sometimes you need to step outside in 40 degree (fahrenheit) weather in your boxers and smoke half a cigarette, looking at the way sunlight pierces through your neighbors’ windows in the early afternoon-
to snap out of it.
the dopamine rush i used to get from likes after posting something a little cheeky online is no longer feeling very good. somehow, it feels much worse than posting nothing at all.
the artist social media discourse is so boring, and frankly futile to me. it’s why i started the “field notes” and “readme” pages on this site. posting and scrolling on those platforms does something sinister to my brain.
i know i’m not alone in this. and yet, i forget each time i log on.
listening to hiroshi yoshimura in my headphones while i type this. i just received an email notification that my next single is scheduled for release a month from now.
i’ve been thinking so much about my future lately. feeling embarrassed at the thought of playing some game to maintain relevancy as each year passes. feeling silly about the occasional cheeky post reminding people (who exactly?) that i’m still in my studio listening to music i love and making music i love. showing them (who again?) moving bodies on the dance floors i dj for, proving that my work can equate to ticket and liquor sales.
what does it mean to be a fan of someone’s art now? is it engaging in a parasocial relationship with them? buying music and merch? going to shows? patiently waiting for each new release?
what happens when we are without money or attention to give to art?
when is the last time you let yourself discover and support something new? are you even able to?
i’m asking myself these questions as well.
in just the last year, my relationship to this project (and music in general) has shifted so drastically. i’ve fired some of my team, and hired new team members. i’ve distanced myself from certain friends and artists, and found warmth and closeness in others. even my taste in music has evolved, moving toward something more true to who i am (now). but one thing remains consistent: it feels so good to make music that i enjoy. and for a while, i told myself that all the other sour parts of choosing to make this creative project a business were worth it as long as i could keep experiencing the joy of creating. but what happens when the joy fades? and the people you interact with the most are making money off of something you held so close to you?
i have learned a lot about the music industry since i started releasing music in 2017. but more importantly, i’ve learned a lot about myself. my values, my interests, my boundaries.
when i was throwing parties in brooklyn with my best friend jenny before i had management or agents, before livestreams in tiled bathrooms were social currency, back when we’d spam bar and club bathrooms with physical party flyers - it was never a means to an end. despite the techbro-adjacent stimulant fueled late night brainstorms about it, we did not approach our party series as a business whatsoever. there was no intention “to scale.” the only intention we had was to throw a party we wanted to attend.
when i was in middle school making music in my bedroom that would get burned to exactly one CD so i could hear it in my mom’s car on the way to school, my only intention was to make music i wanted to listen to.
when i bought a $150 beginner pioneer controller in 2015 playing to a handful of friends in my bay ridge living room, my only intention was to mix songs i wanted to dance to.
as thom yorke once sang, “phew for a minute there, i lost myself.”
