BETWEEN MUSICAL NOTES AND ALGORITHMS: WHAT IS STILL HUMAN IN THE MUSIC OF THE AI AGE?

AI-generated music is provoking one of the most intense discussions I've ever seen in the music world. I perfectly understand the feeling of many musicians, because I've been there myself. At first, the feeling was one of threat. Something new appearing and confusing everything we've spent years building. Over time, I decided to experiment. I opened an account on Suno AI and started generating some pieces, not for my work as Alex Cebe, but for other contexts. This changed my perception. It didn't eliminate the doubts, but it brought nuances.

One of the most common criticisms is that AI-generated music is stolen from other musicians. This is a delicate point and there are still ongoing legal issues. But I also ask a simple question. Since when has music not been based on music?

If we go back in time, we will see that entire genres were built on repetition, variation, and tradition. Structures, phrases, and ideas have circulated for decades. Artists have worked within existing languages, recreating and evolving them. No one creates from absolute zero. All music carries a past.

At the same time, it's important to consider that there's a difference between human influence and AI training. The musician listens, forgets, blends it with their own life. AI learns from large volumes of data. This raises real ethical questions, especially regarding subscriptions and payments. Ignoring this doesn't help the debate.

But there's another side that really catches my attention and that few people discuss calmly: the role of the listener.

What's wrong with someone who isn't a musician creating a song and liking what they created? If it generates a genuine moment, if a person connects, if the listener has a good time, if it accompanies a piece of their life, that has value. Music has always been about that too. Not just about technique or authorship, but about experience.

In a way, AI broadens access to creation. Just as the internet freed artists from record labels, now music production tools are freeing the listener from a passive position. Platforms like YouTube and Spotify had already changed consumption. Now we are selling a change in the very act of creation, and this doesn't mean the end of musicians. Quite the contrary. The music market will not disappear. Instruments will continue to be manufactured and purchased. Live shows will continue to exist. Music schools and teachers will continue to train people. None of this depends exclusively on how music is generated.

A live show delivers something that no AI can deliver: presence, risk, exchange, energy. An instrument is not just a production tool; it's a form of personal expression. Learning music is not just about reaching a final result; it's about developing listening skills, sensitivity, and language.

Where AI truly impacts is on another level: large-scale production, fast tracks, functional music. In this territory, the efficiency is astounding, and the changes are already happening. According to recent reports from the streaming and music technology market, the use of AI tools in audio creation has grown rapidly in the last two years, with millions of tracks being generated monthly. At the same time, the consumption of live music continues to rise globally, with record-breaking box office numbers post-pandemic and an increased demand for in-person experiences. These two movements are not mutually exclusive. They coexist.

Perhaps the most important question is not whether AI is right or wrong, but what becomes valuable now. It may be that value becomes increasingly easier to automate. Context, story, intention, presence. It may be that a new type of artist emerges, one who doesn't reject technology but also doesn't abandon their own identity.

In my case, I've found a path that makes sense to me. I use AI in some specific contexts and in other projects, but I preserve what I consider essential in my own work. I don't see them as replacements. See them as tools.

Music has always changed. We've always incorporated new technologies. It has always generated resistance. And I've always found a way to stay alive. Perhaps this is just another one of those moments.

Ultimately, after all this discussion, perhaps there's an interesting irony here. AI-generated music, instead of diminishing, has ended up greatly enhancing the value of music that isn't AI-generated. Because the easier it becomes to create music, the more evident what is rare becomes. Presence, intention, history, and identity begin to weigh more heavily. And that's precisely where music made by people remains irreplaceable.

THE MUSICIAN'S MANIFESTO

I found this image on my Google Drive today. I uploaded it in 2014. Unfortunately, the Musicians Guide (UK) site no longer exists.

PLAYING FOR THE POST OR PLAYING FOR THE MUSIC?

There is a strange feeling in the air when I observe the behavior of many musicians today. It is not a lack of talent, nor of technique. On the contrary, there has never been so many people playing so well. But something feels out of place, as if the starting point of creation has been inverted.

Music, which once came from an internal necessity, from an almost inevitable impulse to express, now often emerges with a destination already defined. The stage is no longer the center. The moment is no longer the focus. The experience has been replaced by the showcase.

Instead of playing because something needs to be said, many end up playing because something needs to be shown.

I say this also from personal experience. I have been in that place. There was a time when I composed with a certain urgency to post as quickly as possible. Creation came with a quiet anxiety, as if it were only complete after being published. Today I can see more clearly how much this interfered with the process. That is why I now observe myself carefully, so I do not repeat this mistake from the past.

Social media has brought real opportunities, that is undeniable. It has democratized access, allowed independent artists to find an audience, and broken barriers that once felt almost insurmountable. But along with that, it introduced a silent logic that gradually shapes behavior without us even noticing.

The logic of constant performance. The logic of immediate approval. The logic of content. And that is where music begins to be at risk.

When creation starts being guided by the expectation of engagement, something gets lost along the way. The time of music is not the time of the algorithm. Music needs repetition, mistakes, silence, and maturation. It even needs moments where nothing happens. The digital environment, on the other hand, demands constant novelty, quick impact, and instant attention.

This creates a subtle distortion. The musician starts thinking less about sound and more about format. Less about depth and more about duration. Less about feeling and more about how it will be perceived on someone’s screen.

The result is that many performances begin to sound like demonstrations. Small fragments of skill, arranged to impress. But not always to say something. And perhaps the most concerning part is not this in itself, but the fact that, over time, this logic can contaminate the creative process. The musician starts playing already thinking about the recording. Starts composing already thinking about the cut. Starts feeling already thinking about the reaction.

When that happens, music stops being an end and becomes a means.

But there is still a way back, and it is simpler than it seems. It lies in reclaiming moments when no one is watching. Moments when the sound does not need to be recorded. Moments when playing has no purpose other than the act itself.

Because, in the end, music does not need witnesses to exist. And perhaps it is precisely in this invisible space, far from any screen, that it begins to breathe again.

SILENT IN A FOLDER FOR ALMOST 20 YEARS

I found an old recording lost in my MediaFire, the kind you don’t even remember existed anymore. It felt like opening a time capsule, hearing raw versions, ideas still taking shape, mistakes and successes that now tell a different story. There’s something special about these old recordings, a kind of feeling that feels unique to that time.

A harsh sonic landscape where an acoustic guitar, plugged in and pushed beyond its natural limits, becomes something fractured and unrecognizable. The sound scrapes and tears like rusted barbed wire stretched across a dying world, each vibration carrying tension, abrasion, and unease. Nothing is clean. Nothing resolves.

Lo-fi textures crackle like pollution in the air, layers of noise building into a suffocating atmosphere. Frequencies collide and distort, evoking collapsing structures, toxic skies, and the slow decay of everything once alive. The guitar no longer sings, it resists, groans, and fractures under pressure.

This is not melody, but impact. A raw, confrontational piece that mirrors environmental destruction in sound form, where every hiss, buzz, and broken resonance feels like a scar left on a poisoned landscape.

GO VEGAN TV

This video features a single static image, and the music is the way I express the sadness I feel about the suffering of animals. I used to play this piece on the streets of São Paulo, and its original title is “O Vento,” (translated to en-us: The Wind) composed in 2020. I also have a composition from 2006 titled “The Wind,” which is unrelated to this one.

There is a silence that is not the absence of sound, but an excess of pain. It lives in those eyes. Eyes that do not speak our language, yet say everything we avoid hearing. Each of them carries an entire world of sensation, of waiting, of restrained fear, and of a kind of resignation that should not exist in any living being.

What we see here are not just fragments of faces, but portals. Small windows opened into consciousnesses that feel the wind, the cold, the loneliness, and above all, the lack of freedom. There is something spiritual in this, because it is not only about imprisoned bodies, but about lives that continue to perceive, to register, to exist despite everything. There is a flame there, silent, that does not go out, even when everything around tries to reduce it to an object.

The gaze of an animal does not accuse as a human’s does. It does not judge, does not form speeches, does not organize ideologies. It simply is. And perhaps that is why it hurts more. Because in front of it, there is no negotiation. There is no argument that dissolves what is there: the evidence of a pain that did not ask to be born, but was imposed. A pain that crosses time like a constant wind, invisible, yet always present.

That wind, which was transformed into music, seems to pass through each of those eyes. It finds no resistance, because it has already taken almost everything. Even so, something remains. A kind of essential presence, almost sacred, that resists being forgotten. As if each being were saying, in silence, that its life is not a detail of the world, but part of it—inseparable, worthy of being recognized. There is a deep melancholy in all of this, but it is not an empty melancholy. It is a melancholy that calls for awareness. That invites us to feel instead of turning away. That whispers that compassion is not a distant ideal, but a concrete choice, made in the most everyday actions.

Perhaps what weighs most is not only the suffering itself, but the distance we create so we do not have to see it. And yet, those eyes cross that distance. They reach us somehow, like echoes. Like long notes sustained in the air, like your music, which does not resolve, does not conclude, but simply remains.

And in that remaining, something begins to change. Because when we finally hold the gaze of those who suffer, without turning away, without justifying, there is an encounter. And every true encounter has something spiritual about it. It is there, in that silent space between one being and another, that the possibility of change is born.

The wind continues. But perhaps, if we truly listen to it, it will cease to be only a lament and become a call as well. The animals are divine beings, were created to be contemplated and must be protected.

☛ youtube.com/@GoVeganTV

THE INVISIBLE VALUE OF ENTERTAINMENT

Entertainment has a value that many people underestimate. At first glance, it may seem like mere distraction, something light, fleeting, almost superficial. But in practice, it plays a deep role in human life.

It is through entertainment that we often find relief from the weight of everyday life. After hours of work, worries, and responsibilities, it is music, a film, a series, a game, a dance performance, a theater play, a live show, a circus act, or even a moment of humor that helps reset the mind. It is not empty escape, it is breathing space. It is a way to maintain emotional balance. Beyond that, entertainment is also culture. It carries stories, values, critiques, and worldviews. Dance expresses what words cannot reach. Theater gives form to human emotions. Cinema captures moments in time and transforms narratives into experience. Literature builds entire worlds within the reader. Even something simple can spark reflection, memory, or inspiration.

There is also an invisible value: entertainment connects people. Whether at a festival, among friends, at a performance, in a group activity, or even by sharing something online, it creates common ground. It brings people closer.

There is also creative value. Entertainment inspires both those who create and those who consume. One musician influences another, one actor inspires a new interpretation, one dancer awakens movement in those who watch. It is a living cycle that feeds itself. And perhaps the most important point is this: entertainment reminds us that life is not only about producing, paying bills, and fulfilling obligations. There is beauty, expression, and pleasure along the way. Ignoring this turns life into something overly mechanical.

Entertainment is not the opposite of seriousness. It is an essential part of a healthy, creative, and human life.

WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A MUSICIAN AND A PIZZA?

 "What's the difference between a musician and a pizza? A pizza can feed a family of four."

The joke is kind of funny. But it doesn’t match reality. Music is a business like any other. A billion-dollar market, competitive, often brutal, and extremely difficult. But it’s also a market where many people make a living and live very well.

Yes, there are musicians swimming in money. Living comfortably, building wealth, creating solid and profitable careers. They’re not rare, and it’s not an exception. It’s part of the system itself.

The problem is that, because of jokes like this, a certain prejudice against the profession has been created. As if it were inevitably synonymous with failure. And because of that, many talented people may have believed it. They may have stepped back, given up, or never even tried. Talents that perhaps never got to develop because they bought into that idea.

Is it difficult? Very. It’s a tough, uncertain, and demanding path. But there’s also money, market, and opportunity. Music is not charity. It’s work. And for those who understand the game and stay in it, it can be extremely profitable.

♬ ♩♩♩♩ ♬ ♬

A moment to share (2019): once I was invited to play at a small gathering of friends in a bar on a Saturday afternoon. The bar was closed for a birthday celebration. I think there were about 15 people, and when I arrived, everyone had already been drinking and was quite lively. While I was tuning my instrument (resonator), I overheard a woman saying to someone, “a musician is an engineer who didn’t make it”, fully aware that I could hear her. I found it very disrespectful.

Anyway, I played the entire setlist. It turned out to be a nice event, and people were very receptive.

THIS IS BRAZIL ♬♩♩♩

Lately I’ve been getting back into samba in a very personal way more like something I live than something I just listen to. It’s what I’ve been tapping out on an old pan. There’s something about that rhythm, simple and raw, that fits perfectly into those moments.

I’ve been drawn to well-established names, artists who helped shape this language and still resonate today. Going back to them feels like reconnecting with the roots, understanding where certain grooves, harmonies, and moods come from.

Google them:

• Martinho da Vila - Aquarela Brasileira
• Clara Nunes - Canto das Três Raças
• Candeia - Testamento de Partideiro
• Adoniran Barbosa - Trem das Onze
• Nelson Cavaquinho - Juízo Final
• Paulinho da Viola - No Pagode do Vavá
• Simone - Tô Voltando
• Jovelina Pérola Negra - Sorriso Aberto
• Marquinho Sathan - Falsa Consideração
• Chico Buarque - Feijoada Completa
  
  

For me, samba holds a rare balance: it can feel light and unpretentious, yet carry a deep sense of life within it. It speaks of everyday things: struggle, joy, resilience... without needing to be loud about it. Sometimes it’s just a line, a phrase, or a cadence that lingers long after.

These songs aren’t about carnival or samba schools, they come from somewhere more intimate, more grounded in daily life. And of course, there are dozens of other names just as great as these. This is just a personal snapshot of what’s been echoing around here lately.

Carnival and the samba schools, especially those in Rio de Janeiro’s Special Group (formerly Group A), represent far more than a visual spectacle: they are the result of an enormous effort that takes months, sometimes an entire year, of dedication. The parades are indeed a huge popular celebration, but they are also a fierce competition, with strict rules, detailed judging, and a complex structure where everything involves planning, money, and influence. Every category is evaluated with precision, from the percussion section to the overall flow, and nothing there happens by chance.

Just like in soccer, there are passionate fan bases, and most people have a favorite school. In my case, for decades it has been Acadêmicos do Salgueiro, known for its “Furiosa” drum section, a nickname that comes from the intensity, precision, and power of its players, who make the ground shake along the avenue. The videos below show two special moments from 2016: a rehearsal and the big parade day, when all that energy truly comes to life.

The samba school parades of the Special Group in Rio de Janeiro are a highly organized and rigorous competition, held over three days, usually featuring around 4 schools performing each night; each school has a strictly timed run on the avenue and any delay or exceeding of this limit results in point deductions, making it essential for the entire performance, from the floats to the participants, to follow precise planning where every second counts. Starting with Carnival 2025, the samba schools in the Special Group in Rio de Janeiro will have a parade time of between 70 and 80 minutes at the Marquês de Sapucaí. The minimum time is 70 minutes and the maximum is 80 minutes.

It’s amazing how there is always one school more beautiful than the next, bringing together incredible talent across every area.

Let's jump to the 2026 parade (highlights/other samba schools):

Day 1 >>
Day 2 >>
Day 3 >>

Enjoy.

AMERICAN MUSIC: I TRY TO APPROACH IT

Saying that I simply play it would imply mastery, belonging, maybe even a certain presumption of stepping into a place that isn’t mine. To approach it, on the other hand, is an act of listening. It means acknowledging the distance: geographical, cultural, historical, and still choosing to move toward it.

I’m a foreign interpreter of an American tradition. And that’s not a limitation; it’s the starting point. I don’t try to erase my accent, and I don’t pretend to come from somewhere I don’t. What interests me instead is the meeting point, the moment when two different experiences cross and create something unique.

American rural music carries very specific landscapes, stories, and lived realities from a context that isn’t mine, as a Brazilian. And maybe that’s exactly why I approach it with care. Not as someone trying to reproduce it, but as someone observing, learning, and responding.

For a Brazilian, it’s impossible to play like an American. And the reverse is just as true. But maybe the beauty isn’t in trying to recreate it perfectly: it’s in the attempt itself, imperfect and conscious, to understand. There’s a fertile space in that “in-between”: not here, not there, but in constant dialogue.

There’s also something that runs through all of this: the simple pleasure of listening, of recognizing something, of letting yourself be carried by it. Brazil has always been deeply receptive to American music across many genres, from folk to blues, from country to rock. These sounds, even though they were born far away, have found here an open, curious, and sensitive audience. Maybe because, in the end, music doesn’t belong to a fixed place. It travels. And when it arrives, it finds new ways to exist.

That’s where my work is grounded as well. Because beyond any aesthetic or cultural reflection, there’s something very simple and essential: to entertain. To create a moment. To offer an atmosphere. To let someone, even if just for a few minutes, step out of where they are and connect with another landscape, real or imagined.

So what I do is have a conversation with a tradition and also share that conversation. Every note carries that intention. Not to say “this is mine,” but to say “I’m listening” and at the same time, “come listen with me.”

Maybe that’s what gives meaning to the gesture: not possession, but proximity. Not certainty, but respect. And alongside that, a genuine desire to create something that surrounds, accompanies, and lingers, even briefly, in the life of the listener.

It’s not about playing American music. It’s about being, in some way, in relationship with it and turning that relationship into experience, into listening, into entertainment.

WE ADULTS OWE AN IMMENSE DEBT TO OUR CHILDREN AND YOUNG PEOPLE. WHAT WORLD IS THIS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN?

There is something profoundly uncomfortable about looking at the world as it is and admitting, without theatrical excuses or historical gymnastics, that the adults in the room have not done a particularly admirable job. For all our speeches about progress, responsibility, and civilization, the truth remains stubbornly visible: the world we are delivering to children and young people is strained, overheated, anxious, and morally confused. The most inconvenient part of this truth is that it did not happen by accident. It happened gradually, through decisions, compromises, silences, and a remarkable human talent for postponing responsibility until it quietly becomes someone else’s problem.

Adults like to imagine themselves as the custodians of wisdom. Age, we assume, brings perspective. Experience, we claim, brings maturity. But if wisdom is measured not by what we say but by the systems we build and maintain, the record becomes far less flattering. Our civilization has managed to produce astonishing technological brilliance while simultaneously failing at the elementary task of restraint. We can transmit information across continents in milliseconds, yet we remain strangely incapable of governing our own appetites for power, profit, territory, and dominance. The contradiction would be almost comical if its consequences were not so serious.

War, for instance, remains one of the most persistent monuments to adult failure. Entire generations have sworn that humanity has finally learned the lessons of the past, that the horrors of previous conflicts would serve as a permanent warning. Yet the machinery of destruction continues to evolve with impressive efficiency. Nations still devote enormous intellectual and economic resources to refining the art of organized violence. The language used to justify these enterprises is always dressed in noble clothing: security, stability, defense, strategic necessity but beneath the vocabulary lies a much simpler truth: adults continue to prepare elaborate methods for sending young people to die in circumstances largely created by older people who will never personally experience the consequences of their decisions.

And so the pattern repeats. Young soldiers carry the weight of geopolitical ambitions. Young civilians grow up under sirens, in ruins, or in exile. Young refugees cross borders that adults once drew on maps with confident hands. The architects of war rarely appear in the trenches they design. They sit in offices, hold conferences, issue statements, and speak of sacrifice in the abstract. Meanwhile the future of humanity quite literally embodied in the bodies of the young is fed into the machinery of history once again.

Education, which in theory should be the mechanism by which society improves itself, often behaves less like a garden of curiosity and more like a sorting facility. Children arrive with questions, imagination, and an instinctive appetite for understanding the world. What they frequently encounter instead is a system designed to measure, rank, filter, and standardize. Curiosity becomes something to be managed rather than encouraged. Learning is increasingly framed as preparation for economic productivity rather than as a lifelong engagement with knowledge, ethics, and meaning. We train young people to navigate systems that we ourselves secretly suspect are deeply flawed. And we call this preparation for the future.

The environmental situation offers perhaps the clearest demonstration of adult rationalization at a civilizational scale. For decades the evidence has been available, the warnings have been articulated, the models refined, the projections repeated with growing urgency. Rising temperatures, collapsing biodiversity, polluted oceans, exhausted soils, disappearing forests... none of these developments arrived as mysterious surprises. They were predicted, measured, and explained. Yet the response from the adult world has been a peculiar mixture of acknowledgment and delay, concern and inertia, declarations and postponements. The language of responsibility is deployed generously while the structure of everyday life remains largely intact. We behave like tenants who know the house is burning but are still negotiating the price of the fire extinguisher.

Children today absorb this contradiction very early. Before many of them have finished learning basic arithmetic, they are already aware that the climate system is unstable, that ecosystems are under pressure, that species are disappearing at alarming rates. They grow up surrounded by images of burning forests, drought-stricken landscapes, plastic-filled oceans, and melting glaciers while adults debate the economic inconveniences of meaningful change. One might reasonably ask what sort of psychological landscape this creates for a generation that has not yet had the chance to participate in the decisions that shaped the crisis it will inherit.

The most unsettling aspect of the situation is not merely the accumulation of problems but the normalization of them. War footage becomes routine content in daily news cycles. Environmental collapse becomes a recurring headline rather than an existential alarm. Political discourse increasingly resembles theater rather than governance. The extraordinary slowly becomes ordinary. The unacceptable becomes manageable. The catastrophic becomes something to be discussed between advertisements.

Young people observe this with a clarity that adults sometimes find uncomfortable. They ask simple questions that have embarrassingly complicated answers. Why, if the dangers are known, do the systems remain unchanged? Why do institutions designed to protect the future behave as though the future were an abstract concept rather than a lived reality? Why does every serious problem seem to come with a long list of explanations and a very short list of solutions?

Adults often respond to these questions with a familiar set of defensive reflexes. We explain that the world is complex. We remind them that change takes time. We accuse them of naïveté or impatience. But beneath these explanations there is sometimes another possibility: perhaps the younger generation has not yet mastered the adult skill of accepting contradictions that should not be acceptable.

Children and young people did not design the political systems currently struggling under their own contradictions. They did not negotiate the economic arrangements that reward short-term extraction while postponing long-term consequences. They did not build the military infrastructures that continue to prepare for conflicts that future generations will have to clean up. And yet they will inherit the results of all of these choices with remarkable efficiency. They will inherit the atmosphere we altered, the ecosystems we stressed, the debts we accumulated, the institutions we weakened, and the technological momentum we set in motion without fully understanding where it leads.

This is why the debt we owe them is immense. It is not a metaphorical debt or a sentimental one. It is a structural debt embedded in the very architecture of the world we have built. We owe them functioning institutions rather than hollowed-out ones. We owe them education that cultivates intelligence instead of merely producing compliance. We owe them a planet that remains biologically alive rather than economically optimized and ecologically exhausted. Most importantly, we owe them honesty about the situation we have created.

The next generations will eventually evaluate our legacy. They will examine the archives, the data, the speeches, the policies, the warnings that were issued and the actions that followed or failed to follow. They will not judge us primarily by the elegance of our explanations. They will judge us by the condition of the world we leave behind.

History, after all, has a long memory. But the future has something far less forgiving: it has consequences. And consequences, unlike rhetoric, cannot be negotiated.


More thoughts >>

PRACTICE DAY - RESONATOR GUITAR / OPEN D

Heads up: almost 49 damn minutes of video. Grab your coffee, slap on some headphones, grow some monk-like patience, and maybe a snack. Ride it out — the music’s gonna roll, no shortcuts.

In mid-2020, almost every morning, I would walk to Chácara do Jockey in São Paulo to practice. I lived about 300 meters from there. The path, the streets, the early morning light—everything was part of my musical routine.

I remember those moments well: the wind, the plants, the birds singing, the insects landing on me and on the guitar, and the wide silence of the open space. The place sits between two avenues with heavy traffic, and even so there were quiet spots where nature remained preserved.

I also remember the kind people who worked there and always greeted me respectfully. With the instrument in my hands, everything came down to the sound, the flow of practice, and the feeling of being present.

There were areas with more movement, where some people would go to exercise, and other more secluded spots where I also liked to stay. The video captures this moment: leaving home, the walk, the arrival, the instrument, and the hands that make the music emerge. It is a morning like many others—a quiet ritual of sound and space, where my face does not matter, only the experience and the music allowed to flow.

The video was recorded and edited by me. It includes original compositions by me as well as interpretations of works by other artists. All interpreted pieces remain the property of their respective authors. This recording documents a moment of personal and artistic practice and does not grant redistribution rights for the interpreted works.

NOTICE REGARDING NAMESAKES

I work with 2 names:
ALEX CEBE and CEBE MUSIC

I work with 1 e-mail account:
alexcebe@gmail.com

I have found namesakes over the Internet and here are some of them. These are just coincidences and I don't think it's something made/created with a bad intention.

(!) WARNING: I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PEOPLE, DOMAINS (AND E-MAILS FROM), SITES, E-MAILS ACCOUNTS, PROFILES AND CHANNELS BELOW:

.Domain CEBEMUSIC.COM
 (or ANY other extension, with or without hyphen) 

.Domain ALEXCEBE.COM
 (or ANY other extension,with or without hyphen)

.Spotify (alexcebe)

.Youtube Channel (Alex Cebe) 
.Youtube Channel (Cebe Music) 
.Youtube Channel (Cebe Music Production)

.Instagram @alex.cebe 
.Instagram @cebe.music

.TikTok @alex.cebe

.X (Twitter) @alex_cebe

.Facebook alex.cebe.1 
.Facebook CMP Cebe Music Productions

.Gmail 'alex.cebe' 
.Gmail 'cebemusic' 
.Gmail 'cebe.music' 

Note (1): ANY e-mail account of ANY other provider (Yahoo, Outlook, Hotmail, etc) with the 3 names above or just 'alexcebe' or with the words 'alex/cebe/music/official' mixed in ANY order, with or without hyphen, dot or underline DOES NOT BELONG TO ME.

Note (2): The usernames 'iamalexcebe', 'alexcebeofficial', 'cebemusicofficial' in ANY platform, mixed in ANY order, with or without hyphen, dot or underline DOES NOT BELONG TO ME.

The full list of the profiles I have around the web is at cebemusic.blogspot.com/p/around.html.

My site is at sites.google.com/view/cebemusic/

Google provides a specific link for an 'Alex Cebe' search: g.co/kgs/U1vDDp. 


Be aware. Thank you.