You know, I write music for films. It’s a great job, sure, but also a bit of a trap. Because when you compose music for images, you’re always trying to make someone cry, or feel powerful, or romantic… basically, you’re a kind of professional emotional manipulator. Only, you do it with notes instead of lies, which is at least more elegant.
But lately, I’ve been asking myself: why do some pieces of music move me so much, while others just make me want to change the channel? And I realized that the secret lies in something very simple: breathing. Yes, human breath. Not the kind you feel on your neck during rush hour on the subway—that’s just annoying. I’m talking about the breath you hear in music.
Take an orchestra, for example. When you listen to a symphony, you’re not just hearing violins, flutes, or timpani. No, you’re also hearing the violinist inhaling before they play, the pianist shifting on their bench, or maybe the conductor huffing because the trombone came in late. It’s in those little noises that you feel real life, the human presence. That, my friends, is the soul of music.
And do you know where this magic happens? In the eight inches between the musician and the microphone. Eight inches! That’s the difference between a sound that’s alive and one that feels like it came out of a 3D printer. In those eight inches, there’s breath, sweat, calluses on fingers. There’s life.
That’s why I love acoustic instruments. It’s not snobbery, I promise. It’s because when you hear a cello play, you can almost see the person behind it. But when you listen to a synthesizer… I mean, who’s behind it? A programmer? An algorithm? It’s like trying to find romance in an automated WhatsApp message: “Hi! You’re still my number one contact!” No, thanks.
Don’t get me wrong—I use virtual instruments too. They’re convenient, practical, and let you create an entire orchestra without having to pay 80 people (who would also want a lunch break, those ingrates). But the thing is, digital instruments, no matter how perfect, don’t breathe. They don’t make mistakes. And you know what makes a musician human? Mistakes! That note that wasn’t quite perfect but feels real, alive.
The problem with digital music is that it’s too perfect. And perfection, let’s be honest, is a bit boring. Would you ever date someone perfect? Someone who doesn’t sweat, never makes bad jokes, never leaves socks lying around? No, because after two weeks, you’d be like, “This isn’t a person; it’s a machine!”
Music is the same for me. I want to hear the human breath, those eight inches between the mouth and the microphone. Because in that space is everything: life, soul, heart.
It’s the same with animated films. I love 2D, hand-drawn animations. Why? Because you can see the artist’s hand. You can see the pencil strokes, the traces of a human gesture, the tiny imperfections. When you watch a 2D film, it’s like seeing the person who made every single drawing, frame by frame.
But when you watch a computer-generated film… yes, okay, they’re spectacular! But everything is too perfect. There’s no hand. There’s no gesture. It’s like a dish cooked by a robot: it fills you up, but it doesn’t warm your heart. Hand-drawn animation has life; it’s the artist saying to you, “Hey, look what I made for you.”
So yes, technology, AI, virtual instruments… welcome, but stay in your place. Because at the end of the day, real music is made by people, not bits. It’s made of that breath that makes you think, “There’s someone, somewhere, playing for me.” And that, my friends, is the most beautiful sound in the world.