I don’t trust the algorithm.
Not really.
But I’ll admit this much: it’s doing a better job of feeding me music I love than most of the avenues real life offers right now. Everyone is in their own bubble these days—tuned into their curated feeds, their scene, their streaming loops—and it takes a lot for something to break through that noise. Most things don’t. But every once in a while, something does.
For me, Mon Rovîa was one of those moments.
Mon Rovîa and “Heavy Foot”
Born in Monrovia, Liberia and raised across the U.S., Mon Rovîa carries both displacement and healing in his voice. His sound—something between Appalachian folk, Americana, and a kind of spiritual protest music—is unlike anything else on my playlists.
The song that hit me hardest first was “Heavy Foot.” It’s a protest anthem that feels timeless and present all at once, a cry against the weight of systems that try to keep people down, and a reminder that solidarity is stronger than oppression. It’s one of those rare songs that makes you feel like it isn’t just music—it’s a message.
And it worked. It cut through.
From “Heavy Foot” to Father of Peace
What makes Mon Rovîa even more compelling is how his music unfolds like chapters in a story. His saga has moved through The Wandering, Trials, and The Dying of Self. Now we’re in Act 4: Atonement, where Father of Peace carries the weight of both culmination and new beginning.
It isn’t just another track—it feels like an answer to “Heavy Foot,” a kind of spiritual reflection after the cry of protest. Where one is defiance, the other is reconciliation.
That pairing—rage and healing, weight and release—gives Mon Rovîa’s work a gravity that stays with you long after the music stops.
Slowmosa, and the Joy of Happenstance
Mon Rovîa isn’t the only act that’s managed to slip through the cracks in my bubble. Slowmosa was another—this time not through the algorithm, but through word-of-mouth. I read about them on a site I follow, which covered a show where the crowd’s reaction was so big, so undeniable, that I had to hear them for myself.
And when I did? They lived up to it. That sound—whatever it is—reminded me that sometimes the best reason to check out a band is the simplest one: they made a huge group of people feel alive together. That’s reason enough.
Why It Resonates with Me
I see a lot of myself in Mon Rovîa’s work. His storytelling follows a natural progression—wandering, trials, dying of self, atonement—and that mirrors my own path as a writer. I’ve moved from fiction and experimentation into more personal work, especially memoir.
Like his music, my writing often drifts toward political territory. The Lying Years brushes against politics in ways that some people will find uncomfortable. I don’t think of it as political—it’s just the truth of what I see and what I’ve lived. Some readers will turn away from that. That’s okay.
Because the truth is, I’d rather be called naïve for still hoping to change the world than praised for being cold, unfeeling, or “realistic.” I’d rather write forward-looking words, even if they stumble, than shrink into silence.
The Accidental Map of Music
I’ve always had this habit of finding music through side doors and offshoots—following the smaller trails branching off from bigger names, stumbling into projects that never got much mainstream attention but hold their own importance.
These aren’t just random discoveries. They’ve formed an accidental map of my listening life—one not ruled by charts or hype cycles, but by chance, curiosity, and the occasional nudge from an algorithm I claim not to trust.
And maybe that’s the point. Whether it’s a protest anthem like “Heavy Foot,” a healing hymn like Father of Peace, or a band like Slowmosa lighting up a live crowd, what matters is that something breaks through. Something connects. Something sticks.
Because in a world where everyone is living in their own bubble, the things that actually cut across those invisible walls aren’t just good music—they’re proof that it’s still possible to be surprised.
Breaking Into the Bubble
Everyone is looking for a way to break into someone else’s bubble. Mon Rovîa broke into mine, and I hope someday my own work might catch hold in someone else’s. I don’t know how that’s going to happen. I only have so much bandwidth.
I love Facebook—it’s familiar, conversational—but I’ve never been able to really get into Instagram or TikTok. I want to, because I see the potential there. But the problem is the algorithm. Sometimes it gives me gold. Other times, it drags me into the worst parts of myself. If I hate-watch something, suddenly I get more of it. And that’s not really me—it’s just what I happened to linger on.
I wish I had more control. I don’t want to be inundated with anti-Christian propaganda just because I clicked. I’m interested in faith, in what life means, in the lessons of Jesus as a teacher. I’m also skeptical of the resurrection and of the way the Bible was written. I don’t want to shut those questions down, but I don’t want to dwell on them all the time either.
The same goes for lighter stuff. One time I watched a video from a woman who mixes depressive humor with this strange baby-voiced delivery. She’s gorgeous, she’s funny, and she has every right to play with that combination. The problem isn’t her—it’s the way people project their desire onto her. That’s on them. But because I watched a few clips, TikTok decided to flood me with more. And too much of anything—even something funny—becomes exhausting.
What I want is balance. A feed that shows me surprises like Mon Rovîa, bands like Slowmosa, and the occasional offshoot discovery that reminds me the world is bigger than my bubble. Not endless repetition of what I happened to click on once. Not the lowest-common-denominator bait.
Maybe that’s the irony: the algorithm breaks into my bubble, but only on its terms. I want it to be on mine. Until then, I’ll keep hoping for those rare breakthroughs—the moments when the noise falls away, and something real, something that matters, makes it through.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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