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There’s a version of a music career that looks clean on paper: graduate, intern, get credits, win awards. And then there’s the version shared in the room: careers built over time, through repetition, relationships, and being available when opportunity shows up.
According to Jim Scott and Paul Broucek, that path often begins in places most people don’t expect.
If you’re a film student, you know that a character isn’t “real” until they put on their costume. Whether it’s the rugged leather of a post-apocalyptic survivor or the suffocating silk of a Victorian aristocrat, clothing is a silent screenplay. In cinema, the costume designer is the architect of the subtext. While the actors speak the dialogue, the fabric speaks to the character’s social standing, psychological state, and their future.
If you’re a film, media, or music student, you know that the “industry” can sometimes feel like this untouchable, distant thing. But every year, the NAB Show in Las Vegas rips that curtain wide open. It’s not just a convention; it’s basically a massive, high-tech playground where the future of how we tell stories is being built in real-time.
Walking through NAB 2026 felt like stepping onto a global stage. From AI-powered workflows to the kind of virtual production setups that make your jaw drop, the energy was unreal. Here’s what it was like on the ground.
If you’re a creative, your work depends on your attention, curiosity, and sensitivity. But modern creative life comes with deadlines, feedback, and constant distractions, meaning you can easily exhaust what you rely on most. When your creativity is drained, pushing through doesn’t make it stronger, it just wears it down further.
The real truth? Your creativity isn’t a faucet you can turn on harder. It’s a battery. And recharging is part of the creative process.
So, where do you start? Try these ideas to help reset your focus and reconnect with your creative energy.
What do recent streaming hits such as Earnhardt (Amazon Prime), John Candy: I Like Me (Amazon Prime), McCartney 3-2-1 (Hulu), Queen of Chess (Netflix), SHAQ (HBO MAX), and The Menendez Brothers (Netflix) all have in common?
None other than our talented Class of 2004 film program alum and senior colorist Taylor Black, who brought his artistic skills to each of those projects and many others, helping to bring to life the literal vision of directors like Colin Hanks (John Candy: I Like Me) in post-production, setting the visual tone for what we would all eventually see on our screens across the biggest streaming platforms.
Before streaming algorithms dictated our media diets, the music video was the ultimate creative sandbox. In the 90s and early 2000s, record labels handed young, hungry directors massive budgets and a simple mandate: visually interpret complex audio mixes, aggressive tempos, and raw performances in under five minutes.
This era became an unregulated, highly-funded film school. Mastering the rhythm of a song – learning exactly when to cut on a snare hit or how to visualize heavy, distorted guitar riffs – forged the defining cinematic styles of the next three decades. By syncing visuals to different musical genres, these directors essentially rewrote the rules of modern filmmaking.
Before a single note is recorded or a fader is touched, there is a concept.
In the world of professional sound, we often focus on the “how” – the software, the microphones, and the signal chains. But before the “how” comes the “why.” If you are standing at the threshold of a career in sound, you aren’t just choosing a job title; you are choosing how you interact with the world’s most invisible and powerful medium.
To find your place, it helps to look at the distinction through a different lens: The Architect versus the Builder.
In the lexicon of the internet, “NPC” has become an insult – a way to describe someone as boring, repetitive, or lacking a soul. But for those of us who grew up with a controller in hand, we know the truth. NPCs aren’t just background decoration; they are the heartbeat of the virtual world. Without them, our heroics would be performed in a vacuum. Without them, we are kings of empty castles.
This is a history of, and a thank you to, the entities that taught us how to play.