I feel like people come to music in times that align with their own mental state. A playlist for each mood, for each specific emotion, for each time and place and a reflection of one's mind. I have my playlists labelled: my screaming playlist for times of frustration, my getting ready playlist for songs that make me ready to conquer the world, and my staring at the ceiling playlist for numb feelings that only music can communicate to my brain. It's a natural thing to do, to craft playlists of songs that only make sense to you within certain contexts, and I think that's a connection ever so interesting. 

I think there is somewhat of a beauty in painful music, but not in the conventional way. I don't think that mental health is something that should ever be silenced or lessened, but its delicacy is something I find to be explored within music as one of the best forms of art. Pain does lead to the best writing; with emotions so strong and forceful, how could it not? When writing, it's hard to stray away from the communication it allows; serving as a hypnotic facilitation to release all your feelings in a way that is crafted and controlled. And this is something that ties an artist and their fans tightly. It's somewhat of a comfort, the secret relationship between the makers and listeners of a song, that although the two may feel completely differently, the vast interpretation of music allows both to relate the same way. 

The tortured musician is a myth that is quite applicable to any genre of music; the deeply penetrating stab wounds curated by people can be placed within any type of sound. Whether it's the guitar-heavy drive of Radiohead with lyrics that scrape the top layer off of people’s suffering to reveal the deep and heavily laden feelings buried beneath or the soft and romantic melancholy that feels like warmth in winter with musicians like Adrienne Lenker, there’s a comfort in sadness. We return to it willingly, craving a satisfaction in the idea of feeling heard and seen. That you're not the only person feeling a certain way, the music acting as a companion to your loneliness, or if you hear your emotions played back to you like an echo, that it'll help you understand the complications that they invoke. 

There is a certain romanticisation of these feelings when playing live; somewhere down the line, the pain behind a musician’s music becomes part of its appeal. The artist's suffering becomes inseparable from their art, and the idea of the tortured musician begins to take on a life of its own. We don't just want music that understands sadness; sometimes, we seem to want the person behind it to have suffered enough to make it believable. We want to see the act performed realistically enough to feel seen, but artistically enough to be a performance. Someone I always think of when picturing this in my head is Matty Healy. His tortured act, wandering across the stage like a soul in purgatory, waiting for purpose. He performs with the perfect balance of deceit and sincerity, but as he says himself, sincerity is scary. Being too honest on a stage about your inner feelings is a tough act to conquer.

Although a somewhat controversial figure, Hole’s Courtney Love has been a continuous victim of this. After losing her husband and the band’s bassist within too short a time period, Hole performed at Reading in August of 1994, and Courtney faced a crowd that was there not only to listen to her music but also curious as to what her grief entailed. They wanted to see how broken she was, and if her performance matched what they considered “sad enough”. Hole are known for their honesty, with their album ‘Live Through This’ (although made before Kurt’s death) being an exploration of grief, rage, violence and suffering, so the live show was already predetermined to explore these themes. However, after the performance, critics stomped all over the show, saying that Courtney’s erratic, emotional, and inherently vulnerable display was “too much” for their liking. They treated her grief and turmoil as a spectacle, some critics going as far as to say her grief was self-indulgent. Her chaotic stage presence was part of Hole's raw, confrontational appeal, but when interpreted through her personal tragedy, it became ammunition against her credibility.

Everyone wants a tortured poet to be put on a pedestal, until those feelings channelled into their music are “too honest”, “too real” and don't fit into what the stereotype drives as socially acceptable. It's part of the reason why I find it so brave and applaudable when artists do talk about their mental health so openly. An artist’s mental state is never something a fanbase should have any form of entitlement to, although when in a sphere so public it's difficult to not let people in to explore your past. Dan Hoff of Gurriers has stated something I think applies to musicians or not; that we should try to speak about mental health issues “the same as a common cold”. It's somewhat easier to display mental health issues to an audience that knows nothing about what truly happens inside of your mind, a romanticisation being put into the crafted lyrics of songs themselves. 

Gurrier's most recent album ‘No One’s Coming To Save You’ features a song, Crybaby, which I think balances the delicate relationship of crafted artistry and mental sincerity beautifully. The song has a dissonant, uncomfortable quality in not only its instrumentals but also its lyrics. It speaks of searching for an escape from reality, society and inner turmoil through the damaging conventional method of a painkiller in substances. The relationship between searching for an escape, while assuring yourself you're fine. Gurriers have never sugarcoated vulnerability; they place a magnifying glass on pain, but that is a notion that I think leaves a secret strength within their music. Talking so openly about poor mental health should be something more normalised and easier to do, but it really isn't. It's an honesty people struggle with because it establishes that what you're feeling is real, and sometimes that's a conversation you aren’t ready for; so, for music to allow a secret listener, someone who understands before you do, and a more open, honest conversation on the topic is something I think should be more than uplifted. There is nothing weak about being honest about your suffering; the real weakness lies in a world that teaches us to hide it.