The secretary at Los Angeles’ Transcendental Meditation centre responded to an enquiry on 11 March 2018. On the other end of the line was a lady who managed the home of someone who wished to schedule a private meditation course as soon as possible. The student, she said, would be Tim, a 28-year-old musician who “really wanted to learn” but didn’t have time for the four-day group course at the organisation’s Hollywood headquarters. She said it was urgent.

The centre doesn’t usually offer private sessions, as they recognise the value of learning in small groups. And Erin Skipper – the centre’s tall and bubbly in-house practitioner – was reluctant to begin teaching someone she hadn’t met.

“I didn’t like that it was so pressured and rushed; he wanted to learn so quickly,” she recalls. “I wanted to get to know him first.”

Skipper arranged to visit Tim in his West Hollywood home. She was told mornings were better because afternoons were reserved for studio time.

The first meeting took place at 11am on 22 March. The house – large, spacious and modern – was occupied by Tim and two close friends, both of whom had grown up with him and were concerned for his wellbeing.

At his last meditation session, Tim broke down in tears: "I am just so sensitive. And I am in so much pain"

Tim looked healthy, though tired, as if he had a lot occupying his mind, but was naturally sweet, polite and thankful that Skipper had taken the time to visit. He’d been reading up on the practice of transcendental meditation and posed numerous questions about enlightenment and higher states of consciousness that evinced a deep understanding of the subject. “I’ve worked with thousands of people and nobody has asked this sort of stuff right away,” Skipper recalls. Tim also explained that he had attempted to teach himself, albeit to little avail. Meanwhile, Skipper tried to manage expectations by encouraging patience. “Looking back, I had very little idea of the depth of his pain and suffering,” she recalls. She remained oblivious to Tim’s identity – that of Tim Bergling, better known as Avicii, one of the most successful electronic dance music (EDM) DJs in the world.

She spoke with him in private. Tim explained that he wished for more clarity in his life and also for tools to manage his enduring difficulties with anxiety. He revealed that these crippling anxieties had driven him to drink excessively and that this, in turn, had led to acute pancreatitis. He had turned to medical marijuana in an attempt to numb the pain. She suggested other treatments, such as a recovery or support group to address any underlying causes, but Tim made it clear that he wished to learn meditation. “He was really struggling and I wanted to give him support in any way that I could,” Skipper says. “He wanted a quick solution.”

Skipper returned for the first session on 25 March. Classes, of which there were four, took place in Tim’s home theatre and lasted for around two hours, before which they’d hang out on a balcony looking over Los Angeles. Tim was excited about how this practice might support his work in the studio and asked questions about enlightenment and finding a “deep happiness”. They formed a connection and made steady progress, although Tim did struggle with instructions that weren’t directly in line with what he had already read. On the last day, 28 March, as frustration and impatience grew, Tim broke down in tears. “I am just so sensitive,” he said, “and I am in so much pain.” Skipper paused the class to help him calm down. Tim’s two friends, concerned but helpless, were in the room too.

This was Tim’s last session of transcendental meditation. He left Los Angeles on 8 April and was unable to commit to another class before his departure. Skipper encouraged him to rest and suggested they meet on his return, although nothing was ever booked. And it wasn’t until 20 April that Skipper heard his name again. Tim Bergling, his identity now known to her, had taken his own life while on holiday in Muscat, Oman – it was a global headline that centred around one of the most defining figures in contemporary pop music. “I feel as if I could have helped him, but I feel deep in my heart that he had been thinking about this [suicide] for some time,” Skipper says. “Looking back, I think it had probably been weighing on him for a while.”

Avicii performs at Rock In Rio Lisboa at the Portuguese capital's Bela Vista Park, 29 May 2016 © Shutterstock

Bergling’s death came as an even greater shock to the world at large. How could somebody so successful wish to be alive no more? His health problems had been well documented, splattered across newspapers and magazines for years, before being graphically shared last year in Avicii: True Stories.

The heartrending documentary captured Bergling’s rise and the consequential struggles with life in the spotlight, which forced his retirement from touring in 2016, aged just 26. And yet, despite being excruciating to watch at times – both for the extent of Bergling’s suffering and the apparent ignorance of those around him – reports suggested that a corner had now been turned, that Bergling was fit, healthy and on the road to recovery. His departure from this world could not have come at a much stranger time.

The trigger for the suicide remains largely unknown. It’s not even clear what Bergling was doing in Muscat; reports suggest he had spent some days with friends in Oman’s royal family and worked remotely with his management team on recruiting artists for new music. But, by focusing on these details, there’s a risk that we miss the bigger picture. While deeply saddening, Bergling’s death is an extreme and high-profile example of a very widespread problem. Mental health issues in electronic dance music are much more common than one might think.

Bergling found the spotlight early and suddenly. He was born in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1989 and began experimenting with music around 2006. He spent endless hours in his bedroom working to develop his own sound and it wasn’t long before he began uploading his many demos to various interactive online forums, including that of Lucas van Scheppingen, better known as Laidback Luke, a Dutch DJ.

“I took him under my wing and he started sending me lots of material,” van Scheppingen recalls. “I actually had to ask him if he had a life.”

Pancreatitis brought on by alcohol abuse required him to cut back on his drinking, but his relentless schedule continued

In less than a year Bergling had secured a record deal with Dejfitts Plays and signed with promoter Arash “Ash” Pournouri, who believed he could manage him into becoming one of the biggest names in world music. Bergling was only 18 at the time.

The fruits of Pournouri’s labours were quick to present themselves. Early releases appeared, united by their simple melodies, formulaic four-chord structure and success. Many of these works were credited to Tim Bergling, Tim Berg (written as Tim/Berg) or Tim Hangs; he adopted the Avicii alias because these names were no longer available on Myspace. The word “avici”, meaning the lowest level of Buddhist hell, resonated with him, but he added the extra “i” because that also was taken. But the most successful of all these releases was “Seek Bromance”, an October 2010 release that reached the top 20 in several European countries. It connected Bergling with the progressive house music scene on the other side of the Atlantic.

By this point, Bergling was beginning to tour. In 2010, he played for a small crowd in Miami without ever looking above the decks; it was clear he was more accustomed to life in the studio than on stage. The gigs would soon become larger and more frequent – and then Bergling didn’t stop touring until he retired, over half a decade later.

The release of “Le7els” in 2011 established Avicii as a household name. With its booming hooks and soaring vocal sample, it’s considered to be one of the greatest EDM songs ever recorded. It became a top-ten hit around the world. His booking fees began exceeding $250,000 (£189,000) a show. It was an extreme and novel trajectory.

Avicii was ambitious, stubborn, unaware how much his body could take... and it was in no one’s interest to make him stop

Exploding in the Eighties, EDM has been around for a long time, but the late-noughties bore witness to its crossover with pop culture like never before. David Guetta, Axwell, Ingrosso and a few other protagonists found themselves in the mainstream charts. The scene was booming and Bergling was one of the first generation to be inspired by these names. He happened to make the right music and meet the right people.

“His launch into orbit,” recalls BBC DJ Pete Tong, “was atomic. He was thrust out of his bedroom and into this unknown world... For someone that young, without the right protection and without the right guidance, it can be extremely difficult to navigate.”

Bergling would perform several times a week, sometimes in two different cities on the same night. Shortly after the completion of his first world tour in 2011, he started complaining about the pace of his schedule and agreed with Pournouri that no engagement requiring his presence would be confirmed without his written consent.

“We’d make suggestions and lay out the reasoning if he needed it,” Pournouri explains, “but it was always up to him what he wanted and didn’t want to do.” As much as Bergling wanted a normal life, he was also a pleaser: he wanted to keep everyone happy, including his team and his fans. He was also ambitious, stubborn and unaware of how much his body could take. So he didn’t stop. And it was in no one else’s interest to make him.

Then, in January 2012, as a searing abdominal pain took hold, Bergling found himself in a New York hospital for eleven days – the onset of acute pancreatitis caused by alcohol abuse. It was perhaps to be expected: Bergling made no secret of his excessive drinking. “You are travelling around, you live in a suitcase, you get to this place, there’s free alcohol everywhere – it’s sort of weird if you don’t drink,” he told American GQ in 2013. Touring and performing in front of thousands did not come naturally for a young, shy introvert who was happiest making music in the comfort of his own studio. And so alcohol became a dependable crutch upon which he could rely to quieten the growing anxieties that came with this lifestyle.

"I was taking pills that weren’t meant to be addictive... and they made me feel more anxious" (Tim Bergling)

His debility required that he cut back on his drinking, but his relentless schedule continued. In 2012 alone he chalked up more than 200 shows. By the release of “Wake Me Up”, the lead single from his debut album, True, he was demanding close to $750,000 (£565,000) a show. He performed more than 118 times in 2013 and around 800 times in total, the bulk of which came between 2011 and 2015. The exact figures are hard to determine: his team didn’t keep track of the gigs that Bergling booked without their consultation. These are frightening numbers – but this was his normality for more than five years, during which he travelled the globe, crossing continents and time zones, often without knowing for whom or where he was due to play. It was not sustainable.

Bergling was hospitalised again in March 2013, this time in Australia. Doctors advised him to undergo gallbladder removal surgery, but he opted to continue working in the studio. He began to tell those close to him he was “starting to hate DJing”, one source explains, though he was “healthy” and “stable” at this point. His acute pancreatitis had required that he quit alcohol altogether, but he was becoming reliant on painkillers. That summer he toured Europe, once visiting nine different countries in ten days, and his anxieties flared up. But booking confirmations continued to flood in. “I recognised straightaway that this was too much for him,” one close source recalls. “I could see him physically and mentally falling apart.”

Returning to Los Angeles in August, Bergling was trying to wean himself off the painkillers. A physical dependency had become mental, too, as he sought out ways to deal with the pressures of touring. He’d kicked the habit by October, but the problems returned in March 2014 when his gallbladder and appendix ruptured shortly before flying to Miami for a series of high-profile gigs. He cancelled his appearance at that year’s Ultra Music Festival in order to undergo emergency surgery, removing both, and was given Percocet, a highly addictive opioid pain reliever, to aid his recovery. He was performing again in less than two weeks – in a blur and anxious. “I was on all these kinds of medications,” he says in the documentary. “And they were saying, ‘Oh, this is fine. This is not addictive.’ I was taking all these pills that weren’t meant to be addictive... and they made me feel more anxious.” A source believes he felt “a pressure” from his team to begin performing again, but that “these were clear signs he should have been taken off the road”. He was only 23.

Back on tour, Bergling found himself consumed by addiction. “His body and mind needed time to heal to be weaned off the medication,” a source says. And yet he was allowed, even encouraged by some, to continue touring. He tried Suboxone, an opioid-dependence treatment, only to become dependent on that too. Desperate for help, he flew to Stockholm for a month with his family, but it was not enough. Returning to Los Angeles in late 2014, he fell into a “really destructive path”, one source recalls, buying various opioid prescriptions from Hollywood doctors. “He needed serious help,” one source recollects. “He needed to be in a facility and to be worked on intensely.”

Yet nothing changed. Pournouri and his team continued to book gigs for Bergling. “Things were getting worse, not better,” says a source close to Bergling. “I kept telling Tim that he was putting food on everyone else’s table, [while] he was falling apart. You hear about those other musicians who died early and I knew this would happen to Tim if he didn’t go to rehab at that moment.” At a certain point, Bergling agreed not to confirm any engagement without his then-girlfriend’s consent.

"He looked terrible, like a walking zombie. That’s when it dawned on me that he might not overcome his struggles" (Lucas Van Scheppingen)

Bergling’s downward spiral picked up speed throughout 2015. He began drinking again and embarked on Stories, a six-month world tour that saw him play 35 dates around the globe. He’s believed to have had an addiction specialist join him for periods and those who saw him recognised the trouble he was in. “You could see that something was not right,” Kaskade, a fellow artist, recalls. “He looked emaciated; his weight loss was shocking.”

Van Scheppingen remembers seeing him in August 2015: “He looked terrible, like a walking zombie. That’s when it dawned on me that he might not overcome his struggles... [that] he was going to be the first electronic musician to join the infamous ‘27 Club’ of music and film stars who died at that age.” Several months later, Bergling posted some new press shots online: “Bro, you ages [sic] 15 years in, like, a year,” one person wrote. “Get help.” It’s unclear to what extent Bergling was still using opioids.

In March 2016, Bergling took to his website to announce his retirement from touring. It was a necessary step, but one that many felt needed to have come earlier. Sources close to him suggest that he made attempts to slow down and he’s seen in the documentary trying to cancel gigs. This appears to have weakened his relationship with some of those around him; it’s unclear how supportive they were of this decision. “I was delighted to see him retire from touring,” Kaskade explains. “It was what he needed to do.” It was a sentiment that echoed throughout the industry. He split from Pournouri’s At Night Management.

By all accounts, the benefits of this decision were profound. “I’m happier, more stress-free than I’ve been in a long time,” Bergling told Billboard shortly after the announcement. He travelled the world and spent time making music. Photographs showed him looking lean and in good shape. He appeared to be well on the road to a full recovery.

Dutch DJ Tijs Michiel Verwest (Tiësto), who dined with Bergling at Beverly Hills’ Waldorf Astoria on 29 September last year, remembers him “looking healthy” and “in a good place”. Bergling revealed that he was just settling into a new relationship, working on a new album and indicated that he would be open to playing a few shows. “He appeared very happy,” Tiësto adds.

So why, just eight weeks later, did he take his own life?

It’s obvious now that his issues with mental health remained, which is perhaps to be expected: anxiety and depression do not dissipate once you remove the stimulus that conceived them. It’s been suggested that he needed to see a therapist to identify the root of these anxieties, only then could he make a full recovery.

Avicii on the decks with Madonna © Getty Images

Tiësto believes that living in Los Angeles may have been a factor: “LA is dangerous because there are lots of people there looking to take advantage of you.” It’s also been suggested that Bergling was surrounding himself with people who did not have his best interests at heart, placing him in environments that may have fed his addictions. “He was at Burning Man last year,” one source says, “and that is no place for a recovering alcoholic.” It’s perhaps telling that he was seen drinking on a boat the day before he died.

Bergling’s death stems from a novel set of circumstances. He was a self-confessed introvert who did not feel comfortable in the club or festival environment, let alone performing. He was a young, impressionable boy when he was launched into a world that tests even the most thick-skinned of adults and had little time to adapt. “I can’t imagine the pressure he was under,” Kaskade says. “This has happened over 25 years for me... Tim had no time to recalibrate.” How can someone so young and inexperienced be expected to deal with the pressure and stand up to a team, many of whom are reliant on him for their livelihoods?

Striking, too, is Bergling’s lack of protection. He was surrounded by people whose judgement was polluted by their own financial gains. “He had absolutely no protection,” says Tiësto. “There was nobody taking care of him. Somebody needed to be there looking after his health and he didn’t have that and he wasn’t yet strong enough himself.”

Kaskade says,“This whole industry is designed to destroy. Managers, business managers, agents, attorneys: they are all focused on working you because that is how they make a living.”

Kaskade adds, “He didn’t want anyone to struggle on his behalf, so he would accept shows even when he didn’t want to.” With Bergling’s annual earnings exceeding $20 million (£15m), you can understand why.

Given his position, it’s easy to point fingers at Pournouri. It’s been reported that he took around 50 per cent of Bergling’s writing and production credits and in excess of 20 per cent of his performance fees, although he denies this. “I never took 50 per cent of Tim’s writing credits. I only got a piece of the songs I helped write and produce,” he tells GQ. “Furthermore, I charged him 20 per cent, which is standard, even though the job I did for him was way above any standard for a manager. On top of that, I had to pay for all my overheads, so my profit was a fraction of his profit.”

Avicii with manager Arash 'Ash' Pournouri © Getty Images

Pournouri was also young and learning; he discovered Bergling aged just 26 while balancing law school with club promotion. He was under tremendous pressure, he says, to satisfy the live managers, fans, bookings agents and promoters, all of whom wanted their piece of the pie. But what’s individually rational can be collectively ruinous.

Pournouri agreed to speak to GQ about his role. The documentary, which resurfaced in light of Bergling’s death, suggests that Pournouri was the driving force behind Bergling’s ill health. He denies culpability and claims that the documentary is wholly inaccurate. Pournouri says that it was created after he and Bergling parted ways and much of the footage contained within is from his own archives that he passed to Bergling, a client, as part of the transitioning. He says that he neither consented to involvement in the film nor to the use of the footage, which, he adds, was edited to show him in a bad light.

Pournouri’s interview, for example, was conducted in 2014 and you see him arguing with Bergling over last-minute cancelled shows, outlining the consequence for promoters, fans and crew and explaining that Bergling did not understand the financial repercussions because he had never had a normal job. Yet the scene was cut to appear alongside a later video of Bergling saying he was dying; the obvious implication is that Pournouri cared for money more than Bergling’s health.

Pournouri agrees to answer questions via email and we’re told by those close to him that he “appreciates” the opportunity to “clear up what people are accusing him of”. They say that Bergling released the documentary because he was afraid “Ash would tell everyone what was going on behind the scenes”. The relationship turned sour, I’m told, because Pournouri began “trying to eliminate all the negative people” around Bergling.

Bergling’s response was to undermine Pournouri, who left. The source continues: “Everything that Ash was doing, like cancelling shows and stopping tours, Tim went around him and Ash said that he couldn’t do it any more. He was like, ‘This guy is destroying himself.’ Tim knew this, but everyone was in his ear because if he didn’t perform, then they didn’t get paid.”

Pournouri admits to being aware of Bergling’s anxieties but refuses to label them a problem of mental health. He says that Bergling had a “gift of sensitivity” that enabled him to “connect dots outside of the obvious to the rest of us”. The dark side of this gift, he says, was how Bergling would fixate on things and become “stressed about insignificant things”.

Bergling feared upsetting fans. He was sensitive to the ‘flood of hate mail’ after cancelled gigs

Pournouri says the biggest problems were those to which he was not privy and that he and his team were “kept in the dark” on a lot of things, including Bergling’s alcohol dependency and painkiller addiction.

“I was extremely frustrated with people around him thinking they kept him safe by not telling us how serious things were at times and who thought that was private and not our business,” he says.

The implication is that it was Bergling who was constantly pushing for more and that he was encouraged by friends, some of whom were being paid (some joined him in his LA home), and other team members. Part of Bergling’s drive, we’re told, stemmed from a fear of upsetting his fans; he was sensitive to the “flood of hate mail” that he received when he cancelled gigs.

Pournouri says he only became aware of Bergling’s painkiller addiction in November 2014. He says he then forced the first of two interventions and agreed with Bergling that they’d reschedule all upcoming dates in order for him to recover in Stockholm, but that Bergling broke the agreement, booked his own ticket and left. By this point, Bergling’s ill health had already forced Pournouri to cancel several bookings, which Pournouri supports with a list of all the cancelled shows through 2013, 2014 and 2015. Having earlier discovered his client’s issues with alcohol, Pournouri explains that he “cleared out his rider of alcohol, forbade promoters from giving him drinks, cleaned out the minibar and asked him to focus on recuperating. And problems worsened as there were no crew to keep tabs on him.”

Pournouri says he cancelled two further world tours against Bergling’s wishes and claims to have lost a projected income of $4.9m (£3.7m), plus around $2m (£1.5m) in expenses.

The second intervention came in late summer 2015, this time with the whole team, after which Bergling agreed to several months in a rehabilitation clinic. Pournouri says he forbade Bergling from booking gigs again without consulting him, but that in 2016 he booked shows anyway, starting with Ultra in Miami in March. “This was an ongoing issue between us, as agents listened to him as the final decision maker,” Pournouri says. “Even then I tried to compromise and have him do an anonymous gig in Stockholm for him to prove he was ready, which he agreed to but then called off last minute, insisting he didn’t need it to prove anything and that he was in better shape than ever, ready to tour again. Obviously, with the angle they wanted to portray, none of that is in the film.”

Avicii with Steve Aoki and Armin van Buuren © Getty Images

After Ultra, Bergling, Pournouri says, began cancelling his own gigs and agreed to compensate all those who suffered as a result.

The perils of a career in music are well known, the most famous examples being the likes of Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse, who all died at 27. And, in less than a year, Chris Cornell, Chester Bennington, Jonghyun and, more recently, Scott Hutchison of Frightened Rabbit have all taken their own lives, having fallen victim to anxiety, depression or both. And these are just the high-profile names.

Kathryn Frazier of agency Biz 3 is a leading music publicist. Over the course of a 26-year career, she’s set up her own PR agency, founded a record label with Skrillex and worked with clients including Daft Punk, Run The Jewels, J Cole, Migos, G-Eazy and hundreds of others. More recently, she’s taken time out to train as a personal and professional coach, inspired by having seen a number of artists around her struggle with anxiety, depression, addiction and often a cocktail of all three. “In my 26 years in music, I’ve come across addiction, depression, anxiety and various other mental illnesses constantly,” she explains. “It’s not uncommon. It’s not even rare. It can, at times, feel like an epidemic.”

The story is well scripted. “The anxiety and the depression could be low-grade but prevalent from the beginning, but it is exacerbated by fame, pressure and expectation,” she says, and so, of course, they numb the pain “with drink, drugs or sex and often all three”. But crucially, she adds, “There are often people around ill equipped to pull them out of it.”

Leading US rapper Vic Mensa knows this well. Mensa’s issues with mental health started when he was 15. He saw a psychiatrist but soon turned to self-medicating.

"Nobody is calling halt on compromised artists - and that’s when you hear of people dying" (Kathryn Frazier)

As pressure grew, Mensa found himself “deeper and deeper” into drugs, he recalls. “The more discontent I became with my reality, the more I began to rely on these substances to take me away.” His daily intake included Lexapro, MDMA and Adderall, which he snorted, and his tolerance became so high that the drugs stopped working. He considered suicide.

Mensa’s debut album, 2017’s The Autobiography, documents his struggles and marks a big step in a rap community where mental debilities have long been viewed as a sign of weakness.

Crucially, he explains that he was lucky enough to have had the right people around him to drag him out of his addiction but that he must remain vigilant to maintain his mental health. “It takes active participation,” he explains. “If I don’t put the time in to take care of myself then I could be swept away.

Frazier is concerned by how some teams handle troubled artists such as Mensa. “I’ve seen teams push their artists to do things like endless touring and travel when they should be doing nothing but getting help,” she says. “I’ve seen many artists who are completely compromised, but they’re still being flown around and propped up on stage. Nobody is calling halt – and that’s when you hear of people dying.”

The situation is rarely straightforward. In the music world, it’s difficult to define addiction, where drug taking is accepted rather than chastised. “There’s a lot of addiction out there that people don’t consider to be addiction,” Frazier says.

But, more importantly, there’s a general lack of knowledge as to the severity of mental illness, especially so in men, with many artist-connected professions currently requiring no formal qualifications or training. This is also particularly relevant in an age where young bedroom producers can find superstardom overnight.

Avicii with Austin Mahone and Kendall Jenner © Getty Images

Aluna Francis, known professionally as half of English electronic music duo AlunaGeorge, says she has to “work really hard to manage her mental health”.

She explains that she’s often been “manipulated” into shows or other such commitments. “Everyone is really good at selling the importance of this next one thing.”

She adds, “The team run this business on a product, but they don’t run this business on the fact that you’re a human being as well. There is nobody on your team who benefits from looking after your health.”

Mark Lawrence, CEO of the Association For Electronic Music, says EDM needs to look to other industries when it comes to taking care of DJs.

“If you look across to neuroscience, to sports, even banking, there are support networks in all of those industries – trained managers, mentors, mental care, physical care – so we don’t have to look far to have a role-model industry from where we can take the same sort of infrastructure.” He continues, “If you throw lots of money and opportunity at young people, then there is a risk that bad things can happen and we must take more responsibility.”

Mental health issues are not exclusive to those at the top. A recent study conducted by researchers Sally Gross and Dr George Musgrave on behalf of Help Musicians UK (HMUK), Britain’s leading independent music charity, indicates that musicians may be up to three times more likely to experience depression compared to the general public. The underlying cause, applicable to all musicians, is the “notion of precarity”, reports Musgrave. He and Gross break this down into three different components: “status of work”, “status of measurement” and “status of relationships”. They believe that these features apply to different artists in varying amounts. And, it turns out, the problems for EDM DJs are even worse.

For example, sleep deprivation and disruption of circadian rhythms are applicable to club DJs who perform through the night, but not so much to classical musicians who perform during normal evening hours. Crossing time zones, alcohol and stimulants, which are often required to keep artists awake, only aggravate the problem.

Avicii with Juicy J © Getty Images

What’s more, the curate’s egg of social media – the validation, but also the criticism and the scrutiny – magnifies the more traditional musician issues of precarious personal relationships, due to the constant touring and conga line of available vices. EDM DJs just tour more and have more vices on offer.

Katharina Blum has seen these problems. Her partner of ten years was Robert Dickeson, better known as Apex, an influential British drum and bass producer. Dickeson overdosed on sleeping pills and alcohol to take his own life in late September last year. His online browsing history revealed that he’d been seeking mental health advice in the months leading up to his suicide.

Blum describes how life in the music industry “pushed [Dickeson] into a corner of insecurity”. Dickeson, she explains, struggled with the “unstable” nature of life in the industry. The only way to quieten this feeling was to “go fully into it” and then “you have no life any more”, Blum says. The financial precarity also drove him to work harder and this drained him while making him feel “isolated” from family and friends. Blum adds that Dickeson often “suffered from a sense of guilt” because he had to financially rely on his family.

It’s easy to see the problem, but harder to find a solution. More than half of those who entered the HMUK study felt there was a need for a service that specialises in helping those who work in music; there are few industries with such a drab support network for those at its centre. In light of this, HMUK launched Music Minds Matter, a 24/7 mental health service for anyone working in the music industry. Since its launch on 4 December 2017, more than 250 people have contacted the service. “It’s already proven to be life changing,” says Christine Brown, director of external affairs at HMUK.

But this is one piece of a larger puzzle. “It’s often the case that we focus on the high-profile cases and overlook the fact that mental health is a common issue throughout the industry.”

© Shutterstock

This is what we know about Tim Bergling’s final days. Upon leaving Los Angeles for Oman on 8 April, he messaged his former manager, Arash Pournouri, to say how excited he was about his music and plans for the future. He also expressed to Pournouri that he hoped to soon visit him in Stockholm or welcome him in Los Angeles. The exchange followed a mid-February meeting when they hung out for “hours and hours”, Pournouri recalls. “It was like seeing an old family member.”

It was the first time the pair had connected in over a year.

Bergling arrived in Oman after an intensive period of studio time. He stayed at the luxury Muscat Hills Resort, which, in a statement, said he “did seem to be in good spirits while enjoying his time” and that “he was also very friendly with everyone”. During his stay, he kitesurfed, went sailing with friends and posed for photos with fans. He also held conversations with his management team about artists he wished to recruit for new music projects. The discussion continued via email over the next few days. “All his notes were in happy mode,” said Per Sundin, the head of Universal Music Sweden. He asked Preetam Ghoshi, who works at the hotel, for advice on the best places to visit in Oman. “I gave him all the information he needed. It’s a pity he could not make it,” Ghoshi said.

It’s believed that Bergling’s mental state fluctuated during his stay. Reports indicate that his family became alarmed after speaking to him on the phone and that one of his relatives flew to Oman to be with him, but arrived too late.

Bergling was last seen on the evening of Thursday 19 April, when Samiha Al Aboodi spotted him standing in the resort’s reception area.

“He was in good spirits and very polite,” she recalled. “He was at the reception when I stopped to ask if it was really him.”

Tim Bergling’s death was confirmed the following day.

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