An Open Letter on the Value of What Is Real.

Over the past decade, we’ve witnessed a dramatic acceleration in the production of content. The tools have become more powerful, the platforms more expansive, and the costs in time, effort, and expertise have plummeted. With the rise of generative AI, we now find ourselves surrounded by music, writing, and visuals created not by human hands, but by algorithms trained to imitate them.

For many, this seems like progress. But for those who create, who listen, who still feel, it raises deeper questions.

How did we get here, and what have we lost?

Let’s begin with music. Once a sacred art form that demanded patience and intimacy, music today is consumed with the flick of a finger. I remember saving to buy a single album. I remember the ritual: opening the sleeve, studying the lyrics, listening, not once, but over and over until the songs lived in me. That experience has become rare.

Streaming offered us access. But it took away attention. Now, with AI, even the effort behind a song is suspect. You write something honest, something earned, and someone shrugs: “It’s probably AI.”

This is not simply a technological shift. It is an existential one.

Albert Camus once wrote that man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is. That refusal, the restless push to transcend, to innovate, is what gives birth to meaning, but also absurdity. We now live in a world where machines simulate our refusal. They write our poems, paint our dreams, compose our songs. And in doing so, they blur the very line between creation and replication.

But what they cannot do is suffer. Or yearn. Or remember.

In Camus’ world, meaning was not something given, it was something made, in defiance of a silent universe. And so, too, in this new era, we are called not to compete with machines, but to reclaim our own defiant humanity.

Last week, Audalize held an INXS event for the 40th anniversary of Listen Like Thieves. No filters. No AI. Just music, memory, and people. They weren’t glued to screens. They were present. They engaged. They remembered what it felt like to be part of something real. That moment mattered not because it was rare, but because it was true.

There are three ways forward:

First, we can continue down the path of scale of infinite content, frictionless production, indistinguishable experience. Everything becomes cheaper. And emptier.

Second, we can attempt to out AI the AI by building better tools, faster systems, smarter curation. But in doing so, we risk becoming the very thing we fear: efficient, optimised, and emotionally hollow.

The third way is quieter. It is harder. It will not scale easily. But it is real.

It is the choice to create what cannot be faked. To tell stories only you could tell. To make art that carries the imprint of a life, not just a prompt.

Most won’t notice. Some will dismiss it. But a few, the ones who still feel, they will know. And they will stay. And in that connection, something sacred returns.

We don’t need to save the world from AI. We need to save our selves from forgetting what it means to be human.

Peace, and stay foxy.
Ross