When artists are no show

By Patience Musa

I have been on radio for over ten years now.

Two decades of laughter, of stories, of conversations that move, inform, and inspire. A decade of early mornings, of chasing interviews, of waiting eagerly for artists who have something new to share,  a song, a thought, a spark of creativity that deserves to be heard.

Years of listening to music, chasing new art stories and reaching out to artists who have yet to be heard and appreciated.

I have always taken my role seriously because I too was then at some point grinding hoping and pressing on. I have to say though that in my time we did very little of chasing interviews because we new our sound was niche and perhaps too we were not quite aware of the importance of marketing ourselves.

That said I can only pray that in my career I have not missed a talent that truly deserved to be heard. That also is a tale for another day.

Radio interviews have always been fun for me and I plan them meticulously. I put in my research and I always want in the end the interview to grow an artist audience base, to allow the artist the opportunity to be heard in an environment and company that is not trying to make headlines with an artist’s mess.

So artists are booked for interviews and I await patiently. But every so often, something happens that never quite stops being disappointing. The “no show.” The artist who doesn’t pick up the phone. The one who simply vanishes from the day’s plan without so much as a message to say, “I won’t make it.”

It’s not about ego. It’s about professionalism.

There have been mornings, afternoons and evenings when I’ve sat in the studio, mic on, show rolling, ready to introduce a guest whose music I genuinely admire — only to realize, after several unanswered calls, that they’re not coming. No warning. No text or call. No apology. And even when I know them personally, even when there’s a friendship or shared history there, the silence still stretches long and awkward.

I often find myself wondering what goes through their minds in that moment — when they make the decision not to show up, not to communicate. Do they think the world stops for them? That somehow, the station will just “figure it out”? Do they not think about how many people tune in expecting to hear them? Or how much work goes into preparing a live slot for them — the promos, the sound cues, the research? My time?

In that moment one can do one of two things – switch on the mic and tell the truth or forget it ever happened and move on as if nothing happened. If one chooses to speak truth what happens to their brand?

Do they not fear for their brand?

Because in our business, your name is your currency. Every impression you make counts. A missed interview may seem small, but reputations are built (and broken) in the details — in how you treat people, how you handle commitments, how you show up.

It makes me wonder if some artists take platforms like radio or television for granted. Perhaps they forget that we, too, are curators of culture, gatekeepers of the stories that reach the public ear. That when they come onto a show, it’s not just a favour — it’s a partnership. A mutual exchange of energy and exposure.

Which then raises that age-old question: Who needs who?

Do artists need the platforms, or do the platforms need the artists?

In truth, it’s a symbiotic relationship. We need each other. Artists create the content — the songs, the stories, the art that gives us something to talk about. And we provide the bridge, the audience, the amplification that helps that art travel further. When either side fails to respect the other, the entire ecosystem suffers.

For me, after all these years, I’ve learned to take no-shows with grace — but never indifference. Each time it happens, it’s a quiet reminder that talent alone is not enough. Reliability, humility, and respect still matter. In that moment of no show and no communication you show me exactly who you are and if you are a friend – it speaks truth.

Ah, time — the most unforgiving co-host of them all. It has no sympathy, no pause button, no interest in excuses. It ticks on, steady and indifferent, whether one is ready or not. I have had artists who just caught me as I was leaving and I had managers begging me to give their artist a chance that he had ‘lost’ his artist for some hours and had just relocated him and dashed straight to the station ( yes that happens a – a lost adult). An artists who arrived with a few minutes left and I had to leave and they decided to blame everyone else but themselves, calling my young producer all sorts of names in the process and traumatizing the young man who used to be a fan.

I have seen it all. The artist who arrives forty-five minutes late for a thirty-minute segment, leaving a trail of flustered producers and rearranged playlists.

The one who bursts into the studio mid-show, laughter masking discomfort. And then there are the rare few who arrive early, quietly, humbly, taking in the rhythm of the room before their moment begins. Those are the ones who understand that professionalism isn’t about status — it’s about respect.

Broadcast time is sacred. Every second is counted, every silence carries weight. The clock does not bend to fame, and neither does the frequency. The show will go on — with or without you — and the silence left behind will often speak louder than the song that was never played.

Sometimes I imagine the unsent text. The one that could have said, “Something’s come up — I can’t make it.” A small act of courtesy that could have carried the weight of integrity. It’s remarkable how silence can make more noise than words ever could.

Because really, it isn’t the absence that hurts — it’s what the absence says. It speaks of disregard, of missed opportunity, of a certain carelessness that seeps into reputation. People rarely remember the reasons for a missed appearance, but they always remember how it was handled. A single call can close a gap; silence widens it into a chasm.

In the end, it’s never the grand gestures that define character. It’s the subtle, almost invisible ones — the greeting to a sound engineer, the patience to wait for one’s cue, the simple act of showing up prepared. These are the quiet virtues that form the architecture of respect in our industry.

People may forget the playlist or the questions asked, but they will always remember how they were treated. And in this business — where moments are fleeting and impressions permanent — kindness and reliability are the rarest forms of currency.

Because the truth is, this industry remembers. It remembers the brilliance, yes, but also the behaviour. It remembers who came early, who stayed late, who gave their best, and who disappeared without a word.

The airwaves have long memories. The internet even longer. And somewhere between the two, reputations live or fade.

But perhaps that is the quiet lesson in all of this — that art alone cannot sustain a legacy. It must be anchored in grace, humility, and consistency. Those are the things that endure long after the music fades and the mic goes silent.

Those are the names that last.

Those are the legacies that sing long after the show ends.