Entertainment At a recent club gig in Mumbai, a young lighting assistant was cornered in a green room by a senior crew member. She didn’t speak up—not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t know who to go to. “I just had to keep my head down and get the job done,” she anonymously told me. No HR in sight, no complaints desk, and no guarantee of protection. For many in India’s music industry—crew members, session musicians, interns, even artists—this is the reality, and the silence it forces is deafening. Unlike corporate environments or film sets, the music industry is built on fragile, informal ecosystems—freelancers, indie promoters, short-term contracts—where power dynamics skew heavily towards those in charge. In such a setup, speaking up isn’t just risky; it can end your career. The unspoken rule is simple: stay quiet, or don’t get called for the next gig. This toxic culture thrives precisely because no one is tasked with safeguarding the people who keep the show running. So, where are the safe spaces in music? And why, in 2025, is safety still treated as a privilege rather than a basic right? Globally, major festivals and artists have begun addressing this. For instance, Olivia Rodrigo set a new benchmark during her 2024–25 Guts World Tour by paying for therapy for her entire touring crew, both on and off the road. Her guitarist, Daisy Spencer, called it “one of the coolest things that’s ever happened on tour” and credited it with helping her work through long-standing personal trauma. When a pop star with a 100-show schedule across six continents can prioritize the mental well-being of her team, it’s clear that safety and care are not just possible—they’re overdue. The question is: why can’t Indian promoters and venues, even on a smaller scale, adopt this mindset? Don’t get me wrong, a few large-scale players are making an effort. BookMyShow Live is one of them. “At BookMyShow Live, safety is not an afterthought; it is the blueprint on which every event is meticulously constructed,” says Naman Pugalia, Chief Business Officer of Live Events, BookMyShow Live. They adopt international frameworks like the UK’s Green Guide, ensuring crowd control, real-time communication, and better emergency planning. But what stands out is their approach to inclusivity. At Lollapalooza India 2025, for example, accessibility and psychological safety were deliberately built into the festival—wheelchair-friendly layouts, shuttle services for those with mobility challenges, and safe zones staffed with trained counsellors. Crew members were sensitized on pronouns, consent, and respectful conduct. These steps may seem obvious, but in India’s live scene, they are revolutionary. Similarly, NH7 Weekender has long treated safety as part of its DNA, not just a festival checklist. “For the past 15 years, NH7 Weekender has led the way in inclusivity and equal representation,” says Tej Brar, Head of Festivals at NODWIN Gaming. Their mental health tent, staffed with professionals, is one of the few visible acknowledgements that emotional well-being matters in an environment where people are often pushed to their limits. These measures show what happens when organizers choose responsibility over tokenism. Magnetic Fields Festival, too, has made emotional welfare a priority with its dedicated Tatva tent. I’ve experienced this firsthand—last year, I witnessed a disturbing incident where a couple was fighting on festival grounds. The man kicked his partner in the stomach while she screamed for help. Within minutes, the Tatva team and festival security were on the scene, de-escalating the situation and ensuring she was safe. It was an example of the welfare system working exactly as it should. But I was equally shocked to see the abusive attendee allowed back into the event the next morning, as if nothing had happened. Safety protocols cannot just be about responding in the moment—they need to be followed through with accountability and clear consequences. Rahul Ganjoo, CEO of District by Zomato, emphasizes that safety protocols at their events are treated with the same rigor as production and performance. “We take incidents of physical harassment extremely seriously. Our certified SOP ensures a swift, sensitive, and effective response: victims are offered immediate medical assistance, a designated safe space, and the autonomy to decide next steps—including whether to file a formal complaint,” he says. This level of proactive care should be standard, but all too rarely is. Globally, the blueprint for crew and fan welfare is expanding. Beyoncé reportedly prepared crew-wide mental health support services during her Renaissance World Tour—an acknowledgment that touring can take serious emotional tolls and must be managed proactively. Coldplay’s Chris Martin has publicly emphasized mental wellness practices like meditation and journaling, while the band has implemented wellness initiatives to support its team on tour. Beyond individual artists, organizations such as Backline in the U.S. now connect artists and tour crews to vetted mental healthcare providers attuned to the pressures of touring life. Similarly, nonprofits like MusiCares and HeartSupport offer continuous wellness services for music professionals, not just during events but throughout the year. In India specifically, for every Lollapalooza India, NH7 Weekender, or Magnetic Fields, there are hundreds of smaller indie shows, club nights, and college festivals that have no harassment policies, no trained first responders, no accessible infrastructure, and no mental health support. Green rooms remain unmonitored, and tours often run with minimal oversight, making them breeding grounds for toxic behavior. Many artists and crew members still recount experiences where inappropriate behavior was brushed aside as “part of the scene.” But here’s the truth: safety isn’t a luxury reserved for artists with Olivia Rodrigo-level budgets. It’s about priorities. Even small shows can have a designated safe point of contact, staff trained on consent, and emergency protocols in place. It’s about seeing crew members and fans as humans, not just disposable cogs in a machine. Music is supposed to be a sanctuary—a space where people feel free, connected, and understood. But when an artist can’t step backstage without worrying about harassment, or a young woman working her first gig has to keep her head down