By: Evan J. Thomas

Every generation of music faces a technological turning point. Electric guitars were once called noise machines. Synthesizers were accused of killing “real” musicianship. Digital recording was supposed to sterilize sound. Now the spotlight is on artificial intelligence — and the question echoing across studios, stages, and comment sections is loud and clear:
Will AI overtake the human element in making and performing music?
Short answer: No.

The noise around artificial intelligence in music keeps getting louder. AI can generate songs, clone voices, compose arrangements, produce mixes, and spit out entire catalogs of genre-specific tracks in minutes. Tech headlines call it “the future of music creation.” Industry panels debate disruption. Comment sections predict replacement.  Most bands hate it and despise it, many PR agencies won't touch AI artists and its understandable.

But step away from the hype cycle and into a rehearsal room, a recording studio at 2 a.m., or a packed venue right before the lights drop — and a different truth becomes obvious:
The music industry doesn’t run on output. It runs on humanity.
And that’s exactly why it still belongs to humans.

​AI builds from patterns.  Artists build from experience.  Every real song has fingerprints on it — emotional, psychological, and cultural. It comes from somewhere: a breakup, a protest, a collapse, a rebirth, a belief, a question that wouldn’t go away. Even party records come from a real need for release and connection.

AI doesn’t need anything. It doesn’t ache. It doesn’t celebrate. It doesn’t doubt itself. It doesn’t grow through failure. It doesn’t write songs to survive a moment in life. It generates structure without stakes. Human artists create with something to lose — and something to say. That tension is where art lives.

Music doesn’t just fill playlists — it builds movements.  Scenes form around shared identity and shared resistance. Rock, metal, punk, hip-hop, blues — none of these were born from optimization. They were born from friction with the status quo. From voices that didn’t fit the template.

AI can reflect culture after it exists. It cannot ignite it in the first place — because cultural ignition requires point of view, risk, and consequence. It requires someone willing to stand behind the sound and say, this is who I am.  Look at artists like Tom Morello, Rise Against and Dropkick Murphy's. AI algorithms don’t take stands.  Artists do.

If recorded music is the blueprint, live performance is the truth test.  Onstage, there is no buffer. No regeneration button. No prompt revision. It’s breath, muscle memory, adrenaline, and instinct. It’s the singer adjusting because the crowd is louder than expected. The guitarist extending a solo because the room is locked in. The band tightening or exploding based on the energy exchange in real time.

A live show is a conversation — not a calculation.  It's the human element of music.

Crowds don’t show up just to hear songs reproduced. They show up to witness commitment. Presence. Risk. Personality. The possibility that something unrepeatable might happen tonight and never again. AI can simulate performance. It cannot be present. And presence is the currency of the stage.

The industry often talks about polish. Fans talk about moments.
The cracked high note that hits harder than the perfect one.
The tempo push in a chorus that makes it explode.
The voice strain that proves the lyric is real.
The off-script rant that becomes iconic.
AI trends toward smoothness and statistical correctness. But what listeners remember are the scars — audible proof that a human being pushed past their limits to deliver something honest.
Perfection is impressive. Imperfection is relatable. Relatable wins careers.

The music industry is not just songs — it’s ecosystems of relationships:
Artist ↔ Fan
Band ↔ Band
Artist ↔ Producer
Performer ↔ Crowd
Scene ↔ Identity

Fans don’t just stream tracks. They follow journeys. They invest emotionally in artists’ growth, setbacks, reinventions, and comebacks. They read interviews, wear merch, travel to shows, defend albums, debate eras and bitch about music on social media.

No one emotionally invests in a generator.  They invest in a human story. Remove the human — and you don’t just change the product. You collapse the relationship layer that makes the
industry function.

Every era brings tools that change process:
Multitrack recording.
Drum machines.
Digital audio workstations.
Sample libraries.
Auto-tune.

Each one sparked panic. None replaced artists. The ones who mattered learned how to use the tools without becoming owned by them.  AI will follow the same path.

Smart artists will use it to brainstorm, prototype, design sounds, and accelerate workflow — while keeping authorship, identity, and intent firmly human. The tool will evolve. The driver still matters. A distortion pedal doesn’t make you a guitarist. AI doesn’t make you an artist.

In a 1969 interview, The Doors Jim Morrison accurately predicted the future of music, suggesting it would move away from bands toward electronic, machine-driven soundscapes. He famously stated: “I can kind of envision maybe one person with a lot of machines, tapes, and electronic setups, singing or speaking and using machines."  I assure you Morrison wasn't talking about the incarnation of AI.. 

The heart of heavy music — and much of modern music culture — is rebellion. Against formulas. Against expectations. Agains safe choices.

AI is built from existing material and weighted probability. It is, by nature, conservative in its core mechanics — even when it produces surprising combinations.

But breakthroughs come from people doing the “wrong” thing on purpose.
Wrong genre blend.
Wrong structure.
Wrong subject.
Wrong sound — until it becomes the next right one.

Rebellion requires intent. Intent requires a will. Will is human. AI will get faster. More convincing. More integrated. It will absolutely become part of music workflows across the industry.

But overtaking art is not about capability — it’s about connection. Music that lasts is not the most efficient. It’s the most felt.

As long as audiences crave truth over texture, presence over perfection, and identity over imitation, the center of the music industry will remain here it has always been:
With the humans who dare to make noise that means something.
​
Not in the machine — but in the makers. 🤘

 By: Kat Gullage

Or PIT-iquette. After reviewing 80 bands, and seeing 91, in 2025, it feels like the right time to discuss mosh pit manners and best practices. How to survive and enjoy the chaos.
There are different types of pits, each with its own unwritten rules. A Circle Pit has us moshing around in a circle with people darting through the open space sporadically. A Push Pit is more chaotic, bodies bouncing, pushing and colliding in an unstructured zone. If a Wall Of Death type pit starts to form, I’m getting the fuck out of there before the crowd splits into opposing sides, leaving an empty aisle in between, and then charges directly at each other on the band’s cue. Crowd Surfing is when someone is passed overhead by the congregation below.

Understand this, the moment you step into the pit, you’ve agreed, implicitly, that you’re aware one could break out anywhere at any time. Yes, you might be on what I refer to as The Fray, the area just outside the main action, but if you’re not playing defense, ya might get sacked.

The most important rule is non-negotiable: if someone goes down, pick them up! Always. Give them a hand! We’re all there for the same reason. If someone is truly injured, alert security. We’ve all seen the ambos outside of the venue, first aid is available.

We packed in close quarters, so let’s address hygiene. Please try to smell halfway decent. If ya don’t have time to clean up before the concert, at least reapply deodorant. And I beg you, pop a tums or something. The vile farts that force the rest of us gag and cover our faces with our shirts, which doesn’t even begin to protect us from the rancidness, certainly does not enhance our experience.

Know your limits with alcohol and drugs. I’ve seen people go down early, putting themselves in a vulnerable position, ruining the event for them and their friends, and above all missing the freaking show! I’ve overdone it on occasion and I’m lucky to have friends who look out for me. That’s part of the culture too.

And one more thing:Don’t Commit Sexual Assault. That’s the reason I quit crowd surfing. There’s a clear difference between accidentally brushing a body part while helping pass someone overhead and forcefully grabbing someone’s crotch and butt simultaneously. That behavior is not acceptable, and not part of the community. If y’all choose to crowd surf, watch out for possible pervs. Consider yourselves warned.

Different bands bring different pit energies. Avatar shows feature plenty of cordial crowd surfing. Alien Weaponry can unleash a Wall of Death. Fluids might be hurled at you at GWAR. Chevelle consistently delivers hardcore pits. I’ve been hit at every single one I’ve been in.

The first one had these Gronkowski type frat boys behind me. They put one guy on each side holding up the third guy. But they started too far back in the crowd. As they surged forward, the hoisted guy fell and kicked me in the head on his way down. The next gig had a lovely, but drunk and built like a linebacker, glamazon lady trying to get a pit going. She slammed into random guys and they took it like annoyed champs. She stumbled and fell back on me and pushed me back twelve fuckin rows. Crashing into the people standing up behind me saved me from injury. The 2025 Chevelle show topped them all. A young guy in the circle pit went down a few times but was scooped up and righted immediately. As it should be. Then he got slammed into a muscly backward baseball hat wearing kid camped out in The Fray. Mr Muscly snapped and started throwing punch after punch. I tried to pull muscly off him but others had to step in. Security escorted muscly out and the victim was eventually able to return. Later I found myself in The Fray and somehow ended up next to Mr Stick Up His Ass who kept elbowing me. I let it go the first coupla times. I asked him to please stop. He didn’t. I reminded him that he was in the pit and might get touched. Eventually I took a hit that plowed me into him and he shoved me as hard as he could into the crowd. I warned him that if the kid I was with got hurt in any way, we’d have a
problem. His friends pulled him away. Turn around and the kid with me is at the barricade. After I joined her up there I had a lot of bodies coming directly at me from the crowd surfers. I dealt with it. Cuz I know the rules.

I’m a concert reviewer and I prefer to be in the pit. That’s where you feel the crowd’s pulse and truly observe the performers. I work with a concert photographer, most often the future award winning Holly Borden. She handles credential requests and access. If we get green lighted, we grab our passes at the venue. They know us at our frequent haunts but if it’s a new place we just tell security we’re there to work the event and they tell us where to go or turn us over to an escort. The photographers are sequestered at bigger arenas. They are only allowed to shoot a certain number of songs. The size of the area allotted for photogs varies per venue from non-existent to generous to so narrow not even sucking in your gut helps. Keep in mind there’s usually other shutterbugs jockeying around in that space as well. Working with her makes me mindful of lighting conditions and there are shows where I genuinely don’t know how she captured anything (Looking at you Seether!) Holly is the real deal, she sticks around for the whole show, whereas some photographers leave when their shots are done. I have to stay to document the experience and get the scoop!

So here’s the takeaway:
​
Pick people up when they fall.
Try to smell halfway decent - and don’t crop dust us.
Don’t be an asshole. If you don’t want to be touched or bumped, the pit isn’t for you.
Be respectful.
Know your party limits.
Have fun - but be safe!: