ALGORITHMISM: The New “Ism” of the Digital Age

There’s a new ism in town.

For generations, society has coined these terms to capture the ways we feel held back—sexism, racism, ageism. Each one names a real force that shapes our lives. But now, in this digital era, as more of us create online, a new one has emerged, whispered from timeline to timeline: algorithmism.

Algorithmism is the belief that the invisible gears of the algorithm are working against you—that your work isn’t reaching people not because of its content, but because some unseen machine has decided you don’t deserve the spotlight. It’s the feeling that your creativity is being lost in a rigged system, where the deck is stacked, and the numbers never fall your way.

I’ve seen this thinking everywhere lately—on Substack, on X, on Instagram, on Facebook. Folks convinced that the reason their posts don’t soar is because the algorithm clipped their wings. And I understand the frustration. I’ve been writing and posting online for over fifteen years. I know what it’s like to send something out into the world with excitement in your chest, expecting a spark, only to watch it fall flat without explanation.

But here’s what I’ve learned: sometimes it’s not the algorithm.

Sometimes the work simply didn’t resonate.

And that’s a truth many people don’t want to sit with.

Over the years, I’ve had posts that took off — not full-on viral, but certainly catching fire enough to travel far beyond my own circle. They sparked conversations, questions, even arguments. And I’ve had others that went nowhere, slipping quietly into the digital abyss. I couldn’t predict it. I couldn’t control it. And it never bothered me too deeply, because I never saw creation as something that owed me anything.

See, when I put something out into the world, I’m not doing it to be crowned or rewarded. If it brings opportunity, beautiful. But that’s not the engine behind my work. I write and post because there’s something in me stirring — a thought, a question, an excitement — and I want to share it. I’m extending my hand not to have it filled, but to offer what I have.

That’s a big distinction in this age of algorithmism.

Because we’ve reached a point where many creators extend their hand the other way — palm up, expecting something to be dropped into it. A like. A share. A subscription. A sign from the digital universe that what they’ve created is worthy. And when it doesn’t come, the algorithm becomes the villain.

But sometimes, the piece wasn’t meant for a stadium.

Sometimes it was only meant for a small room — a quiet corner where a handful of people whisper, “I get it.”

And that’s enough.

I think we need to learn how to live with that again.

Because if we’re honest, algorithmism becomes a kind of digital victimhood. A convenient shelter. A way to say, “It’s not me; it’s the machine.” It protects the ego, but it robs the artist. It cuts us off from the crucial question every creator needs to ask: What can I do better? What can I say clearer? What truth am I missing?

Algorithms are real, yes. But they are not gods.

They are not destiny.

And they are not responsible for shaping our voice.

Our job — the only job we truly control — is to create, to share, and to stay present. To keep offering. To keep showing up. To keep placing our work into the stream without demanding the river flow the way we want.

When you move like that, you step outside the reach of algorithmism entirely.

You return to the pure act of creation — the joy of it, the mystery of it, the freedom of releasing something into the world without needing to dictate how it should be received. Once I hit “publish,” my work is no longer mine. I’ve done my part. The rest belongs to the reader, the moment, and the unpredictable currents of human attention.

Sometimes you’ll catch the wind.

Sometimes you won’t.

But if the work is honest, if the offering is sincere, it will land where it needs to land.

And that, to me, is more meaningful than any algorithm could ever engineer.

We Have the Potential to Be All That We Are

At first glance, a phrase like we have the potential to be all that we are might sound limiting—maybe even pessimistic. It can read as if we’re being asked to settle, to see ourselves in a dimmer light. But in truth, what I’m reaching for is the opposite. This idea is rooted in empowerment, in clarity, in the freedom that comes from letting go of illusions about what we—or others—are “supposed” to become.

There’s a misconception many people carry, something I call the KISA factor—K-I-S-A: Knight In Shining Armor. This is the fantasy that someone will come riding in on a white horse to save us, transform our lives, or pull us into a better destiny. But I reject that idea fully. There is no hero galloping in from the horizon, no magical figure that arrives to rewrite your story.

And this piece isn’t just about dismantling the KISA myth—it’s about taking the next step. When I say we have the potential to be all that we are, I mean this:

We often imagine that somewhere out there is a pot of gold with our name on it—some special opportunity, some quick adjustment, some person who just needs to “fix” one thing. We project that same thinking onto others: “If they could just change this… If they would only do that…” We look at people through a me-centric lens. We imagine what we would do if we were in their shoes, and then judge them for not doing it.

But over the years, I’ve learned something humbling and liberating:

Trying to push people past not only their abilities, but even their aspirations, is a losing game. Everybody’s frame, everybody’s wiring, everybody’s hunger is different. Some people are not waiting for a breakthrough moment. They’re not secretly a diamond in the rough just waiting for the right pressure. Sometimes what you see in them is what they are—and that is not a failure. That’s simply their light.

And if that light shines at 60 watts, then let it shine at 60. Don’t try to force it to burn at 120. You might cause a fire, and you might destroy the very thing you were trying to help.

Empowerment is not about insisting on someone else’s “latent greatness” as we imagine it. It’s about accepting that each of us has a natural range, a natural rhythm, a natural glow. And within that authenticity, there is a quiet power. Not every beam has to blind the world. A softer light can still warm a room.

So when I say we have the potential to be all that we are, I’m not saying aim low. I’m saying aim true. Honor your actual gifts. Honor the way your light is built to shine. And extend that same grace to others. Not everyone wants to transform. Not everyone needs to be pushed. Sometimes the fullest version of a person is already standing in front of you.

And there is nothing pessimistic about that. In fact, that might be the most empowering truth of all.

.

The Cost of Playing: Investing in Music Without Losing Yourself

I’ve always been fascinated by the willingness of musicians to “pay to play,” so to speak. On one level, it’s understandable. We know there isn’t always a lot of money in jazz, and when we bring people on board — sidemen, engineers, designers — we want to respect their time and make sure they’re compensated. That part makes sense. But there’s a line somewhere, and I think it’s worth asking where that line is. Because while supporting the presentation of our own music is one thing, supporting the entire infrastructure of the industry just to keep it afloat is something else.

 How many institutions in the jazz world — magazines, grant organizations, publicists — would continue to function without the steady stream of money coming directly from artists? Take the musicians out of the equation, and many of these organizations would collapse. Yes, they review our records, they run features, they expand our reach. But we’re also the ones footing the bill.

Which leads to the deeper question: How much of what we pour into press campaigns, magazine ads, award submissions, and the rest actually builds something that lasts?

I don’t raise this to sound bitter. I’ve benefited from these systems myself. I’ve worked with first-rate publicists like Chris DiGirolamo and Lydia Liebman, and through that work I’ve been reviewed in DownBeat numerous times, received five-star reviews, been featured in the New York Times, and even heard my work reviewed on air by Kevin Whitehead on NPR. All of that has been gratifying. But after each milestone, I find myself asking, “Now what? Do I need another Times review? Another five stars? Is this really the kind of foundation that builds a future?”

Our financial worth should not only be determined by how much horn we’re playing. There was a time when bandleaders could reasonably expect touring and CD sales to provide a steady stream of income. Of course, a sideman might still come away in the black after a tour, but for the leader it’s often a different story — the expenses pile up, and breaking even is sometimes considered success. I’ve heard countless stories of leaders piling into vans, driving city to city, only to return with little or nothing to show for it financially.

And it wasn’t just the road. There was a time when selling CDs offered at least modest returns. You could count on distributors to get the music into stores, and if listeners wanted to hear it, they had to buy it. Add to that the royalties paid out when terrestrial radio was still the primary way music reached the public. Those performance rights checks weren’t enormous, but they represented a real income stream.

Contrast that with today, when most listeners expect to get music for free. And there aren’t many business models where the creator produces the product but doesn’t expect anyone to pay for it.

I guess if I had to come up with some justification, I would say that many musicians are most likely trying to figure out how to build a legacy more than they’re chasing financial independence. But at some point, we have to ask whether the traditional markers of success are enough.

And maybe part of the shift is understanding how the broader music industry has already adapted. These days, when major labels or top agencies sign artists, it’s often through what’s called a 360 deal—they’re not just signing the music. They’re taking a piece of everything: clothing lines, books, movie appearances, perfume, TV—whatever the artist touches that falls under the umbrella of entertainment. That model says a lot. It says the real value isn’t just in the album—it’s in the brand, the vision, the full creative identity of the artist. And maybe as jazz musicians, we should be thinking more along those lines, too.

To be clear, I don’t want to sound discouraging to younger musicians. One of my cardinal rules is never to dump on someone else’s hustle. My life motto has always been: get what you can get with what you’ve got. And I mean that. So by all means, pursue the reviews, the ads, the campaigns if they serve your goals. But also consider the bigger picture. The old paradigm — when record companies were the industry — is long gone. If we’re serious about building something sustainable, maybe it’s time we thought past it.

Plenty of musicians already are. I know artists who’ve built entire income streams from writing books, giving masterclasses, lecturing, and public speaking. Some have gotten entrepreneurial with instruments or gear. Others branch into clothing, branding, or other ventures that make sense with who they are. Personally, I’ve thought about pursuing writing — not just music-related but fiction as well — and even experimenting with selling some of my horn preparations. There are more avenues than ever to think broadly about what our art can generate.

Because at the end of the day, if everything comes down to a musician’s handshake at the end of the night, we’re not really setting ourselves up for long-term success.

So what can we do? For me, it comes down to a few steps:

    •    Be intentional. Ask yourself whether each dollar or hour you invest is actually building something lasting.

    •    Diversify. Don’t let your worth be measured only by the gigs you play. Explore writing, teaching, entrepreneurial ventures — anything that reflects your broader vision.

    •    Protect your legacy. Think beyond the short-term hustle. What will remain after the campaign ends, after the tour is over?

    •    Stay open. The industry is shifting every day. Don’t get stuck in an old model just because that’s how it was always done.

None of this is about abandoning the horn or the stage. It’s about making sure that the energy we pour into the music is matched by a strategy that allows the music, and the musician, to endure.

Between the Classroom and the Bandstand: Staying Relevant Even When Trends Aren't Built for You.

I’ve spent more than twenty years in academia. That might sound like a long time, but it didn’t feel like a career path. It felt like something I did alongside my real work—music.  Even though I don’t wear the facade of an academic—and no one who really knows me would call me one—the path I’ve walked through teaching, publishing, and shaping ideas carries that imprint.

In fact, I’ve been more productive—more visible—than many artists who live completely outside academia. That isn’t bragging. That’s reality. And part of the reason I’ve been able to do that is because the university gave me something the music industry wouldn’t: a long runway. Time.

They didn’t hire me because I was charting. They didn’t bring me in to generate buzz or profit. They wanted someone who could teach, serve the department, and help shape the direction of the program. In return, I had the space to do my work. No one asked me to be marketable. No one tried to fit me into a formula. That kind of freedom is rare.

In music, it’s different. People don’t support your work simply because it’s honest or original. Granting organizations may be an exception, but more often than not, support comes only if they believe it can sell. And if it doesn’t, they walk away. Record labels, booking agents, presenters—they’re all operating under the same basic logic: Will this make money? If the answer is no, then the meeting is over. That’s not cynical. That’s how they survive.

Years ago, a label head told me he regretted not recording more of my group. He’d only done one album with us. At the time, he didn’t think the sound would catch on. He was probably right. It didn’t check the usual boxes. So there was that familiar push: straighten it out, smooth the edges, give the people something they can digest easily. I didn’t take the bait, and he didn’t press the issue. He made his calculation and moved on.

That’s how this business works. It’s short-term by design. If you want something preserved for the long term, you’ll have to do it yourself.

Artists talk a lot about support. They wait around for someone to come along and believe in them. But the truth is, no one’s coming. If you want your work to last, if you think it matters, then you have to record it, release it, fund it, and stand by it. That’s not idealism. That’s basic responsibility. In music, there’s no tenure. The only thing that keeps you alive is the work.

Some years, people notice you. Other years, they forget you exist. That doesn’t matter. The important thing is to keep showing up. Keep putting the work out. Keep building. Because once you stop doing that, you disappear. Not figuratively. Literally.

I’ve said this before: look at the critics’ polls. Wynton Marsalis. Kenny Garrett. Cassandra Wilson. When I first hit the scene, these were names you couldn’t leave off the top five. Now? Their rankings barely make a dent. Not because they’re no longer good. Not because they stopped mattering. But because public attention moves on. Critics move on. Audiences move on. What remains is the body of work.

The rankings don’t mean much. Legacy is built through consistency, not applause.

The music business is full of moments that don’t add up. You do everything right, and nothing happens. You make your best work, and nobody hears it. Meanwhile, something younger—and sometimes safer— wins awards. That’s how it goes. But if you understand that from the start, you won’t be shocked when it happens. And you won’t let it stop you.

The goal isn’t to be popular. The goal is to be present. To stay in motion. To keep making music, keep telling your story, and keep adding to your archive—even if no one’s asking for it. Especially if no one’s asking for it.

And if you do that—if you stay in it long enough and remain honest about what you’re doing—it ends up being worth it. Maybe not financially. Maybe not in terms of praise. But in terms of purpose. In terms of clarity. In terms of building a life you don’t have to apologize for or explain away. Most people don’t get that far. They flame out early or drift into bitterness. But if you hold on, keep doing the work, and accept the trade-offs, you’ll look back and see it for what it is:

A life well lived.

The Music Continues: Life as a Jazz Artist Over 50

Life can be a scary time for many jazz musicians over 50—certainly for me. As Ralph Peterson Jr. once said, when you hit 50, you’re entering the third quarter of life. That idea has always stuck with me. It can feel daunting, especially in a field like jazz, where youth is often equated with innovation, relevance, and opportunity.

Most of us didn’t pursue this path expecting riches or fame. But I think we all hoped—modestly, realistically—that we’d at least be recognized for our work. And that’s the tricky part. Because as you’re doing your best to be seen and acknowledged, there’s a constant wave of younger musicians moving to New York, hungry and talented, stepping into the scene. You pay your dues, and then someone else comes along and steps in. And sure, that’s how it’s supposed to work—there should be room for the next generation. But the truth is, the industry doesn’t always make room for you. Sometimes you get overlooked. And when you hit that 50-year-old mark, you can’t help but wonder: maybe it’s never going to happen.

And you know what? You might be right.

At least, it might not happen in the way you envisioned.

But that doesn’t mean it can’t still happen in a different way—maybe even a better way. It might not come with the same spotlight or recognition you once imagined, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less meaningful. What it does require is a revision of your plan. A willingness to let go of one story so that you can write a better one.

Sometimes, happiness and fulfillment come not from achieving what you set out to do, but from discovering something you never knew you needed. Maybe your career won’t be defined by headlining at the Village Vanguard or winning a Grammy, but instead by deep artistic breakthroughs, meaningful collaborations, or having your music resonate with a small but dedicated circle of listeners. Maybe it’s mentoring the next generation. Or creating work on your own terms, without needing a gatekeeper to validate it. There are many forms of success, and many ways to still find joy in the music. The key is being open to rewriting the story.

And I say this not as someone bitter, but someone who has actually been quite fortunate. I’ve experienced more success and recognition than many. I won’t say most—but certainly many. That’s pretty remarkable, especially considering I’ve worked a full-time teaching job for years. I’m not in the trenches, booking gigs every week or hustling nonstop to advance my performance career. I’ve done what I can to stay active: I release recordings, even if not prolifically. I maintain a solid Instagram presence. I post regularly on my blog. And I stay engaged in the musical discourse. It may not be the kind of discourse that gets critics excited—or furious—but I believe it speaks to the broader jazz community in a meaningful way.

I consider myself to be in a unique position because I know people who are still in the trenches—low- paying to no-paying gigs, scraping by, working day jobs outside of music—and I know people who are soaring on top. Playing the major venues, headlining the major festivals. And I just want to say: being a jazz star is not all it’s cracked up to be. People make a lot of sacrifices. It’s not like you get there and suddenly your life is a bed of roses. There are real challenges at that level too. Some sacrifice the opportunity to start families. Others forgo the stability of homeownership or fall behind in preparing for their senior years financially. The costs can be high, and the rewards—while meaningful—aren’t always sustainable or secure.

So you have to ask yourself: What am I really missing out on?

Of course, who doesn’t want a three-week tour in Europe? Who doesn’t want to play the major festivals? I’ve done those things. I’ve even been on a major label. And yes, it was a lot of fun. I do miss aspects of it. But I certainly don’t miss the travel. These days, flying feels like riding a bus with wings. It’s uncomfortable, draining, and airport security only adds another layer of stress. That old saying—the grass is always greener—definitely applies here.

The truth is, this path we’re on as jazz musicians isn’t linear. As an aspiring writer of fiction, I’ve written many stories, and what I’ve learned is that the finished version is rarely the story I set out to write. Things shift. Characters evolve. Plot points change. And yet, more often than not, the story becomes more profound because of that transformation. We can approach our careers the same way. Sometimes the version of success that finds you later in life is deeper, more grounded, and more personally rewarding than the version you chased in your twenties.

So what can we do? Here are a few ideas that have worked for me, and that I believe can work for others:

• Redefine your audience.
  Your circle doesn’t have to be the entire world. Sometimes ten people who are deeply moved by your music matter more than a thousand casual listeners. If my core base is a handful of horn players curious about attaching tubes to their instruments, I’ll take it.

  Mentor and collaborate.
  Your wisdom is gold to the younger generation. Sharing it not only helps them, it keeps you connected to the vitality of the music. When knowledge is lived—not just book-learned—we often underestimate the depth of what we have to offer.

  Build your own platforms.
  Blogs, podcasts, self-released albums, house concerts—these tools free you from gatekeepers. You don’t need permission to share your voice. I moved to New York during the height of the scarcity era, when getting heard meant selling your soul to the devil. Those days are over.

  Prioritize depth over breadth.
  Maybe you don’t release ten albums a decade. Maybe you release one every few years—but it’s honest, layered, and meaningful. That’s still a legacy. A career isn’t defined by sheer productivity. Depth carries more gravity than volume.

  Take care of the whole person.
  Music is central, but so are health, family, financial planning, and joy outside of music. Stability doesn’t kill creativity—it sustains it. Looking back, a Grammy on the mantle and twenty bottles of medication in the bathroom is not the life well-lived we should aspire to.

The music continues. And so do we. Not in spite of being over 50, but because of it. We’ve lived, we’ve seen, and we have something to say. And that—if we keep at it—is where the true power of our artistry lies.

Don’t Leave the Hype: How Art is the Light, Not the Applause

A lot of times our perception of ourselves—and of others—is shaped less by the truth and more by a narrative that the industry builds. Magazines, radio, television, movies, even the educational system all work together to tell us: this is the person leading the path, this is the legend of their generation, this is the artist doing the “important work.”

That has its place. Narratives can inspire, elevate, and bring attention to deserving artists. But there’s also a danger. The hype can give us a false sense of our importance—and, even more tragically, a false sense of our unimportance.

We see someone on the cover of a magazine and think: they’re the one making an impact. And if we’re not on that cover, we start to think: maybe I’m not making an impact. Without realizing it, we internalize the idea that our work doesn’t matter.

But that is simply not true.

When I look at my own career, I don’t play the major festivals. I’m not headlining the so-called “important” stages. I’m not being called to guest on the albums of jazz stars. Most of my gigs are in small venues in Brooklyn, often for twenty people, sometimes fewer.

And still—I say this with humility—my work is just as important as anyone gracing magazine covers or headlining festivals. I’ll put my contributions bar for bar, spirit for spirit, against theirs any day. Because the value of the work isn’t measured by how brightly the spotlight shines on it. The value is in the light you create where you stand.

Some of my greatest influences are musicians most people have never heard of. Folks you won’t see on magazine covers or topping polls. But their impact on my playing, my vision, and my development has been profound.

I think about Bob Rainey, a soprano saxophonist I recently performed with. In my opinion, he has the most expansive vocabulary of multiphonics on the soprano saxophone to date. When I first heard him, he wasn’t using multiphonics as a gimmick or an occasional noise effect—he was using them as part of an expansive language, the same way others use single notes. That completely shifted my perspective on what was possible.

That’s influence. That’s light.

And none of it happened at the Newport Jazz Festival, JEN, or the Jazz Journalists Awards. It happened in a room, on a stage, through the sound of one musician taking their craft seriously.

I can only imagine that I’ve had a similar effect on others. Maybe someone sees me working on a certain experiment, and it sparks a thought: I never considered that before. That ripple is real. And it doesn’t require hype. It requires presence, honesty, and a willingness to create light where you are.

Because the important thing isn’t to stand under the spotlight. The important thing is to create light where you stand—whether that’s in a packed hall, a neighborhood club, or a subway platform.

The hype fades. The light remains.

And one final word to the artist: you may not always get the affirmations you think you need to keep going. But you have to create and put your work into the world with the belief that it is reaching people, making an impact, and doing what it was meant to do. More often than not, your work is shaping lives in ways you may never see or imagine.

The Art of Engagement: Why Connection Starts Long Before the Music Drops

As musicians, we’re always putting something out into the world. Maybe a new recording, a performance, a presentation, or some kind of debut. We’re constantly giving, presenting, sharing. And we need an audience for that.

But here’s what often happens. and I think it’s a big mistake. We put everything into the creation of the work, and then, maybe a week or two before the release or performance, we go into panic mode. Suddenly we’re flooding social media with posts, ads, and reminders: “Come to my gig!” “Listen to my new album!” “Check out this project!”

Sure, sometimes this last-minute push gets results. But in most cases, it doesn’t work the way we want it to.

Why? Because many of us are trying to activate an audience we haven’t really been connecting with. We show up out of nowhere and say, “Hey, I need you to come to this thing,” but people aren’t always ready to listen. It’s not personal. It’s just that if they haven’t seen or heard from you in a while—if you haven’t been present—they’ve already been engaged by others who have.

Social media isn’t just a billboard. It’s more like a conversation that never stops. And if you’re not in the conversation, you’re not top of mind. When you’re silent for too long, you fall behind those who are consistently engaging. So when it’s finally your turn to announce something, you’re starting from the bottom of the feed—literally and figuratively.

Here’s a common scenario many of us can relate to. You’ve got a new recording coming out. You hire a publicist, hand them the materials, and say, “Hey, get people excited about this.” You write a check for several thousand dollars and sit back, waiting for the buzz to build.

What usually happens? Sure, most publicists will get you something. A few reviews, maybe a feature or two. It’s rare that they come up completely empty. But more often than not, what they deliver falls short of what you were hoping for. And let’s be real—you didn’t spend $3,000, $4,000, or even $5,000 just for a couple blurbs. So you walk away saying, “This publicist was terrible,” or “This whole publicity thing just doesn’t work.”

But here’s the hard truth: most times, it’s not the publicist’s fault. It’s yours.

You put all the responsibility on them and did nothing to build interest yourself. You treated them like a magician rather than a megaphone. And that’s a mistake. If you really want to benefit from hiring a publicist, you can’t expect them to create the spotlight. You have to be the spotlight. Their job is to amplify what you’ve already built. They reflect attention; they don’t create it out of thin air.

If the only thing you’ve created is the music, that’s not enough. You need to cultivate a sense of presence, context, and narrative around your work. That’s what people connect to. And that’s what makes a publicist’s job actually work.

When I think about the books that I publish, it’s rarely the case that they just come out of nowhere. I’m usually writing on my blog, engaging people with ideas, sharing thoughts as they develop. I’m giving people a steady sense of who I am as a writer, how I think, what I care about.

So when a book finally drops, there’s already a relationship in place. People recognize the voice. They say, “Oh yeah, I know that guy. I like his ideas. Let me check this out.” That’s the result of groundwork—of staying present, being visible, and building trust over time.

And none of that is about scamming people or tricking them into buying something. It’s not a hustle. It’s just an honest continuation of a conversation that’s already happening. That’s the key. Engagement isn’t about selling; it’s about sharing. It’s about staying connected in a way that feels natural, not forced.

There are plenty of ways to engage. One approach that musicians used to use more often, though it’s fallen out of fashion a bit, is the full-on crowdfunding campaign. You’d raise money for your project and, in the process, get people excited about the recording. Fans weren’t just emotionally invested—they were financially invested. They had skin in the game. And so when the project finally came out, they felt a sense of ownership. It mattered more to them because they were part of it.

Now, I’m not saying everyone needs to go back to those days or that crowdfunding is the only way to build connection. But it’s a great example of how involvement creates engagement. There are other ways to do the same thing, just in smaller and more casual ways.

You can invite people into your process. For instance, say you’re trying to decide on an album cover—post a few options and ask, “Hey, which one do you like best?” Or you’re stuck between a few different title ideas. Put them out there and ask for input. Or maybe you just had a photo shoot and you’re torn between a couple images. Ask your audience which one speaks to them.

These may seem like little things, but they go a long way. They’re not gimmicks. They’re honest ways of saying: “Hey, I value your input. You’re part of this with me.”

It shifts the dynamic from “Here’s my finished product, come buy it” to “We’ve been building this together.” And when people feel like they’ve been part of the journey, they’re far more likely to care about the destination.

At the end of the day, you have to decide the best way to get your music out into the world. But my main point is this: engagement doesn’t start when the CD is finished—it starts much earlier. You’ve got to bring people into the vault, into the process, long before the final product is ready. That way, you stay in the driver’s seat.

Don’t just hand over all your power, and your money, to a publicist and hope for the best. Sometimes the most effective strategies are free. They just require time, honesty, and a willingness to connect.

Thanks for reading.