoing investigation into music and mental health — not as branding, but as lived reality. And the more we talk to musicians, the clearer it becomes: the conversation isn’t about vulnerability as an aesthetic. It’s about sustainability as a biological, psychological, and cultural problem.
Genre doesn’t offer protection. A 2023 UK census found that nearly one-third of musicians rated their mental well-being as negative, with particularly high rates in electronic/dance, rock/alternative, and rap scenes. Behind-the-scenes roles often fare worse: producers and sound engineers reported some of the lowest mental well-being scores across the industry.
Burnout is now normalized. Over 50% of creative industry workers cite burnout and fatigue as their primary work-related struggle. And while data on neurodivergence is still emerging, clinicians increasingly note higher prevalence of ADHD traits among musicians — a combination that can amplify both creativity and psychological strain.
This isn’t about individual weakness. It’s about an occupational environment that multiplies risk.
Burnout is now normalized. Over 50% of creative industry workers cite burnout and fatigue as their primary work-related struggle. And while data on neurodivergence is still emerging, clinicians increasingly note higher prevalence of ADHD traits among musicians — a combination that can amplify both creativity and psychological strain.
This isn’t about individual weakness. It’s about an occupational environment that multiplies risk.
Touring isn’t just hard — it’s neurologically destabilizing.
Constant travel disrupts circadian rhythms, impairs emotional regulation, and fragments attention. Irregular sleep patterns alone are enough to increase anxiety and depressive symptoms; add loud environments, sensory overload, and adrenaline spikes, and you create a near-perfect storm.
Musicians describe an “always-on” existence: late-night performances followed by long drives or flights, followed by brief, shallow sleep, followed by public interaction again. There is no natural recovery window. Work-life balance collapses not because of poor planning, but because the structure of touring doesn’t allow it.
Then comes the psychological whiplash. Nightly performances flood the nervous system with stimulation — lights, noise, crowd energy — only to end abruptly in isolation. Hotel rooms, buses, silence. This oscillation between hyper-arousal and loneliness is a known trigger for anxiety disorders and depressive episodes.
Social isolation compounds the problem. Long tours strain relationships, disconnect artists from non-industry support systems, and make it difficult to maintain any sense of rootedness. As one industry analysis noted, the “anti-social hours” of music careers make it difficult to know when to stop working — or where work even ends.
Against this backdrop, asking musicians to simply “take care of their mental health” becomes almost absurd.
Constant travel disrupts circadian rhythms, impairs emotional regulation, and fragments attention. Irregular sleep patterns alone are enough to increase anxiety and depressive symptoms; add loud environments, sensory overload, and adrenaline spikes, and you create a near-perfect storm.
Musicians describe an “always-on” existence: late-night performances followed by long drives or flights, followed by brief, shallow sleep, followed by public interaction again. There is no natural recovery window. Work-life balance collapses not because of poor planning, but because the structure of touring doesn’t allow it.
Then comes the psychological whiplash. Nightly performances flood the nervous system with stimulation — lights, noise, crowd energy — only to end abruptly in isolation. Hotel rooms, buses, silence. This oscillation between hyper-arousal and loneliness is a known trigger for anxiety disorders and depressive episodes.
Social isolation compounds the problem. Long tours strain relationships, disconnect artists from non-industry support systems, and make it difficult to maintain any sense of rootedness. As one industry analysis noted, the “anti-social hours” of music careers make it difficult to know when to stop working — or where work even ends.
Against this backdrop, asking musicians to simply “take care of their mental health” becomes almost absurd.
And yet, here’s the paradox: despite everything, musicians keep going. Not because the system supports them — but because music itself becomes a coping mechanism.
Psychologically, music-making offers something rare: a structured outlet for emotional chaos. Songwriting, performing, and even rehearsing allow artists to externalize internal states — to turn diffuse anxiety, grief, or anger into form. Research consistently shows that active engagement with music facilitates emotional regulation, self-reflection, and a sense of agency.
Physiologically, performance can trigger a “natural high” — endorphins and dopamine that temporarily counterbalance exhaustion and stress. Many artists describe this not as pleasure, but as relief: a brief alignment between body, mind, and purpose.
Psychologically, music-making offers something rare: a structured outlet for emotional chaos. Songwriting, performing, and even rehearsing allow artists to externalize internal states — to turn diffuse anxiety, grief, or anger into form. Research consistently shows that active engagement with music facilitates emotional regulation, self-reflection, and a sense of agency.
Physiologically, performance can trigger a “natural high” — endorphins and dopamine that temporarily counterbalance exhaustion and stress. Many artists describe this not as pleasure, but as relief: a brief alignment between body, mind, and purpose.
But there’s a danger in this narrative.
If music “saves” musicians, the industry can justify pushing them further. If suffering produces great art, exhaustion becomes acceptable collateral. This is where the myth of the tortured artist quietly mutates into policy.
What artists like Lorna Shore articulate — often unintentionally — is not that pain is productive, but that expression prevents collapse. There’s a difference. And confusing the two has real consequences.
That’s why the growing wave of industry initiatives matters.
Organizations like Help Musicians UK, MusiCares, Backline, and regional foundations are building mental health infrastructure specifically for music workers — offering confidential counseling, financial support for therapy, and industry-literate care. Some labels have begun allocating direct mental health funds to artists, acknowledging that access to care shouldn’t depend on crisis.
Festivals and conferences are also shifting tone, integrating mental health discussions into programming rather than relegating them to side panels. Policy frameworks — like Australia’s minimum standards for a mentally healthy music industry — push for systemic changes: realistic tour scheduling, access to clinicians on the road, and mental health training for crews and venues.
These efforts don’t solve everything. But they signal a cultural pivot: from glorifying endurance to prioritizing longevity.
This is where our conversation with Lorna Shore becomes particularly revealing. Their music sounds catastrophic — cinematic, violent, overwhelming.
But when they talk about it, the language shifts. What emerges isn’t destruction, but containment.
Here’s our conversation:
— You play music that sounds like the end of the world. How did you find that sound as a way to express what’s going on inside you?
Спикер 2:
That’s a really good freaking question, thank you.
I think you kind of got it. We try to tame it, you know.
Lorna Shore is an entity in itself — we’re very chaotic.
It’s always been, you know… symphonic — or not symphonic, what’s the word…
more like black and cinematic. We’re a cinematic deathcore kind of band.
So I think it’s about taking all that sound and digesting it in a way that other people can connect with — appreciate it, understand it, and, you know, put it into words.
Whether it’s vulnerability or not, it’s a lot.
But we make it happen in the studio, and we fucking made it. So let’s go.
— Since you started playing music, from the beginning until now — how has your mental state changed?
Спикер 1:
I don’t think anything’s really changed.
I think we just got used to doing this.
I don’t feel like it’s different from when we first started.
Спикер 2:
If anything, we just want to play bigger places now.
We played with Gojira, Parkway, all these festivals.
In the beginning, seeing huge crowds was crazy anxiety — like Summer Breeze and shit.
Now it’s more like, “Oh, it’s just another festival run.”
How do we keep doing that? Honestly, we’re just excited to keep doing it.
I don’t think anything’s changed mentally. We’re just more weathered now.
People tell us we’re the exact same people.
— Before going on stage, do you feel more excited or more anxious?
Спикер 1:
I think now it’s excitement. A few weeks ago, though, I was definitely anxious. I was dreading it. I was nervous. Now that we’ve been doing it so much, it’s more excitement than anxiety.
Спикер 2:
We made a mistake yesterday, but honestly, we’re probably the most fun band before we go on. We play all kinds of music to pull ourselves out of that weird headspace and into a good flow.
Спикер 1:
If we think about it too much, we just make ourselves nervous. If we just go have fun beforehand and get loose, the show is way more enjoyable. It’s best not to think about it too much.
— Have you ever felt like music literally gives you life?
Спикер 2:
I think music has saved a lot of people. It’s allowed them to keep going during really dark times. I’m happy that our music can be that space for people — somewhere they can feel okay, even for a moment.
— Have you noticed that certain riffs or harmonies can actually shift how you feel — like the music changes your mood?
Спикер 2:
A hundred percent. You can go back to the Maleficium days — it was just insane guitars, insane vocals. Then you listen to our older EP, when I first joined the band, and you hear these guitar leads and melodies.
Even if you take all the vocals out, the guitar alone makes you feel like you’re soaring.
“To the Hellfire,” “Cursed to Die” — perfect examples.It’s wild to see how people react differently.Some songs make people want to mosh, others make them want to crowd surf. Even “Soulless Existence” brings out a completely different energy.
They all sound different, and they bring out different versions of people.
Спикер 1:
Live reactions are totally different depending on the song. Especially with more guitar-focused parts — you see new responses every time.
Спикер 2:
It’s also just more fun having melody now. Not just chugs and classic Lorna Shore stuff. I’m not a guitarist at all, so I don’t know what was happening before — but now it feels atmospheric.There are a lot of words for it. You nailed it.
— Do you think your music can help people going through breakdowns, depression, or hard mental states?
Спикер 1:
I think that’s a big part of it. Music helped us as listeners, so hopefully it helps others too. When I’m going through something, I get obsessed with the music I’m listening to and stop thinking about everything else. I hope our music does that for someone else.
Спикер 2:
We all listened to music when we were 16 or 17. For most people, those are the hardest years. You look back and think, “That was rough.”Music helps people survive that. It gave us life, and I think our music has helped a lot of other people do the same.
— What advice would you give to people dealing with mental breakdowns or mental health struggles?
Спикер 1:
That’s a tough one.
Спикер 2:
Everyone has something they’re dealing with — whether they admit it or not.
A lot of people bury it and pretend everything’s fine. But the best thing you can do is confront that shit. If you’re in a really dark place, distract yourself. Listen to music.
Ride your skateboard.
There are infinite things you can do.
The worst thing is staying there.
Reach out to someone, or do something — like we do before going on stage — anything is better than doing nothing.
Спикер 1:
Get it out of the box, man.
Whether it’s therapy or a personal hobby — holding it in will only weigh you down.
Find an outlet.
Professional or personal — something productive.
I wouldn’t recommend holding it in. I’ve done that, and it doesn’t work.
Getting it out in some way is the most beneficial thing.
Спикер 2:
That’s what’s great about art.
You can paint, make music — it becomes an outlet. This band is our outlet.
I hope people find theirs too.
Paint. Skateboard.
F***ng skydive.
Спикер 1:
Play video games.
Mental health in music is reckoning.
The data is too consistent, the stories too similar, the outcomes too severe to ignore. Artists are not failing the system — the system has been failing them.
What conversations like the one we had with Lorna Shore offer is not a manifesto, but a reality check. Mental health on tour is not about perfection or positivity. It’s about adaptation, boundaries, outlets, and honesty.
Music helps people survive. That includes the people making it.
And if we want music to keep doing that work — culturally, emotionally, socially — we have to stop treating artists as inexhaustible resources. Sustainability is not the enemy of creativity. It’s the condition for its future.
This piece is part of THE OTO’s ongoing research and documentary project on music and mental health. Our film, currently in post-production, brings together musicians across genres and mental health experts, including researchers from Oxford, to explore how creativity functions not just as expression, but as survival.
If music “saves” musicians, the industry can justify pushing them further. If suffering produces great art, exhaustion becomes acceptable collateral. This is where the myth of the tortured artist quietly mutates into policy.
What artists like Lorna Shore articulate — often unintentionally — is not that pain is productive, but that expression prevents collapse. There’s a difference. And confusing the two has real consequences.
That’s why the growing wave of industry initiatives matters.
Organizations like Help Musicians UK, MusiCares, Backline, and regional foundations are building mental health infrastructure specifically for music workers — offering confidential counseling, financial support for therapy, and industry-literate care. Some labels have begun allocating direct mental health funds to artists, acknowledging that access to care shouldn’t depend on crisis.
Festivals and conferences are also shifting tone, integrating mental health discussions into programming rather than relegating them to side panels. Policy frameworks — like Australia’s minimum standards for a mentally healthy music industry — push for systemic changes: realistic tour scheduling, access to clinicians on the road, and mental health training for crews and venues.
These efforts don’t solve everything. But they signal a cultural pivot: from glorifying endurance to prioritizing longevity.
This is where our conversation with Lorna Shore becomes particularly revealing. Their music sounds catastrophic — cinematic, violent, overwhelming.
But when they talk about it, the language shifts. What emerges isn’t destruction, but containment.
Here’s our conversation:
— You play music that sounds like the end of the world. How did you find that sound as a way to express what’s going on inside you?
Спикер 2:
That’s a really good freaking question, thank you.
I think you kind of got it. We try to tame it, you know.
Lorna Shore is an entity in itself — we’re very chaotic.
It’s always been, you know… symphonic — or not symphonic, what’s the word…
more like black and cinematic. We’re a cinematic deathcore kind of band.
So I think it’s about taking all that sound and digesting it in a way that other people can connect with — appreciate it, understand it, and, you know, put it into words.
Whether it’s vulnerability or not, it’s a lot.
But we make it happen in the studio, and we fucking made it. So let’s go.
— Since you started playing music, from the beginning until now — how has your mental state changed?
Спикер 1:
I don’t think anything’s really changed.
I think we just got used to doing this.
I don’t feel like it’s different from when we first started.
Спикер 2:
If anything, we just want to play bigger places now.
We played with Gojira, Parkway, all these festivals.
In the beginning, seeing huge crowds was crazy anxiety — like Summer Breeze and shit.
Now it’s more like, “Oh, it’s just another festival run.”
How do we keep doing that? Honestly, we’re just excited to keep doing it.
I don’t think anything’s changed mentally. We’re just more weathered now.
People tell us we’re the exact same people.
— Before going on stage, do you feel more excited or more anxious?
Спикер 1:
I think now it’s excitement. A few weeks ago, though, I was definitely anxious. I was dreading it. I was nervous. Now that we’ve been doing it so much, it’s more excitement than anxiety.
Спикер 2:
We made a mistake yesterday, but honestly, we’re probably the most fun band before we go on. We play all kinds of music to pull ourselves out of that weird headspace and into a good flow.
Спикер 1:
If we think about it too much, we just make ourselves nervous. If we just go have fun beforehand and get loose, the show is way more enjoyable. It’s best not to think about it too much.
— Have you ever felt like music literally gives you life?
Спикер 2:
I think music has saved a lot of people. It’s allowed them to keep going during really dark times. I’m happy that our music can be that space for people — somewhere they can feel okay, even for a moment.
— Have you noticed that certain riffs or harmonies can actually shift how you feel — like the music changes your mood?
Спикер 2:
A hundred percent. You can go back to the Maleficium days — it was just insane guitars, insane vocals. Then you listen to our older EP, when I first joined the band, and you hear these guitar leads and melodies.
Even if you take all the vocals out, the guitar alone makes you feel like you’re soaring.
“To the Hellfire,” “Cursed to Die” — perfect examples.It’s wild to see how people react differently.Some songs make people want to mosh, others make them want to crowd surf. Even “Soulless Existence” brings out a completely different energy.
They all sound different, and they bring out different versions of people.
Спикер 1:
Live reactions are totally different depending on the song. Especially with more guitar-focused parts — you see new responses every time.
Спикер 2:
It’s also just more fun having melody now. Not just chugs and classic Lorna Shore stuff. I’m not a guitarist at all, so I don’t know what was happening before — but now it feels atmospheric.There are a lot of words for it. You nailed it.
— Do you think your music can help people going through breakdowns, depression, or hard mental states?
Спикер 1:
I think that’s a big part of it. Music helped us as listeners, so hopefully it helps others too. When I’m going through something, I get obsessed with the music I’m listening to and stop thinking about everything else. I hope our music does that for someone else.
Спикер 2:
We all listened to music when we were 16 or 17. For most people, those are the hardest years. You look back and think, “That was rough.”Music helps people survive that. It gave us life, and I think our music has helped a lot of other people do the same.
— What advice would you give to people dealing with mental breakdowns or mental health struggles?
Спикер 1:
That’s a tough one.
Спикер 2:
Everyone has something they’re dealing with — whether they admit it or not.
A lot of people bury it and pretend everything’s fine. But the best thing you can do is confront that shit. If you’re in a really dark place, distract yourself. Listen to music.
Ride your skateboard.
There are infinite things you can do.
The worst thing is staying there.
Reach out to someone, or do something — like we do before going on stage — anything is better than doing nothing.
Спикер 1:
Get it out of the box, man.
Whether it’s therapy or a personal hobby — holding it in will only weigh you down.
Find an outlet.
Professional or personal — something productive.
I wouldn’t recommend holding it in. I’ve done that, and it doesn’t work.
Getting it out in some way is the most beneficial thing.
Спикер 2:
That’s what’s great about art.
You can paint, make music — it becomes an outlet. This band is our outlet.
I hope people find theirs too.
Paint. Skateboard.
F***ng skydive.
Спикер 1:
Play video games.
Mental health in music is reckoning.
The data is too consistent, the stories too similar, the outcomes too severe to ignore. Artists are not failing the system — the system has been failing them.
What conversations like the one we had with Lorna Shore offer is not a manifesto, but a reality check. Mental health on tour is not about perfection or positivity. It’s about adaptation, boundaries, outlets, and honesty.
Music helps people survive. That includes the people making it.
And if we want music to keep doing that work — culturally, emotionally, socially — we have to stop treating artists as inexhaustible resources. Sustainability is not the enemy of creativity. It’s the condition for its future.
This piece is part of THE OTO’s ongoing research and documentary project on music and mental health. Our film, currently in post-production, brings together musicians across genres and mental health experts, including researchers from Oxford, to explore how creativity functions not just as expression, but as survival.
