The first time I met Courtney Clarke was on an impossibly picturesque morning at Kala festival on the Albanian coast. It was back in 2019, and the sun was just coming up, rays poking above the horizon like inquisitive octopus tentacles.
She took one look at it, laughed, and speaking for all women everywhere, told him to go fuck himself
We were in the booth: I was on documentary duties and she was laying down a series of shimmeringly buoyant tunes for a deliriously happy crowd. It was glorious — the kind of moment you’d regale to your kids in 20 years’ time to claw back some long overdue kudos. As far as fleeting festival moments go, it was perfect, and everyone surrendered to the evanescence accordingly.
Except of course, for that one guy. There’s no need to describe him because a vivid outline of his face and personality already exists in all of our heads, but let’s just say he was alone, armed with unwanted opinions and a phone on which to express them. He reacted glumly to every tune selection, until eventually, disappointment got the better of him and he was forced by unknown forces within himself to approach the DJ booth. In an act of selfless public service, he wrote a note on his phone requesting better music and handed it to Clarke. She took one look at it, laughed, and speaking for all women everywhere, told him to go fuck himself, lobbing the phone onto the dancefloor, where hopefully, it was never seen again.
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Growing up the country meant I didn’t get into dance music until I left the farm life. We grew up with country music because my dad is a cowboy and indie rock was the BIG genre of my teens. But the day my world opened up for real was when I discovered The Presets and saw them live. It changed my life forever. There was also my love for nu disco and then boogie, which is my one true love. I’ll never get sick of it ever!
The point of the earlier ambling anecdote is to demonstrate that CC:DISCO!, in the words of her homeland kin, is a fucking legend. Outspoken, unpretentious and impish, her observations are bang on and despite an affable openness, she has zero time for bullshit — something that’s reflected in her words and actions, inside and out of the booth. In an industry that’s dominated by pomp and parade, it’s incredibly refreshing and still relatively unusual, but even for someone as honest and forthright as her, it’s taken a long time to reach this point.
“I’ve changed a lot in myself and how I feel about being a woman in the music industry,” she tells me over Zoom from her home in Melbourne. “I’ve been a DJ for 12 years and back then we weren’t allowed to speak up. It felt like if you did, you might lose your bookings. But now I don’t have that opinion at all, I just stand up for myself.”
She’s reflecting on the disappointing swerve back towards male-dominated lineups in Australia, where a rigid approach to Covid-19 rules has avoided long, drawn out lockdowns and they’re enjoying life in relative normality. “I’ve had to personally contact some venues to say I’ve been watching your lineups and I think you’re going in a backwards direction,” she explains. “We’ve been so progressive for years in diversity, especially in relation to women, and I was really proud to be from Melbourne because of that. But now it’s like, is that all you want at your party — men? It’s just weird.”
It’s not a problem that’s exclusive to Australia, of course, and to reinforce the point, a few days after our conversation the Guardian released a study showing that in 31 music festivals taking place this year, gender imbalance is still rife on pretty much every lineup.
“A lot of us have been talking about what they get out of it and it makes no sense. To me, it makes a party divided — having women and trans people playing really translates in your crowd,” she continues. “I feel like in my circles it’s not as bad but it’s still there. Sometimes when I see the lineups on bigger disco parties and they don’t include women, it makes me feel like, are we not good enough to be in those places? Personally, I don’t get upset anymore but I sometimes think they might see us as not good enough. Five years ago I’d definitely have felt like that and I think a lot of women and identifying females would probably agree with me.”
ArrayIt’s hard to believe that in 2021, and after all the hype surrounding the potential for positive change in the music industry post pandemic, we’re still lamenting a lack of representation, but here we are. “It’s an easy problem to fix,” she states with incredulously raised eyebrows. “Hire females to book your events instead of having 12 dudes doing it. Have women at the forefront of event management and talent booking, and people of colour as well — you have to include everyone. If you want to be current you really need to branch out and see what’s working in more diverse circles.”
She’s not just talking the talk here either, as the latest release of her First Light compilation series on Soothsayer proves. Following on from Volume I, which was released in 2018 and featured up and coming artists from Australia and New Zealand, for Volume II, due in May, she’s dug deeper into the international scene and pulled out a collection of genre-spanning gems from places like Japan, Zambia, Belarus and Indonesia.
“There are a few known people included but I wanted to reach out,” she explains. “I’ve really gone looking in Asia and other directions. There are so many amazing producers and DJs there who I’d love to see playing in Europe a bit more.” The result is a collection of 24 tracks that together resemble the sparky, jubilant sets she’s famed for, darting between disco, Balearic, techno, Italo and back again.
Supporting new talent has always been the backbone of Clarke’s professional and personal outlook, and for this she credits her roots in radio. Her first gigs came after a work experience stint aged just 15, but thanks to a natural affinity on the airwaves, otherwise known as great banter, she went on to host her own PBS FM show for six years, elevating it to a Melbourne institution.
Through that, she was able to give a leg up to local artists, an element of the job she’s always taken pride in. “Having a platform to play someone’s music feels a lot better than just playing the obvious stuff. It’s just way more of a challenge to find people, and you get more joy from bringing them up as well.”
looking at those lineups, it’s all men and it’s all dudes who don’t need the money
Unsurprisingly then, it’s been tough to witness so much of the local music industry in Australia take a battering over the past year. “Covid is serious business here,” she explains. “If there’s even one case then everything shuts the same day.” She cites Byron Blues Festival, which was cancelled back in March after a positive case was confirmed in New South Wales.
They made the call at 3pm the day before it was due to kick off, a major economic thump for everyone behind the scenes, and hugely disappointing for the 15,000 people due to attend. Nevertheless, it’s this rigorous application of rules that’s allowed the country to beat Covid into submission, and while it’s far from ideal for the event industry, Clarke is also wary of the alternative.
“I used to live in Mexico and I get a little upset,” she says of the so-called plague raves kicking off in towns like Tulum, where the government approach to the pandemic has been significantly more loose. “People need to work in Mexico — they need to everywhere, of course — but people in the tourism sector there are going to work regardless of what’s going on and whether they get Covid. Some people just don’t have the luxury of not going to work,” she emphasises.
The reality is that Mexico has one of the highest Covid death rates in the world, but despite this, countless DJs have spent the past few months playing gigs for rave-hungry, rich tourists happy to party in the face of questioning moral judgment. “I can understand from someone’s perspective if they have no money and they’re desperate to work,” she continues. “But looking at those lineups, it’s all men and it’s all dudes who don’t need the money.” On this, most people agree, but whether any of them are held to account as events begin to resume, still remains to be seen.
Back Down Under, it’s safe to return to dancefloors, and Clarke is keen to emphasise it was genuinely worth the wait. “At the first gig, the feeling was pretty nuts,” she says with a grin. “It was really something else — not just because I was playing but seeing a whole team get work again. It was an amazing feeling that I hope every DJ, promoter and photographer gets to experience.”
Having spent much of lockdown alone in Lisbon — Clarke didn’t see anyone she knew for 72 days straight — it tasted particularly sweet. “I can’t explain it,” she adds. “It was just so nice to see people together.” Especially the ones who kept their phones firmly in their pockets.
