In honor of Women’s History Month, Atwood Magazine has invited artists to participate in a series of essays reflecting on identity, music, culture, inclusion, and more.
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Today, captivating and cinematic artist Empara Mi shares her personal story of growth, and taking her power back in the music industry, in a special essay for Atwood Magazine’s Women’s History Month series!
Enigmatic, and boldly unconventional, Empara Mi is carving her own lane in music. Her debut album, 2020’s ‘Suitcase Full of Sins,’ became an underground sensation during the pandemic, racking up over 30 million streams and landing tracks like “Blood in the Water” and “Ditch” in global Netflix hits such as ‘Ginny & Georgia’ and ‘Behind Her Eyes.’ Her cinematic sound has been featured in Transformers, Fortnite, Riviera, and Dynasty, alongside global campaigns for Apple and Pretty Little Thing. Most recently, her rendition of “God’s Gonna Cut You Down,” for Day of the Jackal, sparked widespread acclaim.
Drawing inspiration from cinematic scores, operatic grandeur, and the grit of hip-hop, Empara Mi has cultivated a sound entirely her own. Her voice, described by Clash Magazine as carrying a “devastating sense of soul,” has made her a sought-after collaborator, including the featured single ‘Freedom’ with Wilkinson and Sub Focus on their No. 1 album ‘Portals.’ Ready to take the world by storm with her staggering new music, Empara Mi is undoubtedly an artist to keep a close eye on this year!
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MY SHIFT TOWARDS AUTONOMY AND THE POWER IN STARTING AGAIN
by Empara Mi
If I had told my younger self that one day I would sign a five-album deal with one of the world’s biggest record labels, I imagine I would have had one of two reactions – either sheer excitement at the thought of becoming the next global icon, or complete confusion as to what any of that even meant.
I grew up on a small island, so it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I first became conscious to the idea that my favourite artists didn’t just release music from their bedroom. I remember being young and watching shows like ‘making the band’ on MTV which was in equal parts
fascinating and horrifying at the thought of what went on behind the scenes in order to ‘make an artist’ .
Somehow this wasn’t enough to put me off so, at 15 I left for England with the hopes of being around like minded people and putting myself in a position to be (as I probably would have seen it back then) “discovered.”
I went to university out of school, surprisingly not to study music, but history. As I’m sure it was pretty clear to everyone around me, that was definitely not my focus but a mere side quest off the path I wanted to be on.
Although this is pretty embarrassing to admit, (definitely not the most embarrassing thing I did at uni), I remember going home after nights out, being in the back on black cab, obviously wasted and therefore an incredibly extroverted version of myself, when the inevitable question would come. “So, what do you do?”
I’m like, right, this is my moment, “I’m a singer.”
The response would usually be along the lines of: “Oh, so where do you sing?” I quickly realised my answer wasn’t landing the way I wanted. So I’d have to change it. “I’m a singer, and I’ve just signed to Sony, you know Sony records.”
Obviously it wasn’t true…yet. But the reaction was always slightly more enthusiastic.
It was like the exorcist, the way these guys’ heads would do a 180 swivel to catch a glimpse of the celebrity who had just graced their chariot.
“Oh I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you, what’s your name, my kids are gonna kill me if I don’t get a picture.”
The feeling probably lasts about 3 seconds before I’m like, ok, now I feel bad and I should clearly stop drinking.
The problem was this validated everything I already knew. In everyone else’s eyes (and clearly mine too) being signed to a major label was the threshold between being an aspiring singer and an actual artist.
As fate would have it, I did end up signing to Sony – RCA, to be precise.
It felt like a whirlwind at the time, I can admit – and after all the meetings at all the labels, the wining and dining, the offers, I signed my five-album deal. I say this nonchalantly as I have many times because as of course as hindsight likes to remind me, I’m not the first girl to experience this, nor will I be the last, but still by all accounts you would have thought this should have been the best day of my life.
Of course I did the champagne photo, the celebratory signing moment that was inevitably going to be put on Facebook alongside some extremely fake humble message (its probably still up somewhere, don’t you dare look it up). I had even dyed my hair some horrid green colour, as if that would make me feel more like an “artist.” I remember naively asking when I’d get to work with some of the other acts on their roster, staring at a framed picture of Pharrell on the wall, hoping to be praised for my extreme confidence, the blank stares and a couple of awkward laughs still haunt me.
I signed, left the building, and got in a cab.
I know what you’re thinking but no, no one asked me what I did that day, and I actually remember getting out of the cab and walking the rest of the way home because I felt sick.
That feeling never really left me. Call it women’s intuition or maybe a bit of imposter syndrome, but for someone who clearly believed this moment was the pinnacle, I couldn’t shake that feeling in my stomach. And in hindsight, I wasn’t entirely wrong.
I never really considered myself a control freak as such, but when you find something you love, of course you want to protect it – and when you sign with a major label, you’re not just handing over your music; you’re handing over yourself.
At the time, I don’t think I fully understood what signing that deal truly meant.
I grew up with a rare kind of freedom in the sense that no one ever told me what I couldn’t do in terms of my abilities. Right or wrong, my parents trusted me to make my own decisions, and by extension, my own mistakes. I can’t recall a single moment where I was told something was out of reach, and maybe that’s why I’ve always dreamed as big as I have.
So, finding myself in that position, signing a major label deal, something so many people, including myself, chased, was a paradox. For a brief moment it gave me a validation of proving to everyone that I could make my dreams a reality, but in truth, it became the very thing standing in their way.
The longer story is for another time, but for now, I want to talk about what it meant, as a woman, to walk away.
I went from being the confident person I had always known myself to be, someone who believed, without question, that I deserved to be in that room, to someone who could barely exist in it.
A small office in a backroom with a camera man would be the site of my first (but not last) panic attack.
The very thing I was signed for, myself, my voice and my music, suddenly wasn’t enough. Now, there needed to be more. A bigger story. A man to validate my talent. A relationship that would make me cooler, more credible. An edgier look. I kept thinking, then why did you want me in the first place?
Of course it crossed my mind, if I was a man, none of these conversations would be happening – but you don’t trust that, as a woman, I know what I’m doing. That even though I already do something you can’t, somehow, you believe you can tell me how to do it better.
Maybe that wasn’t the case at all, but I couldn’t help but question if a man would be held to the level of criticism. I’m not sure they would.
The day my termination came through, I remember walking through Soho. I called my best friend and said, Wow, I’m on my own now, aren’t I?
As usual she didn’t miss a beat. ‘F* it, they never did anything anyway.’ Good point.
That day, for the first time, my career actually started.
Sometimes I look back on it the same way I do past toxic relationships. There must have been love there, in some form. There were moments of hope. But ultimately, leaving was the only way I could grow. And yet, I was terrified of what would happen once I did.
As daunting as it was, I could hear my mum’s voice in my head: ‘I don’t want to hear problems, I want solutions’. So before I even made the call home, my mind was already working on my contingency.
Did it break my heart to see people drop like flies around me when I left? Of course I didn’t exactly have a choice but to rebuild, to start again.
Releasing music independently now through my own label, Spinning Circle, has been the most humbling experience of my life.
Every challenge has come with a lesson, and luckily, its own rewards.
One of those rewards has come to me in the world of sync. For those unfamiliar, sync is when your music is literally synced with film, TV, games, when a song finds a home in someone else’s story.
And, in a poetic kind of justice, the same music I fought for, the music that wasn’t “commercial” enough, was the very thing that built opportunities for me as an independent artist.
Knowing that there was a purpose in releasing the music I had been holding onto gave me the courage to continue on my own and rebuild. I’m now lucky enough to work with people who I respect and love and have had similar journeys to mine, a lot of these people happen to be women, but I don’t work with them because they are women, but because they are really f*ing good.
Out of necessity, not knowing if I would be able to get back in the room with producers again if I was independent, I taught myself how to produce to a level I had never pushed myself before. I always believed as I had been told, lets get someone else in to finish this off, but now I don’t need that.
For me, there’s a beauty in knowing everything now lives and dies with me; it gives me drive and purpose.
Of course it makes every low more personal, but every win is infinitely more rewarding.
For the first time in a long time, I can say, without hesitation, that I’m proud of myself. Not because of any milestone or external validation, but because of the woman I’m becoming every day.
I refuse to give up, and I’m only just beginning. – Empara Mi
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Stream: “I CAN’T” – Empara Mi
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