How to Find Meaningful Art in 2026

By Will Anderson

Recently, there has been a sad trend in the music industry. Clipping: a practice popularised by the influx of streamers, refers to reposted clips that go viral. In an age of short-form content, any attention is good attention. 

Many of these clippers are paid by labels and marketing agencies to promote the music by making posts. However, these people aren’t paid for merely posting, but rather, they will be paid if their clip goes viral. Because of this, these posts don’t have a “paid promotion” tag because technically, the clippers are only paid if the clip goes viral. Obviously, it’s hard to say that a singular viral post would push units, but when thousands of posts of varying sizes appear at once, you suddenly have an “overnight” superstar. 

A recent WIRED article entitled “The Fanfare Around the Band Geese Actually Was a Psyop,” although‌ a flawed and hyperbolic article, sheds light on these practices. Last year, there were many articles written by mainstream media expressing sentiments like “Geese are the only band that matters” or “Geese are saving rock.” Only for their ubiquity to be relative and deceptive, as they have less than 2-million monthly listeners. The average person outside of the Geese bubble won’t be able to recognise one of their songs. But in an age without a monoculture, ubiquity is merely an illusion. 

Many other viral artists, like Chappel Roan, Sombr, and Alex Warren, are on the same marketing agency as Geese, Chaotic Good Projects. Said agency uses clipping and other methods such as burner accounts, fake comments and interactions, playlist placement and algorithm boosting. In some cases, these artists gain legitimacy in mainstream media by booking talk shows, festivals, and interviews. Or garnering rapturous critical acclaim. Even fan pages are often run by their teams, creating exclusive content with said artist, in the hopes of gaining virality. While never stating that the page is run by their team. It’s deceptive and sells authenticity as yet another commodity. 

In a 2026 interview with the co-founders of Chaotic Good Projects for Billboard, Andrew Spellman explains how these methods can create narratives. “In the past, a label and management team would do a great job getting their artist on SNL or Tiny Desk or Triple J, post it, and then kind of wait — and the comments would come in: terrible cover choice, voice sounds terrible, all that. What we do at Chaotic Good with our management clients is: The second the SNL performance drops at midnight, you should post 100 times saying that was the best performance of the year. The question is how you do that at scale. It takes a lot of work and infrastructure, but controlling the narrative is really, really important.”

While file-sharing sites and streaming services started as an alternative to mainstream gatekeepers. By allowing the consumer to choose what they listen to and how they listen to it. These hype cycles and inescapable marketing techniques illuminate the sad truth about our current system. The freedom these services provide has been misleading. Of course, since the inception of the entertainment industry, corporations have always found someone or something to commodify. In fact, these scummy practices, although not identical, aren’t too dissimilar from record labels exchanging drugs or money in return for airplay on the radio. A similar exchange is happening now, by exchanging ideal playlist sequencing and auto-play for fewer royalties per stream. Or the boom of AI artists and curated playlists “for you” that are really curated by machines to keep you listening. For more information on this, I would recommend reading Liz Pelly’s Mood Machine. Scummy practices haven’t gone away; they’ve just been repackaged. But unlike those systems, we currently live in the best time to be a consumer of art. In the sense that 90% of the art is readily available. In some cases, for free. Yet, so few of us are actually using our freedom to its fullest. So here is a guide on how I find meaningful art outside of AI and algorithms. These steps can also be applied to finding movies and books, too.  

But as a quick aside, I have seen many videos and articles about this subject, and 99% of these pieces have a condescending and smug essence. I do not want to shame anyone for liking popular artists or finding music through algorithms. In fact, I’ve found many bands that I never would’ve found in another model. Even if some of these artists have inflated hype, that doesn’t mean that the music they create doesn’t resonate with people. For every Geese, there are thousands of nobodies and failed overnight sensations in these agencies. The industry cannot control what is popular or how consumers react to the music, no matter how hard they try. If you like Geese, Sombr, or any other artist crammed into our algorithms, that’s great. But the intent of this is to look at discovery purely and thoughtfully. It’s nice to be handed things, but I think it’s time we ask ourselves whether we like these artists or are told to by corporations? If we are sold a story of individuality and authenticity instead of a tale of conformity? Speaking purely anecdotally, the art that means the most to me are often things I found on my own. Some hidden gems, or some that I had no prior expectations of, only to be blown away. I hope to make it clear that while a search for authenticity in the age of algorithms seems like an uphill battle, it is possible. 

First things first, you have to acknowledge what you like in art. Whether that be a genre or aesthetic, you can use your pre-existing taste as a jumping-off point into new discoveries. Most of the strategies I will discuss are reliant on having a hook into discovery. Even if that hook is a desire to explore something different. If you like The Beatles, for example, you can look towards influential albums from the 1960s.  

Which leads me to my favourite method: influences. I once heard someone say, “You’re either influenced by nothing, or everything.” A sentiment echoed by the notion that art is merely an endless conversation with itself. Many artists you already admire usually have a solid foundation and taste, and if you like what that person has created, there’s a great chance you will like what influenced them. The joy of the internet is that all the information you could want about something is available. You don’t need to scour magazines, fringe message boards, or biographies to find out. All it takes is reading an interview or listening to a podcast with someone you admire, and there’s a great chance they will unveil what inspired them. Usually, these people aren’t only inspired by their medium, and in some cases, get just as much, if not more, out of other media. Charli xcx, for example, unveiled that the inspiration for her iconic Brat album cover was a title card in Gregg Araki’s stoner comedy Smiley Face. 

Additionally, even if it isn’t intentional, many influencers bleed into the artist’s creation. Famous poet T.S Eliot once said: “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better.” For example, my favourite movie, Gregg Araki’s Nowhere, has lines of dialogue ripped from and references to Bret Easton Ellis’ 1985 novel, Less Than Zero. But it doesn’t end there, as that novel was heavily inspired by the freeway-fetishism and cold minimalism of Joan Didion’s 1970 novella, Play It as It Lays. All of these works are ‌in a direct conversation with each other, while coming at similar ideas from different angles. As a fan, the more influences you consume, the easier it is to see how those influences penetrate. If you’re creatively minded, seeing how things inspire others can also be monumental to your development. You see the techniques used, where they originated, and how to employ them in the art you make. 

This leads me to my next point: collaborators. The late, great Steve Albini’s distinct, minimal production style is often imitated but never replicated. The albums he records have amazing dynamics, as every instrument is equal and huge, like you’re in the room with the artists. He is most known for producing Nirvana’s 1993 swan song, In Utero. An album that at 13 set me down a path to find something that scratched that itch. This led me to The Pixies’ debut Surfer Rosa, which to this day is one of the best-sounding albums I’ve ever heard. Then, to the three bands he was a part of (yes, even the unfortunately named second band). Now, I seek out albums produced by Steve because of his trademark dryness. But it doesn’t have to be a producer. It could be a cover, a songwriter, a side project, an actor in a movie you like, or a mentor. Sadly, most producers aren’t immediately credited on streaming. Now, no one really cares who produced a Geese album, yet this is still an effective method to find unique art due to the availability of the internet.

But perhaps the most important collaborator for me is the record label they were on. Preferably, an independent label. Like collaborators, the importance of a record label has become somewhat of a bygone era. Now, if an album interests you, you can skim it. But back in the ‘80s and ‘90s, all you had was an album cover, maybe a photo of the band, and a track list. So a label’s logo, if you didn’t know what the band sounded like, could entice you to buy the album. Indie record labels used to care deeply about having a distinct sound. Warp Records was for electronic music, Sub-Pop was for grunge, Roadrunner was for metal, etc. Some, namely my favourite 4AD Records, even hired in-house graphic designers to make the sleeves look similar. Giving the consumer a vague idea of what the band sounded like before you pressed play. Sometimes, if an artist was big enough, the heads of their label would allow them to found and run their own subsidiary of curated music. Namely, Trent Reznor’s Nothing Records imprint of Interscope, which housed artists Trent himself admired. Now, labels are seemingly an afterthought, as a small footnote on an album. But it is still one of my favourite ways to find hidden gems. In fact, many indie labels continue to put out quality albums and reissues of their catalogue. The same is true for publisher Grove Press, who house many of my favourite novels. Or boutique physical media labels like the Criterion Collection, which aim to preserve great, often unavailable cinema. The logo and revamped packaging give the film a level of prestige and validation of its quality. For contemporary companies, A24 is still around and has a rather diverse and eclectic catalogue of crowd pleasers like Moonlight and Everything Everywhere All at Once, to divisive cult classics like Spring Breakers and Queer. But really, if you like one thing by these independent companies, you will probably enjoy other things they’ve released. 

Likewise, the art we like is usually reflective of our sensibilities. If you have a friend you admire or share similar views with, there is a chance that something they like is something you would also like. It’s also a great conversation to have, as most of us deeply care about the things we like, and admiration is infectious. Additionally, you could raid your family’s CD collection, especially if they grew up in an era you’re interested in. Or you could go to a store, either in person or online, and look through their staff picks selection. Usually, the people who work there have some degree of passion for the form. Dymocks, for example, has staff members write a handwritten recommendation underneath copies of their favourite books. Record stores also tend to have a staff picks section on their websites, if not in person too. This personalisation and social bent is a fun way to find art because it connects you with your peers and community. So whenever you listen to a song a friend sent, you are reminded of them. 

But sometimes the best recommendations come from outside of an ideal medium. How many of you have watched a movie and heard a song that blew you away? I remember being 15-years-old and watching the opening to Gregg Araki’s The Doom Generation, only to be slammed in the face by Nine Inch Nails’ “Heresy,” that later faded into Slowdive’s (my favourite band) “Alison.” This was the first moment I saw the music I loved in a movie, and it opened the floodgates of musical discovery. If you’re into more independent movies, the soundtracks are usually curated by the director themselves. In fact, financiers and record labels would frequently grant directors a soundtrack budget and access to a large chunk of their library. This agreement would usually result in a soundtrack CD of curated songs, where the label and the director can recoup their losses. Many soundtracks to 90s movies, like Singles, Romeo + Juliet, Hackers, Dazed and Confused, The Crow and Empire Records, were just as lucrative as the movies themselves. Some had the power to bring obscure bands to the mainstream, like Underworld’s 1995 B-side, “Born Slippy NUXX,” that featured in the ending of Trainspotting. A song that was so popular that it was reissued as a single, and now appears in many advertisements to this day. While others, like Lost Highway, were primarily composed of new material by popular bands. A drawback of a CD soundtrack is that most of the songs in the movie are often omitted. But now, the whole soundtrack is available on IMDb or Spotify playlists, or can be accessed by using Shazam when a song you like pops up. Now, it’s easier than ever to find music through soundtracks. The same is true for anything outside of the medium referenced in another form. The beauty of this method is that it can just be one song that you never would’ve known about in any other context that becomes a favourite. It’s an unpretentious and joyous way to find something new. I’ve found many of my favourite bands through soundtracks, and like the power of labels, the power of a curated soundtrack has been lost in modern cinema. But luckily, both avenues are still open through their history and availability.

Lastly, there is criticism. Before the late 90s, to become a critic, you had to have some qualifications. A journalism or film degree was a necessity. But ever since then, anyone can be a critic by merely having an internet connection. Which, like many things, is a double-edged sword. Now, anyone can be a critic; the barrier of entry is accessible, and discourse becomes approachable. But also, there are many bad-faith grifters who are paid by an artist to give an inflated review. Or, for a streamer to skim through 10-second intervals of a song as the most immediate and viral impression of an album. Of course, many fans of music aren’t tempted by monetary success and review music purely out of love. Some of these critics are small, and sometimes don’t earn a dime for their contributions. But are passionate enough to deliver substantial and profound criticism. Many of my favourite critics are YouTubers with less than 10,000 subscribers. Some are older and lived through the period of the music they’re talking about. Adding not only an informative bent but a personal link to their relationship with the music. You may not always agree with these people, but they often speak with such conviction that it’s hard not to admire them. Like labels, if you like something they like, there’s a great chance that if they name-drop something you’ve never heard of, you will also like it. 

One thing you should keep in mind is that critics are also human. In the sense that, like all of us, they have biases. If someone who predominantly reviews Taylor Swift listens to Norwegian black metal and gives it a negative score, that doesn’t mean that it won’t work for you. So I suggest finding people in a niche that interests you, while acknowledging their limitations as critics. This is also why lists of the “greatest” blank of all time aren’t the be-all and end-all for discovery. There’s a noted history of exclusion, not only of identity but also genre, in criticism and what institutions canonise in these lists. Therefore, like any other form of criticism, you must be aware of the limits of these awe-encompassing lists. Usually, critics fall into niches, and while very knowledgeable about that niche, they aren’t unbiased. But this doesn’t mean these critics aren’t useful for finding music you aren’t aware of. Again, there is seemingly a channel, podcast, blog, Substack, social media account, or whatever for a niche you want to learn about.

Will scummy practices ever go away? No. If it does, it’ll just be re-packaged, as exploitation and entertainment will always be linked. But now, thanks to the tools and availability at our disposal, we can combat our algorithmic overlords. So when the next overnight sensation appears, make sure you enjoy the music and don’t mindlessly buy into the hype train. 

TLDR; 

1. Address what you already like, and explore artists with a similar impact in that scene/genre/time period.

2. Find the influences of what you already like through interviews. 

3. Find a common collaborator or link to what you already like. 

4. Look for catalogues on labels, preferably an independent label with an artist you already like and with a curated aesthetic and rich history. 

5. Community recommendations (friends, family, and workers) 

6. Soundtracks and intertextuality. 

7. Find critics with similar sensibilities, and be aware of their bias in relation to yours.