Global Music Theory

Author: Brandon Alsup

  • The Sound of Belonging: What Ancient Music Teaches Us About Modern Well‑Being

    The Sound of Belonging: What Ancient Music Teaches Us About Modern Well‑Being

    I’ll admit it: I tried to write this article with ChatGPT. It felt hypocritical, and frankly, the result wasn’t very good. The AI writing read smoothly on the surface, but it lacked substance and became extremely repetitive.

    This is a good thing. AI’s downfall is an opportunity for me to write my own words on the all‑too‑apt topic of “communication.”

    My focus is music and the sonic experience, which for this article has bled over into communication at large. The seed for this article came from reading How Musical Is Man by John Blacking and his discussion of the Venda people and their musical traditions. He described their performances of ritual music and dance, and how the entire community participated. It made me think about how rich and layered those performances must be for them—how music, in that context, is not just sound but a living expression of belonging.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

    Where the Venda integrate layers of history, belief, relationships (familial and otherwise), group dance, and group singing into a single performance, I have some headphones. I listen to Fenge Suave or Charles Ives, skipping around and listening without precision. The Venda ritual is complex and reaches deep; my musical experience often passes by almost without notice. That is the difference between a rich (or “thick”) and a thin musical performance.

    What struck me most is that ancient music wasn’t merely entertainment. It was a technology of belonging. It tied individuals to each other, to their ancestors, to their environment, and to shared meaning. And that is precisely the thread running through our modern crisis of well‑being: a loss of belonging woven through our soundscapes and our communications.

    The Dimensions of Time and Space

    As I pondered these differences, I landed on another aspect that makes these two musical experiences so distinct: space and time. For the Venda, the music, the dance, and the words are here and now, transmitting information in the act of creation and performance. The breath, the dust, the smells, and the vibrations are all present in that immediate performance.

    My experience listening on YouTube, however, is neither close nor immediate. The musicians who composed or performed the music may be dead or, at the very least, exist in the past—sometimes the distant past. As far as proximity, they probably recorded the music thousands of miles from where I am now, in a cultural context vastly different from my own. The Venda share a single, unified cultural context.

    When sound is local and embodied, it reinforces connection. When sound is distant and flattened, it loses many of the signals that tell us we belong.

    The Layers of Information

    Listening to music alone on headphones is what I call “thin” communication. The music is carrying only a fraction of the information it is capable of delivering.

    For example, when I listen to Mahler’s 10th symphony as background music while working, I am only receiving a small amount of what Mahler’s music could convey. If I were in an orchestra hall listening to a live performance, there is a good chance I would increase the amount of “information” I receive. Furthermore, if Mahler himself were in the hall conducting the piece, there would be even more information conveyed. To take it a step further, if I were playing violin in the orchestra, I would experience another layer of information from the music and the group experience of performing together, understanding better what Mahler was trying to express as he conducted the group.

    An ultimate layer would have been to be with Mahler, discussing the music as he wrote and developed it through creation to performance. Then I would be receiving the rich layers of communication from the music—something more akin to what the Venda experience.

    In ancient or tribal settings, those layers also carried social meaning—affirming identity, reinforcing norms, coordinating cooperation. In other words: belonging.

    The Price of Convenience

    On the one hand, I am glad I can easily listen to Mahler’s 10th with the click of a button. But I think it is in that convenience where I pay a price: the access often provides a cheap, plastic, disposable version that is barely worth paying attention to.

    Ninety‑nine percent of my musical interactions throughout any given year are of this “cheap plastic disposable” kind. Yet, even through this flattened and cheapened version, I can still get chills and be deeply affected by the music. That just shows the raw power of music and how much more powerful in‑person, rich performances and participation can be.

    I have been lucky enough to experience firsthand extraordinarily rich musical communication—in my rock band, in orchestras, witnessing Native American ritual performances, and through my own compositions. I am simply realizing that the vast majority of my musical interactions today are solitary experiences that lack the possible information and layers that music held before recordings existed.

    The Great Thinning

    This “cheapening” is not just happening to music; it is happening to all types of communication.

    Intimate, in‑person conversations with immediate family and loved ones have been replaced by written letters, phone calls, Skype, text messages, and now AI predictive text messages. The communication went from sharing breath, timbre, facial expressions, and body language to an algorithm’s best guess as to what you want to express. Communication evolved from the singular confluence of breath, articulation, body language, and setting to a computer that types some words on a screen to be delivered purely visually at any distance.

    It is my view that the consequences of this path toward communication convenience have played a significant role in humanity’s well‑being, partly because it is so far removed from how humans evolved. Humans thrived with these rich, layered forms of communication, and now we are trying to cope with thin, distant, and impersonal communications.

    When I analyze the communications I receive (actively or passively), they fall into three primary categories:

    • Businesses trying to get my attention: the dings and beeps of marketers vying for attention.
    • Entertainment content: listening to/watching news, podcasts, and other media.
    • Personal messages: a message from a family member or work colleague.

    By far, the category that dominates my time and attention is entertainment and media.

    In our world of global distribution, we have stretched the limits of time and space, which has effectively shut out our local and immediate family voices. The family history has fallen by the wayside in lieu of some influencer’s latest hot take. We listen with rapture to the goings‑on of famous strangers more often than we do our own kin. The flow of human communication has shifted from intimate close relationships to one‑way broadcasts from distantly located strangers.

    The deeper danger is that this shift erodes our sense of belonging. Thin communication keeps us informed, but thick communication keeps us human.

    Communication as Purpose

    So far, I have proposed that communication (speech, text, visual, musical, physical/body, etc.) has gone from being richly layered—delivered by people we personally know and interact with in the same time and space—to being thin—delivered by strangers who are not in our same moment or space.

    But I would like to posit one more idea: that perhaps communication is a fundamental part of being human. I’ll go one step further: perhaps communication is the “meaning or purpose” of life. When I probed around the question of communication, it became obvious that most things that matter to humans could be considered communication in some form or another. Therefore, I began to see communication as foundational to human well‑being.

    Belonging, too, emerges from communication. The thicker the communication, the stronger the belonging.

    This leads to two essential questions:

    1. How does one maximize thick (rich, layered) communication in one’s life, and conversely, how does one avoid an excess of thin communication?
    2. Does having thick communication improve one’s well‑being, and does too much thin communication decrease it?

    Let’s take these questions in order.

    How does a person increase the quantity of thick, richly layered communications? The obvious first step is to have friends and family around to talk with. If you are isolated (working from home, not part of clubs or associations, not in a romantic relationship, etc.), you will see an increase in quality, rich communications if you can break out of that isolation.

    I think actively getting better at expressing yourself through various mediums is also a path to increase thick communications. Improving your communication could mean moving from simple speaking to also telling family stories, or from short text messages to handwritten letters, or from stiff and awkward physical movement to dance or more expressive body language. And of course, through music: moving from listening to music in the background to learning to play or sing, and then finding people to make music with.

    Ancient cultures used music as a glue—the sound of shared identity. Re‑engaging with music in this way can restore something long missing from modern life.

    And let us not forget the other side of communication: listening. We must get better at listening to those around us, not just the loudest podcast.

    Developing the skills that foster thick communication will lead to and improve well‑being in the following ways:

    Mental and Emotional Health Benefits

    • Reduced Loneliness and Isolation: Strong relationship skills act as a powerful antidote to pervasive feelings of loneliness and isolation, providing companionship, empathy, and a crucial sense of belonging.
    • Lower Rates of Anxiety and Depression: Individuals with strong social support systems report lower levels of anxiety and depression. Positive interactions trigger the release of “feel‑good” hormones like oxytocin and serotonin, which counteract negative feelings.
    • Enhanced Emotional Resilience: Healthy relationships provide a supportive framework for navigating life’s inevitable challenges. Knowing you have people to rely on during difficult times helps you cope more effectively and bounce back faster from setbacks.
    • Increased Self‑Esteem and Confidence: Feeling accepted, valued, and understood by others boosts self‑worth and confidence.
    • Greater Sense of Purpose: Deep connections often involve mutual support and contribution, which fosters a sense of responsibility and purpose in life.

    Physical Health Benefits

    The impact of strong relationships extends beyond mental health, offering significant physical benefits as well:

    • Increased Longevity: Decades of research consistently show that people with strong social ties are more likely to live longer, healthier lives. One major study found that the lack of strong relationships increased the risk of premature death by 50%—a risk comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day.
    • Improved Cardiovascular Health: Supportive relationships help regulate stress hormones (like cortisol) and reduce inflammation, leading to lower blood pressure and a reduced risk of heart disease and stroke.
    • Stronger Immune System: Feeling loved and supported can boost your immune system function, making you less likely to catch illnesses and helping you recover more quickly when you do get sick.
    • Better Stress Management and Sleep: Strong support networks buffer the negative effects of stress, which in turn leads to better sleep quality and overall improved health habits.

    Developing skills such as active listening, empathy, effective communication, and vulnerability allows you to build and maintain these crucial connections, which are essential to thriving both mentally and physically.

    Returning to Our Roots

    A theme of my thinking over the past year or so has been a return to a more natural state. What that means to me is recognizing that humans evolved over millennia in a state that does not look, sound, or function like our contemporary world. My belief is that this disconnect between how we evolved and how we currently live is causing significant difficulties, both physically and mentally.

    So I am thinking: how do I pull a few things from our nomadic and tribal past into modern life that can help alleviate some of our suffering and improve our well‑being? I will end with these three ideas—each of which, importantly, was woven together through sound and communication in the ancient world.

    1. Cooperative “Work” and Movement in Nature

    Hunter‑gatherer life was highly active, with physical exertion integrated into daily tasks for survival, such as foraging, hunting, and building shelter. These tasks were inherently social and often performed in natural outdoor environments. This contrasts sharply with modern sedentary, solitary work and isolated exercise routines.

    Contemporary Application: Engage in community‑based physical activities in natural settings with a shared goal.

    Benefit: This approach combines consistent, moderate physical activity (linked to reduced chronic disease and better mood) with the mental health benefits of being outdoors and fostering social bonds through shared effort and mutual support.

    2. Immersive and Purposeful Storytelling and Music Making

    Storytelling and music making were crucial communication mechanisms in hunter‑gatherer societies, serving to transmit vital social information, coordinate behavior, promote cooperation, and enforce social norms. They built shared identity and strengthened the group’s social fabric. They were the original “sounds of belonging.”

    Contemporary Application: Dedicate specific time for face‑to‑face, open‑ended storytelling, music making, and deep conversation rather than quick information exchanges.

    Benefit: This practice moves beyond superficial updates to build empathy and deep understanding, which are essential for strong, meaningful relationships and a sense of belonging.

    3. Integrated, Multi‑Generational Social Life

    In ancestral camps, people of all ages spent the majority of their waking hours in close proximity, engaged in joint activities like chatting, playing together, teaching (music included), looking after children, and food‑related tasks. This continuous, integrated social life provided constant support and mentorship.

    Contemporary Application: Create intentional, regular opportunities for unstructured social time that includes multiple generations. I have found that learning the “old tunes” from an elder is a deeply rewarding way of engaging with older generations.

    Benefit: Fostering a diverse, multi‑generational support system helps combat isolation, provides a wider safety net for emotional support, and creates a greater sense of community responsibility and purpose.

    If modern well‑being is suffering, perhaps it is because the sounds that once held us together—drums, voices, footfalls, chants, songs—have gone quiet. Ancient music taught people who they were to each other. It communicated belonging. And the more we find ways to restore thick, layered, communal sound and communication in our own lives, the closer we get to becoming whole again.

  • Ears Tuned for Birds, Living in a World of Engines

    Ears Tuned for Birds, Living in a World of Engines

    In 2011, an estimated one million healthy life years were lost from traffic-related noise in the western part of Europe only.

    https://cdn.who.int/media/docs/default-source/who-compendium-on-health-and-environment/who_compendium_noise_01042022.pdf?sfvrsn=bc371498_3
    "Ear tuned for birds, living in a world of engines"

    As evidenced by the statement above, the sonic environment is much more important for our health than most of us think!

    My interest in soundscapes comes from a triangulation of my pursuits as a composer/musician, anthropology, and a sensitivity to sounds. A soundscape is the collection of all the sonic elements that arise through the course of a day. Lately, I’ve become aware not only of my own personal soundscape but also of the imagined soundscapes of other times and places — the way people once listened, and the way listening shaped them.

    As I’ve gotten older my sensitivity to sounds has increased. For some reason I’m always the person who notices the high-pitched mechanical “eeeeee” or the low rumble of bass from down the street. Even the volume of constant chatter wears me down. Recently, I ate in a restaurant that had zero acoustic consideration — hard surfaces everywhere, music fighting with conversation. I used an app on my phone to check the decibel level and it came in around 86db. For context, the World Health Organization recommends that average leisure noise stay below 70 dB over a full day — and short bursts should never exceed 100 dB for more than 15 minutes. Eighty-six decibels sustained over an hour is well into the physiologically stressful range.

    Moments like this remind me of a broader thesis I’ve had for years: to live well, we need to live more in line with the conditions our bodies evolved in. Research from the World Health Organization tells me noise contributes to heart disease, hypertension, sleep disruption, and even cognitive decline, it only strengthens a belief I already felt in my bones: our ears are living in a world they never evolved for.

    Our human systems still expect certain rhythms, certain foods, certain movements, certain relationships…and certain sounds. When I sit indoors all day, that’s at odds with evolution. When I eat sugar constantly, that’s at odds with evolution. When I go eight waking hours without sunlight or without speaking to another person, that’s also at odds with my evolved biology and psychology!

    And sound is no exception.

    So what does it mean to live a more sonically ancient life?

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

    1. Lower Volumes

    For most of human history, the loudest sounds you heard in an entire week might have been thunder, human voices, and maybe stone tools clacking together. Daily life was quieter — not silent, but quiet.

    Picture the plains or desert grasslands:

    • wind in the grasses, barely above a whisper
    • the breath of people sleeping nearby
    • the soft chatter of birds
    • an occasional call echoing across a valley

    These were the background conditions for the human nervous system.
    And they’re still the conditions our bodies think they’re living in.

    In contrast, the modern world layers engines, HVAC systems, street noise, earbuds, televisions, appliances, and dozens of steady mechanical hums on top of one another. Many of these sounds are both louder and more sustained than anything our ancestors experienced. Even “quiet” modern spaces rarely fall below 40–50 decibels. Our ears, our vagus nerve, and our hormonal systems simply weren’t built for this noise diet.

    2. Natural Rhythms: Ebb and Flow

    Ancient soundscapes had a rhythm that was… well, natural. They rose and fell with the sun and seasons. Modern soundscapes have a rhythm as well that is less tied to seasons and more to economics, societal norms, and technology.

    Natures’ rhythms are still with us and still affect us just in a much smaller degree. The sunsets and we do not go to bed, we turn on the lights. A more ancient rhythm may entail a thunderstorm passing marking the beginning of the monsoon season. A fire crackles and burns out leaving darkness. Birds call more intensely at dawn and dusk. I argue that our contemporary soundscape is more or less even across the year with only subtle sonic changes. The ancient sonic world or human had more shave over the course of a year.

    Technology is responsible for this sonic flattening.

    Everything from our daily sonic rhythms to our annual ones there are fewer cues and rhythms to give us a natural ebb and flow. On the shorter timescale a fan hums for eight hours. A refrigerator compressor kicks on every 20 minutes. A podcast runs all day. Apps ping at all hours. And on the longer timescale most of us work the same job and perform the same tasks whether it’s the quiet of winter or a bright sounds of a summery day. There’s no break and not much of a rhythm.

    Our nervous systems haven’t forgotten these sonic rhythms.
    Sound, our first and arguably most important sense, has been co-opted by machines, phones, and companies whose goals have nothing to do with our wellbeing.

    The WHO explicitly links non-stop noise — even at moderate levels — to long-term sleep and cardiovascular disturbances.

    https://www.who.int/tools/compendium-on-health-and-environment/environmental-noise

    3. Spatial Awareness

    Ancient humans listened in order to situate themselves in the world. Sound filled in what eyes couldn’t see: distance, direction, movement, presence, safety.

    Today, that capacity hasn’t disappeared it’s just needed less. Much of our time is spent indoors where our ears don’t get a chance to show off their super-locating powers. Our sense of hearing of course can’t be turned off, so we are still taking in spatial information it is just not as rich or useful as it was for our ancestors.

    4. A Balanced Spectrum

    Ancient soundscapes were broad-spectrum but gentle: the low sweep of wind, the midrange of voices and fire, the high shimmer of birds and insects.

    Modern industrial noise sits almost entirely between 100 and 3,000 Hz — the exact sensitivity range of the human ear. That means our attention circuits, stress circuits, and emotional circuits are constantly being hit in their most vulnerable band.
    It’s not just annoying it’s causing or contributing to health issues.

    5. Safety, Signaling, and Belonging

    In the deep past, sound was a continuous safety system.

    • If birds called normally → no predator nearby.
    • If the camp murmured → your tribe was safe and close.
    • If wind moved in a certain pattern → weather approaching.

    Life was naturally quiet.
    But a quiet landscape has texture, life, and important information.
    Our bodies still interpret certain sounds — water, wind, gentle voice, birds — as signals of safety and belonging. This is not metaphor. This is neurobiology. These sounds activate the parasympathetic system, slow the heart, relax the muscles, and increase vagal tone.

    We evolved inside an acoustic ecology that told us when we were safe and when we were in danger.

    Most modern environments don’t require that type of

    The Point Is Not Nostalgia — It’s Health

    This isn’t about recreating some fantasy of prehistoric life.
    It’s about realizing that our auditory systems, nervous systems, emotional systems, and social systems still expect the sonic patterns of our evolutionary past. And when we live in contradiction to those patterns — flat, loud, unending noise — there is a physiological cost: elevated cortisol, disrupted sleep, reduced focus, emotional fatigue, frayed empathy, and frayed relationships. I think the following bears repeating.

    The WHO quantifies that more than a million healthy life years were lost in one region of Europe due to environmental noise, making it clear that this isn’t just about “annoying sounds.” Modern noise is eroding our biology. And the quieter, cyclical, varied soundscapes humans evolved in are not nostalgic — they are biological baselines.

    -https://cdn.who.int/media/docs/default-source/who-compendium-on-health-and-environment/who_compendium_noise_01042022.pdf?sfvrsn=bc371498_3

    Rewilding our ears is not a hobby.
    It’s a biological intervention.

    The sounds of our world shape:

    • our stress levels
    • our social bonds
    • our capacity for attention
    • our sense of belonging
    • our nervous system
    • our memories
    • our emotional lives
    • our overall health

    To listen backward — toward the soundscape that shaped our species — is to listen inward toward wellbeing.

    A more ancient sonic world isn’t behind us; it’s beside us, waiting to be rebuilt.
    We can restore natural quiet, natural rhythm, and natural variety not by escaping modernity, but by designing our environments with awareness.

    Our ears are ancient. Our soundscapes should honor that.

    Two ways I’m working on this in my own life are:

    1. Bringing awareness of decibel levels and frequencies spectrums to the fore with some simple tools on my phone. Decibel levels are the easiest to catch but I’ll also be looking at primary frequencies throughout my day.
    2. Intentionally turning off the music, the podcast, Netflix, etc. and just resting for 5 minutes a day, preferably outside, and in particular in between work tasks. Not necessarily meditation but just a mini sonic detox of sorts.
  • From Noise to Nature: A Guide to Rewilding Our Sonic Lives

    From Noise to Nature: A Guide to Rewilding Our Sonic Lives

    sound wave morphing into bird flying into a sunset.

    The term rewild classically refers to restoring ecosystems or letting nature take care of itself—reducing human management to restore biodiversity and ecosystem processes. In recent years, I’ve noticed the concept expanding into human life—diet, movement, sleep—with the essential argument being that we’ve become disconnected from our evolutionary environments, leading to stress and disconnection. Importantly, rewilding isn’t about returning to the Stone Age, but about recalibrating toward environments our bodies evolved in.

    That’s what drew me to Strength Side’s “The Human Animal Method” program. It wasn’t about chasing numbers in the gym; it was about reconnecting to natural movement—rolling, crawling, stretching—things my body already knew deep down. And I’ve realized the same is true for sound.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

    Why Sound Matters

    Sound serves as a deeply evolved warning system. We can hear in the womb, and unlike vision, hearing doesn’t “switch off”—the auditory system remains active even during sleep, scanning for sudden changes that might signal danger. A single unexpected sound can wake me faster than light, since the auditory pathway is always open.

    Auditory signals are processed more rapidly than visual signals. Research shows it takes about 8–10 milliseconds for an auditory stimulus to reach the brain, while visual stimuli take 20–40 milliseconds. The full brain processing time for sound is in the range of 140–160 ms, while vision takes 180–200 ms. This quick processing helped our ancestors survive. But in my daily life, that finely tuned system is bombarded by HVAC hums, refrigerator drones, phone pings, and podcasts. It’s not being asked to save my life anymore—but it is still working, processing every signal, every moment. And the question I ask myself is: am I using this system in healthy ways, or am I letting it atrophy under the weight of noise?

    large ear emerging from a forest

    Why Rewild Hearing?

    Much like diets dominated by processed food, modern soundscapes are dominated by constant, mechanical, non-natural noise, often leading to chronic stress. Studies show noise pollution elevates stress hormones such as cortisol and adrenaline, which impairs sleep and increases the risk of various health problems. By comparison, nature’s sounds are dynamic and variable, typically promoting relaxation and wellbeing.

    I think about the analogy to myopia (nearsightedness) from lack of outdoor time: more time spent outdoors helps prevent myopia, showing vision adapts to our habitual environments. I can’t help but wonder if the same is true for hearing—years of exposure to monotonous, artificial sound may change how our auditory system functions.

    For me, rewilding hearing is about restoring balance. Not rejecting technology, but making space again for silence, for natural sounds, for voices and live music. It’s about remembering what my ears were built for.

    We already treat air pollution as a public health crisis, and rightly so. But the World Health Organization estimates that noise pollution is nearly as damaging, contributing to heart disease, sleep disorders, and chronic stress on a massive scale. If smog clouds our lungs, constant hums and sirens cloud our minds.

    The Costs of Modern Noise

    • Cognitive overload: Constant streams of information result in reduced focus and shallow thinking.
    • Isolation: Personal audio devices cut out community sound, leading to less social connection.
    • Physiology: Continuous background noise is linked to sustained higher levels of stress hormones and worse sleep.
    • Parallel to diet: As processed foods affect physical health, processed and relentless sound can affect mental health and hearing.
    Person with headphones on. On one side is a grey city and on the other green nature.

    For a fantastic read about soundscapes check out the aptly named book: The Soundscape by R. Murray Schafer! This book helped me understand more about how what I was hearing in my day to day life.

    Principles of Sonic Rewilding

    Rewilding sound isn’t about perfection. It’s about tipping the balance back. Here are five principles that I’ve found useful:

    1. Awareness – Notice what you’re hearing. A decibel meter app can show how loud your world is. I try to pay attention to which sounds stress me and which restore me.
    2. Silence & Fasting – Give your ears breaks, the way fasting gives your body rest. A few minutes of quiet resets my nervous system.
    3. Nature First – Seek natural sounds daily: birds, wind, water. If I can’t get outside, I’ll play high-quality nature recordings. Pink or brown noise feels gentler than harsh white noise.
    4. Intentional Consumption – Be selective with podcasts, music, and headphone use. I’ve realized I don’t need sound filling every waking moment.
    5. Communal Sound – Revalue live, human, uncompressed sound. I’ve found that conversations, live music, and rituals are the sounds that bind us together.

    Practices for Rewilding Your Sonic Life

    I think of these like a workout program for the ears—simple, repeatable practices 3–7 times per week.

    1. Sonic Awareness Drill (Daily)

    I use a free decibel meter app and check my surroundings throughout the day. Journaling what sounds stress me and what sounds give me peace has been eye-opening. Awareness is the first step.

    2. Silent Walk (2–3x per week)

    This is one of my favorites: I leave my phone at home. No music, no podcasts. Just walk.

    At first, it can feel empty. But after ten minutes, my thoughts stretch out when nothing interrupts them. My ears tune in—footsteps on gravel, birds overhead, wind shifting trees, my own breath.

    It’s fasting for the ears. Just as my body resets when given a break from constant food intake, my mind resets when my ears rest from constant chatter.

    3. Nature Immersion (3–7x per week)

    I try to spend time outdoors without headphones. Letting my ears take in the layered sound of birds, insects, moving water, or shifting air feels like a reset. When I can’t get outside, I’ll play recordings of forests, rivers, or rain. Pink or brown noise also helps mimic nature’s gentler frequencies.

    4. Layered Listening (Weekly)

    I’ll close my eyes for five minutes and map near vs. far sounds. I try to identify at least five layers. This is how our ancestors lived—ears building a mental map of the world. The practice sharpens awareness and brings calm.

    5. Headphone Reset (As Needed)

    One day a week, I skip headphones. I let my ears breathe. Earbuds are a tool, but I try not to let them become a permanent filter between me and the world.

    What’s at Stake

    Without rewilding: stress, shallow thought, disrupted sleep, and disconnection. With rewilding: clarity, presence, creativity, and peace.

    I already know how to rewild my diet, my movement, even my sleep. It’s time to rewild my ears.

    I have also found that as a composer and thinker about music, giving my ears more nature time has restored or awakened ways in which I hear music. I’d say it’s a bit like a cleanse; after some time in nature my ears feel refreshed.

    An Invitation to Listen

    The modern world isn’t going silent anytime soon. But we can create islands of sonic balance. For me, rewilding my hearing isn’t nostalgia it’s about taking control of one aspect of my health. Non-natural noises truly start to grind me down. Motorbikes passing, dump trucks rumbling, renovations being done next door…you get the idea. I am working on finding a way to give my sense of hearing a nature break away from all of that!

    In all the noise of a city, I sometimes wonder what would it mean to live in a world not just designed for what we see, but for what we hear? Everything from our houses to local ordinances….but I digress.

    I’m doing a couple practices this week; walking without my phone and sitting quietly in my yard. That’s it. Just the intention to let my ears rest. I invite you to join me.

    References

    [1] https://rewildingeurope.com/what-is-rewilding/
    [2] https://www.rewild.org/what-is-rewilding
    [3] https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/rewilding
    [4] https://www.mossy.earth/rewilding-knowledge/what-is-rewilding
    [5] https://www.rewildingbritain.org.uk/why-rewild/what-is-rewilding/an-introduction-to-rewilding/defining-rewilding
    [6] https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/12689472/
    [7] https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4456887/
    [8] https://www.scirp.org/html/4-2400003_2689.htm
    [9] https://www.mykidsvision.org/knowledge-centre/all-about-outdoor-time
    [10] https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC6878772/
    [11] https://meriden-sbroad.refocuseyedoctors.com/why-outdoor-play-matters-for-childrens-eye-health/
    [12] https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC2836417/
    [13] https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2018/04/180418144725.htm
    [14] https://rewilding.org/what-is-rewilding/

    [15] https://www.who.int/europe/news-room/fact-sheets/item/noise

    [16] https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3971384/

    [17] https://hsph.harvard.edu/news/noise-pollution-can-lead-to-sleep-issues-chronic-health-problems/

  • Why Music Means More Than Words

    Why Music Means More Than Words

    One night during college, I was in the mood to create. I lit some candles and incense and turned off the lights. I sat at my old Kimball piano and struck a single note—soft, lingering. I leaned into the body of the upright to hear the sound waves and harmonics. I was simply exploring sound. I played the same note over and over and let it ring for probably 30+ minutes before feeling like I understood something. I wasn’t working with melody, harmony, or rhythm. Just one sound and natural acoustics. And somehow, it carried something. I felt it. I was open and relaxed. This was an instant of pure communication—no language, no images, no reference point. Just sound.
    And somehow, that sound meant more than words could have.

    This raises a question: How does that work? How can something as abstract as a single pitch or music—a sequence of vibrations in air—make us feel something so real?

    During that session, I more or less wrote a piece, not so surprisingly based on the harmonic series. Here’s that piece:

    The Ladder of Abstraction

    To find an answer to this “how does music communicate?” question, I started by attempting to sketch out the main points of how communication evolves.

    At the lowest level of abstraction, we point. We hold up an object, gesture toward a thing. “This.” It’s immediate. Literal.

    Finger pointing to an apple to show levels of abstraction.

    Next, we mimic: a gesture, a sound, a face. We act out the meaning. Slightly more abstract, but still tethered to physical context.

    Person mimicking a wolf to show levels of abstraction.

    Then, we draw: a picture, a symbol, a mark. Now we’re two steps removed. We’re representing a thing, not the thing itself.

    Person drawing an image of a tree to show levels of abstraction.

    Next, language: sounds or letters assigned to represent ideas. The word “tree” is not a tree. It’s a shared code.

    Person writing the word tree to represent a tree to show levels of abstraction.

    Then come metaphors and figurative language. “Her voice is sunlight.” We’re now comparing unlike things to capture something deeper.

    "Her voice is sunlight" to show levels of abstraction.

    And finally, we arrive at music—perhaps the most abstract form of all. It doesn’t represent anything specific. It doesn’t point to an object. It rarely says what it means. And yet it moves us. Deeply. And like spoken communication, music is transitory.

    Person playing a lute to show music as a level of abstraction.

    Language is a marvel of communication. It names things, describes events, conveys thoughts. But music doesn’t name or describe—it bypasses the detour of explanation. It just is.
    And somehow, because of that, I believe it can deliver more. Music may lack a certain precision that words are able to capture, but the depth and instantaneous and more or less universal nature of sound makes up for that.

    ladder of abstraction from literal pointing to music.

    The Paradox of Musical Meaning

    This is the paradox. Music is supremely abstract—it doesn’t depict, define, or describe. And yet, it communicates. It evokes. It stirs emotions that even words can’t reach.

    If metaphor is a way to deepen meaning by making a leap—by saying, “this is like that”—then maybe music is the ultimate metaphor. Not for something else, but of experience itself.

    Where words explain, music expresses.
    Where language refers, music reveals.
    Where sentences are processed, music is felt.

    Music doesn’t need to translate feelings into language. It delivers them directly.

    The Anatomy of Sound—and Meaning

    Even within sound itself, not all elements carry the same emotional weight. If we break music down to its core components—pitch, volume, rhythm, phrasing, and form—we begin to see that some elements communicate more directly than others.

    Take timbre, the texture or color of a sound. A single note can be played by a trumpet, a violin, or a child humming—and each evokes something entirely different. The same melody sung by a mother or a stranger can feel either safe or unsettling. Timbre, perhaps more than pitch or rhythm, carries the emotional DNA of sound. It reveals the player’s touch, the instrument’s soul, even the space in which the note was born.

    This means that even a simple tone—if shaped with care—can be rich in meaning. That lingering note I once played at my piano wasn’t just a frequency. It had weight, resonance, fragility. And that’s why I felt something, even without melody or harmony.

    From there, music builds complexity: patterns of pitch, rhythm, melodic contour, harmonic tension, formal arcs. But the emotional power often starts at the bottom, in the raw material of sound—in the friction of a bow on string, the breath in a phrase, the decay of a final note.

    This layered complexity—this web of sound—is what gives music its vast expressive range. And unlike language, which often requires interpretation, these building blocks reach us before we have time to think. We just feel them. A shriek shocks us into action in a way that reading the word “alert” does not.

    The Breaking Point

    As I explored this topic I was thinking about music that becomes so abstract that it’s difficult to feel anything about it. It’s too difficult to decipher, there seems to be no emotional element tied to it…it just has people lost. So, perhaps abstraction isn’t infinite – or at least infinitely mining the depths of communication. There’s a breaking point. Lose connection with what you are trying to communicate in the music and I think you lose contact. The signal dissolves into noise with little to no communication. (To be clear, I’m not referring to “noise music” because I believe there is something that can be unlocked when listening to this genre of music.)

    I always pick on Milton Babbit, a serialist composer who wrote some music deemed “paper music”. That means it is more viable to be “read” or “imagined” in someone’s head through their eyes rather than played (though challenging, the music is playable! See the clip below). If the music is only “heard” in one’s head, I actually think this takes a step back on the abstraction level because now it is experienced through reading (like text) not sonically. This is for sure more abstract than language, but perhaps not as abstract as sound. Though, as a music theorist, Babbit’s music may be intellectually interesting I think it pushes abstraction to a point where most people find it difficult to sit through.

    This can happen in literature and language as well. The texts get pushed too far and so specialized or obscure they isolate rather than connect. Visual art pushed too far can become so minimal or chaotic it no longer invites engagement.

    So where is the line? Why does one abstract phrase crack open our hearts, while another falls flat?

    The answer, I believe, lies in balance.

    The Sweet Spot

    If your goal as an artist or creator is to communicate something about humanity or the universe then I believe somewhere between the literal and the unintelligible is a sweet spot. It’s where communication becomes not just functional, but meaningful. Where metaphor resonates. Where a melody breaks your heart. Where a single word—”home,” “forgive,” “stay”—lands with the weight of a life behind it.

    In this space, abstraction works not because it obscures reality, but because it distills it. It removes the clutter of specifics to make room for the universal. It gives the listener space to bring their own story to the moment.

    I’ve come to believe this is where music lives.
    It doesn’t need to say what it means.
    It creates a space where meaning can emerge—personal, unspoken, true.

    That’s why music often means more than words—because it doesn’t talk about the feeling. It is the feeling.

    This is especially true when we give ourselves permission to listen openly to what is offered, rather than bringing judgment.

    Other Realms of Abstraction

    This pattern—of deeper meaning emerging through more abstraction—shows up in other domains too. In mathematics, for instance, abstraction doesn’t reduce clarity; it deepens it. As equations grow more abstract—imaginary numbers, non-Euclidean geometry, quantum mechanics—they often probe closer to the hidden structures of reality. The abstraction helps us touch truths we can’t see.

    In spirituality, symbols and rituals gain power not because they are literal, but because they point beyond themselves—to ideas and feelings too vast for words.

    Abstraction, done well, isn’t an escape from the real. It’s a doorway into it.

    Final Thoughts…For Now

    Abstraction, when skillfully used, is not a detour away from meaning. It’s a path into the interior—into what cannot be said directly. But only when there’s enough shared context, enough human resonance, to make the leap.

    Strip away too little, and you say nothing new. Strip away too much, and you say nothing at all. But hit the right note—the right word, the right tone—and you don’t just communicate. You connect.

    Each communication method has its time and place. If you want to point out which fruit to pick, you probably don’t want to communicate that via a novel or concerto – just point! I’m not saying music is the “best” form of communication, but what I’m saying is:

    Music, in all its abstraction, finds the space between language and emotion.
    And in that space, it often says what words cannot.

    That’s the art.
    That’s why music means more than words.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

  • Listening Is the Work: Why attention, not control, is the heart of real creativity.

    Listening Is the Work: Why attention, not control, is the heart of real creativity.

    Rick Rubin, the illustrious music producer, said something in an interview that’s been echoing in my head.

    He was talking with Rick Beato about drum sounds—what records have the best ones, which ones he loves. Rubin answered, “AC/DC.” Then he paused. He said that early in his career, he would try to recreate the sounds he loved. Try to make his mixes sound like the records that inspired him. But over time, he learned that the best results didn’t come from copying. They came from getting the best sound out of what you have—the gear, the room, the player, the moment.

    My take away? “Don’t chase someone else’s success, listen to what you’ve got.”

    I thought: that’s it. That’s the lesson. Not just for music. For everything?

    I. The False Hero of Imitation

    When I was younger—as a composer, a writer—I spent a lot of time trying to shape things. I’d chase a sound I admired. I’d read someone else’s prose and try to force mine to hit that same tone. I’d sit down to write music and try to make it feel like Radiohead or Bartok.

    Now, I’m a parent of two young boys and I’m seeing similar trends in my parenting. Like most parents, I have ideas about who my sons could become if I just guide them right—if I just do enough shaping. If I can pull the right strings, play the right notes, they’ll turn out brilliant, kind, accomplished.

    But here’s the thing.

    I think Rick Rubin is right. Forcing my sons into someone else’s ideas of success or whatever will not bring out the best in them. I need to listen to who my sons are so I can help support and guide them but not mold them. In fact, the same goes for myself!

    II. The Back-and-Forth of Creation

    What Rubin reminded me is that creation is not a solo act even when done alone. It’s a dialogue. Whether you’re producing music, raising kids, or trying to write a decent sentence, the material has a voice of its own. And it doesn’t always want to say what you want it to.

    The turning point—for me—was learning to listen.

    Listen to the music I was writing. Listen to the rough sketch that wasn’t working, and instead of beating it into submission, ask it what it wants to be. Listen to the flaws in the sound and lean into them—maybe that imperfection is the point.

    There have been countless times when playing or writing music with more openness and diminishing myself reveals the best path forward for the music. I don’t think I have ever been able to analytically compose music that works better than if I just drop my expectations and simply allow the music to move where it wants.

    And I think this same technique is applicable to relationships and parenting. I need to listen to my sons. Really listen like I do when I’m trying to feel a direction in a single note or chord. Not just “observe their interests” but tune in to who they are, what lights them up, how they move through the world. Not to mold them. Not to fix them. Just to understand them. Because if I can do that, my job shifts from shaping to guiding. And guidance without commands is quieter, but it’s so much more powerful.

    III. The Better Way

    Rubin’s lesson isn’t about lowering the bar. It’s not “use what you’ve got” as in “settle.” It’s about depth over replication. About pulling the most vivid, specific, surprising thing out of your material—because you listened.

    In music, it means stop trying to sound like your heroes. Start learning the nuances of your own setup—your instruments, your limitations, your ear.

    In writing, it means stop trying to sound like someone else. Start finding what only I can say, in the way only I can say it.

    In parenting, it means stop trying to raise an idealized version of what I perceive as successful or great. Start becoming a better listener to the real human right in front of me.

    IV. Letting the Work Speak

    Somewhere along the way, I realized: I’m not in control of the music. I’m in conversation with it. The work, the child, the composition—they all have something to say. I can bring my craft, my experience, my voice. But I can’t force the outcome. I can guide, encourage, challenge, spark, but I don’t think I should attempt to force an unnatural shape or sound or human.

    And honestly, when I step back and listen, what comes through is always more interesting and almost always better than what I was trying to force in.

    So now, whenever I’m stuck—whether at the piano, on the page, or at the dinner table—I’m going to try to remember Rubin’s quiet wisdom.

    Don’t chase the sound you admire. Don’t try to control the output.
    Listen to what’s already here. Work with it. Help it shine.

    That’s when things start to sing.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

  • No Solo, No Self: Music as an Expression of Buddhist Values

    No Solo, No Self: Music as an Expression of Buddhist Values

    Buddhism has always had a complicated relationship with music. In early Buddhist texts, the Buddha warned that music could pull people away from mindfulness and clarity. It could stir emotions and cravings. But even with that warning, sound still plays a role in Buddhist practice. I’ll focus primarily on Theravada Buddhism since that is where most of my first hand experience has been. Just a note that Theravada Buddhism is primarily found across Thailand, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Laos, and Cambodia.

    To start, Theravada chanting doesn’t sound like most of the music people are used to. There are no catchy tunes, no solos, and no one voice standing out. If you walk into a forest temple or attend a morning chant at a local wat (temple), you’ll hear a group of people chanting together in a slow, almost flat tone. Everyone blends in. At first, it may sound dull or plain. But after spending time with it, I began to hear something deeper: the values of Buddhism expressed in sound—things like simplicity, humility, and letting go of the self.

    This essay is a reflection on how listening to Theravada chanting has changed how I think about music and the values it carries. Because the more I paid attention, the more I realized that music isn’t just about sound—or rather, music is just about sound but those sounds hold and convey a wealth of information about the people who make it and the culture they live in.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

    Theravāda Buddhism: Simplicity in Sound

    Theravada Buddhism is known for its focus on discipline and staying close to the original teachings of the Buddha. Despite ornate temples and giant statues of Buddha, the Theravada sect does not try to be flashy or new. The goal is to keep things simple and clear so the mind can stay focused. How well practitioners carry out these teachings is another story.

    Chanting Together, Not to Impress

    In Theravada temples, chanting is not about performing. It’s about practicing together. The chants—like Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Samma Sambuddhassa—are usually in Pali, an ancient language that is closely related to the language used by the Buddha. Monks and laypeople chant them in unison. The rhythm is steady and the pitch doesn’t change much.

    This is done on purpose. The chants aren’t meant to entertain or impress. They help people remember the teachings and stay focused. Everyone chants the same way, at the same time. No one stands out.

    Instruments Are Rare

    Sometimes, you might hear a bell or a gong during a ceremony. A drum might mark the beginning of a ritual. But musical instruments are not the main focus. They’re used very simply—to mark time or show that something is starting or ending.

    When I first went to Buddhist ceremonies in Thailand, I expected more music. I thought there would be songs or some kind of performance. But instead, I found a kind of stillness beneath the chanting. During funerals, when people are emotional, the chanting creates a peaceful background. It reminds everyone that this is not a show—it’s an opportunity to practice.

    Music That Teaches Values

    Theravada chanting does more than reflect Buddhist philosophy—it’s also a practice that helps cultivate it. Chanting together, especially ancient texts like the “suffusion with the divine abidings,” offers a direct experience of values like loving-kindness, compassion, and shared presence. These aren’t abstract concepts when chanted—they become something you feel in the body and hear in your voice.

    Ajahn Kovilo from Clear Mountain Monastery Project, describes this kind of chanting as a way to connect to a noble lineage. Many of the chants used today, including the refuge chant and those rooted in loving-kindness, go back to the Buddha himself. When we chant them, we’re not just repeating words—we’re joining a current that flows through centuries of practitioners. There’s a grounding in that—a reminder that these teachings are not just ideas, but lived experiences.

    The simplicity of the musical form supports this. No solos. No harmony. No competition. Just a collective voice moving through sacred phrases together. That structure prevents the kind of ego-inflation that solo singing might invite. In fact, monastics have specific rules against musical performance, partly to avoid the traps of pride, vanity, or infatuation with the sound of one’s own voice—or someone else’s. This is completely opposite to the currents of Individualism in most modern music. Here’s an article I wrote exploring the value of Individualism in music: Who Gets the Solo: How Music Reflects—and Reinforces—Individualism

    But chanting isn’t just an ethical guardrail—it’s also a path to joy. The Buddha didn’t just teach about suffering; he taught about happiness. A wiser, more subtle kind of happiness. Chanting can open the door to that happiness—not the excitement of a catchy tune, but the slow, steady happiness that comes from being grounded, embodied, and present.

    Physically, chanting brings awareness into the body. You feel it in your belly, your lungs, your throat, your mouth. It’s not just mental recitation. It’s full-bodied attention. Ajahn Kovilo talks about how this kind of chanting brings the mind into a bigger, more spacious state—like the heart opening wider than the body. It’s not imagination. It’s a different way of being with sound.

    And this leads to a useful question: how do we know if a spiritual practice is working? Ajahn Kovilo offers a simple test—does it give rise to wholesome states of mind? Does it make the heart feel bigger, brighter, more loving? If a practice leads to mental contraction, judgment, or superiority, maybe it’s time to reevaluate. But if it leads to humility, peace, and goodwill, even when done imperfectly or out of habit, it may be doing something important.

    The way Theravada chanting works is a good example of what Buddhism teaches. In Buddhism, there’s the idea that there is no self. If that’s true, then why would music focus on one person or a soloist?

    There are no stars in Theravāda chanting. No solos. No show-off moments. Everyone is equal. This is a kind of teaching in itself. It reminds us that the path to awakening is not about standing out—it’s about being present with others.

    This is very different from the music I grew up listening to. In pop and classical music, we often celebrate the lead singer or the main performer. That music lifts up the individual. It’s about expression and achievement. I still enjoy a lot of that music—but I now understand that it carries certain cultural values.

    Theravada chanting invites us to think about sound in a completely different way. The Buddha himself understood how powerful music could be—so much so that he cautioned his followers about it. Before he was enlightened, it’s said that he played the flute, which makes his later warnings even more interesting. His concern wasn’t that sound is inherently bad, but that it has the potential to stir emotions, create attachments, and pull the mind away from the calm clarity of mindfulness. In a world filled with stimulation, this kind of attention to sound feels especially relevant.

    Chanting, in this case, becomes a kind of mindful sound. It helps remind us of Buddhist ideas: that peace comes from simplicity, not from getting more; that we should focus on the group, not the ego; and that practicing the same thing every day can be more meaningful than always seeking something new.

    Space Between Is Part of the Music

    Even the quiet moments between chants are meaningful. In Western music, silence is usually just the break between songs. But in Theravāda chanting, silence is part of the whole experience. It’s a chance to come back to the breath and to reset the mind.

    I’ve been to many Buddhist funerals in Thailand. They’re often held in open-air halls or temple pavilions. The chairs are simple plastic ones, and it’s usually hot—sometimes uncomfortably so. Sometimes there’s a sound system that’s always set too loud and at other times there’s no amplification. I was surprised to find there were no eulogies and no performances. What you hear is the soft murmur of a community chanting together, with long spaces of gentle chatter in between.

    I remember one funeral in particular, where the only sound for long stretches was the turning of fans and the rhythm of breath. The chanting came in waves, steady and soft. I found myself meditating—not because I planned to, but because the environment made it almost inevitable. My mind settled. There was nothing to analyze, no voice pulling my attention. It was one of the clearest and most grounded experiences I’ve had.

    That’s the power of sound when it doesn’t try to impress. It holds space, quietly and humbly. It invites us to be present—not with drama, but with stillness.

    And in that way, it teaches humility, patience, and the value of community.

    A Final Note

    I’m not saying we should give up other kinds of music. I still listen to songs with solos, big emotions, and beautiful melodies. But since listening to chant with this different value set, I’ve started to ask different questions about all music.

    • What values does this sound carry?
    • Is it asking me to be the center of attention—or to be present with others?
    • Is it about being brilliant—or about being balanced?

    Theravada chanting doesn’t just sound different. It feels different.

    It invites me to soften, to settle, and to participate.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

  • Who Gets the Solo?

    Who Gets the Solo?

    How Music Reflects—and Reinforces—Individualism

    At some point in history, the melody became the main character in Western music. Since then, we’ve rarely looked back.

    Walk into almost any concert in the Western world (or globally!)—whether a stadium show or a quiet coffee shop—and you’ll likely see the same thing: one person leads the music while others back them up. The lead singer or instrument carries the melody, and everything else supports.

    That might seem normal now, but it hasn’t always been that way. The rise of melody—especially as a single, standout voice—goes hand in hand with Western culture’s emphasis on individualism, personal expression, and stardom. I believe that over time, this way of organizing music has played a role in shaping how we experience life: less together, more alone.

    Foundations of Voice and Community

    The earliest Western thinkers placed a high value on community over individual expression. Ancient Greek philosophers like Aristotle and Plato believed that humans could only thrive as part of a society. The city-state (or polis) was seen as the natural home for the individual, and a good life was one lived in harmony with others. Obedience to shared laws and customs was essential, and even the pursuit of personal virtue or wisdom was always considered in relation to one’s place in the community.

    This communal mindset underpinned many aspects of Western life—including music. And yet, over time, the focus shifted. Gradually, the individual voice rose to the top, literally and metaphorically.

    Why Does Melody Stand Out?

    Melody stands out because of how our ears work. It usually sits higher in pitch—meaning faster vibrations—and has a brighter or more noticeable sound. It might also be louder or more rhythmically active. Our brains naturally latch onto it.

    In Western musical notation, melody is literally written on top. It’s the voice we’re trained to follow. The harmony or accompaniment is placed below, visually reinforcing its supportive role.

    Even the law mirrors this distinction. Melodies can be copyrighted, but chord progressions usually can’t. That’s because melodies are considered original and identifiable, while chord patterns are seen as basic building blocks.

    So what does it say that we focus so much on the melody? Do we value leaders over teams? Visibility over support? And how does this shape our deeper beliefs about what matters in life?

    From Chant to Soloist: A Quick History of the Lead Voice

    In medieval Europe, the most common music was Gregorian chant. These were simple, single-line melodies sung together in churches. There was rarely harmony (octaves and perhaps some 5ths) or accompaniment. The goal was to focus the mind on God, not on any individual singer.

    16th century manuscript. Notice some diad (two-note) harmony.

    These chants were performed by groups for parishioners and God in vast stone cathedrals. The acoustics blurred individual voices into a single, “spiritual” sound. Music was something people experienced collectively, not a platform for personal talent.

    During the Renaissance, music became more complex. Composers wrote polyphony—multiple melodies happening at once. Each voice had a role, but none stood out more than the others. It was like a conversation among equals.

    In the Baroque period (1600s), things shifted again. A new style emerged: one melody supported by harmony. This “melody with accompaniment” structure felt clearer, more emotional, and more dramatic.

    This musical change echoed what was happening in society. Monarchs like Louis XIV of France and Peter the Great of Russia were consolidating power. Just as society revolved around the king, music began to revolve around a single lead voice.

    By the Classical and Romantic periods, melody was full of personal expression. It wasn’t just music—it was storytelling, often conveying deeply personal experiences through lyrics and musical devices. The story of the composer also added to the listener’s experience. This deeper focus on the creator and performer—not just the musical construction—reflected the growing importance of the individual in Western culture.

    Stars of the Stage: How the Soloist Took Over

    In the 1700s and 1800s, soloists became celebrities. Opera stars like Farinelli and Maria Malibran drew huge audiences. Their dramatic arias were the hit songs of their time. People didn’t just go to hear music—they went to see the star.

    Niccolò Paganini, a 19th-century violinist, became a household name across Europe. His concerts sold out, his ticket prices soared, and his technical brilliance and wild persona captivated the public. He was the first true “celebrity performer,” with a cultural impact and media frenzy that rivaled modern figures like the Beatles or Jimi Hendrix.

    A fun recreation of a Paganini performance.

    This shift wasn’t just about musical taste. It made economic sense. It’s easier and cheaper to promote one person than a whole group. One name, one face, one story. The rest of the musicians faded into the background.

    And this trend hasn’t slowed down—it’s only grown. Look at the top 20 most-streamed artists on Spotify today. Only two are bands—Coldplay and Maroon 5—both formed in the 1990s! Even those groups are centered around prominent lead singers. The rest? All solo artists.

    What’s being rewarded is individuality. Why share the spotlight (or the paycheck) when one person can do it all?

    The soloist is no longer just a musical role—it’s a business model.

    Side note: just image where this leads when AI makes it so that we don’t even need a human singer or performer anymore! Music went from groups to soloists and may be going to AI.

    When the Soloist Goes Global

    This soloist-centered model didn’t stay in the West. Thanks to media, colonization, and globalization, it spread around the world. Not that the Western music tradition is the only one to hold up the melody and hence star performers, but it is for sure the most widespread.

    Take Thailand. Traditional Thai music—like piphat ensembles—is based on heterophony. Everyone plays the same melody but adds their own ornamentation. No single voice leads. The sound is layered and communal. Of course, there were virtuoso Thai performers, but the music itself was not centered on a singled-out melody. As a result, virtuosos were viewed more as part of the group rather than elevated above it.

    As Western pop music arrived—through records, radio, and film—the idea of the soloist and “star” took root. Over time, Thai pop began to resemble Western pop: clear stars, solo branding, and lead singers front and center.

    The horizontal, group-based style of traditional ensembles still exists, but in terms of cultural influence, it has taken a backseat to a vertical structure: the star above, the band below.

    From Cathedrals to Earbuds: Music Gets Personal

    Now it’s not just the music that’s solo—it’s the listener too.

    A hundred years ago, music was heard in community: at church, in concert halls, or at home with family. Today, we listen through headphones, alone. The songs are personalized by algorithm or mood.

    There’s no shared space, no acoustics to shape the sound. Just a soloist in your ears.

    As artist Brian Eno said, “Music used to be something people did. Now it’s something they consume.”

    Melody led to soloists. Soloists became stars. Now those stars sing directly to each of us. The more music has centered around the individual, the more our listening habits have tended towards isolation..

    So Who Gets the Solo—And What About the Rest?

    There’s a cost to always focusing on the melody. If we’re taught to connect only with the standout voice, what happens when we’re not the one singing? What if we’re the background? Or worse, not heard at all?

    Melody teaches us that importance equals prominence. Being in front means being heard. That the supporting roles don’t matter as much.

    But maybe that’s not true.

    Maybe the melody only makes sense because of the harmony that surrounds it. Maybe the background holds just as much meaning. Whether the accompaniment is just as important or not, it is the melody (the individual) that is valued. The backing band can change and no one will notice. But remember, it doesn’t have to be this way. There are other musical traditions that don’t place the same sort of extreme value on the lead individual. In some traditions there is no leader and perhaps no melody.

    A Final Reflection

    I believe sounds matter. They are primal elements of what it means to exist in this universe. We are vibrating beings—so perhaps we should take music seriously as a way to understand ourselves.

    By elevating the melody, and with it the individual, what kind of values are we committing to? What kind of people have we become by constantly praising the solo voice?

    Are we all trying to be soloists without an ensemble? Probably because we were/are raised that way and society guides us down this path. We leave our families to make our mark. We want to be famous, to be wealthy. We want to rise above the crowd. But often, we’re left alone—neither rich nor recognized—just isolated, struggling, and quietly aching. When our culture’s highest value is the heroic individual, what happens to the 99.99% of us who don’t reach that ideal? Shame. Frustration. Emptiness. Not the kind that opens into insight, but the kind that hardens into loneliness and despair.

    I propose we begin to temper our glorification of the melody. Let’s seek out music—and communities—that don’t place one performer on a pedestal. This shift won’t change our values overnight, nor am I suggesting we eliminate melody altogether. But if we can bring a bit more balance to our musical lives, perhaps we can nudge our values away from the worship of the exceptional individual, and toward a deeper appreciation of the ensemble—the many voices that make life rich, connected, and whole.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

  • When Music Loses Its Maker: AI, Intent, and the Efficiency Illusion

    When Music Loses Its Maker: AI, Intent, and the Efficiency Illusion

    "When Music Loses Its Maker"

    I. What Do I Really Think About AI and Music?

    What do I have to say?
    What do I feel?

    This is not a technical breakdown of AI tools or a hot take about copyright. This is about something deeper—something that starts in the gut, not the brain.

    Because when I think about AI creating music, I feel that something important will be lost. And I think that matters. Not just for me, but for anyone who’s ever found healing or connection through sound. If music is a human-to-human and an internal self communication, what happens when one side of that equation is missing? In my opinion, nothing good.

    II. The Thing About Music

    Music is powerful for its instantaneous effects on our bodies and minds. The timbre of sound is perhaps the most fast acting on our brains (read more about the incredible power of timbre here). You know this already. You’ve felt it. A single chord, a certain harmony, a rhythm—suddenly your body changes, your emotions shift. It’s an ancient primal evolved trait.

    But music is also powerful in another way.
    It’s communication. Not just sound—it’s someone saying something.
    It’s humanity captured in vibrations.

    There’s intent. Someone created this music in a specific moment for a reason. Maybe they couldn’t say it out loud, maybe they didn’t even fully understand it, but it mattered enough to make.

    And I believe that intent matters.

    Permit a short digression:

    All that we are is the result of what we have thought: it is founded on our thoughts and made up of our thoughts.
    This Buddhist verse underscores how intention and choices shape our being and experience.

    Intent changes everything. That’s why there’s a different punishment for murder and manslaughter…same result, but different intent. Humans rely on intent and it is a crucial part of our lives and that’s why it’s important to music.

    III. So What Happens When There’s No Intent?

    With AI-generated music, you lose intention.
    Yes, the music can sound amazing (same results). In fact, it’s wild how good AI already is.

    But here’s what we want to believe AI can’t do in the realm of music:

    1. Human-to-Human Communication
      AI music isn’t a message from one person to another. It’s not someone reaching out, needing to say something. But I readily admit a strange thing—listeners may not care. We’re really good at filling in the blanks. Our minds may simply fill in a “person” behind the sound even when we know it’s just code.

    Perhaps we’ll reason, “Well, it was trained on love songs, and songs about loss and pain so in some way doesn’t the AI understand heartbreak?”
    No. Current AI doesn’t “understand”. But it will mimic our own behavior back to us so convincingly that we will believe AI has had its non-existent heart broken. I think that despite the fundamental hollowness of the music, many people will connect with it anyway.

    1. Creativity and Ingenuity? Sort of.
      AI can replicate creativity. It can blend genres, write counterpoint, generate catchy hooks. It can even “innovate” by mashing together influences in ways no human thought to.
      But let’s not confuse novel output with lived inspiration.
    2. Live Performances? Why Not.
      You could have a robot on stage. AI could design an incredible light show with holograms or screens. AI could build an AI avatar that performs better than a tired, jet-lagged human.
      It might even be more compelling than most concerts.
      That’s not science fiction anymore.
    3. Fan Connection and Experience, But Scaled
      AI artists could communicate with fans at scale. Every fan could have a “personal” relationship with the music. Imagine an AI that remembers your preferences, responds to your DMs, gives you a custom version of every album.
      A real human can’t do that. An AI can.

    So yeah—maybe AI has the upper hand.

    It’s cheap. It’s fast. It’s scalable.
    But could this be its weakness?

    IV. When Art Becomes Too Easy

    AI music may collapse under its own weight.
    Because it’s not just that AI can make music—it’s that it can make millions of songs. On demand. At the click of a button.

    Already, there are an estimated 43 million tracks added to streaming services every year. That’s over 120,000 new tracks per day. AI will blow past that number like it’s nothing.

    We’re heading toward a flood. And in a flood, nothing feels precious.
    We’ll drown in music.

    And the paradox is this: The more music AI creates, the more some people will crave something real. A face they can talk to after the show. A body that made mistakes. A human.

    V. AI Copies Faster Than We Can Live

    Here’s a darker thought: as human musicians innovate—capturing the sounds, emotions, and tensions of their geography, politics, social dynamics, intimate and macro events, their relationships—AI will be watching. Listening. Learning.

    A human might spend months writing a song after years of practice and effort honing their craft that reflects their reality.
    AI will absorb that music and add it to its 120,000 data points that day and turn around churn out countless copycats in a day.

    It won’t just be a few songs that sound similar to that original piece of true work from a musician—it will be an onslaught.
    You create, and within hours, your art is assimilated into the machine and redistributed, optimized for virality. Faster than you can finish your next track.

    What does “trendsetting” even mean when the system can outpace the trend before it’s a week old?

    VI. AI Has No Conviction

    No matter how feverishly someone types the prompt, there’s no conviction in AI music.
    No “do or die” feeling. No risk. No sense that this song had to exist or the artist might’ve exploded.

    There’s no struggle.
    And maybe that’s the real line in the sand.

    Yes, AI can mimic imperfections. It can insert tempo fluctuations, add vinyl hiss, even “forget” a lyric. But it’s just style.
    It doesn’t care. It can’t.

    For many audiences, that won’t matter. They’ll get their dopamine hit. They’ll move on.
    But for others, the absence will be deafening.

    VII. We Already Live Artificial Lives—Now We Want Artificial Art Too

    Let’s be honest.
    We already live in highly artificial environments.
    Air-conditioned and heated, algorithm-curated, filtered, optimized, isolated.

    Music may just be another step in this march towards artificial and away from how humans evolved.

    I see this it’s affecting me, affecting us. Mental health is declining. Speaking from my observations, we are feeling more disconnected than ever. We’re already living lives decoupled from how we evolved—and now we’re decoupling our art too.

    We are the experiment. And the results don’t look great.

    VIII. AI-Everything Is Coming—Unless We Stop Worshipping Efficiency

    Music. Work. Relationships. Beliefs.
    All mediated, filtered, managed by AI.

    Why?

    Because it’s efficient.

    It’s more efficient to click a button than to play an instrument.
    More efficient to let an algorithm find you love than take a risk of going out.
    More efficient to have an AI decide what you value.

    But efficiency is not a virtue.
    And if it becomes our north star, we will get lost.

    IX. What We Might Still Have

    There will always be some who want the real thing.
    Real food. Real conversations. Real art. Real struggle.

    But what happens when an entire generation grows up in a world where the artificial is normal, even preferable?
    Where the idea of a flawed, unpredictable, sweaty artist seems strange?

    I don’t hate AI. I’m not a Luddite.
    But I do think we’re at a crossroads.
    And I do think we need a new set of values.

    Because right now, efficiency equals good.
    I reject that.


    I think that the hard way—the slower, messier, more human way—might just be the one worth keeping.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

  • Not Yet, Not Gone: Suspensions in Music and Life

    Not Yet, Not Gone: Suspensions in Music and Life

    A suspension is a point of potential that is followed by a result that causes redefinition of what led up to the suspension and resolution. For example a series of tonic chords don’t demand reinterpretation, but put a dominant leading to the dominant with a suspension and now those repeated tonic chords take on new meaning. It’s where/how a suspension resolves that can reshape the past and setup expectations for the future – perhaps more than other musical devices.

    A musical suspension is a stretch of sound—a note that lingers, that clings to the previous intention with the fragile grip of a spider’s thread. A suspension exists not as a question, but as the space where questions are born, where tension rises and falls but does not yet break – that’s the resolution. Suspense is a mandatory part of music and life. Even monotony or silence or non-action have their own suspense that will eventually resolve.

    In music, the suspension is a tool of tension. A 4-3 suspension, or a 7-6—these are numbers that speak of dissonance and resolution, of sound that twists and shifts and finally lands. Or doesn’t. Because a suspension does not always “resolve” to anything expected. Sometimes it lingers, its edges fraying into silence or folding into a diminished chord that resolves nothing at all. And yet, whether it lands or lingers, whether it settles or disappears, the suspension gives meaning to what came before and to what follows after.

    Life is full of suspensions. A breath caught before an answer. The quiet seconds after a question has been asked but before it has been met. The anticipation of footsteps approaching—a lover, or a stranger, or an answer in their hand. In these moments, we live fully, suspended not just in time but in the possibilities that time holds. These are the intervals where the world waits for itself to become something else. And we, like that note, are caught in the act of transformation many times unsure of where we will land.

    What makes the suspension so powerful is not just the tension it holds but the way it resolves—or refuses to resolve. A major chord following a 4-3 feels inevitable, even comforting. It tells us that everything we worried over was unnecessary because the suspension resolved to a place of comfort. A minor resolution feels bittersweet, as though the tension was necessary but could not help leaving a shadow behind. A diminished or augmented (or any “unstable” chord) chord—sharp-edged, unresolved—takes the suspension and reframes it, leaving it neither here nor there. In music, this can be thrilling. In life, it can leave scars.

    Suspensions have a way of rewriting themselves. If they resolve well—if the answer is kind, if the waiting was worth it—we look back on the tension as purposeful, even beautiful. The anxiety we felt is reframed as a necessary part of the journey. But if the resolution falters, if the answer is unkind, the suspension twists in memory. What was once anticipation becomes dread, confirmed and eternal.

    But a suspension’s true power is in its impermanence. It is not meant to last, and it never does. Even unresolved suspensions—those that refuse to settle—fade in time. There are many pieces of music that begin and end with a kind of unease, perhaps not a traditional 4-3 suspension or anything but it is suspense. Think of Penderecki’s Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima! This piece is pure unyielding suspense. But even a piece this infused with suspense must fall –  the piece end. The music concludes and other sounds take its place. And so must we.

    Not all suspensions are grand. Some flicker by unnoticed, like the dissonance in passing tones that resolve before we have time to feel them. Others stretch for measures, pulling the listener into their web, the weight of them almost unbearable. The same is true of life. The brief hesitations—a glance, a pause, a decision left hanging—pass without leaving a mark. But the long ones, the years spent waiting, searching, wondering—these are the suspensions that carve into us, that change the shape of who we are.

    There is a symmetry in the suspension. It begins with tension, and it ends—sometimes quietly, sometimes abruptly—with release. But what comes in between is not a void. It is not silence. It is a fullness, a potential. To be suspended is to be stretched, to exist in a state of possibility, not yet one thing or another but both at once. This is why we remember them. This is why we hold them close.

    Western music depends on the suspension, but not all traditions see it the same way. In Indian classical music, tension grows not from dissonance but from cycles—melodic and rhythmic—turning over and over, each return to the tonic a kind of resolution. Javanese gamelan stretches time itself, the resolution found not in chords but in layers of sound dissolving into one another. What feels fraught to one listener might pass unnoticed to another, just as what feels urgent in one life might barely register in another.

    The performer holds the suspension. They shape its tension, its weight, its promise. A violinist must stretch the bow just so, neither too much nor too little, for the note to hold its fragile dissonance. A pianist must feel the keys without crushing them, letting the sound ring and resolve. A life suspended is much the same. We hold what we cannot control. We shape what we cannot see. We trust that what comes next will give meaning to what is now.

    Yet even resolutions are temporary. A suspension resolves into a chord that resolves into another chord, and on it goes. The music moves. The questions change. Stability is not the end but a way station, a pause in the motion, and then the motion begins again. This is the nature of life: to be suspended, to resolve, to be suspended once more.

    The beauty of the suspension lies not in its tension, not in its resolution, but in its existence. It is the moment when the music, life, holds its breath, the moment when possibility blooms. It is not a pause, and it is not an end. It is what carries us forward and comments on the past.

    Suspension is the stretch. Suspension is the weight. Suspension is the thread that holds, for a moment, all that might be. And when it lets go, when it resolves or dissolves or disappears, it does not leave us empty. It leaves us with a living life and living music.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound

  • The Quiet End: Piano, Pianissimo, and Listening

    The Quiet End: Piano, Pianissimo, and Listening

    There is a sound that exists at the edge of silence. It is not absence but presence, a fragile vibration that seems to hover just beyond reach. To hear it, you must lean in—not just with your ears but with your whole being, as though the act of listening itself could amplify its existence. This is piano—not merely a soft dynamic in music, but an invitation into an intimate and deliberate act of attention.

    The quietness of piano is not timid. It does not shrink or hesitate. Instead, it draws you in, commanding not through force but through trust. It is the composer trusting that softness has something profound to say, the performer trusting in their ability to shape sound so delicately, and the audience trusting that what they hear will be worth the effort of leaning forward, of quieting their own noise to receive it.

    To write piano into a piece of music is an act of bravery. It asks the performer to make themselves small, to resist the safety of volume and instead offer the barest vibration of sound. It asks the audience to meet that sound halfway, to leave behind the distractions of the world and truly listen. It is not a dynamic of ease. It is a dynamic of trust—a shared vulnerability between composer, performer, and listener.

    And yet, in its softness, piano holds a kind of power that cannot be matched by louder sounds. It is the power of presence, of intimacy, of connection. To perform or hear piano is to experience sound at its most delicate and human. It is to step into a space where every note, every nuance, every breath carries meaning. This is the quiet end of the dynamic spectrum, a place where music ceases to be a backdrop and becomes an encounter—if you let it.

    The Performer’s Challenge: Bravery in Quiet

    For the performer, playing piano is one of the greatest tests of their artistry. It is far easier, on most instruments, to produce a beautiful tone at forte. Loudness can mask imperfections, allowing the player to rely on the sheer power of volume to carry the sound. But piano demands a different kind of mastery—a careful balance of control, technique, and emotional commitment.

    On a violin, playing softly requires precision in bowing. The slightest inconsistency in pressure or angle can cause the note to falter, its tone becoming thin or uneven. A woodwind player must shape their breath with painstaking care to produce a soft, clear sound that does not break or lose resonance. On the piano, the touch must be light yet intentional, each note placed with exactness to maintain its clarity within the delicate dynamic.

    This precision is perhaps nowhere more evident than in the works of composers like Anton Webern. Webern’s music, characterized by its brevity and sparseness, often relies on pianissimo and quieter effects to create its hauntingly intimate soundscapes. In his Five Pieces for String Quartet, for example, the soft dynamics are not merely an embellishment but the core of the music’s expressive language. The performers are tasked with crafting sound so fragile that it seems to dissolve into the silence it emerges from. Here, the boundary between sound and silence blurs, demanding not only technical precision but also profound emotional sensitivity.

    Webern’s music exemplifies the power of quiet to communicate depth. It also underscores the bravery required of both composer and performer: the composer trusting that these delicate gestures will speak, the performer trusting their skill to bring those gestures to life, and the audience trusting in the experience of opening up to quiet music.

    The challenge is not merely technical. Piano dynamics also expose the performer in a way that forte does not. Every note at piano is bare, vulnerable, and open to scrutiny. There is no wall of sound to hide behind, no dramatic flourish to distract from the smallest imperfections. Similarly, as a composer forte can be a great way to hide. The loud dynamics overwhelm the listener and force an impression upon them, which can be useful and powerful in its own right, but writing at the volume of forte is a completely different craft than writing at the volume of piano.

    The Quiet of Nature and Human Nature

    Let’s take a step away from the artificial dynamics. Out in the wilderness, far from the hum of electricity and the grind of traffic, the world moves softly. The rustle of leaves, the distant chirp of crickets, the trickle of a stream—these are not rare sounds, nor rare places. The world beyond human sonic pollution is vast, its expanse far greater than our cities and machines. It is humans who cluster in noise, who live in the loudness of their own making. And when we step out of these clusters, when we remove ourselves from the hum of our constructed world, we are reminded of a simple truth: the world is much bigger than us, personally and as a species, and far quieter.

    In this greater world, nature speaks in piano. Most of its voice is subdued, subtle, full of nuance. The great crashing forte moments—thunderstorms, avalanches, hurricanes—are rare, and when they come, they carry weight, meaning, and often danger. But nature’s default is gentleness: the wind through the trees, the soft movement of water, the muted padding of an animal on a forest floor. This is the soundscape humans evolved within, a soundscape that rewards listening with care and attention.

    When we sit in a concert hall and the performers dare to play at the edge of silence, they are reconnecting us to that larger, quieter world. The piano and pianissimo dynamics do not mimic the loudness of our urban lives; instead, they call us out of them. They ask us to remember the calm spaces beyond the city, the places where our ears evolved to attune to softness, where the quiet holds the richness of life itself.

    The Cleansing Power of Quiet

    I was reminded of this during an acoustic performance by Ludovico Einaudi. As I entered the concert hall, I noticed something unusual: there were no microphones, no visible speakers. It was an entirely unamplified performance. At first, I was surprised. I was so used to concerts being mediated by technology, the sound projected and balanced through microphones, wires, and speakers. But here, it was just the instruments and the room. The directness of it was startling.

    When the music began, I found myself leaning in, not out of habit but out of necessity. Without amplification, I had to truly pay attention, to focus in a way that felt foreign at first. The quiet notes weren’t just sounds; they were moments of profound connection between the performer and the audience. Every vibration, every subtle dynamic shift, felt immediate and unfiltered. There was no translation, no manipulation—just the raw, acoustic truth of the music.

    It was such a different kind of concert experience, one that demanded more of me as a listener but gave back something far greater in return. In that space, the music wasn’t just something I heard; it was something I engaged with, something I felt in its purest form. The absence of amplification wasn’t a limitation—it was a revelation.

    Conclusion: A World at the Edge of Silence

    When a composer writes piano or pianissimo into their music, they are inviting us into a world that exists at the edge of silence. It is a world of trust, vulnerability, and profound connection—a world that asks for our attention and rewards us with its depth.

    To embrace the quiet end of the dynamic spectrum is to choose presence over distraction, connection over chaos. It is to seek meaning in the small, the fragile, the delicate. It is to allow in the piano of life, not because it is easy, but because it is necessary. And in doing so, you may find that the beauty of the quiet is not just in the sound itself but in the way it reminds you to truly listen—to the world, to others, and to yourself.

    I’ve written a short book for composers that explores how music is organized and the roles it can play across the globe. The book is called Formative Forces in Sound. If you are interested, it’s available on Amazon here for $0.99 www.amazon.com/formativeforcesinsound