Why the most meaningful musical experiences happen when ordinary people make music together
When I was growing up, music felt rare. You had to seek it out.
The artists we admired—whether classical performers, Broadway singers, or pop stars—seemed almost mythical. Their music reached us through physical artifacts: records, tapes, CDs. Owning music felt special.
If you wanted to hear a song, you waited for it on the radio or saved up money to buy the album. And if you were a kid without much money, that album became precious. You listened to it again and again until every detail lived inside you. I’m not saying that kind of deep listening is impossible today. But the world has changed.
Today we live in an ocean of music. Millions of songs are available instantly. New music appears every day. In seconds we can access a world-class orchestra, a legendary rock band, or the latest pop hit. And now artificial intelligence—however one feels about it—can generate convincing music in seconds. Recordings no longer feel rare. They are part of the background of daily life. They are no longer the cultural anchor they once were, and even major musical artists struggle to make a living from recordings alone. I suspect the twentieth century’s obsession with recordings will eventually look like a historical blip.
While the recording age gave us a vast library of extraordinary and unforgettable performances—which is a wonderful thing—it also had a peculiar side effect: many people began to feel that if they can’t sing like the best singers in the world, they probably shouldn’t sing at all. Constant comparison with polished recordings and superstar performers can make people afraid to open their mouths.
Music shifted from something people did to something most people simply listened to. Imagine putting ten people in a living room together and asking them to sing a song, just for fun … does the thought make you feel nervous? Or even embarrassed? We have easier access to music for listening than any generation in history, yet fewer people feel comfortable making it themselves. And that’s a loss—not just for individuals, but for communities.
Folk musician Pete Seeger once said: “Participation—that’s what’s going to save the human race.”
It’s a bold statement—but the longer I spend making music, the more true it feels.
Conductor and educator Michael Tilson Thomas also wrote: “In earlier times, so many people sang much more. You know, as a kid you’d go to some kind of religious training or summer camp or whatever it was and you’d learn to sing a lot of songs.”
Human beings are built to sing! Our voices are designed for it. The instrument is already inside us. In the past, music wasn’t something people consumed from distant performers. It was something people did. Families sang together. Communities gathered for dances. Religious groups sang in worship. Work songs, folk songs, and communal music-making were ordinary parts of life.
When people make music together, something subtle but powerful happens. Breathing synchronizes. Voices blend. Attention shifts away from the individual and toward the shared sound the group is creating. Long before scientists began studying it, cultures around the world understood that singing together creates bonds between people. It turns a room full of individuals into a community.
When I was younger, I wasn’t especially socially gifted. In fact, there were times when I fantasized about heading off into the wilderness like Robert Redford’s character in the film Jeremiah Johnson and living the life of a mountain man.
Music helped save me from that kind of isolation. It gave me a way to connect with people I wouldn’t have found otherwise. It became the place where friendships formed and where I felt I truly belonged.
Most of my best musical memories are tied to the joy of making music with other people. Anyone who has sung in a choir, played in a band, or rehearsed for a musical knows the feeling.
The rehearsals.
The harmonies locking in.
The moment when a group of people creates something together that none of them could create alone.
Those that have experienced this know that the most valuable musical experiences are the ones that cannot be automated at all.
Most people intuit this already. When thousands of fans gather at a stadium concert and sing every word of a song together, they aren’t just there to hear the artist perform; they’re there to join in. They’re there to share a musical experience with other human beings.
What’s remarkable isn’t that this impulse exists. What’s remarkable is how thoroughly our culture has trained people to believe that this part of being human should be rare.
The Invitation
Thankfully, choirs, bands, and community theater are thriving. Songwriting circles and groups of friends are gathering around pianos and guitars, lifting their own voices. They are singing, playing, and creating simply because they love doing it. These groups may not dominate streaming charts or social media feeds, but they are quietly building something far more durable: community.
A real renaissance of community music-making is already underway. The question is simple: Will you join in—or continue to sit on the sidelines? Because when people make music together, something remarkable happens … They don’t just create sound; they create belonging and joy.
The future of music lies in participation.
M. Ryan Taylor
A Few Side Thoughts on Writing Music
Years ago I created a children’s music video called “’Welcome,’ said the Spider” that eventually passed two million views online. If I’m honest though, the view count is little more than a curious statistic. What I relish is the process: hours spent animating the entire thing myself, experimenting, solving problems, learning new skills.
Something similar happened years earlier when my opera Abinadi was produced, filmed, and broadcast. At the time the broadcast and the DVD felt exciting. Years later those artifacts matter little. What stayed with me were the rehearsals, the collaborations, and the shared effort of bringing it to the stage.
This observation has changed the way I think about writing music. While I’m grateful to sell a fair amount of choral music—after all, composers need to buy groceries too—the real value I get from composing lies elsewhere. Writing music matters because of what it does to me as I write it—and, I hope, to the people who perform something new.
What about the applause and fame that the media make such a big deal about? While there are a few moments burned into my memory when applause made a real impact on me and helped guide my direction, I’ve found it pointless to wait for those big breaks.
Instead, it is so much more rewarding to write music for the musicians around us: for our friends, for ourselves, for our ensembles, for the joy of creating something new together. If the music spreads widely, earns money, or brings recognition, that’s wonderful. But those things are the sprinkles on the cake, not the cake itself.
AI may eventually erase composers and songwriters from the commercial marketplace. Even so, it is still worthwhile to write music. Forget the fame. Share your music anyway and embrace the joy.