While we slowly become spectators of a shifting world order, led by a strange figure who inspires anything but laughter…

While we try to find exits to the many crises falling onto our shoulders, already sensing the next ones lining up…

We retreat to what is most precious to us.

What is most beautiful.

Most gentle.

Most comforting.

And perhaps the safest place we know: music.

Dear indie friends,

For 70 weeks now, I’ve been trying to send you my good waves, the gems I stumble upon here and there, my doubts, my fears, my desires, always bringing them as close as possible to the wider feeling that feeds indie artists today, often against their will.

That fear of being drowned in thousands of brand-new tracks, every single day.

With or without AI.

That fear is not imaginary.

It is not stupid.

And it does not make us passive or resigned.

Quite the opposite.

If we notice these shifts, these tremors, it’s because we pay attention. Because we sense that something is moving, changing, asking something of us. Warning us.

Our role as indie musicians is not to remain neutral in front of that.

Like troubadours facing the lords of their time, we must keep enchanting, surprising, making people laugh, and asking questions.

Troubadours were as necessary as philosophers or masters of the written word.

With one crucial difference: they were rarely recognized for what they truly brought, a living reflection on the world as it was unfolding.

So let’s be careful not to become merely the king’s fools.

Because that’s the shortcut toward being reduced to “content creators,” here only to entertain.

No.

We are artists, and that is much more than that.

We analyze our world, often without realizing it.

We react, without rushing, to the incoherence of those who claim to lead it.

We carry voices, colors, styles, genres, ideals, states of mind, inner depths and winding thoughts toward more color, more freedom, more listening, more community.

We grow together.

And that may be the only algorithm that truly enriches us.

The one of our hearts.

The one of our creations.

The one of our empathy.

Because no one could imagine a world without music.

Without art.

Without souls.

I hope you’ll enjoy today’s journey.

Love 🤍, and happy reading,

Mitxoda

A few days ago, Nadine de Macedo shared something that hit deeper than most posts about algorithms, reach, or numbers ever do.

She wasn’t complaining, she simply described what happened when she stopped.

Three weeks without preparing posts, almost no tags, almost no reactions.

A quiet that felt both brutal and revealing.

And in that quiet, something unexpected happened. Time came back.

Not the abstract kind we all talk about, but real, tangible time: guitar practice, cover artwork, books reopened after years, thoughts slowing down enough to breathe again. Silence didn’t erase the noise, no. it exposed how loud it had become.

And then came the questions. The ones we rarely dare to ask out loud:

Those questions don’t belong to Nadine alone. They belong to almost every indie artist I know. To curators. To writers. To anyone who keeps showing up without guarantees.

I replied with something simple, maybe too simple:

“Just one thing to do: appreciate the value of time. Silence can help, but time is even more precious.”

And yes, I admitted it, sometimes I think about stopping this Weekly too.

That sentence alone opened a door. Nadine answered immediately, with warmth and honesty, asking me not to stop, while fully acknowledging how frustrating lack of engagement can be. No guilt. No pressure. Just understanding.

Then The Kind Machine stepped in with something even more grounding: a reminder that effort is visible, even when metrics pretend it isn’t. That professionalism, consistency, and care do matter, even in genres that aren’t “in vogue”. That what we build quietly still has value.

Reading that, I realized something important.

Silence is NOT the enemy.

Burnout is.

The real danger isn’t stepping back, it’s never stepping out of the loop. The loop where ideas generate more ideas, where automation is meant to save time but somehow creates new projects, new tabs, new responsibilities. An infinite mental carousel.

This week feels like a “down” one for me. I’ll manage, as usual. I’m trying to free time for myself… but then another idea comes, and suddenly I’m fully in again. I can’t stop myself. And yes, it earns nothing, but hell, I love what I do.

That’s the paradox of indie life.

We don’t do this because it’s efficient. We don’t do it because it’s profitable. We do it because not doing it feels worse.

So what do we do with silence? We use it.

Like Nadine said: silence can be a space to record drafts, to clear the noise inside the head, to reconnect with the reason music existed before platforms did. Not disappearing, just choosing where energy goes.

And maybe that’s the real lesson here.

Not posting less. Not doing more.

But asking, again and again: Is this worth my time, I mean, my real time?

Mitxoda Weekly exists because I believe slow, human, imperfect connections still matter. But that belief has to coexist with rest, doubt, and moments of stepping back.

So no, I’m not stopping.

But I am listening, to silence, to time, to my body, and to all of you who quietly remind me why this is worth continuing.

If you’re reading this and wondering about your own silence: stay assured, you’re not alone.

And if you’re still here, reading this, well, thank you - it means a lot 🤍

This week’s Top 10 isn’t about winning prizes, it’s about love, support, and staying in it together.

Listen Back to the last Friday Salon Indie de Mitxoda here.

I’ll see you all later today at 4:00 PM (Brussels time) for the 39th episode of Le Salon Indie de Mitxoda, live at salon.mitxoda.be, see you very soon.

Let’s imagine this properly.
A quiet corner, maybe a bar not trying too hard. Outside, the UK sky doing its usual thing, grey but gentle. Inside, a drink in hand. Something warm. Or maybe popcorn on the table, sweet and salty, because that somehow already feels right.

That’s where I meet Tegan.
Not in a hurry. Not performing. Just talking. Listening. Letting things unfold.

She comes from Atherton, near Manchester (UK), but now lives in Blackpool, that strange, beautiful place where nostalgia and noise coexist. It fits her somehow. A town that knows joy, loss, lights, and silence. Just like her songs.

Tegan’s music doesn’t knock on the door loudly.
It sits down next to you.

Indie pop brushing against folk. Acoustic guitar holding hands with soft electronic textures. Nothing flashy. Nothing fake. Songs that feel like thoughts you didn’t know how to phrase until someone else sang them first.

There’s love in there. And self-discovery. And those moments where you’re not sad exactly, just thinking a bit deeper than usual. Her music lives in that space. The one between words. The one you visit late at night or on long walks when headphones feel like shelter.

If this edition felt quieter, heavier, or slower than usual, that’s not an accident. It’s a reflection.

Of a world in motion, of artists questioning their place, of time slipping through our fingers while metrics pretend to measure meaning.

Music doesn’t live in numbers.

It lives in pauses, in persistence, in shared moments that don’t always announce themselves.

Thank you for staying.

Thank you for listening, to the tracks, to the silences, to yourself.

Let’s keep choosing depth over noise, care over speed, and music over distraction.

See you in the sound.
🖤 Mitxoda

END 😆