So, I have a problem I need to address.
At the end of last week’s newsletter, I mentioned that I needed to rethink the “Top Five Songs of the Week” section. To simplify what I wrote: the main issue is that finding my top five songs each week has completely changed my relationship to music listening. I now listen to 25–50 songs per week, pick the ones I like, and then immediately move on to the next week’s batch. I rarely revisit anything or build a deeper bond with most of the songs—which, to me, is a major bummer.
I started this newsletter because I love music and wanted to share that love with people. I was honestly shocked by how many of you signed up because you cared about what I (yes, little old me!) had to say about new music. And over time, I noticed something else: a lot of people were getting sick of what Spotify was recommending. It just wasn’t clicking.
I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think I have a solution for you.
It’s not just Spotify’s algorithm. It’s all algorithms designed to feed you an endless buffet of content.
In the digital age, it suddenly became incredibly easy to create things, which, all things considered, is probably a net positive for humanity. But the tradeoff is that every single minute, millions of podcasts, songs, videos, articles, newsletters, and other forms of media are unleashed onto the internet and into the world. Everything became overwhelming almost overnight, leading to more anxiety and even alienation.
Naturally, the next step was algorithms—tools designed to help us find what we want, when we want it. In theory, this should also be a net positive, because we all live different lives and love different things. That diversity of taste and experience is one of the most beautiful parts of being human.
But algorithms don’t account for depth of feeling. They don’t optimize for meaning, satisfaction, or long-term connection. They optimize for engagement. I’d even go a step further: Spotify doesn’t want you to have a deep listening experience. They want you to listen passively to music, podcasts, and audiobooks while you’re doing other things like washing dishes or driving home from work. They don’t want you to lean in; they simply want you to keep engaging with the app.
To be fair, Spotify was likely just following trends that they were seeing in natural user behavior. Of course people listen to music while multitasking. But they made a critical mistake: they misunderstood that while people want to optimize their time, they also crave meaning.
Have you ever sent a meme, an Instagram post, or a TikTok to a friend and said, “This is so you”? You did it because you knew it would make them laugh or brighten their day in a small but meaningful way.
We all do this. We get to know the people we love, we understand them, we “see” them, and then we recommend things we know will make their lives a little better. We do this knowing they’ll do the same for us. This is how trust and bonds are built.
In the social media age, brands have caught onto this dynamic. That’s why so many companies now put a “face” to their brand. Jack Appleby—social media expert and creator of the Future Social newsletter—wrote a great piece about Duo the Owl (Duolingo’s mascot). He said:
“With an overwhelming % of social media shifting towards short-form vertical videos on recommendation-based algorithmic feeds, it’s becoming more and more noticeable when social does not have an actual person in the content. It’s just pretty damn hard to build an audience if you’re not giving them someone to connect with.”
We trust things more when we feel a connection. Even a fictional owl has won over the hearts of millions.
But we’re at an interesting crossroads in technology and culture: we might not need other humans to give us the best recommendations.
A couple of weeks ago, OpenAI released an updated version of ChatGPT with a new memory feature, allowing the chatbot to tailor its answers based on users' previous conversations.
When OpenAI CEO Sam Altman was asked about this new feature at a TED conference, he said:
“One of our researchers tweeted that the upload happens bit by bit. It’s not that you plug your brain in one day, but you will talk to ChatGPT over the course of your life, and someday… it will get to know you, and it will become an extension of yourself—this companion, this thing that just tries to help you be the best you can.”
There will probably come a time when AI can give great recommendations, perfectly tailored to your tastes and needs. But I have a funny feeling that we’ll still trust recommendations from other humans, just as much as we might learn to trust those from AI.
So it’s worth asking the question:
To put it plainly, curators are editors of life experiences. There’s a kind of moral responsibility that comes with great curation. It’s not just about taste and discovery; it requires deep respect for an audience’s time, attention, and soul.
At its essence, curation is two things: selection plus context.
When I was studying at Berklee College of Music, one of my favorite classes had absolutely nothing to do with music. It was a Renaissance Art History class. The professor was unbelievably good at his job, and oftentimes, that makes all the difference. He gave me such a deep appreciation for art—one I had never felt before—that I still think about how pivotal that class was for me. He did it by providing context that I, as a non-technical artist, never had. He explained how the art was made, when and where it was made, and why it mattered. And because he provided that context, it all became that much more meaningful.
A great curator not only selects the best things but also provides the necessary context: why it matters, how it fits, and when it should be experienced.
Furthermore, great curation doesn’t try to please everyone. A great curator will say, “This might be weird or out there or different from what you’re used to, but I love this, and here’s why you might too.”
At the heart of it, people want to feel something. Great curation creates emotional resonance. It makes you stop and say, “Wow, I really GOT that.”
And this is why the Spotify algorithm is failing you. It doesn’t care whether you get something or not.
Its recommendations are designed to save you time, not enrich your time.
But a great curator does the opposite. They make every minute you spend—in a museum, listening to an album, reading a book—that much more worthwhile, because you understand why someone took the great care and effort to make this thing exist.
Minimalism is often an important part of great curation: one thoughtful recommendation is better than a list of fifty mediocre ones. Most people would rather have one great song shared with them than a playlist full of noise.
When you have high signal and low noise, trust is developed. And that’s why, more than ever, we need great curators.
This past week, I posted a Substack Note asking whether people were for or against using AI in the creative process. As expected, some were strongly in favor, while others were strongly against. Since many people on Substack are writers or creatives of some sort, they feel threatened by the existence of AI that can create art. There are other genuine concerns too, like environmental impacts and the use of copyrighted material to train these models.
But regardless of where you stand, the reality is: the cat is out of the bag. There’s no going back. It’s a fact I’m not sure everyone fully grasps yet.
AI is going to democratize art, making it easier than ever for anyone, anywhere, to create—whether that’s written, visual, or otherwise. You’ll no longer need to spend years mastering your craft in order to make something polished and convincing. The barrier to go from zero to one is becoming shockingly low. In truth, this is both exciting and a little unsettling.
Because as it becomes easier for anyone to create, our already saturated media landscape will only grow noisier.
Curation is already becoming a necessity—a craft in and of itself. In my view, curators could become some of the defining artists of the next decade, helping shape what people pay attention to. Those who learn how to innovate the art of curation—either through human or AI efforts—may end up playing an even bigger role than we realize.
This brings me back to my original problem: what should I do about my Top Five Songs of the Week?
Realistically, I don’t think I can or want to listen to fifty new songs every weekend just to distill it down to five picks by Monday. But in the spirit of true curation, I can offer one song per week and go a little deeper into why it matters.
So, without further ado, here’s my top song recommendation for the week.
Sometimes a song doesn’t just tell a story. It invites you to live inside it. That’s exactly what Natalia Lafourcade pulls off with "El Palomo y La Negra," the lead single from her new album Cancionera.
If you don’t know Lafourcade, she's one of Mexico’s most important modern voices—not just because of her Grammy wins or critical acclaim, but because of the role she’s chosen to play. After starting her career in Latin alternative pop, Lafourcade turned her focus to preserving and reinterpreting Mexico’s traditional music. Over the past decade, she’s blended folk styles like son jarocho, bolero, and ranchera into something that feels both deeply rooted and completely alive. She’s not just honoring the past. She’s making sure it keeps breathing.
“El Palomo y La Negra” is a perfect example. On its surface, it’s a simple, joyful folk story: two lovers, El Palomo and La Negra, finding each other again after lifetimes apart. Their souls recognize each other instantly. They build a life across many cities. And after all that, the only thing left to do is get married and celebrate—with rumba, mezcal, and the kind of wedding party that spills into the streets. It’s a love story made timeless through its details, full of gratitude for both the good and the bad they've weathered.
The song itself mirrors that slow, natural build toward celebration. It opens quietly with just guitar, bass, a gentle rhythm, and Lafourcade’s soft, close voice setting the scene. You feel like you’re sitting at a table with her, hearing the beginning of a story.
Slowly, trumpet, harp, and other instruments blend in. And then, around the three-minute mark, something shifts. Backup singers join, and the track starts to feel communal, like neighbors pulling up chairs. At about 4:00, Lafourcade changes her cadence, delivering her lyrics almost like a chant. Faster, more playful, leaning into the earthy rhythms of son jarocho and rumba. Thirty seconds later, more percussion kicks in that makes you want to dance, tugging your body into movement before you even realize it.
What started as an intimate folk tale has turned into a full-blown celebration—horns blare, voices shout back and forth, and the percussion grows wilder and more layered. By the final stretch of the song, the whole thing has transformed, until Lafourcade announces: “The baby is coming!” It’s not polished in the pop sense; it’s alive. You can practically hear the mezcal being poured, the laughter getting louder, the kind of party that doesn’t end cleanly but fades out into the night.
What’s beautiful about “El Palomo y La Negra” is how naturally it brings you along. Even if you don’t understand every word in Spanish, the feeling is unmistakable. It taps into something universal: that love is joy.
Musically, the song draws from a rich palette: Veracruz's son jarocho tradition, Afro-Caribbean percussion, the call-and-response spirit of a Mexican wedding. But Lafourcade blends all of it into a modern, approachable sound. You don’t need to know the history to feel it, but the more you listen, the more you realize how many layers she’s weaving together.
Ultimately, "El Palomo y La Negra" isn’t just a song about two people getting married. It’s about the kind of love that feels inevitable, that transcends time and life itself. It’s about gratitude—for the love, for the hardships, for every messy, beautiful part of the journey. And it’s about how music can turn even the smallest moment into something worth dancing to.
Whether you're a fan of traditional folk music or someone who’s just looking for a song that makes you feel a little more alive, "El Palomo y La Negra" is worth your seven minutes. Put it on, turn it up, and let yourself get pulled into the celebration. Chances are, you’ll find yourself singing and dancing along before the mezcal even hits.
So, I have a problem I need to address.
At the end of last week’s newsletter, I mentioned that I needed to rethink the “Top Five Songs of the Week” section. To simplify what I wrote: the main issue is that finding my top five songs each week has completely changed my relationship to music listening. I now listen to 25–50 songs per week, pick the ones I like, and then immediately move on to the next week’s batch. I rarely revisit anything or build a deeper bond with most of the songs—which, to me, is a major bummer.
I started this newsletter because I love music and wanted to share that love with people. I was honestly shocked by how many of you signed up because you cared about what I (yes, little old me!) had to say about new music. And over time, I noticed something else: a lot of people were getting sick of what Spotify was recommending. It just wasn’t clicking.
I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think I have a solution for you.
It’s not just Spotify’s algorithm. It’s all algorithms designed to feed you an endless buffet of content.
In the digital age, it suddenly became incredibly easy to create things, which, all things considered, is probably a net positive for humanity. But the tradeoff is that every single minute, millions of podcasts, songs, videos, articles, newsletters, and other forms of media are unleashed onto the internet and into the world. Everything became overwhelming almost overnight, leading to more anxiety and even alienation.
Naturally, the next step was algorithms—tools designed to help us find what we want, when we want it. In theory, this should also be a net positive, because we all live different lives and love different things. That diversity of taste and experience is one of the most beautiful parts of being human.
But algorithms don’t account for depth of feeling. They don’t optimize for meaning, satisfaction, or long-term connection. They optimize for engagement. I’d even go a step further: Spotify doesn’t want you to have a deep listening experience. They want you to listen passively to music, podcasts, and audiobooks while you’re doing other things like washing dishes or driving home from work. They don’t want you to lean in; they simply want you to keep engaging with the app.
To be fair, Spotify was likely just following trends that they were seeing in natural user behavior. Of course people listen to music while multitasking. But they made a critical mistake: they misunderstood that while people want to optimize their time, they also crave meaning.
Have you ever sent a meme, an Instagram post, or a TikTok to a friend and said, “This is so you”? You did it because you knew it would make them laugh or brighten their day in a small but meaningful way.
We all do this. We get to know the people we love, we understand them, we “see” them, and then we recommend things we know will make their lives a little better. We do this knowing they’ll do the same for us. This is how trust and bonds are built.
In the social media age, brands have caught onto this dynamic. That’s why so many companies now put a “face” to their brand. Jack Appleby—social media expert and creator of the Future Social newsletter—wrote a great piece about Duo the Owl (Duolingo’s mascot). He said:
“With an overwhelming % of social media shifting towards short-form vertical videos on recommendation-based algorithmic feeds, it’s becoming more and more noticeable when social does not have an actual person in the content. It’s just pretty damn hard to build an audience if you’re not giving them someone to connect with.”
We trust things more when we feel a connection. Even a fictional owl has won over the hearts of millions.
But we’re at an interesting crossroads in technology and culture: we might not need other humans to give us the best recommendations.
A couple of weeks ago, OpenAI released an updated version of ChatGPT with a new memory feature, allowing the chatbot to tailor its answers based on users' previous conversations.
When OpenAI CEO Sam Altman was asked about this new feature at a TED conference, he said:
“One of our researchers tweeted that the upload happens bit by bit. It’s not that you plug your brain in one day, but you will talk to ChatGPT over the course of your life, and someday… it will get to know you, and it will become an extension of yourself—this companion, this thing that just tries to help you be the best you can.”
There will probably come a time when AI can give great recommendations, perfectly tailored to your tastes and needs. But I have a funny feeling that we’ll still trust recommendations from other humans, just as much as we might learn to trust those from AI.
So it’s worth asking the question:
To put it plainly, curators are editors of life experiences. There’s a kind of moral responsibility that comes with great curation. It’s not just about taste and discovery; it requires deep respect for an audience’s time, attention, and soul.
At its essence, curation is two things: selection plus context.
When I was studying at Berklee College of Music, one of my favorite classes had absolutely nothing to do with music. It was a Renaissance Art History class. The professor was unbelievably good at his job, and oftentimes, that makes all the difference. He gave me such a deep appreciation for art—one I had never felt before—that I still think about how pivotal that class was for me. He did it by providing context that I, as a non-technical artist, never had. He explained how the art was made, when and where it was made, and why it mattered. And because he provided that context, it all became that much more meaningful.
A great curator not only selects the best things but also provides the necessary context: why it matters, how it fits, and when it should be experienced.
Furthermore, great curation doesn’t try to please everyone. A great curator will say, “This might be weird or out there or different from what you’re used to, but I love this, and here’s why you might too.”
At the heart of it, people want to feel something. Great curation creates emotional resonance. It makes you stop and say, “Wow, I really GOT that.”
And this is why the Spotify algorithm is failing you. It doesn’t care whether you get something or not.
Its recommendations are designed to save you time, not enrich your time.
But a great curator does the opposite. They make every minute you spend—in a museum, listening to an album, reading a book—that much more worthwhile, because you understand why someone took the great care and effort to make this thing exist.
Minimalism is often an important part of great curation: one thoughtful recommendation is better than a list of fifty mediocre ones. Most people would rather have one great song shared with them than a playlist full of noise.
When you have high signal and low noise, trust is developed. And that’s why, more than ever, we need great curators.
This past week, I posted a Substack Note asking whether people were for or against using AI in the creative process. As expected, some were strongly in favor, while others were strongly against. Since many people on Substack are writers or creatives of some sort, they feel threatened by the existence of AI that can create art. There are other genuine concerns too, like environmental impacts and the use of copyrighted material to train these models.
But regardless of where you stand, the reality is: the cat is out of the bag. There’s no going back. It’s a fact I’m not sure everyone fully grasps yet.
AI is going to democratize art, making it easier than ever for anyone, anywhere, to create—whether that’s written, visual, or otherwise. You’ll no longer need to spend years mastering your craft in order to make something polished and convincing. The barrier to go from zero to one is becoming shockingly low. In truth, this is both exciting and a little unsettling.
Because as it becomes easier for anyone to create, our already saturated media landscape will only grow noisier.
Curation is already becoming a necessity—a craft in and of itself. In my view, curators could become some of the defining artists of the next decade, helping shape what people pay attention to. Those who learn how to innovate the art of curation—either through human or AI efforts—may end up playing an even bigger role than we realize.
This brings me back to my original problem: what should I do about my Top Five Songs of the Week?
Realistically, I don’t think I can or want to listen to fifty new songs every weekend just to distill it down to five picks by Monday. But in the spirit of true curation, I can offer one song per week and go a little deeper into why it matters.
So, without further ado, here’s my top song recommendation for the week.
Sometimes a song doesn’t just tell a story. It invites you to live inside it. That’s exactly what Natalia Lafourcade pulls off with "El Palomo y La Negra," the lead single from her new album Cancionera.
If you don’t know Lafourcade, she's one of Mexico’s most important modern voices—not just because of her Grammy wins or critical acclaim, but because of the role she’s chosen to play. After starting her career in Latin alternative pop, Lafourcade turned her focus to preserving and reinterpreting Mexico’s traditional music. Over the past decade, she’s blended folk styles like son jarocho, bolero, and ranchera into something that feels both deeply rooted and completely alive. She’s not just honoring the past. She’s making sure it keeps breathing.
“El Palomo y La Negra” is a perfect example. On its surface, it’s a simple, joyful folk story: two lovers, El Palomo and La Negra, finding each other again after lifetimes apart. Their souls recognize each other instantly. They build a life across many cities. And after all that, the only thing left to do is get married and celebrate—with rumba, mezcal, and the kind of wedding party that spills into the streets. It’s a love story made timeless through its details, full of gratitude for both the good and the bad they've weathered.
The song itself mirrors that slow, natural build toward celebration. It opens quietly with just guitar, bass, a gentle rhythm, and Lafourcade’s soft, close voice setting the scene. You feel like you’re sitting at a table with her, hearing the beginning of a story.
Slowly, trumpet, harp, and other instruments blend in. And then, around the three-minute mark, something shifts. Backup singers join, and the track starts to feel communal, like neighbors pulling up chairs. At about 4:00, Lafourcade changes her cadence, delivering her lyrics almost like a chant. Faster, more playful, leaning into the earthy rhythms of son jarocho and rumba. Thirty seconds later, more percussion kicks in that makes you want to dance, tugging your body into movement before you even realize it.
What started as an intimate folk tale has turned into a full-blown celebration—horns blare, voices shout back and forth, and the percussion grows wilder and more layered. By the final stretch of the song, the whole thing has transformed, until Lafourcade announces: “The baby is coming!” It’s not polished in the pop sense; it’s alive. You can practically hear the mezcal being poured, the laughter getting louder, the kind of party that doesn’t end cleanly but fades out into the night.
What’s beautiful about “El Palomo y La Negra” is how naturally it brings you along. Even if you don’t understand every word in Spanish, the feeling is unmistakable. It taps into something universal: that love is joy.
Musically, the song draws from a rich palette: Veracruz's son jarocho tradition, Afro-Caribbean percussion, the call-and-response spirit of a Mexican wedding. But Lafourcade blends all of it into a modern, approachable sound. You don’t need to know the history to feel it, but the more you listen, the more you realize how many layers she’s weaving together.
Ultimately, "El Palomo y La Negra" isn’t just a song about two people getting married. It’s about the kind of love that feels inevitable, that transcends time and life itself. It’s about gratitude—for the love, for the hardships, for every messy, beautiful part of the journey. And it’s about how music can turn even the smallest moment into something worth dancing to.
Whether you're a fan of traditional folk music or someone who’s just looking for a song that makes you feel a little more alive, "El Palomo y La Negra" is worth your seven minutes. Put it on, turn it up, and let yourself get pulled into the celebration. Chances are, you’ll find yourself singing and dancing along before the mezcal even hits.
