A song for Livi ❤️

/1 Você sabia que seu jeito de andar tem apelo popular, e um je ne sais quoi de poesia,

(Did you know that the way you walk has popular appeal, and a je ne sais quoi of poetry,)

/2 que deixa louco todos esses populares, frequentadores de bares, esquinas e padarias,

(that drives all those common folk crazy, the regulars at bars, street corners, and bakeries,)

/3 já reparou que as tuas medidas, de um esquadros saídas, são pura geometria?

(do you realize, that your proportions, as if drawn from a set square, are pure geometry?)

/4 retas e curvas, planos, contraplanos, triângulos retângulos, em perfeita simetria,

(straight lines and curves, planes and counterplanes, right triangles in perfect symmetry,)

/5 a matemática e a arte erudita, em tuas formas habita, como há muito não se via,

(mathematics and erudite art dwell in your forms, as they haven’t in a long while,)

/6 e o povo entende lá do seu modo simplista o que diz o cientista vendo a sua anatomia.

(and the people understand, in their own simple way, what the scientist says starring at your anatomy.)

/feb26

Mostly played around with Nanoclaw to prep and distract myself from the Sunday scaries. Went on a call with my voice-parched beloved and ate spicy paneer Tikka masala for dinner.

Miro mis manos y encuentro tus raíces, me penetraron como la luz al espacio, me pertenecen. Tú, estrella naciente, viniste a mí radiante, implacable, sin que fuera capaz de alambrar fronteras.

Tus ojos, el sello de tu mirada luminosa, la espiral del secreto donde la chispa arranca y se proyecta, el nudo del hechizo, el origen que hace de nuestras mentes una, un universo estable que preña de soles la eternidad.

Hay completa eternidad en el amor, rotunda, aunque la carne finja el cortejo, el canto transitorio, furtivos pájaros que no pueden ser cazados porque tienen otro destino, la dicha que se escapa al pensamiento, profundizando el vuelo hasta la cima, allí donde no pueden ser atados.

Un momento más, amor, la eternidad completa: da igual que sean atmósferas de fuego y hielo, que el tiempo cruce del mar a la alborada. Dame todo, acoge, soy de allí donde las energías rompen al final entre tus piedras.

I popped to the local shop, not expecting trauma…

I had an idea.

A voice in my mind said I should do this. A blog. Get your thoughts out there, the voice says. As if the world is sitting around, gasping for my opinion on the price of tea.

Bugger.

But I’m here now. In the kitchen. The laptop’s open. Mary’s out at work, so it’s just me and this blinking line. A cursor, they call it. Like it’s cursing at me. Which it is, to be fair. Blinking. On. Off. On. Off. Daring me to write something.

So I will.

I was in the local shop today. For a few bits. Milk. Bread. A packet of Custard Cream biscuits for the empty tin. The good ones. You have to get the right ones or there’s ructions.

And I ended up in the yoghurt aisle.

I don’t know how. It’s a maze in there. You go in for a pint of milk and you come out with a wetsuit and a set of German spanners.

Anyway. The yoghurts. The state of them. There used to be two kinds. Strawberry. And… the other one. Plain, maybe. Now? It’s a wall of madness. A wall of notions.

Greek style. Icelandic style, which they call Skyr. What the fuck is Skyr? Sounds like something you’d shout if you stood on a piece of Lego. SKYR!

And the flavours. Coconut and Chia Seed. Chia. It’s not a pet? You grow it on a little clay head? Now we’re eating it. With coconut.

A fella beside me. Young fella. Skinny jeans. A haircut that looked like it was attacking his own head. He picks one up. “Ooh, kefir,” he says to his girlfriend. “Probiotic.”

Probiotic.

I wanted to grab him. And say this.

—Listen, pal. The milk sat out for too long. Someone threw a bit of fruit thrown in. Stop pretending you’re a scientist.

But you can’t say that. People get proper upset.

I just stood there. Looking. Pomegranate and Acai Berry. Rhubarb and Custard Crumble Flavour. It’s not even rhubarb and custard. It’s the flavour of it. It’s a memory of a thing. A ghost in a plastic pot.

I saw a fella from around our way, old Jimmy. He was looking at them too. Just staring. Lost. Like a dog would look if you showed it a card trick.

I went over to him.

–Alright, Jimmy?

–Ah, Andy. Baffled, mate.

He nodded at the yoghurts.

–The wife sent me for a strawberry one.

–Ah.

–I’ve been here ten minutes. I think I’m going mad. Is that one strawberry? Or is it ‘Summer Berry Medley’? Is a medley a strawberry?

He looked distressed. A man on the edge. Broken by dairy products.

I found one for him. It just said ‘Strawberry’. Plain as day. Hidden behind a ‘Salted Caramel and Pretzel’ one. A pretzel. In a yoghurt. I give up.

Jimmy looked at me. Like I’d just saved his life.

–Jesus, Andy. Thanks. I owe you one.

And he shuffled off, clutching it like a winning lottery ticket.

I just got the milk and the biscuits and went home.

That’s my thought for the day. That’s the blog. The world has gone mad with notions, and you can see it all in the yoghurt aisle.

Right. That’s that then. Mary will be home soon.

Now. Dare I post this thing? A few hundred words about yoghurt? It won’t entertain anyone. But fuck it, it’s harmless.

Ah, sod it. Publish.

Fine.

Har du någon gång suttit med tio idéer i huvudet och känt att allt bara är ett enda virrvarr? Det är exakt där MindMeister kommer in i bilden. MindMeister.com är ett webbaserat verktyg för att skapa mindmaps, alltså visuella tankekartor som hjälper dig att strukturera tankar, planera projekt och få överblick utan att drunkna i anteckningar.

Det fina är att det funkar direkt i webbläsaren. Du loggar in, klickar på “New mind map” och börjar med en central idé i mitten. Därifrån bygger du grenar med underidéer, och under dem fler nivåer. Allt går att dra, flytta, färgkoda och märka upp med ikoner, länkar eller bifogade filer. Det känns lite som att rita på en whiteboard, fast utan att behöva sudda och börja om.

Så vad kan man använda det till? Ganska mycket, faktiskt.

Pluggar du kan du använda det för att sammanfatta böcker, strukturera uppsatser eller repetera inför prov. I stället för långa rader med text ser du sambanden mellan begrepp direkt. Driver du företag eller jobbar med projekt kan du planera kampanjer, bryta ner mål i delmoment eller hålla koll på brainstorming-idéer. Det är också perfekt för kreativa processer, som att planera ett blogginlägg, en podd eller ett större innehållsprojekt.

En sak som många gillar är samarbetsfunktionen. Du kan bjuda in andra till samma mindmap och arbeta tillsammans i realtid. Det gör det lätt att ha digitala workshops, särskilt om teamet sitter på olika platser. Kommentarer och uppdateringar syns direkt, så det blir mer dynamiskt än att skicka dokument fram och tillbaka.

Gränssnittet är ganska intuitivt. Du klickar på en nod för att redigera texten, trycker tab för att skapa en undergren och enter för en gren på samma nivå. Vill du göra det snyggare finns olika teman och layouter att välja mellan. Du kan även exportera kartan som PDF eller bild, eller dela den via en länk.

Det finns en gratisversion med begränsningar och betalplaner om du behöver fler mindmaps, avancerade funktioner eller teamfunktioner. För många räcker gratisvarianten långt, särskilt om man mest vill testa hur tankekartor funkar i praktiken.

Det som gör MindMeister extra användbart är att det passar både för stora strategiska frågor och små vardagsprojekt. Allt från att planera en resa till att bygga en affärsplan kan börja med en enkel cirkel i mitten av skärmen. Ibland är det just det som behövs för att få ordning på tankarna.

Go Hoosiers!

This afternoon the Indiana University Womens Basketball Team will celebrate their Seniors Day and host the Oregon Ducks at IU's Assebly Hall in Bloomington, Indiana, for an early game starting at Noon Local Time.

I'll be listening to the radio call of the game streaming from B97 – The Home for IU Women's Basketball.

And the adventure continues.

Clive died on a Thursday….

He’d wanted Wednesday. The bins went out Wednesday. He didn’t want to be outlived by his wheelie bin. But his heart had other ideas. His heart and gravity. They got together, the two of them, halfway through a bit of plumbing he’d no business doing, and that was that.

Maureen found him under the downstairs toilet. Spanner in his hand. Face like a slapped arse.

— Oh for God’s sake, Clive.

She looked at him.

—I told you that pipe wasn’t looking at you funny.

She rang the ambulance. Then she rang Sheila from Bingo. The ambulance was the right call. Sheila was not.

Sheila prodded his sock.

—Is he—

—Either that or he’s taken up yoga, said Maureen.

The paramedics came. They muttered things. Intermediate rigour. Amateur bloody plumbing. They took him away.

---

Three days later Clive woke up in a drawer.

A refrigerated drawer. In the morgue.

He was naked. He was cold. He was very much not cremated.

—If this is heaven, he said, —It’s got appalling climate control.

A junior technician fainted. A senior technician said BOLLOCKS very loudly and then said it again. The coroner put the kettle on.

—I’m not doing undead paperwork without biscuits, he said. —Not after last time.

—Last time? said Clive.

—Don’t ask.

They gave him a blanket. They gave him tea. Scalding. They gave him a brochure. SO YOU’VE BEEN DECLARED LEGALLY DECEASED: A CITIZEN’S GUIDE.

Clive read it.

—It says I have to reapply for my National Insurance number.

—That’s if you’re planning to rejoin the workforce, said the coroner.

—I’ve just come back from the dead. I haven’t lost all sense.

---

He went home.

Maureen opened the door. She was holding a mop. She looked at him the way she looked at him when he tracked mud in. Which was the way she always looked at him.

—You’re dead, she said.

—I got better.

—You’re dripping on the doormat.

—Maureen—

—On the doormat, Clive.

She let him in. Eventually.

She’d donated his fishing gear. She’d cancelled his dentist. She’d sold his recliner — his recliner, the one that reclined exactly right, the one he’d spent four years breaking in — to Barry next door.

She was calling Barry “Baz” now.

—It was my chair, Maureen.

—You weren’t using it.

—I was dead.

—Exactly.

—You can’t just—

—I can.

—But—

—I did.

---

The Church wouldn’t update his gravestone. They wanted proof of sustained reanimation. Sustained. Like he had to keep it up for a bit before they’d believe him.

The bank froze his accounts. Pending metaphysical clarification. He didn’t know what that meant. They didn’t know what it meant. Nobody knew what it meant. But it meant no money.

Tesco banned him. There’d been an incident. The self-checkout, three packets of custard creams, and a bishop. The bishop was startled. It wasn’t Clive’s fault.

—It scanned me, he said.

—You leaned on it, said the manager.

—And it told me to place myself in the bagging area.

—Sir—

—Place MYSELF.

—I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

—I’ve just come back from the dead.

—That’s not really a Tesco issue, sir.

He moved into the shed.

Not a shed. THE shed. His shed. His Fortress of Lawnitude. He rigged up a kettle. He found the transistor radio. He set up the deckchair, the one with the stain he’d never explained and never would.

He was alive. He was technically illegal. He was in the shed.

He judged people. Quietly. Anyone who misused a spanner. Anyone who called Barry “Baz.” Anyone who sold a man’s recliner while he was temporarily dead.

—If I die again, he said.

Nobody was listening.

—I’m taking Maureen’s bloody geraniums with me.

Stay entertained thanks to our Weekly Tracker giving you next week's Anticipated Movies & Shows, Most Watched & Returning Favorites, and Shows Changes & Popular Trailers.

Anticipated Movies

• The Bluff
• ☆ Scream 7
• In the Blink of an Eye
• How to Make a Killing

Anticipated Shows

• CIA
• BAKI-DOU: The Invincible Samurai
• ☆ Scrubs
• The Gray House
• American Classic

Returing Favorites

• Bar Rescue — Season 10
• ☆ American Dad! — Season 22
• Paradise — Season 2
• The Voice — Season 29
• Survivor — Season 50
• Monarch: Legacy of Monsters — Season 2
• Formula 1: Drive to Survive — Season 8

Trending Shows Status Changes

• 56 Days — Returning Series → Ended
• Reality Check: Inside America's Next Top Model — Returning Series → Ended
• Tell Me Lies — Returning Series → Ended
• Lord of the Flies — Ended → Returning Series
• The Queen of Flow — Returning Series → Ended

Most Watched Movies this Week

• new Mercy
• -1 The Housemaid
• new 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple
• -2 Marty Supreme
• -1 Zootopia 2
• -3 The Wrecking Crew
• +1 Predator: Badlands
• -3 Primate
• -3 Anaconda
• -3 Greenland 2: Migration

Most Watched Shows this Week

• new A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
• -1 The Pitt
• = The Rookie
• new Shrinking
• -3 Fallout
• -2 Hijack
• -2 Star Trek: Starfleet Academy
• new The Night Agent
• new Cross
• new Family Guy

Popular Trailers

• Time to burn it all down. — Scream 7
• Wagner Moura delivers a tour-de-force Oscar-nominated performance in THE SECRET AGENT. [Subtitled] — The Secret Agent
• Reborn on the weekend. — The Bride!
• 🙀🙀🙀 Cold Storage is in US and UK theaters NOW — Cold Storage
• Season 2 Episode 8 Preview — The Pitt
• Official Trailer — Toy Story 5
• STEEL BALL RUN JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure Official Trailer — JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
• Meet Becket Redfellow. — How to Make a Killing
• No Escape — Send Help
• Watch At Home Now — Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair

---

Hi, I'm Kevin 👋. I make apps and I love watching movies and TV shows. If you like what I'm doing, you can buy one of my apps, download and subscribe to Rippple for Trakt or just buy me a ko-fi ☕️.

---

The art of hacking the universe

Some people pray, some people plan. What I do, since I was a little kid, is trying to hack the universe. As if reality could be negotiable, as long as you to talk to it the right way. I think I never told that to anyone before last week. And now sharing it here. Confident nobody will read. Because you are not supposed to. So don't read it.

Anyhow, the universe is a trickster. A comedian with impeccable timing. It loves a twist, a detour, a punchline you didn’t see coming. I figured that out absurdly early, like age four? I’m guessing, because I definitely learned how to mess around with the universe way before I learned to tie my shoelaces. And that I remember: I was five. I remember showing my little hand with all five fingers at my brother's face: “I am 5 and I know how to tie my shoelaces”. And I only learned because I imagined myself at swim practice, unable to tie my shoes, surrounded by older kids, dying of embarrassment. So what I did was: imagining it and giving myself one day. Boom. Not only a shoelace master but also a smart kid, covered by the fact this situation couldn't possibly happen, because I thought about it before. Double check.

So yes, what I do is imagining every possible disaster, as a kind of reverse prophecy. If you predict the chaos, you steal its thunder. If you name the monster, it loses its teeth. If you anticipate the plot twist, the universe, offended by your accuracy, will naturally choose another ending entirely. Trust me, it works.

If I could contribute to the hermetic laws by now, I'd say: whatever you think will happen, will not happen in the way you thought. Even good stuff, will happen differently. So my ace move is: think the worst, the weirdest, the most inconvenient, dramatic, absurd, inconclusive, escalating bad bad, even worse now, much much worse, come on, think dead-ending bad. Cover every angle. Until the universe sighs, rolls its celestial eyes, and surrenders to the only options you haven't thought about yet: the good ones. Because the only thing the universe accepts is refusing to follow your script.

So I confessed my weird logic to a friend over coffee. She nearly choked on her white mocha triple fluff unicorn (whatever that thing was that legally shouldn't be called coffee anymore). And to prove my point, I gave as context a specific situation, in which I worked hard, gave my best, thought about all the atrocities that would make anyone just think: this is just so out of reach. I was tenacious, I swear I was. Committed, one might even say.

And the funny thing was: the one variable I didn’t calculate, the one dramatic possibility I didn’t list, the really really only one ending that did not occur to me was precisely what happened. And now in contrast to everything I am saying, I'm really an optimistic at heart. So I don't see it as a way of punishing me, but more like a reminder that the mystery is part of the machinery and that unpredictability is not a flaw, but a feature. That universe is not a system to be mastered, but an ongoing joke between you and something infinitely larger and infinitely bored I would say, that is just using you for its own amusement.

Unrequested good stuff happens to me constantly as well. One of the best examples? The Taj Mahal Incident. It was February 2014, I was 23, and had spent the previous year in a very stupid situationship with Pedro, three years younger, equally nonsense, and therefore perfectly matched. We liked each other a lot, but nobody is very smart in their 20ish. We had a tiny fight, stopped talking, eventually he reached out by Christmas wishing Merry Christmas, and I replied wishing the same. Cut to February. I’m at the airport with my brother, about to fly to India, when Pedro texts saying he could “swing by.” I tell him I’m not home. He asks where I am. I tell him: at the airport, going to India. His reply: “What are the actual odds?” because, plot twist: he’s also going to India a week later. We joke about how hilarious it would be if we somehow met. I confidently declare there is zero chance. Case closed.

It's day 10 in India. My brother and I go to Agra. He spends the whole night violently vomiting, so I again declare the trip is dead and I’m calling the insurance the morning after. Morning comes, he resurrects, and insists we go see the Taj Mahal. Fine. We leave the main chamber, I step out with my camera, glance back, and some 100 meters away is a guy who looks exactly like Pedro. I look again. Damn, so similar. I look once more. It’s him. It’s literally him.

Naturally, I panic and slowly sprint into the gardens like a feral tourist, ripping off my shoe protection. My brother and our guide rushing after me, extremely confused. I claim I’m “done taking pictures” and walk some good 300m garden in the front, until we reach the big front exit gate with some makeshift toilets. My brother stops to use the “British toilette,” and I’m just standing there… just in time for Pedro to catch up.

He says hi. I say, “Please don’t.” The universe gives a hysterical laughter. Before I can create any other awkward reaction, he gives me a small kiss, promptly alerting the guide, who approaches us like he’s about to break up a scandal, because public kissing in India is basically a sport no one plays. My brother appears right after, shocked, amused, and “haha, guess I missed something here, do you know each other?” Nice. Great moment to introduce everyone. Eventually we wish each other a good trip, part ways, and my brother does not shut up on jokes about it for the rest of the day. So my friends, his friends, friends of friends are now romanticizing the whole experience as fated, because they don't know the hacking behind it. They don't know how I declared it could never, ever, possibly happen. They do not know this is not about me, or Pedro, or us. It was just the universe once again taking the challenge. That is the poetry of it.

/feb26

I guess it’s gonna be weird trying to figure out how to not be codependent, I think that’s just something that I am always predisposed to in a relationship if I’m being honest.

Why Albums Are Fading Away

Album rollouts once turned music into a grand narrative, teasing singles and revealing artwork layer by layer, culminating in a full project that demanded complete attention. These events captured the essence of albums as artistic statements, where tracks intertwined like chapters in a story. As of 2026, that tradition is dissolving. Streaming platforms and social media fragment listening into isolated moments, sidelining cohesive works for bite-sized singles that algorithms favor. Rollouts, reliant on sustained anticipation, now clash with a culture of instant consumption.

Albums provided depth and sequence, rewarding patience with evolving themes and emotional arcs. Today’s ecosystem prioritizes playlists and clips, rendering full projects relics. This shift reflects broader changes in how music is created, discovered, and experienced.

The Album’s Heyday: Unity and Immersion

Albums peaked when listening meant commitment. Artists sequenced tracks deliberately, with openers setting the tone, interludes bridging ideas, and closers delivering resolution. Think conceptual masterpieces like OK Computer or To Pimp a Butterfly, where every element served the whole. Fans pored over liner notes, debated motifs, and replayed for nuances.

Rollouts amplified this magic: lead singles acted as appetizers, cryptic videos hinted at mysteries, and interviews unpacked inspirations. Scarcity ruled, as releases arrived infrequently, turning each one into a ritual. Listeners gathered for first spins, absorbing narratives that unfolded over 40 minutes. The format honored ambition and allowed experimentation beyond radio constraints.

Independent creators thrived in this space too, crafting bedroom epics shared through tapes or early digital platforms. Albums embodied vision, turning solitary work into a shared journey.

Streaming’s Fragmentation Effect

Platforms like Spotify reshaped everything after 2015. Algorithms curate playlists from disparate tracks, ignoring intended order. A new album surfaces briefly in Release Radar, then scatters as listeners cherry-pick songs that fit algorithmic preferences. With over 120,000 daily uploads, full projects drown in noise unless propelled by viral singles.

Attention spans compound the fracture. TikTok and Reels thrive on 15-second hooks, training ears for snippets instead of sequences. Why endure builds and payoffs when clips deliver instant highs? Rollouts, designed for weeks of buildup, fatigue quickly in this environment. Teasers merge into endless feeds, and launch days vanish amid scrolls.

The result is that albums become optional extras. Playlists now dominate 70 percent of listening, and full spins are rare outside superfans. Cohesion erodes as tracks exist in isolation.

Listener Habits: Playlists Over Narratives

Culture now revolves around moods, not stories. Custom playlists such as “Late Night Vibes” or “Road Trip Energy” blend eras and artists, stripping context. Fans curate personal flows, bypassing original visions. Social discovery reinforces this pattern: a viral clip crowns a song while its album is forgotten.

Daily rhythms reinforce the trend. Music becomes background to commutes, workouts, and scrolls. Albums demand focused attention; singles slip seamlessly into fragmented listening. Generational tastes push this further, as younger audiences favor AI-curated lists and rarely seek artist intent.

Nostalgia persists for vinyl rituals, but even collectors stream previews first. Albums retreat to niche appreciation.

Creative Pressures: Hooks Trump Depth

Artists adapt to survive. Rollouts demand instant appeal, and lead singles must hook immediately or risk sinking the project. Depth is sacrificed. Songs shorten, structures simplify, and experiments are trimmed for skip-proofing. Spoken bridges, ambient fades, and multi-part suites disappear, replaced by uniform pop architecture.

The emotional toll shows in the output: polished but predictable. Ambition wanes as creators chase playlist metrics instead of personal arcs. Rollouts worsen this, turning art into countdowns where hype dictates pace rather than inspiration.

Online forums echo laments like “Albums feel like chores now.” Yet the cycle endures, dooming full works to obscurity.

The Rise of Singles and Loose Series

Singles fill the void naturally. Frequent drops align with algorithmic demands, allowing artists to test ideas without full commitment. Themed series emerge, forming “eras” of loosely connected tracks that act as de facto albums without rigid hype. Waterfall release strategies preview collections through standouts, blending discovery with eventual unity.

Visual and spatial formats evolve too, from short films per track to immersive audio experiences. Albums fragment into modular pieces that fans or playlists can reassemble.

Live and Niche Revivals

Stages preserve album spirit for a while, with full plays at intimate shows that recapture the original sequence. Festivals showcase deep cuts, but streaming remains the main point of contact. Niche platforms like Bandcamp sustain direct sales to completists, where pay-what-you-want models honor the full project.

Technology brings glimmers of hope, such as VR listening parties and interactive apps that simulate rollouts. Yet the mainstream still bends toward singles.

Cultural Ripples: Music as Ephemeral Content

This fade reshapes industry norms. Labels prioritize tracks, media coverage shrinks for album critiques, and awards celebrate singles rather than cohesive visions. Discovery depends on virality instead of narrative craft.

There is an upside to accessibility. Global creators can release freely without the burden of project-scale demands. Diversity flourishes in shorter forms.

Glimmers of Resistance

Superfans keep albums alive through subscriptions and exclusives. Certain genres such as prog and ambient continue to defy the trends, crafting expansive works for dedicated listeners. Newsletters and online communities rebuild hype organically, sharing process over spectacle.

Elegy for the Album Era

Albums die from mismatch, vessels of depth in a shallow, fragmented sea. Rollouts and their fanfare fade quietly. Music simplifies into moments, solos into statements, and playlists into panoramas.

Echoes remain in rediscovered gems, late-night immersions, and the persistent pull toward wholeness. The form may wane, but the hunger for stories endures.

Why words aren’t the only way to say something — and how instrumental tracks can carry as much narrative weight as a song with vocals

There’s a familiar insecurity that creeps in when you make mostly instrumental electronic music:

“Is this enough? Should I be writing lyrics? Will anyone care about a track that doesn’t say something out loud?”

Lyrics have a built-in way of signaling meaning. They spell things out. They get quoted, dissected, and turned into captions and tattoos. In a culture obsessed with language and shareable lines, it’s easy to assume that “real” storytelling requires words.

But if electronic music has taught us anything over the past few decades, it’s this: you can tell a complete, emotionally coherent story without a single lyric. The question isn’t “lyrics or no lyrics?” It’s “what kind of storytelling am I actually trying to do?”

Why lyrics feel like the “default” version of storytelling

Most of us grew up in a music culture where songs = singers + words.

Pop, rock, rap, folk, R&B — so much of the canon is lyric-centric that we start to think of language as the primary payload of music. The instrumental backing becomes the “supporting cast” to the vocal.

That bias quietly shapes how we judge our own work:

• A beat without a topline can feel “unfinished.”
• A fully produced instrumental somehow seems like a demo.
• We call entire genres “beat music” or “background” if no one sings on them.

This isn’t entirely irrational. Lyrics do a few things extremely well:

• They anchor the listener’s interpretation.
• They create clear hooks people can remember in one listen.
• They allow direct statements: political, personal, narrative.
• They travel well across social media as text and quotable moments.

If your goal is to communicate something specific and overt — “this break-up wrecked me,” “this system is broken,” “I grew up like this” — lyrics are a straight line from your brain to the listener’s.

But that directness has a shadow side: once you say something explicitly, it can limit how a track lives in people’s imaginations.

Instrumental storytelling operates on different rules.

How instrumental tracks tell stories without words

When you strip out lyrics, you’re not stripping out meaning. You’re shifting where that meaning lives.

Instrumental storytelling leans on elements like:

• Harmony and tonality: tension, release, ambiguity, brightness, darkness.
• Dynamics: the size and intensity of sections, the way things bloom or retreat.
• Texture and timbre: harsh vs soft, synthetic vs organic, clean vs distorted.
• Rhythm: patterns, grooves, syncopation, repetition vs disruption.
• Structure: how sections emerge, return, or refuse to resolve.
• Space and ambience: reverb, delay, stereo field, how “close” or “far” the sound feels.

These are not just technical choices. They’re narrative devices.

An evolving pad that slowly opens over 32 bars tells a story of emergence. A sudden filter cutoff and dry kick in the middle of a euphoric lead line can feel like the floor dropping out. A melody that never quite resolves keeps the listener emotionally suspended.

Listeners might not be able to explain why they feel what they feel, but they don’t need language for the story to land.

In some ways, instrumental tracks can feel more personal because the meaning isn’t pre-digested. The listener completes the story with their own experiences, memories, and associations.

The different kinds of “story” in electronic music

Part of the confusion around lyrics vs instrumentals comes from assuming storytelling always means “a linear plot.”

But in electronic music, “story” often means something broader:

• Emotional arc: how you feel at the start vs the end.
• Energetic journey: how intensity, tempo, and density evolve.
• Spatial journey: how the perceived environment shifts, claustrophobic to wide open, dry to wet, mono to stereo.
• Temporal narrative: how sound design implies time (analogue nostalgia, futuristic textures, retro references).

Lyrics excel at narrative clarity: “this happened, then this, and I feel this.”

Instrumental storytelling excels at embodied experience: “I don’t know why, but I feel like I’ve been somewhere.”

Both are valid. They just operate on different channels.

When lyrics actually help electronic music

There are times when adding lyrics (or even minimal vocal elements) can unlock something an instrumental can’t quite reach.

Lyrics are powerful when you want to:

• Make a concept explicit rather than implied.
• Invite people into a very specific perspective or identity.
• Create sing-along moments that work in communal spaces.
• Anchor a track in a particular language or culture.
• Communicate nuance that sound alone might obscure.

Even in underground electronic scenes, vocal snippets and phrases show up all the time, not as full, linear verses, but as semantic anchors:

• A single line repeated over a drop that frames the entire track.
• Chopped, time-stretched phrases that suggest meaning more than they state it.
• Spoken-word fragments that set a mood or context.

In those cases, language is another instrument. It doesn’t dominate the track; it punctuates it.

Full lyrical songs in electronic music take that further. Think of how a strong topline can transform a track from club weapon to something that resonates in headphones and memories.

The key is intention: are you adding lyrics because the track truly wants language, or because you’re afraid people won’t respect an instrumental?

The pressure to “add a vocalist” and why it can backfire

There’s a subtle industry bias that whispers: “If you want this to go anywhere, you need a vocal on it.”

Labels ask for it. Playlists favor it. Many listeners gravitate to it. So producers end up:

• Forcing vocal features onto tracks that were never designed to carry one.
• Writing generic toplines because “something has to be there.”
• Diluting the most interesting parts of their arrangement to make space for a mediocre song.

The result is often a hybrid that satisfies no one: the song isn’t strong enough to compete as a pop track, and the production isn’t allowed to breathe like a fully instrumental work.

It’s not that vocals ruin electronic music; far from it. Some of the most powerful electronic records are vocal-led. But when the reason for adding vocals is external pressure rather than internal necessity, you can feel it.

Sometimes the track is already speaking fluently. It doesn’t need a narrator.

Instrumental music in a lyric-obsessed culture

There’s a real question here: in a world dominated by caption culture and quotable lines, does instrumental music stand a chance of being heard and understood?

Instrumental artists face particular challenges:

• It’s harder to generate shareable text-based content around a wordless track.
• People often ask “what’s this about?” expecting a narrative, not a feeling.
• Algorithms and editorial teams may favor vocal tracks as “more accessible.”

But there are also advantages:

• Instrumentals travel well across language barriers.
• They slot naturally into film, games, streaming, and ambient listening.
• They leave space for listeners to attach their own meanings, which can deepen long-term connection.

Many listeners already use instrumental electronic music as the soundtrack to their lives: work, study, night drives, grief, joy. The story might be happening in their world rather than inside the song’s text, but the relationship is just as real.

You don’t have to explain everything for your music to matter.

Hybrid approaches: when sound design becomes “the lyric”

One of the most interesting spaces in electronic music is the grey area where you use vocal techniques without traditional songwriting — or use sound design in ways that feel like language.

Think about:

• Vocal chops as melodic instruments, where syllables become pure texture.
• Heavily processed phrases that are technically words but function more as timbral events.
• Motivic hooks (short, memorable melodic shapes) that are as catchy as a sung chorus.
• Sound motifs that return across tracks, almost like characters in a story.

In these cases, the “lyric” isn’t text. It’s identity.

A single synth patch with a distinctive gesture can be as recognizable as a singer’s voice. A drum pattern can become a signature phrase. A recurring field recording or tonal motif can create continuity across a body of work in the way themes do in novels or films.

If you think of storytelling as “building a world and letting people visit it,” then every sound choice is world-building, whether or not anyone is singing in that world.

Choosing your medium of meaning on purpose

So where does this leave you, especially if you’re an electronic producer feeling the pull between lyrical songs and pure instrumentals?

A useful question to ask per track is:

“What is the core thing this piece wants to communicate — and what’s the most honest medium for that?”

Some possibilities:

• If you need to process a specific experience or tell a clear personal story: lyrics might be the right tool.
• If you’re exploring mood, space, or abstract states: instrumental forms might be better.
• If you want both clarity and ambiguity: a hybrid track with sparse, strong phrases and rich instrumental development can sit in the middle.

You don’t have to pick one identity forever. You can be an electronic artist who:

• Releases mostly instrumentals but occasionally drops a vocal-led track when it really calls for it.
• Uses vocal textures as instruments without stepping into full songwriting every time.
• Collaborates with vocalists as guests in your sonic world, not as the default center.

The key is to make a conscious decision, not a defensive one.

“Everyone else is doing vocal tracks” is not a creative reason. “This idea requires words” is.

Giving instrumental work the framing it deserves

One practical piece that often gets overlooked: even if your music is instrumental, you can still frame it with language around the track.

You can:

• Use titles that hint at the emotional or conceptual space of the piece.
• Write short descriptions or liner notes for your newsletter or Bandcamp.
• Share the story of how the track came to be, even if the track itself is wordless.
• Name recurring themes or sounds so listeners start to recognize your internal language.

This doesn’t mean over-explaining or turning every track into a dissertation. It just means giving listeners a little foothold, a sense that there is a story here, even if it’s not sung.

Words can live around your music without living inside it.

You’re allowed to let the synth speak

At the end of the day, both lyric writing and instrumental storytelling are languages. Each has strengths, limitations, and unique affordances.

Lyrics:

• Clear, quote-ready, socially shareable.
• Great for direct statements and character-driven narratives.
• Can sometimes over-determine the listening experience.

Instrumental storytelling:

• Ambiguous, immersive, deeply personal in interpretation.
• Great for emotional arcs, atmospheres, and non-verbal experiences.
• Can feel “invisible” in a culture that worships words, unless you frame it well.

Neither is inherently superior. What matters is whether the method you choose for a given piece is true to what that piece needs to be.

If you’re an electronic producer whose heart lives in sounds, spaces, and textures, you don’t owe anyone a chorus just to legitimize your work. You’re already telling stories, just in a language that doesn’t always show up in quotes on social media.

Sometimes the most honest thing you can do is let the synth speak, and trust that the right listeners will hear exactly what you mean.

The Algorithm Isn’t Magic, It’s Math

There’s a weird moment every indie artist hits: you stare at your Spotify stats, see streams trickling in, and still feel like the platform is pretending you don’t exist. That’s usually the moment you run into a phrase you never see in the app itself: Spotify’s Popularity Index. It’s invisible to listeners, but for your tracks, it quietly behaves like a trust score.

The Number That Judges Your Songs

Spotify gives every track and every artist a score from 0 to 100. You never see it inside your artist dashboard, it’s not part of your Wrapped, and yet it has a say in who gets recommended, who lands in algorithmic playlists, and who stays stuck in “friends and family” mode.

The important part: this number is about momentum, not history.

It leans heavily on things like:

• How many people are listening right now (usually over the last few weeks)
• How many of them save the track to their library
• How often it gets added to personal playlists
• How many people actually listen through instead of skipping early
• Whether it shows up in algorithmic or editorial playlists and how people react there

An old track that suddenly goes semi-viral can shoot up. A “successful” release from last year can sink to mediocrity if nobody revisits it. The index isn’t asking “Did this song ever do well?” It’s asking, “Is this song still alive?”

That’s uncomfortable, but it explains a lot of “why did this flop?” feelings.

In the screenshot from my track “I Need It All” — you can see exactly how this plays out in the real world. Since release, it has been picked up by Discover Weekly three separate times in just under two months, each spike lining up with a little burst of new listeners and saves. That’s the Popularity Index in motion: once the song proved it could hold attention, the algorithm kept circling back to test it with fresh audiences.

How It Interacts With the Algorithm

The index isn’t the only thing Spotify uses, but it’s wired into several systems you should care about:

• How often you get slotted into Radio and Autoplay after other artists
• Whether your new release gets tested in Release Radar beyond your existing followers
• How often you show up in Discover Weekly for people who listen to similar stuff
• How high you appear in search and “Fans also like”

You never get a notification saying “Congrats, your popularity score passed 50, here’s a cookie.” Instead, you suddenly see small but noticeable shifts: more algorithmic streams, more unknown listeners, more saves from countries you’ve never targeted.

On the flip side, if your popularity score is low, you’re effectively harder to “trust.” Spotify doesn’t want to risk recommending tracks that most people will skip. So it feeds listeners something safer: artists with stronger history of engagement.

That’s why some songs feel like they’re glued to the floor. They’re not “bad”; they’re not generating the kind of behavior that gives Spotify confidence to push them.

The Stuff You Can Actually Influence

You don’t get access to the formula, but the ingredients are clear enough once you look at your own data and talk to other artists. The main levers are:

• Recency of activity

Things that happen in the last few weeks are more powerful than what happened months ago. A short, intense burst of listening is better than a slow, flat line.

• Saves and library adds

A stream says “I heard this once.” A save says “I’m going to come back.” The index pays attention to that difference. High save percentages on a new track are a good sign.

• Playlist behavior

Being on playlists matters, but only if the people who hear the track react well. A small, engaged playlist can be better than a huge one where everyone skips.

• Skip and completion rates

If most listeners leave in the first 15–30 seconds, that’s a red flag. If they stay for most of the track, that’s a green light. Arrangement and intro decisions feed straight into this.

• Repeat listeners

One person listening three times is more meaningful than three people who never return. Repeat plays look like genuine attachment, and that’s exactly what recommendation systems want to amplify.

Those are all things you can affect without a label or a budget. Not perfectly, but enough to tilt the odds.

Designing a Release Around Behavior, Not Hype

Most indie releases follow this pattern: upload, post a link, hope. That’s not a strategy; that’s a wish. If you want the index to move, you have to think like this: “How do I concentrate real, high‑quality activity into a relatively small window?”

• Before release

Warm up your closest listeners first: newsletter subscribers, Discord, group chats, people who already care.

Explain what helps: “If you like this when it drops, a full listen, a save, and adding it to your own playlists does more than any like on social.”

Use pre-saves, but don’t worship them. They’re useful mostly because they turn into automatic day‑one library adds.

• Release week

Treat release week like a focused sprint, not random noise.

Share short, specific moments of the song: a hook, a tension point, a sound design detail.

Tell small stories: why the track exists, why a certain sound is there, what headspace you were in.

Direct people toward actions, not just “check this out when you have time.” The actions that matter are: listening through, saving, and playlisting.

You’re not begging; you’re letting people who support you know how the system works and inviting them to push back against it with you.

Producing With Attention in Mind

There’s always a fear that thinking about skip rates means “sell out.” It doesn’t have to.

You don’t need to turn every song into a two‑minute, instantly‑gratifying loop. You can keep intros, ambience, slow burns. The key is: don’t waste the first impression.

Some ideas that respect both your taste and the listener’s patience:

• Give them something early: a motif, a tone, a chord change, a rhythmic idea that hints at where the track is going.
• Avoid long stretches where “nothing” seems to happen, especially if the track might be heard for the first time through a random playlist.
• Build in replay value: subtle layers, evolving textures, little details that reward multiple listens. The more someone comes back, the better your track looks.

You’re already thinking deeply about sound design and arrangement. This is about adding another question to your process: “If I’d never heard this before, when would I decide to stay or leave?”

Promotion That Feels Human, Not Desperate

As an independent artist, your best weapon isn’t a marketing budget. It’s closeness.

Instead of trying to blast your link at strangers, focus on a small group of people who are willing to act, not just react.

Build a small “inner circle”: 20–100 people who genuinely like your work. Could be a Discord, a Substack audience, private stories, whatever fits your world.

Talk to them like collaborators: “You’re the ones who can actually tip the data in my favor. Here’s how.”

Give them context: early demos, breakdown videos, or explanations of your process so they feel invested when the final track lands.

On the playlist side, skip the fantasy of magically landing on massive editorial lists right away. Smaller, well‑curated user playlists in your niche are easier to reach and often send better‑behaved listeners your way.

You can:

• Pitch to thoughtful curators instead of mass‑spamming everyone with a playlist.
• Trade tracks with other artists at a similar level: “I’ll add yours, you add mine,” as long as it’s genuine and genre‑aligned.
• Make your own playlists that mix your tracks with artists you love. Share them as listening experiences, not just ego catalogues.

A Different Way to Think About the Index

If you strip away the jargon, the Popularity Index is asking a very simple question: “Do people prove with their behavior that this music matters to them?”

You don’t control every variable, but you control more than it feels like:

• You can shape how a listener experiences the first minute.
• You can decide whether a release is random or treated as an event.
• You can choose to build a small, committed base rather than chasing faceless virality.
• You can pay attention to what songs people replay, save, and bring back into their lives.

None of that guarantees a specific score. But it does mean you’re no longer just throwing songs into the void and hoping an opaque system has mercy. You’re creating conditions where, over time, your catalog looks more and more like something Spotify can safely show to strangers.

In other words: you stop waiting to “get picked” and start giving both humans and algorithms good reasons to pick you. That’s a much better place to create from.

How TikTok’s American rescue turned into worse surveillance in a Trump‑friendly package

You would think that after decades of watching platforms play hot potato with our data, we would be harder to fool. Yet every few years, someone wraps surveillance in a flag and calls it safety, and a lot of people nod along like that is progress.

The TikTok panic was a perfect example. The headlines screamed about China collecting data, like the real scandal was the nationality, not the practice itself. The supposed fix felt heroic on the surface: move TikTok’s US operations into American hands, talk loudly about “protecting national security,” and act like the job is done. Problem solved. We can all go back to scrolling.

Except nothing meaningful changed. The data firehose kept running. Location, behavior patterns, interaction graphs, all of it kept flowing. The only real difference was whose lawyers and lobbyists got to sit closest to the tap. In fact, it got worse.

The Handoff That Made It Worse

The neat trick here is selling people on the idea that surveillance is fine as long as it is domestic. As if metadata suddenly becomes respectful when it is mined in Virginia instead of Beijing.

When TikTok landed in a US controlled structure, it did not suddenly become privacy friendly. It just shifted into a system that already lives on tracking, profiling, and prediction at scale. The new setup still pulled in huge amounts of information, still fed it into recommendation systems, and still sat on top of a weak privacy framework that barely protects anyone.

What changed most was the story. Now the data collection could be framed as patriotic. Same machine, same logo, cleaner talking points. But with more political muscle behind it.

The Flag Was Never the Core Problem

China absolutely has an ugly track record on censorship and surveillance. That is not in dispute. But pretending that the problem disappears when an American company is in charge is just dishonest.

US tech giants have been running massive data collection operations for years. They track across websites, apps, devices, and even physical locations. They sell access to audiences, lease out behavioral profiles, and power targeting for politics and commerce. Lawmakers barely flinch at that, but suddenly grow a conscience when the owner is foreign.

So the debate around TikTok turned into a convenient distraction. Focus on China, ignore the entire surveillance model that all the major platforms already use at home. The villain becomes “them,” not “this.”

Where Trump’s Orbit Enters the Chat

There is another piece of this story that makes the whole “we saved TikTok” narrative even harder to swallow. The new power structure around the app does not live in some neutral, apolitical vacuum. It sits inside the orbit of Trump aligned money and influence, the same ecosystem that treats media platforms as weapons, not as public spaces.

That matters. If the group that inherits control over a global attention machine already has a history of gaming outrage, bending narratives, and turning every channel into a loyalty test, you should not expect them to suddenly morph into privacy first idealists. You should expect them to treat TikTok as leverage. As a megaphone. As a way to shape what people see and what never reaches them.

Suddenly the story stops being “We had to protect Americans from a foreign adversary” and starts looking a lot more like “We wanted that power for ourselves.” The concern is not that a platform can track, influence, and censor. The concern is who gets to do it, who they answer to, and what they plan to use it for. Now with even more targeted reach.

Censorship, Just With Better PR

Ownership shifted, but TikTok did not magically become a free expression paradise. If anything, it slid neatly into the same quiet censorship patterns that already shape US based social media, with added political incentives to suppress certain voices.

Modern censorship is rarely a blunt ban. It looks like invisible limits on reach, mysterious guideline violations, and content that just stops being shown. Algorithms suffocate posts without ever saying why. Certain topics quietly sink. Others are pushed to the front. The line between “safety” and “sanitizing” blurs completely.

Once the platform has to please US regulators, advertisers, investors, and a politically connected ownership circle, it follows a familiar playbook. Avoid controversy, minimize political heat, and make the feed as brand friendly and campaign friendly as possible. That is not freedom. It is risk management dressed up as moderation. And it scales faster under aligned leadership.

Privacy Wrapped in Patriotism

The framing around TikTok’s deal was almost textbook. Politicians warned about “foreign access” to American data. Commentators repeated phrases about national security. Then, once a US led structure and Trump aligned money took center stage, the urgency faded. The story shifted from “danger” to “deal completed.”

The deeper issue stayed untouched. The US still does not have a strong, comprehensive federal privacy law. Data brokers still operate in the shadows. Government agencies can often get around warrant rules by simply buying data from those brokers. None of that changes because ownership paperwork moves from one jurisdiction to another, or from one president’s enemies list to another president’s friends list.

Calling this “protection” is clever branding. It reassures people without actually reducing the ways their data can be harvested and reused. If anything, it invites more.

Data Does Not Respect Borders

There is also a basic technical reality that gets ignored. Data does not care about flags or lines on a map. It moves through cloud providers, delivery networks, analytics tools, and vendor integrations that span the globe.

Even after the restructuring, user data still flows through a complex stack of partners, hosting providers, and services. Some are American, some are not, many are intertwined. The point is that the system is already deeply international. Shifting legal control does not suddenly make the pipes domestic or the model ethical.

What really changed is who gets to claim they are “in charge” of that flow, who gets to profit, and who gets to tap into it for political and commercial goals. Not whether the surveillance model exists. Now it is just more efficient.

From Data Collection to Behavior Shaping

People often focus on the raw data, but the bigger story is how that data feeds behavior engineering. TikTok’s recommendation engine is built to learn what keeps you watching. It tracks what you skip, what you replay, how long you linger, and how quickly you move away.

Over time, that turns into a tight feedback loop. The system does not just show what you like. It nudges what you will like next. It can amplify moods, obsessions, and beliefs, because it has a constant stream of signals to refine its guesses.

Now place that tool under the influence of a political movement that has already shown it understands the value of attention and outrage. Lawmakers demand “responsible” curation. Loyal media figures push for more reach, less criticism, softer coverage. The algorithm becomes a subtle instrument of influence, even when everyone involved insists it is neutral and purely driven by “engagement.” This is surveillance on steroids.

Freedom Talk, Control Reality

American tech discourse loves the language of freedom and innovation. In practice, most big platforms run on the same basic logic as any other data heavy system: track, profile, optimize, control.

The US model wraps this in private enterprise and markets. The Chinese model wraps it in state power. The lived experience for regular users is a lot closer than many people want to admit. Feeds are curated, speech is constrained by opaque rules, and underlying data is almost always collected far beyond what is strictly necessary.

The main difference is who benefits and who sets the constraints. Under a Trump aligned ownership structure, you would be naive not to assume that political interests sit very close to the center of those decisions. The mechanics, though, are the same ones Silicon Valley has been perfecting for years. Just with more partisan firepower.

There Are No Heroes Here

It is tempting to imagine some pure version of TikTok or any social app that does not harvest or manipulate. But the business model is built on those exact things. Engagement is money. Data is the fuel.

Swapping owners does not change that. Technology follows incentives, not speeches. As long as the incentive is to extract as much attention and insight as possible, that is what the platform will optimize for. Whether the checks are signed in Beijing, Los Angeles, or Mar-a-Lago, the logic does not suddenly grow a conscience.

TikTok did not become safe because it became more American, or more Trump friendly, or more “patriotic.” It became more normalized. It now looks and behaves more like the rest of the US platform ecosystem, which was already a surveillance machine in its own right. Now it is worse.

The Pattern That Keeps Repeating

The TikTok saga is not an exception. It is a template. First, raise alarms about a foreign threat. Second, force a restructure that brings the asset under domestic and politically connected control. Third, present the outcome as a victory for security and users. Finally, go back to letting the same extraction economy run underneath it all.

Other countries are already repeating the pattern with their own rules and tools. Each one claims that their version of surveillance is the “responsible” one. Each one blames someone else for the original problem.

What almost never happens is a real conversation about limiting data collection itself, breaking the business model that depends on it, or genuinely protecting the people who use these platforms.

In the end, the logic is absurd. The world was told that TikTok was dangerous because it could harvest data and shape narratives. The remedy, somehow, was to hand even more structured power over that system to a domestic, politically wired group that operates inside a surveillance friendly legal environment.

So the same platform keeps harvesting, profiling, and moderating. Only now it is wrapped in national pride, campaign interests, and corporate talking points. Worse surveillance, better optics.

Groundbreaking logic.

The Fediverse and Nostr already offer real exits — so why are we pretending the story starts over?

Threads has turned into a weird little showroom for “European alternatives” lately. The posts all follow the same template: a clean brand, a vaguely rebellious mission statement, and a neat little before/after story where the “before” is Big Tech (usually US-based) and the “after” is… this new thing you’re supposed to join immediately.

Monnet.social keeps popping up in that feed, often framed as the answer to Meta products — Instagram in particular. “We’re the European option.” “We’re the human option.” “We’re not surveillance capitalism.” You know the tone even if you haven’t seen the exact posts.

Here’s the awkward part: I am exactly the kind of person this pitch should work on. I’m in Europe. I’m tired of ad-tech platforms. I’m done with algorithmic clown shows where the loudest, most outrage‑bait content gets rewarded while everyone else is slowly retrained to perform for a machine. I care about creators having leverage. I care about not being turned into “engagement inventory.”

So when something calls itself an alternative, I actually pay attention.

But paying attention is precisely why this kind of messaging starts to grate. Because what’s being sold is not a fundamentally different structure. It’s a story that depends on people not knowing what already exists — and not asking too many questions once they get inside.

“Not Big Tech” is a slogan, not a structure

There’s a pattern to these “European alternative” pitches: they define themselves mainly by what they are not.

Not American. Not Silicon Valley. Not Big Tech. Not surveillance. Not algorithm‑addicted.

That framing is emotionally satisfying. It gives you a villain, and it makes signing up feel like a moral choice instead of just another app install.

But “not Big Tech” is not a product spec.

It’s not a funding model. It’s not a governance model. It’s not an interoperability promise. It’s not an answer to “what happens if we want to leave?”

It’s just branding.

Branding is the easiest part of a platform. You can always design a nice logo, write some soulful copy, and talk about “values.” The hard part is what happens when real‑world pressures show up:

• When growth slows.
• When infrastructure gets expensive.
• When moderation becomes a full‑time crisis.
• When investors — current or future — want a return.
• When you realize that “scale” and “safety” are in direct tension.

That’s when you find out whether the platform is actually built differently, or whether it just has nicer fonts and a European flag in the footer.

So when someone leans heavily on “European values,” my first reaction isn’t to sneer. But I do immediately ask: how are those values enforced in the design?

Who owns the network? Who controls the identities? Can anyone else run compatible infrastructure? Can users leave with their relationships intact?

If there are no concrete answers, “values” are just decoration.

The convenient silence about Mastodon (and the Fediverse)

Here’s where the marketing really loses me.

If you’re going to frame yourself as a Big Tech alternative, you are walking into a space where alternatives already exist. Not as vaporware or “alpha access soon,” but as real, running, populated networks.

The obvious one you can’t hand‑wave away is Mastodon and the wider Fediverse: a constellation of independent servers using open protocols (primarily ActivityPub) so that different communities can talk to each other without belonging to one corporation.

Is Mastodon perfect? Of course not. Onboarding can be clunky. Discovery is more “wander and find your people” than “algorithm spoonfeeds you.” Each server has its own norms and moderation style. Sometimes that diversity is liberating, sometimes it’s just confusing.

But the structural difference matters: your identity and your social connections are not trapped in a single company’s database.

So when a new platform shows up talking about “finally, an alternative,” but doesn’t even acknowledge Mastodon or the Fediverse, it reads as either:

• shockingly uninformed, or
• very carefully selective.

Neither is flattering.

Because the moment you acknowledge the Fediverse, you invite questions like:

• Why can’t this interoperate with that?
• Why should I rebuild my network from scratch again?
• Why would I join a new closed system when an open one already exists?

And if your whole pitch relies on “Big Tech bad, us good,” those questions puncture the story fast.

If you’re “against Instagram” but ignore Pixelfed, you’re not serious

A lot of the Monnet‑adjacent rhetoric positions it as an answer to Instagram: less extractive, more human, more respectful, more European. That would be a great mission — if there weren’t already Instagram‑shaped alternatives doing the structural work.

There is one. It’s called Pixelfed.

Pixelfed is a photo‑centric platform built on ActivityPub and designed from day one to live inside the broader Fediverse instead of functioning as a sealed‑off clone. It has feeds, profiles, follows, comments — the familiar building blocks. But instead of funneling everyone into one company’s walled garden, it interoperates with other Fediverse apps and instances.

You don’t have to be a Pixelfed fan to admit its existence matters. It proves that “an Instagram alternative” is not some novel revelation that appeared the day your startup launched a landing page.

Then there’s Loops for short video: a TikTok‑style experience being built with federation in mind, focused on open protocols instead of recreating another endless‑scroll casino with a single owner lurking behind the curtain. Again, whether you personally like short‑form video or not is irrelevant. The point is: people are already building photo and video platforms that plug into an open ecosystem rather than trying to replace it.

So when someone says, “We’re the new answer to Instagram,” and never once mentions Pixelfed, or anything ActivityPub‑based in the visual space — it’s hard not to see that as deliberate framing.

Because the second you admit Pixelfed exists, you have to answer:

Why should I pick your new silo instead of an interoperable network that already works today?

And if your honest answer is “because we need all the users and network effect inside our app for our long‑term business model,” then fine, say that. But don’t pretend that’s “escaping Big Tech.” That’s just trying to become a smaller Big Tech, with nicer onboarding and fresher branding.

Europe as a trust badge

There’s another move happening here that feels off: using “European” as a kind of instant trust badge.

The implication is always the same:

European means ethical. European means privacy‑respecting. European means community‑oriented. European means you can relax.

Yes, EU‑level privacy regulation is (mostly) better than what users get by default in the US. That matters, especially around data collection and user consent. But regulation is not magic.

You can comply with privacy law and still design a profoundly manipulative interface. You can be based in Europe and still centralize power, still lock in users, still refuse to interoperate, still treat people as content factories feeding your engagement metrics.

What bothers me is when “European” becomes a rhetorical shortcut that replaces the harder conversation:

• How exactly do users retain control?
• How do they leave?
• How do they avoid being trapped in yet another closed system?

If the answer to those questions is “well, trust us, we’re European,” then nothing fundamental has changed. The power balance is still owner vs user. The only difference is where the servers sit and whose politicians get name‑checked in the pitch deck.

I don’t want a European version of the same dependency. I want less dependency.

Interoperability is the actual test

If you really want to convince people you’re serious about being an alternative, interoperability is the test that matters.

Not “nice UX.” Not “we’re ad‑free… for now.” Not “we’re built in Luxembourg” or “in Europe.”

Interoperability.

Because interoperability changes the power dynamic:

• The network effect isn’t locked inside one app.
• Your social graph isn’t held hostage by a single company.
• Communities can live across multiple tools instead of being trapped inside one.
• Leaving is painful, sure — but not the same kind of total amputation it is on closed platforms.

Open protocols like ActivityPub are not sexy in a marketing slide, but they’re what makes it harder for any one organization to become the landlord of your social life. They make it possible for other people to run compatible services, to fork ideas, to experiment without asking monopolies for permission.

So when a platform loudly sells itself as “the alternative” but has nothing to say about interoperability — no protocol support, no federation roadmap, no serious data portability story, that’s very telling.

You can hang whatever values you want over the door. If people can’t walk out carrying their relationships with them, it’s still a cage.

If you truly mean decentralized, look at relays (Nostr)

The Fediverse is one piece of this. Nostr is another.

Nostr takes a different approach: instead of tying your identity to an account on one server, your identity is a keypair you control. Your posts (events) are signed with that key and broadcast to relays. Relays are servers that store and forward those events. Crucially, you don’t have to pick just one relay. Clients can connect to many at once.

That one detail, multiple relays — means there is no single “Nostr platform” in the same way there’s a “X platform” or “Instagram platform.” There are clients, there are relays, and there are social graphs emerging from how people choose to connect them.

You can lean heavily on a popular relay if you want. Or you can add niche relays for specific topics, regions, or communities. If a relay is overrun with spam, or run by people you don’t trust, you can drop it and add others.

And if you’re serious, you can run your own relay. Not as some abstract fantasy, but as an actual, practical option: your own policies, your own moderation, your own rules. It’s not trivial work, but it is possible — and that possibility is exactly what centralized platforms are designed to deny you.

Nostr is far from perfect. It wrestles with spam, moderation complexity, UX friction, and the harsh reality that “you are your keys” is empowering until you lose them. But if you care about restructuring social media away from single‑owner control, it’s a crucial proof of concept.

Which is why it’s so frustrating when a new platform talks like “we’re finally offering the escape hatch,” as if things like Mastodon, Pixelfed, Loops, or Nostr were just some vague theory instead of live, working systems people are using right now.

If your “escape” requires everyone to move into another closed‑off tower that you own, that’s not escape. That’s relocation.

The creator angle: the migration tax is real

All of this becomes painfully tangible when you think about it from a creator’s point of view.

Every new “alternative” basically asks the same thing:

Come here. Start over. Build from scratch. Post your best stuff. Convince your audience to follow you again. Hope this one works out better.

The psychological tax of doing that repeatedly is brutal. It’s not just about numbers. It’s about constantly re‑negotiating whether you actually own your relationship with your audience, or whether you’re just renting it from whatever platform is currently fashionable.

When a new platform says “we’re different,” the obvious follow‑up question is: what happens if I leave?

If “leaving” means losing every follower, every connection, every DM, every bit of social context around your work, then you’re not in a relationship with your audience. You’re in a relationship with the platform, and the platform is in a relationship with your audience.

That’s why the Fediverse and Nostr matter here — not because they are pleasant or polished all the time, but because they’re experiments in lowering that migration tax. Identity that isn’t tightly glued to one company. Connections that can exist across multiple services. The ability to choose infrastructure, not just apps.

If a new “European alternative” doesn’t engage with that at all, it’s hard not to read the whole thing as, “We would like to be the new intermediary in your relationship with your audience, please.”

Which might be honest business, but it’s not liberation.

What a fair Monnet.social pitch would actually look like

I don’t think every new social product is automatically bad. Sometimes new tools genuinely are better. Sometimes better UX and better defaults matter a lot. I’m not allergic to “new.”

What I am allergic to is pretending the story starts over every time a new app appears.

A fair, grown‑up pitch for something like Monnet.social would sound more like:

• “We know Mastodon and the Fediverse exist. Here’s what we think they do well, and here’s where we think they fall short for mainstream users.”
• “Here’s our stance on interoperability: whether we plan to support ActivityPub, bridges, export tools, or something else — and here’s the honest reason if we’re not doing any of that.”
• “Here’s our funding model, and here’s what happens if our current model stops working.”
• “Here’s what you can export if you leave — data, media, maybe even some representation of your social graph.”
• “Here’s who makes decisions, and how users can influence or challenge those decisions.”

Even if I disagreed with half of it, I could at least respect that level of honesty. It would treat users as adults who understand trade‑offs instead of as confused “humans” who just need a simpler story with a comforting flag on the box.

Stop selling escape while rebuilding the cage

Monnet.social is not unique in this. It’s part of a broader pattern: every couple of years, a new platform declares itself the answer to Big Tech, while quietly recreating the same structural dynamics that made people sick of Big Tech in the first place.

Centralized identity. Closed protocols. Opaque governance. Network effects captured and held.

The location of the company and the tone of the branding don’t change that.

If you genuinely care about “escaping Big Tech,” stop pretending the story begins with the latest startup. The story already includes Mastodon and the Fediverse. It includes Pixelfed and Loops. It includes Nostr and relays. It includes years of messy, imperfect, but real work on interoperable and user‑controlled infrastructure.

You don’t have to love any of those projects. You don’t have to use them. But if you ignore them entirely, you’re not leading a movement. You’re marketing a product.

And that’s fine, just don’t call it freedom.