State Champ Radio magazine
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“We bet our lives on it a long time ago,” says Christian Clancy. He’s seated on a couch in a cozy corner of his Los Angeles home next to his wife and business partner, Kelly Clancy, surrounded by plants. Getting into artist management “was never something we talked about,” Kelly says. But nearly 15 years after starting their small firm, 4 Strikes, it has continued to punch above its class, becoming one of the mightiest forces in management today. And Tyler, The Creator has been there from the start.
Before founding 4 Strikes in 2010, Christian and Kelly worked at Interscope Records in the early 2000s (most recently as head of marketing and marketing manager, respectively) alongside the label’s roster of hip-hop greats, including 50 Cent, Eminem, G-Unit and Dr. Dre. “There was no better place and time to learn the business,” Christian says. But by 2010, they’d decided to strike out on their own. Kelly departed the label first, in 2005, and she admits, “I didn’t really know what I wanted to do next.” Christian “burned out” on the music business and, five years later, left, too.
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That same year, a former Interscope colleague, David Airaudi, introduced the pair to a young, charismatic and carefree (almost to a fault) rapper who changed the course of their careers — and lives. Christian and Airaudi started managing Tyler’s collective, Odd Future, with Kelly joining soon after. “Tyler reinvigorated what was inside of us,” Christian says. A year after marrying in 2006, the Clancys welcomed their daughter, Chloe, and just a few years later launched their management company from their home. When Odd Future split in the mid-2010s, the couple started managing Tyler on their own. “We put our whole lives on it,” Kelly says. “It felt like a family from day one.”
The 4 Strikes roster has just four full-time staffers (including the Clancys) and has remained trim from the start, currently boasting five artists: Kevin Abstract, Romil and Matt Champion, who together comprise what Christian calls “the Brockhampton sector” (referencing the trio’s former group); the estate of Mac Miller, whom the Clancys managed before his untimely death in 2018; and, of course, Tyler — “and Tyler’s 147 businesses,” Christian jokes.
“We trusted and believed in [Tyler] along the way,” he continues. “I can’t tell you how many times I’m like, ‘Bro, you’re tripping.’ Turns out, he wasn’t tripping. But I always say, ‘I’ll listen, and if I disagree with something, I’m going to say, “I think you’re crazy” ’ — And then after I say that, I’ll jump off a bridge with him.”
What do you remember from when you first met Tyler?
Christian Clancy: [He was] staying on his grandma’s couch, eating Wendy’s.
Kelly Clancy: Three dollars in his pocket.
Christian: He’s still the same dude.
Kelly: He’s still that kid who’s full of wonderment. He gets excited about the smallest things and then can look at something, like a 10-year anniversary [of his own Camp Flog Gnaw festival in November] and stand onstage and go, “Holy s–t.”
Christian: He’s self-aware. As he’s gotten bigger, he realizes he knows less — and respectfully, that’s rare in a business when you’re typically surrounded by yes men, which he isn’t. And then your ego takes over. And the beauty of him is he’s open to new ideas, thoughts, discussion, perspectives. Doesn’t mean he’s not confident as f–k. He’s wildly confident, but there’s a big difference between confidence and ego based on fear.
Christian, you said early in your career that your job is to give artists the best opportunity to succeed without compromising. How have you done that?
Christian: Well, that has a lot to do with the people you work with. When you surround yourself with people who know who they are, that becomes easier. Tyler had a great ability to seemingly know and believe that he’s going to get to the top of the mountain. If you remove fear, you’re free. You’re not going, “Well, what are they going to think?” Like, f–k all of that and be true to yourself. I actually learned that from Rick Rubin. If you’re honest and confident, it’s pretty hard to lose. You may not win big, but you will for f–k sure have respect.
What are some key decisions you two have made to help Tyler climb that mountain?
Christian: The decision to [sign] with Sony, who gave us the freedom and full creative control and [ability for Tyler to own his] masters and all the things that were imperative to ever doing anything like that. We’re huge [Sony Music Entertainment CEO] Rob Stringer fans. He gets it. Betting on ourselves with [Tyler’s clothing brand] Golf Wang. Betting on ourselves with the festival that was supposed to just be a zipper ride in the middle of Fairfax Avenue and the city was like, “Oh, hell no.” And [us saying], “Well, let’s go figure it out ourselves.” All the way down to [lifestyle brand] Le Fleur now, most of those answers are going to be betting on ourselves. If you don’t know something, that’s OK. Go find the people that do and question everything and build your own house in whatever shape you want. It might not work. But so what?
Tyler is still hitting new peaks in his career: Following its October release, Chromakopia became his longest-running No. 1 album with three weeks atop the Billboard 200. How does that mentality of betting on yourself help drive his continued success?
Christian: Well, he’s got the best trajectory in music as far as I can tell, from [2011’s] Goblin to now. No. 5, No. 4, No. 3, No. 2, No. 1 — and then a [two-week] No. 1 [with 2021’s Grammy Award-winning Call Me If You Get Lost] and then three weeks at No. 1. He doesn’t lose fans. He grabs the next generation.
Kelly: Also in a world where you have access to everything immediately with the emergence of TikTok and the way that our brains are constantly receiving information and we’re just like in this swiping generation … to create a world which you can step into and you know exactly [what it is] when you see a color palette or the silhouette of his hair, I think it cuts through. And he’s been doing that [with] every album. Like when the guy came out in a blond bob wig, a suit and loafers [for 2019’s IGOR]. When he sent us the photo first, I think we looked at each other like, “All right…” In the genre he’s in, you don’t do that without utter confidence.
Christian: Even if you didn’t get it, you respected it because we all want to be that confident. It’s interesting because Mac [Miller] was a lot like [that]. Mac had a way of reinventing himself in subtle ways in his trajectory of albums. And his was a vulnerable confidence, and there’s a similarity there, which is, again, rare where you have artists that have the gall to f–k it and not worry about the results. Trust in it.
Kelly, you posted on Instagram that “most people just will never know” what Tyler went through to get Chromakopia out. What did he go through?
Kelly: There was a lot of pressure — this is not him, this is just me speaking — from the last album. His trajectory has always gone [upward]. Looking at the landscape of music and things that were really successful and knowing that he doesn’t fit in these metrics or a lot of the tentpoles that artists look at as validation for what they’re doing in their career … Tyler never creates from that place of trying to match those. So a lot of times, he’s left off a lot of lists that I believe … I get frustrated because I know he should be on all of them. Obviously, I’m protective, too.
Christian: That’s starting to happen now.
Kelly: But it’s felt like it’s always been this upward battle, which I wouldn’t change at all, but all that said, now that he’s becoming much more of a household name… I just think the process of him getting this done, truly no one will really understand. Tyler’s a unicorn in that he literally does everything — like, everything. That guy is producing everything. When he has an artist come in to be a part of the song, he already knows the cadence of how he wants them [to rap or sing]. He’ll take what he thinks is their superpower and weave it into what he’s doing. He’s instructing the horn players. Thinking of the visuals, being in the edit room, this dude touches everything. So I do want him to have that recognition. He’s never going to be the guy to ask for it.
From left: Christian Clancy, Tyler, The Creator and Kelly Clancy photographed November 20, 2024 at Quixote Studios in Los Angeles.
Luis Perez
Kelly, you once said that your mother being a teacher helped shape your management style. How so?
Kelly: Being a woman in the industry at the time when I started, it was a much different landscape than it is now.
Christian: It was a f–king boys club.
Kelly: It still exists in different forms now. But her being essentially a single mom and a kindergarten teacher and never feeling like my brother and I were without gave me such a strong foundation. And then when I became a mom, it was incredibly valuable. I’m incredibly protective of my squad and that showed itself in so many ways over the years. I think it’s why it’s always been important for us to maintain a small company, because it allows us to serve in a way that’s not transactional. Like, we’re a part of some of them having their first kids, we’re in the hospital. Buying their first homes, renting their first apartments, these huge life milestones and being able to [be there] for them. Tyler, he’ll joke to Chris and I every now and again like, “Man, if you guys ever got divorced, I don’t know what the f–k I would do.” It’s like, yes, we’re partners in a business, but I feel like we’re also representative of a relationship. What does a relationship look like? Those things are really impactful, especially when you’re meeting [artists when they’re] at a younger age.
On the 2012 Odd Future song “Oldie,” Tyler calls you, Christian, a father figure. Is a familial touch necessary to be a successful manager?
Christian: I don’t take that for granted. Some of the people we work with don’t have an immediate father. And so you also take on whatever they think of their father, for better or worse. Is it necessary? No. Is it maybe helpful? I don’t know. We learn just as much from them. Tyler taught us so much about the metrics that weren’t being monitored by record labels. There were no cultural metrics. There were just [Broadcast Data Systems] and SoundScan and these things that sort of missed this whole thing that was happening. We learn so incredibly much from the people we work with. Mac, the way he looked at life. It’s an amazing two-way street.
What’s the key to maintaining an artist-management partnership?
Christian: I was fortunate enough to learn from Eminem and Paul Rosenberg. That’s who I came up with. I’m not a big fan of the word “manager.” I’ve always preferred “partners” because that’s what I really look at it as. The artists who change managers all the time, I mean, maybe it’s necessary. Although I do know, many times, it’s hard to look at yourself and it’s easier to point the other way. So the manager is right in the line of fire if something doesn’t work. And they may have just been carrying out what your vision was. For us, the family thing is what works. It’s up, it’s down. It’s good, it’s bad. It’s thick and thin. Once it feels transactional, it’s lost that bond — then you’re just the manager.
What are you two most proud of in your own careers?
Kelly: I’m really proud that we’ve managed to, by design, keep a small company. Not folding into a larger company. That becomes convoluted because it’s hard to superserve artists like Tyler, with like-minded goals, when you’re in a bigger company. [When] we started, it was just Chris and I working out of our home. So to be able to maintain that feeling that resonates with Tyler and all the artists we work with, I’m really proud of that.
Christian: We could have the opportunity to work with somebody [else] that would hypothetically bring a bunch of money, but at what cost? I don’t want the headaches and hospital visits from stress. We’ve really managed to surround ourselves with like-minded people and to Kelly’s point, there was never this drive to be some big company. That sounds exhausting. And the fact that we don’t hate each other. We’re married, for f–k’s sake. This isn’t supposed to work, not for that long.
What grounds you?
Christian: Can I tell you one fun fact? I can’t remember the last time I missed an Eagles game. We [once] watched a meaningless Eagles-Giants game in a tent in the Serengeti at four in the morning. No joke. We got Wi-Fi, there’s a lion roaring and I’m locked into an Eagles-Giants game that meant nothing.
Kelly: We try to go every year to Lincoln Financial Field [home of the Philadelphia Eagles], but this year we couldn’t because…
Christian: F–king Tyler.
Has it gotten easier or harder to carve out personal time over the years?
Kelly: Harder.
Christian: Definitely harder. This year? Impossible.
Kelly: This is the first year — and Tyler and I joked about it — we didn’t go f–king anywhere. Everyone was doing s–t in the summer and all of us were just in L.A. like, “F–k.”
Christian: Waiting on this f–king dude.
Kelly: We’re planning our vacations around artists. We’re planning our personal lives around our work lives.
Christian: Well, you try [to plan]. It’s a year-to-year question. This year’s a f–king mess — a beautiful mess.
This story appears in the Dec. 14, 2024, issue of Billboard.
Bro, everything I thought I knew was gone. I thought I had a grasp on s–t. The songs that’s been out three weeks went up more than the classic records.”
It’s an early Tuesday afternoon in mid-November and Tyler, The Creator is still in disbelief. Just a few weeks earlier, he’d released his new album, Chromakopia, and the response was unlike any in his entire career. “It’s been a f–king crack in my reality, for this album where I’m just crying about being 33 like a b–ch.”
Three days before our conversation, he’d performed a set largely dedicated to the album at Camp Flog Gnaw Carnival, a two-day music festival in Los Angeles that he started in 2012 and continues to curate. This year was the 10th edition, a triumphant moment for an event that began with seven acts and now feels like a smaller, more walkable Coachella for locals — complete with music and food and rides and merch and fashionable selections from Tyler’s line GOLF — in the Dodger Stadium parking lot.
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At Flog Gnaw, Tyler took the stage atop a shipping container, wearing a green suit fit for a bellhop in a slightly bizarro Emerald City, a bust-like mask with cutout holes for his eyes and an Afro with two peaks and a valley between them — an ensemble with hints of Janet Jackson circa Rhythm Nation (at least from the neck down), and which Tyler described to me as both “Captain Crunch” and “a gay dictator.” It’s the uniform of the character he takes on for his new album, both haunting and militant, the latest alter ego the Hawthorne, Calif., native has assumed. After performing the first four tracks, he paused to thank those in the audience for their love — and let them know that Chromakopia was No. 1 on the Billboard 200 for a third straight week. Only Taylor Swift and Sabrina Carpenter did three straight weeks in 2024. “To do that, at my 10th carnival, in my f–king city, what are we talking about?” The crowd cheered for him and themselves: Together, they did it.
Tyler released his album on a Monday instead of the standard Friday; he wanted people to start their week with Chromakopia instead of in the middle of the night as their weekend began. The decision reflected three distinct sides of his personality — putting the music over everything, rejecting industry norms and a confidence that, regardless of the day of the week, his fans will show up. “The hope was that people listened actively, not alongside thousands of other things that come out every Friday,” says Jen Mallory, president of Columbia Records, which has been releasing Tyler’s music since 2017’s Flower Boy. “Of course, shortening the release week is not an instinctive idea in today’s market, but when you deliver the creative T did alongside the album — visual trailers, touring announcements, live events and more — it was undeniable. And the absolutely massive response indicates that his hypothesis was more than correct.”
“I kept telling n—as for a year-and-a-half, ‘Whatever I put out next, I’m putting that b–ch out on a Monday,’ ” Tyler says. “I’m not doing that stupid Friday s–t. We’re putting that s–t out on Monday and everyone’s going to know about it.” The plan worked, with Tyler hitting the top spot that week, even while handicapping himself with a shortened sales week. Only Beyoncé, Swift, Carpenter, Travis Scott, Billie Eilish and Kendrick Lamar had bigger first weeks in 2024. “I knew people would be interested,” he says with a confusion that he’s embracing. “But I didn’t expect this.”
Luis Perez
Following his short Flog Gnaw speech, he transitioned into songs from his catalog. But even as fans enjoyed his earlier material — belting every word of “Dogtooth,” moshing to “Lumberjack” — there was a palpable eagerness for Tyler to get back to the new album. The opposite is typically true at festivals; an artist’s faithful primarily in attendance to see their favorite bring the hits to life. But that Saturday night, Tyler was performing for people who hadn’t turned off Chromakopia since its release 20 days prior. And as he marched through his eighth studio album, the crowd was right with him, screaming along to every lyric, ad-lib, chant — even Tyler’s recordings of his mother that appear throughout the album and rang out as if she was the voice of the nighttime California sky.
Tyler and Sexyy Red traded verses and threw ass at the crowd during “Sticky,” a big fun song built around horns and whistles and beating on the cafeteria table. “I wanted something for the drill team at the f–king pep rallies,” Tyler told me, “something for the band to play at halftime.” His wish came true before his performance; Jackson State University’s Sonic Boom of the South broke it out earlier in the day in its matchup against Alabama State. He brought out ScHoolboy Q — whom Tyler describes as one of his few real friends in the music industry — for “Thought I Was Dead,” and, 10 minutes later, he performed “Balloon” with Doechii and Daniel Caesar, fueling a “Doechii, Doechii” chant and thanking Caesar for his help in finishing Chromakopia. The love and appreciation was at an all-time high, both in the crowd and onstage.
“I have friends that’s been to about every show,” Tyler says after Flog Gnaw is over, “and they were like, ‘That’s the loudest crowd I’ve ever heard.’ ”
I was prepared for the adoration Tyler gets in his city because I saw him in June at the Kia Forum in Inglewood, up the street from where he grew up. It wasn’t even his show — this was The Pop Out: Ken & Friends, Lamar’s first concert since his beef began in the spring with Drake. “I wasn’t even supposed to go — I was in Atlanta working on this album,” Tyler explains. “But I landed that morning and couldn’t miss this s–t. And I don’t even get FOMO at all, n—a — I’ll go to sleep. But I’m cool with Kenny and Dave [Free] and Tim [Hinshaw] from Free Lunch. So I went home, showered and ran straight there.”
He performed two songs, including “Earfquake” from his 2019 album, IGOR. Seemingly everyone at the Forum knew every word. “I genuinely think I’m better at my R&B singing s–t as a whole than my rap s–t,” he tells me. “And those are usually my biggest records.” And when Tyler screamed “Say what!,” the capacity crowd turned into the Southern California Community Choir, belting, “Don’t leeeeeeeeeeeeeeave, it’s my fault.”
Tyler, The Creator photographed November 20, 2024 at Quixote Studios in Los Angeles.
Luis Perez
For years, Tyler has continued to complicate what a pop star can embody. He’s taken on different personas, different looks, rapped about different things and keeps getting bigger and bigger. But as he’s become one of popular music’s most reliable and admired mavericks, he’s existed outside of the L.A. hip-hop zeitgeist. The city wasn’t a leading identifier for him, at least compared with a Lamar, a YG, a Vince Staples. But he’s central to the current historic run of Los Angeles music, as well as the community that makes L.A. one of the special hubs for hip-hop.
“I’m really from the city,” he says. As he continues to talk about home, his accent gets thicker and thicker. That love for Los Angeles is why he started Flog Gnaw in the first place: “Outside of sports stuff, it felt like L.A. didn’t have something that was its own thing.” With this year’s fantasy lineup — including Staples, Kaytranada, Playboi Carti, André 3000, Erykah Badu, Denzel Curry, Faye Webster, Blood Orange and Syd — Tyler’s wish to at least somewhat correct this came true. “I’m happy that Flog Gnaw has folks from the city feeling like this is theirs,” he says a bit coyly. “At least that’s what it feels like every year.”
“I’m not who they were introduced to at 20. I’m not even who I was a year ago,” Tyler says, sounding a bit annoyed at the notion that he possibly could be. “When they’re like, ‘I want the old version,’ I know it’s because they’re still there. But I’m not. And I’m OK with it because my identity doesn’t rest in a version of myself.”
I first saw Tyler, The Creator perform in 2012 at the Hammerstein Ballroom in Midtown Manhattan. His rap collective, Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All (OFWGKTA), had become an online sensation over the last few years — not just for its transgressive music, but also for antics that felt like the Black evolution of Jackass — and there was a level of buzz around the show, both from the rap-fan concertgoers and the young music bloggers eager to see if the phenomenon would translate offline.
While some in the audience anticipated possible appearances by erstwhile members Earl Sweatshirt and Frank Ocean, it was Tyler, the gang’s de facto leader and chief provocateur, who defined the show. He’d mostly been known for his 2009 debut album, Bastard, and the Odd Future mixtape Radical that came the following year, both notable for their distinctive production and shocking lyrics. But Tyler’s true star turn came in 2011 on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon, Odd Future’s first nationally televised appearance. Beforehand, Tyler tweeted, “I want to scare the f–k out of old white people that live in middle f–king America.”
He kept his word, as he and fellow Odd Future rapper Hodgy Beats performed “Sandwitches” from Tyler’s second album, 2011’s Goblin, backed by The Roots. They wore ski masks and raced around the stage like it was a hardcore show as the camera occasionally panned to scattered garden gnomes and this one creepy white girl floating around the band, her long dark hair covering her face like she was in The Ring. Tyler eventually left the stage, ran to Fallon’s desk and finished the episode on the host’s back. It was a cultural reset — an undeniable TV moment.
Like many at that 2012 Hammerstein show, I wanted to feel that Fallon energy in real life. And while Tyler did replicate it there, my own takeaway was very different: Yes, he was the leader, a true frontman, but even more so, he was head cheerleader for every Odd Future member. When Frank sat at the piano and sang “White,” Tyler went to the side, pulled out a Polaroid camera and started taking photos. As Earl, in his first performance in two years, pushed through his verse on “Oldie,” Tyler brought their entire crew onstage to back him — a wall of support, a visualization of a musical and cultural movement that deserved attention.
Luis Perez
Tyler, The Creator loves to love things. He’s a fan of the highest order, a quality that often gets lost during a climb to the top and a trait of his that hasn’t wavered to this day. When I arrived for our first of two conversations for this story, a couple of days before his Flog Gnaw performance, Tyler was standing with his longtime managers, Christian and Kelly Clancy, obsessing over something on his phone. Someone had sent Tyler a Pharrell Williams performance clip, one he’d been hunting for for the last decade, and his mood was a mix of Christmas morning, winning the lottery and discovering buried treasure. His enthusiasm was entrancing: a star whose inspirations still made him feel like a little kid.
“The ones who were the North Star for me, if you generalize it, they were always left of center,” Tyler says. So it’s no shock that he decided to musically and aesthetically follow suit. “If I’m 12 and folks at school are like, ‘That’s weird, that’s wack,’ I’m like, ‘But the n—as on my walls will think it’s cool. And y’all can’t compare to them. So f–k y’all.’ ”
That mentality is part of what makes him a singular artist. He isn’t shackled by the fear of failure, the driving force that stifles creativity. The other driving force comes from his mother, Bonita Smith. “I got hugs at home,” Tyler proudly says. “I’m very lucky and grateful to have grown up in a house full of love, with a cheerleader that was like, ‘Be yourself,’ ‘Do what you want,’ ‘F–k what they think,’ ‘I’m your friend.’ ” On Chromakopia’s first track, “St. Chroma,” she says, “Don’t you ever, in your motherf–king life, dim your light for nobody.” The combination of her influence, teenage rebellion and the blueprints left by his favorite artists gave him a confidence that became foundational. “I have no choice but to be opinionated and don’t care if I look dumb as f–k. Even if I change my mind the next day.”
Chromakopia, like most of Tyler’s discography, tells the story of his life in the present. “Everything is self-indulgent to me,” he says about making songs, because he’s not doing it to be relatable or appease an audience or some former version of his fandom. Few artists have as honest and combative of a relationship with listeners as Tyler. He’s constantly vacillating between inspiration and frustration. He loves watching people respond to his tweets about favorite lyrics and songs, what grew on them, what they hated at first. Because it’s not about whether you like his music or not — it’s that he craves true engagement. “Expound on that f–king thought, b–ch,” Tyler says of the opinions, the comments, the takes, the lack of articulation about why you like or dislike something. “If I was president, the first thing I would do is take podcast mics away from n—as.”
It can be risky for artists to abandon the sound or subject matter that gave them initial fame, a decision that some fans treat as a betrayal. But this album, much like 2017’s Flower Boy, 2019’s IGOR and 2021’s Call Me If You Get Lost, is a time capsule, a front-row seat to the life and mind and current creative headspace of Tyler Okonma. On Chromakopia, he explores themes ranging from monogamy (“Darling, I”) to unplanned pregnancies and fatherhood (“Hey Jane”) to the trappings of fame that run throughout the album. “It’s people saying that they can’t relate to the song,” Tyler says of “Noid,” the first single. “Of course you can’t. That’s why I made the song, because you don’t know what it’s like not to go outside and not own yourself, people stealing from you, voice-recording you, following n—as home, people trying to trap you — nobody trying to trap y’all n—as. I’m a catch.”
The album is deeply personal. “I’m a super extrovert, but I’m a very private person with my life,” Tyler says, “so putting some of this stuff on wax was a lot for me.” The day after Chromakopia’s release at a show in Atlanta, he went further: “It’s so honest that I think I had to wear a mask on my own face to get that s–t out.” He faces those fears on the album’s aptly titled emotional high point, “Take Your Mask Off,” and when he performed it at Flog Gnaw, by the song’s conclusion, his mask was gone.
Tyler does have a level of maturity that can come from growing up in public, which, as he points out, he did: “I’ve been famous and financially stable since I was 19, on my own since 16.” And now, at 33, he’s a veteran, making music about getting older and what it feels like. “I told my homie, ‘This is the 30s album,’ ” Tyler says. “This album is probably s–t that folks go through at 24, but I’ve lived a different life. N—as around me are having kids and families and really being adults and I’m over here like, ‘I think I’m going to paint my car pink.’ That feels crazy, but it’s all I know.”
Tyler, The Creator photographed November 20, 2024 at Quixote Studios in Los Angeles.
Luis Perez
And the reception to Chromakopia makes it clear that plenty of Tyler’s listeners do share his worries, anxieties, dilemmas. “People are connecting with the words in a way that feels bigger than me,” he says. “I’ve never hit people at this level.”
When I ask him about the album’s closer, “I Hope You Find Your Way Home,” he lights up. “I think the way you end an album is so important!” he exclaims. From Kevin Kendricks’ neck-tingling synthesizer to Tyler’s own background vocals alongside Daniel Caesar and Solange Knowles to his grand finale of a rap verse, it’s a reflection and a resolution, one filled with hope for our respective journeys ahead. “I knew that’s how I wanted to end it, with the synth, just letting n—as sit there and think about whatever the f–k just happened,” he says, clearly thrilled with the way he landed the plane.
But for Tyler, uncertainty about the future is also a source of joy. He’s currently dipping his toe back into acting, with his first feature film, the Josh Safdie-directed, Timothée Chalamet-starring Marty Supreme, on the horizon. “This is where I am at 33; who knows what I’ll be making at 36,” he says. “My 30s have been so much iller than my 20s. I’m excited for us to be 43 years old and see where we’ve taken it. I don’t know what the f–k I’m doing at that point, maybe bald — with one braid and a dangling earring, making gospel, telling everyone about the zucchinis.”
Whatever it is, he’s excited, as always, by the unknown. “I’ve never not stuck to my guns. Any version y’all see me in is the most honest version at that time,” Tyler says. He’s brash and bold and uncompromising about his art, but it’s also clear how grateful he feels. “I’m so blessed and fortunate. Thirteen years in and my latest s–t is my biggest. Sometimes it’s like, ‘What the f–k, this can’t be real.’ But then it’s also like, ‘I told y’all.’ It’s beautiful.”
This story appears in the Dec. 14, 2024, issue of Billboard.
In March 2020, Elena Rose was a songwriter in her mid-twenties who had helped craft hits for Latin superstars like Becky G and Myke Towers. She was content with her day job, but as lockdown began to take hold, the Venezuelan American had an early-pandemic revelation.
“I really thought that the world was coming to an end,” she says. “When I saw that my voice had not been heard, it made me sad.”
While Rose continued to work behind the scenes — her songwriting credits to-date include Billboard chart entries and collaborations with Selena Gomez, Bad Bunny, Marc Anthony, and the Becky G-Karol G team-up “MAMIII,” which reached No. 1 on the Hot Latin Songs chart — she made her singing debut as an independent artist that May with the Latin urban song “Sandunga.” She paired the release with a colorful music video that showcased her striking presence and alluded to her superstar capabilities.
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Today, the 29-year-old has fully realized her potential, breaking through in recent months on the Billboard charts as a performer with “Orion,” her collaboration with Panamanian star Boza.
Born Andrea Elena Mangiamarchi in Miami to Venezuelan parents, Rose grew up between Puerto Rico and Venezuela before returning to her hometown due to sociopolitical and economic crises in the South American country. No matter her location, she loved to sing anywhere and everywhere: initially, she began as a performer, singing in bars, restaurants and at parties.
She met mentor and producer Patrick Romantik in Miami in her early twenties, who brought Rose to the studio and taught her the ins and outs of the technology, while also letting her observe sessions to learn about the songwriting process. “And my years of silence began,” she reflects. “I remember they told me, ‘OK, you can be here, but we cannot feel you.’ ”
During that time, she watched writers and producers such as Servando Primera, Yasmil Murrufo and Mario Cáceres create hits including Becky G’s “Mayores” featuring Bad Bunny in 2019, which reached No. 74 on the Billboard Hot 100. Along the way, she gained an informal music education as a hitmaker.
“When I worked in bars in Miami, the musicians were Ricky Martin’s percussionist, Alejandro Sanz’s pianist, the bassist who had played with Stevie Wonder,” Rose says. “It was my best school because they were people who had experienced music, understood it and wanted to preserve it.”
Elena Rose photographed September 26, 2024 at Grove Studios in Miami.
Mary Beth Koeth
She continued to self-release new singles through the next few years, such as “La Ducha” and “Picachu” and made appearances at key industry events such as Billboard Latin Music Week, where she has participated every year since 2021 either as a panelist or a performer. In summer 2022, she signed a record label deal with Warner Music Latina.
“Her lyrics, her voice, her presence and the ability she has to convey emotions is unparalleled,” said the label’s president Alejandro Duque at the time. In September of the following year, she agreed to a management deal with OCESA Seitrack, whose artists include superstars such as Sanz and Alejandro Fernández.
“The day I sat down a year and a half ago to have dinner with her, I was blown away,” says OCESA Seitrack founder/CEO Alex Mizrahi. He adds today that he recognized her as “a diamond in the rough” with the potential of becoming “the next Karol G” in terms of success.
In the year-plus since then, she has released soulful solo songs, including the empowering “Me Lo Merezco” in March. But her collaborations with artists spanning genres on her November EP, En Las Nubes (Con Mis Panas), and elsewhere have taken her to new markets — chiefly with “Orion.” Sophisticated in both its lyrics and production, the song is a captivating fusion of reggaetón, salsa and Afrobeats. It has an irresistibly playful bridge from Boza, and with Rose’s evocative writing, the single shows new layers to both artists.
“I made the song ‘Orion’ at a [writers] camp in Miami a year ago,” remembers Boza. “I heard it with the producer, Daramola, and the songwriters, Essa Gante and Omar, and at that moment we already knew that we needed a female voice. Together with my team, we thought of Elena.”
Adds Rose: “When this song came to me, I remember saying, ‘OK, it has a soul, it has something nice. If you allow me, I want to take it to my world and see how I can give it a little more of myself.’ I remember that was when I gave love to the chorus, changed the lyrics, and wrote my verse. I feel that, for me, the concept of ‘Orion’ became a source of information on emotional intelligence.”
The song was released May 29 on Sony Music Latin (Boza’s record label), with an official music video arriving the following day. Though Rose recorded her part separately, they got together to shoot the video in Panama, which has since tallied more than 105 million views on YouTube. “Orion” steadily began to take hold at radio as well, and by mid-September, it debuted at No. 20 on the Latin Pop Airplay chart. Three weeks later, it arrived on the overall Latin Airplay ranking. It has held ever since on both, with “Orion” spending the last six weeks at No. 2 on the Latin Pop Airplay chart. It has also reached a No. 15 high on Latin Airplay. “Working with her is like traveling to another planet,” Boza says of Rose.
As her public profile reached new heights fueled by the song’s success, so did her status within the industry: in September, she earned three Latin Grammy nominations, for song of the year for “Caracas En El 2000” with Danny Ocean and Jerry Di; best pop/rock song for “Blanco y Negro,” a LAGOS song featuring Rose; and best regional song for her hand in Becky G’s “Por El Contrario,” which she co-wrote with Latin hitmakers Edgar Barrera and Keityn. (The year prior, she was the only woman to be nominated when the songwriter of the year category was inaugurated.)
Rose has continued to prioritize her collaborative efforts, releasing both the country-tinged ballad “A Las 12 Te Olvidé” with Ha*Ash and a Latin pop song infused with cumbia and urban rhythms, “Pa’ Qué Volviste?” with Maria Becerra, as non-EP singles in November. And while her success with Boza has made her a recognizable face in Panama — Rose coyly says that a recent flight she was taking was delayed after the co-pilot requested a photo with her — Mizrahi teases that more duets are on the immediate horizon, which aim to bolster her following in other countries.
In the coming months, there are plans for releases with Camilo and Morat (both from Colombia), Sanz (Spain) and Los Ángeles Azules (Mexico). She is also scheduled to perform at both Lollapalooza Argentina and Lollapalooza Chile in March 2025. “The goal is to bring Elena’s music to the world,” Mizrahi says, “to make her a global artist.”
Elena Rose photographed September 26, 2024 at Grove Studios in Miami.
Mary Beth Koeth
A version of this story appears in the Dec. 14, 2024, issue of Billboard.
It all started because Terry McBride couldn’t simultaneously play field hockey, study civil engineering and DJ at clubs and weddings. “So I decided to do music,” says the co-founder of Nettwerk Music Group, the 40-year-old Vancouver label famous for breaking Sarah McLachlan, Barenaked Ladies, Passenger and many others. It was the first company to release Coldplay in the United States.
In 1984, McBride and his business partner, Mark Jowett, a member of electronic-music band Moev, dropped out of the University of British Columbia and started Nettwerk with a simple mission statement: “Release music we love.” And while his field hockey background isn’t especially useful, his civil engineering tools have been crucial in Nettwerk’s development.
“The music business was obtuse and as gray and muddy as humanly possible,” says McBride, 64. “I used to run big spreadsheets that had my SoundScan and my radio [Broadcast Data Systems data] and my touring — trying to understand when something was happening early. I had my artists go back to [a particular] city over and over again and turn a flame at a micro level into something that was meaningful.”
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This combination of data analysis and music-fan instinct not only helped McBride identify unusual talent with commercial potential, from Skinny Puppy to McLachlan to SYML, but correctly predict where the entire business was heading. In 2008, he co-wrote “Meet the Millennials: Fans, Brands and the Cultural Community,” a paper for the British University of Westminster, that anticipated the decline of digital downloads, the rise of streaming and the resulting revolutionary changes in the music business.
Today, McBride uses these skills, along with his team — including president/COO Simon Mortimer-Lamb, label president Ric Arboit and Jowett, who oversees international, A&R and publishing — to identify what he calls “communities.”
“It’s all about discovery and people sharing music,” McBride says. Nettwerk’s roster includes Paris Paloma, Wild Rivers, bôa, Mon Rovîa, Vacations and The Paper Kites among its 300 acts.
What was Nettwerk’s big boom?
Terry McBride: Mark and I started this company in my one-bedroom apartment in the West End of Vancouver. Back then, terrestrial radio was the dominant force, and trying to hear anything new that wasn’t being pushed or plugged just didn’t happen. We managed to cobble together enough money from both of our jobs and a small loan from the bank.
Did you know anything about how to find and sign artists in those early days?
No. I knew absolutely nothing, and Mark, who was a guitar player in a local band, knew absolutely nothing, too. Which was perfect because we weren’t bound by anyone’s point of view but our own.
What was the earliest success you had that made you think, “Maybe we’ll make it after all”?
There was a folk band called Grapes of Wrath, from British Columbia, and an industrial grunge band named Skinny Puppy. This was when we’d [previously] released all of five records. Grapes of Wrath broke on terrestrial radio, [were] picked up by Capitol Records [and] turned into something else. Skinny Puppy was so far ahead of its time — that hard-edged electronic sound that was coming out of Chicago, Miami, Belgium, leading into what [avant-garde British band] Cabaret Voltaire was doing out of London. It took a long time for those things to connect, but when it did connect, it became a movement.
From left: Mark Jowett, Terry McBride, Ric Arboit and Simon Mortimer-Lamb.
Courtesy Nettwerk Music Group
How do those two acts lead to the bigger stars Nettwerk is known for, like Sarah McLachlan?
Mark had tried to sign Sarah when she was 15. She was in a band called October Game, who had supported Moev. Mark was astonished by her voice. Two years later, I’m in Halifax [Nova Scotia] with Skinny Puppy. There’s Sarah. So we had a conversation, and I talked her into coming to Vancouver and signing to Nettwerk. Sarah flew out and slept on the floor of Nettwerk for the first three to four months. She worked a part-time job at a tea shop, and we started doing the first record, Touch. Sarah went on tour with Grapes of Wrath, and by the end of the tour, one could argue that Sarah was bigger than the Grapes of Wrath.
In terms of the music business and streaming, do you go around saying, “Yeah, I predicted this”?
I wrote a paper [“Meet the Millennials”] about the future of music in winter 2008, over the Christmas holiday. I did it with [former Nettwerk GM] Brent Muhle, who was running my Los Angeles office; ultimately, he got a job at Apple in Europe and couldn’t talk about what we had written together. It left me for three or four years running around saying, “Hey, this is what’s going to happen. We can either realize that and embrace it, or we can live in this fear and this world of litigation.”
I don’t view music as lyrics, melodies, chords, bridges. I view songs as emotions, and when someone falls in love with that song, they attach their own emotion to it, so they essentially own it … The music business was trying its best to inhibit that type of behavior. You look at the explosion of the cassette tape, the burned CDs. It was all about people sharing. It wasn’t really about people ripping things off; it was about sharing their emotions. When I co-wrote “Meet the Millennials,” basically, I was writing the blueprint for the next 20 years of Nettwerk.
How so?
What I didn’t go into in that paper — which evolved out of that paper — was the thought process of “communities.” We were always involved in communities, whether it was the electronic grunge scene or Sarah and Lilith Fair [the all-female music festival McLachlan co-created with McBride] and even that whole folk scene inside Canada. Streaming allowed the niche marketplace to actually come to life within music. Overlapping fan bases were not going to be walled in by borders or some physical restraint. You could look at niches from a worldwide point of view, not a city point of view — which was where all the scenes came from, whether it was the ’80s new wave scene out of London and New York or the ’90s grunge scene out of Seattle. We started to build the singer-songwriter community first, and these were bands from everywhere. It didn’t matter. There were no boundaries. We slowly but surely started to build up data behind it.
How do you define “communities” in this context?
It’s basically artists that have overlapping fan bases. If you finish streaming an album, the algorithm kicks in and starts feeding you music based on what you happen to like. I just finished listening to the album [by] Haevn, a band from the Netherlands; eight of the next 10 songs were all Nettwerk songs, from their community. So Haevn is giving those other artists a lift.
So Nettwerk says, “We’ll sign all of these bands in this community.”
There’s a whole music scene that’s happening outside the traditional pop-hit culture. We’ll probably sign another 50 artists next year, and it’ll all be based on these three criteria: Do we love the music? Can we honestly add value? Are the artists and manager not a–holes? If you check those three boxes, we’re interested.
Nettwerk has a history of zigging when everybody else is zagging — in 2008, everyone thought record companies were dead and artist management was the place to be. But you got out of management.
Yeah. Now I can turn my phone off at night and I’m making money as I sleep. That didn’t happen in management. I was talking to two managers today who are in their late 20s, and I asked them how life is going. They said, “This is a horrible Monday — from the minute I woke up, I’ve been putting out fires.” I so don’t miss that.
How has the role and need for outside investors in Nettwerk changed over the years?
We sold most of the publishing seven or eight years ago. From that, we went to friends and family members and brought in a lot of people I really like who were very knowledgeable and some musicians I can’t name who are very big. About a year-and-a-half ago was the first time we brought in institutional money. We have a great balance sheet, and we’re set for the next couple of years. [In 2013, it was reported that Nettwerk had raised $10.3 million in equity growth financing from HBC Investments, previous investor Beedie Capital and Nettwerk’s four founding partners: McBride, Jowett, Arboit and Dan Fraser.]
What do you see happening during the next few years in the music business?
There are some interesting things on the horizon with [artificial intelligence]. That is not going to be determined through technology — it’s going to be determined through legislation and, unfortunately, litigation. It’s not just the music business — it’s every business.
What about the business’ future as it pertains to Nettwerk?
Communities of fans, and their emotional attachments to music, are only going to grow and become more powerful. If I would make one prediction: The middle-class musician is back. So that artist in the ’70s and ’80s who had a career without being on terrestrial radio and having platinum records is back. That’ll be healthy for the music scene. The fact that we’re looking at all these folk bands filling up 2,500-seat venues — that hasn’t happened since the ’60s.
Are you personally thinking of getting out? Retiring?
At some point, would I like to go fishing more? Spend more time with my family? Absolutely. But music’s a passion for me. I’m not looking to retire. We’re in a really good spot. I do want to see it grow. I’m not going to get in the way of that.
To me, the power of music can help people through really challenging times. When I sit down with a young artist and talk about the fact that they’re having success, [I say], “You need to consider something really, really carefully: What are you going to do with that, and how are we going to make this world a better place? Because whether you realize it or not, kids are really emotionally grabbing onto your music.”
If I look at an artist like Paris Paloma, she’s changing the world, and she’s doing it to her generation. Like Mon Rovîa, same thing. SYML, same thing. Paper Kites, same thing.
Why would I want to walk away from that? It’s just too powerful.
This story appears in the Dec. 7, 2024, issue of Billboard.
In this year’s producer of the year, non-classical category, there is one notable absence — Jack Antonoff, who would have been nominated for his sixth consecutive year — and one welcome addition: R&B producer-musician Alissia, who becomes just the ninth woman (or team of women) in the history of the category to receive a nomination. Had Antonoff been nominated and won, he would have set a record as the only consecutive four-peat in the 50-year history of the award. Meanwhile, a woman has yet to take home the trophy.
The 2025 nominees also include superproducer Daniel Nigro, “Not Like Us” hit-maker Mustard and veteran producers Dernst “D’Mile” Emile II and Ian Fitchuk. Of the five, Alissia, Mustard and Fitchuk are first-time nominees in this category. Below, all five nominees reflect on being nominated.
Alissia
Alissia
Caleb and Gladys
Of your nominations, why is producer of the year so special?
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I’ve worked so many years to really perfect my craft as a musician and then later as a producer, and just to be nominated as a producer of the year, it’s huge. It’s like all the endless sessions, late nights and nonstop working just really reminded me that, man, hard work pays off. And it was so crazy to me because my biggest inspiration as a producer passed away that week, Quincy Jones. So it was such an emotional week. He was such an inspiration for me to start arranging strings and everything. So [my nomination is] representing a lot more than just me.
You join a small class of women who have been nominated in this category. What extra significance or pressure does that add?
It’s very humbling to be the ninth woman ever being nominated in this category alongside some of my favorites like Janet Jackson, Mariah Carey and all these ladies who’ve really worked hard to pave the way for me to be nominated in this category. I don’t take that for granted. I see this as a big milestone for women producers in general. What really made me the most happy and emotional is that I started receiving so many DMs from young girls, producers and musicians and just women in general. It really warmed my heart up. It’s a big deal.
What would an ideal Grammy night celebration look like?
I have a party series called Boogie Nights. It’s going to be so much fun. I want to celebrate with everyone, and also celebrate everyone else because I saw so many of my friends that got nominated too. The goal of Boogie Nights is to connect artists and creatives with each other to hopefully, maybe, spark a collaboration or whatever comes naturally. It’s also just to have fun. So Los Angeles is the perfect place and the Grammys are the perfect time.
Dernst “D’Mile” Emile II
D’Mile
Monhand Mathurin
How did you find out and react to being nominated for producer of the year, non-classical?
This is my third year in a row being nominated. And to be honest, the first time we even tried and I got nominated, I was happy with that. I was like, “OK, I did it.” And then last year, I almost didn’t even bother trying to get my name submitted. But funny enough, Victoria Monét’s manager [Rachelle Jean-Louis] basically made me do it. And then this year, in a way, was similar. I was indifferent about if we should try or not — and I’m glad we did. I’m always just happy to be recognized… Of course, if I win, that would be amazing. But it was a good year for everybody.
How does this year’s class of nominees represent what’s resonating in music today?
I feel like it definitely resonates well. I feel like country music, to start, has had a great year with a whole bunch of artists that are already in the field or that have dabbled in it. Mustard had a great record with “Not Like Us,” so no surprise there. Me and Dan [Nigro] actually have spoken a couple times about it and joked, like, “Maybe next year we’ll go up against each other again.” I’m such a big fan of his and what he’s done with Olivia [Rodrigo] and Chappell [Roan]. I even voted for him the first round, like, “You got to be up there.” Alissia, I know her well. She’s an incredible musician. I was happy to see a female producer. I feel like [the nominees] actually translate well to the past year — all the hard work paying off.
“Die With a Smile” is your fourth song of the year nomination. You’ve won with Bruno Mars before, with “Leave the Door Open.” Are there any similarities between the two hits?
When [“Leave the Door Open”] came out, [it had] the same impact and similar reactions. It just felt like everybody knew it instantly, everybody seemed to love it instantly. So I still can’t tell which one they love more. But I mean, I think because it’s two powerhouses, Lady Gaga and Bruno, on a song like that, I’m sure that helps a lot. Gaga’s fans, The Monsters, and The Hooligans put together? Forget about it.
Ian Fitchuk
Ian Fitchuk
Fairlight Hubbard
What does it mean to be nominated for producer of the year?
It means a lot to be recognized for the work that I’ve put in, not just this year, but kind of my whole career, which at this point has been about 24 years. And I feel like it’s also a celebration of all the people that I get to work with — the engineers, songwriters, producers. I feel like I share that nomination with friends of mine that have made me better at what I do and have put tons of work and time and energy into the projects that I’m associated with.
How does this year’s class of nominees represent what’s resonating in music today?
It’s an awesome representation of where music is — and I’m a fan of everybody else that’s in the category. I’m well aware of the work that they’ve been doing, and I think that it touches on all different genres. I love that it doesn’t feel heavy-handed in one space over another. I think it’s really cool. I love Dernst [“D’Mile”] and Dan and I’m not as familiar with Alissia, but Mustard, my son has made me more aware of him.
You worked on Kacey Musgraves’ Deeper Well and won your first two Grammys for her Golden Hour. Why is that relationship so special?
I would say this about everybody, but being able to record and make music that I would want to listen to is a gift, because I know that this is a hard world to work in and you don’t always get to make things that align with your tastes necessarily. And I like that I’ve been able to be true to who I am with the music that I get to make. To be trusted like that is awesome.
What would an ideal Grammy night celebration look like?
Probably a milkshake and in bed by 10 p.m.
Mustard
Mustard
Kanya Iwana
How did you find out and react to being nominated for producer of the year?
I wasn’t even expecting producer of the year. I was just on some “Not Like Us,” Faith of a Mustard Seed, “Parking Lot” [with Travis Scott], one of those things. I’m just waiting for [the category] to pass, to get to the other s–t, and then [they said], “Mustard” and I was like, “What the f–k?” My thought process wasn’t there. You know, the Grammys is a long time coming for me. I’ve always wanted to be nominated for producer of the year. But I just believe that things happen when God wants them to happen. So I was overly excited and screaming in the house and s–t, running around.
This is also your first nomination for record of the year. Why is “Not Like Us” a worthy contender?
Culturally, man, we did something that woke everybody in music, in the world, up. It’s going to be a piece of history. It’s one of the biggest songs just for the West Coast, and you know, it was really dark over here for a while. It’s more than the dis song part of it. It’s just bringing everybody together. I think everybody feels the West Coast right now. And the Dodgers won, so s–t. I think it helped.
Where’s the craziest place you’ve heard that song so far?
They performed it at my daughter’s school, and it was really crazy. It was the clean version, though, but it was just like, “You guys are doing a dance to this song?” She’s 9, so for me it was just like, “What the f–k?” It’s just some crazy s–t.
What would an ideal Grammy night celebration look like?
If I win producer of the year, I mean, s–t, I might be doing backflips all the way down Figueroa [Street].
Daniel Nigro
Daniel Nigro
Shervin Lainez
How did you find out and react to being nominated for producer of the year, non-classical?
My wife and I were walking our dog the morning of the announcements, so when my manager called and said, “Congratulations!” I responded with “For what!?” I was definitely hoping for a nomination this year but also didn’t want to get my hopes up because you just never know. I’m really excited about how things turned out. To celebrate, we had a very, very small get-together at the studio. We ordered some Papa John’s and had a cake.
This is your second time being nominated in this category, and your third time being nominated for song of the year, record of the year and album of the year. What’s your secret?
I wish there was a secret. I just feel so lucky that I get to work with such incredible artists and songwriters that get nominated. What I’d like to know is if there’s a secret to winning one of those categories, because it hasn’t happened yet.
You’ve also been involved in the debut albums from two best new artist nominees: Olivia Rodrigo and Chappell Roan. What does it mean to be a part of an artist’s career from the start?
I feel very fortunate to have this happen twice for me. I get a lot of joy and satisfaction from being a part of the development process. As someone who once was a recording artist, I try to take the things I learned during those years and help other artists navigate the madness that is the music industry.
This story appears in the Dec. 7, 2024, issue of Billboard.
In March, Tennessee became the first state to modernize its laws for the age of artificial intelligence. The ELVIS (Ensuring Likeness, Voice, and Image Security) Act — which updates the state’s right of publicity and likeness rights to prevent AI companies from creating unauthorized deepfake vocal imitations — represented the culmination of efforts from across the industry, including those of record labels and music publishers. But it was Todd Dupler, Recording Academy vp of advocacy and public policy, who gave the law its distinctly rock’n’roll name.
Coming up with catchy titles for laws is something of an extreme sport in legislative circles — think of the DREAM Act (for Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors), or, in music, the CLASSICS (Compensating Legacy Artists for their Songs, Service, and Important Contributions to Society) Act, which became part of the Music Modernization Act. Like these subjects, AI is complicated, so getting positive attention helps. And “in Tennessee, there’s no better way to capture attention than Elvis,” says Dupler, who has worked in the academy’s policy department since 2012 and was promoted to his current position in September 2023.
Dupler’s role in pushing for the Tennessee law is just one prominent example of how the Recording Academy is increasingly taking its lobbying work for music creators beyond Washington, D.C., to various state capitals. “The ELVIS Act became a model that state legislators and members of Congress looked at,” Dupler says. (Sometimes state laws lead to change in D.C.) “Our focus is to be a high-impact organization, to be a thought leader on issues that matter.”
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Right now, AI is the biggest issue of all. “It’s the issue that most of the community feels the most concern about,” Dupler says. It also involves a range of laws, including both federal copyright law (under which the major labels are suing generative AI companies Suno and Udio for using their recordings to train their software) and state law likeness rights (the legality of creating a “Fake Drake” or a similar vocal imitation). That’s why the academy, along with other music rights-holder organizations, is pushing for stronger statutes in statehouses, plus backing the federal NO FAKES (Nurture Originals, Foster Art, and Keep Entertainment Safe) Act. (The bill, which has been introduced in both the Senate and the House of Representatives, now has widespread support; there will be attempts to attach it to must-pass legislation in the current “lame duck” session before Christmas, but it seems more likely that it will be reintroduced next year.)
By the beginning of this year, AI loomed so large that the House Judiciary Committee had a “field hearing” about it in Los Angeles two days before the 2024 Grammy Awards, where country singer Lainey Wilson and Recording Academy CEO Harvey Mason Jr. testified. “We wanted to use the spotlight of the show to draw attention to the issue,” Dupler says. “We embraced this idea of protecting human creativity.” The hearing helped raise the visibility of the Tennessee law, which in turn became a model for other bills around the country.
In February, Mason spoke at a House Judiciary Committee field hearing in Los Angeles on artificial intelligence.
Maury Phillips/Getty Images
The academy’s other two advocacy priorities are banning the use of rap lyrics as evidence in criminal trials and regulating the secondary ticketing market, especially to mandate transparency. Unlike copyright law, which is federal, both of these issues involve a mix of federal and state legislation. The admissibility of lyrics as evidence can be a matter of federal or state law, depending on the charges; ticketing laws have come from statehouses, as well as Washington, D.C.
The academy launched its advocacy division in the late ’90s, and what began as a modest attempt to help shape policy for the digital age has grown into a significant operation that lobbies for creators, often along with the RIAA and the National Music Publishers’ Association, which represent the recording and publishing businesses, respectively. The academy now runs an annual Grammys on the Hill event to recognize artists and legislators (including, this past year, Sheryl Crow and Sens. Amy Klobuchar, D-Minn., and John Cornyn, R-Texas), and a Music Advocacy Day in which academy members visit the regional offices of national legislators to talk to them about their policy ideas. (This year drew 2,100 members.) In 2024, the academy also organized seven State Capitol Advocacy Days, twice as many as in past years, reflecting the importance of state law to its priorities.
Although the nature of procedural rules for criminal cases isn’t a core issue for the music industry, the academy and other music organizations have pushed to limit the use of lyrics as evidence on free expression grounds. “We engage in issues that affect the music business,” Dupler says, “and members and local chapters bring issues to us.”
In September 2022, California became the first state to limit the use of lyrics as evidence in its Decriminalizing Artistic Expression Act, after the practice gained attention in Young Thug’s RICO trial. But bills in other states have stalled, and the federal RAP (Restoring Artistic Protection) Act, which would apply to trials for federal offenses, has yet to pass. “That has to be reintroduced,” Dupler says. “And we’ll continue to focus on both AI and lyrics on a federal level.”
Ticketing — the other big issue for the academy — has become controversial and seems likely to remain so, especially now that Donald Trump’s election has thrown into doubt the future of the Department of Justice’s antitrust case against Live Nation. (The new attorney general will decide if and how to continue that case.) The state ticketing bills the academy is lobbying for are simpler and have more to do with requiring secondary sellers to disclose extra charges and refrain from offering tickets they do not yet own. There’s similar federal legislation, known as the Fans First Act in the Senate and the TICKET (Transparency In Charges for Key Events Ticketing) Act. Dupler didn’t come up with that name — but he’s prepared to spread the word once the bill is reintroduced in 2025.
This story appears in the Dec. 7, 2024, issue of Billboard.
Five years ago, the Recording Academy put forth a new membership model committed to “fostering diversity and inclusion while encouraging the music industry to reexamine and reinvent their own long-standing practices.” Its recently released membership report revealed just how far it’s come in meeting that goal — adding 3,000 women voters (a 27% increase since 2019) and seeing a 65% increase in voting members who identify as people of color.
The record 2,800-plus new members who accepted invitations to join the academy in 2024 — including the artists and creatives interviewed here — exemplify that transformative, ongoing shift.
Kaash PaigeSinger-rapper, 23
What sparked your interest in becoming a Recording Academy member?
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I think what sparks a lot of interest in the Recording Academy is boom, you see the Grammys. Then you really get involved and see it’s a community of creatives that are excited to build their career and network. I think that sparked my interest more when I started to be part of email threads and got invited to stuff. I realized this isn’t just the Grammys — this is a whole thing.
What was your opinion of the academy before joining?
I thought about it in a sense of “If you join, you’re going to win a Grammy.” I was really naive. It’s not about that at all. As you build and grow within the community, you’re like, “This is family.” I plan on staying with the Recording Academy for the rest of my life.
Why did you ultimately accept the invite?
It’s kind of like, who wouldn’t accept the invite to be a part of it? Leaving Def Jam last year and coming back out to Los Angeles this year, I needed to dive deep into what I want in my life right now. Being accepted felt like affirmation to me of like, this is where you need to be and these are going to be the rooms that you’re put in to help facilitate growth in your life, because you never know who you might meet.
Shirley SongComposer, 34
Why did you accept the invite?
When you’re a composer for film and TV, you’re immersed in that and don’t always get to hang with the songwriters, composers, and mixing and mastering engineers on the pop side. I think more and more inspiration [for film and TV scores] is drawn from the pop and hip-hop worlds — it’s no longer just your typical John Williams orchestral score. To be able to meet more musicians, songwriters and engineers from that world, I am able to learn and improve my production chops.
Prior to being invited to join, what if any experience did you have with the academy?
Honestly, I didn’t know much. I just thought they did the Grammys. I realized it was a lot more. They are always offering invaluable learning opportunities — panels, discussions — and these experiences keep me informed and inspired. The academy has given me a deeper sense of purpose within this industry and motivates me to also want to contribute meaningfully and advocate for changes.
When it comes to diversity, what do you hope to see the academy improve in the future?
What they are doing now is the biggest step — mentoring, opening this up and inviting people who look like me. Fostering this sense of community is what is going to help champion diversity and support emerging talent.
I am just excited to be able to vote and have my little voice heard. Voting allows me to champion work that pushes boundaries and ensure genres and voices from often underrepresented [communities] get the acknowledgment that they deserve. I know the countless hours and creativity that were put into making this music. It’s nice to be able to support that.
Tara FineganCOO of Cutting Edge Group, a Grammy-winning music financier, record label and publisher, 37
Tara Finegan
Madeleine Farley
Why did you want to join?
I felt really motivated to learn more about the Recording Academy when it added a category to recognize video-game soundtracks a few years ago. [That] has had a big impact — already, all kinds of video-game companies across the board are more focused on music because they want to run a Grammy campaign and receive that accolade. It actually does have a ripple effect where it brings more focus and resources to video-game composers.
I was even more motivated to take a role in the Recording Academy’s year-round community of professionals when [artificial intelligence] innovations, and dangers, started to come up. I straddle the line between film, television, video games and music, so AI is something that has been very, very present in what we’ve been thinking about over the last year or so. It was one of the central points in the Hollywood strikes last year, and that just really highlighted to me how important these types of organizations are. The Recording Academy is an important advocate for making sure that whatever happens next is done thoughtfully and with real consideration to the human beings behind the art.
If you could create a new Grammy category, what would it be?
There’s been a real resurgence in pop culture of film soundtracks, with these unbelievable soundtracks that have been put together from scratch, and in my dream world we would have an all-original-music soundtrack [category], like for something like Barbie, in a separate category than a compiled soundtrack of preexisting songs, like Guardians of the Galaxy.
What are your Grammy week plans?
My label is nominated in the [best score soundtrack for video games and other interactive media] category for Pinar Toprak’s score for Avatar: Frontiers of Pandora. She’s absolutely phenomenal. Up until voting closes, we will be campaigning for her. Then, come Grammy week, hopefully enjoy the week, attend the awards and try not to get too anxious.
Andre MerrittSongwriter (Chris Brown, Kelly Rowland, Rihanna)
Andre Merritt
Remy
What if any experience did you have with the academy, and why did you join?
I did a few meet-and-greets [with them] where I would come and speak to people about what I did [in] music. I wanted to be around my peers and around people who feel and think about music the way I do.
What does the recognition that comes with a Grammy mean to you?
You put so much into being an artist and working on ways to get yourself seen and heard — to be rewarded with a Grammy, it lets other people know, “Oh, this guy really means business.”
What do you hope to see the academy help improve in the industry?
I would like them to get [further] involved in the pay for streaming. The biggest thing is creating a livable wage for people to continue to create and give us new art. When you have an organization like the academy that’s backing you, it gives you a lot more to fight with.
Do you have go-to Grammy-watching plans?
I get with some of my fellow songwriters because we like to talk crap about everything, like who we think is going to win. We get some food and drinks. I enjoy that.
Lil Mexico BeatzLatin Grammy-nominated producer (Roddy Ricch, Arcángel, Marshmello), 25
What if any experience did you have with the Recording Academy before joining?
I had a lot of friends who were part of the academy and they told me about it. But the thing was that the past couple of years, it seemed more like a closed circle to me. I never really heard how you were able to get signed up to join or be a part of it. I had no idea how to get involved. From the outside, it seemed like it was only a select couple of people. [But] now they’re expanding to more musicians, producers, songwriters.
How did the invitation to become a member come about, and why did you decide to join?
My friends who were in the academy were telling me things like, “Honestly, you’ve done a lot already in the music industry. You should join the academy. They’re looking for new people.” One of those friends was Paul Wall. He’s been a member for a while now, and he told me that I had to join. “It’s a big thing to be a part of this,” he said. So that’s part of the reason I was motivated to join. I grew up watching the Grammys, and it really had an influence on me. Now someone like me talking about being part of the academy, that will light a fire in the new generation.
As a producer, you’ve worked in the trap scene with both Latin and non-Latin artists. Do you think that duality will shape your role as a member?
Definitely. The one thing I really wanted to push, especially this year, was to get more spotlight on the Latin genre. English and Latin trap share similar issues, including getting overlooked constantly, mainly if you’re an indie artist. And I know we have Latin Grammys, but to be on a global stage like the Grammys, even in the Latin categories — that’s huge.
Joshua MosleyComposer-producer, 44
Why did you accept the invite to join the academy?
The [recommendation to be a member] came from Justin “Henny” Henderson. He was the president of the Atlanta chapter; now he’s a national trustee. We’re old friends from sixth grade, and we had a rap group back in 1991 at school. We both loved music then, and it’s really cool to see where our paths have led us to this point in our lives. To have that recommendation coming from him, and then also from a good friend, Gilde Flores — who has done work with me on a lot of film scores and productions — just made it really special.
The best score soundtrack for video games and other interactive media category is still a recent addition to the Grammys. As someone with plenty of experience crafting music for video games, why do you think the category is important?
Some of the greatest music is written for video games. It’s long overdue for it to be recognized; there are a lot of great writers. It exposes music to a different type of audience. It was really cool to see Gordy Haab win [with Stephen Barton in February for Star Wars Jedi: Survivor], a friend of mine and extremely talented gentleman that deserves recognition.
A best score for an animated feature or series [category] would be cool. I would start with connecting with the film and TV parts of the L.A. chapter, get people talking there and see if we can push it out there and get people exposed to that [idea].
What do you hope to see the Recording Academy improve in the future?
I think [the academy] is on a good track with making sure different voices are being heard. I’m a fairly new member, and so far, I’m liking what I’m seeing. I know [the academy] is a big advocate, too, in Washington [D.C.], as far as music rights, publishing and all that stuff goes, forging ahead with making sure that artists are taken care of and represented.
Sarah SchachnerComposer, producer and multi-instrumentalist, 36
Sarah Schachner
Moog Music
What issues are most important to you right now within the Recording Academy?
The work the academy does on Capitol Hill to protect artists’ rights is so crucial. If no one is out there fighting for us, music-makers could lose ownership and sustainable income. The Grammy Museum’s work in keeping music education in schools is super important, and if we’re going to encourage kids to pursue music as a career, we need to continue to find ways to protect artist rights.
Any thoughts on the video-game music composers nominated in 2025?
It’s awesome to see my peers get recognition. Game music is truly a unique and intricate art form, and it’s about time it gets acknowledged.
Alana LinseySinger in R&B duo GAWD, 29
Alayna Rodgers and Alana Linsey of GAWD
Mancy Gant
How did you feel about the academy prior to joining?
I felt a sort of distance, [like] there was a veil over the process of how people win Grammys. Who votes? Who’s in the community that’s making these decisions? Then I [performed at] two Grammys as a background vocalist. It really felt like a community, and it lifted the veil. [Since] joining, I’m starting to see that it really is the people deciding.
Why did you accept the invitation?
It was an honor to be invited. I also noticed that my friends who were members had different resources, and they were more involved and connected to the community that makes decisions. It was important for me to help broaden the scope of what a Recording Academy member looks and sounds like because I know sometimes, historically, [Black artists] have been or felt left out of a lot of these conversations and moments.
How do you two feel about how the academy is handling R&B?
I think that R&B is really growing, and they’re leaving room for that growth in places like the progressive R&B category. There’s room for different types of R&B artists to exist, which I really appreciate. We’re R&B artists mainly because we sing, but our music is [more similar to] OutKast or Teezo Touchdown. It’s very nuanced where people get inspiration from. To be categorized as R&B is an honor and a blessing, but the progressive moments create a whole other space for people to be free in their art.
This story appears in the Dec. 7, 2024, issue of Billboard.
On Sept. 13, 1988, the media assembled at the United Nations for a press conference. Representatives for the nonprofits Greenpeace, Cultural Survival and Rainforest Action Network sat before them, alongside the U.N. Environment Programme’s director and three, less expected emissaries: the Grateful Dead’s Jerry Garcia, Bobby Weir and Mickey Hart.
The band was about to begin a multinight fall run at Madison Square Garden and had decided to make the ninth and final concert of the stint a rainforest benefit. Garcia, Weir and Hart weren’t at the U.N. as rock stars; they were there as activists.
“Somebody has to do something,” Garcia told the assembled crowd, before adding wryly, “In fact, it seems pathetic that it has to be us.” As the audience applauded and Hart and Weir voiced their agreement, Garcia cut through the din: “This is not our regular work!” Eleven days later, in a more familiar setting, the band invited Bruce Hornsby, Hall & Oates and Suzanne Vega, among other artists, onstage at the sold-out benefit show, which grossed $871,875, according to an October 1988 issue of Billboard.
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At the press conference, Garcia had said, “We hope that we can empower our own audience with a sense of being able to do something directly and actually having an effect that’s visible in some way.” But he’d also expressed the Dead’s trepidation concerning activism.
“We don’t want to be the leaders, and we don’t want to serve unconscious fascism,” he said. “Power is a scary thing. When you feel that you’re close to it, you feel like you want to make sure that it isn’t used for misleading. So all this time, we’ve avoided making any statements about politics, about alignments of any sort.” While Garcia’s comment wasn’t entirely accurate — the ’88 benefit was far from the first time the Dead had aligned itself with a cause — its sentiment was honest: He understood the influence his beloved band wielded.
“As a young fan, I really learned about the issue in the rainforest from the Grateful Dead when they did that press conference,” recalls Mark Pinkus, who started seeing the band in 1984 and was a college student in 1988. “If a band like the Grateful Dead took the time to care about a cause, it definitely got our attention as young fans.”
From left: Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart outside San Francisco’s New Potrero Theatre in 1968.
Malcolm Lubliner/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images
For a then-17-year-old David Lemieux, who had started seeing the Dead the year before and whose father worked at the U.N. from 1953 to 1973, “it added this huge level of legitimacy to this band I was following around” for his parents. “It certainly had me go out and learn more about [the issue],” he reflects. “To this day, the way I view the world is very much what I learned from my days on tour — and seeing the Dead take a stance that was so big … meant a lot to me.”
At the time, Pinkus and Lemieux were impressionable young Deadheads. Today, they’re central to the Dead’s present and future business. Pinkus is president of Rhino Entertainment, the Warner Music Group branch that publishes the Dead’s archival releases, and Lemieux, the band’s legacy manager and archivist, is intimately involved in the curation of those releases.
It’s telling not just that the Dead’s business is shepherded by members of the very community it fostered, but that the band’s philanthropic work in particular resonated with Pinkus and Lemieux from the jump. The Dead’s members haven’t merely been philanthropically active since the band’s 1965 formation in the Bay Area — they have been forward-thinking, reimagining the potential of the good works musicians can do and inspiring other artists to follow in their footsteps. All the while, their activism has fed on — and been fed by — their passionate fans.
“We’re part of a community, and so the better the community is doing, the better we’re doing,” Weir says today. “Jerry always used to say, ‘You get some, you give some back.’ It just makes sense.” And since the beginning, “that’s been our mode of operation,” the Grateful Dead’s Bill Kreutzmann says. “We help people and give them stuff. It’s just a good way to live life. I wish that more people in the world lived life that way, instead of wars and bombings.”
From left: Randy Hayes of Rainforest Action Network (seated), Dr. Jason Clay of Cultural Survival, Jerry Garcia, Mickey Hart, Peter Bahouth of Greenpeace and Bob Weir at a New York press conference in 1988.
Marty Lederhandler/AP
Since Garcia’s death in 1995, the Dead’s surviving members have continued to tour — and continued to advocate for the causes that matter to them. That’s why MusiCares, the charitable organization that the Recording Academy founded in 1989 to support the music community’s health and welfare, is recognizing the Grateful Dead as its 2025 MusiCares Persons of the Year.
“It all follows in that tradition of teaching the industry what it should know about,” Hart says. “That’s that Grateful Dead kind of style, where we just did it because we knew it was the right thing to do. If we wanted to do this the rest of our lives was the idea, we have to do these things, because people support us — and we reciprocate.”
“Everybody had everybody’s back in the Haight-Ashbury, and we were a big functioning organism,” Weir recalls. “And we had roles within the community.”
It’s a crisp, mid-November evening in Chicago, where Weir, 77, has just spent the afternoon doing what he does best: playing Grateful Dead music. He’s in town for two shows at the Auditorium Theatre with the Chicago Philharmonic Orchestra, which will accompany him and Wolf Bros, his current solo project, and after rehearsing “Weather Report Suite” and “Terrapin Station” — two of the Dead’s densest, most ambitious compositions — he’s back on his tour bus, reminiscing about the band’s early days.
Even then, philanthropy was core to the group. It began performing as The Warlocks in mid-1965, and while accounts differ about when, exactly, it changed its name later that year, many believe it debuted its famed moniker on Dec. 10 — at Mime Troupe Appeal II, the second in a series of benefits for a satirical San Francisco theater troupe that often clashed with local law enforcement over free speech.
From left: Jerry Garcia, Bob Weir, Bill Kreutzmann, Phil Lesh and Mickey Hart onstage at the Oakland (Calif.) Auditorium in 1979.
Ed Perlstein/Redferns/Getty Images
The first decade or so of the Dead’s philanthropy “is an incredibly eclectic mix,” Lemieux says. In San Francisco, the band gigged for radical activists, arts spaces, spiritual centers (a Hare Krishna temple, a Zen monastery) and music education. As the band grew, it played for hippie communes and music venues, for striking radio workers and bail funds, for the Black Panthers and the Hells Angels. It performed with the Buffalo (N.Y.) Philharmonic Orchestra in 1970 to support the ensemble; in a concert that became one of its most revered live recordings, the Dead played in Veneta, Ore., on Aug. 27, 1972, to save the local Springfield Creamery.
“We saw something in need, and we would just write a check,” Hart, 81, remembers today. “The Grateful Dead, we never thought of business. We just wanted to play, play, play.”
“That was really delicious for us, to make everybody happy,” says Kreutzmann, 78. “Because that’s the goal: Make everyone happy, not just the band.”
But as the band’s following grew throughout the ’70s, that charitable approach — guided by the band’s generous attitude, which meant lots of “yeses” and not many “nos” — became untenable. It needed to streamline its operation. “We had always been given to community service, but we just wanted to get organized about it,” Weir says, alluding to the tax burden of the band’s initial model.
So the Dead did something that was then novel for a musical act: It started a foundation. In 1983, the band’s early co-manager Danny Rifkin (who held a number of roles in the group’s orbit over the years) helped it launch The Rex Foundation, named for Rex Jackson, a roadie and tour manager for the band who had died in 1976. The foundation eliminated the need for the Dead to do the types of one-off, cause-based benefits it had done previously, instead directing earnings from its charitable initiatives into the foundation, which then disbursed that money — after approval by its board, which included the band’s members and others in its inner circle — to various grant recipients. By refusing to accept unsolicited grant proposals (applications were, and still are, submitted by the Rex board and those in the Dead’s extended community) and focusing its grants on organizations with small, sometimes minuscule, budgets, the Dead retained the homespun feel of its earlier charitable efforts.
The Rex Foundation quickly became the primary beneficiary of the Dead’s philanthropy. The band played its first Rex benefits in San Rafael, Calif., in spring 1984 and made a point of staging multishow Rex benefit runs — generally in the Bay Area or nearby Sacramento — annually for the rest of its career. “They were just regular gigs, there was no other fanfare, but the money would go to The Rex Foundation,” Lemieux says. “We all thought that was pretty darn cool. It wasn’t like the Dead played any less hard because it was a benefit gig. The Rex Foundation mattered to them.”
From left: Jerry Garcia, Mickey Hart, Bill Kreutzmann, Phil Lesh and Bob Weir at Berkeley’s Greek Theatre in 1985.
Richard McCaffrey/ Michael Ochs Archive/ Getty Images
Over the next decade, the Dead played upwards of 40 Rex benefits. Without the requirement that a given show benefit a specific charity — and with the larger grosses Dead shows now earned — “it allowed the money to be spread a lot more,” Lemieux explains. A beneficiary “wouldn’t be like a multi-multimillion-dollar organization that needed $5,000. It was a $10,000 organization that needed $5,000. That makes a huge difference.” (Weir, Hart and Garcia’s widow, Carolyn, and daughter, Trixie, are among the present-day board members of Rex, which still holds benefits and disburses grants; in July, Dark Star Orchestra, which re-creates classic Dead shows, played a benefit at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley, Calif., to celebrate the foundation’s 40th anniversary.)
During this period, the Dead also continued to play non-Rex benefits for specific causes, including AIDS research and eye-care organization Seva. The 1988 rainforest benefit was a hybrid — the rare Rex benefit with pre-announced beneficiaries in Greenpeace, Cultural Survival and Rainforest Action Network. “Those were all people that we had already funded to in their infancy,” says Cameron Sears, who managed the band in the late ’80s and ’90s and is today Rex’s executive director. (As it happens, Sears’ entrée into the Dead’s world as a recent college grad in the early ’80s was through philanthropy: He’d pitched the band on getting involved in California water politics.) As Garcia put it at the U.N., “We’ve chosen these groups because we like that direct thing … We don’t like a lot of stuff between us and the work.”
The model continues to reverberate through a music industry where it’s now common for major artists to have charitable foundations. “The fact that all these bands now have looked to that model and replicated it, [the Dead] don’t need to take credit for it, even though it may rightly belong to them,” Sears says. “They’re just happy that people are doing it. Their vision has had a multiplier effect now around the world. What Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam are into might be different than what Phish is into and is maybe different than what Metallica is into. But together, the amount of philanthropy that’s being generated through all these different people makes an incredible difference.”
Pull up just about any bootleg of a Phil Lesh show from 1999 through his death in October, and you’ll see a track between the end of the second set and the start of the encore, usually called “Donor Rap.” Lesh received a life-saving liver transplant in 1998; henceforth, he used his platform to encourage Deadheads to turn to their loved ones and say that, if anything happened to them, they wanted to be an organ donor.
After Garcia’s death, the Dead’s surviving members remained active musically — and philanthropically. When The Other Ones — the first significant post-Garcia iteration of the Dead comprising Weir, Lesh, Hart and a cast of supporting musicians — debuted in 1998, it did so with a benefit, raising more than $200,000 for the Rainforest Action Network. They all championed causes important to them: Weir with the environment and combating poverty, Hart with music therapy and brain health, Kreutzmann with ocean conservation, Lesh with his Unbroken Chain Foundation, which benefited a litany of things including music education. The Rex Foundation has also remained active, supporting a range of organizations across the arts, education, social justice, Indigenous peoples’ groups and the environment.
And, over the years, the band members began to work more closely with MusiCares. Early in the pandemic, Dead & Company — the touring group formed in 2015 by Weir, Hart and Kreutzmann and rounded out by John Mayer, Oteil Burbridge and Jeff Chimenti — and the Grateful Dead launched weekly archival livestreams that raised $276,000 for the organization’s COVID-19 Relief Fund. Dead & Company expanded the affiliation to epic proportions on May 8, 2023, when the band kicked off its final tour at Cornell University’s Barton Hall in Ithaca, N.Y., where it played one of its most revered gigs 46 years earlier to the day; the 2023 show raised $3.1 million, with half going to MusiCares and half to the Cornell 2030 Project, a campus organization dedicated to sustainability.
“If you want to talk about making a statement in modern times,” Pinkus says, “here they return to the venue of arguably the most famous Grateful Dead show ever, play the tiniest show that they play on a farewell tour, which is all stadiums, and then they turn around and do it as a fundraiser. It really spoke to everything about the Grateful Dead and Dead & Company’s commitment to giving back.”
“The industry is a very dangerous place at times,” Hart says. “When you get engulfed with the harder side of the business and fall through the cracks or stumble and you need some help getting your mojo back, that’s really what MusiCares does.”
From left: Bruce Hornsby, Jeff Chimenti, Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Phish’s Trey Anastasio, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann at one of the band’s Fare Thee Well shows at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, Calif.,
on June 28, 2015.
Jay Blakesberg/Invision for the Grateful Dead/AP
Over the last decade, Activist Artists Management has helped guide the band members’ philanthropic efforts. The company is both the manager of record for the Grateful Dead — a status conferred by Grateful Dead Productions, an entity comprising the band’s living members and representatives of Garcia’s and Lesh’s estates — and co-manages Dead & Company alongside Irving Azoff and Steve Moir of Full Stop Management. (Kreutzmann toured with Dead & Company from 2015 to 2022 but did not appear with the group on its final tour in 2023 or during its 2024 Las Vegas Sphere residency. On Dec. 4, Dead & Company announced it will play 18 shows at Sphere in spring 2025; a representative for the band confirmed the lineup will not include Kreutzmann.)
“There was this mosaic of incredible good works that this band was doing, and there was a feeling that we could help amplify those good works and those dollars by putting a little more structure and support around it and a little bit more intentionality around it, which is what Activist came in and did,” Activist founding partner Bernie Cahill says.
When discussing the Dead’s activism with the band and its affiliates, words like “apolitical” and “nonpartisan” come up often. As Kreutzmann puts it, “It’s much more fun to see all the people smiling, not half the people bickering at the other half.”
“These are objective things that I think everyone will agree with,” Lemieux says of causes ranging from rainforest preservation to AIDS research. “And that’s what the Dead were kind of getting on board with and raising awareness.”
Mickey Hart, Phil Lesh, Bill Kreutzmann, Bob Weir, Tom Constanten (with a cut-out standee of Jerry Garcia) and Vince Welnick of the Grateful Dead at the 1994 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction.
Steve Eichner/WireImage
But while it’s true that, both before and after Garcia’s death, the Dead’s members have avoided the strident political rhetoric some other artists favor, the band has still advanced progressive causes. In the ’60s, it rubbed shoulders with radical groups in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury. In the ’80s, when AIDS was a stigmatized topic, it headlined a relief show for Northern California AIDS agencies.
That has continued in recent years. Dead & Company’s Participation Row — an area it allots at its shows for nonprofit and charitable partners — has featured entities like the voter registration organization HeadCount and the sustainable-touring group Reverb, among other social justice, environmental and public health organizations, helping the band to raise more than $15 million since its 2015 debut. But Dead & Company have not shied from using their touring to platform more contentious causes. The summer following the Parkland, Fla., high school shooting, Dead & Company included the gun control group March for Our Lives on Participation Row. And after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in June 2022, the band displayed pro-choice messages at its shows and even sold a “Save Our Rights” shirt benefiting women’s health organizations.
“We support artists being authentic,” Cahill says. “If an artist feels called to speak out … our job is to make sure they have all the information so that they can speak intelligently on the matter. I think we’ve done a really good job with that over the years. We have both protected our clients and amplified their positions.”
And the Dead’s members have, judiciously, supported political candidates. Weir, Lesh and Hart played a February 2008 benefit dubbed “Deadheads for Obama,” and that fall, Kreutzmann joined them for another pro-Barack Obama gig. This fall, both Weir and Hart publicly endorsed Kamala Harris. While “you don’t want to tell people what to do,” Hart explains, “there are some issues you must speak out [about] if you feel right about it and if you’re really behind it.”
Bob Weir, Phil Lesh and Mickey Hart backstage at the Warfield Theater in San Francisco at a rally for Barack Obama in 2008.
Carlos Avila Gonzalez/The San Francisco Chronicle/Getty Images
As the Dead nears its 60th anniversary in 2025 and adds its MusiCares honor to a lengthy list of accomplishments — induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award, recipients of Kennedy Center Honors, a recording included in the Library of Congress, among numerous others — its surviving members are emphatic that this is far from a denouement.
“Obviously, they’re quite humbled and honored by it all,” Cahill says. But “they always see these things as something that you get at the end of your career, when you’re done. And of course, these guys don’t feel like that’s where they are in their career. They feel like they have a lot more ahead of them, and I believe they do.”
Rhino continues to mine the Dead’s vault for new releases — its ongoing quarterly archival Dave’s Picks series helped the band break a record earlier this year previously held by Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley for most top 40 albums on the Billboard 200 — and orchestrate merchandising partnerships from Igloo coolers to Nike shoes that ensure the ongoing omnipresence of the band’s iconography. (“We’re always open for business — if it feels right,” Pinkus says.)
Most importantly to Deadheads, Weir, Hart and Kreutzmann are all resolute that they’ll remain on the road as long as they can; in 2024, Weir toured with Wolf Bros and, along with Hart, staged Dead & Company’s 30-show Sphere residency, while Kreutzmann kept his livewire Billy & The Kids act alive with Mahalo Dead, a three-day November event near his home in Kauai, Hawaii. Last year, Weir toured supporting Willie Nelson, whom he’s shared bills with for decades — and who at 91 is 14 years his senior. “His hands don’t work as well as they used to,” Weir says. “Nor do mine. But as the years go by, you learn to help the music happen through force of will. And Willie is as good as he’s ever been.”
Willpower is something the Dead’s surviving members have in spades. “These guys have always been the outsider,” Cahill says. “They’ve flourished by being the outsider and by being a maverick and doing things their own way. Because they’ve written their own rules, they’re not beholden to anybody. They’re not looking for anyone’s approval, and they continue to write their own rules and to do things that inspire them.”
That core ethos is what has driven, and continues to drive, the Dead’s approach to both its business and its philanthropy — two things that, as the band is still proving to the industry at large, need not be mutually exclusive.
“I would like to be able to have people who disagree with me still be fans of the music or the art that I make,” Weir says. “But at the same time, I’ve got to be true to myself, and I expect that they have to be true to themselves as well.”
This story appears in the Dec. 7, 2024, issue of Billboard.
In 2025, the Grateful Dead will celebrate 60 years since its inception. But even after six decades, the long, strange trip continues — and business is still booming. Founding members Bobby Weir, Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart are all resolute: They’re not retiring anytime soon, and the Dead’s world is very much alive and kicking.
In January, Weir will stage the second edition of “Dead Ahead,” the destination concert event in Riviera Cancun, Mexico, that features different lineups of supporting musicians; this year, he’ll be joined by his Dead & Company compatriots Jeff Chimenti and Oteil Burbridge, his Wolf Bros bandmates Don Was and Jay Lane and other guests including Sturgill Simpson, Brandi Carlile and Goose’s Rick Mitarotonda.
And, on Dec. 4, Dead & Co. — the touring ensemble formed by Weir, Kreutzmann and Hart, alongside Chimenti, Burbridge and John Mayer — announced it will reprise its Dead Forever residency at Las Vegas’ Sphere in 2025. The 18 shows, slated to take place from March to May, follow the band’s 30-date run at Sphere in 2024, which grossed $131.8 million. (Kreutzmann played with Dead & Co. from 2015 to 2022 but sat out its 2023 final tour and 2024 Sphere residency; a representative for Dead & Co. confirmed Kreutzmann will not perform with the band at Sphere in 2025.)
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“It’s a marvel in terms of what you can do visually with it during a show,” Weir tells Billboard. “It was an interesting challenge for us — but I thought we met it.”
“Very cool, very cool, Sphere, very cool,” Hart says with excitement. “It’s an overpowering sensory experience.” The venue, which can incorporate haptic feedback into its seats, was a revelation for the longstanding “Drums/Space” segment of Dead shows that he leads: “I’m going down to 16 [Hz] cycles, 17, 18 — that’s where the Lord lives,” says Hart, who has long studied the connections between music and neurological function, referencing a frequency of brain waves. “That raises consciousness. That’s where the good stuff is.”
Meanwhile, Kreutzmann has reinvigorated the Dead’s catalog — and mixed in tunes by artists from Talking Heads to Little Feat — in recent years by enlisting rotating crews of exciting younger talent in ensembles Billy & The Kids and Mahalo Dead, including Billy Strings, Tom Hamilton (Joe Russo’s Almost Dead), Daniel Donato (Daniel Donato’s Cosmic Country) and Aron Magner (The Disco Biscuits).
“Why do I like the younger musicians?” he posits, before answering himself with a hearty laugh: “They’re more alive than I am!”
Here’s what else fans can potentially expect from the band’s members in the near future.
A Bittersweet Reunion?
Weir, Lesh, Hart and Kreutzmann honored the Dead’s golden anniversary in 2015 with five Fare Thee Well stadium shows that were billed as the final time the four would perform together. (They were accompanied by Bruce Hornsby, Jeff Chimenti and Phish’s Trey Anastasio.) But Weir reveals that before Lesh’s October death, they were considering doing it again: “We had some plans,” he says. “We were talking about the possibility of reconvening and playing, just the four of us. It would have been real interesting, when Phil was still with us, to try to do that.” Kreutzmann says he’d still “do that 60th in a second,” though he adds, “Phil wanted to do it, too. He had a dream that he was going to get to play with us three one more time. And that didn’t happen — but that’s how it goes.”
A ‘Special’ Anniversary Release
Rhino Entertainment — which celebrated the band’s 50th anniversary in 2015 with an 80-disc 30 Trips Around the Sun box set that collected 30 unreleased Dead shows, one from each year it was active — has a surprise in store for GD60. “We’ve been working on something that we feel is special and commensurate with an anniversary as big as this,” says David Lemieux, the Grateful Dead’s legacy manager and archivist. “Mark [Pinkus, Rhino president] and I got on the call about a year ago [to begin working on it], and when we started talking about it, we both couldn’t contain our joy.”
Publishing (In) House
Amid the recent spate of publishing catalog sales by rock legends, “I haven’t even thought about” selling the Dead’s, Weir says. “I’m not entirely sure I’m anxious to sell it. But at the same time, if the price was right and somebody with that amount of financial wherewithal had that amount of motivation to buy it, I’d have to talk to him.” Reveals Activist Artists Management founding partner Bernie Cahill: “We’ve been approached and that’s been a conversation, but it’s not something the band’s pursuing at all.”
Still Truckin’
“What great musician ever retires?” Weir says when asked if he’d ever quit the road. “Do it as long as you can. Never give it up ever, ever,” Hart says. And Kreutzmann is even bolder: “I’m going to play forever.”
This story appears in the Dec. 7, 2024, issue of Billboard.
When it comes to pop music track records, Cirkut’s illustrious résumé in the genre speaks for itself.
As a sought after electro-pop producer and songwriter, the 38-year-old artist born Henry Walter has spent the last two decades churning out hits for artists like The Weeknd (“Starboy, “Die For You”), Rihanna (“Where Have You Been”), Katy Perry (“Roar,” “Dark Horse”), Miley Cyrus (“Wrecking Ball”), Charli XCX (“360”) and dozens of others. But as he explains to Billboard, he goes out of his way to not get too comfortable with his success.
“I never want to rest on my past accomplishments, and that vibe of ‘Oh, do you know all my work? Do you know all my hits?’” he explains. “That doesn’t mean anything to me. Whether I’m working with the biggest star in the world or the newest artist, you have to prove yourself over and over again.”
By his own definition, Cirkut has done just that: Over the last month, the producer has helped launch two artists into the upper echelons of the Billboard Hot 100. His work with veteran hitmaker Lady Gaga on her dark pop single “Disease” sent the song to a No. 27 debut on the chart. Meanwhile K-pop sensation ROSÉ earned her highest-charting solo single with “APT.,” featuring Bruno Mars, arriving at No. 8, thanks in no small part to Cirkut’s catchy production. He earned writing credits on both tracks as well.
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The producer attributes the successes of both Gaga and ROSÉ to their singular ideas of what they want in their music — a trait he looks for in all the artists he works with. “When an artist doesn’t really know what they want to say, or is like, ‘I don’t know, just make me a song,’ that doesn’t interest me,” he says. “The best artists always have some kind of vision, whether it’s how they see the visuals coming together, how they want the guitar to sound, or how hard the kick drums hit.”
Below, Cirkut breaks down the writing processes for both “Disease” and “APT.,” why Lady Gaga stands out in a crowded field of pop stars, how an ad-libbed drinking game inspired ROSÉ’s hit song, and what he envisions for the future of pop music.
Let’s go all the way back to the beginning — when and how did you first get involved with Gaga and her team for this project?
It happened sometime last year — I had been working with [“Disease” co-writer/co-producer] Andrew Watt for a while. We [had] worked on a few different things together, and one day he called me and said, “What do you think about working with Gaga?” He said that we would be a great fit to do this project together. So, I met Gaga for the first time in the studio, and it was amazing. I was really excited to work with her, we were off to the races as soon as we met.
What immediately appealed to you about the prospect of working with Gaga?
I’ve been a fan over the years, she is just a legendary artist. There’s only one Gaga, and she has influenced so many of the artists who are out now. I think her music paved the way for so many people. Selfishly, I did want to see what I could accomplish with her. Just the thought of wondering what a Gaga record would sound like if I produced it was really exciting from the get-go.
When you look back on the inception of “Disease,” was there a stated goal with that song? What were you aiming to accomplish?
It was just one song in a collection that we worked on together, but fairly early in the process, we all loved it and knew that it would be some kind of cornerstone of this body of work. “Disease” [is] a daring record to me. It’s very aggressive. I wouldn’t say it’s a safe, “nice” song to ease you into things. I was spending some time with my mom the other day and she asked what I’d been working on — I threw on the music video for “Disease,” and she was just stunned and saying “oh my God” a lot. It’s a very in-your-face kind of record.
I do all kinds of music, but I love aggressive electronic music. When Watt and I get together, something just kind of happens — with his rock background, we end up bringing in a lot of heavy guitars, and I wanted to make it this cool, industrial synth dance record. When you listen to the final result, I’m pretty happy with how we melded those two things.
What do you remember from the studio sessions with Gaga here — were there any particular moments where it felt like things really locked in for you?
We all huddled up at the beginning to see if we had any common ground when it came to taste in music and the places we wanted to go with the sound. She was very instrumental in leading that discussion. We all wanted to make something that still felt like it was decidedly Gaga, but always asking the question of “What does that sound like today?” That’s always a challenge, especially with artists who have established themselves so firmly in pop culture, to figure out that balance. Do you do something so different that you move away from the things that you are known for? But if you just do the same thing that you’ve been known for, does that end up feeling like a “more-of-the-same” type situation? I wanted to make sure that we brought the essence of Gaga into this song and all of the things that are so great about her — the drama, the theatrics, that in-your-face sound — but still putting a fresh spin on it. That said, you also cannot overthink things too much on something like this. Ultimately, you just have to get in there and have fun.
We definitely had a synergy in the studio. In the beginning, it is kind of a trial run [with a new collaborator]. It felt a little bit like she was feeling me out, trying to figure out where I was coming from when it came to production. But then there was kind of a breakthrough moment — I had been working through something over my headphones, and when I played it out loud, she was just like, “Oh my God, Cirkut, that’s crazy.” And as soon as that happened it was like, “Great, I got through to her.” It’s not like she was difficult to impress, but I wanted us to be on the same page. I treat every project I work on like that — you have to approach it from the mind of being a student always, rather than a know-it-all. I’m always learning from new people.
You’ve worked on massive hits from artists like The Weeknd, Rihanna, Miley Cyrus, Kesha and Charli XCX. As someone who has been in the room with so many of these major pop stars, how does Gaga stand out amongst that pack?
I think something all the great artists that I’ve worked with have in common is that they all have a vision. Whether it’s fully realized or not doesn’t matter — there is always intention and direction behind the art that they’re making. Even if that’s not fully fleshed out, I find that to be really important. There is always an opinion.
Gaga is very much like that — she is very interested in the sonics of everything. She would say, “Maybe try a different drum here,” or she would hop on the synths and start playing things. She’s a musician and a visionary, and she knew all about the attack, decay, sustain and release settings on a synth. She is all about the details, which definitely sets her apart from a lot of artists. Also, the passion that she puts into her work is amazing. She really lives and breathes and eats and sweats and bleeds this music.
“Disease” is not the only track of yours currently on the Hot 100 — ROSÉ’s “APT.,” featuring Bruno Mars debuted at No. 8 debut earlier this month. Tell me a little bit about how you got involved on that song, and what ROSÉ and Bruno were like to work with?
I don’t try to say, “Oh, I knew this would be a hit,” because I simply do not have that kind of foresight. But I thought this one was a really great, fun, catchy song, and I really loved working with Rosie. I was so excited when she had played the song for Bruno and I heard that he was getting involved, because I genuinely feel like he took it to another level.
We worked together probably three days in a row in the studio, and I think [“APT.”] was one of the last ideas we started. It was the end of the night, we had just done a song or two, and we were like, “Might be time to go home.” And Rosie was sitting there and just sort of chanting to herself, “apateu, apateu.” I think it was [co-writer] Theron [Thomas] who stopped her and asked what it was. She said, “It’s just a Korean thing, it’s basically a drinking game.” All of us were immediately like, “Why is that not a song?” We took that and put together a very quick hook. It was kind of random — I love it when stuff like that happens! It’s not always planned. It’s not always, “We’re going to get in the studio and make a mega hit featuring Bruno Mars.” Sometimes it’s a spontaneous session based on a drinking game. Sometimes somebody is whispering something in the corner, and it becomes this incredible hook.
As someone who has been as vital as you are in creating these massive pop moments throughout your career, how do you view the direction pop music is headed today? What are you seeing in the pop space right now that feels like something that will continue on into the future?
More than ever, almost anything goes. Nowadays, because there’s so much music out there, listeners are so discerning. They like what they like, and it is up to us — creators, producers, songwriters, artists — to show people fresh, new things that they haven’t heard 1,000 times already. Sure, there are trends that go in and out of style, but sometimes, it can be about just changing one thing, and all of a sudden you’ve got a fresh new sound.
Honestly, I try not to think about all of this too much because it can be a little overwhelming. The “next sound” could literally be anything. I really try to just create and not think about the future because that can ultimately remove the spontaneity of it. Messing around and stumbling upon something you love is kind of the random magic that happens. In the age of [artificial intelligence], I think that’s a tool that is here to stay, whether people like it or not, and I do think it could help when it comes to creativity in the studio. But, at the end of the day, it’s the human element of production and songwriting that succeeds. People care about authenticity, they want something that’s real, and listeners are not stupid.
A version of this story appears in the Nov. 16, 2024, issue of Billboard.
