Since my early years, I have been drawn to music because of its mystery.
I was 13 when an English teacher introduced me – along with a few classmates – to Queen. We copied their albums onto cassette tapes and for almost two years I listened to them constantly on my Walkman.
After a while, I realized I was mostly listening to their first five or six albums. To me, those were the most artistic, the most colorful, the most magical. It was completely mind-blowing that the same band could play ’70s rock, chanson-like miniatures, and grand rock operas on the very same album. That in itself felt mysterious. The atmosphere was a world of its own. Listening to their first record, I often felt as if I had entered some kind of fantasy universe. I barely understood the lyrics – but that wasn’t the point.
Later, indie rock found me. Pearl Jam, Radiohead, Suede, dEUS. Each of them had something I couldn’t fully explain, yet it felt new and powerful. With Pearl Jam, it was the pulse of the songs. With Radiohead, it was everything: the structures, the textures, the vocals – and most of all, their constant search for new directions. They truly dared to reinvent themselves again and again.
I wanted to follow that path. I wanted to write music born out of discovery – music that could surprise even myself. At 26, I founded my own band. We existed for nearly ten years and released four albums. I tried to work in the same spirit I admired: not trying to meet imagined expectations, but following my own path. Looking back, our final album in 2012 is probably the closest to my heart. It was playful, full of small soloistic moments and subtle jazz elements, yet still carried the influence of ’90s indie rock.
When I look back at those years, I have to admit: I cared only about creating. That was my focus. Presentation, marketing, positioning – they barely interested me. I moved from one creative phase to another. And perhaps it’s no surprise that only a handful of people came to our shows or listened to our records.
I supported my family by writing music for commercials and theatre. Of course, I would have preferred to make a living from my own songs, but it never created a deep internal conflict. I genuinely enjoyed those commissioned works. Over time, I realized the same creative spark was present there too – just applied in a different context.
Still, my desire was to live from my own music one day. My heroes did, and I wanted that as well. Gradually, two identities separated within me:
the artist – the independent, self- directed,
and the creator – the professional working within a brief and defined framework.
When I began exploring the world of music licensing, this duality became even stronger. I saw opportunity in it – but also risk. The opportunity for my music to function in a wider context. The risk of becoming purely functional, almost industrial.
I assembled an initial catalog from the tracks resting on my hard drive and asked myself: what now? I joined platforms where you pay to submit music to briefs. It quickly became clear that the chances of being selected were minimal. For a while, I still used these opportunities to expand my catalog. Eventually, though, I grew tired of paying simply for the possibility to submit music.
I realized I couldn’t write music purely based on market demand – happy, uplifting music or generic trailer tracks for example – if it meant losing the inner drive that made me start creating in the first place.
Between 2014 and 2017, I was searching for direction. I built my home studio during that period. Those years taught me that not every idea needs to become a separate project, and I don’t need to wait for one big breakthrough to launch everything forward. Music born from experimentation can also find its place. During these years I recorded albums like: My Film Music, While You Sleep and Darko.
Around 2019, a clearer concept began to form in my mind – one where the artist and the creator could coexist peacefully. The first Crowander album consciously created in that spirit was From the Bass, during the Covid period. It started from a simple question: what happens if every piece is built around bass themes?
The dilemma hasn’t disappeared completely. I consciously try to protect the explorer within me – the part that creates not out of strategy, but curiosity.
There are Crowander albums where concept dominates – like Music of the World. Other times I allow myself complete freedom, for example when writing piano pieces simply to see where they might lead. I sent some of those to publishers as well, but after a few attempts, I calmly placed them into my own catalog.
Recently, I started writing and recording new ideas without knowing what their fate would be. I tried to remain in that uncertainty for as long as possible — to keep the creative space open.
I see more clearly now: recognition is not what drives me. What matters is preserving that playful curiosity I felt when I first heard Queen as a teenager — the desire to create for the sake of discovery.
From time to time, I need to move toward complete creative freedom, even toward the extremes. These journeys make it possible for me to later return and create in more familiar forms, without losing that sense of discovery.
It is like a cat that needs to be let outside — to wander freely, explore the unknown — and then return home and quietly rest by the fireplace.