Allow Me To Disabuse Anyone Of The Idea That My Songs Are Generated By Prompts
Let's Settle This Once And For All
My music isn’t some sterile output from a generic AI prompt—it’s the opposite. I take years of my own original tracks, stems, demos, and weird voice memos and feed them straight into the model to train it on nothing but me. The AI doesn’t dream up my sound from scratch; it learns my chord voicings, my drum quirks, the way I bend bass notes when I’m half-drunk on cheap wine, the exact reverb tail I’ve been chasing since 1985. Every new generation starts with my fingerprints already baked in. Even when I give it a fresh prompt, what comes back is haunted by my old songs, my habits, my happy accidents. Then I tear it apart anyway—re-record guitars, play over the top, drown it in tape hiss, delete 80% and rebuild with live takes—until whatever the machine thought it knew about “me” gets dragged through the mud and comes out sounding undeniably human. The AI isn’t the artist here; it’s just the world’s most obsessive stalker of my own back catalog, and I’m still the one holding the knife.
Case in point: here’s a sample of me jamming out the chords to one of my songs.
Everybody got the flavor? Good.
Now let me show you the finished product.
I’ll keep it dead simple: I post a rough Logic Pro demo (a few takes, guitars, placeholder drums, barely mixed) then dropped the finished track into an AI right after. Same chords, same melody, same weird little guitar lick I came up with at 2 a.m. The transformation is obvious, but the bones are identical. Anyone with ears can hear the finished song is the direct child of that raw snippet I made with my own hands, in my own DAW, before an AI ever touched a single note. Feed that demo into whatever model you want; it still came from me first.
No prompt wizardry, no magic black box, just proof in plain sight: I wrote the damn song. The receipts are right here in front of you and this is just one of over 50 examples of my process.
“Struggle porn” is the art-world’s favorite kink: the romantic myth that real creativity only blooms when you’re broke, heartbroken, half-starved, and bleeding on the canvas. We fetishize the tormented genius (Van Gogh slicing off an ear, Cobain in a dingy rehearsal space, every indie musician bragging about sleeping on floors) because it lets us pretend suffering is the tollbooth on the road to greatness.
It’s comforting bullshit.
It turns pain into currency, makes exhaustion sexy, and quietly shames anyone who dares create from a place of stability, therapy, or (God forbid) a functioning day job. The truth is plenty of masterpieces come from people who ate decent meals, slept eight hours, and still poured their soul into the work. Suffering doesn’t guarantee depth; it mostly guarantees suffering.
Glorifying it just keeps the cycle spinning: another generation of artists chasing misery like it’s a prerequisite instead of a side effect some of us luckily avoid. Your art doesn’t need scars to be authentic; it just needs you.
Any questions?
But if you don't suffer, how am I supposed to get that vicarious sensation of success? Those poor souls need to sense your suffering so they can feel better about themselves.
See, your problem is that you think this is all about you. Maybe you need communist re-education to get it. I hear they have classes at UC Davis that can help