While working on Oscillator and plotting the journey from zero to a protocol for music, Jack and I kept returning to a single question: where did the music go? We grew up immersed in vibrant scenes, with artists as close friends, yet somehow, music seemed to have slipped away as a central part of our lives—still present, but almost impossible to grasp.
We reminisced about how we used to discover music, what our friends listened to, and how gigs were at the heart of our lives. How movements and scenes were rooted in specific places, and how we were unsure if that was still the case. We met with Andre with a vague idea to create a music diary. While there, we got into a rental car, started a playlist, and immediately recognised the song. We knew it. We instantly recited the lyrics. We liked it. But we couldn't name it. We realised that our scene was no longer grounded. It was floating adrift, lost to passive listening habits and algorithmic playlists. Music discovery had been over-engineered into oblivion—a problem that never should have been solved.
As the three of us discussed this, the issue became clearer. The scene isn't just hard to find for listeners—it's hard to find for artists too. It's fragmented and out of sight, but it undeniably exists out there in the ether. So, how does an artist connect with their audience now? How do they reach their most loyal fans?
We compared it to Netflix: on-demand viewing changes the way we engage with media. There's no real investment. We less often take the time to go to the cinema: we aren't buying tickets, taking our seats, and quietly chatting before the lights dim. These are actions that give an experience meaning, and foster a shared memory—a shared culture. Streaming severs that.
All the while, platforms like Letterboxd do offer hope. In a world of passive and isolated consumption, they encourage people to be deliberate in what they dedicate time to, to reflect on it afterwards, and to document it. In turn, it creates a space for community and active participation. It stands in opposition to algorithms, and its popularity grows with each passing day.
We eventually found ourselves asking ourselves an important question: should our public profiles reflect what we passively consume, or what we would like to engage with? Should they show who we are at the moment, or who we aspire to be? We believe they should look forwards rather than backwards. They should be aspirational. Algorithm-driven profiles can be limiting, reinforcing the same patterns. "Commenting to cleanse my algorithm" is not an emergent behaviour we should ever see.
So, where does Factory fit in?
Grunge had Seattle.
Hip-hop had the Bronx.
Reggae had Kingston.
Jazz had New Orleans.
Techno had Detroit.
Country had Nashville.
Salsa had New York.
Britpop had Manchester.
But what about today? To reconnect with the idea of a scene, we need to resist the pull of technology. While Spotify dominates music listening, it doesn't have to dictate music discovery and discussion. People should find music through others, using albums and songs as markers in their lives. They should have a place to record their experiences with their music, to say, "I listened to this, I was here," and share it with others. That's how scenes are built.
In 1976, the Sex Pistols played a show at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester. Only 40 people attended. But those 40 went on to form Joy Division, New Order, The Fall, The Smiths, The Hacienda, and Factory Records—movements that changed music.
Today, the scene isn't dead—it's just waiting. Waiting to be found, to be grounded again in places, people, and moments that matter.