I spent 20 years on the front line of the music industry, first working in record labels and then managing bands. As a manager, I was always better at the people stuff than the business stuff, and when I finally accepted that management wasn't for me, I figured maybe conflict resolution work was the obvious next step. Because that's what I seemed to spend half my time doing anyway.
So I trained. Conflict resolution, commercial and family. Because, really, what are bands if not a beautifully chaotic mix of creatives, friends, and family?
I'd got into recovery from addiction while still in the record labels. It was a tough time to do it. Nobody quite understood back then. I started helping the odd person going through what I'd been through. I knew what to look out for. I knew that the industry could be an enabling environment, provide a lot of camouflage, and sometimes make existing conditions worse.
I'd also had my own brushes with mental health. It wasn't something you talked about. It was secretive, shameful. I really struggled to find any help other than in the pub after 6 pints, and then deeply regretted confiding in an inappropriate colleague or stranger the next day.
I wouldn't blame the industry, but I'd certainly question some of its practices and attitudes.
The Humbling Reset
So it actually made sense that my first job after qualifying wasn't conflict resolution work at all. It was being the sober driver on a tour. People knew I was looking for work, and someone needed a driver. So I went from manager to guy behind the wheel in a month.
It was humbling. And necessary. It gave me the reset I didn't know I needed.
Since then, I've rebuilt my career from the ground up, working with people in the moments when things get complicated: artists in the midst of a breakdown, bands on the brink, managers overwhelmed, and executives stuck in crisis with their talent. The work spans mental health, addiction, relationship breakdowns, communication meltdowns, and team dynamics gone very wrong.
Building Something Worth Building
Along the way, I co-founded Music Support, a charity providing mental health and addiction support for people in the UK music industry. We've had some thrills and spills, helped a lot of people, and pushed for systemic change. I'm still Chair of Trustees.
Around the same time, I became director of a major global addictions and mental health conference, which ran for 3 years. I learned more about the recovery industry, both its humanity and its bullshit (and there's plenty of both), than I could have from a decade on the sidelines.
For four years I was a Director of Attune, a specialist organisation providing mental health and addiction support to people working across the creative industries. We delivered experiential workshops, 1:1 support for individuals in crisis, and consultancy to labels, management companies, sports teams and agencies.
Accidentally Becoming an Expert
At some point over the years, through the trainings, courses, webinars, reading, research, writing, and, most of all, doing the work, I accidentally became an expert. I'm usually the most surprised person in the room about that, especially considering that my original career in the music industry was very much winging it and making stuff up on the spot. But it's nice to finally feel like I do know some things, and that I can put them to good use, and help people in a way I would have liked to be helped when I was struggling.
As Regina Spektor put it: "All the lies on your resume have become the truth by now." I kind of feel that's appropriate. I can actually do everything I say I can do.
These days, I get called into studio bust-ups, touring emergencies, festival site meltdowns, rehearsal rooms, homes, hospitals: anywhere immediate support and guidance is needed. I draw on my humanity, lived experience, sense of humour, conflict resolution training, coaching accreditation, recovery work as a registered addiction professional, and deep knowledge of both the music industry and professional mental health worlds.
Neurosexiness
A big part of my work now involves neurodiversity, or as I prefer to call it, neurosexiness. I don't buy into the idea of "neurotypical." Most of us exist across a constellation of traits, which is what makes us uniquely individual and wonderfully human. And in creative industries, that diversity of mind isn't just common, it's par for the course. It's also part of the challenge.
I also co-host the Empathy For The Devil podcast, exploring the mental health stories behind some of the most iconic (and troubled) artists of our time.
So What Do I Actually Call Myself?
For a while, I didn't have a word for what I do. Conflict resolution specialist? Recovery coach? Case manager? Communication specialist?
All true, but none of them quite covered it.
What I actually do is go into difficult, messy, high-stakes situations, work out what's going on, and help build a way forward, sometimes by myself, mostly with my trusted partners and colleagues Sam Parker and Chula Goonewardene. We do real, meaningful work together.
It's never one problem. It's never one person. It's always layered.
So yeah. I'm a troubleshooter. Welcome to my world.
If any of this sounds familiar, personally or professionally, I'm available for a confidential conversation. Get in touch.