I have been interested in music since my youth, creating music, playing live, singing, experimenting with recordings, and working on projects with other musicians. But one thing has always remained constant: it has always been real music, made with real people.

Ever since I was a young boy, music has held a certain fascination for me. That continued through my teenage years, when I idolized recording artists and pop musicians, especially those featured on Top of the Pops, the popular BBC music chart show in the UK. Music has always had a powerful pull on me. Until recently, those were the only real options for making music we had.

Take playing live, for example. If you wanted to perform gigs, you had to know your songs, especially if they were your own. You had to rehearse them, memorize the lyrics, and play them from start to finish. You had to be able to sing, or at least hold a tune. There was no live autotune to make you sound like a polished recording.

The same applied to home recording. I remember buying my first Tascam four-track recorder, where you could record (and even overdub) onto a standard cassette tape. It was brilliant. It was fun, and your recordings had that unmistakable analogue warmth. We experimented constantly, making reverse recordings, using bits and pieces from around the house to create effects, and honing our creative skills. We even made our own EPs and LPs on cassette. It was exciting and new. We were developing our craft, trying to make things sound as good as possible. The creative process itself was part of the journey.

I have been making music as a hobby since I was about 16, recording rough demos, playing in bands and duos, and performing solo. I will be approaching my 60th birthday in a few years, which feels like an important milestone.

Recently, I began experimenting with different styles and ran into a few setbacks. Working with other musicians can be difficult. You don’t always get along, and there are inevitable ups and downs. Sometimes people let you down.

That happened to me when I tried to start an acoustic duo. I posted an advert online, and someone responded. We met, rehearsed, and things seemed promising. We wrote some good songs and built up a solid set, including covers. After a few months, we had enough material to start booking gigs. I organized a photo shoot, built an online presence, got a logo designed, and secured us a performance.

With our first gig just weeks away, the focus shifted to rehearsals. But he kept postponing, citing stress at work. Work always came first for him,completely. Eventually, tensions grew. I sent him a message, meaning well, suggesting he take better care of his mental health and not let work consume him.

He took it the wrong way.

Without much discussion, he left the project. Just like that. I was left with a booked gig and no partner. In the end, I performed solo. It worked,but it was a real disappointment.

Around that time, I started hearing about AI platforms that could generate music from simple prompts or lyrics. The idea was that you could upload a concept and receive a fully produced track. Given my recent frustrations, it sounded appealing.

That was the slippery slope.

I signed up for Suno and began experimenting with a free account. I uploaded lyrics and ideas to see what it would create. Some results were poor but a few were surprisingly good. It was uncanny how well it interpreted my ideas, sometimes even better than I had imagined.

It hooked me.

I upgraded to a paid plan and spent hours writing and refining lyrics, testing prompts, and generating songs. I still wanted my own voice on the tracks, so I downloaded the stems and recorded vocals over them using a digital audio workstation.

But something began to change.

I became lazier.

At first, I would write songs on acoustic guitar and use AI to develop them. Then I started just recording chords. Soon after, I skipped that step entirely and uploaded only lyrics. Gradually, I was handing over more and more of the creative process.

Until one day, I realised what was happening.

I was losing my creativity.

The turning point came when I started exploring ways to improve my live acoustic performances,something I genuinely enjoy. I looked into looping and bought a simple looper pedal. Almost immediately, I saw how much creative potential it offered.

That led me to Loopy Pro, an app that goes far beyond basic looping. It allows unlimited tracks, overdubs, effects, and mixing,all within a single system. Watching other musicians use it was eye-opening. They were incredibly creative, using technology as a tool,not a replacement.

And that’s when it hit me.

What had I been doing?

I had spent months investing time and money into AI, while neglecting the very skills and creativity I valued most.

So here’s my warning.

Be careful with the tools you use.

There is nothing wrong with using technology. But you have to make sure it isn’t replacing your creativity. That it isn’t quietly taking something away from you.

Yes, AI can produce good songs. They can sound polished and entertaining. But is that really the direction we want to go?

AI learns from existing material. It recombines what is already out there. It doesn’t truly create something new in the way a human does. If we rely on it too heavily, we risk ending up with a world of recycled ideas,familiar, but uninspiring.

I think back to when I was younger,spending hours in record shops, flipping through vinyl, discovering new artists, taking albums home and listening from start to finish. It was an experience. You engaged with the music, the artwork, the lyrics. You discussed it with friends. You were inspired.

That sense of discovery is fading.

Even the tools designed to support musicians, like digital audio workstations, are now integrating AI features.

I remember working with a producer years ago. We spent hours recording, mixing, and refining a track together. It was a process that required effort, collaboration, and patience, and it brought us closer as friends.

Recently, he sent me a new version of that same song.

Within seconds, I could tell what had happened.

It had been reworked using AI.

The lyrics were still mine, but the soul of the process was gone.

That was a difficult moment.

And it made me reflect on my own choices.

I spent nearly six months experimenting with AI, full of plans and ideas, imaginary projects, different genres, endless variations. But in doing so, I drifted away from the simple act of sitting down with a guitar and writing a song.

And that’s what matters most to me.

I don’t need perfection. I don’t need a record deal. I just want to create music honestly, for my own enjoyment, and to share it with others when the opportunity arises.

So why trade that for something artificial?

That’s the question I had to ask myself.

And that’s the question I leave with you.

Be mindful. Stay creative. Don’t lose what makes your work yours.

See you next time.