The first time I signed a music contract, I did it with the confidence of a caffeinated raccoon. I’d been working in music since I was a teenager—scrappy, resourceful, raised by live shows and late-night load-outs. But a contract? That was grown-up stuff. I skimmed it. I assumed good intentions. I signed.
I got burned.
Not burned in an arson-level disaster kind of way, but in the quiet, simmering way that makes you question your memory, your judgment, your sense of how things should work. I did the job. They got the credit. I didn’t get paid. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it—because I had agreed to it. On paper. In ink.
That was the moment I realized contracts weren’t just red tape. They were survival.
Now, let me be clear: I’m not a lawyer. I’m not here to give you legal advice. But I am a woman who has worked in almost every corner of the music industry for more than two decades. I’ve been the one writing the contracts, negotiating them, enforcing them, crying over them, and occasionally fantasizing about setting them on fire. I’ve watched friends lose songs, businesses, royalties, and entire identities to contracts they didn’t understand.
So this isn’t a tutorial. It’s a story. A pep talk. A backstage pass into why contracts matter, and why pretending they don’t is the most expensive kind of denial.
Most artists think of contracts like a cold sore. They’ll show up when things go wrong, and you just hope no one notices. But the truth is, a contract is nothing more than a conversation—written down, agreed upon, and legally binding. It says, “Here’s what I’ll do. Here’s what you’ll do. Here’s what we both expect. And here’s what happens if one of us goes off script.”
What most people miss is that the danger isn’t in the contract’s existence—it’s in the ambiguity. Words like “creative support” or “delivery” sound harmless enough, but inside a legal document, they can morph into a labyrinth of obligation and confusion. You thought “delivery” meant uploading a final mix. They meant fully edited, multi-format masters with artwork, metadata, and a downloadable PDF of your soul. That’s not a difference in expectation. That’s a difference in ownership.
And when we talk about ownership in music, we’re talking about everything. Your name. Your likeness. Your voice. Your masters. Your publishing. Your intellectual property. If that sounds like too much to worry about, you’re not wrong. It is. That’s why people hire lawyers. But it’s also why, even without one, you can’t afford to skip the reading part.
I’ve had friends sign away everything they ever made because they didn’t want to rock the boat. They didn’t want to “seem difficult.” Let me say it plainly: Nothing about protecting your work is difficult. It’s dignified. It’s smart. It’s non-negotiable.
Then there’s the payment section: that mythical space where dreams go to be deferred. “Net 30.” “Upon delivery.” “To be determined.” I’ve seen it all. I once worked an event for six months and got paid with a thank-you card and a used hoodie. That wasn’t a mistake—it was a contract I never signed. And that absence spoke louder than any clause ever could.
People love to romanticize music. They should. It’s gorgeous. It’s chaotic. It saves lives. But underneath the magic is machinery. And that machinery is built on deals. If you’re not looking out for yourself, no one else is going to volunteer.
There’s no award show category for “Best Execution of a Scope of Work Clause While Also Breastfeeding and Routing a Tour.” There’s no trophy for “Most Accurate Breakdown of Backend Percentage While Crying in the Venue Bathroom.” But there should be. Because contracts aren’t just business; they’re battlefields. And for every artist who thinks they don’t need one, there’s a predator who already has a pen in hand.
So read your contracts. Ask dumb questions. Ask smart ones, too. Say no to things that don’t feel right. Push back when the terms are murky. Take up space at the negotiating table—even if your voice shakes, or you’re the only one there who also packed a snack for their kid that day.
Because here’s the truth: You’re not just an artist; you’re a business. And your signature is your power.
Use it wisely.
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Be sure to check out Christine’s just-announced book series My Mom Works in Music—the first 12 books in a growing children’s series that celebrates the brilliant, hardworking women who make this industry move. Hard copies of the books will officially launch June 1st on Amazon.
