Hey everyone, Gerd here from FreeAstroScience, where we try to make sense of our world, from the cosmos down to the code. The other day, I was on a long drive, letting the interstate pull me through the evening. I did what most of us do: I put on some music. I hit up Spotify and landed on a band called The Velvet Sundown, a psych-rock group that’s been racking up hundreds of thousands of listens. And as the first track played, I found myself sinking into a strange new territory, one that sits uncomfortably between human art and artificial output.
There's a lot of chatter about AI-generated music, and it usually falls into a few predictable camps. You have the first idea: that AI music is just a cheap, soulless copy, and everyone can immediately tell it's fake. Then there's the second, more optimistic take: that real, human artists will always triumph because they have something a machine can never replicate. And finally, there's the big, scary one: that this is the beginning of the end, a slippery slope to a world where human creativity is obsolete.
But after spending a couple of hours with The Velvet Sundown, all three of those ideas miss the point entirely. The problem isn't that the music is obviously fake—it's that it's disturbingly palatable . The problem isn't whether a human artist can "beat" it—the AI band already has more monthly listeners than many legendary musicians. And the biggest, most unsettling truth is that AI isn't creating a new problem. It's simply the ultimate expression of a problem we created ourselves long ago.
The Sound of Perfectly Fine
So, what does this band, which may or may not even exist, actually sound like? Well, it’s… fine. It’s not good, but it’s not bad either. It’s profoundly and disturbingly innocuous The music is a gentle smear of genres—a bit of ‘70s psychedelic rock, a dash of folk, a sprinkle of modern indie-pop . One track might have a sitar lick, the next a bluesy guitar solo. It’s a musical buffet where nothing is particularly delicious, but everything is edible.
The lyrics are the same. They feel like they were assembled from a kit of moody phrases: “Smoke in the sky / No peace found” or “Dust on the wind / Boots on the ground” . They hint at deep meaning without ever actually having any. It’s the kind of stuff that makes you think, until you realize you’re not thinking about anything at all band’s own social media presence is coy, neither confirming nor denying its artificial origins, though many online sleuths have pointed out the AI-generated images and the impossible speed of their album releases . One streaming service, Deezer, even put a warning on their music stating it "may have been created using artificial intelligence" . Yet on Spotify, they are a "Verified Artist" . This isn't a failed experiment; it's a successful product. And that should give us pause.
We Built This City on Playlists
It’s easy to blame the machine. It’s much harder to look in the mirror. Long before generative AI like Suno could spit out a complete song from a text prompt, we were already changing our relationship with music . It started decades ago. First, Napster made music free, then the iPod made it portable. Suddenly, you had an entire record store in your pocket came the streaming services, and with them, the algorithm. Spotify didn't just give us music; it gave us playlists for every conceivable activity—lazy Sunday, lawn mowing, baking . Music became less of an active choice and more of a passive utility. It became background noise, a vibe, an auditory wallpaper to drown out the sound of your open-plan office or your roommate's Zoom call is the world that The Velvet Sundown was born into. It’s the perfect music for not really listening. It’s the descendant of what Brian Eno famously called “Music for Airports”—sound designed to be ignored . The AI isn't the villain here; it’s just the logical conclusion of our own demand for infinite, frictionless, and ultimately meaningless content.
Have We Forgotten What Music Is For?
I remember a time when the music you listened to was a core part of your identity. You were a punk, a rocker, a goth, a country fan. It defined your clothes, your friends, and your values . Finding your tribe required effort—you had to seek out the right record stores, the right venues, the right people A relationship with a band was a commitment.
Today, the internet has flattened those subcultures . The Velvet Sundown’s genre-blending isn’t a sophisticated fusion; it’s a careless average, designed for mass palatability It has nothing to say about spirituality, politics, or introspection because it doesn’t care about any of those things And maybe, we don’t either.
As I kept driving, I felt that nothingness with a strange intensity. I wasn't moved or saddened or inspired. I was simply aware of the idea of listening to music It was a bizarre, hollow feeling. The worst part? To my great embarrassment, the songs started to get stuck in my head . My aesthetic judgment had been completely bypassed by the vibe.
So, where does this leave us? I don’t think AI music is going to destroy human creativity. But it does hold up a rather unflattering mirror. It forces us to ask what we truly want from art. Do we want to be challenged, moved, and connected to another human soul? Or do we just want something pleasant to fill the void while we pilot our big cars through the empty evening of America? question isn't whether a machine can make a song. The real question is whether we've forgotten how to truly listen.
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