The Golden Disc for the Digital Dreamer

“Music is the highest form of AI Art in the world” — slightly adjusted Leo Tolstoy.

I immediately recalled — and slightly adjusted — a famous thought attributed to Leo Tolstoy in order to describe one of the great modern fantasies: the dream of becoming a fashionable hitmaker without enduring the old-fashioned inconvenience of actually learning music.

Before anyone decides to spend years mastering the guitar, it might be worth asking a practical question: why endure the tedious business of training one’s hands, ears, and brain if an artificial intelligence supposedly exists that can compose any song imaginable?

After twelve years of teaching guitar at the Moskvorechie Rock Academy in Moscow, I found myself unexpectedly cast adrift due to a disagreement between the founders. I then sailed into the unpredictable ocean of modern musical reality and discovered an entire continent of fascinating contradictions.

During my long career as a teacher, I have witnessed many attempts to replace genuine musical education with the assistance of shiny devices equipped with artificial intelligence. These experiments were often so optimistic, and occasionally so wonderfully absurd, that observing them became a form of entertainment in itself.

Who, after all, does not dream of releasing a million-selling album, becoming famous overnight, and receiving a golden record — preferably without having to spend countless hours practicing scales while everyone else is enjoying life?

The modern digital dreamer has discovered a magnificent shortcut. Why climb the mountain when one can simply ask a machine to announce that the summit has already been reached?

My more technologically adventurous students have informed me that much of today’s popular music is supposedly created entirely by artificial intelligence. According to this charming theory, the recipe for becoming a successful hit songwriter is remarkably simple:

Take a few forgotten poems from the endless attic of the internet, give them to an AI system, request a “world-class hit,” and patiently wait for fame to arrive.

The only difficulty is that fame, unlike artificial intelligence, still occasionally demands proof.

The resulting “masterpiece” must somehow become a real recording. Someone must sing it. Someone must play the instruments. Someone must arrange the music, control the sound, and transform a digital suggestion into a professional production.

The computer may compose a melody, but unfortunately it still does not walk into a studio, pick up a guitar, adjust the amplifier, and survive the terrifying moment when actual listeners hear the result.

That final step remains stubbornly human.

The second remarkable discovery I made among these new students was that many of them arrived with a touching belief in the miracle of instant mastery.

They expected that after two or three short lessons they would somehow emerge as accomplished musicians — perhaps not quite ready to replace the great guitarists of history, but certainly prepared to record their first masterpiece and begin negotiations with the music industry.

They were often surprised to learn that there was no simple application available for download directly into the human brain.

The unfortunate human body, unlike a computer, does not come with a convenient “install musician” button.

Apparently, the fingers still require training. The ears still require education. The mind still needs to understand rhythm, harmony, and musical structure. The ancient and rather inconvenient process known as practice has somehow survived even into the age of artificial intelligence.

I once had a student — a programmer in his early thirties — whose experience perfectly illustrated this modern misunderstanding.

After four lessons, he finally decided to confess what he had secretly imagined about learning music. He had always thought that playing an instrument was a kind of intellectual vacation: the head relaxes, the hands touch the guitar, and beautiful music simply appears, as if the instrument itself were waiting to reveal its hidden genius.

It was a beautiful dream.

Unfortunately, the guitar did not share his enthusiasm.

He was genuinely astonished when he discovered that learning music required not only memorizing notes but also developing technique through daily exercises. These exercises, as it turned out, demanded effort not only from the hands but also from the brain — that mysterious organ which, despite centuries of human progress, still refuses to outsource all responsibility to machines.

When he asked whether things would eventually become easier, I gave him the honest answer: with regular practice, perhaps after several years he would begin to feel comfortable and confident.

This information produced a dramatic disappointment.

The idea of becoming a guitarist had been attractive. The reality of becoming a guitarist was apparently less convenient.

The dream had promised a magic door.

The profession offered a staircase.

And, as history repeatedly demonstrates, many people prefer searching for a magic door rather than climbing the stairs.

The third problem appears when the grand plan does not include one essential component: either a wealthy supporter — traditionally known in artistic circles as a “benefactor” — or a producer willing to invest time, money, and patience into the supposedly revolutionary masterpiece.

Because even a brilliant creation requires someone to introduce it to the world.

In the modern music industry, talent alone has never been enough. But replacing talent with technology is also unlikely to succeed. Artificial intelligence may provide tools, inspiration, and possibilities, but it cannot eliminate the need for artistic judgment, experience, and craftsmanship.

The fantasy of instant success is one of humanity’s oldest inventions.

Every generation creates its own version.

Yesterday it was the belief that fame could be achieved through connections, luck, or a mysterious discovery.

Today it is the belief that a clever command typed into a machine can replace years of learning.

Tomorrow, no doubt, someone will invent another shortcut — and people will eagerly line up to avoid the difficult but unavoidable business of becoming good at something.

This, in essence, is the ordinary illusion behind the search for a shortcut to greatness in modern popular music.

Some students do not come seeking musical knowledge. They come seeking a button.

They are not particularly interested in learning the language of music — harmony, rhythm, technique, structure, interpretation. They are looking for a device that will allow them to skip the difficult chapter and begin immediately with the final page, where the name of the author appears above the bestseller list.

But art has always been rather uncooperative with such plans.

The problem with artificial intelligence is not that it cannot produce interesting results. It can. It can imitate styles, combine patterns, generate melodies, and offer ideas at remarkable speed.

The difficulty is that machine learning is not the same thing as human understanding.

Artificial intelligence learns and learns, yet it never truly learns in the human sense of the word. It does not experience music. It does not feel tension and resolution. It does not remember a melody from childhood, associate a chord progression with a personal memory, or decide that one imperfect note is more meaningful than ten technically perfect ones.

It is, ultimately, a digital system of comparisons — a vast mathematical mirror reflecting similarities among existing information, including similarities that may be accidental.

A mirror can show an artist his reflection. It cannot become the artist.

“Let there always be the Sun…”

Some time ago, a new student arrived at a lesson carrying what he considered a great secret. He looked around carefully, then proudly played me a recording on his phone.

This, he whispered, was his future hit.

He planned to enter it into a popular television competition and, naturally, expected that the world was about to discover a new musical genius.

There was only one small problem: the world had already heard it.

Not exactly, of course. The arrangement was different. The sounds were different. The digital machinery had polished the surface and placed a modern costume on the song.

But underneath the fashionable clothing, the melody was wearing an old familiar face.

So, to his great disappointment, I played him an old Soviet children’s song.

From my phone came the same unmistakable tune, followed by the bright voice of a child singing:“Let there always be sunshine…”

The expression on his face was a masterpiece of human emotion — somewhere between surprise, disbelief, and the painful realization that his revolutionary creation had apparently been introduced to the world several decades before his birth.

Artificial intelligence had not created a new musical universe.

It had simply rearranged furniture in an old house.

And this is the central misunderstanding.

Perhaps artificial intelligence can help create a hit. Perhaps it can assist composers, producers, and musicians. Perhaps it will become an important instrument of the future.

But no serious creative work can be built entirely upon machine generation.

A computer may provide possibilities.

It cannot provide purpose.

A machine can assemble sounds.

It cannot replace the person who knows why those sounds matter.

After observing these examples firsthand, I came to a simple conclusion: the belief in “by AI’s command and my own desire” — a digital version of the old fairy-tale wish granted by magic — is mostly a search for an effortless road to money, recognition, and the pleasant illusion of success.

Human beings have always loved shortcuts

The ancient dream was to discover a philosopher’s stone that would turn ordinary metal into gold. The modern dream is to discover a clever instruction that will turn an ordinary person into a famous artist.

The technology has changed.

The fantasy has not.

Of course, there is nothing wrong with using new tools. Every great musician in history used the tools available in his time. The piano was once a technological innovation. The electric guitar was once considered revolutionary. Recording equipment transformed music forever.

The mistake is not using technology.

The mistake is believing that technology can replace the person who uses it.

A camera did not eliminate the need for painters. A printing press did not eliminate the need for writers. And artificial intelligence will not eliminate the need for musicians.

It may change the way music is created.

It will not change the reason music exists.

Coming to a lesson without the willingness to study seriously is, naturally, a waste of time. A person cannot become a musician simply by standing near an instrument, just as one cannot become a swimmer by purchasing an expensive swimsuit.

The students who continue are those who eventually understand a simple truth: real ability is built, not downloaded.

They are the ones who are willing to practice, make mistakes, repeat difficult exercises, and slowly transform unfamiliar movements into natural expression.

These students have a chance to grow into genuine musicians — people capable of creating something of their own, without depending entirely on digital assistance.

And as a teacher, I will always support those who are prepared to make that effort.

Because the true reward of music is not merely a golden record hanging on the wall.

It is something much rarer: the ability to create.

A machine can generate a melody.
A musician tells a meaningful story.
A machine can imitate a style.
The musician creates an image with his voice.

And no matter how advanced technology becomes, the world will always need people who are willing to do the difficult, wonderful, and very human work of becoming artists.