Maybe you're not bad at playing, maybe you're just lacking the right friendships.

It was 2006 or 2007, I think, and I was in Florence. At the time, I was hanging out with this girl who had a really huge circle of university friends. “Luca, I need you to meet Nicco.” I walked into this house full of girls and boys, university students like me.

I had recently discovered Fruity Loops And, with no money as I was, I only used the demo version (I think it was version 3) which allowed me to play around and export a song in wav format. I couldn't save the projects. I felt really cool. Nicco was in a room with a white MacBook and a master. He had Reason.

That evening, Nicco taught me how to use Reason. By the end of the evening, my eyes were shining as I saw that software so close to something resembling hardware. That house was full of people making electronic music. Back then, everyone was crazy about them. Autechre.

Nicco lived in that tiny room filled with things. That house was a hive of creativity. He was the first person I met in my life who made electronic music, and he helped me take my first step forward, because at the time I really knew nothing.

La electronic music It has an almost intrinsic structural characteristic that distinguishes it from almost all other genres: it's almost always done alone, at home or in the studio, with instruments that don't require other humans to operate. Those who work with synthesizers, sequencers, and DAWs can spend years in a room without ever having real external feedback. I noticed this later, upon my return to Turin. I was alone again.

This isolation is not neutral and has very specific consequences. Consider, for example: Ralf Hütter of Kraftwerk Seeing that a sequencer could perfectly well do his job as a drummer. It must not have been a good moment. We all know that humans calibrate their self-perception of competence through comparison with peers. Without peers to compare themselves with, that calibration doesn't happen, and the result is almost invariably an underestimation or overestimation of one's own abilities.

What I mean?

Maybe you're not bad at your instrument, maybe it's because you have few friends. The other day I was listening to a podcast that was talking, among other things, about the importance of having friends who are similar to you, who share your tastes. It's a perfectly normal thing, I think. These friendships help you grow. For many years, I didn't have any musical friends; the ones I have close to me, the ones I see on weekends, have interests that are completely different from mine. For years, I suffered from this situation because it made me feel isolated, and because you're always seen as a bit strange. (How many of us do this, right?)

For some years now, however, especially thanks to Synth Café And the people I've gotten to know better, I've discovered people who have given me so much: advice, music, the ability to formulate ideas. I've gone from doing nothing for years to now doing a ton of things that keep me working until 3 a.m. Sometimes there have even been very strong "idealistic" clashes, which I've understood once I've assimilated them. And it's an absurd baggage. Having a friend tell you, "Look, this part doesn't sound right, you could do this like this, this isn't right," coming from someone at your level, if not higher, is something to be taken at face value. And it's a shame to see so many of us feel incompetent, unmotivated, to the point of blaming ourselves for things not going the way we'd like, to the point of giving up everything.

You end up looking for ideas in theAI, which is fine, sure, but having an experienced person, who knows what they're talking about and perhaps even knows you, is something AI today perhaps can't provide. The truth, in most cases, is simpler and less dramatic. You're not bad. You're alone at the wrong time, surrounded by the wrong people, or both. What can you do in these cases? The internet offers us millions of things to see, but it can't give us an opinion, a piece of advice (unless we seek comfort in an AI that tells us we're brilliant and perhaps the best in the world).

FIND PEERS AT YOUR LEVEL OR ABOVE

There's a principle that applies in music as in almost every other area of ​​life: the average level of the people you interact with tends to become your benchmark. Not because you're susceptible to negative influence, but because the context defines normality. It's a bit like living in a sort of bubble ecosystem: in that little world, we're average and therefore, in a certain sense, comfortable. However, if the bubble is uninteresting and uninspiring, it can turn into a veritable prison because it risks limiting us.

Spending a long time in environments where mediocrity is the norm slowly erodes ambition. Not suddenly, but gradually and almost imperceptibly. Little by little, you stop asking yourself what you could do better, because no one around you seems to be asking that question. In fact, perhaps you don't need to do better. And at a certain point, you realize you've lowered the bar without making a conscious decision. Seeking out inspiring people, who can add something extra to your life, is crucial because it's one of the best ways to grow and improve.

Surrounding yourself with people who have already developed something—a discipline, a vision, an ability to work consistently—is essential if we want to improve ourselves. This doesn't mean chasing others' success or being a careerist. It means exposing yourself to a way of doing things that unintentionally raises your own bar. You begin to expect more from yourself not out of competition, but by osmosis. Because being around those who work with care teaches, first and foremost, what it means to work with care. Choosing who to be with isn't even arrogance. It's one of the most concrete forms of respect for yourself and your own journey.

DON'T NEED TO SEEK GURUS

We all have a guru in our lives; we've read their books, watched interviews, and listened to their advice. Looking up certainly helps; it provides direction, shows what's possible. The point is not to expect daily guidance from that person. Those who are much further ahead have forgotten what it's like to be where you are, or perhaps they no longer have the time. The guru has automated things that are still difficult for you, has left behind problems that are still unresolved. He can inspire you, he can open your mind to things you hadn't considered. Maybe he's not even that up-to-date. In short, take what's good and move on.

FIND YOUR SPECIALIZATION

You don't necessarily have to be able to mix a song perfectly. Maybe you can't even put together the backbone or write lyrics. It's not necessarily a big deal. Do you have any idea how many people are in the same situation as you? Lots. But maybe you're good at creating unique sounds, amazing sonic textures. Or maybe you're adept at arranging. Use these things to your advantage. There's an unspoken condition that those who make electronic music He knows well: that of having to be good at everything: mixing, composing, arranging, sound design, production, mastering. As if the complete musician were the only valid model and everything else was a form of incompleteness. That's absolutely not the case. Absolutely nothing.

This doesn't mean ignoring your own shortcomings. It means understanding and accepting that not all gaps can be filled alone. Some are filled through the right people around you. If mixing isn't your strong point, a peer who has developed that ear can compensate for what you lack. Asking for an extra ear is crucial, and why not, you can do the same for them in other ways. If harmonic structure or composition are giving you trouble, someone who masters them can open up possibilities you'd never see alone. The right relationships help build a system where one's weaknesses become the other's strengths, and vice versa.

This is exactly how it works in almost every other creative discipline. A director isn't also a cinematographer. A writer has an editor. An architect works with engineers. Collaboration isn't a shortcut for those who don't know how to do things; on the contrary, it's the way complex things are done well. Specialization, over time, often becomes your signature: the way you structure songs in a certain way, the way you create sounds, is precisely what makes the listener say "this is him" after three seconds. Finding that thing, developing it in depth, and surrounding yourself with people who complete what's missing is a much more solid strategy than trying to become good at everything. I truly believe this.

IF YOU WANT TO ISOLATE YOURSELF, DO IT IN A LIMINAL SPACE

I didn't know the word "liminal" until recently. And yet, it's a beautiful concept. There's a moment that almost every musician knows, even without having given it a name. It's not the moment when you work: that's defined, has a direction, has a goal. And it's not the moment when you rest: that's empty, detached. It's the moment in between, the liminal space Exactly: the walk with no specific destination, the car ride, the shower, the minutes before bed. That suspended state in which the mind is neither focused nor turned off, simply free to wander. Psychologists call it default network mode: the neural network that activates when you're not focused on a specific task. It's counterintuitive, but it's in this mode that the brain performs some of its most complex processing: it connects distant information, solves problems that seemed unsolvable during active work, and generates associations that direct concentration would never have produced.

That space, that threshold between doing and not doing, is a transitional territory where many things are suspended, where you're temporarily free almost without realizing it. And it's almost always there that the best ideas are born. Not in front of the synthesizer, not during a session, but after, or before, or in the middle of something else. Often, at work, I have a lot of time to think (don't get me wrong, my job is focused); working so long on a single thing, I often find myself drifting my thoughts elsewhere, thoughts that then develop ideas that probably need those moments, because in other cases they rarely arrive. It's almost a sort of waking half-sleep, a sort of absent-mindedness. Conceiving and finding your own liminal space is therefore a creative practice in its own right. I often have musical ideas while commuting to work: at that point I grab my phone's recorder and quickly whistle or sing a tune, knowing that if I didn't record it, the idea would irremediably disappear shortly thereafter.

THROW AWAY

Get started right away. There's something I've learned over time, partly by accident and partly by necessity: waiting for the right moment is almost always an excuse. For those like me who play synthesizers and various gadgets, this often turns into a very serious problem, which in some cases literally leads to you not playing at all. It's insidious: it's called perfectionist procrastination. Have you ever thought things like, "I'll finish that song when I have enough money to buy that synth," "I'm waiting for that PREAMP over there to record new stuff," and so on?

Like a curse, you'll have to wait until you're good enough. You'll have to wait until you have the right tool, wait until the idea is developed enough to deserve being realized, wait until someone tells you you can do it. One of my obsessions is not to start an Instagram video unless I have the ENTIRE scene in my mind. It's an absurd obsession, in fact, a pit. If you don't have everything you want to have: do something anyway. No one will notice that that synthesizer over there is a plugin and not that synthesizer you've been wanting to buy for a long time. Starting a project with a friend can be truly therapeutic: you can set times, deadlines, and goals. Neither of you will care that much about what you have at that moment because the doing will probably be more important than the resources available. Want to do something a little crazy? Open Social media coordinator, find a musician you like and propose a collaboration. I did it some time ago while browsing TikTokI accidentally found an indie band, and from there we developed some songs that we also released. But if I hadn't stepped out of my comfort zone for a moment, I would never have achieved anything.

The problem with the comfort zone isn't that it's bad or wrong. It's comfortable by definition, and comfort has its value. The problem is that after a while, it stops teaching you anything. You keep doing the same things, with the same tools, in the same way, and you're surprised that the results are always the same. It's not your fault; it's simply what happens when you stop.

Taking the plunge doesn't mean doing things randomly.It means accepting that you don't yet know how it's going to end. Trying a genre you've never explored, collaborating with someone with a completely different approach than yours. Playing an instrument in a way it wasn't meant to be. Releasing something before you feel ready. The very stuff that makes you a little anxious is often the right direction.

THE TOOL AS MEMBERSHIP TO A COMMUNITY

There's a phenomenon anyone who frequents online music communities has observed at least once: an instrument going viral within a group. In a short time, dozens of people buy it, show it off, and make videos with it. A critical mass of content, comparisons, and shared patches is created. A community within a community. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. A shared instrument creates a common language: you can discuss specifications, patches created, issues, and "tricks." These things undoubtedly enhance the sense of community and foster camaraderie, to the point that an instrument spawns communities that talk about that instrument. This generates a more precise and fruitful discussion than would be possible with other instruments, and in some cases, it encourages you to explore an instrument in depth precisely because there's someone nearby who knows it as well as you do and shows you angles you wouldn't have discovered on your own.

The risk, however, exists, and it's subtle. When everyone plays the same instrument in the same context, there's almost always a natural tendency toward aesthetic convergence. They listen to the same sounds, follow the same approaches, and always confront each other with the same reference. Individual sonic identity tends to blend with that of the group, not by limitation but almost by osmosis. After a while, it's difficult to tell where the community's influence ends and your own sound begins. Have you ever bought an instrument to feel part of a community?

There's also a purchasing dynamic worth honestly addressing: sometimes an instrument is purchased primarily to belong, to be part of a conversation, to share a point of reference, to feel part of something. This sense of belonging has a real, very tangible value. But when the purchase precedes a musical need, the result is often an underused instrument and a lack of growth. Therefore, carefully weigh the pros and cons of each new purchase: communities dedicated to a single instrument are environments filled with people who likely share your tastes.

YOU ALREADY HAVE THE SOUND YOU ARE

The opposite of everything I've told you? No, absolutely not. There's something deeper in finding your own sound that's not just about music. It's about who you are. We said that the right friendships are important, absolutely true. The most important thing, though, is you. You have to stay yourself.

Copying, in the sense of systematically pursuing someone else's identity, perhaps that of someone we admire because they're our "idol," is a form of self-distrust. And it can be truly exhausting to pursue it because you'll never truly achieve it. It's a position that wears you down, because you're always chasing something that, by definition, you can't reach.

True growth happens in the opposite direction. Not toward a role model, but toward what you already have and haven't yet learned to recognize. And this is where the right people become crucial in a way that goes beyond technique. Those who truly know you, who understand where you come from, who have listened to your journey over time, can tell you something no tutorial or guru can: keep being yourself.

It's a rare gift. And it's found almost exclusively in that small circle of people who cheer you on without ulterior motives, who tell you the truth when it matters, who recognize your sound as soon as they hear it. Building that circle is perhaps the most important thing a musician can do for themselves. Not the right synthesizer, not the right pedal, but the right people. The rest will follow.

Luca Minelli