Avery Chauhan

What you see of me online is nothing but smoke and mirrors. It feels about time I shared the true story of how I went from a small town in India to building an 8-figure record label: My early life was spent in Goraya, India. Growing up in a loving household with my parents and sister, my early years were shaped by the values of hard work, education, and spirituality. My mother, a dedicated educator, owned a school where I attended kindergarten and elementary school. My father ran a pharmacy and later ventured into other businesses, instilling a mindset of entrepreneurship and resilience within me. When I was 11, my family embarked on a life-changing journey to Italy seeking better opportunities. The transition was far from easy, with language barriers and cultural differences. We moved from city to city making it difficult for me to maintain friendships. To make matters harder, my parents’ degrees from India weren’t recognised in Italy, which brought financial challenges to our household. In those years I found solace and passion in creativity. At fourteen, I helped my parents at their grocery shop and internet café, immersing myself in the digital world. This led to a love for video games, where I met a fellow Indian gamer online who was also a musician and artist. I brought his music to life through graphic design and video editing. Little did I know, this is where everything would change for me. Taking a leap of faith, I started uploading his music—along with other artists’ songs—to a YouTube channel. Within a year, the channel grew to 800 subscribers. By the second year, it reached 100,000. I had a thirst for more. By 19, this venture led to me earning my first million dollars. A long way from where my journey began. With some poor investment advice, this quickly led to significant financial losses, and my parents began to doubt whether my chosen path was sustainable. Come to think of it, so did I. Sticking with it, the streams turned from millions to billions. My playlists had more followers on Spotify than Eminem. I had a successful record label showcasing a number of artists and just shy of 4 million YouTube subscribers. I was living in a dream world. Admittedly, new challenges presented themselves, and not just learning how to handle the scale of the operation. I was thrusted into a life of abundance beyond my own expectations, figuring out who I was and what I valued along the way. Something that continues to evolve today. From living in a house on the water in Stockholm, receiving 8-figure offers for my business, and throwing mid-six figure events, my story is being carved in real time. I’m grateful for all the people I’ve had the pleasure of sharing it with. Now I get to share it with you too.

165,000 millionaires are projected to change countries in 2026. Most people have no idea it's happening — and even fewer know where they're actually going. A few things that surprised me when putting this together: • Over 38,800 millionaires now call Miami home. Bezos and Zuckerberg are currently buying mansions on the same island. • Monaco is where you go once you've already won. Not where you go to win. • Cyprus (the one nobody is talking about) just passed the most aggressive wealth attraction reform in Europe. Full breakdown is in the thread below ↓

Thanks for reading. I built an 8-figure music label from scratch and host ultra-luxury events including F1 Superyacht weekends. Follow me, @averyx99 for more.

The ultra wealthy don't make emotional decisions about where they live. They make calculated ones. The cities on this list aren't winning by accident. They're winning because they understood something the others didn't: The most powerful people in the world will always move to where they are valued most.

You think the ultra wealthy live in New York. London. Paris. Some do. But the ones making the biggest moves right now? They've already left. Here's the top 6 places they're going: 𝟲) 𝗖𝘆𝗽𝗿𝘂𝘀

@orangedude123 exactly

@averyx99 Constraint compounds value faster than capacity ever could.

The day I realized constraint was worth more than growth, I stopped trying to be everything to everyone. I learned this lesson watching F.P. Journe make fewer than 1,000 watches per year by choice. Aman Hotels reject hundreds of locations. Ferrari cap production at around 13,000 cars annually—not because they can't build more, but because Enzo Ferrari's founding principle was to always sell one fewer car than the market demands. Most people think these companies are leaving money on the table. They're wrong. When F.P. Journe caps production at less than 1,000 watches annually, every additional watch they don't make increases the value of every watch they do make. The constraint isn't holding them back. It's holding the value together. I've applied this principle directly to running luxury experiences. The venues are there, the demand is there, the people are asking, yet I deliberately limit how many events we host each year. The moment we run too many, the person sitting on the superyacht in Abu Dhabi stops feeling like they've accessed something rare—and starts feeling like they've just bought a ticket. Aman Hotels operates the exact same playbook. They don't reject 95% of potential locations because they're picky about real estate. They reject them because adding the wrong property would dilute the experience standard that justifies their $2,000+ nightly rates. When Aman opens in a new market, guests know they've been granted access to something genuinely exclusive, not just expensive. The moment you scale past the constraint ceiling, you lose the thing that created the premium in the first place. Three principles I've learned from studying companies that figured out their optimal constraint: 𝟭. 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘃𝗮𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆. Every additional unit you don't make increases the value of the units you do make. 𝟮. 𝗥𝗲𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗮𝗹𝘀 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗲. Aman's site rejections do more brand building than their marketing budget. 𝟯. 𝗕𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗶𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗲𝗻𝘁, 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘂𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗿𝘆. You can always make more money later. You can't rebuild exclusivity once you've scaled past the ceiling. The companies worth studying aren't the ones that scaled the fastest, they're the ones that figured out their optimal constraint and never broke it. Most businesses treat scale as the goal and constraint as the problem. I've learned to invert that relationship: Treat constraint as the strategy and scale as the risk to manage.

@TalkinIdeas exactly

@averyx99 Every generation of tools faces the same gatekeeping. The real question is whether AI expands who gets to express an idea, or just optimizes for what already works.

Is AI killing taste in music? It's the question every musician is asking right now. And most of them are getting the answer wrong. I was 14 years old when I started uploading tracks to YouTube, part of the bedroom producer generation that "ruined" music according to gatekeepers and purists. Now, I'm watching identical panic unfold with AI. If we look at history, here's what actually happens when the barrier to create music drops: 𝗪𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 - 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗼 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀 In the 1950s, maybe 1% of people who wanted to make music actually could. You needed conservatory education, label backing, or generational wealth just to get in the room. 𝗪𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝘄𝗼 - 𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗗𝗔𝗪𝘀 (𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗼𝗳𝘁𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗲) By the early 2000s, suddenly the doors opened to amateur producers with nothing but a personal computer. Bedroom producers started making $30k/month from their parents houses while the industry labelled them amateurs destroying the craft. Many of these amateurs soon became established and unlocked sounds that couldn't have come from a major label. Think: Lo-fi. Electronic. Drill. Genres born from teenagers with laptops. 𝗪𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗔𝗜-𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰 "Make me a jazz fusion track with 808s and a melancholy saxophone lead." No theory required. You don't need expensive software. All that's required is an idea. The pattern is consistent. Every time the barrier to creation drops, the industry panics, the volume increases, and a new tier of taste emerges from the noise. Classical gave way to the studio era. The studio era gave way to the bedroom producer. Now, they're giving way to AI. Each transition looked like destruction from the inside. Each one expanded the ceiling. The question was never whether AI would change music. It already has. The real question is what new sound gets unlocked on the other side—and to what extent we'll rebel against (or even notice) what's created by AI. Do you think a human is needed to create true music? — Thanks for reading! For context, I built an 8-figure music label from scratch and host luxury events. Follow me @averyx99 for more content like this.

@dmindsetrewired thank you

@averyx99 Nice post

@weagles01 appreciate it!

@averyx99 Nice analysis!

Daniel Boulud's restaurant group, holding 4 Michelin Stars, does ~85M in revenue. Almost none of this is attributed to their tasting menus. Why? The meal isn't the business, it's the audition. Food costs: $120. Labor: $180. Rent: $88. A $400 Michelin meal might generate $12 profit. But the customer lifetime value is $24,000. Most people think fine dining is about better ingredients or talented chefs, but it goes beyond what the eye sees. Michelin restaurants run decision elimination systems that make inconsistency impossible. A line cook at Le Bernardin remakes the same sauce 3 times if the viscosity is 2 seconds off. Not because the chef is a perfectionist. Because inconsistency is systematically removed. This starts with mise en place, translating to "everything in its place." The carrots get cut to exactly 2.5mm not because it tastes better, but because it removes inconsistency. The sauce gets stirred clockwise 23 times not because clockwise is superior, but because it removes human error. Every motion is scripted. Every outcome is predictable. Now here's what most people miss ↓ The operational perfection isn't just for the food. It's for the customer experience (and acquisition) that happens between courses. During the 47 minutes between you finishing your meal and when you leave: 1. The sommelier mentions the wine producer's harvest dinner next month. 2. You discover they also run cooking classes, private events, and catering. The $400 meal just qualified you for their actual business, where they drive the most revenue. You didn't just pay for dinner. You paid for access to their ecosystem. The Michelin meal is seen as lead magnet. They give you the tasting menu and leave you hungrier for more. This is how I approach events management. Every year I host an invite-only luxury experience, Lussoirée. Attendee's enter our ecosystem, and are the first people we call for a trackside Superyacht at F1 Monaco or Abu Dhabi. — Thanks for reading! Enjoyed this post? I built an 8-figure music label from scratch and host luxury events. Follow me @averyx99 for more content like this.

2.5 billion music streams sounds impressive until you see the actual wire transfers. I've been collecting royalties long enough to watch the economics shift in real time. This isn't a theory, it's my quarterly statements. When your catalog spans multiple generations of streaming deals, you see the compression of music economics in your own bank account. The 1975 model was brutally simple. Gold record: 500,000 copies at $6.98 retail. Four clean cuts: retail (40%), distributor (10%), label (35%), artist (15%). Simple math. Hit gold with a decent deal and you walked away with $523,500. Real money. Really simple. Then the CD boom inflated everything. Same gold record, now $15.98 retail. Higher margins, lower production costs. Hit gold with a decent deal by 1999 and you were looking at over a million dollars. Peak music economics. The industry was printing money. iTunes arrived in 2003 and cut album sales in half overnight. $0.99 per track, $9.99 per album. The album as a revenue unit was finished. Then streaming turned that simple math into surgery. Today's breakdown looks nothing like what most artists imagine. Spotify takes 30%. Traditional label deals keep 75-90% of what's left. Most artists also have distributors taking another cut, collection societies on the publishing side, and administration fees bleeding out the rest. It's like watching a $20 bill get passed through eight hands. Everyone takes their cut. The artist gets whatever's left. What actually lands depends entirely on how many middlemen you allowed into your deal structure. Most artists have no idea how many parties are siphoning revenue from their streams. They see the gross number and assume that's what they're owed. Then wonder why their quarterly statements look like accounting errors. I watch every fraction get carved up in real time. Territory by territory. Platform by platform. In reality, the platforms didn't ruin music economics, they just made the pre-existing carve-up more cutthroat. The future belongs to artists who understand that their music isn't the problem. It's a business architecture problem. Build the right structure upfront, or watch your streams fund someone else's lifestyle.

@nashvelora_x facts

@averyx99 When your first "sprint" was a military operation, a product deadline feels manageable.

@DanyRaeArras thank you

@averyx99 this is a fantastic explanation for something I knew but couldn't put into words.

The door handle costs $200. The shower pressure is calibrated identically on every floor. The light switch is beside the bed, not across the room. This is how the 1% of hotels get remembered for decades. I've thrown mid-six figure events where a single wrong detail costs hundreds of thousands. We once spent $8k on a divider for a pre-event dinner, purely so arriving guests couldn't see those already seated inside. Nobody behind it knew the cost, they just felt the privacy. Most people think luxury is about expensive things. It's actually about expensive attention. Your nervous system reads a space before you consciously notice anything. The weight of the door handle. Whether the room is silent or just quiet. The angle of light when you wake up. All processed before a single conscious thought. This is exactly how the best luxury hotels operate. The Four Seasons didn't bring in a neuroscientist as a marketing stunt. They did it so that biological intervention could be engineered into the floor plan. The mainstream hospitality industry thinks it's about thread count and marble. The masters know it's about the physics of how bodies move through space. The $200 door handle isn't about aesthetics. It's about the resistance your hand feels before your brain has formed a single opinion about the room. Too light and something registers as cheap. Too heavy and something registers as effort. The right weight is invisible — which is exactly the point. The shower pressure is the same on the 30th floor as the 3rd. Not because guests would complain. Because inconsistency breaks a promise the brand made the last time you stayed. You can't articulate what's wrong. You just feel it. The light switch beside the bed exists because their team physically lies down and maps every reach. The question isn't where the switch fits architecturally. It's what a body in a wound-down state should never have to do. This is exactly how we think about every detail when we host events and experiences. Every element either elevates the nervous system response or degrades it. And the line is paper thin. The difference between a good event and one people discuss for years isn't the obvious luxury. It's the invisible architecture that lets guests focus on connection instead of fighting their environment. Most hosts design for the photo. I design for the parasympathetic nervous system response.