Hey guys, I’ve had a little hiatus. I like to try to keep these impersonal and about stuff I’m interested in within the scene, but I’ve been reading more and more Substack pieces recently with people writing about heavy topics relating to their lives, and I’ve been inspired to go back to my roots. So let me be transparent.

I’m proud to announce that I’m on the verge of burning out🎉

I’m approaching 22 this December, National Skye Day, and it feels like my life recently has just been a series of conversations. I’ve had so many conversations recently about different things like career, relationships, being a woman, the political climate, the economic climate (yes, I’m Jaden Smith), and ultimately, it concludes with the question: what is actually going on? The adultification of Gen Z has been so swift and violent. I feel like there hasn’t been as much pressure for the younger gen to figure out life than now, and it’s almost this pressure to be more grown than your time, especially in the UK and especially as a person of colour. This insatiable need to have it together or seemingly have it. And look at what we’ve been up against: a gap in education due to a worldwide pandemic, university demanding earlier payment on loans, cost of living crisis, fewer homeowners, job crisis with more graduates than ever not finding work despite having qualifications, nightlife culture being seemingly dead with so many venues closing down, social media and every problem that it has brought upon us.

Currently, I’m writing this and listening to voice notes from a friend about eventual marriage, trying to navigate autonomy as a young woman, balancing studying, the importance of friends, the concept of being free, the relinquishing of certain privileges after you become a mother, and what type of partner aligns with all that. Not too long ago, I was finishing college. Even more so, I still feel in arrested development, where I’m cosplaying an adult. When did I get here and how?

Burnout and the creative industry

More of the thing that’s been on my mind lately is this shadow of fatigue from being in the creative industry and music. It genuinely feels like its own algorithm, and I have serious tiredness, like I’m in a constant NDA that it feels like I’m not allowed to talk about because it’s “a part of the journey” or someone wishes they were you. So don’t complain, and ultimately, that pressure makes you feel inadequate because somebody else is out with the same hours doing more work than you and manages to keep going. We shouldn’t feel all this weight, and it’s one of the few industries that we just accept it.

Earlier this morning, I was on the platform, halfway into my commute, and I genuinely thought about quitting, packing up all my dreams and shelving them. I thought back to an AI interview that I had just done for a major company I miraculously landed. I didn’t; I worked hard at my application, but we rarely hear yes, so it feels miraculous. I also got rejected by my dream umbrella company. I found myself comparing my answers to applications I’d seen online of other people going for the same thing, bright and bubbly people who equally have all these dreams and were pleading to the same company. I had received my invite to interview, and I spent the first day just staring in awe at the email, and the next day wondering what questions would be asked. I was so nervous that I forced myself to reply just before I went to dinner with my friend under time pressure. The questions that were asked, I literally talk about in casual conversation and this blog, even, about who’s on my radar, what I notice going on in the industry, and social media trends. But in that context, I felt like I fell flat. I can honestly say I wasn’t myself, even in my application prior; I consciously made the choice to straighten my hair to make my chances greater, which is an abhorrent thing to even think about, but I was trying so hard to be what they wanted to land this opportunity.

That’s a thing in itself, because often times when companies say “be yourself” as a Black person, they don’t want the real, they want the curated urban quota. They want the bubbly person who will assimilate well into their majority white spaces, which is something I’m overly conscious of. When you look at the people who eventually get these internships or high-paying entry jobs, they don’t look like me. It’s a white kid with usually no experience and always the same story of “falling into the industry” or even worse, they wanted to try something new. That level of confidence and naivety always gets the job, not the hungry person of colour who has struggled to get any opportunity to be in this space. And I think that reflected in my interview. Also, the fact that I wasn’t speaking to another human, there wasn’t time for me to pause and think. I knew there was a room of people going through videos, and my eye contact was going to be analysed through a camera lens as I grasped at all the pop culture and buzzwords that I could fit in 90 seconds. One of the last questions was along the lines of “what would it mean to work for us and this industry?” I was stumped. I never asked myself that question, and I didn’t want to regurgitate what hundreds of others had said, even though that is most likely what they wanted. It just left me thinking again about all the other faces that I’d seen, and do I even want it enough?

I often joke to my boyfriend about just being his trophy wife, this “soft” life and trad life culture being ever so present in social media and especially common mentality in women my age and ethnicity, as there is still a patriarchal, nuclear family model that feels like it needs to be upheld. But that wouldn’t make me happy, and as much as my partner would support me in that, he signed up for the go-getter and God didn’t seed these dreams in my head for me not to make it happen.

I genuinely sat with myself and thought about what life would look like even if I quit, and I realised there’s nothing else I can do, and more so, nothing else I want to do. I’ve only ever been drawn to the arts and culture, thought creatively, and I only like being around people who challenge my reality and make me feel like me. I like being under pressure, I like making ideas come to life and helping people become themselves, and essentially being a boss. I often say that I am inevitable. For those who read my first-ever entry and for those who get close enough to know me personally, everything that I’ve done and experienced just makes me the person in this space. Who else but me? Yes, of course, and it’s frustrating when people still don’t know your name. It almost feels like an algorithm in itself, like a funfair, and I’m watching a person win, but I’m on my fifth try, the audience looking at me in sympathy, and the attendant telling me to try again.

That brings me back to burnout. I’m literally one woman trying to do everything at once, running playlists, writing this blog, having dreams to start my own platforms, whilst neglecting it to help others run their own, taking odd jobs to create a track record of my talent, trying to post actively to show my achievements whilst trying to showcase my personality, doing a degree, balancing all that while being in a relationship and wanting everything I see in my head now. I always say my biggest fear is losing time, that’s why the stress feels worth it.

Okay, now to my own resolve. I think it’s been a month since I posted. It was a reluctant decision because again, I never want to stop. I had my schedule for myself; every Monday and Friday, I was going to share a piece of my brain, but I genuinely needed a break. So I parented myself and gave myself one. Nobody was holding a gun to my head to keep going. Then it was that epiphany of “I have a choice.” I’m chasing the prize of being coined a “pioneer” or “tastemaker” but it’s my own race to run. Now more than ever, I’m realising that all the decisions that I’m making currently are equating to a bigger picture ahead of me, which is hard to see when you literally don’t ever stop thinking, strategising and bargaining your hours.

A couple of years ago, I was 19, working at Shoreditch House, being made to scrape gum off staircases and serve drinks to whom I thought were the elite in the creative space: founders, artists, influencers, creative directors, and actors. I quit that job after a summer and said I’m not going back until I have a seat at these tables. I want to be the consumer, and I’m an important person with great ideas, better even. Fast forward to being 21, specifically to last week, it wasn’t my first time being back, but I got invited by an artist to have a meeting at the same place I would dread waking up for, to get my insight on the music industry. I wish I could peer into my past and tell that tired teenager that it’ll take some patience and she’ll get her seat, so I guess that’s what I’m being to myself now.

Another piece of advice that I give to myself and others, especially about self-doubt, is my philosophy that it’s a great thing. Often, we know who we are, how integral we can be, and that doubt is the fear of disappointing ourselves, not the lack of capability. That can paralyse a lot of us. I feel like everyone is regurgitating the same keep going, and I’ve heard it a lot, but coming from someone who’s literally tussling to get out of the bucket, the fear of staring up from the bottom needs to be motivation enough to find your strength.

Another one I’ve been really grappling with is that it’s not embarrassing to try. Not sure why it became normal to berate those who really want something. Most of our idols got to where they are because they literally wanted it enough to give it a go with the risk of complete failure. I’m a perfectionist, so I hate doing anything if I don’t know I’m the best, but that literally comes with learning. My partner always says to me, Failure is the first attempt in learning, so don’t be afraid and don’t let anyone deter you if you aren’t the best yet.

This was meant to be more about urgency culture, but I hope this was better.

Until next time,
Skye

Recently, I have been pitching my blog to a few zines, and in the process, I realised something. I never truly understood the importance of zines until I began trying to write for them.

At first, it just felt like another way to get my words out there. But the more I paid attention, the more it hit me. Zines are not just about publication, they are about preservation. They are about scenes, carving out space for themselves when nobody else will. They are scrappy and stubborn, but that is exactly what makes them powerful.

The mainstream internet, by comparison, is exhausting. Scroll long enough, and it feels like everything has been designed to drain you. It is optimised, tracked and smoothed out until it is just another sales pitch. Even the so-called authentic content is usually tested and polished until it loses all edge. It is hard to believe any of it is really for us.

That is why zine culture matters more than ever. A photocopied page stapled together in someone’s bedroom by a person who actually cares will always mean more than the latest hyper-targeted campaign. Zines are messy. They are tactile. They are unapologetically human. And in a world where creativity is constantly being mined for metrics, that rawness feels radical.

The roots of zines

Zines have always been tied to the underground. Punk in the late seventies and eighties had Sniffin’ Glue in London, which did not need glossy pages to matter. It just needed urgency. Black British communities created DIY publications to document nightlife, sound systems and racism when the mainstream refused to cover it. These were never extras or hobbies. They were survival tactics. They were ways of saying we were here, this happened, and you will not erase us.

That spirit has never gone away; it has only kept evolving. In the UK, zine culture now runs alongside a wave of independent magazines that still carry that same DIY heartbeat, even as some of them have grown bigger. The ones on my radar are Brick, Deeds, The Face, Culture Crypt, Prophet, Dazed, Culled, Notion, Clash, Sludge, ASBO, Karma, Trench and Crack. Some are heritage names while others are new voices, but together they build a living archive of UK culture that is always restless and always in motion.

I come across them daily on my feed. It feels like several channels of pure culture, constantly refreshing, with whole teams dedicated to keeping their finger on the pulse. That level of consistency and commitment is its own act of resistance in a media landscape that would rather chase algorithms than nurture real scenes. Scrolling through these magazines and zine-inspired feeds feels like my version of a daily paper. Instead of headlines built to please advertisers, I get culture in real time, told in voices that sound like my own community. It proves that the spirit of zines is still alive. They are simply taking new shapes.

My own zine habit

The way I digest zines has shifted. I do not always hold a physical copy in my hands anymore, though when I do, there is nothing like it. These days, a lot of the same spirit filters through Instagram carousels, Tumblr posts or even Twitter threads. Some might call that dilution. I see it as evolution.

Scrolling through a DIY collective’s Instagram, where they post scanned pages or rework old layouts into posts, feels like my version of a daily ritual. Except instead of being told what is trending, I get updates from scenes that are alive and scrappy. People are reviewing mixtapes, documenting club nights, or publishing poetry that would never land in the mainstream press. It is how I keep my ear to the ground.

That ritual, checking in with zine-style feeds, is my newspaper. It is the same intention. To stay connected to culture, to know what is happening beyond the mainstream, to read stories written in voices that sound like my own community.

The impact of zines

Zines are not just cute little booklets sitting in someone’s tote bag. They have a real impact. Entire artists and scenes have been lifted by zines long before the mainstream caught on.

When a zine covers a show, an EP, or even just a night out, it instantly legitimises it. It says this mattered enough to be written down. That small act of archiving can change how scenes are remembered decades later.

Many journalists, photographers and editors started in zines. What begins as stapled pages at a uni library can spiral into a career-shaping music coverage on a bigger scale, but with roots that remind them not to lose touch.

From queer raves to local MCs, zines have always platformed voices before they were marketable. By the time a record label or magazine pays attention, zines have usually been there documenting the sparks.

Picking up or contributing to a zine often feels like joining a secret club. You know the references, you see your people on the page, and you suddenly feel less alone in your taste, your identity, your politics.

Zines do not just tell stories. They actively shape them. Without them, so much culture would slip through the cracks.

Why they matter now

In 2025, zines are not nostalgia pieces. They are survival manuals. The UK music press is more algorithm-driven than ever. Playlists and TikTok trends dictate attention spans, and entire careers can be boiled down to engagement data. Zines push back against that flattening. They document smaller artists without waiting for a PR machine to make them worth covering. They keep marginalised scenes intact on their own terms.

Zines are not pretending to be objective. They are opinionated, sometimes scrappy, sometimes gorgeous. But they are always rooted in care. Care for a scene, care for an artist, care for a culture that does not get algorithmic oxygen. That is the opposite of the detached, SEO optimised writing that dominates the web.

And when everything online feels designed to vanish into the feed, a zine, whether printed and stapled or posted as a scrappy digital scan, feels like proof that you were here, that your scene existed, that your story mattered.

Because the internet forgets. Zines do not.

Until next time.

It’s been a long time coming, but 2025 feels like the year women DJs stop being the “exception” and start being recognised as the backbone of the UK scene. The rise feels even more important when you look at the bigger picture. UK nightlife is struggling hard right now. Since 2020, more than a quarter of late-night venues have closed. That’s hundreds of clubs and spaces gone, whole cities turning into what people are calling “night-time deserts.” With fewer places to dance, it’s the women DJs who are keeping the culture alive, holding the scene together when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

Women Who Built the Blueprint

Women have always been central to UK dance music, even when the spotlight didn’t shine on them. In the 70s, women selectors in Caribbean sound system culture were shaping the way bass-driven music travelled through London, Brixton, and beyond. They were the ones threading records together at block parties, making sure the community had somewhere to gather and move.

Fast forward to the 80s and 90s, and you’ll find women holding down pirate radio stations, keeping jungle, garage, and drum and bass alive when mainstream radio wouldn’t touch them. Female hosts and DJs weren’t just playing tunes, they were keeping whole cultures alive during a time when raving was being criminalised and marginalised. They risked fines, raids, and shutdowns to keep the airwaves open.

In the early rave and free party scenes, women DJs carved out spaces where experimentation thrived. From the acid house explosion to jungle raves in warehouses, there were women behind the decks setting the tone, even if the flyers rarely put their names in bold. Many of those stories slipped out of the history books, overshadowed by male figureheads who were given credit. But the DNA of the UK sound, from garage shuffles to jungle breakbeats, has always had women in it.

The Present: From Sherelle to Uncle Waffles

Take Sherelle, one of the loudest and most vital voices in jungle and footwork, bringing Black queer identity to the front of dance music. Or Jyoty, who came up on community radio and is now one of Europe’s most trusted selectors. Or Anz, whose sets flip between garage, techno, bassline, and her own productions without missing a beat.

Globally, you’ve got Uncle Waffles making amapiano a worldwide language, shutting down dance floors from Joburg to London. And DJ Cuppy, who’s carried Afrobeats from Lagos into the global spotlight. They show that women DJs are not just shaping the underground, they’re connecting cultures and building bridges across continents.

The Underground is Thriving

And then there’s the underground, which is buzzing with women carving out their own lanes. The Jozanamusci collective, with Mimi Rich, Katalysst, Adele Tondu, Yasmin, and Tori, is building spaces where women can shine without limits. My personal favourite is Lisa Keeks, who calls herself Motion Mama, moving between amapiano, soca, bouyon and more. Her sets feel like pure energy in motion.

There’s also XT1ANA, linking the underground with the alternative world and creating the Black British hall party, a whole new space for community. DJ Saph is another name shaking things up, pushing fresh sounds into rooms that might otherwise play it safe. These DJs are more than selectors; they’re community builders, rewriting what nightlife looks like from the ground up.

The Bigger Picture

What makes this moment even more important is the pressure on nightlife itself. With so many clubs closing, the space to experiment is shrinking, and lineups are becoming more competitive. Yet it’s women who are refusing to play by the rules, keeping the dance floor unpredictable, emotional, and open to everyone. Their presence feels like a counter-movement to the industry’s obsession with algorithms and safe bets. It’s a reminder that nightlife isn’t just about music, it’s about belonging.

Why Women DJs Matter in 2025

Women DJs matter because they remind us what nightlife is supposed to feel like. They’re breaking down walls that have kept dance floors predictable, male-dominated, and boxed into formulas. Instead of chasing algorithms or playing it safe, they’re taking risks, bending genres, and turning sets into stories. A Sherelle drop that makes a crowd scream. A Jyoty transition that makes you stop mid-dance just to clock how seamless it was. A Lisa Keeks blend of amapiano and soca that feels like stepping into summer, even in a dark London basement.

Their presence changes the room. There’s less ego, more connection. Less hierarchy, more collaboration. They turn DJing from a job into a conversation with the crowd. They’re showing us that the booth isn’t just about who can pull the biggest numbers, it’s about who can make a room feel alive. And in 2025, when clubs are closing and nightlife feels fragile, that energy matters more than ever.

The Future Belongs to Them

The most exciting thing about the rise of women DJs is that they’re not asking for permission. They’re not waiting for the industry to give them space; they’re building their own. They’re headlining festivals, running collectives, curating underground parties, and shaping the sound of tomorrow with no apologies.

And the sound itself is thrilling. It’s global, messy, and hybrid. It doesn’t care about borders or labels. From amapiano and bouyon to jungle, techno, garage, and Afrobeats, women DJs are blending cultures in ways that reflect the UK’s own identity — diverse, experimental, and impossible to pin down.

For me, being in the crowd at a Sherelle set or catching Lisa Keeks spin feels like stepping into the future of nightlife. You feel the history of UK dance culture in the basslines, but you also feel something brand new being born in real time. It’s a reminder that despite all the closures, despite the statistics that say the night-time economy is collapsing, the spirit of the dance floor is alive because women are carrying it.

The UK DJ scene in 2025 isn’t just surviving, it’s evolving. The question isn’t if women DJs will shape the next chapter; it’s how far they’ll take it. And honestly, I don’t think the industry is ready for just how big, bold, and unstoppable this wave is going to be.

So the future belongs to them. The only thing left to ask is: are we ready to follow their lead?

Until next time.

Recently, I’ve been really into Gunna and his newfound persona since his release from prison. He has leaned into a cleaner, more editorial look, dropped a new album that people are already calling sexy rap, and even started his run club, which has attracted a whole new wave of fans, including myself. Everyone has been saying Gunna is for the girls, and that made me think about something deeper. Rap as a whole has neglected the female audience for far too long, and it is wild to me that more male artists aren’t actively taking advantage of this.

It has long been known that the diehard fans of rap, the ones who buy the merch, the vinyls, and the expensive tour tickets, are often framed as white teenage boys. That’s another conversation entirely. But what about the women, the ones who don’t always get studied but who can both build careers and destroy them? When we look at artists who are just successful versus those who are superstars, there is one clear factor: women.

From the early greats like Missy Elliott, Lauryn Hill, Queen Latifah, Lil Kim, and Foxy Brown, the blueprint was always about taking control of your own sexuality, demanding equality, and refusing to be packaged by the industry. That foundation shaped the fandoms we see in 2025. Nicki Minaj and the Barbz, Cardi B, Doechii, Flo Milli, GloRilla, Coi Leray, JT, Latto, and Doja Cat all have fanbases that are relentless in their support. Their stardom is tied to how they empowered women and gave them something real to root for.

Comparatively, when we look at women who have failed to do this authentically, their careers often plateau. Saweetie comes to mind—her attempts at empowerment never quite feel natural. Ice Spice leaned heavily into her sexuality, but it quickly shifted into a kind of pick-me energy, and her trajectory feels stuck. Without genuine resonance with women, the ceiling arrives fast.

This is also why UK female rap has never truly taken off in the way it should. The scene has often neglected its own female audience. Instead of creating solidarity, women are pitted in active competition with men, building a genre that is far too male gaze-oriented. Looking back at grime, we saw flashes of brilliance from Nolay and Ms Dynamite. In more recent times, we have Little Simz, Enny, Cristale, Wohdee, BXKS, Ms Banks, Shaybo and others. But so much of the lyrical content circles around “you can’t look like me, you don’t get more money than me, I get more men than you.” That puts women into a hierarchy instead of a community. It makes it difficult for female fans to fully buy in and instead attracts an audience base rooted in competition. By comparison, US female rappers position their messages as “I look good, I get money, you could be me, you could stand beside me if you act like me.” That difference changes everything.

Now to the men who dominate the conversation. I say this to every rapper I ever get the chance to speak with: you must, and I mean must, gain the attention of women if you want to sustain yourself. The future is us. Look at Drake. His audience base is heavily women, and he leans into that without shame. He makes sexy rap, he writes melodies, he creates songs for getting ready, for nights out with the girls, for heartbreaks, and for wins. That’s a huge reason why he has become one of the most successful artists of our generation. Central Cee has done the same. From the moment he entered the scene, he carried the pretty boy image, and while his music appeals to hustlers, it also appeals to the women who want more, who dream of a softer life. The misogyny isn’t erased, but what girl didn’t want to ride around in a sprinter when that song hit?

When men only compete against men, they fall flat. That doesn’t translate into sales or long-term listeners. Often, the image built around criminality or “city boy” culture collapses because women don’t care about the politics. They care about how the music makes them feel. And when it feels right, that is what lands you a fan for life. Nobody is saying you need to change your sound—sexy rap isn’t for everyone. I’m one of the women who loves gritty, hard-hitting rap. But even there, you need to find ways to pull women into your universe.

Look at Dave and Stormzy. Their vulnerability has been key to their reach. When Dave wrote about women he loved or struggled to love, it gave his audience something real to hold on to. When Stormzy opened up about heartbreak and let the world in on his relationship with Maya Jama, it made his music feel that much more human. That vulnerability helped both artists tap into women in a way pure bravado never could.

And here’s the other side of it. If women can build their careers, they can also break them. Look at the scandals that have rocked male rappers. DaBaby’s comments, Tory Lanez’s trial, Kanye’s spirals. Once women grabbed hold of those narratives, the downfall was swift. The scorn of women is something you cannot run from. When women decide you are done, you are done. No rebrand can fight that collective rejection, and many have not been able to claw their way back.

Infidelity scandals are the most common. Future’s entire brand has been dragged for how he treats women. Offset nearly lost his place beside Cardi when his cheating scandals went public, and the only thing that saved him was Cardi’s grace. Even in the UK, Stormzy’s split with Maya Jama caused a dip in his standing. Fans, especially women, pulled back from him. It took years of accountability, vulnerability in his music, and a genuine rebuild for him to earn back that respect.

That’s the truth of rap in 2025. You can be the hardest, the most lyrical, the most respected in the streets. But if you neglect women, you will never be timeless. Because women are not just an audience, we are the audience. We create the captions, we run the TikToks, we pick the pre-drink playlists, we scream the lyrics at shows. We make songs into moments and moments into movements. Ignore the girls and you lose the game. Respect us, soundtrack our lives, and you secure something no chart stat can measure: cultural permanence.

Until next time.

Elmiene is one of those artists who feels both brand new and oddly familiar. Maybe it’s his voice — silky in that classic soul way, but never veering into retro cosplay. Maybe it’s the fact that he comes at music sideways, like it wasn’t supposed to be his life plan until suddenly it was.

He grew up in Oxford, the son of Sudanese parents, and originally went down the academic route. Music wasn’t the clear entry point. He’s said he didn’t imagine it as a real career path until fairly recently. But then came that viral cover of D’Angelo’s “How Does It Feel” — a song that could’ve easily crushed a lesser singer under the weight of expectation. Elmiene made it his own, and suddenly people started paying attention.

Since 2022, he’s been quietly building his résumé with singles and EPs that test out his range: the soulful centre of “Golden”, the more vulnerable edges of tracks like “Someday” and “Guess We’re Leaving”. Each release has felt like a sketch towards a bigger portrait, the kind of groundwork that shows patience in an industry obsessed with quick hits. And now, all that groundwork is leading somewhere: his debut album Heat The Streets, due September 5th, marks the point where possibility becomes something more concrete.

What’s interesting is his strategy so far. Elmiene hasn’t rushed. He hasn’t blown his whole sound on one big, glossy rollout. Instead, he’s built slowly — putting his voice in the right spaces, from COLORS sessions to stripped-back live performances, while letting the music speak for itself. That patience is why he still feels like our secret in the UK scene — like if you know, you know. At the same time, he’s already reaching platforms and audiences overseas, particularly in the U.S., where soulful R&B still has a strong cultural footprint. To be in both spaces at once — underground yet international — is rare, and speaks to the way he’s positioning himself for longevity, not just hype.

Here’s my take: I think Elmiene has genuinely brought back a smooth, sultry sound that R&B has been missing for a long time. His music feels like a throwback to a generation of soul and neo-soul that I never got to be a part of firsthand, but grew up hearing echoes of. Listening to him is like brushing up against that era — the richness of voices like D’Angelo or Maxwell — without it feeling like pastiche. And if D’Angelo is the U.S. reference point, Elmiene also taps into a British lineage that often gets overlooked, one that goes back to Omar. That same buttery tone, that same ability to sit in a groove and make it feel lived-in rather than performed — Elmiene carries that torch in a way that makes him feel both global and deeply rooted here.

For people like me, his sound is a way of entering a world we only just missed. For older heads who did live through that time, I imagine Elmiene feels instantly familiar, a reminder of when R&B put vulnerability and sensuality front and centre. That intergenerational quality is what makes him so compelling. He’s not retro, but he’s connected to lineage. He’s not chasing TikTok virality, but he can still stop your scroll. He’s building a catalogue that feels patient and deliberate — something you can live with, not just consume.

And in 2025, that feels especially important, because UK soul is quietly resurfacing. For years, the scene has lived in the margins — always respected, never quite given the infrastructure or spotlight it deserved. But now, between artists like Elmiene, Jorja Smith’s continued evolution, and younger voices weaving R&B into drill, jazz, and electronic textures, there’s renewed attention on what British soul can sound like. It’s not just a nod to Omar, Beverley Knight, or Mica Paris anymore; it’s a new wave where artists are finding ways to be both heritage and future-facing at once.

Elmiene sits at the heart of that resurgence. He’s proof that the UK’s soul tradition never died, it just needed new voices to reimagine it for a generation raised on streaming algorithms and micro-trends. His music isn’t afraid to be slow, intimate, or deliberate in a landscape that rewards the opposite. And that might just be his superpower.

I kinda like Elmiene because he feels like a possibility. The possibility that UK R&B can carve its own lane without playing by the algorithm’s rules. Possibility that an artist with Oxford roots and Sudanese heritage can rewrite the blueprint of what “rising star” looks like. Possibility that intimacy and nuance still have a place in a culture obsessed with spectacle.

And honestly? That’s enough to keep me listening.

Every year when Carnival comes around, people love to call it a “party in the streets.” Bright costumes, endless alcohol, speakers stacked so high they rattle your bones. And sure, it is a party, but it is also a protest, heritage, and survival.

I’m not at Carnival this year, and I have some reservations about it, but there is no way I could let the weekend pass without speaking on its influence. As a Caribbean girl myself with Jamaican and Grenadian roots, I wanted this Monday post to be a love letter. A reminder that Carnival isn’t just vibes for the bank holiday, it’s culture, it’s history, and it’s the foundation of the music Britain runs on today.

Carnival’s story starts with the Windrush generation. When Caribbean communities came to Britain after the Second World War, they brought their music, food, and traditions with them. But instead of being welcomed, they were met with hostility, racism, and violence. The Notting Hill race riots in 1958 made it clear that Black people weren’t safe in their own neighbourhoods. Out of that pain and resistance came the seed of Carnival.

In 1959, Trinidadian journalist and activist Claudia Jones organised an indoor “Caribbean Carnival” in St Pancras Town Hall as an act of defiance, a people’s art at the service of the people.” It was music and culture used as armour, a way to bring joy in the face of hate. By the mid-60s, sound systems started spilling into the streets of West London, led by pioneers like Rhaune Laslett and the local Caribbean community. What began as resistance became a tradition: Carnival as both celebration and protest, honouring heritage while demanding visibility.

Caribbean music isn’t just “influence”, it is the foundation. From back at yard came calypso, soca, and reggae, genres rooted in storytelling, rhythm, and community. Those sounds didn’t just stay in the Caribbean; they became the blueprint for what we now call British music.

Calypso’s sharp social commentary fed into the DNA of grime and UK rap. Soca’s high-energy rhythms live on in UK dance and club culture. Reggae laid the path for lovers rock which in turn shaped everything from punk bands like The Clash to the rise of jungle, garage, dubstep and drill. Strip back the layers of almost any UK genre and you’ll find that Caribbean bassline, that call-and-response, that rebellious spirit at the core.

And it’s not only about the rhythms. Even the attitudes baked into UK music trace back to the Caribbean spirit of rebellion. Carnival itself was born from the demand to be seen to exist loudly in a country that wanted us to be silent. That same defiance runs through grime, punk, jungle, drill, all genres that pushed back against a system that ignored or excluded them.

But there’s also beauty in it. Caribbean culture wasn’t just about resistance; it was about invitation. The dancehall, the sound system, the street parade, these weren’t closed spaces. They were about bringing people in, creating community out of chaos. That openness is part of why British music thrives today; it’s always been about inclusion, about blending, about taking root in shared joy as much as in struggle.

So aside from the politics and discourse that surrounds Carnival, I’m still endlessly proud of the young people who dance on floats and show out every year, the girls and guys who rock traditional costumes even when others call it “vulgar.” Music has evolved, tastes have shifted, but one thing is clear: Caribbean influence will never disappear. Every year, millions take to the streets carrying culture, rhythm, and joy with them. And me? I’m proud to be Caribbean.

Carnival isn’t just a party. It’s proof. Proof that Caribbean culture didn’t just touch Britain, it built it. Every bassline, every riddim, every sound system on those streets is a reminder that what we call “British music” wouldn’t exist without the Caribbean heartbeat running through it.

This is my love letter to Carnival because it’s the clearest reminder of what music really is: community, rebellion, joy. It’s not curated for the charts, it’s not polished for TikTok. It’s people shoulder to shoulder, moving as one, carrying the history of migration, struggle, and celebration in every bassline. The backbone. The blueprint. The culture that still refuses to be silenced.

It feels like Sasha Keable has been orbiting UK music forever. She’s one of those names you hear whispered with reverence, someone who has always been there, building, evolving, refusing to rush. I’ve written about her before, but with her new EP Act Right it feels like the right time to really talk about what makes her one of the most important voices in the UK right now.

The Journey: Ten Years in the Making

Sasha’s roots run deep. A BRIT School graduate, she came up in an environment that pushed out some of the UK’s most ambitious artists. She signed early with Disturbing London, the independent label founded by Tinie Tempah, which gave her the freedom to experiment before most artists her age were even thinking about longevity. That backing set the stage for her 2014 debut album The Black Book. Looking back, it was a bold start, especially for a young woman in an industry that often boxes R&B singers into one sound and spits them out.

Now, a decade later, Sasha is signed to Polydor, a subsidiary of Universal. It feels like the right pairing, matching her grit and independence with the kind of infrastructure that can finally amplify her ambition. Ten years in the making, she feels sharper, hungrier, and more herself than ever.

Influences You Can Hear, But a Sound That’s Hers

Sasha’s influences range from Donny Hathaway and Aretha Franklin to Marvin Gaye and Lauryn Hill, and you can absolutely hear that in her music. Her voice carries Hathaway’s warmth, Aretha’s fire, Lauryn’s emotional grit. But she is not just paying homage. Sasha leans into R&B while folding in hip-hop references and layering in something totally unexpected, with choir-like harmonies and orchestral swells. It’s cinematic, refreshing, and bigger than trends. In a UK scene that too often sidelines soulful voices, she feels like a refusal to disappear.

Act Right and the Sound of 2025

Her latest EP Act Right is the best representation yet of who she is as an artist. One of its standouts, Why, is one of the best UK R&B songs to come out of 2025 so far. It is the kind of track that makes you stop mid-scroll and actually feel something. Sasha’s voice here is at its peak: raw but never out of control, vulnerable but commanding. It is music that feels deeply personal and completely universal at the same time.

And it is not just the sound, it is the storytelling. Act Right feels like the product of a decade of lived experience, a decade of trial, error, persistence.

Rebrand, Roots, and Representation

What has been most exciting about Sasha’s recent years is her rebrand. She has leaned into her Colombian roots more than ever, and it feels like a breakthrough. Not just for her, but for the representation of the Latin community in the UK, which rarely sees itself reflected in R&B and soul spaces. It is a move that has given her artistry a new dimension, rooting her even deeper in her own identity while opening her up to new audiences.

A Voice That Stays With You

I have had the privilege of seeing Sasha live, and she is the kind of performer who lingers in your chest long after the show is over. There is emotion and passion in her voice that cuts through the noise of an industry obsessed with streams and algorithms. On stage, she is bubbly, outspoken, unapologetically South London. Her personality at times feels reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, but she is not a carbon copy. She is Sasha Keable, fully herself, carrying her own legacy in the making.

Legacy in Real Time

A decade into her career, Sasha is not chasing virality or fighting to fit into a box. She is proving that real artistry takes time. Every release feels like another brick in the house she is building, steady and intentional. And in a 2025 UK soul scene that is finally starting to resurface with energy and attention, Sasha Keable is not just participating. She is leading.

Sasha Keable is a legacy artist in the making. Ten years from now, we will look back at Act Right and realise this was the moment she fully stepped into her power.

Until next time.

Every week, a new artist is dropping, another TikTok sound that you need to know, and ten playlists shouting about the next big thing. It is exciting, but also exhausting. Sometimes keeping up with music feels less like fun and more like homework. I have been there, and honestly, the only way I stay ahead without frying my brain is by building my methods.

For me, playlists are the cheat code. On the radar and new release roundups keep me in the loop without feeling like I need to be glued to X the second a track drops. Then there is my own rule: if a new artist pops up on my feed, I never skip. I always give it a listen. Sometimes it is mid, sometimes it is magic, but either way, it keeps me curious. I even turned this into a little Instagram series where I share TikTok finds with my followers.

The other side of discovery is what happens in real life. Algorithms might feed you songs, but the real test is what cuts through at the function, or which tracks people keep reposting. Paying attention to those little signals from your peers says more about where culture is moving than a million playlists ever could.

I am not anti-algorithm either. Sometimes I will just let a DSP autoplay, whether it is Spotify, Apple, YouTube or whatever, and see where it takes me. It feels like digital crate digging, and you would be surprised how often it throws something unexpected your way. When I had more time, SoundCloud was unbeatable for rap and underground gems. One tip I picked up from an A&R that changed the way I discover music is making separate social accounts for different genres, so each feed gets cemented into a specific sound. Suddenly, your explore page becomes a personalised radio station for whatever corner you are digging into.

Another thing I take seriously is listening breaks. Sometimes it is a few days, sometimes it is a couple of weeks, where I will not actively chase new music; I just listen passively. It might sound silly, but being open to receiving music is just as important as hunting it down. Some of my best discoveries have come when I was not even looking, like hearing a pop song I loved while ordering food or stumbling across a melody in a random clip that led me to a new artist. Not everything needs to be calculated.

And I will say this: do not sleep on blogs. Music journalists are usually hunting for the first big break in publication. They will be the first to flag projects worth your time, often before the rest of the internet catches up. When they get excited about something, it is worth listening to.

Here is my theory: music is just another way of proving the old saying art imitates life, and life imitates art. It always reflects the society it comes from. The 50s gave us rock and roll rebellion. The 80s were soundtracked by disco and excess. The 2000s mirrored the celebrity phenomenon. The 2010s were a reflection of the social media era, with so many short-lived breakout artists and overnight virality. And now the 2020s feel like the era of the function, boundary-breaking, nostalgia-driven, with attention spans getting shorter by the day. Once you see music this way, it becomes easier to guess what might come next.

At the end of the day, the most important thing is protecting the joy. Music is not homework. It is not about proving you were first. It is about connection, fun, rebellion, healing, or whatever it means to you. If you are tired, please feel free to pause. Culture will still be there when you come back.

So staying ahead does not mean chasing everything. It means curating your methods, listening to your community, and trusting your taste. That way, you are tapped in without burning out.

Until Next Time.

Staring at the Blinking Cursor

I didn’t know what to write today. Most of the week was spent poking at half-finished drafts and getting lost in tabs I don’t remember opening. Suddenly it’s Friday, and the blinking cursor just stared at me, like, “Well?”

Earlier this week, I watched a video of Tyler, the Creator talking about his surprise release Don’t Tap the Glass. He said the album wasn’t conceptual, just songs he liked and wanted out. That stuck with me. It made me reflect on how I consume music now, and how albums are perceived in 2025.

I considered writing a review. Maybe sharing a playlist. But then I realised, I haven’t actually sat with an album in months. Which feels ridiculous, because music is basically my personality. But it’s true. I haven’t listened to anything all the way through in forever.

Part of my job involves understanding how people engage with culture, and I use myself and my friends as a test group all the time. How we listen to music, scroll, tap, skip, it’s not just personal, it’s also professional. It gives me a window into how Gen Z is really engaging with music, outside the marketing noise.

I remember counting down to album drops, listening track by track, headphones in, phone off. Focused. Now? I skim through albums, pull a few songs I like, and rinse those. The rest fades.

Somewhere along the way, that listening ritual slipped. Attention span shot. Dopamine loop in overdrive. I’ll press play on an album, and by the third song, I’m answering emails, muting group chats, and checking if someone smarter already has a take I can borrow.

So now I’m wondering—am I broken, or is this just the new normal? Is deep listening even a thing anymore? Or has the album been dissolved into singles, snippets, vibes? Has focused listening become a lost art like a burned CD in a glovebox no one opens?

Albums as Identity Markers

But maybe the album isn’t dead. Maybe it’s just mutated. Maybe we (Gen Z, or whatever’s left of the internet-native mind) don’t consume albums for the music anymore, we consume them for the aesthetic. The discourse. The vibe-assignment. The memeability.
An album now isn’t something you sit down with. It’s something you wear. It’s a badge. A moodboard. An alignment test.

Take brat. Charli XCX dropped a pretty solid record—some hits, some skips, but what really stuck was the green. The lowercase. The brat energy. You didn’t just listen to it, you became brat. It bled into outfits, TikToks, memes, captions, parties, playlists, and fonts. I’m still seeing that neon green in my dreams. The same thing happened with Call Me If You Get Lost. Tyler gave us a passport. The music was rich, lush, full of detail—but the visuals, the rollout, the world-building? That’s what stuck. That’s what people performed:

• Carti’s Whole Lotta Red did it in reverse. Everyone hated it for 48 hours, then it swallowed the culture whole. It wasn’t about the songs—it was about becoming vamp. Off the lean, red leather, upside-down cross emojis in your bio.

• Kendrick’s Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers? That was "I’m in therapy" core. People treated it like an identity upgrade.

• Travis Scott’s Utopia? A Marvel movie disguised as an album. IMAX rollouts, visual spectacle, stadium-sized energy. The music was a detail. And Summer Walker’s Over It? That heartbreak album that became the heartbreak era’s anthem, a soundtrack to late-night texts and peeling back old wounds. It didn’t just land—it landed on an entire generation’s moodboard.

I think Gen Z attaches itself to movements to make a wider push into actually delving into music. Would albums like Call Me If You Get Lost or brat have the acclaim or relevance they do without their conceptual side? It’s hard to say.

Imagining albums like one of my personal favourites, Back to Black by Amy Winehouse, makes it even clearer. Her songwriting was so personal and heart-wrenching at times, a rawness that felt intimate. But how would she have done if that album had been released in the current climate?
I can already see the niche community of music fans quietly commenting “she’s so underrated” sparsely under posts, while the broader conversation moves on too fast to notice.

Would her work still get that deep connection, or would it be lost in the noise?

How Social Media Shapes Our Listening

But it’s not just me. It’s not just attention span.
It’s the system we’re in. The way social media has turned music into content and albums into templates for performance.

Every new release is immediately broken down into moments—snippets for TikTok, captions for Instagram, reaction fodder for Twitter. Before the album’s even done playing, someone’s already screen-recorded the best lyric and slapped it on a video of a sad cartoon girl looking out the window. We don’t sit with the music, we repurpose it. It’s like the culture doesn’t ask, “how does this make you feel?” but instead, “how can you use this?” And artists know this. They’re not dumb. They’re designing albums for virality now. Engineered pauses for TikTok edits. Quotables front-loaded in the tracklist. Stylised rollouts that make you feel like you’re joining something, not just listening. Which, sure, is smart marketing, but it also kinda kills the mystery. The slowness. The intimacy.

We can also watch endless coverage on any project before we even hear a single note. A project that’s been in my circulation recently is Jim Legxacy’s Black British Music. Before I had the chance to hear the first song, there were already reviews, takes, and a public consensus built for me, and for the standard music listener.

From a sociology perspective, this is a classic example of social proof: it’s easier to rely on the crowd’s judgment than to sit and form your own opinion. In a world flooded with information and opinions, conforming to the collective narrative feels safer and faster than digging deep on your own.

It’s all so fast now. If an album doesn’t immediately dominate the timeline, it’s seen as a flop. If you’re not participating in the discourse by day two, you’re late. No time to reflect, only time to post. And if an album does catch fire? It’s almost worse, because then it gets flattened into an aesthetic. A personality quiz. A 15-second vibe looped to death until nobody wants to hear it ever again.

So yeah. Maybe the album isn’t dying.
But it’s not breathing the same air it used to.

Not Against Social Media — It’s My Bread and Butter

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against social media. It’s my bread and butter. It’s how I keep a pulse on culture, how I find new music, and how artists build community.

Social media does have huge advantages. It amplifies voices that might never get heard otherwise. It lets fans and artists connect directly, without gatekeepers. It creates movements and moments that feel electric and real.

But it also means music consumption is faster, more fragmented, and more performative. We engage with albums through social media as much as through sound. That changes how albums are made, marketed, and received.

Understanding this ecosystem is crucial, not just as a fan, but as someone who lives and breathes this culture every day. That’s why I’m fascinated (and sometimes frustrated) by how Gen Z takes in albums today.

Let’s be honest, the music industry really wants another girl group to dominate this decade. You can feel it. They’re practically force-feeding us new trios and quartets with glossy aesthetics, soft-launch singles, and suspiciously smooth media training. Every few months, there’s another “next big thing,” and yet, none of them seem to land the way they used to. Something’s missing.

Remember when girl bands didn’t just sell songs — they sold identity? Eternal. Spice Girls. Atomic Kitten. Sugababes. Girls Aloud. These groups didn’t just dominate charts; they lived rent-free in our heads and hearts. They were chaos and charm, tabloid drama and sisterhood, glitter and grit. Their music was the soundtrack to growing up, going out, and dealing with life. Now? It feels like we’re watching try-hard TikToks in PR-filtered packaging.

A Shout-Out to the Fallen Ones of the 2010s

Before we get to today’s contenders, it’s important to remember the girl groups who had the talent and potential but somehow got lost in the shuffle. Stooshe, for instance, were vocally talented and had undeniable charisma, but came up at a time when the UK music industry still didn’t quite know what to do with Black women in girl groups. They were too bold and authentic to be ignored, yet not fully supported enough to break through properly.

Then there was Neon Jungle, a group that could’ve been the UK’s first major EDM girlband sensation. Their energy and raw sound were festival-ready and fresh, but they fizzled out before building lasting momentum. These groups remind us that timing, representation, and label backing are just as crucial as talent.

Manufactured Isn’t the Problem — It’s the Magic That’s Missing

Let’s not kid ourselves. Girl bands have always been manufactured to some extent — that’s pop music. But what made them work was the alchemy: the clash of personalities, the drama, the moments when things almost fell apart. We loved watching them rise because we saw the struggle. These girls started from real places, often with messy auditions or second chances (or third if you’re a Sugababes fan). We voted for them, cried when they broke up, and watched Britain’s Got Talent or The X Factor like it was gospel.

Now? The new wave of girl groups seems to skip the “becoming” part entirely. They pop out like AI-generated avatars. Pretty. Polished. Insta-ready. But where’s the story? Where’s the girl-next-door energy, or the underdog arc that made us root for them in the first place? We used to get The Bad Girl. The Sweet One. The Funny One. The Star. The Unfiltered One. Today’s groups are giving... marketing strategy. And with the decline of families watching Saturday night telly together and voting for their favourite underdogs, we’ve lost that communal buy-in. These girls aren’t ours anymore, they’re the label’s.

The Curse of “The Beyoncé vs. Michelle”

Let’s also talk about the unspoken truth in every girl band — the Beyoncé question. Who’s going solo first? Who’s getting the best lines? Who’s the media darling and who’s quietly getting pushed out? UK girl bands have always had messy internal politics, and it’s honestly part of their mythos. Sugababes practically had a revolving door policy. Girls Aloud stayed iconic despite barely hiding their mutual loathing. The Saturdays played it safer but never quite cracked the full culture code. It was always a fight to be the main girl, whether we admitted it or not.

But drama only works when there’s music to back it up. Hits that stain the charts. Songs with hooks that tattoo themselves into your brain. That’s what gave girl bands’ staying power — not just the group dynamic, but the bangers. From “Push the Button” to “Sound of the Underground,” “Whole Again” to “Black Magic,” the music hit. And let’s be real, the current crop isn’t there yet.

FLO, Saynow, and the Nostalgia Trap

That brings us to today’s leading contenders: FLO and Saynow. Both are technically brilliant. FLO, with their tight harmonies and Destiny’s Child-coded branding, are almost too perfect. They’re practically reverse-engineered for success. And Saynow? They’re channelling early Sugababes with a slick R&B sound and nostalgic vibes. But here’s the catch: they’re both swimming in retro. We’re seeing the same silhouettes, the same sonic palettes, the same tropes.

Is nostalgia all we’ve got left?

Labels seem to be grasping at formulas that worked in the past, hoping lightning will strike again. But culture doesn’t move by copy-paste. Destiny’s Child wasn’t legendary because they sounded retro; they were ahead of their time. Sugababes weren’t iconic just because they were young — they were messy, real, and unique.

So What Does the Future Look Like?

If we want the next great girlband to matter, we need more than curated Instagram feeds and nods to the past. We need mess. Personality. Something a little raw. We need girls who aren’t just “giving 90s” — we need girls who are 2025. We need a group that feels like it was formed in school bathrooms and WhatsApp chats, not label boardrooms. A group we can see ourselves in.

Because the truth is, girl bands were never just about music. They were about friendship, identity, and survival. And right now, the fandom isn’t dying, it’s just waiting for something real to believe in again.

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We’re living in an era where everyone posts the win, not the work. You open your feed, and it seems like everyone’s blowing up overnight — 100k streams in a day; a BRIT performance; a “surprise” tour sell-out. The timeline can make it feel like success is a race, and you’re already late. Especially in music, where the industry has long prioritised the young, the new, the viral. But that era? It’s cracking. The age race is fading, and the artists who’ve taken the long road, especially here in the UK are finally getting their dues.

Because while the U.S. pop machine has long groomed its stars from Disney sets and childhood talent shows, the UK has always had a grittier, more DIY path; often less polished, but more rooted in raw talent, more soul, more struggle. Still, even here, the same pressure existed: pop young, or don’t pop at all.

But now, the scene is shifting. Slow growth isn’t just accepted — it’s respected. And the best UK artists are living proof.

Take RAYE. Born and raised in South London, she signed as a teen; shelved and suffocated creatively by her label. She was writing for others, dropping singles with no album in sight. Most people would’ve faded. RAYE fought back. She walked away, went independent, and dropped My 21st Century Blues — one of the most powerful UK albums in recent years. It was soulful, sharp, painful, and honest. It didn’t just win awards; it made the whole industry eat its words.

Or Little Simz — North London’s quiet powerhouse. She never begged for attention; she just stayed consistent, evolving from mixtapes to Mercury Prize-winning albums without ever chasing mainstream validation. Her artistry is rooted in truth. Albums like Sometimes I Might Be Introvert weren’t just sonic statements; they were autobiographies. She didn’t blow up overnight; she built a legacy. Silently. Intentionally.

Then there’s Sasha Keable, one of the UK’s most slept-on voices. Her vocals are heavy with feeling; her writing, unfiltered. She’s been in the game for over a decade, moving through label shifts and industry changes, but the music has only gotten better — richer, deeper, more her. You don’t rush that kind of artistry; you live into it.

Even artists like Jorja Smith have grown through quiet persistence. After the hype of early singles and co-signs, she didn’t try to outpace the noise; she slowed down, found her footing. Her recent work is more mature, more textured, and less interested in approval. That’s evolution, not just musically, but personally.

Coco Jones and Victoria Monét deserve their flowers too, but let’s be clear: the UK has its own lineage of late bloomers and long-haul queens. Artists who didn’t fit the shiny debut narrative; artists who weren’t viral, but valuable. Even pop-adjacent artists like Sabrina Carpenter and Leon Thomas, though American, reflect what many UK acts experience: years in the background, slowly mastering their voice before the spotlight ever finds them. That’s where real artistry brews.

Because here’s the thing in 2025: the scroll is endless; content is everywhere. Attention is a currency, but it's inflating by the hour. The only thing that cuts through now, the only thing that lasts — is substance. That’s why these slow burners are finally winning. They built their sound, their voice, their identity over time, and now, they’ve got the stage and the story.

So if you’re a UK artist reading this, wondering if your time’s passed or if the world will ever catch up, don’t let the algorithm gaslight you. You’re not behind. You’re becoming. You don’t need to be viral to be valuable; you don’t need to be young to be next.

You are not late. You are right on time.

Stop waiting for your flowers, plant your garden. Grow your craft; protect your peace; build your audience, brick by brick. Because when it’s your time? You’ll be undeniable. Not because the industry says so, but because you’ll have something they can’t manufacture: truth, depth, and staying power.

This isn’t about trends; this is about legacy. And that takes time. Keep building.

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I didn’t set out to become a tastemaker. I was just a girl in her bedroom, obsessed with UK neo soul, curating songs that made me feel held. That’s it. no strategy, no “content plan,” no idea what I was doing—just a deep love for the genre and a need to share it. Fast forward, and now artists are emailing me asking to be added. wild.

It started with a niche and a passion. I wanted to amplify a sound that felt underrepresented and deeply human. This wasn’t just playlisting for vibes, it was about building community. a space where under-the-radar artists could live next to more familiar names without losing the plot.

curation wasn’t just a drag-and-drop situation either. It took real digging. I scoured blogs, fell into social media wormholes, stalked obscure playlists, and cross-referenced everything. You start to notice patterns, names that show up in different corners of the internet, sonic threads that quietly connect emerging scenes. It's a little obsessive, a little chaotic, and necessary.

Once I had a bank of tracks, it became about how they lived together. What’s the mood? Who’s pressing play, and where are they? Are they on a long drive? cleaning their flat? half-asleep with headphones in, romanticising their life? For me, I wanted something that leaned into easy listening. something warm and soulful, soft on the ears but rich in feeling.

So I started light—Kwaku Asante, Sam Wills, a little Jorja Smith, and Morgan Monroe. smooth intros, vocals that glide. And then, once the trust is built, once you’re in that mellow headspace, I start sliding in the lesser-knowns. deeper cuts. more underground artists. By the back half, you’ve gone from passive listening to full immersion without even noticing. That’s the goal. Good curation is invisible.

Then there’s the stuff no one talks about but absolutely matters: the title, the cover art, the branding. I kept the name pretty standard, “uk r&b” and “uk rap” tend to hit the algorithm sweet spot, but honestly, you can go niche as hell if you want. “neo soul for a rainy walk home,” “music that feels like velvet couch therapy,” whatever. Just know who you’re speaking to. Make it specific, or make it searchable. sometimes both.

And the cover? Don’t overthink it, but don’t ignore it either. People scroll fast. Visuals matter. Pick something that feels like the genre. Or go one step further and add your own tag to keep it looking intentional. You’re not just making a playlist, you’re building a brand—even if it’s just for the love of it.

And somehow, it worked. 600+ saves with zero promo. No ads. No TikTok push. Just organic growth from people connecting with it. which honestly feels kind of rare in a time when everything is screaming for attention.

If you’re thinking of starting your own playlist, here’s the only advice that matters: care. Care way too much. build something you’d listen to on repeat. obsess over transitions. romanticise the process. Think about the people pressing play. Playlist isn’t passive; it’s emotional storytelling through sound.

The numbers are nice. The emails from artists are flattering. But the best part? knowing you made something that lands in someone’s day and makes it feel just a little better.

As always, repost, share, and follow me everywhere
@skyerozhay — you already know the vibe.

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Hey guys—it’s been a minute. You know this is fresh off the brain because Wireless Weekend just wrapped, and even though I didn’t attend, I’ve got a lot to say.

Now let me be real from the jump: I’ve never really been a Wireless head. The energy has always felt chaotic, the lineup hit or miss, and the experience? More stress than joy. But this year, something shifted. For the first time, I had major FOMO, and not necessarily for the music; it was the coverage that made me feel like I was missing out. The way festivals are experienced now has changed massively. We’re no longer watching performances, we’re watching people experience them, and if those people are smart, funny, well-dressed, and know how to hold a phone (and a mic), we’re locked in.

The traditional presenter is fading. No shade, but the era of “Hey guys, welcome back to the stage…” is giving legacy media. What hits now is someone who can switch from interviewing an artist to fixing their lashes to running backstage content all in one TikTok. Influencers are the new presenters—whether they’re getting paid for it or not. They’re not neutral, they’re not scripted, and that’s the point. They’re us, just with better wristbands and better lighting. This year’s Wireless felt intimate because the people covering it made it intimate. The moments I cared about? The green room check-ins, the random VIP shoutouts, the fits, the rants, the GRWMs, where people were still applying lashes in traffic. That’s the version of a festival that feels real in 2025.

One platform that got this right? Snapchat. Their SnapNation collab with Live Nation gave us one of the smartest plays of the weekend: unfiltered, exclusive, behind-the-scenes content that wasn't just the same tired main stage shots. We saw NOCTA drops, lowkey backstage vibes, performances that didn’t make the livestream, and private parties with names you didn’t even know were on-site. It felt like access, not advertising. While every other platform pushed recycled clips and brand-heavy reels, Snapchat gave us the stuff that felt like a secret. And when you’re watching from home, that’s gold.

Musically? It was solid but safe. Yes, we got Skepta, Central Cee, Dave, and J Hus, and no one’s mad at that. It was a clear, respectful nod to the pillars and the new wave of UK rap. But it also felt like a lineup made in a group chat where everyone was afraid to take a risk. These are artists we’ve seen headline before, and while they always deliver, the moment Wireless had to do something different to push rising talent, to showcase the next AG, Unknown T, or Cristale, they didn’t take it. As someone who lives for the UK scene and champions it every chance I get, it felt like a real missed shot. This could’ve been the year to fully shift the narrative, to plant a flag for emerging voices and say: “We’re not just following trends—we’re building the next ones.”

Speaking of building, let’s talk about DJ AG. There was some online backlash around his appearance this year, which honestly confused me. If you know even a bit about the behind-the-scenes of UK rap, you know this man has been instrumental in bringing artists to stages before they were even recognised by mainstream outlets. He’s helped shape the careers of some of the very people headlining this year, often for free. So when people questioned why he had a spot, it felt like they’d missed the assignment completely. This wasn’t about hype or clout. It was about legacy. He earned that moment not just through visibility, but through years of groundwork. If we’re going to talk about giving flowers, that was a bouquet well overdue.

The bigger picture? UK music is in its best era yet. We’re not just surviving, we’re scaling. We’ve got our stables, our sounds, and finally, the infrastructure to support both. Look at producers like DJ AG but also managers, engineers, and even media platforms, who are ensuring UK artists don’t just peak locally and fade. We're done borrowing from the US. We’re building our own global story. From drill to grime to Afro-fusion, our scene isn’t reacting to the world anymore—it’s leading it. Artists are crossing over, not because of label deals, but because the internet (and the streets) are backing them. Festivals like Wireless have a responsibility to reflect that, not just with safe bookings, but with a clear vision.

This year proved something big: the presenters don’t move the culture anymore—the crowd does. The creators, the fans, the unfiltered opinions, and spontaneous stories, that’s what gives a festival legs in 2025. And honestly? Wireless looked good this year. But if it wants to stay relevant, it’s going to have to start betting on the people who shape the scene, not just the ones who sell tickets. Because from where I’m standing (or, let’s be honest, scrolling), the real stage isn’t in Finsbury Park. It’s on your feed.

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Thanks to everyone new around here! Writing a blog is proper tea, but let’s get straight to today’s topic — streaming.

It’s not dead or broken, in fact, it’s booming. In 2024, UK music consumption hit a 20-year high. Streaming now makes up over 80% of music sales, and the younger crowd—nearly 8 out of 10 people aged 15 to 34—are streaming music every week. So if you’re an indie artist thinking, “Who’s actually listening?” trust me, they are, and they’re streaming a lot.

The UK music market grew by almost 5% last year to £1.49 billion. Vinyl is making a comeback (because some folks love that retro feel), and here’s a cheeky prediction: CDs might have their little revival soon. It’s like vinyl all over again, but with a different shiny disc. Sometimes people want something physical in their hands, yeah?

Now, if you’re thinking, “I’ve only got a small fanbase, how can I make streaming work?” don’t stress. Streaming platforms use AI-powered personalisation, meaning they study what listeners like and push music straight to people who’ll actually vibe with it. It’s not about having millions of followers, it’s about reaching the right ones. And the data you get from Spotify for Artists or Apple Music for Artists is proper gold. You can see exactly who’s listening, where they’re from, and even what time they’re most active. That’s your cue to engage or plan shows where the interest is hot.

One thing that’s often missed is the power of pre-saves. If you’re dropping a project, getting fans to pre-save your release is huge. It’s like giving yourself a heads-up, so you can track how many people are genuinely hyped before the music even drops. This engagement signals to algorithms that your music matters, and that can push your release further on playlists. Think of it as your little squad rallying before the big game.

Listen, no one’s got all the answers, not even the big dogs running labels and streaming platforms. We’re all figuring this out together as the game keeps changing. It’s messy, it’s confusing, but it’s also exciting. You don’t need to feel lost or left behind. Keep putting in the work, and trust that learning to navigate this world is part of the hustle.

Don’t get discouraged if your monthly listeners aren’t sky-high. Streaming rewards consistency and authenticity. Keep putting out music regularly, be yourself, and those smaller, loyal fans will stick around and grow. Plus, your music could be getting streamed in places you wouldn’t expect—from Peckham to Paris, Tokyo to Toronto—because the world is yours (Shoutout to Nas).

And there’s more to this than just streams. Sync deals, where your tracks get used in TV, ads, or films, are at an all-time high. Public performance money from radio and TV in the UK also hit record numbers last year. So there are plenty of ways to earn beyond just playing.

So yeah, streaming can feel tough, but it’s one of the best ways to get your music heard today. You don’t have to be a superstar—just smart, consistent, and ready to play the long game.

If you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed, remember we’re all learning here. The system isn’t out to get you. It’s waiting for you to figure out how to work with it. Keep grinding, keep releasing, and don’t forget to think global. And who knows? Maybe one day your CD will be the next vinyl.

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Let’s talk about R&B for a second — the enigma. The genre people swear they love but rarely support in the same way they do pop, indie, or even rap. And UK R&B? It’s constantly questioned. “What is it?” “Where is it?” “Why isn’t it bigger?” But here’s the truth: UK R&B doesn’t lack identity — it just doesn’t give you what you’re used to.

Globally, R&B has shifted. We’ve moved past the era of big vocal power ballads and straight-up yearning. It’s more sultry now, more layered, more emotionally complex. It leans into vulnerability, but not always in a way that’s easy to digest. It sounds like overthinking. Like late-night honesty. Like unresolved feelings. It’s not always pretty or clean, but that’s what makes it real. And maybe that’s the problem — maybe the world just isn’t ready for music that doesn’t beg to be liked.

In the UK, especially, R&B doesn’t follow a formula because it can’t. The demographic makeup here is too diverse for one sound to dominate. We’re talking Caribbean roots, African influences, South Asian textures, city grit, soul heritage, gospel echoes — it’s all in the mix. Artists like Sasha Keable, Elmiene, Jaz Karis, Ama Lou, Shae Universe, Nippa, Kwaku Asante, Ego Ella May, Sampha, NAO, Nia Smith, Odeal, Nolais, Mahalia, Ella Mai, Sinead Harnett, Ray BLK, Emma Vie, Cleo Sol, IAMDDB, Sekou, KWN, Jvck James, Scribe Riley, Kaleem Taylor — all doing R&B their way, all different, and all valid. If you’re still waiting for it to sound like early 2000s radio hits, you’ve already missed the point.

What’s frustrating is that despite the talent, R&B artists often don’t get the same infrastructure or patience. Pop gets the marketing. Indie gets the festival slots. Rap gets the cultural momentum. R&B artists are left to push uphill, sometimes with more talent than anyone else in the room. And because it doesn’t immediately chart or fit a neat algorithm, it gets overlooked. But that’s not a reflection of the music. That’s a reflection of the industry.

Still, R&B survives — and evolves. Because the genre isn’t built on trends. It’s built on feeling. And in a time where everyone’s performing something, R&B still dares to be honest. Whether it’s quiet confidence, emotional chaos, or calm desire, it gives space for things that don’t have simple resolutions. It’s music you grow with. Not everything has to be instant.

So, no — UK R&B doesn’t need to be rebranded. It doesn’t need a breakthrough moment. It is the moment. It just refuses to shout for your attention. You either get it, or you don’t. And if you don’t, that’s fine — the scene will keep moving, with or without the industry’s validation. Because the truth always cuts through. And R&B has never been afraid of telling it.

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There was a time when the release of a music video meant something. It wasn’t just content — it was an event. New singles would drop through the video, not as a separate thing. Whether it was MTV, 106 & Park, or YouTube’s homepage at 6 pm sharp, we’d sit and wait. That premiere moment carried weight. And yeah, I’ll admit, I missed the Channel U era (shameful, I know), but I do remember what it felt like to see a new video and instantly feel the impact.

Now? That structure’s vanished. We’ve replaced music TV with TikTok loops, countdowns with swipe-ups. Podcasts break down songs before the artist even drops visuals. CapCut edits take 10 minutes. Canva handles the artwork. Everyone’s doing everything, which is impressive, but the intent has been lost in the speed of it all. And here's the part nobody wants to say out loud: most music videos today prioritise quality over intention. Cinematics, drones, crisp slow-mo — but what’s the point? Just because it looks good doesn’t mean it lands. You can have a 4K camera and still say nothing.

Music videos used to tell stories. They had characters. A mood. A reason to exist. Now it’s mostly “aesthetic shots” with no soul. And yeah, attention spans are short, but people still care when something’s good. What’s missing isn’t budget — it’s vision. Ironically, in 2025, when tools are more accessible than ever, a lot of artists are less intentional with the visual side. It’s all high-quality content, but very few are building a world.

That’s why I’m paying attention to the artists coming out of the UK right now. The videography energy here is different. You’re seeing more rawness, more texture, more risk. A lot of the newer UK acts are embracing grimey handheld footage, lo-fi cuts, and storytelling again — and it’s working. It’s connecting. It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s felt. Not overproduced. And in a landscape where everyone’s trying to look polished, being real cuts through.

So yeah, Gen Z’s obsessed with nostalgia, but it’s not just for the aesthetic. It’s about missing meaning. Long-form videos might not dominate the charts again, but they’ll always matter when they’re done right. Because when an artist uses visuals to actually say something, not just to fill space or follow a trend, you feel it. You remember it.

We don’t need to rewind the industry. But we do need to stop mistaking sharp visuals for substance. In a time when everyone’s got access to the same tech, the difference will always be the intention. That’s where creativity’s headed — not back in time, but back to meaning.

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I’ve been called “industry” before. You know the tone—half joke, half accusation, fully unsolicited. But I carry myself like someone important because I am. Not because I’ve made it (I haven’t, yet), but because I truly believe I’m inevitable. I know what I bring to the table, even if the room hasn’t caught up yet.

But before all that, I was very much on the outside looking in. I wanted to be part of “the scene” but didn’t know how to find the door, let alone knock on it. Shout-out to my friend KD—he changed that. He brought me to everything: gigs, community events, parties—until eventually I found my own spaces that resonated. printedincolour_ really gave me that space to be myself and feel seen. And while these people are rare, they do exist. Don’t wait for someone to find you—just immerse yourself. Be willing to do it scared, do it alone, or forever hold your peace.

Now I know some of you are reading this thinking, “But Skye… where do I even find these places?” Your best friend is social media. Also—some light stalking. Go through people’s following lists, check who’s tagged in events, look at TikTok location tags, and find that common third space. Go to that event that only has 100 views on TikTok but looks like a vibe. Take a chance. Hit or miss, you’ll find someone. Every friendship or opportunity I’ve gained has been because I simply showed up with an open mind.

Here are some spaces that are on my radar right now:
@printedincolour_
@_dacommunity
@iheartmotions
@crosstalksounds
@kollabnetwork
@ourppls
@beaubeausmusicclub
@rspacenetwork
@turtlebeyondtheshell
@prettytwistedlive
@blackbritishhallparty

Be nice to everyone you meet. That sounds obvious, but it’s actually so uncommon. This scene is small, and people remember kindness. Just don’t twist yourself into someone else to be liked. If a space doesn’t feel right for you, it probably isn’t. Prioritise your peace. You never want to lean into being fake, and a lot of people fall into that trap, thinking that’s how you “get in.” It’s not. You get in by being solid, respectful, and consistent.

Let’s talk networking. It’s not about fake laughs and forced convos. Real networking is about intent. Not everyone is your friend, and not everyone has to be. Some relationships will be transactional. That’s life. The way around that? Surround yourself with people on your level. Those are the ones who will rise with you.

Also, don’t judge a book by its follower count. Some of the most important creatives I know aren’t viral, but they’re consistent and have taste. If you vibe with someone’s work, tell them. Be human. Don’t try to climb your way into the scene—build sideways first. That’s where the real foundation lies.

A really good way to stay motivated when networking? Make it a game. I’m someone whose social battery drops so fast, but my rule is simple: I leave every event with one new contact. That’s it. If I do more, great. But one person is the goal.

If you’re reaching out to people who are further ahead, don’t overcomplicate it. Send that DM or email. Be short, specific, and passionate. Then follow up. Think about all the stuff you miss in a day. Now imagine someone juggling an entire label, marketing, sync, and licensing department. Don’t take it personally—just be consistent.

There is always someone in your field who wants to help someone like you, but you’ve got to show up first. Be brave enough to speak up and have the work to back it. No one is going to see the vision unless you show it. Start messy if you have to—but start.

Since I’m the social media girl in music, for the artists trying to get their music heard? Make a press kit. I’m talking:

• One good..ish picture

• A short description of who you are

• Two or three songs you actually like

Then spam it to playlists, DJs, and if you’re bold, radio stations. As someone who’s curated submission-based playlists, I can tell you right now: the people I platformed put effort into. I’m talking clean links, clear info, and energy that made me go “ooo,” not just “hey, give this a chance.”

If you’re less established? Same advice, but double down on DJs. We’re in a moment where they’re becoming gatekeepers again. I don’t hate it—it’s nostalgic and it’s local. Use radio when you’ve got a proper project out, something people can follow up on. But Curators & DJs will always be the entry point to the scene’s ear.

And remember to keep pushing. Some people are just for a season—and that’s okay. You’ll learn from each connection. But not everyone is meant to stay forever. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t valuable.

Finally, a shoutout to @hollymattin, one of the best singers and sync specialists I know, who I was lucky enough to meet randomly at some kind of music event—she quickly became one of my closest friends and is a perfect example of what happens when real connection meets mutual respect.

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This one’s especially for my music people — the artists, producers, creatives who follow me for the tea. I see you. But today, I’m switching it up a bit. Big sister mode activated. I want to talk about something I don’t think enough of us are paying attention to: how we’re using social media, and more importantly, how it’s using us.

And listen, yes, this absolutely applies to music and being in the creative industry. But if we’re being real? This is general advice. Because content overload is frying everyone's brains, not just ours. Strategy is great, but if you don’t feel grounded in how you're showing up online, you’re going to burn out — whether you’re trying to go viral, sell prints, or just figure out what your next move is. It’s all connected.

Before you roll your eyes, no, I’m not about to tell you to throw your phone in the sink or start listening to whale sounds. This is just some honest perspective that has worked for me, especially if you’re constantly feeling like you’re playing catch-up. You know that weird, anxious feeling when you open your phone and it seems like everyone’s doing something huge, dropping something, winning something — and you’re just sitting there trying to figure out if you should post a reel or not? Yeah. That.

What helped me shift was being real about what I was feeding my algorithm. Like actually taking a step back and thinking: what am I liking, saving, watching on repeat? Because of your algorithm? It’s just your reflection. Your likes are currency. And every time you double tap something, it’s like placing an order — “More of this, please.” Your screen becomes your personal supermarket. And just like a real store, it stocks what sells. If the collective stopped buying eggs, guess what? No more eggs. That’s supply and demand. These apps want to be essential. They want to be the thing you “can’t live without.” So they keep stocking your shelves with whatever keeps you coming back. Sometimes that’s helpful. Sometimes that’s junk.

I started curating my feeds the way I curate my playlists or my wardrobe — with intention. TikTok for me is good vibes only: hopecore, nostalgic performances, new music drops, creative freelancers, the occasional political update to stay aware, and of course, Bretman Rock. That’s all I want from it. Instagram? Just graphic design inspo, music industry news, trend updates, and actual friends I want to keep up with. And my current fave? YouTube Shorts. It’s unhinged in the best way. Basically Vine reborn. Y’all are sleeping on it.

Now here’s the irony. As much as I live in the social media space, I probably have one of the lowest screen times of anyone I know. Not to brag — okay maybe just a little — but it’s because I’ve gotten super clear on boundaries. Most mornings (I said most — grace is key), I try to spend the first 20 minutes tech-free. Skincare, brush my teeth, make a cup of tea, pick out a look, and watch an episode of whatever show I’m into. I’m not gonna lie to you and say I meditate to flute music or do sunrise yoga. Let’s be serious. But I give myself space to exist before my brain gets pulled in five different directions.

And one thing I swear by? A digital declutter. Every two weeks like clockwork, I go through who I’m following and do a little clean-up. Gone are the random accounts I followed out of boredom, people I don’t talk to, vanity follows, or just folks who don’t align with me anymore. And I replace them with people who inspire me, people doing similar things, and close friends whose lives I genuinely care about. It’s such a simple thing, but doing this regularly for a year? It’s actually changed me. My feed feels like mine again.

Look, being a creative on social media is weird. It’s part of the job, but it can also start to feel like a full-time performance. Like, if you’re not posting, you’re invisible. If you’re not engaging, you’re irrelevant. But here’s the thing: presence over pressure. You’re allowed to take your time. You don’t owe these apps anything. You’re allowed to log off. Reset. Regroup. Reimagine how you want to show up.

Social media isn’t going anywhere. But that doesn’t mean you have to be available 24/7. Start being intentional. Curate your space. Clear out what doesn’t serve you. Protect your peace the way you protect your best ideas.

And if all of that still sounds exhausting? Just hire a social media manager like me to make it all go away.
Honestly. Log out, go breathe, and let me handle it.

Quick update before I log off, I’m going to be posting these twice a week. One will be more industry-focused, and the other will be more personal, like this one. But no matter the topic, it’ll always be delivered the same way: honest, grounded, and with a bit of spice. We’ll see how it goes.

You’ve got stuff to create. I’ve got you.
Follow me @skyerozhay

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Guys, I have to keep it PG, but I thought I’d use one of my favourite breakthrough artists as a case study: KWN. This 24-year-old artist is an absolute star who’s been quietly building something special for years, and this year, everything clicked. As someone who’s been deep into branding lately, I wanted to break down exactly how she used social media to pivot into stardom, with a strategy that’s both smart and authentic.

KWN studied at ELAM (East London Arts & Music), and before blowing up this year, she was working at Amazon — yep, real hustle. But she wasn’t just waiting for a break. Since 2021, she’s been quietly building her TikTok and socials with a clear, deliberate strategy.

Her early content? Totally raw and personal. We’re talking bedroom beat-making sessions, acapella jams, hanging with friends, and wandering Shoreditch streets. Nothing flashy, just real life. And here’s the thing: a lot of it was her actually making music — going live, showing her production process, letting fans see the grind in real time.

Because here’s the truth — no matter how slick your branding looks, it’s meaningless without music people can connect to. And what KWN gives us is exactly what we needed: smooth, sultry R&B that feels both fresh and timeless. That vibe is the heartbeat of everything she puts out.

Her videos evolved from casual clips into these slick, one-shot, standalone pieces — basically mini music videos. Songs like Eyes Wide Open and Lord I’ve Tried are perfect examples. And of course, the viral collab with Kehlani — their kiss in Worst Behaviour? Legendary.

Her latest, Do What I Say, keeps that cinematic storytelling going, and shows how smart she is with her rollout. Remember that line, “paint your nails the way I like them”? She flipped that into a salon appointment booking for fans to connect directly with her — next-level fan engagement.

Remember when I said being obsessive matters? That’s the reality of a strong rollout. It’s not just about consistency — it’s about constantly fuelling the fire. Every single KWN has dropped has been treated like the single. New content, new angles, same core message. She doesn’t just gather a moment — she holds onto it.

And remember when we talked identifiers? KWN has hers locked in — from her subtle signature shoulder pop to the refined aesthetic that’s grown with her. From locs and tracksuits to a soft, sharp look that matches her evolution, she’s shown us that growth doesn’t mean losing your roots — it means elevating them.

She knows exactly who she’s speaking to — and let’s be real, nobody’s safe. The women, the WLW community, the straight girls, the femmes. Her music speaks in the kind of way that makes everyone feel like she’s talking directly to them.

Her personal life stays under wraps for the most part, but her recent press run gave fans a little peek behind the curtain. She’s Nigerian, loves Jamaican food, and hates professional studios — prefers the comfort of her own creative zone. With appearances on Hot 97, The Breakfast Club, Angie Martinez, Culted, Capital Xtra and more, she’s giving just enough — and always with intention.

Touring with Kehlani gave her a major boost in the U.S. and helped take her global, but her recent attendance at the 2025 BET Awards sealed it: KWN’s not just crossing over — she’s landing. Her career is important. It's a marker for how UK artists can break through and make that leap into the American market, without bending to fit a mold.

And yes — her management team are doing their thing. It’s a reminder that while the solo grind matters, having the right people around you when things start moving is a game-changer. But also? It’s okay to be independent at first. It gives you the time and space to find your balance, sharpen your voice, and build your world before the industry tries to shape it for you.

KWN is showing all of us what it looks like when you move with intention, obsess over the rollout, and never compromise the core. She’s not waiting for the moment — she’s making it last.

Because let’s be honest: rollout isn’t just a phase. It’s constant.

Now go make the music. Share it. Build the world around it. And if you're lucky? You might just get your own shoulder-pop moment.

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There’s no exact blueprint for building a brand as a new artist—just patterns. And once you start observing enough of them, especially from behind the scenes, you realise the biggest mistake new artists make isn’t lack of talent. It’s trying to do everything but the thing that actually matters: making the music.

Branding can’t save you if there’s nothing to stand behind it. Visuals, rollouts, colour schemes, taglines, even a logo—none of it lands if people can’t hear what you’re about. So focus on your work first. Make the music. Share it. And then refine the rest around that.

One thing I say often as a consultant and music lover is: you’re not doing this for your friends or just your family.Every time you post, you're introducing yourself to someone new. Every caption, clip, freestyle, or BTS video is a digital handshake. Don’t waste the opportunity to make it meaningful.

And if it’s starting slow, don’t get disheartened. Even 500 views is good exposure. That’s 500 people in a room. Imagine that. That’s not a flop—it’s a warm-up. You don’t need to blow up, you need to build up. I’m a heavy believer in core following over cult following. It’s easy to chase virality. It’s harder—and more valuable—to build a base of people who will consistently show up. A million views doesn’t mean a million supporters. Not even close. Especially when you’re just starting. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.

Let’s talk rollout. You always hear “post consistently,” but let’s be honest:
Rollout has to be obsessive.
If you’ve got a single, you should be able to post about it 100 times—and I mean that literally. Even when it’s booming. Why? Because you’re not just trying to gather a moment, you’re trying to keep it.

Look at artists like KWN. She’s posted visuals for one single over and over, all from different angles—storyboards, edits, breakdowns—and she does it with intention. People think it’s about going viral once, but what she’s doing is sustaining energy. Repetition creates recognition.

Or take TR Gobrazy. His TikTok strategy is working because he leans into variety. Some clips are high energy with strong visuals that match the tempo and mood of his music, others are as simple as him walking down a street—but the energy is consistent. It aligns with his style and lets people engage without needing an explanation. It doesn’t always need to be a spectacle—it just needs to feel like him.

If you’re juggling school or a job, aim for at least twice a week. Don’t think you need to be on every app. Just be consistent somewhere. When you find a strategy that’s working, don’t break it just because you’re bored of it. Let people catch on. It takes a while.

Here’s a real question I think every artist should ask:
Do you want to speak for your music—or do you want your music to speak for you?

There’s no wrong answer. But it changes your approach. If you want to be the personality—someone people follow for your opinions, style, energy—that’s one type of artist. If you’d rather let your music tell your story, that’s a different lane.

Think of PinkPantheress. She built her entire brand from a spam TikTok account. No face. No intro. Just consistently good music that caught attention. Her sound became her identity. You didn’t even need to see her to know her. That’s music doing the talking.

Now when it comes to branding itself: don’t obsess over it. You’ll figure out your identifiers along the way. The simplest way to explain it is like this: if I say “Michael Jackson,” you think white glove. “Amy Winehouse?” Beehive, tattoos. “Prince?” Purple blouse. These are just people who were consistent enough for their image to stick. You don’t need to costume yourself—but give people something to associate with you.

And above all else—you just have to be way more chalant about your work.
Yes, chalant. Not nonchalant. The energy you need is “This is what I do. Take it or leave it.” That calm confidence? It sells way more than perfection ever will. Don’t overthink your way into silence. Don’t wait until it’s “ready.” Just be about it.

So make the music. Let people in. Build your base. And stop posting like everyone already knows who you are—they don’t yet. But they will.

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