Find people who think like you and stick with them. Make only

In the words of Steve Albini, musician, engineer, and fierce defender of artistic integrity, we are given a teaching not only for artists, but for all who walk the path of creation: “Find people who think like you and stick with them. Make only music you are passionate about. Work only with people you like and trust. Don’t sign anything.” Though spoken in the context of music, these words are the wisdom of ages, echoing the eternal call to guard one’s soul against compromise, to walk with loyalty, and to labor with sincerity.

The call to find people who think like you is the call to kinship of spirit. For no man, however gifted, can stand alone for long. The ancients told us of companions—Gilgamesh and Enkidu, Achilles and Patroclus, David and Jonathan—whose bonds of shared vision gave them strength to endure what alone they could not. Albini’s wisdom is thus: seek not the multitudes, but the few whose hearts beat with yours, whose passion aligns with your own. In their company, your labors shall not be toil, but joy; your victories not solitary, but shared.

When he commands, “Make only music you are passionate about,” he speaks of authenticity, that rare jewel more precious than fame. For music born of calculation withers, but music born of fire endures. The ancients knew this truth: the psalms that lifted souls, the chants of battle that steeled warriors, the laments of poets that outlasted empires—all were sung from the depth of passion. Albini reminds us that the worth of art is not measured by sales or applause, but by whether the maker’s spirit is alive within it.

His counsel to work only with people you like and trust is the voice of hard-earned experience. History teaches us that betrayal often strikes not from enemies, but from companions who were never true. Think of Caesar and Brutus, of countless kings undone by false counselors. Yet where trust reigns, greatness grows: the workshops of Florence where artists built upon one another’s genius, or the studios where musicians, bound by respect, created works that shook generations. Trust is the soil in which creation flourishes; without it, no seed will thrive.

And lastly, his stern warning: “Don’t sign anything.” Though spoken with the bitterness of one who saw countless musicians devoured by contracts and corporations, this counsel is more than industry advice—it is a parable of freedom. The ancients told us: “Do not sell your birthright for a bowl of lentils.” To sign blindly, to give away your power for a fleeting promise, is to bind your soul in chains. Albini reminds us to guard our autonomy, to know the worth of our labor, and to never surrender our voice to those who would profit from its silence.

Consider the tale of Prince, who once scrawled the word “slave” on his face to protest the contracts that bound him. Though he had fame and wealth, he lacked ownership of his own art. His struggle was not for riches, but for freedom—the freedom to create on his own terms. Like Albini, he fought to remind the world that art is not a commodity, but the breath of the soul. His defiance echoes the very spirit of Albini’s counsel: protect your work, protect yourself, for no one else will.

The lesson is clear: whether in music, art, or life, cling to integrity, passion, trust, and freedom. Do not barter them away for promises of comfort or praise. Instead, build with companions who share your vision, create only what ignites your spirit, labor with those you honor, and guard your autonomy fiercely. For in this way, though the road may be harder, you will walk it with dignity—and your work will stand as a testament to your truth.

So I say to you, children of tomorrow: do not bend your heart for approval, nor chain your voice for profit. Surround yourself with those who strengthen you, create from the fire within, and keep your freedom as your crown. For in the end, this is the true wealth of the artist, and indeed of every soul: to live, to labor, and to love in truth and freedom.