The Great Music Industry Heist: Where Everyone Gets a Cut Except the Poor Bastard Who Made the Tune

December 12, 2025  /  Stelios Vassiloudis

I’m Stelios Vassiloudis, professional button-pusher, part-time insomniac, and full-time idiot who still believes making electronic music is a sensible career choice after twenty-odd years.

The industry is broken. Not “needs a tweak” broken. More like “condemned building with a Soundsystem” broken. And today I’m handing you the guided tour. You finish a track: blood, sweat, 3 a.m. tears, the works. You export the WAV, send it to the label, they send it to the distributor, and six weeks later it’s on Spotify next to 87,000 other tracks released that day. In a just world, money flows back to you. In this world, you’re the last clown in a very long conga line watching everyone else stuff their pockets.

Now, before you roll your eyes and think, “Oh great, another whiny musician complaining about Spotify royalties,” let me assure you—this isn’t a sob story. No, this is more like a confession from a guy who’s spent half his life in studios, the other half on planes to gigs that pay just enough to cover the bar tab, and all of it wondering why the hell I’m the only one not getting a proper slice of the pie. Think of it as my version of Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, but instead of greasy spoons and strung-out chefs, it’s dimly lit booths and overcaffeinated studio sessions. Bourdain, that magnificent bastard, had a way of skewering the restaurant world’s absurdities with a knife-sharp wit and a dash of self-loathing—remember his tales of dodging health inspectors while high on whatever was handy? Well, channel that energy here. I’m not here to preach; I’m here to poke fun at the circus we’ve all joined, myself included. Because if I don’t laugh at this mess, I’ll probably end up busking on the streets with a sign that says, “Will Drop Beats for Food.”

Let’s start with the labels. Oh, the mighty record labels—those gatekeepers of yore who now mostly exist to slap their logo on your shit and take a 50% cut for the privilege. Back in the day, when vinyl was king, labels actually did stuff: pressed records, schmoozed radio DJs, promoted product and maybe even fronted some cash for a tour van that didn’t smell like expired dreams. Now? They outsource everything, yet still demand their pound of flesh. I’ve signed with my fair share over the years and don’t get me wrong, some are gems run by passionate folks. But the majority? They’re like that shady uncle who borrows your car, wrecks it, and then bills you for the repairs. They get advances, free promotion, sync deals, and a share of your streaming pennies (more on that fiasco later), all while you’re out there hustling for playlist spots and gigs like a beggar at a banquet.

The truth about indie labels: they’re adorable little museums of denial run by people who think 2009 is “basically yesterday.” They’ll sign you with a contract longer than War and Peace, charge you for the artwork they stole off Behance, the mastering they sent to an intern, and the press release ChatGPT wrote in eleven seconds. In return they offer the prestige of having their logo in your presskit, which apparently still matters to them and exactly three of their mates in Berlin. They know absolutely nothing about playlisting, TikTok, or the fact that nobody under thirty reads Resident Advisor anymore, but they’ll gladly corner you at ADE for forty-five minutes to explain why streaming ruined everything (while uploading your release with metadata that looks like it was typed by a raccoon on ket). You’ll spend half your week soothing their egos, fixing their mistakes, and pretending to be grateful for the privilege of losing money slower than if you’d just set it on fire yourself. Honestly, at this point starting a label is the new midlife crisis: cheaper than a Porsche, same level of delusion.

And speaking of distributors—they’re the middlemen who make sure your track lands on Spotify, Apple Music, and that one obscure platform in Uzbekistan that pays out in goat cheese. They take their 10-15% vig, of course, for clicking a few buttons and sending automated emails. Fair enough, I suppose; someone’s got to handle the backend. But then come the managers and agents —each with their hand out. Managers get 15-20% for “guiding your career,” which often means forwarding emails you could’ve handled yourself and occasionally yelling at someone who stiffed you on fees. Agents book your gigs for another 10-15%, and lawyers? They charge by the hour to tell you why that contract you just signed means you’ll never own your masters again. It’s like a bad dinner party where everyone’s passing the bill around, and you’re the host left washing dishes.

But wait, there’s more! Enter the streaming giants—Spotify, the behemoth that turned music into a commodity cheaper than tap water. Bourdain would’ve loved ripping into these guys; he’d compare them to fast-food chains serving up McNuggets of culture, all profit, no soul. Artists get paid a whopping 0.003 to 0.005 cents per stream. Do the math: To make minimum wage, you’d need millions of plays a month. Meanwhile, Spotify’s execs are yachting somewhere in the Mediterranean, and their algorithms decide your fate based on whether your track fits some mood playlist like “Chill Vibes for Existential Dread.” The platform gets billions, the investors get richer, and me? I’m back in the studio, wondering if I should start a Patreon for “exclusive” behind-the-scenes content like me swearing at my DAW.

Now, here’s where it gets really absurd: As artists, we’re not just expected to create the music; we’re supposed to be the entire goddamn operation. Jack of all trades? More like master of none, fumbling through a dozen hats that don’t fit. Remember when I blogged about my favorite VST plugins? Or when I organized a remix competition for a release on Bedrock? That’s just the tip. Today, you have to be a social media wizard too. TikTok dances? Instagram Reels where you lip-sync your own track while pretending to be excited? Twitter threads explaining your “creative process” to bots and haters? Guilty as charged. I’ve got a modest following—nothing like those influencers with millions from unboxing sneakers or promising you their naked bodies on onlyfans—but every post feels like shouting into a void. Crickets, or worse, algorithm demotion because I didn’t use the right hashtags. It’s the grind behind the glamour, where you’re part therapist, part marketer, part clown. For me, it’s editing videos at 3 AM, learning SEO for my website, and networking at events where everyone’s too high or busy checking their phones to listen.

And touring? Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s a minefield. Promoters and agents take their cut, venues theirs, travel agents a slice for booking flights that get canceled anyway. You’re on the road, jet-lagged, performing for crowds who might know you or might just be there for the Instagram story (probably the latter). I love it—don’t get me wrong; the energy, the connection—but it’s exhausting. And the pay? Not even close to enough, with the real money going to everyone else in the chain.

Promoters, bless their black Amiri hearts, are a special breed. Most of them either dropped out of high school to sell pills at raves or graduated directly into low-level organized crime; sometimes it’s a two-for-one deal. These are the geniuses who answer professional emails sometime between never and the heat death of the universe, but will flood your WhatsApp with voice notes at 4 a.m. because “bro the lineup is fire, just confirm.” They refuse to speak to agents (“I only deal direct, man, trust issues”), then get offended when you don’t reply within six minutes because their life is “crazy hectic” (translation: they’re asleep on a pile of cash in Mykonos). You’ll chase a deposit for six weeks, fly eight hours, and discover the “club” is a half-finished rooftop with one CDJ and a generator that sounds like a dying lawnmower. But here’s the kicker: say no to these primates and you’re sitting home watching your ranking on Beatport slide faster than their moral standards. So you smile and you play the goddamn gig. Survival, baby.

And then there’s the mental health tax nobody puts on the rider. You’re expected to be a walking inspirational quote: sunrise jogs, green juice, studio footage with the caption “living the dream fr.” Miss one story and suddenly you’re “inactive.” Have a panic attack in the airport because you’re broke, jet-lagged, and your Rekordbox just crashed? Better turn that into a relatable Reel or the algorithm will bury you. Constant rejection: playlist no’s, label silence, promoters ghosting, fans telling you your new tune “slaps less than the old stuff.” Nobody asks if you’re actually okay until you either top yourself in a way that trends on Twitter or have a public meltdown juicy enough for a Mixmag think-piece titled “The Dark Side of Dance Music.” Until then, smile for the camera, keep the brand wholesome, and medicate with whatever’s in the green-room fruit platter. We’re all one cancelled gig away from rocking back and forth in the fetal position, but sure, post another photo of your setup and the sunset, the people need content.

Self-deprecation time: I’m no victim here. I’ve made my choices—chose this life because nothing beats that rush of a track coming together.  But man, am I complicit? Absolutely. I chase trends sometimes, release EPs hoping for that elusive Beatport top 10, and yes, I’ve done the occasional sponsored post for gear I half-like. We’re all hustlers in this game, pretending we’re artistes while checking our analytics like stockbrokers.

So, why is it broken? Simple: The system’s rigged for scale, not soul. Labels and platforms prioritize data over discovery, turning art into content fodder. It’s not sustainable; burnout is real - as I’ve learned over the years - staring at unfinished loops and questioning my sanity. And the irony? Music’s more accessible than ever—anyone with a laptop can produce, like those AI tools I wrote about last time. But that floods the market, diluting value further. We’re competing with algorithms that churn out “mood music” faster than I can say “royalty statement.”

So yeah, I’ve hugged a club owner who smelled like tequila and broken promises while he swore the door money was “coming Monday.” I’ve flown Ryanair with a carry-on full of gear and vinyl just to play a 45-minute opening slot for a guy who goes by “DJ XXXXXL” and whose entire set is one pre-made CDJ playlist and a fog machine timed to his vape hits. But here’s the secret they don’t put on the vision boards: none of that shit matters once the lights drop and the first kick lands. Because for four minutes, or forty-five, or four hours if things go well, you’re not an unpaid invoice or a streaming algorithm’s bitch. You’re the high priest of a sweaty little religion, and every hand in the air is speaking in tongues.

That’s the drug Bourdain chased in kitchens, and it’s the same one we chase behind the decks and in the studio: that fleeting moment when everything lines up, the crowd turns into one living, breathing animal, and you’re the one holding the leash. Doesn’t matter if it’s 5,000 people in a warehouse or 50 weirdos in a basement.

So keep your day job if it keeps the lights on, sure. But never let it keep the fire off. Release the weird little techno-polka track. Put reverb on a mariachi sample because it made you laugh at 3AM. Blog about the time you accidentally played a funeral home because the promoter gave you the wrong address. Tell the truth until it’s embarrassing. That’s the only edge we’ve got left. Embrace the madness. Be that jack of all trades—learn to code your own website, film your own videos, maybe even start a side hustle in artisanal coffee (mine’s called “Beats & Beans,” trademark pending). And to the industry fat cats: Thanks for the scraps; we’ll keep creating anyway, because without us, you’ve got nothing but silence. As for me, I’m heading back to the studio.

See you in the smoke, motherfuckers.

Stel

(Some of) my favourite VST plugins for music production

June 08, 2022  /  Stelios Vassiloudis

In the old days, making music required physical instruments, finding (the right) people to play them, and lots and lots of equipment to record and process them. Nowadays, with a few notable exceptions, most instruments can be made available from your hard drive as a ‘Virtual Instrument’. Here are some of my favourites…

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tags / music production, music studio, VST, Plugins, Native Instruments

After the Fire

August 22, 2021  /  Stelios Vassiloudis

Monday, 09/08/21

I’d been watching the roaring wildfires blaze and torch everything in their path since Tuesday, from a safe distance, across the Attica basin on Mt. Pendeli (near where I live). Via mixed feed of social media, news coverage and my friends’ personal accounts, I followed - in complete shock - the unstoppable advance of this vicious and insatiable menace, leaving behind it a trail of devastation and despair. Was it getting closer? The air was already thick with the smell of smoke and saturated with falling particles of soot and ash from the clouds in the sky above. 

And then it happened. Just like a car crash in slow motion or a video compilation of gruesome skateboarding wipeouts, I waited with bated breath for the inevitable to happen and watched it unfold with equal measure of despondency and disbelief. Despite the firefighters’ heroic attempts, the fire had crossed a crucial safety barrier and now, emboldened by the increasing gusts of wind in the area, was heading east. Despite my position of relative safety, I watched as the night sky turned ominous shades of orange and red - progressively more intense - as if to somehow warn of an impending storm. 

By Friday afternoon, the fire front had grown to cover tens of kilometers, reducing an unfathomably large area of forest land and many townships, to smouldering ash. The reporting on the ground had turned from desperate to downright heartbreaking as people were being evacuated - forced to flee their homes and leave behind their property and fruit of their (lifelong) labour. In the background, the apocalyptic scenes that framed these unfolding dramas seemed more akin to something out of a Hollywood disaster flick, riddled with heavy CGI. 

Soon enough, it was my turn to hurriedly take stock of and pack my most prized worldly possessions. The blaze was just over the ridge to the north, they were saying, and with the air now heavier and smokier than before I began to brace for impact with the inexorable threat headed our way. Under the darkening sky - now raining heavy white ash - I ran frantically back and forth between my house and studio; storing valuable items, securing flammables, packing essentials, dousing trees and ignoring friends and family who were hopelessly reaching out. 

Remarkably, a convergence of factors, coupled with the firefighters’ valiant efforts on land and in the air, led to the (certain) disaster being averted and my worst fears never being realised. As the fiery mass of flame and smoke gradually diminished and headed away from my area and towards the west, my panic gave way to relief and then (eventually) to sadness. Following such extreme events, and the range of emotions one is likely to experience during their unfolding, people often bandy around terms like “post traumatic stress” or “survivor’s guilt” with considerable aplomb, but often underplay the inescapable terminus of the emotional journey: anger.   

I’ve had to pack my shit at the drop of a hat before and I am now certain I will have to again, in the future. The last time wildfires threatened my home, the flames were 20 meters away and burned a large portion of the forest across my street. Without in any way wishing to undermine the personal struggles and tragedies that many of my countrymen have to face in the wake of this unmitigated disaster, I think it’s finally time - now more than ever - to wake the fuck up and truly realise these events are far-reaching, global and likely existential in nature (pun intended). 

Following on from the harrowing reports from similar catastrophes in Turkey, Romania, Italy, Russia, Bolivia, Brazil, the USA and many more - which most desensitised minds will likely forget by the time the weekend rolls around - the IPCC has published a comprehensive, eight-years-in-the-making report today “unequivocally” pointing the finger at us humans for our unmatched contribution to the climate crisis. Whether or not the aforementioned events are a direct result of human activity (or negligence) may still be a point of contention, but there can be little doubt as to how profoundly the decimation of the natural world is accelerating irreversible changes to the planet’s climate. The same goes for an alarming portion of humanity’s complete lack of palpable concern.

In my opinion, it is imperative to increase awareness for these events; what’s causing them and what their long-lasting effects are. There is a fast-spreading global pandemic of apathy that is plaguing our societies - exalting and promoting self interest over the collective good to nauseating degree. We can, to an extent, rightly blame our governments and leaders of industry for their chronic short-sightedness and greed. After all, we want to live in fast-paced, innovative, efficiently allocative, global and resource-bountiful free-market economies, right? But now we, as a global society, are faced with the reckoning of letting market forces of supply and demand govern and dictate our lives to a near-total degree.

“Nothing Will Ever Be The Same” was written in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic, when I was in a dark place. Like millions of people forced to self-reflect, seek alternate sources of income, hustle to make ends meet, ponder their mortality, fret about the state of the world, mourn loved ones, suffer crippling after-effects of the virus and remain isolated, I did whatever I had to to make it to tomorrow. As days turned to weeks, weeks turned into months and months eventually into a year+ (and counting), I often hoped that this collective and shared crisis we faced as a species might spurt the much-needed impetus for (many of) us to see things differently. To become more appreciative and aware of the world beyond our own selfish and narrow confines. To wonder why this was all happening and how we should do things from now on. Perhaps even to learn to transcend our own interests and strive for the benefits of others, on occasion. At the very least, to spend the time we had all been gifted more productively and wisely. Of course, there were noticeable stragglers along the way - try convincing an entitled, spoiled egomaniac (sorry, I meant DJ) to show some sensitivity and not take a gig on the beautiful beaches of Tulum while Covid cases in the rest of the country skyrocket into unscaled heights. Or a QAnon / MAGA anti-vaxxer that there is no deep-state plot to enslave humanity through mass vaccination programs. But, I remained hopeful.

Ultimately though, we fucked it all up. And now, after yet another massive global wealth redistribution, a colossal and shameful disparity in vaccination access between rich and poor countries and a growing army of self-righteous assholes merrily getting back on with their lives as though the pandemic never really happened (which, to a reasonable degree, is merited), one has to wonder if we are any wiser or better prepared to face the most severe threat facing our existence. From a karmic standpoint, I guess we’ll all get what we ultimately deserve - after all I’ll be one of the last people to tell you how much alfalfa (and by extension, water) your burger had to consume in order for it to taste as good and be as readily available as you have come to expect.

So how do wildfires, the global economy, climate change, Covid and burgers all connect? Pericles, the ancient Greek statesman, left his mark on the world by advancing the foundations of democracy and governing during Athens’s Golden Age, when the arts, architecture, and philosophy—as well as Athens itself—reached new heights. Of his legacy and many achievements, one of the most poignant and memorable statements that has stuck with me is that Athenian citizens regard “a man who takes no interest in public affairs not as a harmless, but a useless character”. Depending on what metrics you use or how far you take the comparison in analogy between ancient Athens and the modern globalised world, there is plenty of evidence to suggest that we are also (still) in a golden era of civilisation - our feats and breakthroughs in the fields of technology, science, engineering and medicine are marvels of their own accord and achieved at an unprecedented and ever-accelerated rate. 

It seems odd, then, that so proportionately few of us seem to take any real interest (besides the occasional “like” or “share”) in celebrating, facilitating, developing and preserving this thriving way of life we (can?) all enjoy. In 1858, in “Grundrisse”, Karl Marx argued that full automation (quite possibly what we now expect AI will accomplish) as part of a transition to post-capitalism would enable humans to develop themselves during the time that would be freed up - once the need to produce goods and services (work) was limited by machines. Workers, would be free to pursue their self-development in the arts, sciences, sports, philosophy etc. Nearly one hundred years after Marx’s observation that full automation could help liberate humankind, Herbert Marcuse (in “Eros and Civilization”) asserted we had reached the point at which this was possible. The caveat, according to him, was that the conditions under which citizens are dominated by what he called one-dimensional freedom: an uncritical, pacified approach to thinking about contemporary life. One-dimensional thinking relies on subtle oppression, on convincing people that they are free, on the provision of sufficient goods and services to distract them, on stultified civic discourse, and on the masses identifying with elites. In contrast, two-dimensional thinking enables people to see the possibility of liberation in the current order of things, the possibility of leveraging its contradictions to remake the world.

Perhaps nothing ever being the same is not such a bad thing. After all, Heraclitus’ often paraphrased “the only constant in life is change” quote is the precursor to a multitude of philosophies and dogmas that preach acceptance and embrace of the here and now. My only hope and intention in sharing this project with you is that we go forward into the uncharted future with a renewed sense of awareness, mindfulness and willingness to act. We can no longer afford to turn a blind eye towards or sleep on attitudes and events that shape the future of our planet - nor tolerate the apathy that makes them possible.  

Words to inspire you to become and stay creative during a pandemic lockdown

August 24, 2020  /  Stelios Vassiloudis

Write music, not dance-floor chart fodder

For a long time I’ve watched (and, to some extent, participated in) club-influenced, electronic dance music’s inexorable homogenisation and oversimplification. There are numerous explanations for this trend that I won’t go into right now but the fact remains that, to an alarming degree, the kind of music that once was conceived as an unbridled form of self-expression, rebellion and creativity has sadly degenerated into a predictable and repetitive cesspool, (overwhelmingly) serving artists seeking to validate their sizeable-yet-brittle egos or make a quick buck. And while you might excuse bloated, jaded and irrelevant scene veterans from cashing in or milking the proverbial cow, it never ceases to amaze/disappoint me when bright young talent willingly trade individuality for familiarity and creativity for conformity.

But I digress. The point I am painstakingly trying to make here is that if, ever, there has been a time to diverge, to experiment, to tinker, to wander, to dream, to create, to imagine and to (generally) do things differently - then that time is now. Never, in generations, has such a synchronous and all-encompassing “reset” button been hit across industry and society - let alone in our dark little corner of the music spectrum. Are you afraid that your latest, introspective and esoteric piece of ambient electronica won’t be “Downloaded by R. Hawtin”? Good. Are you going to lose sleep about not being on the latest Meathead House Top 100 chart over on Beatport? Even better. 

Let’s just take a moment to (quickly) acknowledge a very fundamental and inescapable truth. The beat has stopped. Parties, worldwide, are on indefinite hiatus (with the deplorable exception of “plague raves”). And no, live-streaming to your fanbase (however admirable, in principle) or throwing a zoom party for your mates just isn’t the same - for many reasons. So why focus on making formulaic, cookie-cutter tracks that exist only to fulfil this (basic) function? Don’t get me wrong, there are tons of amazing records made that transcend dancefloors, genres, styles, eras and time. I certainly am not claiming that anything with a 4/4 kick and a well executed arrangement does not have any artistic merit. After all, these are the musical foundations and blueprints from which an entire genre of contemporary music has blossomed. To call it formulaic would be sacrilege, blasphemy. To denounce it as simplistic and one-dimensional; misinformed and cynical.  

But think of the audience(s) you are now trying to reach. Consider the possibilities and the promise. Right now, people all over the planet have had to make enormous sacrifices and adjustments to the ways in which they access their entertainment. They may miss clubbing and dancing and going out with friends - sure -  but they are also craving new music, new TV shows, new sports content, new video games and new stuff to keep them going through these tumultuous times. And these are all in competition with each other, like never before, vying for their precious attention. If you (or I), by some miracle of modern technology can make something cool and fresh and kinda awesome to get them interested, then why not? Why stop short of a breakthrough and choose to stay in some highly-templated comfort zone? Why try so hard to make music only for a (very) specific and already oversaturated demographic? Why not push the envelope a little further and see if you can create something new? Do you honestly believe that posting on Facebook about your new “hard-hitting, melodic techno bomb already supported by Carl Cox, Nicole Moudaber and Dubfire” can compete with the news that the Champions League is kicking back into action? Besides, as far as I can tell the only thing they’ve supported recently is their tour managers’ pension funds, but that’s a whole other story.

The worst possible mistake I see enthusiastic, beady-eyed, up and comers make over and over again is to subscribe to the ridiculous myth that joining some sort of collective or group is going to fast-track their success. “If I can get my track signed to Drumcode or Bedrock, things will start to happen for me”. Well, maybe. Maybe not. But guess what? There’s only one Adam Beyer and only one John Digweed and I’m pretty sure they’re not interested in clones of themselves or of any of their rosters’ artists. There are plenty of great labels of varying styles, shapes, sizes and persuasion but, at the end of the day, they are merely a platform for you to use. And, in turn, they’re going to use you. It’s part of the deal, 50% split of everything - done, get over it. The barriers to entry may often be high but, believe me, they’re decidedly not worth you trading in your individuality or identity for. Accordingly, you should always be striving to make something that is yours, and yours alone. Something that will entice the listener, challenge your peers, delight the audience and cast you in a different light compared to the vast ocean of undistinguishable sameness we’re all swimming in. If that so happens to be outside your preferred style or far removed from whatever some omnipotent, imaginary tech-house, scenester, demigod considers hip, then that’s fine too. 

So, dare to stand out. Finish that dope breaks track you never thought anyone would be interested in. See what that techno track you’re working on sounds like at 135 BPM. See if you can make a piece of music without relying on beats at all! Twiddle those synth knobs in directions and combinations they’re not meant for. Make your studio machines make noises you haven’t heard or imagined before. There are no rules. There’s no right or wrong. There’s no popularity contest you’ve unwittingly entered and there’s definitely no gang of cool kids waiting to welcome you into their inner circle if you can only sound, dress and speak like them at the drop of a hat. 

At the time of writing, the playing field has been levelled like never before and the odds of reaching and converting an audience are as equal as they’re ever likely to be. Why continue to travel on the road of least resistance instead of blazing a trail of your own?            

Enrich your content (the right way)

So, I realize I’m opening up a veritable can of worms here but I’m aware that, for many people reading this piece, “content” is the all-encapsulating term used to describe the stuff we share online. Unfortunately, in the modern musician’s clumsy hands, this can easily also mean cringeworthy video footage of them in their studio, dancing, head-banging or wildly gesticulating to their own music, like some sort of demented primate or even spewing inconsequential, uninformed socio-political commentary; all with the noble intention/pretence of keeping their fans “engaged”. In most social media marketing circles, this is probably considered good business practice and I’m sure that these sort of “consultants” manage to convince their clients (and indeed audiences) of the added value they are offering by making us privy to this sort of bullshit.

Perhaps they’re right.

I often wonder what Miles Davis would have done if he had an Instagram account or, if indeed, Frida Kahlo would have painted as many self portraits if she was always busy trying to capture the perfect selfie. What if we were deprived of Freddie Mercury’s legendary performance at Live Aid because some idiot social media manager couldn’t take care of the Facebook livestream coding in time? 

Again, I digress.

Far from being a luddite troll, I am well well aware of and all too happy to use any and all means of technology that I feel will add real value or substance to what I have to say. And so should you. Am I a bit of a purist soapbox preacher that likes to condemn gratuitous, vulgar rubbish from people who should, in theory, know better and try to set a better example? Yes. Am I completely immune to the dopamine-inducing charms of a little harmless online validation? Not quite. But here’s the thing. There’s a certain time and space for certain things. And I am convinced of the fact that making you or your art reach further and seem more interesting has NOTHING to do with you sharing your Michelin-starred culinary experiences with your audience (unless you have something interesting to say about the meal).     

So then what? Well, believe it or not, the very fact that you are in a position to create art and the improbable sequence of events that have led to you having an audience of your own, likely means that some people find you interesting. Perhaps, they’re curious about how you make these wonderful sounds and would like to know a bit more. Maybe you could make a video or take some pictures of your creative process to share with them. Maybe, just maybe, they’d appreciate it if you were to supplement that killer afro house track you uploaded to YouTube with some sort of visual interpretation. I’ll tell you, it’s a hell of a lot better than relinquishing the privilege to a random YouTube channel (“playlister”, as I’ve heard them be referred to) with an unfathomable number of subscribers who is going to utterly miss the point and adorn it with a bikini-clad babe who lustfully gazes back at you like she’s inviting you for a romp by the pool. Oh, and by the way, those two advertisements you had to watch before listening to your track? Yeah, he collects that revenue instead of you, too. 

But what do I know? I’ve often missed out on DJ bookings because I didn’t have enough Instagram followers and I’ve had plenty of consultants advise me (I shit you not) that I’d do much better for myself if my press shots made me look less nerdy and more sexually desirable. While this is hardly a revelation, bearing in mind how fickle and shallow our social interactions can be, there are some perks to my way of doing things. For one, I can sleep at night without tendonitis in my thumb caused by hours of furious scrolling and swiping on my phone. Secondly, I genuinely enjoy the encounters (both in the physical and digital domain) I have with enthusiasts of (my) music. And lastly, I know that I am proud and confident of the image I cultivate as an artist. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a Model/DJ/Foodie/Influencer/Nomad. There absolutely is a problem posing as one, as far as I’m concerned.

Part of the reason that I was encouraged to write down these thoughts, was the release of a new track of mine, called “Rust”, on a label I’ve worked with countless times in the past. So many, in fact (and without a hint of snobbery), that the whole process cycle of packaging, promo-ing, releasing, promoting, gloating and promoting (some more), made me want to delete the file off my studio computer and slit my wrists. What possible good could yet another track - coming through the same old channels, for the same fixed price, by the same people - do for this covid-infested, fearful and depressed world? 

But then, it hit me. Unsurprisingly, we (the label and I) stopped short of revolutionising the current music distribution business model, but by adding value to the track itself (including a massive library of sounds in our bundle), organising an affiliated remix contest (with useful and desirable prizes), bypassing distribution channels and utilising a single platform (releasing exclusively on Bandcamp, which allowed us to control and lower our price) and creating an original, official video to accompany the music (minimizing the risk and effects of other channels hijaking the track to create their own versions), we managed to encourage dialogue, boost engagement and (I hope) actually make some people happy. And you know what? It didn’t cost a fucking cent extra.

Yeah, there will be people reading this that will say “that’s all fine and well buddy, but I don’t have that kind of platform to work with” or “stop being so romantic about this project; you could have achieved comparable results with some shiny new press pics and a targeted social media campaign”. Maybe. But what I do know? I’m just an artist and romance is in my blood.   

Set some (realistic) goals

So what am I trying to say here? Surely, I’m not suggesting that you can alleviate the boredom and demoralisation of a global lockdown by messing around with a few synths and learning rudimentary video editing. But, it sure beats lying on your couch and binge-watching every series on your Netflix list (although I have absolutely nothing against people who do this). And it’s a damn sight better than pretending the music industry (and the world) is going to go back to what it was when the vaccine arrives tomorrow-ish. I don’t have a crystal ball and I can’t foresee the future but if I had to wager, I’d be very skeptical about what things will look like for all those wonderful-yet-highly-delicate threads that string together this fragile and ever-changing place we call the (dance) music industry.

I’ll tell you one thing. As we begin to emerge from our respective cells, heal whatever wounds we might have, reflect on who we are and where we are going, questions will inevitably be raised. One of the most pertinent, that speaks to the arguments made above is: what have I done with the time that has been given to me?

Discounting the inescapable fact(s) that we all need to pay our bills, make ends meet, provide for our families, pay taxes, etc I’m not in any way suggesting that this time has been an open call to reinvent oneself, lay caution to the wind, adopt a bohemian lifestyle and discover your inner David Bowie. Although, I’d totally be on your side if that’s what you wanted to do. But if art (music, in particular) is your thing - whether it’s your job or hobby - and you’re feeling confused about what to do next, you are not alone. Setting some goals definitely pays dividends and introducing some order into your chaotic scramble to remain current and relevant on a variety of different fronts might just help you accomplish more and empower you to rejoin the music world in the (not too distant) future.

Without a doubt, writing music and making something should be at the very top of your daily list. It’s no coincidence that so much great music has been released over the previous months; whether it has been inspired by the unprecedented circumstances of the lockdown or simply seeking to exploit it is irrelevant. The fact is, it just doesn’t matter. Now is the time to really home in on what you truly want to do. Explore and refine those production chops you always tell yourself you have no time for. Experiment with styles you didn’t think suited you or added anything to your preciously crafted profile. Differentiate yourself from your peers and contemporaries by doing something you can proudly own. Guess what? They’re all probably doing (or thinking of doing) the exact same thing; especially since they’re not able to brag about this amazing gig they just played or that exotic country they’ve been invited to perform in!

Enhance your content. I went to great lengths above to convey my disdain for vapid displays of narcissism that masquerade as valuable insights into an artist’s psyche. Don’t get me wrong; sharing your memories of a cool trip with your friends and complaining about the quality of wines in airport lounges are worlds apart, in my book. So am I part of some Orwellian musician social media censorship Gestapo? Should you have to perform frightful mental acrobatics trying to determine what is acceptable, useful content and what isn’t? Natürlich nicht! And I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t still bewildered by the fact that sometimes a picture of a succulent cheeseburger garners 5 times as much engagement as a gig announcement on my own social media. Personally, I blame Mark Zuckerberg. But on a more serious note, learning a few things about how these algorithms actually work and what kind of stuff your followers are more likely to see and respond to (and why) isn’t actually so bad. In the worst case, you might find out how to target them more effectively and manipulate them into buying (into) your product and, in the best case, you might learn a few new skills. This knowledge, coupled with some measure of creativity, consideration and effort, whether it be a new DJ mix, sharing a well-written and thought provoking article that you think will resonate or even an insightful and well-scripted mention of something/someone you admire (other than yourself) are all great ways to nurture a healthy online presence that convinces people that there’s more to you than your unchecked ego and the crap you’re peddling to them. 

Lastly, and without wanting to state the obvious, you need to communicate. And not just to your circle of friends or colleagues about the same old sameness you rehash day in and day out. Certainly not about how unbearable your life at home has become or how awesome your abs look after 6 months of crash course pilates at home - although both impulses are understandable. But what about those people you only speak to once in a blue moon? That promoter you innocuously contact once a year to (discretely) nag, informing him that you’re “passing through” his area, while on tour. The nerdy video editor who hooked you up with free Instagram video edits for your last EP. The overworked mastering engineer you badgered in order to have your dancefloor bombs ready by Friday because you were headlining that sick new club in town. Chances are they’ll surprised but (nonetheless) happy to hear from you - if only to check in. On the one hand, it’s good godamn business - an act of common courtesy - and on the other, there’s a slight chance they’ve been doing the same kind of personal digging as you and have some wisdom or inspiration to impart. Maybe there’s a cool collaborative project they’ve been mulling over and you’re the missing cog in their machine. Perhaps your conversation will unlock your dormant and inquisitive side, sending you down a rabbit hole of self discovery and YouTube tutorials, unveiling your hidden talent for some sort of technical wizardry that further sharpens your skill set. Hell, I spoke to a couple of writer friends a few months ago and discovered I could put together more than a resume.

tags / music, techno, social media, music production, creativity