Vestiges of Control.

Photo by Lee Castro

In my last post, I called for a new deal for artists. One stitched together from care, infrastructure, and accountability. I mapped it like policy: a blueprint for how artists might survive in a culture that profits from our output while offering little in return. But what I didn’t write, what I couldn’t write until it happened, is what it feels like to be unprotected. To watch your work circulate through the industry like lost keys, and to learn, through a friend, that your project has been released without your knowledge or consent.

On July 11, 2025, a project I had been quietly and carefully holding close appeared on all major streaming platforms. No press. No rollout. No announcement. No email. No contract. Just a title: ALIEN. My name. My voice. Dropped into the algorithmic stream.

The label accepted the project through their 2021 national call with promises of artist-first support: ownership, production help, release guidance, and visibility. This was one of the first open calls I had won, and, strangely enough, my friend Joy had warned me to steer clear. But the feeling of being seen; of being chosen… Finally, it seemed, my work would be supported. Instead, I was met with years of intermittent silence, shifting staff, delayed timelines, and, ultimately, an unauthorized release.

In my correspondence with the Executive Director, the pattern of avoidance was clear. He confirmed that no contract exists, acknowledging, in effect, that my copyrighted work was distributed without permission, but immediately shifted responsibility, framing themselves as mere intermediaries. Promises of takedown “by mid-August” were offered as a solution, but this is merely a delay, not an accountability measure. Expressions of understanding and gratitude peppered their emails, yet these polite reassurances did nothing to address the tangible harm: lost opportunities, damaged relationships, and a breach of trust. Their tone was soft, but legally and ethically, it carried no weight.

ALIEN isn’t a casual EP. It is a twenty-minute visual narrative and sound project exploring Nourishment, Purity, and Resilience through the lens of Black writers on survival. It’s a collage of grief, theory, ritual, and resistance. It took years and an entire community to make. Part of my thesis, it was the precursor and catalyst for my sonic approach to text and vocal experimentation.

This isn’t just about hurt feelings. It’s about how independent artists, especially those who are Black, femme-presenting, genre-fluid, experimental, or any artist deemed as “other”, are too often pushed to the margins of an industry that only recognizes us when it’s convenient. And it’s hard to speak up because bookers, institutions, and organizations talk to each other. Calling someone out can feel like risking the few opportunities you’ve managed to secure.

Let’s break this down:

According to a 2022 survey by MIDiA Research, 68% of independent musicians reported that they handle all aspects of their career alone, without a manager, agent, or label support. Of those artists, 41% said that finding professional guidance or management was their biggest challenge, second only to financial stability.¹Similar findings from TuneCore’s 2022 global artist survey showed that over half of independent artists identified a lack of industry connections and access to trusted management as core barriers to growth.² The Harvard Fair Music Project further highlights how artists, even when signed, often lack meaningful control or advocacy, underscoring how rare sustainable infrastructure is for those outside the mainstream.³

Add race and genre into the equation, and the problem compounds. A 2023 USC Annenberg Inclusion Initiative study found that Black independent artists working outside commercial genres (like pop or hip hop) are drastically underrepresented in press, playlisting, and label rosters, often facing what they call “narrative invisibility.”⁴ This echoes findings from TuneCore’s 2022 report, which showed that artists of color, particularly those working in experimental or non-mainstream styles, identified access to professional infrastructure as an even greater barrier than their white counterparts.

Experiences like this highlight why artists must have agency over who we work with and how our names are attached to projects. Our names carry our reputations, our care, and our labor. When a release happens without consent, it isn’t just a procedural error; it’s a misrepresentation of who we are as creators. Choosing collaborators and institutions intentionally is survival, protection, and the foundation of trust in an industry that too often strips that away.

I wrote directly to the leadership again to sever the relationship with this project and to call them in to hold them to the mission they publicly affirm. The label and its parent institution’s stated purpose is to support and advocate for individuals and groups creating music today by demonstrating the vitality and relevance of their art, empowering composers, modeling creative partnerships, and advocating for artists through storytelling and connections.⁵Their Executive Director has described themselves as a “classical agitator,” working to center work that helps serve today’s music creators who understand the importance of art as a tool for resistance against societal and systemic inequity and injustice.⁶ Their equity statement emphasizes supporting BIPOC artists and historically underrepresented creators, promising to hold space and lift voices that have too often been marginalized in the music community.⁷

Yet in practice, that commitment was not reflected, however much they may mean to do the work, or respond with kind regards. The lack of care in both addressing and repairing the harm contradicts their stated principles and shows how conditional institutional support can be. This isn’t just disappointment; it’s a breach of trust.

Care is not only fiscal, nor merely a network; it is the hand extended when trust has been broken.

I’ve taken the matter into my own hands, releasing ALIEN through a series of community-based events, spaces where the work can breathe, where care and intention can catch, where we hold each other in the music and the story.

If you’re able, consider supporting this work and the independent artists who make it possible. Every contribution is a small act of care, a reminder that projects like ALIEN don’t just survive, they live because we choose to keep them alive.

venmo: @shara-lunon
zelle: sharalunon@gmail.com

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