“If music journalism is dead, I might as well be too.”
That intensely overdramatic thought popped into my mind last year while doomscrolling through social media. Each day, I would log on to see yet another media outlet lay off staff and contributors, or be sold off to the highest bidder to be stripped for profits by private equity.
Since the COVID-19 pandemic altered all of our timelines permanently upon its jarring arrival in March 2020, the music journalism ecosystem has become a rainforest overtaken by loggers. Larger companies, many of whom had already spent years focused on feeding algorithms rather than cultivating brands rooted in original reporting and informed criticism, offloaded their music-centered outlets in search of quick profits. As social media platforms shifted what types of content would appear in front of users, the manual on what type of articles to publish each day was figuratively thrown out the window.
Those left behind to dust themselves off after sudden layoffs faced a path forward that seemed more uncertain than ever. Before the COVID-19 lockdowns, I had established myself as a writer and editor, moving up the ranks at Wide Open Country. After I opted to step away as Managing Editor, I dove head-first into the world of freelancing, writing for online outlets and print magazines I had loved since I was a young teen. I even earned my first bylines in Rolling Stone, achieving a life goal that always seemed like a pipe dream.
But since then, the music industry has changed dramatically. Although music journalism has never been a career path known for its stability or ease of breaking into, it has become more of a mystery than ever. I spent most of 2021-2023 desperately trying to hold onto the rare opportunities I had, investing countless hours of unpaid work in a desperate attempt to show my passion and determination. Still, that choice led to two sudden layoffs, leaving me in a state of exhaustion and frustration that is still hard to describe.
When I decided to move forward with my years-long pipe dream of starting my own online music magazine, I did so with a frantic determination that felt like my life depended on it. Because for me, it felt like it did.
I knew that I wanted to write about music from the age of 14 when I became hypnotized by the then-burgeoning music blog ecosystem, along with the imported music magazines like Q and NME, that I would eagerly seek out during trips to Barnes & Noble or Virgin Records. In college, I considered other, more sensible career options easily attainable with my in-progress communications degree. But when I managed to snag a coveted post-college internship at NPR Music, where I sat beside the now-iconic Tiny Desk, I knew music journalism was the only realm where I belonged.
So, it only makes sense that over the past two years, as my beloved career and art form seemed to be continuously dismantled to line the pockets of journalistically clueless tech bros, I would feel like I no longer knew what path lay ahead for me—or if there was even one left at all.
I spent most of 2024 desperately wanting to pursue my dream of building a new breed of online music magazine that returned to the old principles of quality over quantity. I had the tools and time available, and the support of my friends and family, but things never came together the way I had hoped. Even after the soft launch of Barnburner in the summer of 2024, which should have been a moment of triumph and celebration, I felt like a bigger failure than ever.
It took a few months for me to realize that my struggles had evolved from minor issues, like being unable to keep up with my overflowing inbox, to not being physically able to get out of bed. The fear of letting everyone down, of failing to bring my dreams to life, along with the realization that I had spent a massive chunk of my life sacrificing my time and mental health for someone else’s gain weighed on me like an anvil. I stopped posting on social media, stopped answering text messages and calls, stopped going to concerts and events, and retreated into my own bubble.
Thankfully, with the help of my loved ones, self-care, and prescribed medications, I’ve climbed my way out of that dark cave. I again feel inspired and excited about the opportunity to create a space that supports music journalism as a vital art form. Barnburner is a place to share music and stories from wide-ranging voices and perspectives. It’s a place for progression and inclusion, something that is desperately needed at a time when America’s political state is becoming more egregious by the day.
If you’ve followed me on social media since 2020, you’ll know that I am not the type of person to stay silent on issues I care about. As founder and Editor-In-Chief, my goal is to build a platform that spotlights and uplifts artists. I have spent years working to help cultivate a safe and inclusive space within the music industry, specifically country, and Americana, and Barnburner exists as an expansion of that mission.
Barnburner exists as an independent, multi-genre media outlet, which means we want to do a lot with the limited resources we have. Following this new start for Barnburner, my goal is to build a team of creative voices from diverse backgrounds and perspectives, offering a distinctly human approach at a time when artificial intelligence has helped strip music journalism of its soul.
If this speaks to you, I hope you keep reading. And if you like what you see, please consider supporting Barnburner with a one-time or monthly contribution. We have big dreams and goals — including future print editions, video content, and live events — but they can only be achieved with your help.
Thank you for being a part of this new chapter — and long live music journalism.
