It all starts with radio. A centralized system curated by a few, broadcasting songs into thousands of homes at once. Radio solved the problem of mass exposure, but not of control or fair compensation. Listeners got it for free. Artists, unless they were lucky, didn’t get paid to be played.
Then came the vinyl record, and with it, the beginning of music as a collectible. For the first time, you could own a song at home, share it, care for it, make it yours. Vinyl solved the problem of private ownership of music, bringing the art closer to the object and building emotional connection. But still, only a few could afford to press and distribute it. Labels stayed in control.
Next was the CD, which made that experience cheaper and more portable. It was easier to produce, more accessible. CDs solved the problem of scaling the music object. More indie musicians began to record and sell their work on their own—but the barriers were still high.
And then came... piracy. MP3s shrank songs until they fit in any digital corner: a USB stick, a Nokia phone, a Winamp playlist. Music spread via Bluetooth, Messenger, Ares. It stopped being an object and became pure flow.
Piracy solved the problem of universal access, breaking down monopolies of distribution—but artists were left completely unpaid.
The chaos was real. Then came streaming. Platforms like Spotify promised to fix that chaos: unlimited, high-quality, legal music for all, while (supposedly) paying the artists.
Streaming solved the problem of piracy, giving control back to the industry—but not value to the art. The play became cheap. Music became abundant but disposable. And artist income? Ridiculously low.
And now (I mean, since 2021), in 2025, something new is emerging: music digital collectibles.
Limited editions with real value. Exclusive benefits. Tracks you can trade, gift, or keep forever.
Digital collectibles solve the problem of the disconnect between music and value. They bring back meaning and economy to the act of listening, supporting, and participating.
But here’s something we often forget:
Every format change in the history of music distribution happened because people had a problem that needed solving.
We wanted access. We wanted ownership. We wanted connection. And technology gave us tools to fix those things.
Now, it’s time for the artist and the creator to be the center of that solution.
Not just the passive receiver of new formats, or the last one to benefit from change. This time, it's not just about what the audience wants—but what the artist needs.
Yes, the community is important. But it comes after the art. First, the work. Then, the people.
That doesn’t mean ignoring your audience—it means caring for them deeply, but from a place of creative leadership, not ego.
New tools should never teach musicians to become distant, unreachable “stars.”
The whole point of this shift—of NFTs, of Web3, of digital collectibles—is to break that outdated model.
To evolve not just how music is distributed, but how we relate to the people who support it.
Formats can change. But the artist–fan relationship should never be a casualty of innovation.
And that’s where the real challenge is:
Web3 adoption is slow—not because it doesn’t work, but because most people still don’t get what it solves.
For many, it still sounds like “weird tech” or “crypto stuff.” But the day audiences understand that the solution doesn’t pass through them, but through the artist—and that they benefit from that too—that’s the day everything will shift. That’s the day the music industry will actually evolve.
So as musicians, what should we do to help our audiences understand that the current distribution system is broken, and that the platforms we use are designed by and for people who don’t respect our work?
If you want to be part of the change—not just a spectator—subscribe to this newsletter. This is where we talk about what really matters.
It all starts with radio. A centralized system curated by a few, broadcasting songs into thousands of homes at once. Radio solved the problem of mass exposure, but not of control or fair compensation. Listeners got it for free. Artists, unless they were lucky, didn’t get paid to be played.
Then came the vinyl record, and with it, the beginning of music as a collectible. For the first time, you could own a song at home, share it, care for it, make it yours. Vinyl solved the problem of private ownership of music, bringing the art closer to the object and building emotional connection. But still, only a few could afford to press and distribute it. Labels stayed in control.
Next was the CD, which made that experience cheaper and more portable. It was easier to produce, more accessible. CDs solved the problem of scaling the music object. More indie musicians began to record and sell their work on their own—but the barriers were still high.
And then came... piracy. MP3s shrank songs until they fit in any digital corner: a USB stick, a Nokia phone, a Winamp playlist. Music spread via Bluetooth, Messenger, Ares. It stopped being an object and became pure flow.
Piracy solved the problem of universal access, breaking down monopolies of distribution—but artists were left completely unpaid.
The chaos was real. Then came streaming. Platforms like Spotify promised to fix that chaos: unlimited, high-quality, legal music for all, while (supposedly) paying the artists.
Streaming solved the problem of piracy, giving control back to the industry—but not value to the art. The play became cheap. Music became abundant but disposable. And artist income? Ridiculously low.
And now (I mean, since 2021), in 2025, something new is emerging: music digital collectibles.
Limited editions with real value. Exclusive benefits. Tracks you can trade, gift, or keep forever.
Digital collectibles solve the problem of the disconnect between music and value. They bring back meaning and economy to the act of listening, supporting, and participating.
But here’s something we often forget:
Every format change in the history of music distribution happened because people had a problem that needed solving.
We wanted access. We wanted ownership. We wanted connection. And technology gave us tools to fix those things.
Now, it’s time for the artist and the creator to be the center of that solution.
Not just the passive receiver of new formats, or the last one to benefit from change. This time, it's not just about what the audience wants—but what the artist needs.
Yes, the community is important. But it comes after the art. First, the work. Then, the people.
That doesn’t mean ignoring your audience—it means caring for them deeply, but from a place of creative leadership, not ego.
New tools should never teach musicians to become distant, unreachable “stars.”
The whole point of this shift—of NFTs, of Web3, of digital collectibles—is to break that outdated model.
To evolve not just how music is distributed, but how we relate to the people who support it.
Formats can change. But the artist–fan relationship should never be a casualty of innovation.
And that’s where the real challenge is:
Web3 adoption is slow—not because it doesn’t work, but because most people still don’t get what it solves.
For many, it still sounds like “weird tech” or “crypto stuff.” But the day audiences understand that the solution doesn’t pass through them, but through the artist—and that they benefit from that too—that’s the day everything will shift. That’s the day the music industry will actually evolve.
So as musicians, what should we do to help our audiences understand that the current distribution system is broken, and that the platforms we use are designed by and for people who don’t respect our work?
If you want to be part of the change—not just a spectator—subscribe to this newsletter. This is where we talk about what really matters.
Share Dialog
Share Dialog
