This past year, I found myself struggling with a dilemma many young artists face: the struggle between creating art for social and financial recognition versus the pure joy of creating for its own sake.
On one hand, I’m an artist, and creating music and crafting sets is a way of expressing myself. It’s something I do out of love, and it’s a ion I can’t imagine living without. On the other hand, if I wanted to turn my ion into a career, I knew I needed to monetize my craft, build a following, and gain social recognition.
In the 21st century, monetizing can mean anything from turning your paintings into digital non-fungible tokens (NFTs) to partnering with brands for sponsorship deals, or, in my case, selling tickets to live shows. The bottom line is you need people to appreciate your craft and, ultimately, be willing to pay for it.
Going into my third year of Chemical Engineering, I was confronted with a difficult decision. I could either pursue a less demanding job, giving myself time to focus on my art, or I could seek something with less freedom that would advance my engineering career. While this decision was mostly speculative, it loomed over me, creating an internal sense of pressure.
Up until that point, I had only played a few of my own edits, never fully committing to playing what I truly wanted. Instead, I stuck to safe choices—tried and true, and terrible, 2000s pop songs. My mindset was that if I could have the majority of university crowds dancing to mainstream music, then there wasn’t a reason to put the effort into curating a more underground set.
After finishing the first half of third year, I decided I was no longer going to pursue a career as a DJ and allow it to remain a ion. After investing so much into my engineering work, it would be foolish to not at least try working in the industry and I wouldn’t want DJing to interfere with my career.
After making this choice, my perspective on making and playing music completely changed. It pushed me to find my sound.
Once I stopped caring about what mainstream crowds thought, I stopped catering to them and finally gave myself permission to play just for myself. This is something that many artists talk about struggling with, and it was something I had been trying to do since I started mixing. Even when I first started out, the goal was always to find the balance between mainstream and underground, but I hadn’t been able to create this until I gave up on finding it. The pressure of success was removed, and I was able to make art for the pleasure of creation, and still sound good.
As I transitioned to playing sets that were personal and unique to my sound, I faced considerable pushback— not just from drunk people yelling for Katy Perry, but from higher management and owners of the local nightclubs. Some of these establishments couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t play Top 40 hits, which is what the majority of crowds wanted. This was similar to the reaction from a lot of my peers, who still didn’t understand why I wasn’t playing what they wanted.
There’s a reason underground clubs tend to stay underground, in of maximizing profits. If a club wanted to make the most money possible, they probably should play mainstream music.
That being said, some clubs leaned the opposite direction, and embraced the shift from popular music into new styles, giving me the opportunity to test out my sound. Trinity Social pushed me to launch an artist-centred night, which led to the birth of “Then There Was House”—a house music-centred night, where I bring in new artists and sounds, throwing a proper club event where the focus is on music and production.
This marked the beginning of my actual journey as an artist.
Creating for myself was no easy feat. As a DJ, I’ve learned unless your music has a certain uniqueness or style, most crowds forget your name as soon as they leave the club. If you manage to stand out amidst the noise, crowds will seek out your sound. It won’t be a coincidence when the same faces start showing up—that’s when I knew I was beginning to gain a real following.
Eight months later, all three house events I’ve launched have sold out in less than 10 minutes, attracting over 300 people each time. Ironically, only after I decided to not cater to the masses did I find people who appreciated my work.
I’ve made it pretty clear if you’re looking for a playlist of Top 40 hits, my sets aren’t for you. If that’s what you expect, you might not enjoy the music I play and that’s perfectly fine. I’ve learned that as an artist, if I cater solely to the popular crowds, my craft loses its significance. What I’m doing only gains true importance when it challenges or stands out against others.
Ultimately, building a successful career in any industry takes time. There’s no reason why it would be any faster to make it as a creative. People often say it takes 10 years to become an overnight success, and I’m very conscious that the launch of “Then There Was House” was simply the first step of a long journey, but I’m thankful that it was in the right direction and that the community around me has been receptive enough to appreciate this shift.
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