The Jim Kroft Podcast

What Story Are You Telling?
How I'm releasing my new music

"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship."
— Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

Each human life is a story. Often, however, there is a vagueness about what chapter we are in. In some, we have a degree of control, and in others, we have to relinquish it entirely. These ebbs and flows, of what we do in our lives, and what is done to us, form the backbone of our narrative. At times, it makes us seasick. Each of us has a private conversation with the sea; and with the storm too. We don’t choose our vessel or the weather, but we can adjust our sails—our attitude.

Today’s newsletter is about my effort to navigate this chapter of my life. By recognizing where I am in the story, I’ve started to chart my course—even through moments when I wondered if I was hopelessly lost.

How the Album was Written
After a year of plugging away at writing and recording my new material, it is time to get it out into the world.

It strikes me how different the complexion of each stage of the journey is.

There are many ways to write an album, but for a solo songwriter, it is a great quest inwards.

I’ve shared before in this newsletter about my journey—joining the Arts Community at Mahalla, enduring a long stretch of writer’s block, and slowly finding my way to new material.

Overcoming my writer’s block wasn’t about uncovering a secret; it came down to consistently showing up whenever life allowed and having the courage to sit with the block itself.

Showing up, even when I wasn’t sure I’d find anything, required willpower. These days, especially as we get older, we crave results from our efforts—we want our time to feel meaningful, useful, and purposeful.

I had to cast off aspects of the temporal world and make a new commitment to whatever this deeper mystery is that lives inside us.

This is where the inner torment arose—a conflict between the drive to use time efficiently and the choice to surrender to a space of exploration.

Ironically, it was only when I stopped trying to write songs that ideas began to surface.

I quickly realized that the musical path I’d followed in the past no longer aligned with where I found myself now.

Understanding this, I had to give myself over to two things — first, getting better on my instrument and second, having fun again.

The sound that emerged carries a paradox—it’s the voice of a solo songwriter longing to create as part of a band, yearning for the collective.

It was, in part, a reaction to the years of isolation brought on by the pandemic.

However, I also realised that I was passed the point — or age — of wanting to set up a new band. No, that ship had firmly sailed!

But it did get me writing differently.

There was so much churning inside me, energy I needed to release. So, I committed to just that—letting it all out, getting unapologetically primal, howling into the mic, and making a hell of a racket with the guitar.

Many of the songs were written by creating chord sequences over beats, applying basslines and then playing for hours until a riff or melody arrived.

I knew I’d stumbled onto something when I realized I’d lost myself in the process—sometimes for hours, sometimes for entire nights.

It was from this process that all the guitar riffs — and some piano riffs — emerged.

With it, and more importantly, I was getting back to myself.

Slowly, I recognised that this period of my life was writing its own story. And as the months went by, each song arrived as a signifier.

Though I was unsure yet if I would release the new material, I knew that I was again in conversation with the mystery.

The act of showing up — and of entering this period of play — was starting, as if of its own volition, to shape my life.

Where was it leading?

The Eureka of Zero
At the time, I couldn’t fully articulate it, but looking back now, I realize I had reached the brink.

Was this the end of my musical life?

But then a fascinating question arose.

What do we do at the end?

After the difficulty of the early months, I started realising that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Yes, the abyss takes some confronting.

But when you step into it, its vastness is exhilarating.

Within it, a certain joyfulness started erupting — and the album is very much defined by this tension; between battered bleakness and unexpected ecstasy.

I found freedom in an unexpected place, too.

I wasn’t doing this to seek anything from the world—I was long past believing in fairytales. I was doing it for myself. There was something I knew I had to uncover, something I could feel actively calling to me.

Many modern distractions fell away from me during this time. I cancelled my Netflix account and disconnected my studio from the internet.

The place of great isolation became the place of great discovery.

Having felt at such a dead end, I realised I was starting to develop again musically. My fingers were working again on the guitar, and I was writing all types of new riffs, licks and melodies.

This progress came not from disciplined practice, but from the opposite—letting the guitar howl and discovering what surfaced as I lost myself in the act of playing.

I describe this process because I hope it might be useful to anyone out there.

We all hit zero in our lives.

Moreover, it is usually not a moment, but a series of zeroes — a dance of static!

I describe it as an abyss not as something bleak, but to literally describe its vastness.

I look at that vastness as one of potential — infinite potential.

You just have to have the courage to face it—that’s what showing up means. It’s about stepping forward, fearlessly, and walking straight into it.

I describe these things mythically because in these times I feel connected with a mythic tradition — that is what I discover in these spaces, something ancient within us — that we all have the potential to participate in.

If you are at zero — or one of the zeroes we encounter on our own journeys —remember this is a space pregnant with unimaginable potential.

Inside, is yourself.

Inside, is something awaiting you.

For God’s sake; walk into it.

The Journey Back to the Temporal World
It is time to get these new songs into the world.

These songs shaped the last year of my life and will write my new chapter.

I stand before it with no expectations except one:
That I want to live up to myself.

It’s a strange thing—to journey so deeply inward during the writing process and now emerge to face the temporal world once again.

OK.

How the hell do I get these songs out?!

We have to start with the simple questions in life, and then follow the path.

I have chosen, so far, not to send this new material to anyone I know in the music industry.

I know that that I should.

And perhaps there will be a time for that — we do, after all, need support with our endeavours.

But there is something much more important to me at the moment, and it might appear to be a strange word:

Tactility.

I need to do this myself.

I want this release to be a celebration of the independent spirit and self-reliance. At least at the launch, and then let’s see!

The reason I write about tactility is that I want there to be no barrier or gatekeeper between myself, the song and who might listen to it.

That is what makes it tactile — that you will know this comes straight from me.

All this, though, has meant that I’ve needed to voyage back to the real world!

There has been so much to learn over the last few weeks.

Amidst it, I’ve:

set up my label “Kroft Records”

syndicated the first single to streaming platforms

finished the first music video (with editor Tiago Pöx)

designed the artwork

figured out how to apply to Playlisting

worked on social media assets

Funnily enough, I realise now that the resistance I felt at the beginning of the year was resistance to having to do all of this stuff.

I was unwilling to come back to the temporal world regarding my own music.

Longer term, I would love to sign to a label again — if the world breaks for me that way.

But at the moment, for better or worse, I want to carry my cross. I use that metaphor because the plight of the modern musician is that they have to become their own administrator.

All the skills that I rely on to make a living have come from trying to get better at carrying that cross — filmmaking, photography and in recent months, public speaking too.

The pain point with all this is that this administration is pulling me out of the mystery and back into the temporal world.

I am now a bureaucrat, an administrator!

However, I know that as some of these new skills develop, I will learn them better and create systems around them.

More importantly — it has brought me to the next page in my own story — and that is the realisation of how I want to release this set of songs.

Not An Album But An Arts Project
My key breakthrough this year has been realizing that I don’t see this collection of songs solely as an album—but as an arts project.

The reality is that nowadays most albums are dead on arrival — unless they have millions of dollars and a major label behind them.

In the past, the album was the beginning of a release campaign.

Now, it is the end.

It is a consequence of two things — first of all, an avalanche of content.

The combination of our distraction, love of a new shiny object and sheer overload, means that a longer-play album has been almost entirely replaced by the playlist.

Second, the way people listen has been revolutionised by the streaming platforms.

People love their music as much as ever — but many can’t name you the name of the song, let alone the artist.

I have been pretty die-hard about the album.

But with this release, I’m determined to do it differently. Not as a reaction to people’s listening tastes but because I am on a journey — and that is my invitation to any followers of my music this year — to join me.

So what does that mean?

It means that this project will be an Arts Project — and it will extend throughout 2025.

I want it to be a living project — something which unfolds as its own story, and which I hope can be a partner for those who follow it.

As such, I plan to release 12 songs over 12 months.

Each song will be released on the last day of each month and will be its own mini-project.

The Utility of Time
In a world that feels ever more in a rush, I choose not to rush.

I want this project to be alive in the unfolding of things.

Part of my excitement with it is that I have so many questions to answer — and I simply don’t know what those answers will be.

I am not sure of the place of my music in my life, other than knowing that it feels right to be where I am right now.

Will I play live again?
Will I have the opportunity?
Will it come to me, or will I create it?

I guess the point of a story is that it is written in real-time.

We don’t get to know the answers in advance!

If the project builds some traction and the world calls, let us see what happens should that scenario unveils itself.

For this moment, now that my vessel is on the sea, it is time to hoist high the sail.

I have no idea what wind will blow or indeed, whether the wind will blow.

But I also know that seas have their own movement too. Sometimes, in the arts, you have to forget the wind and trust in the tide.

And so, I find my sanctuary in time itself.

The realisations from my long time of isolation during and after the pandemic still live with me.

Life is as precious as it is short — to be in a rush is to miss it.

Most importantly, the deeper purpose of my life right now is to strengthen my relationships and to show up for those I love in the best way I can.

And so, with all that in mind, I’m venturing out to create a wonderful little independent art project — one that can accompany people’s lives and which, I hope, brings a jolt of happiness, inspiration and some good ideas to those who follow along with it this year.

Thank you for joining me.
Love Jim