In the little hill town of McLeodganj, all is well - almost. The Tibetans-in-exile are still shaking off Losar, the Tibetan New Year, three days of merriment, drinking, and fireworks that wrapped up earlier this week. For the government-in-exile, though, the mood is more contemplative. This year, tradition was quietly set aside: on the first day of Losar, the Dalai Lama and the 17th Karmapa gave an audience to the town - and then sat back while a rock band from Delhi, Parikrama, played live.

Days earlier, the government had sponsored a concert featuring bands from Delhi and McLeodganj alike. Most Tibetans stayed away, preferring to see in the year the old way, but the signal was hard to miss. The government had decided to gamble on less traditional methods—a not-quite-hidden bid to pull the young into the freedom struggle. And where better to start than at home?

Tenzin Jigme, the 23-year-old guitarist of a Tibetan band called JJ Exile Brothers, is blunt about it. “The Tibetan youth are not as aggressive and worried about the freedom struggle as you would think they are.” He was born and raised in McLeodganj; he has never set foot in Tibet, and knows his “homeland” only through other people’s stories. “But everyone has the feeling deep inside. It only surfaces when they get drunk or watch documentaries on Tibet. At times like these, we break down and cry.” And yet, when Sachin Tendulkar spent an afternoon hammering Shoaib Akhtar to the boundary in their World Cup match, the town erupted. Crackers went off; the betting ran hot. “Apna India jeeta hai,” screamed Lekshay, who runs a taxi service in town.

This is the knot the religious leadership is trying to untangle: a generation unsure where it belongs, and increasingly at home in cultures not its own. Even the Dalai Lama, in his New Year message, felt the need to say it plainly: be compassionate, and should you ever return to Tibet, never forget the culture of the government in exile. Others in the leadership have clearly turned the problem over already. Prof. Samdong Rinpoche, the Prime Minister of the government-in-exile, cuts to it: “Culture is just a way of life. You can’t impose it.” Even if young Tibetans do drift from their traditions, he argues, there are plenty of Westerners ready to take them up. “Yes, there is a need to impart more Tibetan studies to our youth. We are looking at better education techniques for that.”

The refugee schools, which follow the CBSE curriculum, already run extra classes in Tibetan history, culture, current affairs, and the case for the freedom struggle. In the works are dedicated schools that would teach students about Tibet across all twelve years of study. The urgency isn’t only cultural. Last year, a Tibetan delegation met the Chinese for the first time in years. “It was just to establish contact. Nevertheless, it was a historic moment for us,” says Penpa Tsering, Member of the Tibetan Parliament and director of the Tibetan Parliamentary & Policy Research Centre. “We expect to continue these talks this year again.” The government-in-exile is also quietly hoping for the release of some political prisoners. “The Chinese are unpredictable,” Rinpoche says. “They did show a good gesture last year, and let’s hope they continue with it.”

Tomorrow is Tibetan Uprising Day. The Dalai Lama will address his people and lay out his plans for the year ahead. He has no shortage of things to talk about.

Like most big cities, Berlin is cold and lonely if you are not with friends. But unlike the rest, it’s easy to find one here.

It’s 11 P.M. on a Thursday night when I walk into a bar called Kleine Nachtrevue, close to Berlin’s iconic department store, KaDeWe. Only a few hours ago this street looked like an anthill on fire. Now it’s deserted, with only the blinking neon signs lending urban comfort. I am here to meet Nada Njiente - a veteran burlesque dancer whom I’d been in touch with over email for a while, and who has promised to let me into her intriguing world.

Kleine Nachtrevue is a time warp. I am in a 1940s burlesque-era bar - dark, dingy, with a smoke cloud hovering around the beautiful glass chandelier that gleams like a graceful lady who’s seen a lot. Much like Nada, who is sitting at the bar, smoking her Marlboro Lights and drinking whisky on the rocks. I recognize her by her short cropped blonde hair and the red lipstick that matches her little red cocktail dress. She recognizes me by my pseudo-vintage T-shirt - a complete misfit in a bar with people dressed for the occasion. We exchange greetings, and I get the barman, Bodo, to pour me a mug of Berliner Pilsner.

Nada tells me I just missed her show but there’s a lot more to come. Instantly, the bar plunges into darkness, and Bodo, who doubles as the lights engineer, beams the spotlight onto the stage. The curtains go up, revealing a beautiful, tall, pale girl - stark naked. For the next five minutes, she mimics a fashion shoot to a voiceover from a real one playing in the background. She plays out the scene - flirting with an imaginary photographer, fluttering her eyelashes, moving her shapely posterior seductively... before ending the show with a classic supermodel pose. The curtains go down, the people in the bar applaud, the lights come on, and Nada tells me her story.

Originally from a small town near Cologne, she moved to the countryside on the outskirts of Berlin back in the seventies to live in a commune. “It was the most liberating feeling. We lived together, smoked, experimented with things, tried to learn about life... but you can’t do that kind of thing forever.”

And so, a few years later, she moved to Berlin to get a “proper job” in a “proper office.” “Berlin was a city where I learned a lot about myself. I fell in and out of love. Broke my heart over several men, got back up again... a cycle.” And then she met “a gorgeous Bangladeshi man” who completely swept her off her feet. “He was a beautiful young boy and I was madly in love with him. I got pregnant and then things went downhill. Romance died, reality checked in. Little things began to trouble me like his messy habits, his bunch of unruly friends who would always be at home... it scared me when I thought of the possibility of doing this for the rest of my life, and so when he proposed marriage, I refused. He couldn’t take it because in his culture, a woman refusing a man’s proposal is perhaps unheard of.”

Nada gave birth to a girl, walked out of the relationship, and over the next few years took up cabaret dancing as an art form. Around this time, she checked out a live BDSM show where the Domina onstage invited people to join her. Nada was the first one to rush for the offer.

“It was a born-again moment for me. I figured that the reason I was constantly getting hurt in relationships was that I subconsciously loved that feeling. I thought I might as well start enjoying the pain - both emotionally and physically.” The Domina happened to be the owner of the Kit Kat Club - one of Berlin’s most outré underground joints - where entry is restricted to those with an attitude to match. Nada went on to become their star performer, doing acts that involved copulating with her partner while suspended midair. In some ways, the Kit Kat Club’s meteoric rise as Berlin’s most notorious nightclub, drawing people from around the world, owes a lot to Nada’s over-the-top erotic performances. Over the years, her career in eroticism reached new heights, with a slew of fetish-porn flicks and performances in more underground clubs.

The lights go out again, and this time a stunningly pretty girl with slightly Asian features performs a burlesque dance - slowly getting rid of the few clothes she has on. By the end of the show, she bares it all. Nada joins in the applause excitedly, turns to me, and says, “That’s my daughter!”

My Indian middle-class sensibilities are rattled, but I manage to admit that she’s breathtaking. I steer the conversation back to Kit Kat. “I don’t perform there anymore. I have some logistical issues with them. Artists need to be treated a certain way, and I think I’ve worked hard to be where I am and could do with some respect.” Nada nods to her daughter, who is by now behind the bar counter, all demure and dressed up. She pours her a Jim Beam. “Her name is Emiko - meaning a kid graced with beauty.” I couldn’t agree more. Does she like what she’s doing? “I don’t think this is what she wants to do for the rest of her life. For now, she’s doing it for the money. But what she really wants is to study international relations at a good university.” Emiko agrees with a million-euro smile as she gets me another chilled Berliner Pilsner. The lights go down again, and this time Bodo does a rendition of Germany’s Frank Sinatra - the actor, comedian, and entertainer Harald Juhnke. The poem is about eating the rich, and Bodo ends his act with a song called Mein Hund ist schwul which literally translates to “My dog is gay.”

The song, originally composed by German acappella band - Die Prinzen, is a hit, and even Emiko, who was only smiling so far, is singing along.
A couple next to me starts getting a bit more than cozy. The edges dissolve. Skin, music, smoke, desire, drink - none of it announces itself anymore. The world outside suddenly seems unbearably normal and uninspiring. And for a moment I try hard to reconcile myself to that fact.
Emiko, who will soon leave this city to pursue a career in international relations in the outside world, pours me another drink. The lights go out again. And Berlin embraces me with its welcoming darkness.

At a time when musicians are retreating deeper into their bedrooms with VSTs and unlimited access to gear, towns like Bandung, Yogyakarta, and the tiny, unassuming Jatiwangi are home to art collectives producing remarkable work across almost every medium imaginable.

A couple of years ago, we set off on a road trip across Java, led by two brilliant figures from the local music scene: Tedi and Dito. We travelled from Jakarta to the far eastern reaches of the island, meeting musicians, craftspeople, and artists along the way. Tedi fronts the phenomenal band LAIR and part of the Jatiwangi Art Factory, while Dito runs the wonderfully eclectic Orange Cliff Records. Together, they’re an unstoppable combination.

We arrived in Jatiwangi late that night, exhausted. Before turning in, Tedi warned us we’d need to be up early for a visit to the Jatiwangi Tile Factory - which, as the name rather plainly suggests, is exactly that: a factory that makes clay roof tiles.

Morning came, and so did Tedi. We were dragged out of bed, bundled into a car, and driven through Jatiwangi’s dry, sun-scorched landscape to the factory. Still half asleep, I rubbed my eyes, hoping I was dreaming. I wasn’t.

Workers hauled enormous mounds of clay, shaping each tile entirely by hand - tiles that would eventually become someone else’s roof. Before I had the chance to ask Tedi why he’d brought us here, I noticed him and his friends setting up microphones in one corner of the factory. Cables were uncoiled, a PA system came to life, and within minutes the workshop had been transformed into a performance space.

Then the very same men who had been hauling clay since sunrise carried over a new set of tiles. But these weren’t roofing tiles anymore. They had been transformed into instruments: a xylophone, percussion pieces, an entire ensemble sculpted and fired from clay.

The most formidable-looking worker stepped up to the microphone.

Then they began to sing.

“Oman, Oman...” he called out—a gentle reminder to himself not to forget to pick up his wife after work. Another song urged everyone to work harder and faster, a playful jab, perhaps, at the factory owners standing just a few feet away.A small crowd gathered. Children wandered over. Neighbours stopped to watch. The factory owners stood nearby.

Only later did I learn that this was how these men spent their lunch break: writing songs, rehearsing together, and becoming what I can only describe as one of the most honest punk bands I’ve ever had the privilege of witnessing.

True grit. Handmade instruments. Honest songs about the everyday grind.

Here’s what they look like:

Myoko is an annual festival of the Apatani people, held across the Ziro Valley of Arunachal Pradesh every March. It lasts nearly a month. Three village clusters take turns hosting it, rotating each year. When it’s your turn, you host. Hosting means your door is open. All the time. To family, to neighbours, to friends from across the valley, and to strangers who wander in. On offer, around an endless fire, is roasted meats, bison intestines (if you are special), and the finest home-brewed rice and millet wine you have ever had.

You move from house to house. You sit around a fire and eat. You drink. Someone sings an old song. Someone else tells a story about a river , and you laugh without fully understanding why. You crack jokes. You listen to village gossip. You pass out by the fire. This is fine. This is, in fact, correct. You wake up, someone offers you something warm, and you resume.

You do this until you cannot. Then you probably start again.

But underneath all of it is something deeper. Myoko is the festival where bad blood gets cleared. Old grudges lose their grip over a shared cup. The fire burns away whatever had been sitting between people… the next morning is a fresh start. It is oldest reminder in life - we are here to look after one another. It’s a celebration of generosity and friendship. Of finding old ones and making new ones. Like all things new, it begins with an end which is not for the faint-hearted. A pig is brought in for a sacrificial ritual. Everyone gathers around the animal that is tied to a bamboo stake. The shaman makes a slit in the chest of the squealing animal. Then he reaches his hand inside, all the way to his elbow, and pulls out the live beating heart. He holds it up for everyone to see - including the pig itself which is gasping its way to death. The heart is then examined carefully. What the priests read in it becomes the forecast for the year ahead, the shape of things to come. It is a conversation with the future.

Here’s a video of it. I couldn’t handle the squealing so I asked Suno to turn it into a “avant garde jazz meets Afro pop and Tuareg rock” version and it’s become even more grotesque. See if you can stomach it.

Anyway, f*ck AI, go experience Myoko.

I have built (vibe coded) a small game based on my experience at Myoko. Names are fictional, wine is not… so be careful. The goal: visit as many houses as you can in the time you have, and partake in whatever is on offer.

Play the game and see if you can beat me →

Top Tip: When The Mist Is Lifted a documentary by veteran Arunachali filmmaker Moji Riba, has a fantastic record of this festival. Find it. Watch it.

But it helps to have access to a cohort of creative coders and noise nerds as I did when I attended the ITP 2025 Camp at NYU.
What I found there was not mastery but permission.
To begin with, the joys of becoming a learner again and discovering a creative language like p5.js
You start with something modest - a simple polka-dot animation, a self-drawing doodle... You learn how randomness behaves, how repetition accumulates meaning. And then, suddenly, you’re studying a tape loop machine written by a fellow cohort and ITP graduate Willem Yarbrough, heavily inspired by Brian Eno’s Ambient 1: Music for Airports.
The logic is deceptively simple: loops of varying lengths, gently falling out of sync, creating accidental harmonies. It’s the practice of listening.
Toward the end of the camp, I gave a short presentation on making music with AI using Suno. The agenda was not to evangelize or dissuade but to examine. What does AI music look like right now—June 2025? What can it do? What can’t it do? Who benefits? Who disappears?
No wrong answers.
Only more questions—layered like loops slightly out of phase.

That soundtrack was my own deep dive into the noir-ish, pentatonic world of Ethiopian jazz. Like Bill Murray’s journey in the film, I found myself pulled into an exploration of Ethiopian music.

There’s already a wealth of material online about the origins of this genre, but here’s what I gathered: Ethiopian music is built on a unique system of five-note (pentatonic) scales called qenet (sometimes spelled kignit). Unlike Western music’s reliance on fixed tuning, qenet scales thrive on flexible intonation and oral tradition, producing an ancient, haunting sound that immediately draws you in.

Some of the most popular and easily recognizable qenet are Tizita, Bati, Ambassel, and Anchihoye (often included in the “big four”). You’ll also encounter variants like Yematabbelaw, but the core four are the most widely referenced.

I even made an app called FrEthio (Replit ftw!) explaining these scales specifically for the guitar. You can use this as a practice tool if you’d so like. You can change keys, and check out the derivative chords form the scales and listen to the ascending and descending scales.

Here it is (Use on desktop, the audio may not work in all phones):

https://frethio.replit.app/

Good luck on your journey.

Handmade homes shaped like spaceships
are scattered around a lake no one dares to swim in.
They say the military left heavy metal to rot beneath its surface over half a century ago.
No one's sure.
There are no signboards.

Two structures loom at either end of this fragile paradise.
One: a newly built, heat-breathing monster—
an incinerator with an endless appetite,
belching smoke into the sky.
The other: a glistening church spiraling toward the heavens,
a golden promise of something better.

Back at the square, tourists drift and gawk,
snapping photos of locals smoking cannabis
like they were zoo exhibits.
The plants grow defiantly,
pregnant with glistening buds,
yet a sign politely insists:
Don't buy hash.

Our friend Jack lives in an old VW van.
His living room blends into the tall grass,
just a few steps from the nude beach.

Each morning, he collects garbage.
Each night, he writes songs about sexy snails

But when he pays for his drink with a card,
he pauses.
Because every swipe
is another quiet surrender—
another slice of freedom handed over
without a sound.

Audio track made using a rough audio prompt in Suno
Tags: soviet synthpop, dubstep, ambient noise, guitars

She was waiting on the porch—a star of yesteryear. Thirsty, haggard, but still a head-turner. The keys were in the fusebox. The weed, in the glove box. She roared to life—a V8 engine with enough power to pull all the baggage we’d been carrying for days, months, years.

We drove past the great ocean, through breathing rainforests and a lake so blue, you’d write a song. And then, into a fiery desert where the tarmac dissolved to dust.

Dead kangaroos lined the road—rotting like bad decisions. Now and then, a young wallaby would dart from the scrub, a flicker of reason you almost followed. A solitary bar, a lone bakery, a one-horse town built around a 500-year-old gum tree. The only open door - an op-shop with an earnest keeper, disappointed she couldn’t find us a guitar.

Lizards with stump tails. Lizards with frills. Lizards that played dead, pretending to be roadkill. In the beating sun, we arrived at the wedding— a row of goat carcasses crucified over burning coals, smoke rising like an offering to the gods. A feast being readied for 400 souls gathered to celebrate a marriage twenty years in the making.

The signs were there. Always there. One read: Watch Out for Snakes. But we chose the other: Good things come to those who wait.

This matters because:
a) They grow and smoke opium, storing it by soaking tiny strips of cloth.
b) They have bamboo.

Step 1: The Extraction
Take the opium-soaked cloth strips and dip them in water. Heat the mix in a brass spatula if possible. Squeeze each strip dry — don’t waste a drop. Keep boiling until all the water evaporates and you’re left with a thick, tar-like residue of pure opium. Take your time. This is ritual.

Step 2: The Hay
Find a clump of dried banana hay — or ask your ever-generous neighbour. Roast it slowly over a flame, turning it again and again until each strand is crisp and dry. No rushing. Patience is flavour.

Step 3: The Binding
With bamboo tweezers, dip the roasted hay into the spatula of opium. Twirl gently, letting the sticky resin soak in. Then transfer the clump to a plate and keep kneading it with the tweezers. Work it in thoroughly. This part is meditative — so chat, sip tea, let the moment linger.

Step 4: The Pipe
Fetch your bamboo pipe (or borrow the neighbour’s again). Add a bit of water to filter the smoke. Pinch off a bit of that sticky hay and place it in the bowl. Light it — match, ember, or lighter — and inhale slowly. Sip tea. Pass it around. Savor.

Lie down.