the TrueFans AMP— Issue 108

"And be gentle with yourself. There will be seasons of drought, of false starts, of songs that betray you. Sit anyway. You're not writing to prove you're a Songwriter. You're writing because the world arranges itself a little more beautifully when you do."
— (maybe) Leonard Cohen

In This Issue... 16 pages (extra long one, about 24ish minutes to read) You'll Get... 

• RECOMMENDS— ChatGPT (for Creative Exploration)

• Your BIZ— Spotify's Hate Cycle: Will This Time Be Different? Adapted from an article written by Lauren Boisvert and published on Vice.com

• The Greatest Songwriters of All Time— Leonard Cohen: the Ultimate Song Poet

• In partnership with Ian Temple and Soundfly

• Feature— a Coffee with Leonard Cohen by John Fogg with Chat GPT

• PS from PS— Songs that Pray

Here’s the playlist

• RECOMMENDS — ChatGPT (for Creative Exploration)

ED NOTE: This is so much more than a recommendation. It's a MasterClass in using AI to be a more and better Musical Artist. — JF

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If you're a working Music Artist, think of ChatGPT as a fast, tireless co-writer who never runs out of ways to spark a line, twist a hook, or reframe a song idea. Not to "replace" you— but to provoke you. We just used it to stage a Coffee with Leonard Cohen conversation (that John obviously did NOT have live and in-person); you can use the same engine to riff, iterate, and push your craft further— on demand.

What it's great for...

Pro tips to get gold (fast)

Because speed + range = more swings at the ball. ChatGPT helps you generate, test, and refine ideas at a pace that would take days alone. When you're stuck, it's a nudge. When you're flowing, it's a multiplier. And when you want to learn, it's a private masterclass— like our Leonard Cohen café chat— any time you sit down.

the Bottom of the Bottom line: 

Treat ChatGPT like a creative gym. Ten focused minutes = stronger hooks, truer lines, braver songs.

• Your BIZ— Spotify's Hate Cycle: Will This Time Be Different? Adapted from an article written by Lauren Boisvert and published on Vice.com 

Every handful of years, Spotify finds itself back in the crosshairs of Music Artist outrage. The grievances are familiar: insultingly low payouts, new features that feel hostile to working musicians (AI-generated tracks, ghost artists, algorithmic manipulation), and a corporate posture that seems indifferent to the very people who supply its product— music.

Other platforms— Apple Music, Amazon, YouTube— aren't saints, but Spotify is the one that continually draws the heat. Why? Because it has become the global face of streaming: a household name, a cultural habit, and, for better or worse, the default way millions consume music. And that makes it the perfect lightning rod.

Music Artists revolt and pull their work. Fans and media pile on. Spotify does little, waits it out, and eventually many of those same artists return. Nothing changes. The relationship is toxic, but it persists.

The New Spark: War Machines, Not Just Music

This round of outrage has a different flavor. The uproar began after Spotify CEO Daniel Ek invested $600 million in Helsing, a German defense startup that develops AI for military drones and battlefield systems. Ek is now Helsing's chairman, positioning himself at the forefront of what he calls the "new battlefield"— AI, autonomy, and scale.

To many musicians, the optics couldn't be worse. Spotify's billions come directly from artists' music and fans' subscriptions. Seeing that money flow into AI-driven warfare struck a nerve. It wasn't just about low royalties anymore. This was about ethics.

The reaction was swift. King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, Deerhoof, Xiu Xiu, Leah Senior, David Bridie, and indie label Kalahari Oyster Cult all pulled their catalogs. More quietly, others followed. Metal band Immortal Bird's Rae Amitay summed up the disgust: 

"Everyone has their lines and their limits. I just don't like 40-year-old Megamind supervillains investing in AI weaponry."

Protest Without Power?
But will it matter? History suggests not.

Each protest was bold. Each generated headlines. 

None changed the fundamentals of Spotify's business model.

As MIDiA Research points out, for Spotify to feel real pressure, it would take a wave of global superstars— multiple Taylor Swifts and Beyoncés— removing their music at once. That would jeopardize the core of Spotify's product. Indie acts, however admirable their stance, don't account for enough revenue share to tip the scales.

Moral Stand vs. Business Reality
For smaller artists, leaving Spotify is often less about money and more about ethics. For many, Spotify streams barely register in their income compared to touring, merch, Bandcamp, or Patreon. That makes pulling music from the platform a symbolic move rather than a financial risk.

And symbolism matters. Fans notice. Other artists notice. The more indie acts walk away, the less monolithic Spotify feels. In an industry where momentum is everything, even symbolic acts can slowly reshape the playing field.

What This Means for Artists and Fans

The Bigger Question
Spotify isn't disappearing tomorrow. Ek's war-drivens aren't likely to be undone by a few hundred indie bands pulling out. But this backlash feels different because it connects the dots: the music economy, artist exploitation, and now literal weapons of war.

The real question may not be: Will Spotify change?

It may be: Will Music Artists and fans keep playing the same game when the rules are stacked against them?

In other words— how many more hate cycles before someone finally breaks free?

And as Vice's Lauren Boisvert asked with a wink: who's going to A Christmas Carol Daniel Ek this year?

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This article is adapted from Spotify Criticism Is Louder Than Ever, But Will It Make A Real Difference This Time? written by Lauren Boisvert and published on Vice.com (August 18, 2025). Vice is an independent media platform covering culture, politics, music, and technology, known for challenging mainstream narratives and spotlighting underreported stories.

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"For many of us Leonard Cohen was the greatest Songwriter of them all." 
—Nick Cave

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ED NOTE: We cannot believe that in more than 100 issues of the TrueFans AMP™ we never featured Leonard Cohen. Maybe we did. But after a few hours (no kidding) we couldn't find him. Anywhere. So... CHAGRIN (all CAPS) accepted. Here he is...

— JF

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Leonard Cohen didn't so much join popular music as he infiltrated it— quietly, precisely, like a poet stepping across a threshold. He arrived at 33 with Songs of Leonard Cohen (1967), a debut that felt fully formed: minor-key melodies, classical fingerpicking, and lyrics that mingled scripture and street life. These songs— Suzanne, So Long, Marianne, Sisters of Mercy— established a vocabulary other writers still borrow when they need intimacy without sentimentality. (For artists, note the craft signal here: Cohen's guitar pattern— Spanish-inflected, distilled on Hydra— became the chassis for dozens of later pieces.)

Leonard, built for the long game
Cohen's catalog is a masterclass in reinvention without rupture. After his stark early trio (Songs of Leonard Cohen, Songs from a Room, Songs of Love and Hate), he took a left turn with producer Phil Spector on Death of a Ladies' Man (1977)— a chaotic, gun-on-the-console wall-of-sound fever dream many artists would have buried, but Cohen carried forward as hard-won experience. A decade later he shapeshifted again with I'm Your Man (1988): synths, drum machines, European cool, and lyrics as sardonic as they were devotional— Everybody Knows, First We Take Manhattan, Tower of Song. Then, in deep partnership with Sharon Robinson, he staged one of pop's subtlest comebacks: Ten New Songs (2001), co-written and produced with Robinson largely at home, an object lesson in trusting a limited palette and a trusted collaborator. 

"When people talk about Leonard, they fail to mention his melodies… no one else comes close." 
—Bob Dylan

Cohen's late career radiated purpose. Old Ideas (2012) and Popular Problems (2014) extended the chiaroscuro; You Want It Darker (2016), produced with his son Adam, arrived weeks before his death and won him a posthumous Grammy for Best Rock Performance— rare recognition for a whisper that could level a room. (He had received the Recording Academy's Lifetime Achievement Award in 2010.) 

Hits, signatures, and the long fuse of "Hallelujah"
Ask audiences worldwide to name a Cohen song and you'll likely hear Hallelujah. The original landed modestly on Various Positions (1984), but the composition had a longer destiny: John Cale's version unlocked it; Jeff Buckley canonized it; hundreds more followed. Hallelujah now lives on Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Songs list, and critics estimate 500+ recorded covers— proof that a song can outgrow its first recording and still remain unmistakably its author's. Beyond that giant: "Suzanne," "Bird on the Wire," "Famous Blue Raincoat, Dance Me to the End of Love, Everybody Knows, I'm Your Man. If you're mapping durable repertoire, this is the spine. 

Tours that became parables
Stage fright once nearly stopped him cold— Judy Collins famously coaxed him onto a New York stage in 1967 at an anti–Vietnam War benefit, where he froze mid-Suzanne. Decades later, financial betrayal by a manager forced a return to the road; the result was a late-life world tour (2008–2013) that became legend for its grace and stamina. Across roughly 372 shows spanning two tours, Cohen knelt, recited blessings, and delivered three-hour masterclasses in attention— an elder proving that presence can be a production value. 

Cohen wasn't a loner; he was a curator. Sharon Robinson (co-writer/producer) helped shape Ten New Songs and co-wrote staples like Everybody Knows. Jennifer Warnes' Famous Blue Raincoat (1986) reframed his writing for new listeners and arguably primed the ground for I'm Your Man. And U2's Bono— fan turned friend— has kept Cohen in arenas and headlines, calling him "an addiction I'm not ready to give up" while weaving Suzanne and Hallelujah into Bad on tour. (File under: how to honor heroes publicly without mimicry.) 

"It was the way he wrote about complicated things… very intimate and personal." 
—Suzanne Vega 

Awards, influence, and the pantheon
Cohen's mantle is crowded: Rock & Roll Hall of Fame (2008), Companion of the Order of Canada, Grammys including Lifetime Achievement (2010) and a 2018 win for You Want It Darker. More telling than trophies, though, is peer testimony. Bob Dylan praised the "celestial" quality of Cohen's melodies— "no one else comes close"— a reminder to Songwriters that structure and tune are as holy as words. Lou Reed, inducting Cohen into the Hall, simply said,...

"We're so lucky to be alive at the same time Leonard Cohen is." 

That's the pantheon talking. 

Personal life, public conscience
He never married, but his life was braided with enduring relationships: Marianne Ihlen (the muse in So Long, Marianne), Suzanne Elrod (mother of his children, Adam and Lorca), creative partners including Robinson and Anjani, and a late-life circle in Los Angeles. He spent years at Mount Baldy Zen Center, was ordained a monk, and balanced Buddhist practice with Jewish devotion. While not a protest singer in the bumper-sticker sense, he played peace-benefit stages, turned up to sing for Israeli troops in 1973, and in 2009 donated proceeds from an Israel stadium show to organizations working toward Israeli-Palestinian reconciliation. He kept politics human-scale, anchored to mercy.

Why he matters to working MusicArtists (and how to steal like him)

In his own words

"If I knew where the good songs came from I'd go there more often." 
(Prince of Asturias speech, 2011) 

"I was born with the gift of a golden voice." 
— Tower of Song (10 words) 

Essential listening / viewing (start here)

Cohen's enduring legacy isn't just that he wrote immortal lines. It's that he modeled a career where poetry, faith, humor, and craft coexist— and where changing your methods never meant changing your voice. For anyone making songs today, that's both permission and a dare: be patient, be precise, and let the work grow with you.

in partnership with Ian Temple and Soundfly

• Feature— a Coffee with Leonard Cohen by John Fogg with Chat GPT

The café is quiet except for the polite clink of china cups and the soft scrape of chairs on tile. Leonard Cohen sits across from you, a dark suit soft at the shoulders. Eyes amused as if he's listening to music only he can hear. The waiter leaves two steaming cups. Leonard nods thanks, then fixes you with that gentle, penetrating attention of his— the kind that makes you feel like your questions matters to him.

Leonard, every Songwriter wants to know: where do the songs come from?
He smiles, slow and private.

"Songs arrive like weather. You don't command them; you make yourself available— guitar tuned, pencil sharpened, a clear desk, a quiet mind. Then you sit there, a fool at the window, waiting for the rain. Availability is the craft. Patience is the devotion."

And when the weather doesn't change? When nothing comes?
He stirs his coffee, thinking.

"Then you write anyway. You write badly with great sincerity until the good line glances off your shoulder. I once spent months chiseling a verse I later discarded. That time wasn't wasted— it's how I earned the one line that stayed. Treat failure as the toll you pay on the road to the song."

You've been called the poet of longing, love, sorrow. How does a young Songwriter ‘find their voice'?
A dry chuckle.

"Stop looking for it as if it's lost in a drawer. Voice is what remains after you've imitated your heroes... and the imitations fall apart. Write the thing you're slightly afraid to write— the confession that compromises your disguise. Fear is a reliable compass."

Today artists feel pressure to write for playlists, charts, algorithms…
He raises an eyebrow. Amused. But...

"Algorithms don't fall in love. Write for the person who needs your song at two in the morning when their defenses are broken. If a million find it, good. If one finds it and feels less alone, that's a career."

What carried you through the long seasons— rituals, practices?
A half-smile.

"Discipline. Mostly. I kept hours. I treated the desk like a small monastery. Prayer helped. So did walking— there's a theological dimension to a good walk. And yes, endless rewriting. A song that sounds inevitable usually has thirty or forty versions scattered on the floor around it."

You were famously meticulous. How do you know when a lyric is finished?

"When it stops resisting you. A finished verse has no loose threads; tug one word and the garment holds. Say the line aloud. If your mouth trips, the line is lying. Repair it. The body knows when truth is spoken— your breath will tell you."

Performance versus writing— two very different crafts. Did you always want to be on stage?
He shakes his head. Almost boyish for an instant.

"No. I was dragged there by love. Judy Collins— those celestial blue eyes— kept telling me, ‘Leonard, you have to sing your own songs.' I remember the first time she pulled me onto a stage; terror introduced itself as an old friend. I fled, then returned, out of courtesy to her faith. Judy's kindness was a bridge I walked across into the life I didn't know I wanted. Sometimes it takes another's courage to reveal your own."

Any counsel for stage fright?

"Treat it as proof that something important is happening. Don't try to erase it— befriend it. Before going on, I would bow— just a small, private bow— to whatever we might call the source of songs. You're not there to be adored. You're there to bear witness."

Your guitar patterns are distinctive— what would you say to writers about music beyond lyrics?
Leonard glances at his hands.

"A Spanish guitarist I knew showed me a pattern— three notes and silence— that became the spine of many of my songs. He left this world soon after, but his pattern kept singing in my fingers. Learn one simple figure that breaks your heart and let it break every song open. Harmony is a form of mercy; it holds the words while they tremble."

Collaboration— producers, singers, bandmates— how did that shape the work?

"I owe a great deal to the kindness of arrangers and to the women's voices that lifted my own— angels against the rust. Collaboration is a vow of humility. Let others bring their weather. A song can endure a thousand opinions as long as you protect the line at its center." 

Speaking of centers: what makes a lyric true?
Leans forward, voice dropping.

"Precision. Not fancy language, not cleverness— precision. If the lover's dress is blue, don't call it azure unless azure is the only honest shade. Name the thing in a way that cannot be improved. Truth is a short path through a dense forest."

For Artists trying to ‘make it,' what actually matters?

"Define success in verbs, not nouns. ‘I write, I perform, I connect'— these you can do. ‘I am famous'— that's a weather report. Practice small excellence daily. Send thank-you notes. Pay your band before you pay yourself. Protect your mornings for writing; protect your nights for living. The career gathers itself around these fidelities."

Business can bruise the heart. How do you protect both?

"Clarity protects. Know your agreements. Keep your publishing if you can. Ask questions until the answers are plain. Then, when you sit to write, forget all of it. The heart can't sing with a calculator in its lap."

What about technology— the new tools writers use today?
He smiles like he's seen many fashions pass.

"Tools are innocent. If a machine, a loop, a fragment, a prompt, a device helps you approach the truth, bless it. But keep your discernment sharp. A tool must never tell you who you are. Use everything; worship nothing."

You often wrote about love and the sacred in the same breath. How do those currents meet in a song?

"Love is the daily liturgy; the sacred is the silence it blossoms in. A song is what happens when the two finally recognize each other. Approach the page with reverence and playfulness at once. That paradox is very fertile."

Aging and creativity— what changed for you?

"The appetite for applause diminishes; the appetite for accuracy grows. You stop trying to impress and start trying to get it right. Age is a marvelous editor— you carry fewer disguises to the desk."

Any practical drills for writers who want to improve this week?

"Three, perhaps. First: copy— by hand— the verse you most envy; you'll feel its architecture through your fingers. Second: write one verse a day that no one will ever see; you'll become dangerous because you're no longer writing to impress. Third: perform a new song in a small room before it's comfortable; audiences are stern teachers when they're kind."

What about melody— how do you find one that holds?

"Hum until the hum refuses to leave. The durable melodies are closer to speech than to spectacle. If you can speak it on a single note and it still moves you, you're close. Then let harmony set a table for it— nothing ornate, just enough chairs for the feeling."

Rewriting can feel endless. How do you know what to cut?

"Cut what you're keeping for your vanity. If a line survives only because it makes you look clever, remove it. The song will breathe easier. The listener can feel room in a lyric; they'll move in and make a home."

What do you say to the writer who's discouraged— no traction, no team, no money?

"I would say welcome. This is the monastery. Poverty of recognition is not poverty of purpose. Make a modest vow— twelve songs this year, one honest performance each month, one letter of gratitude each week. Vows gather light."

The listener— what do we owe them?

"Hospitality. Make the room, light the candle, set the bread on the table. Leave enough space in the lyric for their life to sit down. A song is a mirror you polish for a stranger."

He finishes his coffee, then adds almost casually:

"And be gentle with yourself. There will be seasons of drought, of false starts, of songs that betray you. Sit anyway. You're not writing to prove you're a Songwriter. You're writing because the world arranges itself a little more beautifully when you do."

The café hum returns. Leonard stands, smooths his jacket, then, as if remembering an old stage door, gives the smallest bow— to you, to the work, to the weather. At the threshold he turns with a last, wry benediction:

"Go in beauty, and bring back a tune."

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John Fogg is a million-selling author and the editor of the TrueFans AMP™. Chat GPT is one of his research and writing computer assistants. 

• PS from PS— Songs that Pray

Leonard Cohen wasn't just a SongWriter— he was a cartographer of the human soul's geography. While others chased hooks and choruses, Cohen built cathedrals out of confession. Turned vulnerability into sacrament.

Study him. Not for his melodies (though they haunt). Nor his song poetry (though he is the Master Wordsmith). But for his surgical precision with emotional truth. He could take the wreckage of a broken heart and arrange it into something so beautiful you'd want to break your own just to understand. 

"There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in"

That isn't just poetry. It's spiritual engineering.

Cohen understood what most Songwriters rarely grasp: 

The listener doesn't want your perfection, 
they want your honest brokenness. 

He wrote like a monk who'd fallen in love. Like a lover who'd found God in the wreckage. His songs don't just play— they pray.

In an age of manufactured emotion and algorithmic sentiment, Cohen remains the last honest man at the piano, teaching us that the deepest songs come not from trying to be universal, but from being so specifically, fearlessly yourself that you become a mirror for everyone else's secrets.

Study Leonard Cohen because he shows us that songwriting goes beyond entertainment to sacred witness. 

And we desperately need more witnesses.

Until we speak again

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And PLEASE, if you've got any Singer Songwriter friends, pass the AMP on, because... It’s Time... for a Change. Big Time. Past Time...