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 The experience has been replaced by the showcase.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.
