Monopolization in a electronic music

 In a situation that contributed to my recognition, a friend told me that I am “competition.” And in a way, this situation showed that someone can become known more as independent “competition” than by submitting to monopolization — which is what this post is about. I write competition in quotation marks because if someone has no interest in something, they are not competition. A person can destroy themselves, and that is their problem as long as they do not intrude into someone else’s space. And I want to thank so many people from the western side for acknowledging that my freedoms and rights were violated, and for saying that no one should ever behave like this toward another person.

Given politics, I do not want to be associated in any way with what I am supposed to be “competing” with. I have no desire to participate in something that is against my nature. I did not start producing liquid DNB mixes for that purpose. And if meaning in music disappeared, I would stop producing altogether.

I think electronic music is a vast ecosystem branching into dozens of subcultures, styles, and local scenes. And within this music, there are significant differences in how individual genres are organized: for example, one that spreads into hundreds of independent currents, and one that concentrates into a few monopolies or forms of usurpation. This can be seen most clearly when comparing the techno or even EDM, Progressive, House music with drum & bass, I think. 

While techno or EDM thrives as an open, decentralized network of thousands of artists, collectives, clubs, labels, and individuals, drum & bass is becoming monopolized. This is one of the parts that, for me, form a visible difference between DNB and techno, EDM, Progressive or House music. 

The consequences for artists are concrete. Artists involved in techno (or EDM, Progressive, …) are more independent in everything they do and in who they are than those in DNB.

In DNB, artists are often required to form ties with monopolies, creating pressure to adapt their sound, policy or image. In techno, because of the diversity of forms, artists can function in highly varied ways.

In the techno scene, the relationship between an event and an artist is more of a host–guest relationship than an “ownership” one. A festival or club invites an artist to play, but the artist is not bound to their brand or their “family.” They can play for one group today, for another tomorrow, in a completely different context, in another country, in an underground club or on a mainstream stage — without the need to belong to a specific group, because especially the artist is the specific group alone. 

This is quite a contrast to how drum and bass is sometimes presented: as if it’s supposed to be more independent than anything else. 

Luddism in the 21st Century

“It’s like if someone in the 19th century banned electricity because it threatened candle makers.”

 Recently, I wrote some praise for Giorgia Meloni, though I’m also skeptical of her. Another example might be banning cultivated meat instead of addressing problematic livestock farming. 

Sidney SN, 90’s 🇮🇹 

In my view, Italy’s decision to ban cultivated meat may seem like cultural protection or caution toward new technology. But in reality, it’s a much deeper issue. The ban isn’t conservative — it’s reactionary. It’s not about a protect tradition; it simply shows that the state isn’t ready for change, so it prefers to freeze reality in its current state.

In the context of human technological development, cultivated meat is just another logical step. Lab-grown meat is like hydroponics, vertical farming, fermentation, biotechnology — all ways to increase efficiency and reduce the negative impacts of production.

The argument that “meat should traditionally come from animals” is the same as someone wanting to ban hydroponics because lettuce has supposedly “always” grown in soil. But “always” lasts only until human ingenuity presents a better solution.

In space travel, long-term missions, or colonizing other planets — no one will be herding cattle. Cultivated meat is a necessity. This isn’t sci-fi. It’s technology we already know how to produce today.

To me, the ban on cultivated meat reveals something uncomfortable: if someone bans something solely to protect an old industry, it means they don’t know how to build a new one.

And here comes the key part: the entire ban on cultivated meat is a modern form of Luddism. 

The Luddites in the 19th century didn’t smash machines because they were dangerous. They smashed them because they threatened their roles and status in society. Meloni is doing the same thing: it’s not banning a dangerous product, but a technology that threatens old business.

Instead of supporting innovation, they would rather ban whatever complicates the status quo. It’s like banning machines because they threatened hand weavers. But the world won’t stop. Only those who are afraid will.

The Luddites lost in the end — the Industrial Revolution moved forward. And the development of cultivated meat will move forward as well. Just without Italy. And once other countries gain the know-how, investment, and expertise, Italy will be forced to import the technology.

Contrasting Reality

 At first glance, the Netherlands feels like a country where fun is a natural part of life—not only leisure, but the economy as well. It’s not just that a large part of the population now works four days a week. A sense of ease permeates the whole system and the atmosphere of the cities. 

A typical Thursday morning in Amsterdam reveals more than any statistics could. Around eight or nine in the morning at Sloterdijk, you’ll meet both young and older people returning from night events—on a Wednesday night. When you travel to Rotterdam, you pass small groups of people returning from a party in Amsterdam. It’s Thursday morning, yet social life is running at full speed.

The same applies to Sunday events, which often finish around 11 p.m. In the Netherlands, festivals or music events generally don’t allow themselves to be heard late into the night on weekends, and it’s also forbidden after midnight. Residents don’t want to be disturbed in their freedoms, and in Amsterdam it’s nothing unusual to see (18+) high school students returning home after midnight from a Sunday event, only to go to school on Monday…? Yet—and this is essential—you hardly see drunk people on the streets, groups doing hard drugs, homeless people, or as much THC and its substitutes either. The atmosphere is lively but civilised. This contrast is fascinating to me.

Entertainment is in fact a significant economic component in the Netherlands. People are more open, relaxed, and seem more content. Cities and the civilisation itself are enjoyable in their architecture—cities like Rotterdam are an experience of their own. It makes you wonder why some places build a reality that relies so heavily on extraction, monotonous industry, uninteresting landscape design, and generally depressive environments. Instead of biotope parks, interesting urban structures, and inspiring surroundings.

Luxembourg is another example. There too, you can see that when a country builds a civilisation that is enjoyable, it brings economic results. They know how to sell things—like the “famous waterfalls,” which are essentially “just a weir on a forest stream”. Yet everyone wants to see them, because they’ve become part of the cultural value.

And then you find yourself in another country, one that seems to revel in depression and maintaining smallness. Where endless political nonsense is solved instead of developing an interesting civilisation. Where more sustainable policies are rejected, even though they work in countries that are visibly richer, more open, and more satisfied. And where people then wonder why young people and adults alike escape into alcohol or substances—maybe this is part of a logical response to an environment that creates not joy, but pressure.

Maybe, among other things, if instead of a depressive reality one built a civilisation that is pleasant, playful, and inspiring, some societal values would change too. And with them, the entire atmosphere of society.

Hectic decision-making

 Sometimes I write something about a trip, but sometimes the plans take an unexpected turn.

I had a dilemma when I had the chance to go. Just a week ago, I hadn’t even thought about traveling. More typically, I was browsing online shops, looking at what I wanted to buy. On Saturday, I told myself that I could actually be away for three or four days. So I planned the trip with stops. A stay. I bought tickets for all the connections and made a booking. On Sunday, I started wondering whether it even made sense for me to do something now that I had already enjoyed two weeks ago. The program would’ve been a bit different. I would have visited more cities in the meantime (Karlsruhe, Eindhoven, also Frankfurt, maybe Regensburg) stayed at a hotel I like, and during the trip, I would’ve gone to a city (Brussels) in a neighboring country.

But on the other hand, I realized that what I actually wanted was to see some of the Christmas atmosphere already. The Christmas season officially starts there at the end of November. Visiting at that time would make more sense. And just going out partying again wouldn’t really excite me now. I already enjoyed that two weeks ago.

In the end, I canceled everything on Monday evening. And then I did something interesting — I used all the money for the trip, stay, and visits on things that came to mind that I wanted. I bought nine items within two hours. And that afternoon, quite spontaneously, I bought another one at a shopping mall. And then another after spending the money I would’ve used for the Saturday plan, all at once.

The Controversy Of A Queer

 Futurama (or Star Wars) as a Queer Utopia of the Future

 Sometimes, when I watch Futurama, I think about exactly this. I don’t particularly like the show — maybe because at times it feels too absurd, too loud. And yet it evokes a strange feeling in me: it reminds me how profound what we now call queer can be. How within these attitudes — often incomprehensible to me — there lies a certain truth about a world that is constantly changing.

At first glance, Futurama is a comedy about a robot, aliens, and humans from an absurd third millennium. But beneath the layer of humor lies something much deeper — a vision of a society where the boundaries of identity dissolve and difference is not only tolerated but celebrated.

In Futurama, there is no such thing as a “normal” body, a “traditional” family, or a “natural” way of being. The characters move across the spectrum of gender, species, and forms of existence: the robot Bender displays both gender and moral fluidity, Zoidberg embodies otherness embraced with affection, and planet Earth itself is home to thousands of cultures — human and non-human alike. Such a world necessarily rests on radical empathy and openness toward difference.

Those who love Futurama or Star Wars often carry within them an unspoken agreement with the idea that diversity is natural — that being can take infinitely many forms, and that the purpose of progress is not uniformity but variety. These worlds are queer in the deepest sense of the word: they challenge boundaries, rewrite rules, and allow new combinations of forms and identities.

This spirit is reflected in real cities — vividly in Berlin. A city where fashion experimentation becomes part of everyday life, where individuality flows into the streets as freely as music from the clubs. Berlin feels like a terrestrial version of Futurama — a metropolis where freedom of dress, belief, and desire is not an exception but the norm.

Perhaps it is precisely because we can fall in love with the world of Futurama that we carry within us the potential to live such freedom ourselves — here, on our own planet, in real time.

At the same time, this openness does not have to conflict with respect for history and cultural heritage. Preserving old buildings, neighborhoods, and architectural styles is not an act of rigidity, but of reverence — a form of care for the memory of a place and the people who shaped it. To have a relationship with heritage does not mean to reject new forms of freedom; it means understanding that even the future needs its roots.

Queer aesthetics and futurist thought do not need to erase history — they can complement it, revive it, reinterpret it. Maybe cities like Luxembourg (or Luxembourg) prove this: they combine a modern outlook with a deep respect for the past. Just like in Futurama, tradition and experiment, stone and light, past and future coexist side by side.