The Bot With The Messiah Complex

We are doomed - and we did it to ourselves.

During the inevitable post-Christmas slump of depression and despair, I yet again found myself questioning every choice I ever made, ranging from purchasing the “wrong” oat milk to the lingering ache of a flatlining career. I even contemplated chasing down the Jehovah’s Witness who adamantly told me that my grandfather “wasn’t really dead.”

Life in classical music is wild. One minute you’re on stage at The Royal Albert Hall, the next day you’re playing in a raucously loud Queen tribute gig with a screaming audience, and then, all of a sudden, you’re alone in a budget hotel room washing your socks in an overflowing sink.

I really wish someone had told me how much time I’d spend doing Hotel Sink Laundry. Instead, I was repeatedly warned that musician life is expensive yet pays badly - and is incredibly depressing despite the many glamorous gigs. (Note: I didn’t need to be warned that musicians are arseholes; that lesson landed at the tender age of eight. We shall never forget your wife bitch-slapping your mistress during rehearsal, Maestro.)

This is probably a good point to relive my first official symphony orchestra tour. “We’re touring Italy” sounded awfully romantic and exciting on paper, but all we really did was sit on a bus. A large proportion of my colleagues reverted to school playground behaviour, somebody tried to fill a suitcase with olive oil, and I was left borderline traumatised by the public “toilets” in Milan. Classic gig, really.

Since a career in classical music is the psychological equivalent of being whisked away by a Very Hot But Slightly Dangerous male actor, it shouldn’t have surprised me to find that every warning I received was true. I have now spent years lurching from exultant post-concert highs to crying on the InterCity Deutsche Bahn after failed auditions. Whilst I appreciate the spontaneous challenges to my emotional regulation skills, the last few gigs have taken things ever so slightly too far. Even my (very British) Granny is appalled by the sneaky operations of various orchestras – so much so that her latest look of sheer outrage prompted me to reconsider my entire existence, atheism included.

After Christmas I returned to work for the annual New Year’s concerts with the symphony. It was an utterly unforgettable affair, but for all the wrong reasons. I don’t know which morons are in charge of concert programming, but I hope they realise that they’d inadvertently created an orchestra of dying souls. My God, it was bleak – and embarrassing. I never expected a Scandinavian orchestra to adopt a UK-themed and politically dated program for the grand task of welcoming in the New Year. It just seems a bit off, like using Jimmy Savile for a shampoo advert.

As one of only two Brits in the orchestra (excluding the aged conductor) I felt rather uneasy trolling out Elgar’s Pomp and Circumcision, Gilbert and Sullivan, and some “Britten” that (spoiler) wasn’t actually Britten. I really did anticipate being happy at this gig, but I guess my lofty expectations of political awareness are asking too much of The Office Lot.

I left the final New Year’s Eve concert as the quintessential miserable git. By the time I’d walked home in the wind and rain (wearing an impractical concert dress) I’d realised that I was in desperate need of a career change, or at least some sort of project that would stop me from writing these essays.

“I’ll start tomorrow” was quite the alluring sentence.

In all honesty, this didn’t come out of nowhere. I’d somewhat begun the plan already, having burst into tears on Boxing Day and declared my life to be “a fucking train wreck.” There’s a lot more that needs fixing than my career, but I still dedicated a full 90 minutes of December 27^th to “finding a new job.” Dad was quick to remind me that 90 minutes was erring on the lesser side of dedication, but I’d at least started this theoretical project, which we all know is the hardest part. (A total lie, unspoken by all of humanity. The hardest part is when you’re too far in to stop but so far from succeeding that you contemplate launching charities such as Advocacy For Complex Camels - all in a desperate bid to be seen as a fully functioning adult.)

I began my job search by trawling through endless lists online. On a positive note, this left me confused rather than depressed, mostly because I couldn’t figure out what any of the jobs actually entailed. The glimmering range went from “Procurement Validity Director” to “Co-Leader of Logistical Values” so I started writing the sodding names down. I had to stop after three minutes because I ran out of paper (and sanity).

Since then, I have resorted to asking any respectable adult in my social circle for advice on how to get a “normal person job” when I don’t know what a “normal person job” actually is.

I was surprised to find that my (very British) Granny offered the most entertaining response. After we’d reminisced over how my grandfather would have cackled at these job titles, I proceeded to tell her about the “Backend Developer” vacancy. For those who are blissfully unaware, “the backend” is polite British speak for “anus.” I shit ye not (no pun intended). Keeping this logic in mind, it should come as no surprise that, when confronted with the title of “Frontend Developer,” Granny let out a little giggle and said “oh NO how DREADFUL.”

To be frank, I was alarmed to discover the growing role that AI plays; not only in hiring but in replacing actual jobs. I can see the logic in certain sectors but in others it’s unnerving – particularly as companies are now hiring real people to train their not-real people (AI) – which seems counterintuitive as well as pricey. Most of all, I am continually panicked by stories of overly qualified job seekers having to convince a beep-boop-machine that they have the perfect profile for a theoretical job. This is doubly worrying when I realise that nobody I know has managed to hack the system. To make matters worse, I even heard of a case where a solid candidate was rejected (by a human) for favouring people skills over a burning desire to make bundles of money…in recruitment.

Technology is great. It blossomed during lockdown and has been known to offer a greater sense of personal security, amongst other things. I don’t want to slam the tech industry, but I am a little (extremely) worried by the prospect of AI taking over our lives – especially since we are humans, and Friendly Bot is a machine with cute lights. I mean, what’s more reassuring whilst away from home; a Ring doorbell or Creepy Cathy next-door watching all your comings and goings?

When ChatGPT entered my weird bubble of friends we were more amused than concerned. One friend and I spent half of what could have been a workday asking ChatGPT gloriously filthy questions. It really did deliver, and before long we were sharing stories about “a sordid love affair between a teapot and a pair of curtains” and, unsurprisingly, “The Tale of Fergus The Twat” (based on an old classmate of ours). ChatGPT is flexible and responsive, even corresponding with bored individuals who belligerently criticise its synopsis of John Steinbeck’s “Of Mice And Men.” (Notably, Mum now considers ChatGPT to be a personal friend, which cannot be said of the Duolingo Owl.)

Sadly, AI doesn’t always keep up its good looks. 2024 saw one reputable opera company sneakily employing ChatGPT to write program notes for several operas – which usually require a comprehensive plot synopsis as well as a biography of the relevant composer.

This “quick fix” caused gloriously unfiltered chaos. Unbeknownst to the opera, a small army of musical millennials quickly found the hysterically incorrect program notes on their website. They then ripped the opera company to shreds on X, and distributed screenshots of said program notes amongst various group chats.

(I may or may not have been involved in this mildly unlawful escapade, but I’d like to thank the opera for the gift that kept on giving. Nothing makes a hideously delayed train more enjoyable than a whopping social media blunder.)

Whilst I nearly died laughing at these blinding errors, management were (hopefully) crapping themselves, having realised that these particular notes were published on none other than the OUTREACH page of their website.

This was either a decisively innovative approach, or a bonkers method of welcoming the general public into the opera house. What killer instinct it is to post some robot-generated, unverified misinformation in the public domain, cross your fingers, and hope for the best. Why do I have “big red Tory bus” ringing in my ears?

The other (deeply funny) AI screw-up occurred around the same time as Opera Gate. A close friend had written detailed concert program proposals (complete with history and pictures) and he sent them to me for constructive feedback (I can, sometimes, be nice). The deadline was looming and neither he nor I could draw for shit, so he’d used an AI image generator to find relevant pictures for his program.

I was impressed by my friend’s document, but a picture of Johannes Brahms’ gravestone looked irritatingly peculiar. I couldn’t figure out why until confirming that Brahms died in 1897, and not 1887 as the AI grave suggested.

I texted my friend and he had a nervous breakdown over WhatsApp. He was appalled that he hadn’t spotted the error himself, mostly because he regularly uses the birth and death dates of major composers for his iPhone passcode. I may have laughed a little too hard at his geeky habits, but this event raises a fairly serious question. If AI can leave even the most knowledgeable of people blind to its errors, can we really trust it? Sure, “flawless” AI is trained by humans (theoretically) – but no system will be perfect, just as no humans are perfect. It’s troublesome to be relying on perfection and efficiency from AI, yet the dichotomous nature of tech-operated life risks us assuming that a computer “couldn’t be wrong” in a critical situation.

I’m seeing it now:

“but the machine SAID your elderly aunt DEFINITELY DIED!”

“Fuck you and FUCK your machines. AUNT SHARON IS ASKING FOR CUPCAKES.”

Is anyone else feeling overwhelmed by doom? Just me? Oh, shit.

As for the future of the arts industries, I’m increasingly concerned that the arts will either be left with decreased societal relevance or become borderline obsolete altogether. If in doubt, check out the (weird as hell) robot cello performance on YouTube.

How must it feel to watch a robot executing the complex task that you spent years perfecting? A task that, in most cases, comes with side helpings of crushing depression and narcissistic colleagues alongside the permanently unreachable goal of being a “true” artist. (Congratulations; you’ve ruined your own goddamn life.)

Further, financial concerns that arise in the form of “let’s fund tech” are highly likely to lead to a decrease in arts funding. My biggest fear, however, is the very production of art; an almost always uniquely human pursuit.

In a world constantly belching war, sickness, felons as President and generalised adversity, art has been the one thing people turn to in times of crisis – or even just at the end of a long day. Art serves the function of entertaining, soothing and educating all across the globe. Anything even remotely popular is, at its core, created by a human with at least four brain cells (admittedly sometimes only four). Take, for example, the few recent pop songs I have heard: the topics tend to revolve around love, heartbreak, grief and societal injustice. If not, they’re written to help you dance.

There is NO WAY IN HELL that a robot could have written Meghan Trainor’s “Made You Look.”

“…’cause even with my hoodie on, bet I made you look (I made you look!)…”

BOTS DO NOT WEAR HOODIES, NOR DO THEY ATTEMPT TO SEDUCE.

(All rise for the arrival of Horny Bot, specifically designed to hassle Meghan Trainor in shady clubs.)

When looking at classical music, the same themes pop up again and again; someone screwed their mother, someone harbours unrelenting jealousy, someone is secretly gay and someone is an illegitimate love child destined for the throne.

Where, pray tell, do these stories come from?

(Life, duh.)

This is where I have an issue with AI generated art. The beauty of art is in the depiction of human condition; how whatever is presented makes people understand, empathise, feel seen, or feel better. Art is often the teacher we never had.

I am baffled and dismayed that a considerable chunk of the globe plans to recreate quality artistic expression with AI. We are talking about ROBOTS. ROBOTS ARE NOT HUMANS. Robots do not struggle with grief, imposter syndrome, bad breakups, trauma, mental illness, substance abuse, unrequited love or shitty family get-togethers. I’d love to be wrong and suddenly become overly invested in a genuine robot rom com, but the only name currently on that casting list is Keira Knightley.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, somewhere out there, a little bot with low self-esteem is writing stunning poetry with no capital letters.

Even if AI art serves as a purely informative display, I really fear for the future – mainly because the threshold of “where do we stop using AI” is subjective and highly susceptible to manipulation. It starts with those weird play-dough faces in adverts, and ends with a laugh-crying Mona Lisa for mental health awareness campaigns. I’m fairly sure that Leonardo da Vinci would not be happy to see this – but it’s ok to not be ok.

Perhaps I’ll be surprised in years to come. I was pleasantly entertained recently; firstly in Finland, where little blob robots roamed the wintery streets. Someone forgot to program them to understand street crossings and cyclists, so the whole experience really did have an apocalyptic vibe. The other incident arose in hospital, when I was transferred from one department to another via the hospital basement. Granted, I was high on morphine, but being wheeled through a brightly painted underground with no company other than porters, men in green scrubs and car sized Roombas was a teeny bit trippy (and hilarious).

I could be paranoid, or over-reacting. Maybe this is all a reaction to watching the Wallace & Gromit Christmas special. Sometimes I wonder if I’m an octogenarian in a millennial body; clinging on to knitting, paperback books and chocolate chip biscuits with my withering hands. Whatever the case, I’m fairly sure I’m not the only one feeling like AI is spreading faster than a strain of university-acquired super gonorrhoea – and wondering if we will ever recover.