Why Country Music Needs to Talk About Suicide and Mental Health
“My last words” are the first words on Lost Ones, the debut album by Chase McDaniel, which he released Sept. 19. The opening song, “Before I Let You Go,” addressed his father’s death by overdose, a tragedy that some members of the family believe was a suicide. McDaniel also attempted to take his own life: He sat on a Louisville, Ky., bridge eight or 10 years ago, ready to free fall onto a slab of concrete, when a pair of arms pulled him from the ledge. The road back was difficult. It took several years before he could talk comfortably about the episode; instead, he got reacquainted with his guitar and started writing obsessively — three or four songs a day — as he explored the dark spaces in his life. Slowly, the songs began to incorporate flashes of hope as he recognized he could reshape his stories. That describes most of the material on Lost Ones, appropriately arriving during National Suicide Prevention Month. “I don’t want to be out here on a soapbox encouraging other people to sink into the chaos,” McDaniel says. “I want to be the lantern that goes into the dark and says, ‘Hey, this way.’” Related The chaos is familiar among country artists. Naomi Judd, Tom T. Hall, Mindy McCready, Gary Stewart, former Oak Ridge Boy Steve Sanders and The Earl Scruggs Revue‘s Steve Scruggs are among those who have taken their lives. Johnny Cash, Hank Williams Jr., Willie Nelson, Chase Bryant, Ty Herndon and Bryan Martin have all publicly disclosed they attempted suicide. And Chely Wright stopped short of an actual attempt in 2006 when she saw herself crying in a mirror with a gun in her mouth. The tears signaled to her that she still wanted to live. Like McDaniel, she started writing, though the format was an autobiography: the 2010 book Like Me, which opens with that dramatic scene. “I’ve been so enriched in my life by sharing my breakdown,” she says, “which I now affectionately refer to as my breakthrough.” The majority of the population considers suicide at some point in life, though often, those thoughts are a fleeting curiosity. More than 4% of Americans had serious suicidal thoughts during 2015-2019, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, but the rate is higher among musicians. A study published by Frontiers in Public Healthfound that culture, media and the arts are among the five most at-risk career sectors; men in those occupations are 20% more likely than the general population to commit suicide, while women are 69% more likely. That might surprise the casual observer. The industry romanticizes the life of an artist, but it’s a difficult existence for which most aspirants are unprepared. Travel is physically taxing, and country artists — particularly in their early years on the national stage — tour incessantly. Every day is a new venue in a new city with a new set of local contacts and, perhaps, a new set of temptations. They’re away from their family, and if they left town amid an unresolved argument or some other turmoil, they have plenty of time to think themselves into an emotional hole, particularly on days when fatigue consumes them. “You’ve just given the whole reason why Porter’s Call has existed for the last 24 years,” says Chad Karger, co-executive director of a nonprofit in Franklin, Tenn., that provides emotional support for artists. Related Porter’s Call works with 700-1,000 artists a year, Karger estimates, helping them find ways to cope with unique vocational circumstances. That often includes redefining their relationship with their public persona. Younger performers, in particular, tend to glamorize fame, only to find that it’s a hollow trap once they attain it. It’s also fleeting, subject to the whims of a fickle audience and the evolving nature of the stylistic trends in entertainment. The artists who navigate their careers in the healthiest manner tend to see their work with greater purpose. “Our founder, Al Andrews, he’s famous for saying that the human soul is not made for fame,” Karger notes. “Fame is not a good reason to do this. You’re going to have to have a much more compelling ‘why’ to do the hard things in front of you.” Most hopeful artists, of course, never make it. They might be the most musically talented person in their city or region, but once they move to Nashville, they compete with scads of established talents for attention in an overstimulated media landscape. It typically takes several years to refine skills and make key connections — there’s a reason Nashville is called a “10-year town” — though most days, it’s hard to see the progress. “Going home for the holidays as a person who hasn’t made it yet, it’s hard because your family asks you, ‘How are things going? Didn’t you get a deal yet? Didn’t you get signed?’ ” recalls Wright, who now works as senior vp of corporate social responsibility and new market growth for ISS North America, a firm that designs workspaces and handles specialized staffing for numerous corporate offices. “Your friends from high school are like, ‘I guess you’re not going to make it.’ I mean, it’s just so nebulous.” “Nebulous” is a good word for it. It’s easier to determine in many traditional jobs when the work is done. A roofer knows the task is completed when the last shingle is in place, an accountant can take solace in having the books balanced, and a waiter considers the job finished when the bill is paid and the customer asks for a take-home box. But the standards for a job well done are notably variable in the music business. Miranda Lambert‘s recording of “The House That Built Me” and Billy Ray Cyrus‘ “Achy Breaky Heart” are very different efforts, but both became career-defining hits for the artist. Knowing what will work is often difficult to predict, and even when a musician is successful, they frequently wish they could resing their songs, even though fans are
