Not people calling Sombr the biggest rockstar of our generation when we literally have bands like Fontaines D.C., Wunderhorse, Keo, Basht., Overpass, The Royston Club, Shame, Inhaler, Sam Fender, Geese, Turnstile, Sprints, Wet Leg, English Teacher, Arkayla, swim school, cherryholt, Bleech 9:3, The Guest List, Cardinals, Westside Cowboy, Florence Road, Footballhead, the north, Croithe, Blossoms, Radio Free Alice, Sun Room, Mk.Gee, and so many more that I probably forgot.
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a sam fender song is like "i need to get the fuck out of my hometown before i succumb to it like everyone else i love but the guilt of leaving haunts me everyday" and then a beautiful crooning sax solo
not a ship!! this is about how john wanted arthur's forgiveness, wanted to talk to him, his brother, his best friend. how they understood what was happening with dutch more than anything. THIS SONG RELEASED TODAY. yall thought i was gunna let sam fender drop and not edit with it???
Earlier this month, Newcastle-based indie singersongwriter Sam Fender released his fourth studio album, People Watching, and embarked on a week of media duties talking about what influenced the new album. In an interview with the Sunday Times, Fender talked about his working class upbringing, and how difficult it was for an artist without a moneyed background to make it in the music industry today.
Sam Fender. Hannah Victoria Kenyon for Strong Island.
âThe music industry is 80 percent, 90 percent kids who are privately educated,â he said. âA kid from where Iâm from [North Shields, Newcastle, UK] canât afford to tour, so there are probably thousands writing songs that are ten times better than mine, poignant lyrics about the country, but they will not be seen because itâs rigged.â
It was like a lit match to tinder. Many artists spoke up confirming that they were currently facing challenges staying afloat in the music industry despite hitting many of the milestones that traditionally looked like success in the music industry. Many talked about how funds were the main things separating them from their peers who had âmade itâ. Many others have talked about how money has hindered them from taking steps that would greatly advance their music careers.
Beloved artists like Little Simz and Rachel Chinouriri have over the last few years had to cancel international tours that would never add up for an independent artist without the backing of a major label, or great personal expenses. Songwriter Kate Nash, who was in the news recently for turning to OnlyFans to sell pictures of her arse to fund her upcoming tour in a campaign she called âButts For Tour Busesâ, estimated that the production cost of each show she puts on a single night, costs her about $10,000. A cost even half of that would be devastating to a kid starting out in music with no savings.
Little Simz. Dave J. Hogan/Getty Images
There is another aspect to this discussion. Last week, British indie songwriter Ellie Dixon was asked on her social media about the phrase âindustry plantâ, a highly contentious word meant to indicate that an artist has not authentically reached the level of success they are at, and instead owe it all to some undisclosed industry connections that were allowing them access to avenues of career growth unfairly.
On surface level, this would seem to be something that only adds to the woes of independent, hard-working musicians, once again locked out of opportunities that shouldâve rightfully been theirs if only some golden child with the right connections hadnât swooped in and snatched their livelihood right out of their hands. In reality, who and what this âindustry plantâ really is, is less clear. Often, it is used as a catch-all phrase to indicate that you donât think someone deserves the plaudits they are receiving. But whether or not a certain kind of music is inherently deserving of success or not can only ever be a matter of subjective taste, and so something as concrete as having insider connections, becomes a matter of opinion where stylistic preferences become equated with worth, and the word loses all meaning.
Rolling Stone magazine, in a recent article defending the rising rap star Doechii, wrote a good piece about how the phrase is being misused to discredit artists who have put in all the work themselves over the years, only to be unfairly torn down by peopleâs fundamental misunderstanding of the phrase.
Doechii receives her Grammy for Best Rap Album. Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images for The Recording Academy.
Money in music is a really important conversation to have, namely in that it is simply not possible to sustain a career in this (or any) industry without it, and that artists, the backbone of the industry, have seen increasingly diminishing returns on it. We find ourselves returning to the music industry of old, where as rents go up and incomes for independent artists dry up, many musicians find that it makes sense for them to rely on traditional record label deals.
This has been enough for many people to start lobbing the accusations of âindustry plantâ, somehow mistaking having a label put any investment into an artist as some sort of insideous and undeserved, unfair advantage, as if the music industry was exclusively meant to be run from bedrooms of one and from behind YouTube and TikTok accounts.
If anything, artist development is only a recently neglected area by labels, opting to let artists themselves be the creators, marketers, publicists, cinematographers, bookers, promoters, merch and poster graphic designers and much more, all on that lucrative label budget of $0.00.
Who can afford to do all that? An artist that can either afford not to have a full-time job outside of their self-employed music career, or someone who can afford to pay others.
Which brings me back to the discussion about wealth in music. Sam Fender was completely right when he spoke out about how hard it is for working class artists to break through. The Dublin-based singer CMAT (incidentally, on tour supporting Fender at the moment) talked about how she wanted to write a guide on how working class musicians can make it in this treacherous industry, because to realise that everyone living your dream is doing it on the back of wealth you can never cough up is quite demotivating. Working class artists slog for a decade before being recognised at the level that the backing of a label could achieve in a year, there is no hiding from this. (Also, CMAT only half-jokingly said this but she is right: rich kid music also just lacks bite. Thereâs an urgency and potency to working class music that genuinely holds up a mirror to society that an artist who doesnât have to face every aspect of the world sometimes simply cannot put into words in the same way. It is absolutely crucial that we do not lose working class voices in art.)
CMAT live. Sean McMahon
So really, we need to focus less on tearing down working class artists with unfounded accusations of being âindustry plantsâ, something that also seems to disproportionately be levelled at women, musicians of colour, queer artists and other marginalised communities by men who cannot understand their success, and we must focus more on preserving the funding and pathway programmes that have historically tried to place working class artists on the same footing as richer artists.
The problem with the music industry isnât so-called industry plantsâ itâs that funding in music stays at the top while grassroots artists suffer. Spotify CEO Daniel Ek is reportedly worth 7.5 billion USD, while Canada has lost 15% of its small music venues since the beginning of 2020. The UK, where the Music Venue Trust keeps clearer track of the state of grassroots music venues, reports that the UK loses a grassroots venue every two weeks currently. When burgeoning young talent donât have the venues to hone their talent, make their mistakes and develop their sound and stage presence, future stars are lost forever, working class or otherwise.
So good on Sam Fender. Himself a working class kid, heâs done something good for working class musicians everywhere even just by starting this important conversation with a platform as large as he has built for himself.
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Author's note: This one is thick and heavy. Also, just to add - "Greasy spoon" can not only be interpreted like the story about the victim of dv, it's open ended and can surely being tied to other struggles. Us women should just stick together and look out for each other.
Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x coworker
Warnings: mentions of dv, anxiety, threats. Please read at your own risk.
Summary: Lewis starts to notice the little things â late nights, a flinch at an unexpected touch, a guarded smile that doesnât quite reach her eyes. Jen is composed, meticulous, always in control â until the cracks begin to show. As concern grows, he faces a question he isnât sure he has the right to ask: how well do we really know the people we work with?
Word count: 3.6k+
The first time Lewis noticed that something was out of the ordinary as she flinched when a wrench slipped out of the mechanicâs hand and landed next to her feet. The sharp clang of the wrench echoed off the garage walls, a common symphony in the bustling Ferrari workspace. It was loud and it was completely fine to feel threatened when a tool was flying your way. But there was something about how her reaction seemed to linger as if she still felt in danger even after the mechanic apologized and was gone after that. The racer and her, logistics coordinator, were casually discussing about the next stop of the GP which was Japan, as she was trying to acquire information about his needs for the accommodation.
Lewis was still new to the team behind Ferrari and being an empath he sometimes still struggled to understand the emotions behind the faces. The first time he arrived at the facility in the preparations for the season, everyone seemed to be on the tip toes. After all, him joining the team came with a sense of expectation and was a big deal so he didnât make a big deal about people feeling nervous around him. But it was in his best interest to create a strong sense of calm around him, as the tranquil environment helped him keep his mind as sharp as possible. Lewis had been with the team long enough to see the tension fade. Most of the staff had relaxed around him.Â
She hadnât.
And he wasnât sure if she was starstruck or there was something else. He always thought the latter, because according to other members of the staff, she was here for more than five years and was exceptionally professional, always performing well. She was here when Sebastian Vettel was around and she basically saw Charles Leclerc grow up. Other teams also knew her for the craft, so it is safe to say that the buzz of the other driver shouldnât be shaking her to her core. Yet somehow her hands still shock slightly after the âwrench situationâ no matter how hard she was gripping her binder to possibly cover it up and get a grip.
âYouâre good?â Lewis casually asked after finishing a work related conversation. It was nothing unusual for him to chat the crew up.
âYeah, my sleeping schedule is a bit messed up, still not getting used to these Asia-Pacific timelines,â she brushed it off.Â
Valid excuse. Logical. But something about the way she said it felt... rehearsed. Lewis nodded, deciding not to push. By all means, they were just coworkers, so who he was to nag her.
______
The Japan GP was the first major success for the team, marking Ferrariâs long-awaited return to dominance with a spectacular 1-2 podium. Suzuka Circuit had always been a favorite among drivers, but tonight, it felt like a stage for something even bigger - momentum, confidence, and perhaps, the start of something special. For the first time since donning the red race suit, Lewis felt truly at home behind the wheel of the red sports car. It had responded to him like an extension of himself, and as he stood beneath the podium, champagne soaking into his suit, the roar of the Tifosi in the stands made it all sink in.
There was an electric buzz in the air, the kind that only victory could bring. Confetti fluttered through the paddock like falling cherry blossoms, cameras flashed relentlessly, and the scent of tire smoke still lingered, mingling with the crisp night air. Spirits were high, and the decision was made almost instantly - tonight, the main team would go out to celebrate. Victories, after all, were meant to be savored.
Later that night, the private bar pulsed with warmth and laughter, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated world of pit strategy and data sheets. Ferrari red blended with relaxed, casual wear, but the conversation never strayed too far from racing - talks of aerodynamics mixed seamlessly with jokes about the team's superstitions. Glasses clinked, shoulders relaxed, and for once, the team allowed themselves to bask in the afterglow of success.
Lewis, nursing a drink as he leaned against the bar, scanned the room. It was rare to see everyone so unguarded, and he took a moment to soak it all in. Then, a thought struck him.
âHave you seen Jen?â he asked, turning to Enrico, one of the technical engineers, his voice casual but laced with curiosity.
âJen from logistics?â Enrico asked and after the nod, encouraging him to carry on, he just lightly shook his head. âOh no, she rarely, if ever, joins these kinds of spontaneous events. Sheâs really into her time being planned down to every second, maybe thatâs why we never rarely have issues with logistics, it always works like clockwork.â
Enrico's answer was casual but when he said rubbed Lewis in the wrong way. It wasnât that she was absent â plenty of team members skipped nights out â but the way Enrico spoke about her, like she existed only within the structure of her job, distant from the camaraderie of the team. Sheâd been with Ferrari for years, yet it seemed like no one really knew her.
âI mean what does one do in a foreign country on Sunday night?â he tried to make the question sound as light as possible, not trying to be seen as prying.
âI donât know, she rarely talks about her life outside Formula 1. Maybe her fiancĂŠ has joined her for the GP. Maybe she is just tired after the whole spare parts being held up in customs shenanigans,â Enrico once again shrugged, unbothered.
Lewis nodded along, pretending to let the conversation drift, but the unease lingered. The thought of her spending the night alone â or worse, not being alone but being isolated in another way â bothered him more than he expected. Heâd seen how the F1 world could consume people, turn their entire existence into travel schedules and race weekends. But this felt like something else. Something heavier.
He took another sip of his drink, eyes flickering back to the door, wondering if maybe, just maybe, sheâd change her mind and walk in.
She never did.
___________
The next few GP were for getting to know her and looking for more subtle clues. Few things caught Lewis' eyes not soon after.Â
One of which â the fact that she seemed to be more relaxed around the female employees. She wasnât the smiliest and the most expressive person nonetheless but she at least didnât seem to tense up or catch her breath whenever female colleagues would chat her up or approach asking technical questions. Same couldnât be said about male employees. And it wasnât about being starstruck or even the power play, where she would worry about the impression she is leaving. Any male surrounding her seemed to tense her up in a subtle, yet noticeable way. You just had to pay attention.
While doing just that, Lewis realized another suggestive giveaway. She rarely, if ever, wore a short-sleeved shirt â even when it was unbearably warm outside or the sun had been shining since early morning. She always opted for a long-sleeved shirt or sweatshirt, occasionally pushing the sleeves up to her elbows but never beyond that. Instead of shedding a layer to cool off, she would pat her forehead with a damp tissue to wipe away the pooling sweat. Whenever someone commented on it, she would brush it off with a lighthearted excuse â saying she had forgotten a T-shirt at the hotel or that the short-sleeved one underneath was dirty.
The last thing that caught Lewis' eyes was the perfectionism she seemed to be pushing for. Of course, it was applaudable to have a literal logistics guru within the team, who resolved any issue that might arise even at the last minute. But to some point it seemed to be concerning that she would rather pull an all nighter looking for the way to make things work perfectly rather than accepting the defeat, even though the cause of the issue had nothing to do with her or the lack of her interference. It was like she was afraid of failing those around her, of making the mistake.Â
During one of those late nights in Imona, Lewis was doing a late call with sponsors in the US so he stayed in the facilities a little bit longer than the rest of the team. When he finished the call, she was still there, sitting by her computer and staring at the screen, her gaze zoned out. As Lewis didnât want to startle her, he made his footsteps heavier than usual just so she would hear him coming from afar.
âNot in any rush to get home?â the driver asked while keeping a fair amount of distance between them. For the last couple months then Lewis started analyzing Jen, he was always trying to keep the relationship brief, not pushing her to talk more than she wanted. Their interactions were short, yet she seemed to trust him a little bit more every time they talked. Maybe it was down to the trust, that was slowly but surely building up. Or maybe it was due to the fact that Lewis had observed her enough to know what actions to avoid and how to approach her without causing unnecessary anxiety. Or maybe a little mixture of both.Â
She shifted the gaze from the screen to him once he spoke. There was no flinching this time.
âYeah, this limited edition gear was supposed to arrive like a few hours ago and it hasnât turned up so Iâm just trying to figure out where it got stuck,â another perfectly plausible explanation left her mouth.
âCouldnât you do it from home? Or just pass it to someone else. Heard that you live quite close to the track, you could be enjoying your own peace for onceâ Lewis continued casually, yet his intention was to test another theory of his.
Jenâs fingers hovered over the keyboard, but her screen remained unchanged. Lewis noticed the briefest hesitation. Normally, her excuses came effortlessly, polished and ready. This time, there was a pause, like she was flipping through a mental catalog of explanations and coming up empty.
She swallowed and finally said. âYeah, I guess I could⌠but, you know, Iâm already here.â A forced chuckle. âMight as well get it done.â
Lewis didnât reply right away. He just watched her for a moment, letting the weight of the silence settle between them. She wasnât looking at him anymore. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze, her eyes had drifted back to the screen, but she wasnât reading whatever was on it. She was just waiting for him to move on, to let it drop.
But he didnât. Instead, he took a slow step closer, still careful to keep a respectable distance. No sudden movements. No pressure. Just enough to make her know he wasnât just going to let this slide like everyone else had.
And it wasnât because he wanted anything from her. This wasnât about attraction or some misplaced hero complex. Lewis had seen what abuse did to people. How it wrecked someone until they barely recognized themselves. And if his gut was right, that was exactly what was happening to Jen. He wasnât trying to break up a relationship to have her for himself. He wasnât trying to play the savior. This was just human decency. She was a friend, a damn good coworker, and if she was in trouble, he wasnât about to look the other way.
âYou know,â he started, his tone casual but steady, âback when I was in Mercedes, there was this girl on the team. One of the marketing team. She was real professional, always the last to leave the paddock. Everyone just thought she was extra dedicated. Turns out, she wasnât staying late because of work. She was staying late because home wasnât safe,â Lewis said simply, letting the words hang in the air.Â
He wasnât looking directly at her now, giving her space to absorb it without feeling cornered. âTook a while for anyone to figure it out. She was good at hiding it. Always had a reason, an excuse that no one questioned. But the truth was, that every time she walked out those doors, it was like⌠she was walking into something worse.â
Jen exhaled, slow and measured. Her knuckles were white where she clutched the edge of her desk. She wasnât running this time. She was listening.
Lewis continued, his voice soft. âTook a long time before she let anyone help her. You get so used to it, you start thinking itâs normal. Maybe itâs not that bad. Maybe itâs your fault.â He shook his head. âBut itâs never normal. And itâs never your fault.â
For the first time since this conversation started, Jen looked at him properly. And this time, Lewis didnât see that rehearsed professionalism she always wore like armor. This time, she just looked tired, like whatever was happening was catching up with her.Â
He let out a small breath, offering her the space to say something if she wanted to. When she didnât, he simply added, âYou donât have to talk. Not if youâre not ready. But if you ever need an excuse, an out, a safe place, just know that I see you and I got you.â
Jenâs lips parted, like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Instead, she gave the smallest nod that one could miss with a blink of the eye. A crack in the walls that had been up for the longest time.Â
____
After Monaco, another victorious day for the Ferrari at Charles homeground, there was a brief sigh of relief amongst the team. But Silvertone was just a few Grand Prix away, and the tension of another home race was settling over the team. Everyone was feeling the weight of expectation. Yet Lewis had started to notice that Jen was carrying something heavier.
During European GPs, her makeup had been heavier, layered just a little too perfectly in places that didnât need it. She was also thinner than before â noticeably by now, to the point where her uniform looked a little looser on her.Â
And then there were the bruises.
Lewis hadnât been looking for them and it wasnât like she hasnât been doing everything in her power to cover them up, but once, in the middle of a conversation, she had reached up absentmindedly to tuck her hair behind her ear, and the cuff of her sleeve had shifted just enough. A faint markâyellowing, almost healed, but still there.
And still, she went about her days, pretending everything was fine.
It was the final stretch before Silverstone. The logistics team was wrapping up last-minute adjustments, and most of the staff were already talking about heading back to the hotel to rest before their flights later that evening. The sun was still high, casting sharp shadows across the paddock.
Lewis had been in and out of the meetings all morning, finishing all the last briefings after the Austrian GP. He was making his way back to the garage when he heard her voice. At first, it was nothing unusual. A phone call. Work-related, maybe. But as he went around the corner, he saw her standing further away from everyone, white knuckles clenching the phone. Whatever was being said on the other end, caused her an excessive amount of anxiety, as he has never seen a person shaken to its core like that.
She was trying to cut into the monologue on the other end, but she didnât even finish the sentence and flinched, moving a phone a few centimeters away from the ear. Thatâs when she lifted her eyes and saw Lewis standing dead in his feet, staring at her from a few meters away, as if he was waiting for a signal to act. And for the first time since the driver had started paying attention, she wasnât trying to run away or to brush it off, deny it.
Jen finally hung up, her fingers lingering on the screen for a second longer than necessary, her shoulders stiff with tension. For a moment, she was frozen, caught between the remains of the call and the realization that someone had seen everything.
Her jaw clenched, her breath hitched. He expected an excuse, something quick and dismissive, but it never came.
Instead, her shoulders slumped. And in the quietest, most exhausted voice, she whispered:
âI canât go to him tonight.â
Lewis didnât hesitate.
âCome with me.â
He didnât say where. Didnât push for anything else. Just left the offer open, solid and steady, giving her the space to take it. This time, she did.
Lewis got her into his driverâs room, shutting the door with a quiet click. Jen didnât sit right away. She stood stiffly near the couch, arms wrapped tightly around herself like she was trying to hold something in â hold herself together.
Lewis didnât push. He grabbed a chair, turning it toward her, giving her the space to come to him when she was ready. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
âI forgot to clean his shirt.â
Lewis frowned. âWhat?â
She let out a hollow, broken laugh, shaking her head. âHis shirt. For a business meeting. I was supposed to make sure it was ironed and ready, but after yesterdayâs GP I got home late, and I forgot.â
The weight of those words settled between them. Lewis clenched his jaw, his chest tightening â not at her, but at the fact that she thought this was the problem. That she had been conditioned to believe she had done something so unforgivable.
âHe said that he is going to kill me, because I embarrassed him. Lewis, I donât even know, the words have been on loop in my head since the call and it feels like he wasnât lying this time.âÂ
The words landed heavy. They werenât dramatic. Werenât exaggerated. Just true. Like she hadnât even let herself fully process them until she said them out loud.
Lewis exhaled slowly, steadying himself before he spoke. Then, carefully, he leaned forward.
âJen,â he said, voice firm but careful, âyou are not going back to him.â
She sat down slowly, hands still gripping her arms. After hearing Lewis, her immediate reaction was to defend him, like she has always done. âHe wasnât always like this.â
Lewis stayed quiet. He wasnât here to rush her, wasnât here to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He just let her talk.Â
âIn the beginning, he was⌠rough, but not with me. Never with me,â she murmured. âIt was like⌠I knew he had a temper, but I thought Iâd never be the target of it. He just seemed to be rather clingy, wanting to spend every waking minute with me.â A bitter smile flickered across her lips. âThen, after I agreed to marry him, something changed. Like I belonged to him now. And that meant he could say whatever he wanted. Do whatever he wanted.â
Even though her attempt of softening the situation rubbed him the wrong way, Lewis knew better than to react. Probably for years she was fed the narrative that people around that piece of garbage deserved what theyâve got. And then naturally, when his attitude shifted towards her, she thought that it was exactly what she had deserved.
Jen swallowed hard, staring at the floor. âIt started small. Just comments. Controlling things, like who I talked to, how I dressed, how I spent my time. And then, when I refused to quit my job, he got⌠worse.â
Lewis didnât move. But his fingers pressed against his knee, tight enough that his knuckles ached.
âThe first time he hit me was a few months ago. Remember our brief interaction before Japan? I was hit earlier that day, almost first thing in the morning,â she admitted, voice barely audible. She thought it was shameful. âI had already thought about leaving, but he found out. He made sure I knew that I couldnât.â She let out a shuddering breath. âI barely keep in touch with my friends and family anymore. I was never allowed to make any new meaningful connections too. I donât know how, but he made sure of that, too.â
She lifted her gaze then, meeting Lewisâs. âNobody knows. Youâre the first person Iâve told.â
Lewisâs chest felt tight, the weight of her words sinking in. But this wasnât about his anger, his frustration, or how much he wanted to hunt this man down himself.
This was about her.
âYou donât have to do this alone,â he said simply. âYou arenât alone.â
Her breath hitched, and for the first time since she stepped into this room, her shoulders relaxed â just the slightest bit.
_____
Lewis didnât waste time. Within hours after their conversation, arrangements had been made. Her accommodations in Silverstone were locked down, security was informed, and he had called in a few quiet favors to ensure sheâd be safe. He handled it the way he handled pressure in the car â with precision.
He didnât make a show of it. Didnât give her a speech about how she deserved better or how she was stronger than this. She already knew all of that. She had been surviving on her own for months.
She just needed help. And he wasnât about to let her down. It was about making sure that when she finally took the step to get away, she had somewhere safe to land. And if that meant stepping up? Then he would. No question about it.
Jen didnât say much, but when later that night their plane touched down in the UK, she let out a breath like she was finally exhaling after holding it in for years.
For now, it wasnât over. But for the first time, it felt like she had a way out.
