Monday Music, week 11. (Fix You)

Before you read this week’s Monday Music, press play on the song below.

Some songs don’t need explaining. You hear them once and you understand them straight away. Fix You by Coldplay isn’t one of those songs.

This one takes its time.

I’ve heard it before, like most people have. It’s one of those tracks that’s always been there, in the background somewhere. But this week I actually sat with it properly, and it hit a little different. Not in a massive way, not in a way that demands attention, but in a way that just stays with you once it’s there. That’s why I got into it this week and also thought maybe this one is cool for Monday Music. It’s got depth and meaning. So, there I am listening to the song and doing a bit of research and bam, this weeks Monday Music blog was born..

At first, it sounds simple. Almost too simple.

But the more you listen, the more you realise what it’s actually saying.

It’s not about having the answers. It’s not about knowing what to say or how to fix things. It’s about that moment when someone you care about is going through something, and you can see it, you can feel it, but you don’t know how to take it away from them.

And that’s a horrible feeling.

Because your instinct is to help. To fix it. To say the right thing and make it better. But sometimes there isn’t a right thing to say. Sometimes there isn’t a fix.

Sometimes all you can do is be there.

And that’s where this song sits.

Not in the solution, but in the attempt.

So let it play.

And just sit there for a moment with it playing for a minute.

Then we’ll get into it.

A Song That Took Its Time

Some songs arrive at the exact moment they’re needed. Others sit quietly in the background for years, waiting for you to catch up with them.

Fix You by Coldplay feels like one of those songs that has always been there, whether you were really listening or not. It was released in 2005 on the album X&Y, a time when the band were already finding their place in the world, but still shaping the sound that would go on to define them. It wasn’t their loudest track, it wasn’t built to dominate radio in the same way as some of their other songs, but it carried something different. Something slower, more deliberate, something that didn’t need to fight for attention because it knew it would find its way to people eventually.

And it did.

Not always straight away, not always in the way people expected, but over time Fix You became something much bigger than just another track on an album. It became one of those songs people turn to without really thinking about why. The kind that appears at certain moments in life and suddenly makes sense in a way it never quite did before.

Part of that comes from where it came from.

Chris Martin wrote the song for Gwyneth Paltrow after the death of her father. That alone changes how you hear it. This isn’t a general idea of comfort or a vague attempt at writing something emotional. It’s specific. It’s someone trying to support the person they love when there’s nothing they can do to take the pain away.

And that’s what gives the song its weight.

Because it doesn’t come from a place of control. It comes from the opposite of that. From standing there, watching someone you care about struggle, and realising that you don’t have the power to fix it, no matter how much you want to. That feeling sits underneath the entire song, not as something dramatic or overwhelming, but as something steady and constant.

The way the song is built reflects that perfectly.

It starts quietly, almost cautiously. A simple organ sound, stripped back, leaving space rather than filling it. There’s no rush to get anywhere, no urgency to push the emotion forward. It feels like the beginning of a conversation where the words don’t come easily. Like someone trying to find the right way to say something that doesn’t have a simple explanation.

Then the vocals come in, and they don’t try to do too much.

Chris Martin doesn’t push his voice here. He doesn’t try to make it bigger than it needs to be. If anything, he holds back, letting the words carry the meaning rather than forcing it through performance. That restraint is what makes it feel real. It doesn’t sound like someone trying to impress you, it sounds like someone trying to be honest.

And as the song moves forward, it slowly builds.

Not suddenly, not in a way that shocks you, but gradually, like emotion rising without being forced. More layers come in, the sound opens up, and before you realise it, the song has shifted into something much bigger than where it started. But even then, it never loses that sense of control. It never feels chaotic. It feels like a release that’s been building quietly the whole time.

That structure is part of why the song works so well.

Because it mirrors real emotion.

When someone you care about is hurting, it doesn’t start with an explosion. It starts quietly. You notice small things, small changes, moments where something feels off. You try to understand it, try to find the right way to respond, and all the while that feeling grows in the background.

That’s what Fix You captures.

Not the dramatic moment where everything falls apart, but the slow build leading up to it. The awareness that something isn’t right, the attempt to reach out, the uncertainty of not knowing what to say or do.

And that’s why the song stays with people.

Not because it’s loud or complicated, but because it understands something simple and difficult at the same time. That sometimes the hardest part of caring about someone isn’t loving them.

It’s not knowing how to help when they need it most.

Trying To Fix What You Can’t

There’s a very specific kind of helplessness that comes with caring about someone deeply, and it’s not something people talk about enough. It doesn’t come with anger or frustration in the way you might expect. It’s quieter than that, heavier in a different way. It’s the feeling you get when you can see someone struggling, properly struggling, and there’s nothing you can do to take it away from them.

That’s the space Fix You sits in.

It doesn’t come from strength. It doesn’t come from control. It comes from standing next to someone you care about and realising that whatever they’re going through is out of your reach. You can see it, you can feel it, you understand that it’s there, but you can’t step in and change it.

And that’s where it becomes difficult.

Because most of us are wired to fix things.

If something breaks, we repair it. If something goes wrong, we look for a way to make it right. It’s how we deal with problems in everyday life. There’s usually a solution, or at least the sense that there should be one if we try hard enough. That mindset works for most things. It gives us a sense of control, a way of moving forward, a belief that effort leads to results.

But people don’t work like that.

Pain doesn’t follow rules. Grief doesn’t respond to logic. You can’t take someone else’s thoughts, their feelings, or whatever weight they’re carrying and just remove it because you want to. No matter how much you care, no matter how much you try, there are moments where you have to accept that what they’re dealing with is something they have to go through in their own way.

And that’s where Fix You becomes so honest.

“When you try your best but you don’t succeed.”

It’s a simple line, but it carries something most people recognise straight away. Not failure in the usual sense, not the kind that comes from doing something wrong, but the kind that comes from doing everything you can and still not being able to change the outcome. It’s effort without control. Care without the ability to fix what’s in front of you.

That’s not something people are comfortable with.

Because it forces you to sit in a space where your presence is all you have to offer, and sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough. You want to do more. You want to say something that makes it better. You want to find a way to take some of that weight off the other person, even just a little.

But sometimes there isn’t anything more.

And that’s the part the song doesn’t try to avoid.

It doesn’t pretend there’s a perfect response or a hidden solution waiting to be found. It doesn’t build towards a moment where everything suddenly makes sense. Instead, it stays in that uncomfortable place where you have to accept your limits, where you have to recognise that caring about someone doesn’t automatically give you the power to fix what they’re going through.

That honesty is what makes it land.

Because everyone, at some point, has been there. Watching someone they care about go through something difficult and feeling that quiet frustration of not being able to do anything meaningful to change it. Wanting to help, wanting to take some of it on themselves, and realising that it doesn’t work like that.

It leaves you with one option.

You stay.

Not because you can fix it, not because you have the answers, but because walking away isn’t an option. You stay because you care, even when it feels like you’re not doing enough, even when it feels like your presence doesn’t change anything in the moment.

And that’s where the meaning of the song shifts.

It stops being about fixing someone and becomes something else entirely. It becomes about being there when you can’t. About showing up without solutions. About standing next to someone in their worst moments and not leaving, even when you don’t know what to say.

That might not feel like much.

But sometimes, it’s everything.

The Moment It Breaks Open

There’s a point in Fix You where everything changes.

It doesn’t happen suddenly, and it doesn’t feel forced. It builds slowly, almost quietly, as if the song is holding something back on purpose. The opening feels fragile, controlled, careful with its words and its sound, like someone trying not to say too much too soon. But underneath that restraint, something is growing.

You can feel it before it happens.

The tension starts to build in small ways at first. The music expands, the space begins to fill, and there’s a sense that what started as something personal is about to become something much bigger. It’s not dramatic in the way loud songs are dramatic. It’s something deeper than that. Something emotional that’s been sitting just below the surface, waiting for the right moment to come through.

And then it does.

The shift into “Lights will guide you home” doesn’t feel like a chorus in the traditional sense. It feels like a release. Not a solution, not an answer to everything that’s been building, but a moment where everything that’s been held in finally has somewhere to go. The sound opens up, the energy lifts, and suddenly the song feels like it’s breathing properly for the first time.

That moment is what makes the song stay with people.

Because it mirrors something real.

When you’re dealing with something difficult, or when someone you care about is, it doesn’t always come out straight away. You hold things in. You try to stay composed, to keep everything steady, to not let it spill over into something bigger. But there’s always a point where that changes. A moment where everything you’ve been carrying quietly becomes too much to keep contained.

And when it finally comes out, it isn’t neat.

It isn’t controlled.

It’s just real.

That’s what this part of the song captures.

Not the build up, not the explanation, but the moment where emotion stops being something you manage and becomes something you feel fully. The music doesn’t rush it, it doesn’t try to overwhelm you with noise. It simply opens up and lets it happen.

There’s something important in that.

Because it doesn’t pretend that this moment fixes anything.

The lyrics don’t suddenly offer a solution. They don’t tell you that everything is going to be fine or that the struggle is over. What they offer instead is something much more subtle. Direction. Support. A sense that even if things don’t change immediately, there’s still a way forward.

“Lights will guide you home.”

Not “I will fix it.”, or “this will all go away.”

Just guidance and presence.

That distinction matters.

Because it shifts the focus away from control and onto something more honest. It acknowledges that you can’t always change what someone is going through, but you can still stand beside them while they find their way through it. You can still be there, even when you don’t have the answers.

And that’s where the song finds its strength.

It doesn’t rely on complexity or cleverness. It doesn’t need to say anything more than it already has. The simplicity of that moment is what gives it weight. It’s direct, it’s clear, and it lands in a way that doesn’t need to be explained.

By the time the full band comes in, the song feels bigger, but not in a way that takes away from what came before. It feels like everything that’s been building has finally found its place. The quiet beginning, the slow growth, the emotional release, it all connects without feeling forced.

And when you sit with it properly, it stays.

Not just as a song you’ve heard, but as a feeling you recognise.

That moment where everything you’ve been holding in finally has somewhere to go.

And someone is still there when it does.

The Ones We Try To Hold Together

There’s something people don’t always admit when it comes to caring about others.

It isn’t just about love or loyalty or being there when things are good. It’s also about the quiet weight that comes with seeing someone you care about struggle and feeling responsible, in some way, for trying to hold things together. Not because anyone asked you to, not because it’s your job, but because when you care deeply about someone, your instinct is to step in and take some of that weight, even if you don’t know how.

That instinct can be a heavy one.

Because it doesn’t come with clear boundaries.

You don’t always know where your responsibility ends and their struggle begins. You just know that you don’t want to see them like that. You don’t want to watch someone you care about slowly fall apart, or lose their way, or sit in something that feels bigger than they can handle. So you do what you can. You show up, you listen, you try to say the right thing, you try to keep things steady.

And sometimes, without even realising it, you start carrying more than you should.

That’s where Fix You becomes something more than just a song about comfort.

Because it touches on that unspoken space where caring turns into something heavier. That place where you stop just being there for someone and start feeling like you need to be the one who helps them through it. The one who keeps them grounded. The one who somehow makes things better, even when you don’t know how.

It’s not always obvious when that shift happens.

It doesn’t come with a moment where you decide to take that role on. It builds quietly, the same way everything else in life does. A few conversations where you listen a little more closely. A few moments where you feel like your words matter more than they usually would. A few situations where you realise they’re relying on you, even if they haven’t said it out loud.

And once you feel that, it’s hard to ignore.

Because now it’s not just about being there.

It’s about feeling like you should be able to help.

That’s where things get complicated.

Because no matter how much you care, no matter how present you are, no matter how much you want to take some of that weight off them, you can’t always do it. You can stand beside someone, you can support them, you can give them everything you have in terms of time and attention, but you can’t live their experience for them. You can’t step into their mind and change what they’re feeling.

And that realisation can be difficult to sit with.

It creates a kind of tension that doesn’t go away easily. You’re close enough to feel what they’re going through, but not close enough to change it. You want to fix it, but you don’t have the tools. You want to make it easier, but you don’t control the outcome.

That’s where people start to feel that quiet pressure.

The feeling that they should be able to do more. That just being there isn’t enough. That there must be something they’re missing, some way of helping that they haven’t figured out yet. It’s not logical, and deep down you know that, but it doesn’t stop the feeling from being there.

Fix You doesn’t ignore that.

It doesn’t pretend that being there is always easy or that it always feels like enough. It recognises that tension, that gap between what you want to do and what you’re actually able to do. It sits in that space without trying to resolve it too quickly.

And that’s what makes it feel real.

Because in reality, that’s where most people are when someone they care about is going through something difficult. Not in control, not fixing everything, not having the perfect response, but standing there in the middle of it, trying their best with what they have.

There’s something quietly important about that.

Because even though it doesn’t feel like enough in the moment, even though it doesn’t change the situation in the way you might hope, it still matters. The presence, the consistency, the fact that you didn’t step away when things got difficult, all of that has weight, even if it isn’t obvious straight away.

Sometimes people don’t need to be fixed.

Sometimes they just need to know they’re not alone while they figure things out themselves.

That doesn’t remove the instinct to help.

It doesn’t stop you from wishing you could do more.

But it shifts the focus slightly. It moves it away from solving something and towards supporting someone through it.

And that’s where the song settles.

Not in the idea of fixing someone completely.

But in the quiet, often unspoken effort of trying to hold things together for someone you care about, even when you know you can’t do it all for them.

What It Really Means To Stay

There’s a point in life where you start to realise that being there for someone isn’t as simple as it sounds.

It’s easy to say you’ll be there. It’s something people say without thinking too much about it. A promise that feels natural, almost automatic, especially when it comes to the people you care about. But actually living that out, actually staying when things aren’t easy, when there’s no clear way to help, when nothing you say seems to change anything, that’s where the meaning of it shifts.

Because staying isn’t always comfortable.

There’s a version of support that people imagine, one where you show up, say the right things, offer the right kind of help, and things slowly start to improve. It’s clean, it’s understandable, it gives you a sense that your presence is making a visible difference. That version is easy to hold onto because it feels like you’re doing something that matters in a way you can see.

But there’s another version that isn’t talked about as much.

The version where nothing changes straight away. Where you’re there, you’re listening, you’re trying to support someone through whatever they’re dealing with, but there’s no clear progress. No moment where things suddenly get lighter. No sign that what you’re doing is fixing anything.

And that’s the version Fix You understands.

Because it doesn’t present support as something that always works in obvious ways. It doesn’t suggest that being there guarantees a positive outcome or that your presence will immediately make things better. Instead, it focuses on something much more honest, something that sits underneath all of that.

The choice to stay anyway.

That choice isn’t always easy to make.

It means sitting in moments that feel uncomfortable. It means being present when there’s nothing to say, when silence feels heavy and words feel pointless. It means accepting that you’re not in control of how things unfold and that your role isn’t to fix the situation, but to stand alongside it.

That can feel like you’re doing nothing.

But you’re not.

There’s something powerful about consistency that doesn’t always get recognised in the moment. When someone is going through something difficult, their world can feel unstable. Things shift, emotions change, nothing feels certain. In that kind of space, having someone who remains steady, who doesn’t disappear when things get hard, who doesn’t pull away because they don’t have the answers, that creates a kind of grounding that’s hard to measure but impossible to replace.

That’s what staying really is.

It’s not about having the perfect response. It’s not about solving the problem or making everything better in a way that can be seen straight away. It’s about being a constant in a moment where everything else feels uncertain.

And that’s harder than it sounds.

Because it asks something of you as well.

It asks for patience when you don’t know how long something will last. It asks for emotional energy when you might already have your own things going on. It asks you to sit in a space where you’re aware of your limits, where you know you can’t take everything away, and to accept that without stepping back.

That’s where people often struggle.

Not because they don’t care, but because it’s difficult to stay in a situation where you feel powerless. Where you can see the problem but can’t solve it. Where your instinct is to fix something and you have to resist that instinct, not because it’s wrong, but because it isn’t possible.

Fix You doesn’t try to ignore that difficulty.

It doesn’t pretend that being there is always enough in the way we want it to be. Instead, it reframes what “enough” actually means. It shifts the focus away from outcomes and towards presence. It suggests that even when you can’t change the situation, the fact that you haven’t walked away still holds value.

That idea becomes clearer the more you sit with it.

Because when you think about the moments in your own life where things felt heavy, where you were dealing with something that didn’t have an easy solution, it’s rarely the words people said that stayed with you. It’s the people who were there. The ones who didn’t disappear when things got uncomfortable. The ones who didn’t need to have all the answers to remain present.

That’s the part that matters.

And it’s something you only really understand once you’ve experienced it from both sides.

Being the person who needs someone to stay, and being the person who chooses to stay for someone else. Both come with their own challenges, their own weight, their own moments where you question whether what you’re doing is enough.

But that’s where the song lands its message.

Not in perfection.

Not in having everything figured out.

But in the quiet, consistent decision to not leave.

Because staying isn’t about fixing everything.

It’s about being there while things are still broken.

It’s about holding a space for someone, even when you don’t fully understand what they’re going through. It’s about accepting that you don’t need to have the answers to still matter in that moment.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy.

There will always be moments where you feel like you should be doing more. Where you question whether your presence is making any real difference. Where the lack of visible change makes it feel like nothing is happening at all.

But something is happening.

It just isn’t always obvious.

Because support doesn’t always look like progress.

Sometimes it looks like consistency.

Sometimes it looks like patience.

Sometimes it looks like sitting in the same space as someone else and not trying to force it into something it isn’t.

That’s what Fix You quietly reminds you of.

That even when you can’t fix everything, even when the situation doesn’t change in the way you want it to, the act of staying still carries weight. The act of not walking away, of not giving up on someone just because things are difficult, that matters in ways that aren’t always immediate but are felt over time.

And maybe that’s the part people underestimate.

Because it doesn’t feel big.

It doesn’t feel like you’ve solved anything.

But in the moments where everything else feels uncertain, having someone who doesn’t leave can be the one thing that makes it bearable.

That’s what it really means to stay. Not to fix, or to solve. Some things can’t be fixed or solved. Sometimes all you can do is be there, fully and honestly, even when it’s hard.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

What Stays After The Song

The hardest part of a song like Fix You is that it doesn’t really end when the music does.

It fades out, the last notes settle, and on paper that should be the end of it. Another song finished, another few minutes passed, another track added to the long list of songs people know and move on from. But this one doesn’t quite work like that. It leaves something behind. Not in a loud or dramatic way, not in a way that demands to be talked about straight away, but in a quieter, heavier way. The kind that lingers in the room after the sound has gone.

And I think that’s because the song never really promises more than life itself can give.

It doesn’t offer a miracle. It doesn’t pretend pain can always be taken away, or that love automatically gives us the power to repair whatever is breaking in someone else. It doesn’t lie to you and say the right words will fix everything, or that enough care can erase whatever someone is carrying. Instead, it gives you something much more honest than that.

It gives you the truth that being there matters, even when it changes nothing immediately.

That’s not the kind of message people always want. We like resolution. We like songs that make us feel like there’s a turning point waiting somewhere, a line where the darkness lifts and everything finally makes sense. We want to believe our effort will always lead somewhere visible, that love will always be rewarded with healing, that pain will eventually become a lesson instead of a burden.

But life isn’t always kind enough to work that neatly.

Sometimes people stay broken for a while. Sometimes grief lingers. Sometimes exhaustion doesn’t lift just because someone else can see it. Sometimes the people we care about remain in pain even when we’ve done everything we can think of to support them. And that’s the part of life most people struggle with the most, not the pain itself, but the helplessness of witnessing it.

Fix You never pretends that helplessness isn’t real.

It sits inside it. It understands it. It lets it be what it is without rushing to turn it into something cleaner or easier to digest. That’s why it hits as hard as it does. Not because it’s sad, not because it builds beautifully, not even because the story behind it is personal and real. It hits because it understands something people don’t often say out loud.

That loving someone and helping someone are not always the same thing.

You can love someone completely and still not know how to reach them. You can care so much it hurts and still be unable to take any of their pain away. You can sit right beside them and feel the distance between what they’re carrying and what you’re actually able to do about it.

And yet, somehow, staying still matters.

That’s the quiet beauty of this song. It doesn’t glorify suffering, and it doesn’t glorify the person trying to help either. It doesn’t paint anyone as a hero. It simply makes space for one of the most human experiences there is, the ache of wanting to make things better for someone and learning that your role isn’t always to fix, but to remain.

That sounds simple when you write it down.

In real life, it isn’t simple at all.

Staying takes something out of you. It asks for patience you don’t always have, calm you don’t always feel, and a kind of emotional steadiness that can be difficult to hold onto when you’re watching someone you care about struggle. It means accepting that you might not be thanked for it in the moment. It means understanding that your presence may not look dramatic or important from the outside. It means doing something that often feels invisible.

But invisible things are not the same as meaningless ones.

A lot of the most important parts of being human are invisible while they are happening. The conversations that stop someone from feeling completely alone. The silence shared with someone who doesn’t need advice, only company. The check in that arrives at the right time, even if you didn’t know it would. The decision not to walk away when it would have been easier to protect yourself by doing exactly that.

Those moments rarely look impressive. They don’t come with applause. They don’t even always feel effective in the moment.

But people remember them.

Maybe not straight away. Maybe not while they’re still in the middle of whatever is pulling them under. But later, when the worst of it has softened, when life has shifted just enough to give them room to breathe again, those are often the things that remain. Not the perfect words, because there usually weren’t any. Not the brilliant solution, because there often wasn’t one. Just the memory that someone stayed.

That’s what Fix You leaves behind.

Not the fantasy of repair, but the dignity of presence.

And maybe that’s why it continues to mean so much to so many people. Because at some point, almost everyone ends up on one side of that experience or the other. You are either the person carrying something you can’t explain properly, or the person standing next to someone you love, wishing you could do more than you can. Most of us, if we live long enough, become both.

The song understands both positions.

It understands the exhaustion of being the person who hurts, and it understands the ache of being the person who watches. It doesn’t force either one into a neat ending. It just lets them exist together inside the same few minutes of music, and in doing that, it tells the truth more clearly than a louder or more dramatic song ever could.

That truth is not flashy.

It’s quieter than that.

It says that not everything in life can be mended cleanly. That people do not always heal on cue. That love is not magic, and care is not control. It says that sometimes all we really have to offer each other is our presence, our patience, and the refusal to disappear when life becomes difficult.

And maybe that should be enough more often than we let ourselves believe.

Because if you think about the people who have mattered most in your own difficult moments, it usually isn’t the ones who had perfect answers that stay with you. It’s the ones who didn’t run. The ones who didn’t flinch when things got messy. The ones who sat in the dark with you without trying to turn the light on too quickly.

That is its own kind of grace.

So when Fix You finishes, what stays isn’t just the melody or the build or the familiarity of a song the world has heard a thousand times before. What stays is the reminder that some of the most meaningful things we ever do for each other are the things that don’t look heroic at all. They look small. Repetitive. Quiet. Easy to overlook.

But they are often the very things that keep people going.

And that is what makes this song linger.

Not because it tells us we can save each other.

But because it reminds us that even when we can’t, even when the pain remains and the answers never come, choosing to stay is still one of the deepest forms of love we have.

Reader Songs & Indie Artists

This is the part of Monday Music where it stops being just about one song and becomes something bigger than that.

Every week, people send in their music. Independent artists, unheard voices, tracks that don’t have the backing of big labels or algorithms pushing them into your feed. Just real people putting something out into the world and hoping it lands somewhere. That’s what this section has always been about.

And it’s growing.

To the point where I’ve had to start adapting how I present it, not because I want to change it, but because I want it to keep working properly without breaking the blog. Last week pushed it a bit too far, so this week I’ve tried something new.

Instead of the usual YouTube links, I’ve switched things over to Spotify embeds.

From what I’ve seen so far, it loads cleaner, feels smoother, and just flows better as you scroll. That’s the aim anyway. I’m always testing things behind the scenes to make this better for everyone reading without losing what makes it what it is.

The first link below is the main Monday Music Spotify playlist. That’s everything. Every song from every week so far, all in one place. If you want to just press play and let it run, that’s where to go.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5gK6iuswSxtugkatGm2CaU?si=969f21c53cbf4aab

After that, you’ve got this week’s submissions.

Take your time with them. There’s a lot of different sounds in there, a lot of different styles, and behind every track is someone putting themselves out there. If something catches your ear, show it some love. A follow, a like, a share… it all matters more than people realise.

And while we’re here, I want to give a shout to Bounce Digital Radio and Stephen Mac.

If you’re into real music and want to hear more of it beyond this blog, go check out Bounce Digital Radio. Stephen Mac is doing his bit to give independent artists a platform, and that matters.
www.BounceDigitalRadio.co.uk

They’ve been supporting this space, supporting independent music, and helping get artists heard beyond just a blog post. That kind of support matters. It gives people another platform, another chance to be discovered, another place where real music still gets played.

So, if you haven’t already, go check them out as well.

Because this has never just been about one post, or one song.

It’s about building something where real music doesn’t get lost.

👇The Spotify playlist so far.👇

(281 songs so far, that’s over 17 hours listening time. Pretty good collection of mostly indie artists eh?)

THEPLAINANDSIMPLEGUY

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