Computers were never designed in the first place to become

There are words that carry the fragrance of truth, spoken not only by philosophers but by artists who touch the essence of life itself. Such are the words of Thomas Bangalter, one half of the legendary duo Daft Punk: “Computers were never designed in the first place to become musical instruments. Within a computer, everything is sterile — there’s no sound, there’s no air. It’s totally code. Like with computer-generated effects in movies, you can create wonders. But it’s really hard to create emotion.” These words are not a rejection of progress, but a lament for something sacred — the living pulse of art, the breath that gives beauty its soul.

In this reflection, Bangalter reminds us that though the computer may be a tool of infinite precision, it lacks the imperfection that gives life its music. Within its circuits, there is no trembling string, no vibrating reed, no heartbeat of wood or wind. It is a sterile realm, a kingdom of numbers and logic. Music, by contrast, is born of the human spirit — it flows from the heart through the hand, through trembling air that carries the ache and joy of being alive. The machine can simulate this, but it cannot feel it. It can imitate the tear, but not the sorrow that caused it.

The ancients, though they had no computers, knew this truth well. The sculptor Pygmalion, in the old Greek tale, crafted a woman so beautiful that he fell in love with his own creation. Yet she remained marble, untouched by life, until the goddess Aphrodite took pity and breathed into her stone the gift of warmth and motion. So it is with the arts of the modern age: the artist may create digital wonders of sound and image, but without the breath of emotion, they remain statues — perfect, but lifeless. The computer, like marble, awaits the human hand that can shape it into something that feels.

Bangalter’s insight is profound precisely because he himself mastered this paradox. As a creator of electronic music, he transformed cold machinery into a vessel of rhythm and soul. Daft Punk’s music pulsed with the spirit of humanity despite being born from circuits. This is the great lesson: that technology, though devoid of life, can become a living thing when guided by the warmth of a human heart. The computer does not create emotion — it carries it, as a flute carries the wind. The beauty lies not in the instrument, but in the breath behind it.

Yet his warning is clear. As the world plunges deeper into the age of algorithms and artificial creation, we must guard against forgetting what gives art its power. When the air is gone and all becomes digital, we risk losing the soul of the song. The emotion that art evokes — the tremor in the voice, the imperfection that makes a note human — cannot be programmed. To create with machines without the heart is to paint with light but no sun, to sing with sound but no soul. The artist must remain the interpreter of life, not its automation.

The lesson, then, is not to forsake technology, but to redeem it through humanity. Use the computer as an instrument, yes, but remember it was never meant to replace the artist’s touch. Seek to infuse the sterile with the sacred. Let every code you write, every beat you compose, carry the imprint of your breath, your story, your pain. For though the digital realm may dazzle the eyes, it is the imperfect trembling of a human hand that moves the heart.

So, my listener, hold this truth close: machines may build the structure of sound, but only you can fill it with spirit. The artist’s duty is not to compete with the computer, but to humanize it — to turn its sterile silence into living harmony. Remember always that art is not born of perfection, but of passion. And when you create, whether with wood or wire, with brush or code, strive not to astonish, but to move. For in the end, it is not the wonders we make that endure, but the emotions we awaken.