Emily Rawson: The music industry still judges women on appearance and age, a double standard that hurts careers

The DJ and founder of London’s longstanding and popular Hiphop & RnB throwback night Supa Dupa Fly on breaking into a male‑dominated world and the roadblocks still facing women and mothers in the music industry.

I grew up in North London with a love for music pulsing through my veins. In college the guys had decks and I thought, let me have a go. I was surprisingly good, so I started DJing in my bedroom, using the cheapest belt‑drive decks I could find at Argos for about £100. After a couple of years I began wondering why my male friends were landing bookings while I, doing the same work, was being ignored. I decided to create my own opportunity and at 18 I launched a club night in London called “Who’s That Girl?” – a nod to the Eve song. We booked a well‑known DJ, and I was on the decks too. The night was a blast and gave me a taste of what was possible when I took matters into my own hands.

University in Sussex gave me another chance to run club nights with friends, initially just to earn a bit of pocket money. Those nights grew, and before long I was warming up for big names such as Wu Tang in a scene where women were practically invisible. I was the only female DJ I knew in Brighton’s hip‑hop and R&B circles. After graduating I returned to London and took a dead‑end job in advertising sales, a role that was killing my soul. I kept DJing on the side, helped by a boyfriend who promoted clubs, and eventually landed a few gigs thanks to a school friend who didn’t treat me very well and eventually I left without being paid for six months.

Together with my best friend Rachel, who is brilliant and endlessly resourceful, we dreamed up a women‑only event brand. We settled on the name Rock The Belles – a playful spin on “belle” and a nod to LL Cool J’s song of the same name. The first Rock The Belles night took place at East Village and quickly attracted a queue down Great Eastern Street. Nail bars, female‑only line‑ups and a buzz of press from The Guardian and TimeOut followed. The nights proved that there was an appetite for safe, female‑friendly spaces in a world that often told women to stay on the dance floor instead of behind the decks.

When the abusive promoter finally stopped paying me I walked away and, a few months later, founded Supa Dupa Fly – a celebration of old‑school R&B and hip‑hop. I later joined forces with a friend to create a festival in Santorini and a family‑focused event called Flykid that features giant mascots, face‑painting and confetti. The family vibe is something I love; it’s a place where kids can lose themselves in colour and music, and where adults can remember why they fell in love with the scene in the first place. In May we’re launching a series of Supa Dupa Fly Day parties and Flykid family raves at Setlist at Somerset House. The setting is gorgeous and the crowd always feels right. 

Out of 100 DJs in the early 2000s, probably one or two were women. 

Talking about the early days of my career always brings me back to the intimidation I felt in a male‑dominated environment. When I first started, men would step up to my decks, fiddling with the knobs and telling me I was doing it wrong. Out of 100 DJs in the early 2000s, probably one or two were women. The industry saw women as a threat, expecting us to stay on the dance floor looking hot rather than behind the decks. I was lucky to have supportive friends, but the backlash was real.

The climate of harassment hasn’t disappeared. Recent accusations against high‑profile figures show that the industry still grapples with abuse of power. It’s shocking to think how far we’ve come, but also a reminder that we must keep pushing for change.

I see progress, though, especially in the last 10 years. More women are DJing, more female‑headliners appear at festivals, and the visibility of women on stage inspires the next generation. I often hear young girls say they’ve been following me for years and want to learn how to DJ. I can’t teach them everything but I always offer advice and encouragement. The rise of female DJ crews like Born n Bread and Girls Don’t Sync show that a community is forming.

Technology has also lowered the barrier to entry. In my early twenties I would lug heavy boxes of vinyl to Watford, loading them onto a taxi after a long train journey. Now a laptop and a USB drive are enough to get started, which especially helps women who might not want to carry heavy gear. 

Night‑time safety remains a concern though. I’ve never been physically harmed, but the constant awareness that I might be walking home alone after a set is there. I usually travel with a friend, and we’ve never had major issues, but the fear is real for many women. 

Motherhood adds another layer. After having children, I noticed a sharp drop in bookings. Organisers seem to favour younger, “sexy” women, while older male DJs continue to get gigs. A friend told me she stopped getting work after she had kids, and I’ve helped her land a few dates, but the bias is palpable. The industry still judges women on appearance and age, a double standard that hurts careers.

I think part of the problem is the lack of women in promoter and booking roles. In London’s R&B scene I can’t name a single female promoter. The resurgence of old‑school R&B has attracted all sorts of investors – ex‑lawyers, AI‑displaced city workers – but most of them are men. Their corporate structures feel soulless, playing safe, generic music without any edge. The scarcity of female promoters means the gatekeeping remains male‑centric, reinforcing the cycle.

The solution, I believe, is for more women to own and run events. When women curate line‑ups, they naturally book more women, and that creates a snowball effect. My Supa Dupa Fly events already feature a majority of female DJs, and the response has been overwhelmingly positive. If we keep building these spaces, the industry will gradually shift.

Our events are deliberately inclusive. We market them as LGBT‑friendly, welcoming anyone regardless of income or background. The vibe is not about fashion or status but about a shared love for the music. That openness attracts a diverse crowd and keeps the atmosphere warm and kind. People leave feeling uplifted, and that kindness reflects back on the organisers. It’s why our brand has survived the transition from night‑time club nights to day‑time parties – people now prefer daytime events because they’re safer, more relaxed and still just as fun.

Looking ahead, I want to see a future where a woman can walk into a booking office and be judged solely on talent, not on age, motherhood or appearance. I’d love for my son’s generation to grow up with a music scene where half the line‑up is female, where a mother can still headline a festival without being asked to “tone it down”, and where the industry’s power structures are balanced.

If I keep doing what I’m doing – creating safe, inclusive events, championing female talent, and refusing to let abusive promoters dictate the terms – I’m hopeful that in 20 years we’ll have a very different landscape. The change won’t happen overnight, but every time a young girl sees a woman behind the decks, she internalises the possibility. 

Emily will be performing at this year’s Lovebox, taking place at Margate’s Dreamland from 29-30 May. Find out more here.

Find out more about Emily’s brands:

Supa Dupa Fly - www.supadupaflylove.com

Rock The Belles - www.rnbrunchparty.com

Flykid - www.flykidparties.com

Santorini Festival: www.supadupaflyfestivals.com