On The Road: Mollie Rush

My musical story and identity can be a bit hard to keep up with even for me, but I’ll attempt a succinct introduction as best I can. My name is Mollie Rush, and I am currently a vocalist and producer of hard dance music as well as a DJ, along with the other more mundane jobs I do day to day to keep my bills paid. (I’m not a drug dealer, unless you count tissues for snotty children’s noses as drugs, in which case, call me Pablo fucking Escobar.) In the past, I have been part of a nine-piece ska band, a three to five-piece digital hardcore punk rave band, a tour manager, promoter, artist liaison, stage manager, box-office bitch, marketing assistant, spoken-word artist, folk singer and founder of a queer hardcore DJ collective. In basic terms, music and ADHD rule my entire life with very heavy hands.

With this sprawling background, it’s been quite hard to carve my way through touring and life on the road anecdotes with any clear and resounding message, but it’s safe to say the life I have led has had some extreme highs – along with pretty brutal and seemingly everlasting lows – that are pretty hard to beat until I’m back on the road again. I know that what I’m doing is probably shaving years off my life, but I’m pretty sure with the way things are going I won’t be able to afford them anyway, so best to just go with it.

I feel as though the obvious issue for me to try and highlight would be the fact I am a non-binary person who is femme-presenting most of the time, and the difficulties of that in what is still a very male-dominated industry. The underestimation, condescension and vitriol in attitudes towards anyone who is non-male, especially when outside the gender binary, can definitely be hard to deal with at times. I am grateful to say I feel as though the creeps stay mostly out of my way, though I do my best to put myself in their way if I see them sliming up against anyone else at gigs. I’m not 100 per cent sure why I’m often told that people think I’m a bitch until they’ve had a nice chat with me. I’m gonna put it down to the gobby northernness combined with the bust-up tooth and partially shaved head, but if it keeps the right people scared to approach me or to be a cunt in my vicinity, then to be honest I’m fine with it.

When I was in [electronic punk band] Tokky Horror (2020–2024), we all did our very best to make sure that any gig we were playing would be a space free from the constant pressure of patriarchal ideas. But even with a very obvious queer-inclusive, fuck-horrible-creeps attitude, we still ran into issues. People that were part of the scene, mostly promoters and other band members, were constantly demeaning us and the project, trying to pull wool over our eyes or squash us with shit-talking and all-round grim behaviour. Hardcore punk shows can be a wonderful place to be, but in all honesty, I find the bravado around these mostly male bands just fucking ruins it, and lads still aren’t calling out their mates for rubbish behaviour. Sort yourselves out.

AND ANOTHER THING! If we sell out your gig in London while you’re paying us a measly £200 and you say you still can’t afford to get us blueberries for the rider, then I don’t give a fuck how many times you call me a diva, you’re going back to the shop, mate. I shall not watch my bandmates wither away on this diet of tequila and 1am chips. They’re getting a fucking daily smoothie whether they like it or not.

I think honestly the thing that stands out to me most about my entire musical career though is how the way our society is built in Britain just really doesn’t support musicians, or value art. I have been skint forever. I was skint when I was 19 and I’m doing marginally better now, but as a 31-year-old I’m still pretty skint. This may sound like a moan, but it’s actually a declaration of passion and dedication, so stick with me.

The thing is, I really can’t live my life any other way. Music is the one consistent thing in my life that makes me glad to be here. It’ll get me up in the morning, keep me going through the day, and gently tuck me in at night, telling me everything could be beautiful and leave me wondering why it isn’t, and how I could help push towards it. I think about it when I’m at work, when I’m at home, when I’m out with friends, when I’m being intimate. All. The. Time. The passion that I have for it, for live music in incredible, high-production, bright, open-air, dingy, smelly, sweat-dripping-from-the-ceiling, crispy p.a. and a can of Fosters, you name it, environments is such a drive, I don’t really have a choice but to live the way I am right now.

Watching people make it, hearing them feel it, seeing it moving them and helping them connect with others… Not to be a total cheese, but who doesn’t love Abba: “without a song, or a dance, what are we?” NOTHING, BABES. I dunno about you but honestly, I think the answer to that question is probably just worms but with slightly longer limbs (and more destructive ecological impact, but that’s a whole other tangent probably more suited to Gardeners’ Weekly or Autism World: Niche Interests Special).

I did actually try to go elsewhere at the end of 2024 for a brief moment, but the misguided escapade ended swiftly with me in a grey office block in Bristol named “HERE”, telling a recruitment manager in a three-quarter-zip fleece to fuck off. (Stupid name for a building btw:

“Yes, I am free for the interview. Where is it?”

“It’s here.”

“Right… and where is that?”

“Opposite the Burger King.”

“OK, sounds delightful.”)

The cunt actually tried to ring me back to tell me I hadn’t got the job. I was right, he can fuck off.

Touring is definitely not for the faint of heart, but for me the rewards are endless. The best memories of my life come from travelling around for music, and the difficulties of it really do make or break not only yourself but your relationships. I feel lucky to say that the vast majority of people I’ve been on tour with have become close and cherished friends and people I would not be the same without.

I moved a significant distance a few times in childhood, which, combined with undiagnosed autism and ADHD, made me into a bit of a weird little egg. I always had friends, but sadly not many of the relationships I had in those years have really stuck as I got older and explored life a bit more, so for the friends I’ve made through music to still be here and be some of the closest really means the world to me.

Right, I’m gonna stop going off on tangents based on my excessive need for context now and tell you about some actual things that happened, starting close to the beginning because in my linear processing of time that seems most appropriate. I’m also letting you in on some deep lore here that most people nowadays aren’t so aware of – lucky you, eh.

In 2016, the first band I was in (Unknown Era – nine-piece ska shambles, good fun, always drunk) got invited to play some shows in Europe. “OMG! Europe! We’re making it! Right?!” Wrong. The shows had a nonsensical routing somewhere through The Netherlands, Germany and Belgium, I think, and consisted of us being very hot, hungover and cramped in two separate vehicles after sleeping on the floors of squats while my old boyfriend (15 years senior – we’ve all been there, haven’t we?) tried to film us looking somewhat appropriate for human consumption.

Did I also mention that we forgot our lead singer? And by that, I mean he just didn’t turn up. That’s right. He. Just. Didn’t. Come. Well, it was either that or he couldn’t find his Europe trousers, although some do say he got lost on the way to the bus stop. Who knows? Nottingham’s a crazy town. That left me and the other two vocalists to try and figure out what songs we could do without him, which was quite a feat considering he was a rapper, which we kinda – or in my case at least – weren’t.

I remember one time we were promised a prolific squat in central Bruges that was known for its wild parties. We were all pretty excited about that one, but sadly the squat had been shut down by police while we were travelling over there, which meant we ended up playing to some pretty unimpressed-looking travellers in a back room of a weirdly professional-looking hostel.

The next day, we took to the streets to film some of our video for ‘Meet Me (On the Dancefloor)’, which documents the mini tour. It’s safe to say the polite society of Bruges didn’t enjoy our presence very much, and we ended up having to escape quickly after our trumpet player got drunk and jumped off a bridge into one of the canals. As he hit the floor, the near-chartreuse water exploded into a plume of thick black matter that raised a lot of questions, and even more smells in the hot van afterwards. We could see at least five grannies rushing to pick up the phone through their gorgeous canalside property windows, and we decided a run-in with Belgian police wouldn’t really have tickled any of our pickles.

I don’t talk about this time in my life often because honestly it got quite dark, but I recently realised that by keeping it secret I’m not letting my loved ones see an

important side of me, so the obvious choice is to let them in by writing about it in a famous magazine. I was drunk pretty much all the time, in a very unhealthy relationship, couldn’t bring myself to eat much more than chips and was living in a very cheap house with a jungle DJ, a psytrance hippy and a man who loved speed and eventually disappeared into the woods to escape the federal agents who were after him. I didn’t believe him at the time, but considering all the conspiracies your mad uncle used to post on Facebook are now being confirmed as absolutely true, I’m no longer sure.

The shining lights were the members of this band: we might have egged each other on, but they were always there for a cuddle and a laugh once the mess had been made, and when you’re younger, I’m not sure you want much more than that. That camaraderie has stuck around, over 10 years since we formed. In the past few years, we have done a few reunion shows, some based on love and some in celebration of the life of our manager, Daz, who sadly passed away while living his dreams out in Vietnam. We love you, Dazza, always have and always will.

Dazza always really supported us all musically, proper egged us on. I remember some years later I was playing a DJ gig in London, my first in the city, and I was feeling incredibly anxious. So much so, my brain was telling me I didn’t really want to do the gig, even though I’d got the gig because I asked outright for it. Anxiety never makes much sense when you put it under the microscope.

It was a short time after Dazza had died and I was heartbroken; we all were. The last time I’d seen Dazza, we had worked together on Disney On Ice in The 02, formerly known as the Millennium Dome. It was the job he’d had for years and he adored it, and it was the reason he’d been in Vietnam in the first place. Anyway, I’d trekked across London to my Travelodge and was concentrating on my breathing to ward off a panic attack. I opened the door to my room to a sight that brought me straight back into my body. It was The 02. All lit up for the night, staring straight at me across the water through my floor-to-ceiling window, and all of a sudden it was like Dazza was standing right next to me telling me I was on the right track and I didn’t need to be anxious. Right in my ear saying “What are you even nervous for? You got it!” All my anxiety switched in a moment to pure and simple gratitude and, to be honest, I don’t think I’ve looked back since.

I fucking love DJing. Like really fucking love it. I started going out to clubs when I was too young, and even before then I remember mentally inserting myself into club scenes in movies and thinking ‘Fuck, yeah this is it.’ Sometimes it makes me so incredibly anxious because I still don’t really trust myself with external equipment, but when I’m in flow, DJing to loads of rowdy clubbers and I can see them going for it, it makes me want to wriggle out [of] my own skin and scream until I die. In a fun way, obviously. Would kinda shit all over Tommy Cooper that, wouldn’t it?

It’s very different travelling as a DJ than it is touring with a band. First of all, there’s potential to actually walk away with some money in my pocket without having to sell a million T-shirts. Once you get past the local circuit, promoters in other cities will often pay for your travel and accommodation if you ask for that. I try to stay with friends when I can, but it makes such a difference having a private place to sleep. This means you can often pocket the fee they give you, though there’s also so much social media pressure, so you have to think about that too. I don’t enjoy it so much, but I’d be lying if I said my social media presence hadn’t helped me get gigs.

Pursuing music as a career is really such a trip, and I’m not lying when I say I do it for the love, but honestly the most stressful part is I need to work elsewhere to support it. I am fucking tiiiiiiiired. Right now, I work in a school supporting SEN kids, which is a lovely job, but the pay is far from what these educators deserve. It’s tiring and constant, and no matter what the trainers tell you, it will stick with you when you go home, no matter how much you try to put your mind elsewhere. You do the job because you care, and your empathy doesn’t just switch off. Most of the time, playing the hard music I do will mean I will be on late too, so while in the week I go to bed at 9pm and wake at 6am, during gig days that sleeping pattern falls completely on its arse and honestly sometimes I feel like Hannah Montana. No more so than when I performed a song I made with The Bloody Beetroots in Milan last May for their 20th-anniversary show. I’ll give you a brief rundown of the itinerary:

FRIDAY

• Work until 3.30pm
• Bed at 8pm
• SATURDAY
• Wake at 1.30am to get coach to Gatwick
• Fly to Milan at 8am
• Get to Milan, get driven to hotel, wait one hour until The Bloody Beetroots team arrive
• Order Deliveroo with team (I NEED mozzarella immediately)
• Deliveroo driver gets lost and leaves you with a picture of the bag of food on a nondescript grass verge
• Can’t find grass verge – food is lost
• Eat hotel mozzarella (we’re in Italy, it’s still fucking delicious)
• Shower, get ready to go to a press thing
• Wander around Milan for one hour
• Cry at the Duomo
• Back to hotel to sleep for three hours
• Set my alarm for 11am not pm – fuck! Get woken up by banging on door
• Get shit together quick, drive to venue, is this real life?
• Forgot my makeup! No one can give me a lift!
• Run down dual carriageway in platform boots and tiny skirt
• Get makeup
• Run back
• Makeup on, wonky but it’s on
• Get on stage, sing song! Yay!
• Big power surge
• All USBs corrupted
• Go back to hotel to put Bloody Beetroots set on my USBs I thankfully brought with me
• Go back to venue
• Play second half of set
• Sing song again! Yay!
• Finish at 3am
• Back to hotel, sleep for three hours.
• 
  SUNDAY
• 8am pick-up
• Fly back to Gatwick
• Coach to Bristol
• Get home Sunday at 6pm
• Eat
• BED
  
• MONDAY
• Wake at 6am for work
• Mollie, why are you so tired? Oh, no reason. What did you do on the weekend? Oh, nothing really. Hannah fuckin Montana, mate.

OK, some lessons. I used to think there’d be clear and consistent progression in this musical journey. Big breaks, getting spotted – stuff like that. And for some people, that might be true, but for most of us it isn’t really. I thought that maybe after doing that gig in Milan I’d feel differently. I didn’t really. I was very happy I got that experience, but I haven’t been back to Europe since. I did my first two gigs in one night in two different cities last year and thought the second one would be the big-boy mega rave moment, but it wasn’t. What did happen instead was a man who we befriended in the party hinted jokingly about drinking the massive bottle of White Claw wee-wee that was in the back seat of my car because we didn’t have time to stop or I might miss the second gig.

I wanted to make a point in this article about how Britain doesn’t support artists trying to make a living here. It’s fucked up, and if you need to hear any more about that, I’d suggest listening to Phoebe Lunny and Sherelle talk about it on BBC Radio 6 or going to check out Witch Fever’s recent interview about how they’re skint after going on a two-month arena tour even WITH major label backing. But it seems that what’s exploded out of me is the love for the people I’ve experienced on the road. Honestly, I asked my bandmates from Tokky Horror about some stories I could tell, and basically none of them were acceptable to be told here, but they made me laugh so much and brought me so much warmth thinking about that time in my life. And I didn’t even get on to my tour manager stories. I guess I’ll have to write a fucking book or something.