I’m Not Rafi Mercer (I Just Look Like Him)
By Rafi Mercer
I made myself laugh this morning. Somewhere between the first coffee and the second edit, I realised that thousands of people have now read my words — my essays, my reflections, my notes about sound, whisky, and rooms that hum with music — and yet no one knows who I am. Not really. The words travel freely; the man stays invisible.
It made me think of printing a T-shirt that says, “I’m not Rafi Mercer, I just look like him.” The idea still makes me smile. It’s the perfect kind of absurd honesty — because even I’m not entirely sure who Rafi Mercer is sometimes. He’s part of me, but also part of the listener, part of the voice that speaks for all of us who find meaning in sound.
There’s something liberating about that anonymity. I’ve always admired the way Banksy managed to become both everywhere and nowhere at once — how the message, not the maker, took centre stage. Maybe Tracks & Tales works in the same way. People read it, they share it, they find themselves in it. But they don’t need to know the person behind it, because the voice — Rafi’s voice — belongs to the act of listening itself.
Still, it’s strange to think that this project has reached more than 80 countries now, with essays read in places I’ve never been, and no one would recognise me if I sat down next to them in a bar. I could be there — quietly sipping an Old Fashioned, head tilted towards the speaker — and no one would know that I wrote the story about the sound of the glass they’re holding. That kind of invisibility feels pure. Honest. It means the work is doing the talking.
Maybe that’s the point of Tracks & Tales. To create something that feels lived-in, collective, unowned. To build a world where the identity isn’t the brand, but the experience. We all listen differently, but deeply, we listen for the same thing — connection.
And yet, part of me enjoys the mischief of it. The idea that one day someone might mention Rafi Mercer in passing — “Have you read that piece on ice, or the one about Dave’s piano?” — and I could just nod, smile, and say, “Yeah, he’s good.”
So yes, maybe the T-shirt will happen. “I’m not Rafi Mercer. I just look like him.” Because at its core, that’s what this has always been — a shared fiction that became real. A way for one listener to speak for many.
And if you’re reading this, then maybe you are Rafi Mercer too — the part of you that listens closely, feels deeply, and believes that sound still matters.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters.
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