From now on, I want to record and share my work in a more direct way. The new pieces will be recorded using only the microphone on my phone, at the moment they happen. No rehearsals beforehand, no multiple takes in search of the perfect performance, and no editing afterward. Just a light mastering pass through BandLab, to give the recording the treatment it needs without taking away from what happened in that particular moment.

It is a way of returning to the idea behind my earliest recordings: the instrument, the room, the body, and the moment, all captured at once. There are mistakes, small imperfections, background noises, and variations, but there is also something that cannot be recreated later: the presence of that particular performance. This is not about denying the value of a studio recording. A more elaborate production has its own possibilities, and perhaps at some point in the future I will return to working that way. But for now, I want to explore the opposite: the simplicity, and spontaneity of pressing record and playing.

The result will be rawer and more direct. Less concerned with capturing a definitive version of a song, and more interested in capturing the moment when it exists. This is how I intend to move forward from here.

There was a time when uploading music felt like an act of resistance. It wasn’t just creativity, it was faith in dial-up, patience, and a strange kind of stubborn hope.

I remember staring at the upload bar on SoundClick like I was waiting for a miracle to happen in real time. One phone call in the house and… gone. The whole track. Back to zero. On MySpace, that player loading inch by inch, second by second, hoping the listener wouldn’t quit before the chorus even had a chance to show up. MP3.com (old) felt like something from the future, almost too good to be true. PureVolume (old) was basically a radar for hidden bands trying to be found. GarageBand.com (old)  had that half-lab, half-competition vibe where you never knew if you were being discovered or judged. Meanwhile, in the underground, Napster (old), Kazaa, and LimeWire were moving music faster than any record label ever could, whether anyone liked it or not.

When Bandcamp showed up, it was like “wait, we can sell too?” but still stuck in dial-up reality, choosing between uploading WAV files or keeping your sanity intact for another day. Everything was slower, more limited, more fragile… but somehow more direct and personal. You made it, uploaded it, waited, insisted, tried again. No algorithm deciding your fate. No shortcuts. Just you, your music, and a noisy connection trying its best to cooperate.

Today everything is instant, optimized, automated. Back then, every single play felt earned, every download felt like a win. If you lived it, you know. If you didn’t… you don’t know what it means to pray at 98%.

Happy as can be. Little by little, I’m reclaiming what the pandemic tried to take from me (I had stopped playing music for years), and every small step already carries a whole world within it.

Today (04/10) I bought a nickel slide. A simple piece, but one that changes everything. The sound opens up, sings, responds. Along with it, a pick (which I rarely use, because I still prefer fingerpicking, fuller, “rounder,” closer to what I feel). Improvisation is part of the path too. I made my own strap using a bicycle inner tube with a clothesline cord inside. Functional, durable, with a story to tell. Before that, I was playing with an improvised slide made from the metal bar of a bicycle saddle I managed to cut it into four pieces. It worked, but there was too much friction. The body wanted to relax, but the material wouldn’t allow it. Now, everything flows better.

I also paid attention to the aesthetics, because they speak with the sound. I bought a case and a pickguard, scraped it a bit with a kitchen grater, and sanded the wood to give the Memphis a worn, lived-in look, as if it had already traveled dirt roads and long nights. I removed the label from inside and glued in bay leaves. A nearly secret detail, but full of meaning. It turned out perfect.

I’ve set my list of songs. Open tunings: mostly Open G, also Open D, and using a capo to bring everything up to Open A when I want to brighten things up. New .010 strings, a spare capo, and a backup set of tuners. Everything ready. Now it’s no longer about going back to what it was. It’s about moving forward with more awareness, more identity, more truth. It’s sound in my hands, wood against my chest, and the road ahead.

New resident of the house. A wooden body that arrived carrying stories that aren’t mine, but now begin to resonate with me. I bought a used guitar, a Memphis AC-39,  super simple, almost humble in its presence, and maybe that’s exactly why it feels so honest. It promises nothing beyond what it can give, and that’s everything I need right now.

There’s something deeply symbolic about starting over with very little. As if the silence of these past years still lingers in the walls, and each note becomes a way of letting fresh air in from the inside out. I went more than three years without playing.

Now, with this guitar in my hands, I feel like I’m not just returning to practice or composition. In some way, I’m learning how to listen again. The raw sound of the strings, the wood vibrating against the body, the small mistakes... everything carries a different weight now.

This instrument, so simple, seems to understand the moment. It doesn’t demand virtuosity. Just presence. Just intention. And maybe that’s how some things are meant to begin again: slowly, almost in silence, like lighting a candle in the dark and quietly watching the light take shape.