Global Music Theory

Tag: music and life

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.
December 4, 2025
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

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.
November 17, 2025
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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

May 30, 2025
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

May 23, 2025
When Music Loses Its Maker: AI, Intent, and the Efficiency Illusion
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
April 22, 2025