Playing in the Shadows: How Public Violence Threatens Musicians and Music Culture

 

The other day, September 11, 2025, the day after Charlie Kirk was shot, I kept thinking about what it means for musicians. Not just politically minded artists, not just those who perform protest music, but musicians in general. Because violence, especially visible, public, and normalized violence, doesn’t just impact politicians or celebrities—it ripples through culture. It touches anyone who performs in public, anyone who gathers crowds, anyone whose livelihood depends on being seen and heard. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized: the music world is facing a new, unprecedented form of danger.

Music has always been a space for expression, connection, and sometimes protest. Musicians step onto stages to share ideas, emotions, and experiences. Crowds gather to witness something human, intimate, communal. That space, historically, has had a sense of safety—even if not absolute. But the escalation of public political violence threatens that safety in ways we can’t ignore.

Think about what happened with Charlie Kirk. A high-profile figure, attacked in public, in a crowd. The message it sends is chilling: if someone in the public eye can be targeted openly, anyone can. That includes musicians, whose work relies on public performance. Any concert, festival, or live gig becomes a potential site of danger—not because the artists are political, but simply because visibility itself has become a liability. And the implications for mental health, creative expression, and the music industry are enormous.

Musicians are vulnerable in ways the general public often overlooks. They perform for large crowds, they tour, they appear in public spaces. They can be recognized anywhere, from small local venues to massive arenas. The idea that violence can now be carried out publicly and without restraint means that these spaces—the stages, the streets, the clubs—are no longer neutral. They are arenas of risk. That risk is psychological as much as physical. Musicians may feel hypervigilant every time they perform. Anxiety, fear, and anticipatory stress creep into the creative process, shaping not just their mental health but their music itself.

We also have to consider the impact on lesser-known musicians, indie artists, and emerging performers. They may not be high-profile, but in a society where violence is normalized and visible, no one is exempt. A local gig, a small festival, or even street performances carry new dimensions of risk. Artists may self-censor, avoid certain venues, or hesitate to perform altogether. The very culture of music—the spontaneity, the joy, the communal experience—is threatened by an environment where fear is normalized.

And it’s not just about fear. The psychological burden is real. Artists thrive on creativity, emotional openness, and the ability to connect with audiences. When the backdrop is violence, anxiety, and hyper-awareness, the creative mind struggles. Trauma, even vicarious trauma, affects concentration, emotional depth, and artistic risk-taking. Musicians may avoid certain topics, avoid political commentary, or disengage from public spaces entirely. Music as a tool for reflection, commentary, or healing suffers.

The ripple effects extend to audiences as well. Fans who gather for live music experience the same societal fear. They watch, often helplessly, as public acts of violence unfold in the news and online. Their sense of safety in crowded spaces diminishes. The communal, cathartic experience of music becomes shadowed by anxiety. People may avoid concerts, skip festivals, or disengage from public events altogether. This isn’t just a loss for musicians—it’s a cultural loss for society, because music is a shared emotional experience.

Then there’s the industry itself. Venues, promoters, and organizers face new layers of responsibility and risk. Security costs rise. Liability concerns multiply. Artists may demand increased safety measures, adding financial and logistical strain. Smaller venues, already struggling in a precarious market, may shut down, shrinking spaces where emerging musicians can perform. Public violence doesn’t just intimidate—it disrupts the infrastructure that makes music possible.

Social media amplifies the stress. Musicians are often visible online as well as offline. Images, videos, and commentary circulate instantly. If public attacks can happen to politicians, the message spreads that anyone in the public eye is at risk. Musicians may find themselves under scrutiny, targeted in online harassment, or feeling psychologically unsafe simply by sharing their work. Social media, while a platform for connection and promotion, also becomes a conduit for stress and fear.

And let’s not forget the mental health implications. Anxiety disorders, depression, PTSD, and hypervigilance are not abstract concepts—they are real outcomes for those exposed to chronic societal stress. Musicians, who are emotionally invested in their work and often vulnerable by nature, are particularly susceptible. Constantly processing the threat of public violence, imagining worst-case scenarios, and navigating social polarization creates a mental environment that is hostile to creativity and wellbeing.

The creative ecosystem suffers too. Collaboration requires trust, openness, and the willingness to take risks—both musically and socially. Fear changes that. Artists may avoid collaborations with others perceived as “controversial” or too high-profile. Genres that have traditionally pushed boundaries may stagnate under the weight of potential danger. Music, which has always been a vehicle for pushing cultural and social boundaries, may retreat under societal fear.

And it’s not just direct fear. There’s also moral and emotional stress. Musicians often respond to social events through art, writing songs about injustice, violence, and society. But when violence is public, normalized, and political, any commentary is fraught with risk. Speaking out could make them targets. Remaining silent may feel complicit. The ethical burden is heavy, and the mental load adds to the creative and psychological toll.

Emerging artists are particularly at risk. They are often young, less established, and dependent on building visibility to grow their careers. Public violence teaches them that visibility is a liability. That lesson can stunt growth, dampen ambition, and make creative expression feel dangerous. And when artists withdraw or self-censor, audiences lose diversity, authenticity, and vibrancy. Culture suffers.

Even established musicians are affected. Touring schedules may be disrupted, public appearances become stressful, and every live performance carries a new weight of risk. Music festivals, which historically serve as spaces for unity and expression, may become arenas of anxiety and hypervigilance. Fans and artists alike carry the psychological burden, changing the dynamic of shared musical experiences.

We can also consider the indirect effects. Fear and anxiety ripple outward into other aspects of life: sleep patterns, concentration, emotional regulation, and interpersonal relationships. Musicians, who often live on tight schedules and perform demanding emotional work, are particularly sensitive to these stressors. Chronic exposure to societal fear undermines creativity, focus, and emotional resilience.

So what’s the takeaway? The rise of public, normalized political violence is not just a political problem. It is a cultural and psychological problem, and musicians are uniquely exposed. Fear, anxiety, trauma, and hypervigilance infiltrate the creative process, the public experience of music, and the infrastructure that supports live performance. Visibility, once a career tool, becomes a liability. Public spaces, once arenas of connection, become arenas of risk.

And here’s the hardest part: this is not going to stop with high-profile figures. Once the threshold of visible violence is crossed, anyone can be affected, anyone can be targeted, anyone can experience the ripple effects. The music world, like society as a whole, faces an unprecedented challenge. It’s not just about security or logistics; it’s about the mental health and emotional wellbeing of the entire creative ecosystem.

Musicians, fans, venues, and organizers must reckon with this reality. Awareness is critical. Mental health support, safety measures, and community networks become essential not just for individual artists but for sustaining culture itself. We need to recognize that public violence is not just a political event—it is a societal stressor, and the creative community is on the front lines.

The Charlie Kirk shooting is a stark example of a broader trend. Public violence, once confined to political or marginalized contexts, is now visible, normalized, and unpredictable. Musicians, by virtue of their visibility, mobility, and social engagement, are in the crosshairs—not because they are political, but because they exist in public, because they gather crowds, because they participate in society. That makes mental health preparation, awareness, and systemic support crucial.

Ultimately, this is a cultural crisis as much as a political one. The mental health of musicians, the vibrancy of music culture, and the safety of public performance are intertwined. Public violence threatens all of it, and society must recognize the stakes. The future of music depends not just on talent and creativity, but on the ability to exist, perform, and create without fear.

If musicians, venues, and audiences are living in fear, music itself suffers. Creativity contracts. Expression diminishes. Culture retreats. And the consequences are not confined to the music industry—they ripple outward, affecting all of society.

We cannot ignore it. We cannot pretend that public violence is just a political problem or someone else’s issue. It is a cultural, psychological, and societal issue, and musicians are among the first to feel the impact. Awareness, support, and systemic solutions are not optional—they are essential to protecting not just individuals, but the soul of music itself.