the pleasures of process
on the inherent value of actually making things
The landscape of music production, like so many other creative industries, is undergoing a significant transformation due to advancements in artificial intelligence. Last week, I wrote about my brief flirtation with Suno, an AI music creation app that can generate full songs—lyrics and all—from natural language text prompts. I was mildly horrified by what it gave me. Admittedly, I approached it with skepticism. I fed it a generic prompt, and it spit out a generic result.
I’m sure there are ways this technology can be used creatively—after all, producers like Timbaland and Flosstradamus seem to have fully bought into its vision (though it’s possible they’re just paid influencers for a startup desperately trying to gain the trust of real artists). I can imagine using it in more experimental ways than I did—perhaps assigning AI to specific parts of the process and integrating the outputs into a broader creative environment. I can even see a performative dimension to using these tools, where the absence of human touch becomes the point, and the music itself is secondary to the conceptual framing. Sounds boring, but intellectually defensible, I guess. Still, I keep returning to the bigger question: Why does this tech exist, and what is it going to do to sonic culture moving forward?
Earlier this year, Suno’s CEO, Mikey Shulman, made some revealing comments in an interview. He argued that the traditional process of making music isn’t enjoyable for most people because it requires significant time and effort to master instruments or production software. He stated:
"It's not really enjoyable to make music now... it takes a lot of time, it takes a lot of practice. You need to get really good at an instrument or really good at a piece of production software. I think the majority of people don't enjoy it.”
Like many musicians, I found this absurd and enraging. Here was this dweebish tech executive acknowledging that learning music is difficult—but instead of seeing that difficulty as meaningful, he used it to dismiss the entire endeavor. His comments reflect a broader ethos in tech culture: a worldview that reduces all human activity to consumption. He framed the musician as a consumer of their own music, erasing the role of the producer altogether. More than that, he failed to recognize that for many of us, process is the entire point. My issue with AI music isn’t its potential to assist where humans fall short—it’s the underlying claim that there’s no value in engaging with the creative process at all.
Of course, creativity has always incorporated randomness, automation, and mechanization. Artists like Brian Eno and John Cage famously integrated these elements into their work, leading to some of the most revolutionary music of their time. But there’s a crucial distinction between using technology as part of a larger creative method and outsourcing the entire creative act to AI. The difference is in the human experience of uncertainty, exploration, and discovery—things that are lost when results are instantly generated with no engagement from the creator.
Making music has never been just about the final product, but having an outcome in mind can be a powerful guide for the creative process. The most interesting discoveries emerge in the tension between intention and execution—where friction, difficulty, and constraint shape the work in unexpected ways. Think of how writing by hand feels different from typing: the slower pace and physicality of the pen encourage a different kind of thought process, one that allows for deeper engagement. Or consider Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, which teaches that shifting perception can unlock latent creativity. Eno understood this when he asked musicians to play instruments they weren’t good at, forcing them to abandon habits and lean into discovery. Even when I use tools that introduce randomness, like generative sequencers or modular synths, I’m not just a passive observer—I’m responding, refining, and guiding the process. The satisfaction isn’t just in reaching a polished result; it’s in the struggle, the detours, the surprises along the way. The harder the process, the more interesting the outcome.
Creativity, in a cognitive sense, unfolds in stages. Psychologist Graham Wallas described it as a four-step process: preparation (gathering knowledge and inspiration), incubation (allowing ideas to develop subconsciously), illumination (the sudden insight or "aha" moment), and verification (refining and realizing the idea). This journey isn’t just about productivity—it’s about emotional and intellectual enrichment. Studies show that engaging in creative work enhances positive emotions, reduces stress, and strengthens personal connections. When the creative process is reduced to an algorithmic prompt, much of this richness disappears.
Eno and Cage embraced randomness and automation precisely because they introduced friction—something to be grappled with. That’s still true today. Artists find immense value in uncertainty, in accidents, in the spontaneous moments that emerge through deep engagement. The dialogue between creator and tool—the constant adjustments, refinements, and surprises—is integral to artistic growth.
For DIY musicians, producers, and artists, the pleasures of process are especially profound. Tweaking synthesizers, exploring the textures of samples, or carefully navigating sonic accidents offers a depth of creative satisfaction unparalleled by instant AI-generated results. And as more aspects of creativity become optimized or automated, the emotional and psychological benefits of engaging in a process will only become more important.
I think about how I use assistive technologies in my own music practice—whether it’s generative MIDI plugins to spark an idea or an arpeggiator to shape a melody. These tools don’t replace my creativity; they catalyze it. The difference is that I remain inside the process, guiding and shaping it rather than letting the machine take over entirely. The tools extend my possibilities and overcome my unique limitations, but they do not, themselves, create the artistic outcomes.
Ultimately, the pleasures of the process remind us that creativity isn’t about streamlining effort or optimizing output. It’s about the joy, challenge, and personal growth that arise when we fully immerse ourselves in the messy, unpredictable beauty of making something our own. Music-making should be as inclusive as possible, no doubt. But I encourage producers to develop a creative practice that fully engages both mind and body. Final products aside, the pleasures of process will always enhance your life.