MusicTree

AI Music Is Not the Future of Creativity. It Is the Future of Convenience.

The idea of AI creating music can be really exciting at first, it sounds like a dream come true. It promises access, speed and the idea that anyone, regardless of training, money, background, or technical ability, can suddenly make a finished song.

On the surface, who would argue with that? I want more people making music. I want more people singing, writing, recording, producing, playing instruments, making noise, making mistakes and finding their own voice.

What bothers me is the underlying idea that music has lost its value as a skill that's learned, shared, and passed on. It's no longer about the struggle and the journey, but about making it a product that's packaged and sold. Music has become something you can buy and consume, like a game or a subscription service, rather than something that's lived and breathed. It's like we've forgotten that music is a craft that takes time and effort to master, and that it's meant to be shared and enjoyed by everyone, not just sold back to us for a profit.

That distinction matters. Suno, one of the most visible generative AI music companies, has built much of its pitch around the idea that music should become more like video games. Its CEO, Mikey Shulman, has suggested that music is too passive, that it needs to be more interactive, more engaging, more social, more like Fortnite. I understand why investors like that idea.

Video games are active, immersive and incredibly profitable. If you can turn music into something people do every day, pay for constantly and spend hours inside, you have not just built a music tool. You have built a platform. Music is something that people can really get into. You can play an instrument, which is like being a part of it.

Or you can be in a band, that's like playing with a team. Music already has a way of pulling you in and making you feel things deeply. Like when you're singing with others, or working on a song with someone, it's a real collaboration.

You might disagree on some things, like what chord to use, but that's all part of it. And when you're trying to get the rhythm just right, it can be tough, but it's worth it. Because when everything comes together, it's an amazing feeling. The issue AI companies are trying to solve is not that music is passive. The issue is that craft takes time and time is hard to monetise at scale unless you can compress it, automate it and turn it into a product.

That is where the language becomes revealing. The AI music pitch is full of words like speed, iteration, engagement, experiences, interaction and consumption. That is not the language of musicians. That is the language of product design, apps, growth curves, investor decks and customer behaviour. Once you apply that language to music, something important starts to disappear: the process. Making music isn't what it used to be. These days, a song is just something you can create quickly and be done with. It's no longer about spending years listening to different types of music, learning from others, practicing over and over, and figuring out what works and what doesn't.

You don't have to absorb all sorts of influences, develop your own taste, work with other musicians and find your own unique voice. Now, a song is just a file that you can generate fast and call it a day. That might be useful in some situations. It might even be fun. I am not pretending there is no value in it at all. However, convenience is not creativity. What's really interesting is when people who use Suno were asked how it's different from traditional instruments or music software. Their answers weren't about music itself, but about how it makes their lives easier. They said it saves them time, saves them money, and works with them like a partner. It's pretty cool to see how Suno is making a difference in a practical way. That says a lot. The selling points were not melody, harmony, groove, feel, tone, emotion, taste, or expression. They were speed, cost reduction and the replacement of other people. That is a lonely vision of music. Real collaboration is not simply having something give you options. A collaborator challenges you. A collaborator brings their own taste, history, limitations, brilliance and stubbornness into the room. They can tell you when something is not good enough. They can frustrate you, surprise you and make you better. AI does not do that. It flatters. It generates. It gives you something back. You accept it, reject it, regenerate it and continue. There is no negotiation, no accountability and no human being on the other side whose instincts you have to respect. That is not collaboration. That is ordering. And ordering food does not make you a chef. The same problem appears in the argument around taste. We are now being told that skill matters less because taste is what really counts. That sounds sophisticated, especially when people bring up someone like Rick Rubin, who has famously said he knows what he likes and what he does not like. However, that argument misunderstands what taste actually is. Taste is not something that floats above craft. Taste is developed through craft. You hear differently after years of recording. You hear differently after trying to play like your heroes and failing. You hear differently after tuning vocals, editing drums, choosing microphones, balancing a mix, writing a chorus that does not work, rewriting it and finally finding the line that does. Taste is more than just picking something you like. It's how you feel about things, and that's shaped by the things that have happened to you. Musicians often look up to other talented artists for inspiration. When we listen to legendary musicians like Jimi Hendrix, Jaco Pastorius, or Stevie Wonder, we can't help but wonder how they created their unique sound. The same goes for iconic bands like Queen, The Beatles, and Prince, as well as gifted singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell. We hear their music and think, "What's their secret?" or "How did they manage to do that?" This curiosity is what drives us to learn and grow as musicians, and it's a big part of what makes role models so important in the music world. That question is the beginning of a life in music. AI prompting often removes that question. There is no hand to watch, no breath to hear, no room to imagine, no human decision to study. There is only output. That is why deskilling worries me so much. If musicians start relying on AI systems to make creative decisions for them, the danger is not simply that the work changes. The danger is that the musician changes. The muscles of decision making weaken, the ear becomes passive and the instinct gets outsourced. In music, it's often the slower moments that hold the most meaning. When you're working on a piece, you might find yourself sitting with an idea for a while, trying to figure it out, getting frustrated with it, and even putting it aside for a bit. But then you come back to it, and suddenly things start to click into place. That's not time wasted - that's actually where the real work happens. It's the process of wrestling with an idea, being patient, and letting it evolve that ultimately helps you understand what it's supposed to be. AI culture often treats friction as a problem. In art, friction is frequently where the identity is formed. I believe that generative AI can have some really cool and ethical uses in music. For one, it could be a great tool for helping people remember things, like by turning information into catchy melodies. It could also be super helpful in therapy settings, where it might bring people comfort or help them feel more connected to others. And who knows, it might even give people who've always been too afraid to make music the courage to try - AI could be the key that unlocks their creativity and lets them express themselves in a whole new way. We shouldn't ignore those possibilities, but they shouldn't take our focus away from the main goal. This isn't just about helping people sing again, it's about creating platforms that have control over the tools, the experience, and the way people behave, and making money from people's desire to be creative. It's a big business plan, and singing is just a part of it. The real aim is to build something that can shape how people express themselves and make a profit from it. That's not what I call making music fair for everyone. If regular people don't have control over the tools they use to make music, and some big company can just change the rules or take the platform away, then music isn't really free. We're just borrowing the ability to be creative from a tech company, and that's not good enough. Music should be something that everyone can make and share without worrying about some company getting in the way. If a platform can decide what kind of music is popular, or charge more money to use it, then that's not really democracy. We need to make sure that music is something that belongs to the people, not just a few big companies. Making music a real part of our lives would be amazing. We should give kids the chance to learn music, have instruments to play, and teachers to guide them. They should have places to practice, sing in choirs, record in studios, and be part of a music community. This way, people won't lose touch with music as they grow up. We need to bring back the fun, casual way of enjoying music that we had when we were younger. The tragedy is that AI music identifies a real problem. Many people feel locked out of music. Many people believe they are not talented enough. Many people were shamed out of singing, playing, or creating. That is heartbreaking. Making music isn't just about creating a perfect song, it's about the journey, the process of learning and growing. When people start out, they often feel like they need to be great right away, but that's not how it works. The truth is, everyone starts somewhere, and it's okay to be bad at first. It's okay to make mistakes, to learn from them, and to keep going. The joy of music isn't just in the finished product, but in the creation itself, in the experimentation, in the discovery of new sounds and styles. So, instead of getting discouraged by their initial attempts, beginners should be reminded that they are allowed to learn, to develop their own unique voice, and to find the joy in the process, not just the end result. And that's what makes music so special - it's a journey, not a destination. The happiness came from turning into someone who had the ability to create music. That is what AI music, at its worst, threatens to remove. Not just jobs, income, or copyright, although those are huge issues. The deeper threat is philosophical. It asks us to accept a world where the appearance of creativity is enough, where the result matters more than the person, where convenience replaces craft and where human musical experience gets reduced to a “meaningful consumption experience.” Music deserves better than that. Musicians deserve better than that. Listeners deserve better than that.

The future of music shouldn't be shaped by those who think it's missing something by not being like a video game. Instead, it should be built by people who get that music is a fundamental part of being human, it's ancient, it's deep, and it's something that connects us all. Music is about emotion, expression, and feeling, not just about technology or innovation. We need people who understand and respect that to lead the way. They should know that music is a basic part of who we are, and it's what makes us human. Not because it is efficient. Because it connects us.

The live music industry isn’t broken.
It’s working exactly as designed.

Just not for the people you think.

Fans are paying more than ever.
Fees stacked on top of fees.
Resale markets spiraling out of control.

Courts are now saying what many of us have been saying for years.
Market power isn’t just big.
It’s distorted.

But here’s the part no one wants to sit with.

While billions move through this system,
the people actually building the show
are still operating without real structure.

Crew.
Labor.
The backbone of every tour.

Yes, some people make good money.
But that’s not the same as stability.
That’s not the same as protection.
That’s not the same as longevity.

Because what’s being traded isn’t just time.

It’s time away from home.
Time away from family.
Time away from your own life.

Unpredictable schedules.
Gaps between tours.
No continuity of care.

And in many cases
no real access to benefits that follow you.

Meanwhile, the system above it
is extracting more than it ever has.

Higher ticket prices.
Higher fees.
Higher margins.

So where is that money going?

Not into portability.
Not into long-term security.
Not into the people carrying the weight.

This is the disconnect.

An industry that sells out arenas
but can’t standardize basic dignity.

An industry that markets once-in-a-lifetime experiences
while relying on a workforce built on burnout and sacrifice.

And then tells that workforce:
“This isn’t for everyone.”

Exactly.

That’s the point.

If the job is this demanding,
this specialized,
this relentless…

Then the structure should match it.

Not charity.
Not GoFundMe.
Not luck.

Structure.

Because the real question isn’t
whether live music is thriving.

It’s who it’s actually working for.

Ozzy, Kelly and Jack Osbourne came to listen to the St. Louis Women’s Choir perform a haunting rendition of Black Sabbath’s greatest ballad. But while they were sitting in the church pews, Kelly and Ozzy almost burst into tears hearing the choir’s genre-twisting rendition of the hard rock hit. Ozzy might be famed for his bat-beheading days, but this viral clip has been putting Ozzy’s wholesome, fatherly side on full display, moving fans with his uncut emotions while showing what a natural gem he was. Watch video in comments below 👇

Eva Cassidy never wanted to be famous.

She just wanted to sing.

Growing up in Maryland, she was the quiet kid who could harmonize with car radio songs before she could read. Her dad taught her guitar when she was nine. By eleven, she was playing weddings and bar gigs with a band called Easy Street.

But Eva was different from other kids. She didn't care about fitting in. She spent weekends alone at art museums in Washington, studying paintings by Vermeer. She painted furniture to pay rent. She worked at a plant nursery with her mom.

Music was just something she did on the side.

In 1986, everything changed. Eva went to a recording studio to sing backup vocals for a friend's band. The studio owner, Chris Biondo, heard her voice and nearly fell over. It was so powerful it made his equipment shake.

"She had no idea how great she was," he said years later.

Chris convinced Eva to make her own demo tape. They started dating. They formed a band together. But Eva hated performing. She'd stare at the floor during shows, too shy to look at the audience.

Slowly, she began to open up. People didn't just listen to her voice - they felt it in their bones.

In 1992, something magical happened. Chris played Eva's demo for Chuck Brown, the legendary "Godfather of Go-Go" music in Washington. Chuck agreed to collaborate sight unseen.

When they finally met, Chuck couldn't believe it. This soulful, gospel-trained voice he'd been hearing belonged to a tiny white woman from the suburbs.

"She was an angel," Chuck said. "Very humble and shy."

Their album together caught the attention of major record labels. Finally, Eva's big break.

But there was a problem.

Every label wanted her to pick one style of music and stick to it. Jazz or blues or folk or gospel. Choose one.

Eva refused.

She sang whatever moved her. Jazz standards one night, folk songs the next. Gospel on Sunday, blues on Tuesday. Her setlists looked like someone had mixed up five different concerts.

Record executives panicked. How do you market someone who won't stay in a box?

"I should have signed her," Blue Note Records president Bruce Lundvall admitted years later. "She had the most extraordinary voice I'd ever heard."

One by one, the labels passed.

Eva watched her friends get recording contracts while she kept working at the nursery. She painted murals on weekends to make extra money. She played small clubs around Washington, building a devoted local following.

In 1996, Eva and her team made a desperate decision. They'd cash in Eva's tiny pension from the nursery job - about $10,000 - and rent Blues Alley, Washington's most famous jazz club, for two nights. They'd record a live album themselves.

The first night was a disaster. Technical problems ruined the entire recording.

The second night, Eva had a terrible cold. Her voice sounded rough to her. She didn't want to release it.

"Just this once," her friends begged. "We'll do a proper studio album next."

She agreed, reluctantly.

"Live at Blues Alley" came out in May 1996. Local reviews were incredible. The Washington Post raved about her ability to "make any song sound like the only music that mattered."

The album became one of the bestsellers in the Washington area that year.

Then, in July, during a promotional event, Eva felt an ache in her hips.

She figured it was from painting murals, crouched on ladders for hours. The pain got worse. Much worse.

X-rays at Johns Hopkins Hospital revealed the devastating truth.

Three years earlier, doctors had removed a mole from Eva's back. They said they'd caught the melanoma in time. They were wrong. The cancer had spread to her bones and lungs.

Three to five months, they told her.

Eva chose to fight. Aggressive chemotherapy. Radiation. Transfusions. By September, she needed a walker to get around. Her hair fell out. She wore scarves to hide her baldness.

On September 17, 1996, friends organized a benefit concert at The Bayou club. Eva insisted on performing one last time.

Using her walker, she slowly made her way to the stage. Bald and exhausted, she closed the show with "What a Wonderful World."

There wasn't a dry eye in the room.

The treatments weren't working. On November 2, 1996, Eva died at home with her family. She was 33 years old.

Her ashes were scattered by a lake in southern Maryland, where she used to go hiking.

For two years, nothing happened. Eva's music sat in warehouses, forgotten.

Then, in 2000, a BBC radio DJ named Terry Wogan played her version of "Over the Rainbow" on his morning show.

The phone lines exploded.

People were calling in tears, begging to know who this singer was. BBC found an old camcorder video of Eva performing the song at Blues Alley and played it on television.

Within weeks, her album shot to number one in Britain.

"Songbird" went on to sell over 12 million copies worldwide. Her music appeared in movies like "Love Actually." Olympic figure skater Michelle Kwan performed to her version of "Fields of Gold." Paul McCartney and Sting praised her talent publicly.

Eva Cassidy, the shy nursery worker who never wanted fame, became one of the best-selling artists in British history.

She never knew any of it would happen.

Maybe that's exactly why it did. Eva sang because she had to, not because she wanted something from it. She refused to compromise her art for success. She chose truth over fame, integrity over money.

The world just needed time to catch up to her.

Sometimes the most beautiful voices are the quietest ones. Sometimes the greatest artists are the ones who never try to be great at all.

They just sing their truth, and trust that someone, somewhere, will hear it.



~Forgotten Stories