Inside Sleeve: Rainy Thoughts
So, let me paint a picture for you… I’m biking home yesterday, and of course, it’s the heaviest downpour of the year. In Denmark, no less—where rain isn’t exactly a rare guest. I’m mentally kicking myself for trusting a flimsy raincoat, which, by the way, is only waterproof for like 10 minutes before the rain starts seeping through like it’s on a mission. Forty minutes of pedaling ahead of me, I’m weighing my options: should I take the metro (spoiler alert, no bikes allowed during rush hour) or just surrender, find a cozy spot inside, and wait for the rain to relent? I go with the heroic option—stick with the bike. Naturally.
And then it happens. I stop caring. I’m soaked. Shoes? More like portable puddles. But suddenly, I’m feeling it. I’m weirdly enjoying the misery. I look around and notice everything glistening, like the whole world’s in some moody, silver filter. Most people are trudging along, heads down, but a few brave souls give me a nod or a grin, like, “Yeah, we’re in this mess together, aren’t we?” And it hits me—this could be the intro for tomorrow’s newsletter.
I start mentally drafting it (you’re reading it now, by the way), and just when I’m really getting into it, reality rears its ugly head: I need groceries. So, I walk into the store, drenched to my core, and the cold finally catches up with me. The magic? Gone. And suddenly, this whole rain-soaked experience? Not so much fun anymore. It’s unsustainable. I’ll probably catch a cold. Or worse, quit biking altogether.
This soggy journey had me thinking about the grit it takes to keep going as an artist. Especially those in what we call the “Creator Class”—musicians braving their own metaphorical storms every single day in the music industry.
Tuesday Trends: What Do We Call Them?
Here’s where my rainy adventure ties into what I’ve been noodling over lately: the lives of these musicians—the Creator Class, the mid-tier mavens. It keeps popping up in conversations. There’s this unspoken acknowledgment that, yes, these artists are in a class of their own. They’re not chart-chasers, but they’re far from hobbyists. They’re something else entirely. But what do we call them?
These are the ones who have this crazy drive to keep creating—whether it’s pouring rain, metaphorically or literally. Instead of seeking the comfort of the mainstream, they’re out there grinding, looking at the world with fresh eyes, turning it into music. If you’re reading this and thinking, “That sounds like me,” well, you’re probably part of this tribe—or at least know someone who is.
And I’m still struggling to find the right name for these artists. You know the ones who don’t care about Top 40 fame but have outgrown the basement gigs. Think Feist, Agnes Obel, Hania Rani—the kind of artists who get their hands dirty, owning every part of the process.
But here’s the thing: they’re not trying to swim in the same ocean as pop superstars. They’re creating ripples in their little pools, carving out spaces for the fans who truly get them. As Charlie D’artri put it, “Spotify can’t possibly service the creator class... It’s the Mississippi River going by, and you want a little pool for your act, but it’s hard to be visible in that giant stream of entertainment.” (Catch the full chat on this podcast).
These artists don’t want to be another drop in the streaming ocean—they need a dedicated space to connect with their people. So, what do we call them? We’d love to hear what you would name this group of fiercely independent, creatively autonomous artists.
Random Reflections: The End of an Experiment
About a month ago, I set myself a challenge: only listen to six artists for 30 days. And I’ve got to say, it’s been a real treat. I could honestly keep going another month because, depending on where I am—on my bike, at home, in the metro—the music keeps evolving. As luck would have it, I heard some of the music live this week: Pernille Bevórt, an insanely talented jazz saxophonist. During her acceptance speech for a composer award, she said something that stuck with me:
“I’ve had dark moments where I thought about selling all my instruments and giving up on all of this effort because who f*cking cares anyway? There’s already so much music out there. What’s the point of adding more? But I’ve grown so attached to the saxophone and to music over all these years that it would be like cutting away something essential. Would it even make sense for me to get up in the morning if music wasn’t such a strong presence in my life? I doubt it.”
Her words have been replaying in my mind... especially during that rainy ride.
Stay tuned,
Anna
