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