• IS IT STILL WORTH RELEASING MUSIC FOR DIY/INDEPENDENT ARTISTS?

    Short answer is yes. Some context – I made a poll in Mastodon in February and so many insightful answers came up, which prompted me to write this. The poll is linked here: https://tldr.nettime.org/@elifyalvac/116133239185767164

    Is it still worth releasing music for DIY/independent artists? Why? I don’t have a yes or no answer yet. I’m questioning… if you have an answer please can you explain it? Thanks!

    The above link should show you all the answers: Please check them out. They gave me so much hope and so many insights. I would like to credit everyone who contributed to my conclusions here, with highlights from Morten MosgaardAlison WilderC. ReiderGuy BirkinRobert LoganKristoffer LislegaardFugue State Audio.

    I will start with quoting responses from Fugue State Audio:”it’s part of building the world we want to live in” and C. Reider: “sharing music is actively participating in the community and culture you want to exist in this life.” For me, this goes beyond anything and it is so powerful. It is empowering in the face of others who choose to feed the tech that abuses their creativity, conforming to something that I find destructive. Eventually, masses of groups end up seeing a handful of people who are “better” at sharing their “content” on those platforms while there are actually others that don’t get seen but is the value of what you do determined by that? For me, no. I will give some background to share what prompted me to ask this question after many years of being in independent music scene. 

    
L’appel Du Vide (2018) album cover by Christian Schnalzger
    L’appel Du Vide (2018) album cover by Christian Schnalzger 

    I felt I was becoming less proactive in telling people about my music for a number of reasons.I come from a country where a culture of competition starts from a very young age with a system that determines your future with a single high-stakes exam. This kind of stress and pressure leaves a mark on you. It takes time to unlearn it and reparent yourself to come up with your own coping mechanisms in the face of toxicity. This is true when you work, or when you make music as well. My more than a decade long artistic presence marks mostly laid-back DIY efforts. I am currently an educator, “Lead Professor of Electronic Music” in a conservatoire so my commitments and engagements range from this to organising events and trying to slow down. In this journey I have learnt that there is so much value in being able to connect with others with authenticity and genuine interest in music scene. I met some of my best connections in concerts that I traveled to see or gigs that I traveled to perform in. All of these, alongside problems, eventually lead up to where you arrive now and it is you that can measure whether doing something is “worth” it. Releasing music and doing gigs, whether they were DIY or with support from others through organic connections, have helped me change my life. I have many examples that I can list but I will share just two things for now. 

    Mountains Become Stepping Stones (2020) tapes, released with NNA Tapes
    Mountains Become Stepping Stones (2020) tapes, released with NNA Tapes

    Back in 2019, being discovered by Brooklyn-based NNA Tapes — whose representative found my self-released EP “L’appel Du Vide“(2018) — was a turning point for me. It was a real boost, eventually leading to my 2020 album “Mountains Become Stepping Stones” they released, which played a key role in my move to London with an artist visa. It showed me that putting work out consistently, even quietly, and doing gigs with your efforts can lead to something valuable. Or doing a DIY tour for that 2018 album (L’appel du Vide), including performing in Mengi in Reykjavik in 2018 – this resulted in some of my most valuable connections leading up to being invited to perform in other spaces. Now that I shared some highlights from a long time ago, let’s go back to the main question.

    Is it still worth all the efforts, all the energy? The question I asked did not want to measure any commercial success, just to be clear. Around 99,000 to 120,000 tracks are being released every day: releasing music was feeling like dropping a stone into an endless ocean. I was wondering if there would be any point in adding my voice to that. Given that 97% of respondents voted “yes,” the answer seems to be clear. In a way, this framework is not the best idea when you check the responses, which offer an overwhelming “yes” with a collective redefinition of what “worth it” means here. Most of the responses did not even try to counter my concerns and they did not argue that visibility/recognition is achievable. No one has argued that platforms are fair or the massive crowd is manageable. The worth is not measured by any of this.

    For some people that responded to my question, releasing music is about participation in a culture and in a community of “sonic universe”. Music that is stuck in your own speakers will not communicate. When you share it, even with a much smaller audience, you still complete the creative work and take part in that community and culture, especially in spaces like Mastodon and Bandcamp (although there are concerns about this), or Faircamp. There is genuine human connection, going beyond the parasocial aspects and dynamics in mainstream centralised spaces, which reflect to even the niche independent spaces like the Wire Magazine (By the way, I did get reviewed by them which feels like a hack of system and shows that they still have writers who value organic independent efforts)! 

    Also to emphasise in the responses: self-documentation. Many of the respondents referred to releasing music as a journey of marking where they are in their life and their artistic development. In a beautiful response from Morten Mosgaard, a release pushes you to ask yourself where you are and what matters to you. Morten then gave an excellent example for this: Tekla Griebel Wandall, a Danish composer and music educator who had published her own work, with nearly a century of archives, before her work was eventually performed. This example highlights something deeply hopeful: releasing your music can show that your creative instincts are worth following. The work will hold up, even after decades. For me, this example feels like surrendering to the future: It relates to acceptance and focusing on what you create and the beauty of potential results.

    Obviously, the answers are not removing any of my concerns. Rather, they feel real and acknowledged. Too much content does not mean there can be “too much art”. Creating this kind of work helps make the world a better place, with the little we can do. Releasing music is not about reaching the masses. For me, it has never been that anyway. My concern was being prevented by gatekeepers whose presence invades the non-contaminated areas as well. But then again: it is about finding your own people or tribe as they call it, based on some of the responses I got. Releasing music (and also performing it) can be connecting with that community on your own terms. You are building a music community you want to be a part of. Not everyone can afford to opt out of financial results of this especially when they don’t have a day job or another financial asset. But even in that case, there can be a very real journey full of rewards, despite all the worries and tension. There is also the mental cost of it: putting something out there and then no one responds to it in an overwhelming noise. However, even this discomfort is actually part of that process, that tension, which might result in something rewarding in your journey and development.

    Another conclusion, which is compelling, is that independently releasing music can be an act of resistance on its own right when gatekeepers control who might get heard. That’s why, in my own experience, organically and genuinely connecting feels like hacking that system, bypassing it. Obviously, you may not end up in Rewire festival or whatever all the time but the connections you build with your very own efforts are valuable and rewarding. And yes, they are yours. Being in fediverse reminds me of an extension of this in the online world. And I am thankful to my friend and collaborator Kristoffer Lislegaard for encouraging me about this platform when I was inactive for a long time.

    Once again, thanks to everyone who shared their experience and insights. It is so nice to see it coming from a wide range of artists whose presence is so valuable with what they try to do. Highlights include seeing this as part of a musical journey, with reflections on your life journey and documentation of this, as well as participation in a community and culture, bonding with others.

    Me recently with some nice modules behind me in where I work.
  • What a Season of Gigs Taught Me:
    5 gigs spanning April, May, June 2026 – with images, excerpts and full vids

    Recently on Mastodon, c.reider asked the fediverse music community a lovely question, prompted partly by a toot of mine about an upsetting performance: tell us a story of when a performance went wrong. Several responses came in, and reading them made me feel less alone. The gear dies, the monitor vanishes, you press the wrong button at the worst possible moment. The show goes on anyway.

    It prompted me to look into my recent gigs, and I realised almost every one went sideways in some small way, and each one taught me something. None of this is a triumph story. Things kept going wrong. I carried on. That turned out to be enough.

    Gig 1 – NAUS: a boat on the Thames, and a dead battery (24/04/2026)

    A photo of my setup on the boat

    In April I cycled 10 kilometres to a ship moored on the Thames, played a live set in an intimate little room, and cycled home again. The gear was heavy but it fit on the bike, which felt like a small victory in itself. This was NAUS, Stephen Shiell’s series of live electronic nights on A Slice of Reality, a sculptural ship on the Greenwich peninsula. I was there because Stephen saw me play the Freakbox in another gig and asked me along, which is how the best things tend to happen.

    My rig was minimal but heavy: a laptop running Live and Cardinal, my handmade Freakbox, a freeze synth pedal, and my Game Boy with LSDJ. I improvised on the Freakbox and pedal first, then switched to the Game Boy. Mid-set, its battery died. I pivoted to SameBoy, the emulator, alongside my Cardinal patch, and it worked, better than worked. SameBoy doesn’t have the original Game Boy crunch, but I’m not one of those people obsessed with hardware versus software. I love both, especially when one becomes the solution. A few people gathered around, seeing my screen, and rather than panic I turned it into some comedy moment before I started my emulator to improv with. A dead battery became a shared moment instead of a disaster, and they kept watching as I added my Cardinal patch in my improv. That’s how I like to play: live, organic, a little vulnerable, everything happening in the room, prepared but with no safety net of pre-baked tunes. I’ve done this long enough to properly enjoy it now, though part of me is never quite calm.

    The lesson: a minimal setup and your laptop music you know well is what lets you stay calm when something fails. The NAUS rig worked because it was small and familiar, more “thank goodness I travel light” than “disaster”, and light enough to cycle in on a day of transport strikes, which suits me, since I don’t much enjoy buses or cars anyway.

    The good thing: It was an amazing event with Tom Hirst and Mohammed Rowe also on the bill. Extraordinary space to perform, in that ship. Very thankful to Stephen Shiell. And the scrappy, battery-dead, emulator-pivot version is the one now being broadcast on Resonance Extra, which feels like the whole point somehow.

    NAUS performance, photo credit: Jacek Broniszewski

    Link to the set on Resonance Extra: https://extra.resonance.fm/episodes/naus-2026-07-02 – my set from 38:30

    Gig 2 – Diaries of Destruction at Reinstate: one monitor, and choosing which gigs to take on (16/05/2026)

    In May I played on a DIY day at a social space called Reinstate Project in Silvertown, as Diaries of Destruction, my experimental metal project, with my partner Jordan Muscatello on bass, myself on the baritone guitar. The event had everything going on: seminars, DJ sets, stalls for creatives, a genuinely good initiative and an open, inclusive space. But the tech I’d asked for wasn’t there, the monitors were set for a later band, and the suggestion was that we borrow another band’s amp to hear ourselves through, which I declined. We ended up with two fuzzy sources going into a single monitor between us. Too loud, feedback all set. I wasn’t happy with how I got to present the music.

    The lesson: be careful about saying yes for purely friendly reasons. I love these DIY nights and I wanted to support this one, but if the technical conditions you need won’t be there, it’s fair to say no. You can believe in a scene completely and still protect your own work. None of this is a knock on the organisers, who put so much effort. It’s more about myself.I’ve concluded I’d rather commit to events where I trust how they’ll run.

    The good thing: people loved it, and playing something heavy and uncompromising with Jordan, who felt exactly as I did about the sound, was a joy.

    Check the excerpt: https://youtu.be/zf1ZQMLTYV4

    Photo credit: Jan Bernet


    Gig 3 – Gravitons: my “first proper” livestream (20/05/2026)

    In May I did a livestream for the Fediverse Gravitons series, a community space for experimental electronic music. It was one of the gigs I looked forward to most, because it was my first chance to properly connect with the people I’ve met and reconnected with on Mastodon, away from toxic spaces like Instagram and closer to the people I actually want to be in touch with, including fellow artists. It was my first time using OBS and only my second time streaming at all. I have a YouTube channel I barely update; I’ve never much enjoyed self-promotion or the visual side of things, so I didn’t even own a proper camera, only a webcam. And I set myself a big task: four sections across four setups, Cardinal, the SameBoy emulator, Live and Max for Live for hardcore and some microsound stuff, and my guitar with the freeze pedal, plus the Freakbox, my Mastodon mascot, which was never going to miss it. I wanted to show my current obsessions, the dynamics and sonic extremes I keep chasing. It all worked, in its own way. But juggling with the soundcard, the camera and the virtual audio routing on top of the music meant I played the whole thing a bit stressed, and the prep was worse, since I’m no OBS nerd and still have little interest in learning to video and stream. With so many sound sources, the balances I’d set were hard to keep track of once I was live.

    The lesson: don’t be so hard on yourself when you’re carrying a lot at once. Narrowing the focus would have helped. I was most relaxed in the Cardinal section, because it’s just one thing without fiddling with camera settings etc. I could happily have played only that and saved the rest for another stream. Or only Live and Max, or only the Freakbox, or Renoise, or the Game Boy. Whatever you make has value, errors and all, whatever anyone else decides to say about it. We don’t need to prove anything to anyone, all these things are good enough. Having more stuff won’t make you more interesting.

    The good thing: it did the thing I actually wanted, which was to meet and talk properly with the people I know from Mastodon, fellow artists included, more directly than a feed allows. And it was their chance to be introduced to me properly. Even the quieter-than-planned OBS audio, which got fixed afterwards, didn’t take that away. I am very thankful to thisoccasionalsociety and Meljoann for inviting me to do this.

    SS from OBS livestream below, enjoy the full Cardinal part: https://youtu.be/IGwe_ixXr1A

    Gig 4 – “Gameboy John” at Skullstice: the track I erased (14/06/2026)

    I got a last-minute call to step in for a short gabber-like set with my Game Boy at Skullstice, at Spanners in London, just me and a Game Boy, for fun. “Gameboy John” is a character I invented out of a joke, my funnier, crazier side, noisier and more experimental than the uplifting chiptune associated with Game Boy, which is a side of chiptune I’ve never much connected with, so I explore other things. This was her first proper outing. Because it was last minute I built the LSDJ track on the day, saving as I went. Then, five minutes before the set, I found out I’d hit erase instead of save and wiped the whole thing! I couldn’t regulate in the moment, got very upset, and stepped away. Then I came back and played a short, improvised speedcore-ish set of bleeps and bloops from older sketches I hadn’t touched in a while, with live improv enjoying the R command to pull varied results out of LSDJ’s white noise channel and the P command for aggressive, hard kick synthesis on the pulse channels. I also brought a second Game Boy running a Kirby cartridge, so I kept the set short and, at the end, started Kirby up and left it playing as a joke. Could have been better. Was still something. I stayed upset about the lost track for a good while after.

    The lesson: back everything up properly and do it in a healthy way. I have solid systems for all my other gear; the physical LSDJ is the one that always lived dangerously, probably because I barely used it as a standalone performance instrument before. And another lesson: think twice about last-minute commitments when you’re not sure the materials are ready, even the fun ones. Try not to obsess anxiously over a file either, since all that frantic saving is exactly how you end up hitting erase, almost a self-fulfilling prophecy. Being upset is allowed. Stepping away and coming back is a skill.

    The good thing: people loved what I improvised, Kirby stuff as well, and Gameboy John got a first life even if her best song didn’t survive it. She’ll be back, once I’ve rebuilt the track. And oh, another gig that included cycling, which is good.

    See this Gameboy John excerpt: https://youtu.be/BD8xbwQmX6c


    Gig 5 – Heart of Noise St Giles: the modular’s first outing (28/06/2026)

    On 28 June I co-organised and played Heart of Noise 15 at St Giles Cripplegate, a beautiful church by the Barbican, and it was the first time my modular had ever left the house to perform. A solo set, then a duo with Philamelian, who played beautifully. A week before the gig the modular case had blown a fuse and I had replaced it: I even brought spares along, though I didn’t expect it to go again so fast, having reluctantly pulled a module after checking my power draw in ModularGrid. But yes, there you go, the fuse died again shortly after soundcheck, right before and we replaced it. 

    If this season has a theme, it’s the blown fuse: gear breaks, you fix it, you carry on. I was stressed, being one of the organisers as well as playing 2 sets. Heart of Noise is my own series, with more to write about that another time, and this was its London debut, after having to suspend it for lack of funding.

    The modular deserves a word, cos’ it took me until my late thirties to have one of my own. No shortcuts, no rack handed down to me, just years of wanting it and slowly getting there, then only about a week to fill it once I had it, because I knew exactly which modules I wanted. I’m grateful to Os at Expert Sleepers for the case. Playing it for the first time in that church, fuses and all, meant all the more because the road to it had been so long. And I don’t play my modular “correctly”: no diatonic scales, no tidy chord sequences, no obedient tuning. I find that kind of playing boring, which I don’t mean as a snub, it’s just not where the interest is for me. It’s closer to Buchla-style experimentation, which is one of the core ideas of modular anyway. I enjoy finding sounds by ear, keeping the surprising ones, letting the settings throw up weird exciting beautiful results, even ones that might sound wrong to someone else. That isn’t a flaw in the method. It is the method for me.

    What the night also clarified for me is what I actually care about in a room. A beautiful church gives you its acoustics for free, which was the reason I wanted to present my duo project with Philamelian: acoustic piano (him), and electronics (me processing his sounds) here. And what matters to me is appreciating and making the most of those church acoustics, and making sure the artists can hear each other and are spoken to, far more than any amount of impressive gear.

    The lesson: keep the technical side in hands you’ve chosen and trust, without last minute arrangements, and with good communication and understanding about the style and space. I’ve learned that leaving those parts to chance, however well meant, tends to come back to me. Good intentions and good equipment are not the same as someone who listens to the room.

    The good thing: two debuts in one night. My modular’s first time out of the house, and Heart of Noise’s first London edition, presented by TimbreWorks, in a church I’d wanted to fill with this music for a long time. Fuses and all, it happened, and filling that huge stone room with sound, next to Philamelian, was worth every bit of the stress.

    Watch the modular set in St. Giles here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z51NTXV2Kw8

    On sound, and knowing what you need

    One thing this season taught me is that how your music is heard is part of the work, not an afterthought. I’ve played in beautiful spaces where more gear and more spectacle only got in the way, and rougher DIY nights with a single monitor to share for a fuzzy doom metal duo. I’ve been handed monitoring I didn’t know how to use, which is no monitoring at all when you’re about to walk on, as I’m not Trinity in Matrix to load it in my brain immediately to start flying some helicopter.

    What I’ve concluded is this: if you can afford to do it, design your own sound, with engineers you trust who understand the music, ideally people you’ve worked with before. Restraint often serves a piece better than power. A church wants its acoustics; experimental electronics there doesn’t need a stadium rig. When it isn’t your call, clear communication matters enormously, and being able to say “actually, let’s not” before things get complicated. Even the small mechanical habits count, like muting before you unplug, so a room doesn’t jump with a sudden mistake.

    What it all comes down to

    It all comes down to learning to represent your own music, on your own terms, with care for the conditions it arrives in, and don’t take on so much that you stop being kind to yourself along the way. I’ve been overcommitted with lots of stuff, and the reason I do gigs on top is because I love them but it is sometimes time to pause. The right setup, the right people, the right room, and knowing which invitations to accept. Not fussiness. Care.

    I’m still learning, and I can’t wait to take the modular out again, or to play my guitar in a different way. There’s one thing I haven’t concluded, though, and maybe you can help. Every one of these gigs used a different instrument: baritone guitar, Cardinal, Game Boy, the modular, Live & Max stuff. Each kept deliberately minimal, each with its own logic and limits. I don’t know yet whether that makes me versatile or just a jack of all trades. c.reider’s question got me telling these stories; I’ll put this one back to the same community. If you play many instruments, or work many different ways, does it make you stronger, or more scattered? I’d like to know.

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