As legacy tastemakers lose their grip, social media-based curators like Saint Lukez and Somewhere Soul are building trust, shaping tastes, and creating spaces of deeper musical connection for the online generation.

Date published: 16th Apr 2025

You’re two scrolls deep into a late-night reel session when it hits you: a dusty disco edit you’ve never heard before, spinning on a Technics 1210, introduced by a fella who looks like he just rolled out of a record store basement (probably because he did). 

A few scrolls down, it’s some Semba from Angola - soulful, swaying, and completely out of nowhere - served up by a softly spoken curator with a global ear. They make you stop. No loud graphics. No shouty monologue begging for your attention. Just music - curated, contextualised, and shared by someone who clearly gives a toss.

From what I see on my feed, this is the modern music discovery that’s resonating. Not brand playlists or label-curated drops. But actual people - with faces, opinions, and suspiciously good record collections - showing you the sounds they care about. 

They are people like Saint Lukez, digging through crates to spotlight rare house gems. Or Somewhere Soul, introducing millions to the Turkish Psych, Brazilian Folk, and Underground British Jazz that permeates his record collection.

These aren’t brand strategies or SEO-optimised tracklists. They’re moments of genuine tastemaking from individuals who’ve put the hours in, and in a feed full of noise, taste is what makes you pause. Not because it’s trendy or they’ve been paid to ‘influence’ you, but because it feels intentional - human.

 

 

Josh, the man behind Somewhere Soul, didn’t set out to become a tastemaker. “There was never a huge vision. To be completely transparent, I started it just to keep myself sane. It was a passion project on the side of my nine-to-five that I could pour myself into and be passionate about.” 

What began as a humble blog, sharing recommendations for curious friends, slowly evolved. “I didn’t have any grand vision, like 'it needs to reach this size' or 'it needs to do this.' I just knew that if I kept showing up, being consistent, and building trust with an audience, then gradually, the more you put out there, you just grow organically over time.”

Yet, it wasn’t a grand idea that sparked growth - just a quiet shift in approach. A TikTok post that found its way to Instagram. No big caption. No branding. Just Josh, bobbing his head to a track he loved. “Someone moving to the music – that holds people’s attention so much more.”

After almost a decade of pristine presets and algorithm-friendly filler, a bloke vibing in front of his records ended up being more compelling than half the major label output. Turns out authenticity is hard to fake - and even harder to scroll past.

 

 

Saint Lukez took a different road, but the destination wasn’t so far off. He grew up playing instruments, studied music production, took up DJing, and turned to vinyl in search of something deeper. “I really loved it. I loved playing house,” he says. But it was a passing comment from another DJ that nudged him online: post the music you love. 

He did just that, and his series, Rare House Gems, cut through. But it didn’t blow up because of timing or trends - it was taste. Luke wasn’t chasing clicks. He was posting nuggets of house history, forgotten classics from his collection, and building trust by keeping it personal. “When I started, it was to cause a bit of chaos, be known as a DJ, but also get kids my age into this kind of music… I just love sharing music. That’s why I do it.”

He’s also the first to admit he’s still learning. “Some people see me as this guy with incredible knowledge, but I’ve got mates who know way more. I’ll show them a track and they’ll go, ‘How do you not know that?’” At Love Vinyl, where he works once a week, the owners regularly nudge him to dig further, broaden out, and read up. “I’m learning just as much as the people watching.”

It’s that blend of honesty, humour, and obsession that cuts through. Old heads might still leave comments like “You weren’t even born when this came out,” but they also come into the shop and tell him they love what he’s doing.

 

 

Whilst you may be thinking, aren't they the same as influencers? While they might rack up views like one, they definitely don’t act like them.  

Luke and Josh aren’t marketing music - they’re championing it. 

Not because anyone asked them to, but because they care enough to do it anyway. As Luke puts it, “I don’t make any money from this apart from gigs. I’m doing it for the love.”

That’s the distinction, and the result feels less like a pitch and more like a friend flipping through records in your living room. It’s still content, sure, but it doesn’t come with a catch.

 

“I don’t make any money from this apart from gigs. I’m doing it for the love.”

 

Such curation isn’t working because people want less content, but because they want less stuff to sift through. In a sea of endless new releases and infinite scrolls, taste becomes trust.

That trust doesn’t come from trying to trick the algorithm with a clever caption or a well-timed upload. It comes from consistency. From having a voice. From curators who aren't just pointing at the hottest track but sharing their relationship with music itself. 

“I think people tune in because it feels like a personal experience,” says Luke. “I’m sharing a bit about myself, but it’s still all about the music. Brands aren’t necessarily all about the music - they’re about the money too.”

Josh agrees. “Algorithms hone your taste but don’t expand it. They’re not going to say, 'You haven’t listened to any Semba music from Angola,' they’ll just give you more of what you already like.”

So people turn to people. People with broad taste, open ears, and a willingness to put in the time to find something worth listening to. Josh describes Somewhere Soul as a "real-time digital record of [his] constantly growing and evolving taste in music." There’s no hidden agenda, no secret sauce. “If I love something, I want to share it.”

And it’s working. Both curators speak of inboxes full of ID requests, comments from 17-year-olds and 70-year-olds alike, and an increasingly global community that transcends genre and geography. “Being online lets you find those two or three people in every area. It starts to feel like a community,” says Luke.

The connection goes beyond camera and screen too. Josh regularly hears from labels about sales spikes after a Somewhere Soul video. “I’ve spoken to labels after I’ve posted something, and they’ve told me how many physical sales it led to. I think it's just a much more natural customer journey than, say, listening on the radio.”

 

 

That kind of immediate impact puts legacy platforms into perspective. Radio might still carry weight in certain corners, but for most young listeners, it no longer breaks records - it just plays them.

“I’ve polled my audience: out of thousands of responses, only about 1% said they discover music through radio,” Josh says. Luke doesn’t mince words, either. “I don’t really engage with radio, to be honest… For our generation, it doesn’t really hold that power.”

The same goes for print. Music magazines once delivered taste in tangible form - something to underline, cut out, and pass on. But for a generation raised on infinite scroll, that slowness doesn’t always stick. 

The numbers back it up, too. According to Ofcom’s 2024 report on news consumption, only 10% of 16-24-year-olds still read traditional newspapers - and even their online output is barely holding their attention. Social media, meanwhile, dominates - with 82% using it as their primary news source. That shift isn’t just about convenience. It’s about where trust lives now. 

 

"I just think, jump through a few hoops if it helps the music reach more people.”

 

Music discovery hasn’t become less important - it’s just found a new home for younger generations. A home with comments, camera angles, and two-way communication. A home where artists are human and DJs are accessible.

But adapting to this landscape isn’t as easy as hitting upload. What works online is always shifting, and curators like Josh and Luke have had to evolve with it - even when that evolution felt unnatural. “Before my first video that blew up, I wasn’t speaking in any of them,” Luke says. “I had this one where I did talk, and I sat on it for weeks. I sounded like I didn’t want to be there. I sent it to my best mate, Aaron, and he was like, ‘Yeah, this is wicked.’ I showed it to a few other DJs, and they weren’t so sure. But I just said, ‘F**k it,’ and posted it.”

It didn’t explode overnight, but a month later, it had over 300,000 views. “Loads of hate comments and everything. I love it. I think it’s brilliant.” That blend of second-guessing, feedback, and instinct is what adaptation actually looks like. There’s no formula. Just trial, error, and knowing when to trust your gut.

Josh puts puts refusing to adapt to the changing social media landscape excellently. “It’s like getting off a plane in a new country and complaining it’s hot. You need to change your clothes.”

“A lot of people get stuck in their ways and complain their stuff isn't working anymore, when really, Instagram has changed from what it was five years ago.”

“It’s a different place now… I just think, jump through a few hoops if it helps the music reach more people.”

Yet, while curators like Josh and Luke have adapted to that climate - posting, tweaking, evolving - the artists they’re championing often haven’t. Not because the music isn’t good, but because the system doesn’t favour the ones making it.

 

 

It’s a strange irony of the current landscape: it’s often easier to grow an audience by sharing someone else’s music than by pushing your own. Spend a year crafting a record, and it might sink without a trace. Film yourself pulling it out of a crate, and it might hit half a million views by the weekend.

That irony isn’t lost on Somewhere Soul. “If you’re an artist, you spend a year making an album - 12 tracks. That’s all you’ve got to work with,” he says. “Meanwhile, I’ve got the entire world’s music to pull from.”

But that reach, that imbalance -  it doesn’t make him complacent. It makes him more committed. “Often, the best artists aren’t good at social media. They don’t enjoy it, they don’t understand it, and it doesn’t come naturally to them.” That’s where he sees himself: not as a gatekeeper, but as a bridge. “That’s why I do this - to fight their corner. I wish it was easier for them to cut through.”

And maybe it’s starting to be. As more curators step forward with clear voices and wide-reaching platforms, the ecosystem might just be shifting in their favour. Not every artist is a marketer. Not every track needs a PR budget. Sometimes, all it takes is someone with the right ears and the right audience saying, this is worth your time - and being right often enough that you start to believe them.

 

“It’s a beautiful thing to find a tastemaker who aligns with your taste.” 

 

So the next time a reel stops you mid-scroll - whether it’s someone spinning a dusty house record, putting you onto a niche fashion label, or waxing lyrical about some obscure Polish cinema - remember what’s really going on. It’s not the algorithm that found it. It’s the person behind the crate, the one who gave a toss.

Because when everything is infinite, we don’t need less music - we need better filters. As Somewhere Soul put it, “It’s a beautiful thing to find a tastemaker who aligns with your taste.” That’s what these curators are doing. They’re not chasing tastes and trends - they’re defining them. And that quiet confidence? That’s what earns your trust. 

 

 

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Want to check out more of both Somewhere Soul and Saint Lukez? Find their pages on both Instagram and TikTok listed below:

Somewhere Soul - Instagram/TikTok

Saint Lukez - Instagram/Tiktok

 

Or, want to read more editorial pieces from Skiddle? Well then, head over to our blog and find all that alongside interviews, news, and a whole load more - HERE

 

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