‘If I’m not impacting other people’s lives, in whatever way, then I’m not doing it right.’

Michelle Escoffery says she learned she could write songs when her older sister, Sandra, locked them both in her bedroom and forced her to help finish two tracks she couldn’t get over the line by herself.

As Damascene moments go, this one wasn’t especially celestial – lightning bolts and heavenly choirs both in short supply. And, initially at least, the result wasn’t an instant revelation of a golden future. Instead, Escoffery recalls, “It wasn’t as painful as I thought it might have been”.

Soon, however, she would decide that, more than any other aspect of music, it was composing that she loved and “I decided I should see if I could really write”. It turns out, she could.

At the time of the ‘hostage-with-hooks’ approach to tuition, she was a teenager in a vocal band with her sisters (Sharon and Marcia completing the quartet), The Escoffery’s, who, although London-based, had been signed to Atlantic in the US.

After some success and some turbulence, she left the family business to join another vocal group, Truce.

During that time, as well as honing her writing skills, Escoffery learned about arrangement and production. Most significantly, she learned that she didn’t love being on the road and didn’t need the drug of performance.

She decided to step away from the spotlight and become a behind-the-scenes writer, signing to EMI Publishing and winning an Ivor Novello award for the Liberty X track Just A Little (2002), whilst also writing for and with artists including Tina Turner, All Saints and Beverly Knight.

In more recent years, she has focused on advocacy and mentorship, through projects such as Kindred Spirit, the Front Room Sessions and at PRS where she is President of the Members’ Council.

Here she talks about her career as an artist and a writer, as well as how she continues to campaign for change…

How and why did you choose a life in music – and the music business?

I think I was predisposed to it. Music was all around me from the very start. And then why the music business? Oh, God, I ask myself that question every day [laughs]. I think it’s something you get into, something you navigate.

“Where I am now, it’s about passing things on, empowering writers and artists.”

You start to make strides within it, and then you get to a place, which is where I am now, when it’s about passing things on, empowering songwriters and artists that are coming through, and letting them know that it is a business. I think sometimes that detail gets missed out. And it’s a big one, you know. If you’re thinking about working in the music business, then you need to know straight off the bat that that’s exactly what it is: a business.

You mentioned music was all around you, tell me about music in your upbringing…

I’ve thought about this quite a lot. I did a course a few years back and it forced you to reflect on your journey and your values. And one of the things that I’ve realised over time is that my dad was so instrumental.

First of all, he taught us all how to sing, using a pitchfork and banging out keys on the piano. But also instilling a discipline in us. I grew up seeing my sisters rehearse every single day, for at least an hour a day.

He came from very humble beginnings. My mum and dad moved to the UK from Jamaica in the late 1950s. They were both in the rag trade and then both retrained. My mum became an auxiliary nurse and my dad became a psychologist – and eventually became the Director of Mental Health Services for Hackney.

Tell us about signing to Atlantic – you were signed to the US label weren’t you?

Yeah, we were working with a guy called Rob Mills at the time, who was kind of part-managing us with my dad. He had lots of connections out there and Sylvia Rhone heard some of our stuff and was very interested. It was us and D’Influence who were signed as well, we had this kind of little family. We were recording The Escoffery’s album at the same time as I was doing my A-levels.

We flew to New York, where we did the photo shoot for the cover, and I realised, ‘Oh, this is more than just singing at shows or weddings, this is moving into a whole different gear’. I was young, so there were lots of things that weren’t shared with me, but what I do recall was that there was a tension between the US side and the UK side, because as far as the UK side was concerned, we were an American group. There was definitely a conflict there, so it didn’t come to the fruition it could have come to, because of internal politics.

How was it being in a band with your three sisters?

As the youngest it was hard. I realised really quickly that there are lots of sacrifices to be made if you really want to progress and get to a certain level, which my dad and my sisters were very focused on. I think as a family, it can be challenging because your existence revolves around the making of music.

And when I took the decision to leave The Escoffery’s and go to Truce, that’s when it became even more apparent that our whole lives revolved around music – around rehearsing, around being on the road, on the motorway, on a plane…

That adjustment took some time, to go, ‘OK, we’re sisters, how do we relate to each other as sisters, not as the group, but as sisters?’ That was something I was really keen to get to grips with.

Where are you now with that?

A lot of things happened, but I think it resolved itself over time. I think it needed time. I’m coming from a different generation, so the music that I wanted to make is going to be very different to the music my sisters wanted to make. When my sister Sandra passed away, it changed the dynamic forever. It wasn’t the same, and it didn’t feel the same going up and singing without her.

She was the nucleus of the group. She was the one that wrote songs, she was the one that did vocal arrangements. So it just didn’t feel right. It had changed, not just the dynamic of the group, but the dynamic of our family, for a very long time. I was 25 at the time, and it really impacted me in terms of, what’s my legacy? What do I want people to remember when I go? What does that look like? Because if I’m not impacting other people’s lives, in whatever way, then I’m not doing it right.

She was also your first songwriting partner, how did her passing affect that side of you?

Ah man, I was lost. I didn’t write anything for at least six months. I got to the point where I didn’t think I was going to do music anymore. I totally fell into depression and was just like, ‘Nah, I’m not doing this’.

“I was lost. I got to the point where I didn’t think I was going to do music anymore.”

And then six or seven months later, she was in my dream: we were in the studio, and I was struggling to finish a song. She just came in the studio and said, ‘C’mon, you know how it goes’, and she sang it to me. She said, ‘You’ve got to write, you’ve got to finish the song.’ And that was my sign to say, OK, maybe I can go back into the studio.

And how was that?

Incredibly difficult, because that person that you bounce with like no one else, she wasn’t there. What I loved about our relationship is that she had a cool that I aspired to, she had something about her. I also felt that I could tell her anything, and that I could show her my music and not feel like she would ever put me down in any way. And vice versa. When she played me something, she genuinely wanted to know what I thought. They say steel sharpens steel, and that’s how it felt.

You mentioned leaving The Escoffery’s and joining Truce, how difficult was that and how did that pan out?

It was hard, because it almost feels like a betrayal, right? You’re leaving your family to go and join this other group. But at the same time, because they’re closer to my age, it was like I’d just met my two best friends.

We hung out a lot, we lived in each other’s pockets. We got developed for about a year before we did anything. It was definitely an experience and we had a lot of fun. But then after a while, I didn’t enjoy being on the road. I didn’t enjoy public life in that way and I struggled with that a lot. When everyone else was going out and partying, I’m going back to my room because I’ve got something to finish; I was very much in that space.

I found myself spending a lot of time by myself and I just started to feel like I was missing out on everything back home, you know, people getting married, having kids – just life kind of passing by. So I left Truce in, I think it was 1998, with the view to pursue songwriting as my main career, which is what I did.

Let’s talk about that, because it was pretty immense. It was also a very different time, because when you signed to EMI, there were only two women on the roster, you and Cathy Dennis. What was that landscape like for you back then, as a woman of colour?

You know what, I think when you’re in it, sometimes you don’t realise how challenging it is. I was talking to a young writer the other day who was asking me how I got past people only seeing me as an R&B writer. And what I did was, I started sending people white labels. I started literally getting someone else to voice it, and send it blind.

You just have to get creative and circumnavigate the system. And it’s still the same now, which is shameful. You’ll walk into a studio and somebody will be like, ‘Oh, are you this person’s girlfriend?’ ‘Are you the assistant?’ Everything but what you’re there to do.

So out of necessity I got clued up really quickly – making sure my splits were correct, making sure everything was registered, making sure I could manage a studio session. Who’s the person in the room that I need to align myself with, so that I can make sure that my voice gets heard? Most times that was the engineer; I would be best friends with the engineer.

I was also really fortunate because when I signed to EMI, Guy [Moot] was really open to everything. He put me with an amazing A&R called Declan Morrell, who was more rock. That really helped, because he put me into spaces I would never have been put in, and I could just go see what happens. I thoroughly enjoyed that. Plus, you know, some good hits that came out of that; it worked.

How did you stay in control of your career?

Information is power. Knowledge is power. One of the things that I talk about a lot is, do your research, do your homework. You cannot step into this business blindly. You wouldn’t do it with any other business. You wouldn’t hand over your power to somebody and go, ‘I’m just going to be creative and this person is going to look after all my money’. Nay, they’re not. They’re gonna look after the money, but it’s gonna come at a cost to you. I’ve always said: you are the business, so learn the business.

“People sometimes had a problem with me, because I asked so many questions.”

That’s it really, take an interest. Even if it’s the basics, what do these things mean? People sometimes had a problem with me, because I asked so many questions. But I was seeking to understand. And I think that there’s been a long culture of, ‘Don’t worry about that, you focus on being creative, we’ll worry about the money, we’ll worry about the contract’. No, no, no, I need to understand; let’s get some clarity here. No one’s gonna do it for you, throw that idea in the bin.

How important to you as a writer was it to listen to a wide variety of genres – when perhaps people saw you in a certain lane?

It was critical, because people write differently. For me as a topline writer, they phrase things differently, they use a different vocabulary, they use different melodies. And that is so important, to be able to mix things together, take a little bit from this, take something from here and just see what happens if we put these styles together. They do it all the time now, all the time! But back then, ‘Oh no, we can’t do that’. Good music is good music. It doesn’t matter what genre it is as long as it’s good.

Agreed. And then you write a song called Just A Little (by Liberty X, No. 1 in 2002), and that’s a moment. It’s one of most played songs of the year and it wins you an Ivor Novello. How does that change your career and also your life – and what did that mean to you?

You know what, I don’t think I realised what it meant at the time. I remember at the Ivors, I think it was Kim Appleby came up to me and she said, ‘You’ve arrived, darling’. And I was thinking, What does that mean? I’ve always been here!

But you get that kudos, because it’s your peers saying, this is great work; a lot more doors opened. I’m very clear about what I stand for. When you’re coming in, you’ve got to write everything with everyone to get through the door. And then you hit a level of success, and that loop happens again where it’s like, ‘Yeah, now you’re here, we want you to write everything with everyone and let’s just see if we can get a bit of that magic’. I struggled with that a little bit because I was like, I don’t want to do this, this is not what I signed up for.

Do you feel you could have done more with it, that opportunity that the Ivor presented?

A little bit. I think I could have been more experimental. I think I could have pushed the boat out a bit more. It opened doors musically that I really enjoyed, but because you don’t necessarily understand the gravitas of what’s happened, you don’t necessarily plug into it as much as you can.

But what you did do is advocate and encourage, especially with the Front Room Sessions. Tell us about how that came about…

So, I started Kindred Spirit in 2000. My sister passed away in September ‘99 and we wanted to have an event in her honour. It was only supposed to be a one-off, but then it got to become a monthly event over the span of nine years. The ethos behind Kindred was to give a platform to creatives who wouldn’t normally get one, because the industry is ignoring them, even though they’re super talented. And then Front Room Sessions came about because I’d had a child and most places wouldn’t let you take kids there. So I started an event where people could come with their children. And it was literally in my front room. We had some of the best young artists, singers and songwriters coming through, literally through my front room, and performing.

At what point did you decide to become an executive as well as a creative?

It was just an opportunity. I had known Paulette Long [then a PRS Board trustee] for a very long time. She kept saying, ‘You should put yourself forward’. Initially, I was like ‘I’m not interested, no one looks like me, they don’t think like me’. And she’s like, ‘That’s the point!’. Eventually she convinces me to have a conversation with Simon Darlow, who was Deputy Chair at the time.

I was quite sceptical, but everything he said made sense. And what it came down to was, you can’t make changes by being on the periphery; the biggest changes you can make are when you’re inside. That was the impetus that made me change my mind. I came onboard and one of the first things I looked at was the diversity of the Council, and asking, how do we represent our members if we’re not as diverse inside the organisation, representing such a diverse membership outside the organisation?

So that’s been my work over the last few years. And also just being a voice, a conduit, for the members. The thing we all have in common is that we want to be paid fairly for our work; we want our voices to be heard and we want the information. One of my biggest drives at PRS is education. And when I say education, I don’t mean academia. I mean to be informed. You can’t make a solid decision if you’re uninformed. So one of the things that I’ve really been pushing the organisation to do is to inform our members: What are your rights? When do you need a manager? Do you need to be published? There’s so much misinformation out there, it’s our responsibility to spread these message far and wide so that writers are empowered.

Where do you think we are now in terms of diversity?

I do think that there has been a shift. Sometimes it’s performative, and sometimes it’s not. But even if it is, we make hay while the sun shines, right? I think that where we are now is that there is more of an understanding that, yes, we do need diversity and equity. And it’s not about just giving one person a seat, it’s about changing the culture of an organisation or of an industry, which is a long, hard slog, but it’s not impossible.

How are you actively galvanising them to be more active in their own organisation?

There there is more diversity within the members council now. We have lots of new people that have come: Laura Mvula, V V Brown, Daniel Lang… things are shifting and they’re not scared to let their voices be heard, which is a big thing.

Because we think our work doesn’t make an impact, but there’s you doing something in your corner, somebody else doing something in their corner, someone over there doing something, it all comes together.

“You can learn from somebody that’s doing it and who can give you the cheat codes.”

It’s going to shake the building, it’s going to burst the dam. A lot of my work is creating initiatives. I’ve created the PRS Members Day, which is regional. We’ve been to Glasgow, Cardiff, Belfast, Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham and London so far. That is a day just for the members. You have senior leadership there and members can ask them any question they want, and there are opportunities for one-to-ones.

And the other initiative I started last year is called PRS Connects, which is aimed at the entrepreneurial DIY side of our membership. We’re bringing experts in from the industry, so they get that first-hand experience and, again, can ask all the questions they need to ask.

This year, we’re starting our mentoring programme where members can sign up to be mentored by other members, when they are at different stages in their careers. So they can have that peer-to-peer mentorship, because I truly believe we can learn from each other. You don’t always have to learn from a ‘teacher’ or an ‘expert’, you can learn from somebody that’s doing it and can give you the cheat codes.

Are you still enjoying it?

Yeah, I really love it when I meet members. The last event we had was completely sold out and it was just great to have that interaction. A guy came up to me and said, ‘I don’t normally come to these events, I’m really, really introvert, really shy, but I felt like I could come and I’ve networked’. He was buzzing, and that’s what we’re talking about.

Where do you see career advancement and the UK music industry’s ability and willingness to offer Black women of great talent such as yourself opportunities?

I think it is about creating more opportunities for progression and more opportunities for learning. Because I think we get into situations in the corporate world, where there’s just this expectation that people know – and people don’t. I remember being on a panel and one of the questions was, ‘When we get to this point, why are there no Black women at this stage in this process?’

And the answer was, there’s a lack of lack of experience. OK, but if we’re not going to provide any experiences for them, that means they’ll never get there. So it’s about providing opportunities for Black women to have these experiences and providing the networks.

And I would say as well, just believing in our magic, you know, believing in our skill, believing in our talent, because we are skilled and we are talented. And most of the time, the reason why we’re so entrepreneurial or so efficient is because we’ve had to be. We’ve had to create something out of nothing because we weren’t getting the opportunities – and that’s an asset.

Do you feel a weight of responsibility as a Black woman in a position of prestige?

That’s a good one. I wanna say… sometimes? I don’t think about it a lot. I just get on with it. And I know what I want to come out of it. I don’t really see it as a weight or a burden. I think everyone makes their contribution.

A colleague of mine, a few years ago, said to me, ‘You’re not visible enough. You’re busy doing all this stuff. You’re behind the scenes, you’re helping people, you’re mentoring, you’re teaching, you’re doing all these things, but no one knows about it, you need to be more visible’.

I didn’t understand what she meant initially. And then I started doing some of the things that she mentored me to do – and it does make a difference, it does. Sometimes, someone just being able to see you on a panel makes that difference for someone going, ‘OK, I could be up there’, or ‘I could go and talk to that person’.

Could the young Michelle ever have envisioned the journey you’ve been on?

It’s bizarre. I don’t know how I feel. I know I’ve travelled a long way, but I don’t necessarily always see it, because I’m always on the move. I have, over years, taken the advice of my elders and stopped and taken stock of where I am and what I’ve accomplished in my time. But there’s so much more to do, so I don’t think about it too much.

I also think there are many people, especially from my generation, that have done just amazing things. I guess I see it as a whole, and I guess it goes back to the spiritual aspect of it. Because a lot of the time, I don’t feel like it’s me; I feel like it’s coming through me. And I feel like it is for all of us.