I got into music journalism for very specific reasons: I love both music and the rush of writing on a topic about which I am so passionate. I entered this world in the hopes that my stories would touch artists and readers the same way certain songs and bands have inspired me.

Over the course of two and a half years of covering music for outlets such as Rolling Stone, I quickly learned that the world of rock and roll is tainted by a pervasive sexism. Moments I've gotten used to: a nonprofessional squeeze on the shoulder by an artist or manager at a show; being referred to as "girlie" instead of, you know, my name; jokes about striving to be like Penny Lane from the movie Almost Famous.

The work, for the most part, outweighs whatever male-dominated BS to which I've been subjected. Like catcalling on the sidewalk, misogyny in this industry is something I've gotten used to in order to keep moving. And, my gender aside, I've always believed that this industry rewards its talented disciples.

This belief was challenged by a single quote regarding Condé Nast's acquisition of Pitchfork, the independent music site that's earned respect as a major player in music media in the digital age. In a statement to the New York Times, Fred Santarpia, Condé Nast's chief digital officer, said the new merger introduces "a very passionate audience of male millennials" to the company.

It's true that many of Pitchfork's readers are male. In fact, 88 percent of its readership, according to a recent census conducted by the outlet, is male. But shouldn't music—and therefore music coverage—be gender agnostic? (After all, a 2013 Nielsen study found that women buy more music than men. Not to mention the fact that women like Taylor Swift are singlehandedly shifting the industry's business model.) Why, then, did Santarpia feel the need to exclude Pitchfork's equally passionate female readership? Certainly he didn't understand the impact the comment could have on women who, like me, are fighting to make an impact as music critics, editors, writers, and photographers.

I remember the first major music festival I covered. It was a sweltering weekend in Philadelphia, and I was there for the 2013 Made in America show. I watched in awe as Beyoncé prepped for her set backstage and then I interviewed a number of bands and artists whom I admire. One group in particular had been pushing me off all afternoon. "Just a second, sweetie," the band's manager kept telling me. "They just have one more interview before you." They eventually got to me, but I was told to make it quick. About 10 minutes into our conversation, the lead singer put his arm around me, which made me stumble over my question. I quickly wrapped up the interview and was about to leave when he said, "Thanks so much, sweetheart. Which blog is this going on again? Maybe I'll check it out."

"RollingStone.com," I said and smiled sweetly before turning to leave, blood rushing to my cheeks.

This experience is not exclusive to me.

"The real problem is not that men in this industry agree with or condone sexism, but rather that they don't acknowledge it at all."

"I can't think of a show or festival I've shot when something hasn't happened," a photo editor friend told me Tuesday night at CMJ, the New York–based showcase that exposes up-and-coming bands to the media. "I mean, stuff has even happened tonight."

She then described an experience she had while in a photo pit for a popular alt-rock group. A man associated with the band's management grabbed her waist from behind to direct her through the pit, his hands locked on her hips the entire time she photographed the set. "How many times have we each been called 'someone's girlfriend' while waiting to interview or shoot somebody?" she said with a laugh. Before ending the conversation, we noted the look of surprise we've often received once our knowledge of music is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. The realization is usually followed by a statement like, "It's so hot that you're into music!"

Personally, I'd like to believe that we're thought of as more than silhouettes in skirts, swaying mindlessly on beer-sticky floors.

Some of the most influential figures in music journalism today happen to be women, many of whom are on the Pitchfork masthead. Jessica Hopper is Pitchfork's senior editor and the author of . She has served as a role model for female journalists—both inside and outside the music realm—by encouraging us to discuss instances of sexism within the industry via Twitter.

Hopper and a number of other female contributors to Pitchfork have inspired girls who want to get into music. "I've read Pitchfork since I was 15," says Zoe Leverant, a contributor to the The Pitchfork Review and the Village Voice. "I wouldn't be a music writer, or by extension a writer at all, if Pitchfork hadn't shown me it was a possibility."

But with a single line from a press release, many of us have felt shut out by the community that inspired us in the first place. "After reading that line, I felt that it erased my contributions and fandom," says Nilina Mason-Campbell, a former contributor to Pitchfork. "I never felt like I was writing for a 'passionate millennial male' fan base."

The real problem is not that men in this industry agree with or condone sexism, but rather that they don't acknowledge it at all. "It's a big uphill battle that we have to fight every day," says Courtney Harding, former music editor at Billboard. "The good ones are at least thoughtful and responsive when I point [sexism] out."

Each woman I spoke to for this article had her own horror stories pertaining to sexism in editorial offices and within the music industry as a whole. Each vignette was like a different version of the same sad song. It's not new that we're faced with sexism in this industry, but isn't it about damn time something happens about it? The only way to enforce change? "Doing this," says Leverant. "Talking about it, naming it, and demanding better."

Let's hope this message reaches its intended, passionate male audience.

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