Caged Bird

On music, freedom and the long way back to yourself

You know what’s crazy?

Even as I sit here and write this, I’m wondering if it’s a good idea. Not the writing. The releasing. The letting go.

Six years is a long time to hold something and I won’t pretend that standing on this side of it doesn’t feel strange. Exciting too. But strange first.

People assume that not releasing means not working. That’s not it. I’ve been making music constantly. If unfinished voice notes, abandoned sessions and exported demos counted as official releases, I’m sure I would have one of the most prolific catalogues in my ends. But making and releasing are two different acts, and for a long time I only really concerned myself with one of them.

I write from experience. I always have. There were years where I was too deep inside the feeling to find the words for it. Years where the distance between what I was living and what I could articulate felt impossible to cross. I needed to come out the other side before I could speak on it clearly.

This song is one of a few where I felt my thoughts finally arrive the way I wanted them to. Like the pen caught something the mouth couldn’t. That doesn’t happen as often as you’d think.

The funny thing is that the last time I released a project, I was living in Amsterdam. Looking back, I don’t think I was trying to make a great album. I was trying to prove to myself that I could make one at all.

I’d taught myself how to write songs, record them, mix them and engineer them. Listening back now, there are decisions on that album that I’d never make today. But the beauty of those songs was that they were all mine. And that was good enough.

I didn’t know enough to be intimidated.

I wasn’t thinking about industry standards or whether my mixes stacked up against people who’d spent decades mastering their craft. I was excited because I’d finished something. Back then, completing a song felt like winning.

Somewhere along the way that changed.

I became a better writer, a better musician and a better listener. Unfortunately, I also became a much better critic.

When I came back to music there was a gap between where I’d left off and where I wanted to be. No one to bridge it. No producer in the room saying, “That’s done. Trust it.” It was just me, a laptop, too many opinions and an increasingly impressive collection of files misnamed FINAL_FINAL_FINAL_MIX5.wav.

I’ve never been to music school. I’ve never had a mentor. Nobody ever handed me a roadmap. It’s mostly been trial and error. Heavy on the error.

For years I found myself chasing what I thought the standard was. Comparing myself to artists, producers and engineers whose journeys looked nothing like mine. Holding myself accountable to expectations I didn’t even create.

The irony is that the younger version of me would’ve released half of those songs without thinking twice. He would’ve been too excited to care.

Somewhere between learning more and doubting more, I started treating every song like an exam. I’d listen back so many times the music stopped meaning anything. I’d second-guess my own instincts. I’d find myself waiting for permission from people who weren’t even in the room.

That doubt has a way of spreading. It doesn’t stay in the studio. It seeps into the way you move, the way you see yourself and the space you decide you’re allowed to take up. And quietly, without really noticing, you start making yourself smaller.

Maybe that’s why the title made sense when it arrived.

Because cages aren’t always built by other people. Some you walk into yourself. Some are made from doubt, some from expectation and some from love. The ones with no locks are the hardest to leave because leaving means admitting the door was always open.

A lot happened in those six years. Some beautiful. Some painful.

There were relationships that taught me things about myself. Conversations I should’ve had sooner. Feelings I struggled to articulate. Therapy sessions that forced me to sit with parts of myself I’d spent years avoiding.

There were moments where I felt completely disconnected from who I was. And moments where writing was the only thing helping me find my way back.

There’s another thing I’ve been thinking about recently.

This is the first piece of music I’ve released with my face on the cover. Or at least part of it.

For years I’d hidden behind illustrations, graphics and ideas. Even the name carried a little distance. The music lived under Lowki. Close enough to me to be true. Far enough away to feel protected.

Making the decision to continue writing and creating without the pseudonym removes a layer of protection. But I guess as I’ve grown through life, the need for one has loosened.

The things I spent years protecting myself from rarely came from the outside. More often than not they came from me. The self-doubt. The overthinking. The feeling that I wasn’t quite ready yet.

This release feels different.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been feeling all along. Not fear exactly. Exposure. The kind that comes with allowing yourself to be seen.

The opening line is: I’m just tryna live this life free.

Not I am free. Just trying. Still in it. Still figuring it out.

The funny thing is, my last album was called Free Lowki. Looking back, I think I misunderstood what freedom was. I thought it was something you arrived at. A destination. A version of yourself you could finally become.

Now I think freedom is much quieter than that.

It’s trusting your own voice.

It’s saying what you mean.

It’s letting people see you as you are..

The cover doesn’t show all of me, but for the first time, it feels like it shows enough.

Caged Bird is available now on Bandcamp.

I’ve put Caged Bird on Bandcamp first because I wanted to release it in a space that allows people to support artists directly. If the song resonates with you, thank you for listening. If you’d like to support the journey, every contribution genuinely helps.

Always, Kie.