I sometimes think you can tell someone’s age by asking one simple question. “What’s your favourite album?” Ask my parents’ generation, and they’ll answer without hesitation. They’ll tell you the year it came out, where they bought it, what it smelled like when they opened the plastic wrap, and why Track 8 was criminally underrated. Buying an album wasn’t just a purchase. It was a commitment, financially, emotionally, and spiritually. You chose one artist, handed over your pocket money, and hoped they hadn’t peaked with the lead single.

Because once you bought the CD, or the cassette if you go back a little further, that was it. There was no skipping to another artist every thirty seconds. You listened to the whole thing. The hits. The fillers. The slightly unhinged experimental song that sounded like someone had accidentally left the studio microphone on. And somehow, after the twentieth listen, it became your favourite. The weird songs had a chance.

Zillennials grew up very differently. We’ve never really had to commit to an album. We’ve committed to vibes. We inherited Spotify, Apple Music and YouTube. Suddenly, the entire history of recorded music moved into our pockets. We don’t need to choose between buying the Taylor Swift album or the Coldplay album because, for the price of two coffees a month, we can have both. Along with Miles Davis, Rosalía, Mozart, Burna Boy and that one Icelandic indie band we discovered because somebody used their song over a video of a golden retriever wearing sunglasses.

It’s glorious. It’s also completely changed the way we listen. Previous generations collected albums. We collect moods. I don’t have only one playlist. I have a playlist for pretending my commute is the opening scene of a coming-of-age film. One for answering emails like a CEO despite having absolutely no authority over anyone. One for rainy Sundays. One called Everything Will Be Fine that has carried me through several occasions where everything was, objectively, not fine.

Music hasn’t become less important. It’s become frighteningly specific. We no longer say, “I want to listen to music.” We say, “I need songs that sound like I’m about to reinvent my life after buying fresh basil.” And somehow Spotify understands. One of my favourite things about Zillennials is that we’re almost impossible to stereotype musically.

There are, of course, the Groupies. Not fans. Historians. They know every lyric, every interview, every unreleased demo, every inside joke, every outfit from every tour. Concert tickets are purchased with the tactical precision of someone trying to secure Olympic final seats. If their favourite artist announces a surprise album at 2:13 a.m., they’re somehow awake already. Honestly, I admire the commitment.

Then you have the Connoisseurs. They’re twenty-five and casually recommend Brazilian jazz recorded in 1974 by musicians you’ve never heard of. They’ll say things like, “Their early work was more authentic,” about artists who released those songs before they themselves existed. They own vinyl. They almost always own a record player. They’re the friend who always wins the aux cable.

And then there’s the category I suspect most of us secretly belong to: the Musical Magpies. Our playlists make absolutely no sense. One song is reggae. The next is opera. Then Sabrina Carpenter. Then Fleetwood Mac. Then amapiano. Then a French jazz song that makes you want to buy tomatoes at a local market despite living nowhere near one. Then Charli XCX. It’s musical jet lag. And somehow, it works. Because our playlists aren’t organised by genre anymore. They’re organised by personality. Or, more accurately, by the seventeen different personalities we temporarily adopt throughout the week. Monday morning and Friday evening have remarkably different soundtracks. Both are equally valid.

Music has become less about loyalty to an artist and more about loyalty to a feeling. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Because somewhere between unlimited choice and endless playlists, we’ve become incredibly curious listeners. Our generation doesn’t really have musical guilt. We don’t think loving Beethoven means you can’t also love Bad Bunny. We don’t think jazz and techno are sworn enemies. We don’t see genres as rules. We see them as invitations. Maybe that’s one of the loveliest things streaming accidentally gave us. Permission to wander.

Of course, there’s another side to this story. While listening to music has never been easier, making music has never been more complicated. Not creatively. Professionally. Imagine being twenty-two years old, writing songs in your bedroom, recording vocals under a duvet because someone on YouTube said it improves the acoustics, finally releasing the song you’ve poured your heart into only to discover that its future depends partly on whether strangers keep watching for more than eight seconds. That’s a strange way to measure art.

Previous generations hoped someone at a record label would notice them. Today’s artists hope that an algorithm does. And algorithms are fascinating creatures. They know exactly what you’ve listened to after a breakup. They know you’ll probably enjoy that new artist from Australia. But they’re not particularly good at recognising bravery. Or originality. Or the strange little songs that need time before they become someone’s favourite. The songs that would’ve been Track 8 on the CD. The ones that only reveal themselves after you’ve lived with them for a while.

Luckily, musicians are some of the most optimistic people on Earth. They keep making music anyway. They blend genres that shouldn’t belong together. They mix cultures, languages and influences without asking anyone’s permission. They create songs that sound like nowhere and everywhere at once. They keep experimenting. They keep trying. They keep believing that somewhere, someone is waiting for exactly their sound. And honestly, they’re probably right.

Because that’s the beautiful thing about music. It always finds its people. Sometimes through a friend. Sometimes through a concert. Sometimes because an algorithm accidentally gets something spectacularly right. We often talk about music as entertainment, but I think we underestimate how essential it really is. We know we need good food. We know we need movement. We know we should probably sleep more.

But music deserves a place on that list. It’s nourishment for parts of ourselves we don’t always know how to explain. A good song can rescue an ordinary Tuesday. Make a long train ride feel cinematic. Turn cooking dinner into an Italian holiday. Convince you to go for the walk you didn’t feel like taking. Make your heart ache. Then somehow make it lighter.

Very few things ask so little of us while giving so much back. Maybe that’s why every generation falls in love with music differently. Our parents built relationships with albums. We build relationships with moments. Neither is better. They’re simply different ways of letting music accompany a life. And if there’s one thing our generation does particularly well, it’s letting music slip into the smallest corners of our days. A walk becomes a memory. A coffee becomes a ritual. A random Monday becomes the day you discover the song you’ll still be playing ten years from now. Not bad for something that started with pressing shuffle.

With Love, Chaos & Jazz. Always.