The image above is of my husband. Well, obviously there's Bryan Ferry but right there, to the right of him, playing bass is my husband. He's a session bass player and has made a living - and a good one - playing bass for touring artists since he was in his mid-20s. Before that he worked in a bass shop, earning next to nothing and living on canned carrots in a flat in Paddington that had mice because he knew that the contacts he'd make at the bass shop would be essential in succeeding in a business that is all about who you know.

He wasn't wrong. He earns 80% of our household income and touring makes up approximately 90% of that (the other 10% comes from writing royalties). Now though, with the advent of the coronavirus pandemic he's been rendered instantly unemployed. All touring until September has been cancelled and the chances of any tours going ahead for the rest of this year at least are slim to none. There's no insurance for cancelled gigs due to Covid-19 either, so there's no chance of him getting any pay that way. Since SARs most insurance companies won't pay out for a force majeure and this is one of those if ever there was one. 

He's a limited company and so is only eligible for 80% of his salary (not drawings) and considering he's always paid himself a modest salary because lord knows income isn’t consistent as a musician, that doesn't amount to much. I'm also self-employed (but not ltd.) so our financial outlook for the rest of the year looks bleak at best and disastrous at worst. So, when people started to feel tentatively hopeful the day Boris Johnson announced that those who couldn't work from home, could start to return to work, we sat watching the news feeling less seen and more forgotten than ever. 

This global pandemic will handicap his earning potential long after the rest of us have returned to work. There's no fancy virtual work around for him. Zoom gigs aren't a thing. No one is going to pay for a virtual gig. The point of gigs is to actually be there and the logistics involved in delivering a gig that actually sounds half way decent are frankly, insurmountable. The only way he can start earning again is when they allow 5,000 people or more to be in a room together and lord only knows when that will be. And, to be honest, money is only half the issue. 

He's angry. Really angry. He feels ignored, left behind, unseen. He feels like the dirty little secret that no one is talking about because, well, it's just too damn depressing to say out loud. His job isn't just a job. It's a lifestyle. For as long as he can remember, he's spent half the year on stage, travelling, being creative, making stuff, playing stuff, writing stuff. He's lived out of suitcases and slept on tour buses and it's not just paid the bills, it's fed his soul. It's who he is, not just what he does and the mental toll that is taking is devastating to watch. 

There's been little to no recognition for people in my husband's situation. It's not just session musicians: it's artists, comedians, speakers, actors and actresses, crew, backline, production, sound engineers, venues, performers, promoters and the huge network of talented professionals that keep the arts alive. They may not be front line key workers but they are essential to the fabric of our lives. We only have to look at what we've turned to, to keep us occupied during lockdown: TV, films, podcasts, and of course, music. 

Throughout time, people have been reluctant to pay for the arts finding its lack of tangibility hard to value or the cost difficult to justify but it's the arts that we indulge in daily. The words they write, the music they play, the laughs they provide...there's true and tangible comfort in those things and to think that people and families could be financially destroyed because no one had the guts to stand up and say, 'How can we support these creators when they need us?' isn't just sad...it feels like a betrayal.