The Voice That Tells You What To Do

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Understanding intuition, ego, and overthinking in music production

 

There are multiple topics that are difficult to write about or even teach, and one that I have wanted to write about for a long time is intuition. Intuition and talent are distinct yet deeply interconnected. When I work with artists, I often notice something interesting: some people have a natural talent for making music, but they lack intuition. Others might not have the same technical skills, yet they possess a strong instinct that guides them toward impactful decisions.

Over the years, I’ve become fascinated by the relationship among intuition, talent, creativity, and the inner dialogue that arises when we make music. I don’t claim to be a scientist or someone who has formally studied psychology. What I’m sharing here comes mostly from observation, experience, conversations with artists, and years spent making music, teaching, performing, and sometimes getting completely lost in my own creative process.

This is also a topic that can quickly become strange or mystical if approached the wrong way. That’s not really my goal. I want to keep this grounded and practical because, in the end, intuition is something most artists already experience, whether they realize it or not.

Over time, I started noticing that two voices often coexisted during the creative process.

One helps me move forward.

The other makes me doubt almost everything.

 

The Morning Set in Switzerland

 

I remember one gig I played during a tour years ago. I believe it was in Switzerland. It was early in the morning, and I was playing an after-hours set after already performing at another event that night. I barely slept. My head was buzzing. I was exhausted, but somehow still focused.

I remember setting up my gear and slowly entering a state of flow.

Whenever I reach that state, it feels as if everything has already been rehearsed for years. Every movement feels natural. Every decision arrives at the right moment. You could say this comes from experience, and that’s probably partially true. After doing something repeatedly, you naturally develop routines and habits.

But there’s also another feeling that appears.

It feels as if things are beginning to fall into place on their own. As I started playing, every decision felt guided by a voice I can’t fully explain. It was almost as if something inside me was calmly saying:

“Now do this.”

“Bring this in.”

“Wait.”

“Remove that.”

It didn’t feel forced. It didn’t feel intellectual. It felt obvious. As if the music already knew where it wanted to go, and I simply had to follow it.

I know this might sound strange to some people, but many artists have experienced moments like this. Athletes talk about it. Actors talk about it. Improvisers talk about it. There are moments where thinking becomes quieter, and decisions happen naturally. Whether this comes from repetition, subconscious processing, experience, muscle memory, or something else entirely doesn’t really matter to me anymore. What matters is that those moments feel deeply aligned.

That, to me, is intuition.

 

Intuition Is Not Talent

 

One thing I’ve realized while teaching music production is that talent and intuition are not the same thing.

Talent creates options. Intuition chooses direction.

There are people who are naturally gifted technically. They quickly understand synthesis, naturally grasp arrangement structures, learn mixing techniques quickly, and manipulate software with ease. Then there are other people who struggle technically but somehow make emotionally compelling music because they instinctively understand what matters.

They understand tension.

Emotion. Timing. Space. Energy.

Sometimes they can barely explain why something works, but they can feel it immediately. I also believe intuition develops through exposure. Going to events, hearing DJs move a crowd, watching bands perform live, experiencing tension and release in real time — all these things slowly build an inner understanding of what works and when.

Intuition is partly natural sensitivity, but it’s also something that grows through repetition and observation. Technical skill is useful because it allows you to express ideas more clearly, but technical skill alone does not automatically create emotionally resonant music.

In fact, sometimes the opposite happens.

One thing I often notice with younger or beginner producers is that their early music can feel surprisingly alive. There’s rawness in it. A direct emotional quality. Then, as they become more technical, that raw energy sometimes starts disappearing.

They begin over-correcting. Over-editing. Overthinking.

Instead of focusing on impact, they focus on control.

Instead of asking:
“Does this feel good?”

They begin asking:
“Is this technically perfect?”

I also notice two broad approaches among artists. Some become obsessed with details that most listeners will never consciously notice. Tiny adjustments. Endless refinements. Constant corrections. Others stay connected to the bigger emotional picture. They focus on movement, feeling, atmosphere, groove, energy, tension, and release.

Interestingly, those artists often create music that feels more alive simply because they are less afraid of imperfection. Imperfections are not always problems. Sometimes they are the reason the music feels human.

 

When the Ego Disguises Itself as Intuition

There’s another voice that often appears during the creative process. We could call it the ego.

The ego gets a bad reputation, but I don’t think it’s entirely negative. In many ways, the ego is useful. It can push us to improve. It can give us ambition. It can motivate us to finish songs, release music, perform live, and share our work publicly. Without a certain amount of ego, many artists would probably sit on hard drives full of unfinished tracks forever.

The problem is not the ego itself. The problem is that the ego often disguises itself as intuition.

It makes certain thoughts feel important even when they are simply forms of fear, insecurity, or self-consciousness.

The ego often sounds like this:

  • “This is too simple.”
  • “People won’t appreciate this.”
  • “This doesn’t sound original enough.”
  • “You should restart the track.”
  • “You need more layers.”
  • “This isn’t impressive enough.”
  • “Others are better than you.”

That is usually not intuition but doubt. That is precisely the moment when you slowly lose the plot.

Intuition feels very different. Intuition is often quiet and direct.

It says things like:

  • “This works already.”
  • “This section is enough.”
  • “The groove matters more.”
  • “Move forward.”
  • “Stop touching it.”
  • “Trust the process.”

One thing I’ve noticed is that intuition rarely tries to impress anyone. The ego constantly thinks about how the work will be perceived.

Intuition only cares about alignment.

It follows an inner logic that often makes little sense at first, but becomes obvious later.

 

What Intuition Actually Feels Like

 

This is the part where things can become a little weird. I could easily start sounding mystical here, and that’s honestly not my intention. I’m trying to describe something deeply subjective and difficult to explain with precise language.

I don’t want to sound like Yoda here, even though it is my nickname, sometimes.

In my experience, intuition manifests as an inner dialogue. I literally hear a voice in my head telling me what to do. Not in a dramatic way — just the same kind of inner conversation most people already have with themselves constantly. For some reason, though, this voice often feels slightly separate from me. As if another version of myself has already seen the outcome and is calmly guiding me toward it.

Maybe it’s subconscious processing. Maybe it’s accumulated experience. Maybe it’s pattern recognition operating beneath conscious thought.

I honestly don’t know. But what matters to me is recognizing the state that comes with it.

When I’m deeply connected to intuition, I notice several things happen simultaneously:

  • I feel emotionally stable.
  • My confidence becomes extremely solid.
  • Hesitation disappears.
  • Momentum appears naturally.
  • Decisions happen quickly.
  • I stop second-guessing myself.
  • Time feels different.

There’s also a strange sensation that what I’m doing has somehow already happened before. It’s like watching a movie a second time and already knowing what a character is about to say before they say it. That’s often how intuition feels for me in music. I somehow know what needs to happen next even though I’ve never technically done that exact thing before.

This happens especially when I perform or improvise.

When I make music, I rarely “write” arrangements in the traditional sense. I usually play them live. As soon as I begin interacting with sounds physically and emotionally, intuition tends to take over naturally. Now, this is not something I can teach someone directly.

But I do believe you can strengthen your connection to it. The more aware you become of your inner dialogue while making music, the more you build a bridge between conscious and intuitive decisions. Over time, experience feeds intuition.

Eventually, that inner voice becomes more trustworthy.

Overthinking Disconnects Us From Intuition

 

Every now and then, someone tells another person:
“Stop overthinking.”

Years ago, I realized how unhelpful that advice actually is. You might as well tell someone:
“Don’t think about an elephant.”

The next thing they will do is think about an elephant.

Overthinking is not always something you consciously choose. It often happens automatically. What matters more is recognizing the signs that you are currently trapped inside it.

For musicians, overthinking often appears as:

  • Creative paralysis
  • Endless revisions
  • Inability to commit
  • Doubting every decision
  • Constantly comparing yourself
  • Reopening finished tracks
  • Adding more instead of refining
  • Seeking validation too early

Usually, when this happens, you become fused with your doubts. You begin listening more to fear than to instinct. You become disconnected from the original emotional reason why you started making the track in the first place. I remember hearing an interview with Björk in which she said that the moment she starts thinking about what other people will think of her music, she recognizes it as a sign that she’s disconnecting from herself creatively.

That really stayed with me.

Comparison can be useful when learning technical skills or analyzing references, but comparison also pushes the brain into analytical mode. Pure creativity often requires the opposite state. This is one reason why improvisation helped me tremendously.

Here in Quebec, improvisational theatre is deeply embedded in the culture. Many people experience it at school at some point in their lives. Even if they never become performers, they still experience the mechanics of spontaneous creation.

LNI is an invention of theatre improvisation in the form of a hockey game. Invented in the 70’s, it is now practiced internationally

Improvisation teaches you how to:

  • react
  • listen
  • build tension
  • release tension
  • trust momentum
  • stay present

At some point, these behaviours become embodied rather than intellectual. You stop planning every move. Instead, you respond.

That’s where intuition starts becoming stronger because action replaces analysis. The more you stay in motion, the less room there is for overthinking.

The remedy to overthinking is to move.

 

Play Is the Antidote

 

If there’s one thing I believe strongly, it’s that play is one of the strongest antidotes to overthinking. There have been countless studies showing that play is one of the most effective ways humans learn. But beyond learning, play also keeps us connected to the present moment.

When you play, you stop constantly evaluating yourself. You explore instead.

Apparently, even Albert Einstein approached many aspects of his work playfully. That mindset allowed him to explore ideas more deeply because curiosity replaced fear. I think this applies directly to music production. One of the core elements of my teaching is helping artists rediscover a sense of play in the studio.

The moment music stops feeling playful, overthinking usually starts taking over.

When creation becomes too serious, every decision begins carrying emotional weight. Every sound becomes a judgment of your worth. Every unfinished track becomes proof of failure. That’s an exhausting way to create.

Play changes the relationship completely.

Play allows experimentation.

Play allows mistakes.

Play creates discovery.

And discovery is often where intuition becomes strongest.

How I Teach Intuition

 

Like I said earlier, intuition is difficult to teach directly. I’m not Yoda teaching someone how to use the Force. But I do believe there are practices that strengthen intuition over time. And most of them are surprisingly simple.

Intuition grows through:

  • repetition
  • exploration
  • exposure
  • experience
  • trust
  • showing up consistently

Working with references trains recognition. Finishing songs develops confidence. Limitations sharpen decision-making. Repetition creates sensitivity. Mockups reduce ego attachment. Improvisation bypasses over-analysis.

Performance develops responsiveness.

The more you work this way, the more you start recognizing patterns emotionally instead of only intellectually. One thing I also often encourage is playing music rather than purely programming it visually in the arranger. The moment you physically interact with music in real time, intuition tends to emerge naturally because you enter a more embodied state.

These are things we often discuss during retreats and coaching sessions, but they can also emerge naturally as artists adjust their workflows to prioritize exploration and movement over perfection.

Conclusion

One thing I’ve learned over the years is that these inner voices never really disappear. You don’t necessarily need years of psychology studies or therapy to understand exactly where they come from. What matters more is learning how to recognize them and build a healthier relationship with them.

The ego is not always bad.

Sometimes it’s the thing that pushes you to finish a track. Sometimes it’s the force that gives you the courage to send music to a label or perform in front of people. It becomes a problem only when it completely takes over the creative process.

Intuition, on the other hand, often speaks much more quietly.

It usually asks for simplicity. Presence. Trust. Movement. Curiosity.

The more attention you give to that quieter voice, the easier it becomes to recognize it when it appears. And sometimes, the hardest part of making music is not finding ideas. It’s trusting the voice that already knows where the music wants to go.

Your First Ideas Often Feel More Alive

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There’s something strange that happens when we start getting better at music production.

At first, our ideas often feel alive, surprising, and personal. They might not be perfectly mixed or technically refined, but they contain a certain energy that feels difficult to recreate later. Then, as we improve technically, our music sometimes becomes cleaner, more controlled, and more polished—but also more predictable.

Over the last month, I’ve been struck by an unusually high level of creative output, the complete opposite of how I ended the previous year. One thing became obvious very quickly: once I started making songs consistently, it became easier to make more. The more music I made, the more I practised certain skills, and the more those skills unlocked new ideas.

That momentum changed the way I approached creativity.

Instead of sitting on ideas and letting them float around unfinished for weeks, I started quickly turning almost every interesting idea into a temporary song skeleton. Not a finished song. Not even necessarily a “good” song. Just a rough structure that could preserve the original intention before it disappeared.

 

If you’re familiar with my workflow philosophy, you know I often separate music production into different stages: R&D, hooks, mockups, arrangement, and finalization. This new approach sits somewhere between the hook stage and the mockup stage. The goal is simple: when an idea appears, turn it into something tangible before your analytical brain starts rewriting it.

Because that’s the real problem.

When we leave an idea untouched for too long, we disconnect from the emotional state that created it.

Later, when we come back to it, we often reinterpret it through a different mood, different references, different technical habits, or a different level of energy. Sometimes that works out for the better, but many times the original spark gets lost somewhere in the process.

I realized this while working on two albums in parallel and rotating between roughly twenty songs. Every time I returned to certain tracks, I noticed myself removing elements that had initially worked very well. I wasn’t improving the song—I was unconsciously normalizing it.

This might explain why some bands lock themselves in a studio for a week or two while recording an album. They want to remain immersed in a specific emotional and creative context long enough to preserve the work’s identity.

The more disconnected we become from the original moment that generated an idea, the easier it becomes to reshape it into something more generic.

 

The Hidden Trap of Getting “Better”

 

Another thing I noticed while working on multiple projects simultaneously was that I sometimes started homogenizing tracks together. Instead of each song developing its own personality, they slowly drifted toward a shared middle ground.

I recently heard someone mention that many artists they loved had incredibly raw and original first releases, but after a few albums, they started sounding increasingly similar to everyone else.

I think there’s truth to that.

As producers improve technically, they often move closer to a shared language of production. They learn the same mixing techniques, the same arrangement structures, the same sound design trends, the same plugins, the same references, and eventually the same aesthetic expectations.

At some point, skill can unintentionally standardize creativity.

There’s also a social component to this.

People naturally want to belong to communities. Producers want their music to fit within the context of the scenes they admire. Over time, many artists unconsciously move toward what feels acceptable or recognizable inside their genre. The result is that music can become overly refined and lose some of its unpredictability.

This is why preserving the first emotional direction of an idea matters so much.

A rough idea still contains instinct. Once we over-edit it, we often replace instinct with justification.

What if your imperfection is what pleases the listener?

 

Here is a list of tips I compiled that have been very useful in the last few months.

Start Simple

 

One of the most important things I’ve learned recently is that simple ideas are often much more powerful than complex ones.

This sounds obvious, but many producers struggle with it.

Many beginners—and even experienced musicians—feel drawn to complexity because it can appear technically impressive. There’s often a subconscious belief that if something sounds intricate or difficult to reproduce, it must automatically be better.

But when you look at many forms of electronic music, especially minimal techno, house, ambient, and dub-oriented styles, some of the strongest tracks are built on incredibly simple foundations.

A hook can be one note. What makes that note memorable is not the pitch itself but the way it is distributed over time. Rhythm creates identity.

The placement of events creates movement. This is something I find fascinating about music in general: nothing exists in isolation.

If you hear a single kick drum by itself, you don’t know the tempo. You don’t know the groove. You don’t know the time signature. It’s only once a second event occurs that the brain starts to understand context.

Music is relational.

The same applies to sound design. A sound played alone doesn’t fully reveal what it is. The way it evolves, changes, responds, contrasts, and interacts with other sounds over time is what gives it meaning.

This is why static sound design often feels lifeless. A sound that evolves over time feels alive because the listener perceives transformation.

Starting with a simple musical foundation gives you room to create those transformations later.

You can always complexify a simple idea afterward by adding layers, movement, modulation, or contrast. But if the song’s core is unclear from the outset, adding more elements usually creates confusion rather than depth.

Preserve Ideas in MIDI First

 

One workflow decision that has helped me tremendously is keeping early ideas in MIDI form for as long as possible.

If you have a sequence made of one, two, or three notes, you suddenly gain incredible flexibility.

You can:

  • test different synth presets,
  • swap instruments,
  • experiment with samplers,
  • create call-and-response variations,
  • duplicate the rhythm into new textures,
  • generate alternative emotional directions.

The rhythm and movement remain intact while the sonic identity evolves.

This allows you to explore multiple versions of an idea very quickly without destroying its original structure. Many producers get stuck because they commit emotionally to the first sound they design, rather than to the musical behaviour beneath it.

Often, the rhythm is the real hook.

The sound source is simply one interpretation.

Use Time Instead of More Layers

 

One major shift in my creative workflow for producers has been focusing less on adding layers and more on introducing movement over time.

This is where Ableton’s comping feature completely changed my perspective. I ignored comping for years, but recently I realized it’s almost a superpower in sound-design-oriented workflows.

 

The process is simple.

Take a basic sound or simple MIDI sequence. Then record yourself manipulating parameters for several minutes:

  • filter movement,
  • resonance,
  • envelope changes,
  • delays,
  • modulation depth,
  • distortion,
  • stereo width,
  • texture changes.

Afterward, use comping to select the best moments. Instead of designing one perfect sound, you design a living stream of variations.

The interesting thing is that when the original idea is simple, almost all of the variations still work together. This creates continuity. It also creates the sensation that the sound is evolving naturally rather than being artificially replaced.

This is where MIDI controllers become incredibly important.

One of the major differences between beginners and experienced producers is that experienced producers often think in terms of gestures and movement. Veterans don’t just automate because it looks professional. They automate because movement creates life.

Even very subtle physical interventions can dramatically affect how a track feels emotionally.

My recent addition of the Melbourne Instruments Roto-Control MIDI controller, which is permanently sitting on my desk, has been extremely productive for this exact reason. Because it’s always available, I constantly touch parameters while working.

Small changes become part of the composition itself.

Even tiny modulation movements can make a sound feel more human and less frozen in time.

Electronic music producer shaping evolving sound design and creative workflow inside a music production studio | Audioservices.studio

Pheek and the Roto-Control

Arrangement Is Often About Removal

 

One thing I constantly notice with inexperienced producers is that they tend to leave loops running continuously for the entire song.

The result is often a track that feels static, even when the sounds themselves are interesting.

One of the simplest yet most effective techniques is to stretch a loop across the entire arrangement first, then start removing pieces.

  • Remove the hi-hats.
  • Mute the bass.
  • Create pauses.
  • Insert silence.

Suddenly, the arrangement starts breathing. Rests and pauses create space for the listener to perceive contrast. Contrast is one of the most important principles in music.

A sound only feels loud because something quieter existed before it.

A stereo effect only feels wide because something narrower preceded it.

A drop only feels impactful because tension existed beforehand.

Too often producers keep adding layers because they feel something is missing, while in reality the track simply needs subtraction. Many great arrangements are not about adding more information.

They’re about controlling attention.

Consolidate and Move Forward

 

Another major issue in modern music production is the obsession with keeping every possibility open forever.

We leave plugins active.

We keep alternative processing chains.

We stack options in case we want to revisit them later.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;blockquote&amp;amp;gt;&lt;/p&gt;</p>

<p>&amp;lt;p&gt;The problem is that unlimited flexi

bility often creat

es creative paralysis.</p>

<s

trong>Once you’ve reached an interesting point with a sound, consolidate it.

Print it. Commit.

Move forward.

When you consolidate audio, something psychologically important happens. The sound stops being an infinite possibility and becomes a material object you can shape.

Instead of endlessly tweaking synth parameters, you begin editing the waveform itself:

  • fades,
  • cuts,
  • reverses,
  • timing shifts,
  • repetition,
  • stretching.

These simpler interventions are often more musical than endless technical refinement.

It also reduces distraction. The fewer open possibilities you have, the easier it becomes to focus on arrangement and direction.

Record Yourself Working in Real Time

 

One practice that has brought me a surprising amount of joy recently is recording myself actively working on a track while the song plays. Instead of searching for perfection through static editing, I simply hit record and interact with the song in real time.

  • I tweak EQs.
  • I automate filters.
  • I change amplitudes.
  • I move delays.
  • I sculpt transitions live.

This introduces small imperfections and gestures that are difficult to recreate manually afterward.

More importantly, it creates continuous morphing.

The sound feels alive because it is constantly evolving.

This type of movement naturally creates ear candy.

Not because the sound itself is necessarily extraordinary, but because the listener perceives transformation over time.

Music is not static.

It’s the organization of change.

Relative Design

 

One concept I try to teach more advanced producers is what I call relative design.

Relative design is the understanding that sounds are perceived in relation to one another.

For example:

  • mono versus stereo,
  • quiet versus loud,
  • dry versus wet,
  • filtered versus bright,
  • dense versus empty.

A common mistake in music production is applying an effect and leaving it active for the entire duration of the song. If something is wide from the very beginning and remains wide forever, the listener eventually normalizes that width.

The brain compresses perception.

But if a sound begins narrow and suddenly expands into stereo space, the listener perceives the transition itself. The effect becomes emotional because the ear experienced contrast. The same thing happens with dynamics.

Punch exists because silence or low amplitude existed beforehand.

Movement feels dramatic because stillness existed first. This means that when designing sounds, arrangements, or transitions, it’s often more effective to think in stages.

Instead of asking:

“How do I make this sound impressive?”

Ask:

“What does this sound evolve from?”

A sound rarely becomes powerful because of what it is alone. It becomes powerful because of what it becomes relative to.

There Are No Bad Ideas, Only Unsupported Ones

 

One story that stayed with me for years comes from Herbie Hancock,”jazz pianist”, talking about performing with “Miles Davis”:

During a live performance, Hancock thought he had played the wrong note. Instead of reacting negatively, Miles Davis responded to the note musically, transforming it into something that suddenly made sense in context.

That story perfectly represents how I think about creativity now. An idea is rarely bad on its own. What matters is the environment around it. I often watch videos of events where a DJ plays music that doesn’t make sense to me but aligns with everyone present.

This applies directly to sound design and arrangement. Sometimes a sound feels strange or awkward in isolation, but once you place it beside supporting elements, the entire idea suddenly becomes coherent.

Context creates meaning.

This is also why I stopped obsessing over whether presets are “acceptable” or not. After reading interviews from artists I admire—such as Four Tet, talking openly about using presets, I realized something important:

Most listeners don’t care where the sound came from.</p&gt;&lt;/blockquote&amp;gt;

What matte

<p>rs is how you arrange it. How you sequence it. How you evolve it. How you contextualize it. A preset placed inside an emotionally compelling arrangement becomes your sound.</p>

<p>So when an interesting</em> idea appears, don’t waste energy questioning whether it’s valid. Build something with it. Turn it into a miniature song.

Explore where it wants to go.

Move Toward Flow Instead of Fighting Friction

 

One of the biggest sources of frustration in music production comes from trying to force sounds into becoming something they are not. When we imagine a song, we often project an idealized version of it far beyond our current technical capabilities.

This is normal. Imagination moves faster than skill.

But the danger is that the ego starts fighting reality. We tell ourselves the track needs to become “better,” even though the word itself is incredibly vague.

A song cannot objectively become better.

It can become:

  • clearer,
  • punchier,
  • softer,
  • stranger,
  • more energetic,
  • more emotional,
  • more dynamic.

But none of those qualities automatically make it universally superior. Some listeners will love static music. Others will prefer hyperactive arrangements. Some people love rawness. Others prefer precision.

You cannot satisfy everyone.

The only thing you can really control is:

  • your current skill set,
  • your current taste,
  • your current emotional direction,
  • and your willingness to work with what naturally flows.

Sometimes the fastest path forward is simply accepting what the sound already wants to become. The moment we stop fighting friction and start collaborating with the material in front of us, creativity becomes much lighter.

And ironically, that’s often when music starts sounding more alive again.

Final Thoughts

 

I think one reason first ideas often feel more alive is that they haven’t yet been over-explained. They still contain instinct. They still contain uncertainty. They still contain emotional momentum.&lt;/p>

As producers, we often believe our role is to perfect ideas. But increasingly, I think our real role is to preserve an idea’s original energy long enough for it to fully emerge. Not every idea needs to become a masterpiece. Not every sound needs to be revolutionary.

Sometimes creativity is simply about recognizing that something small contains potential and moving quickly enough to protect that fragile initial spark before analysis slowly dissolves it. The more I work this way, the more I realize that music production is less about controlling sound and more about shaping movement.

You’re not just designing sounds. You’re designing evolution through time.

And sometimes the rough sketch contains more truth than the polished final version ever could.