They didn’t just listen to my Spotify account. They took it over.
A few years ago, I was traveling a lot for work. I’ll admit to using airport wifi (I use a VPN now). And someone got access to my Spotify. For months, while I was working quietly at my computer, headphones on, there’d be a quick pause and then… norteño folk music. A lot of it. Blasting accordions into my unprepared eardrums.
I don’t mind sharing music taste. In fact, the joy of musical discovery is one of the great pleasures of life. But this anonymous interloper went too far. As we fought for control of my account, they deleted all my playlists and saved albums. That was war.
What followed was a six-month saga, begging Spotify support to help me recover my account, reset passwords, stop the intrusions. In the meantime, opening the app could mean jazz sessions or local indie. Or it could mean joyous accordion, norteño ballads whisking me to a place nearer the southern border.
When I finally reclaimed my account, I surprised myself. I didn’t purge it. I saved a few of the albums they’d added, including Piénsalo. For all the havoc they’d wreaked, they’d also exposed me to something real. Something curated. Someone else had thought, “This is good,” and meant it.
That kind of human curation is becoming all too rare. And I think that matters more than we realize.
Taste Requires Trust
A recent Washington Post story on iTunes holdouts stirred something similar in me. It’s not just nostalgia. It’s respect for people who still curate with care. Who don’t want everything to be streamable, skippable, disposable. Who don’t want a bot in their ear saying “You’ll probably like this.”
Curation isn’t about limiting choice. It’s about offering something with intention. That’s what makes an omakase meal unforgettable. Or a theater subscription rewarding. Or the Freakout Festival in Seattle so consistently electric.
Freakout is a beautiful example of deeply human curation. The festival curates an eclectic “best” of Paris, Mexico City, Vancouver, LA, and more. Bands big and small, strange and melodic. The lineups? Utterly unpredictable. One set might be a French country crooner in silk and fringe. The next? A punk band with feedback squalls that shake your bones. All underscored by a psychedelic light show and funky Seattle venues. And somehow, it all fits. Because the people behind it have taste. And I trust them.
That trust is in short supply right now. And it’s being quietly eroded by a wave of AI-generated junk that masquerades as content, as music, even as curation. But what AI offers in volume, it lacks in judgment. You can’t outsource taste.
Trust doesn’t just make curation possible. It makes a society function. When we trust the editors behind a newsroom, the curators behind a festival, or even the stranger recommending a new artist, we’re affirming something larger. That other people’s judgment can be sound. That we don’t have to do everything alone. It’s what makes communities safer, society stronger, and discovery more joyful.
Signal Over Noise
In marketing, we talk a lot about signal versus noise. About helping people cut through. But what we don’t talk enough about is how we decide what’s worth cutting through to. That’s where curation lives. In the trust you place in a person, a brand, a collective, to say: “This. This is worth your time.”
At Cedar Collab, we think about that a lot. Whether we’re tuning a pitch deck, sequencing a go-to-market rollout, or helping a founder articulate a message that actually lands, we’re not just executing. We’re curating. We’re applying judgment. Not because it scales, but because it matters.
And sometimes, that judgment comes from unexpected places. Like a stranger blasting norteño ballads into my headphones before I’ve had my morning coffee.
I’m grateful for it. And I kept Piénsalo in the mix.
Planning to be in Seattle November 6 to 9? The next Freakout Festival lineup is already looking unreal. If you’re going, let’s meet up and catch a set or two. Accordion optional.