Music is composed on computers and other electronic equipment;

"Music is composed on computers and other electronic equipment; producers don't want to spend money on orchestra." — thus spoke Sivamani, the master of rhythm whose drums once thundered like the heartbeat of the earth itself. In this saying lies a lament and a warning — a cry from the soul of an artist who has seen the spirit of music traded for the efficiency of machines. It is not merely a comment on instruments or budgets, but on the changing heart of creation itself — the shift from living sound to manufactured pulse, from human touch to digital precision.

In the ancient days, music was born not from wires and screens, but from the breath of the human spirit. The lyre of Orpheus was said to charm the stones; the drums of Africa spoke to the ancestors; the sitar and the flute carried prayers to the heavens. Music was alive, a communion between mortal and divine. Each note carried the warmth of the musician’s hands, the tremor of emotion, the imperfection that made it perfect. To hear an orchestra was to hear the beating heart of a hundred souls united in one purpose — to summon beauty from silence.

But now, says Sivamani, the world grows impatient. The age of machines has arrived, and music too bends beneath its circuitry. Producers, ever seeking speed and profit, trade violins for samples, cellos for synthesizers, and the living voice for the calculated tone. The computer has become both composer and conductor, and though its melodies may shimmer with precision, they lack the fragrance of the human spirit. What is gained in convenience is lost in communion — for music is not a product of logic, but of life.

Remember the tale of the great Ludwig van Beethoven, who, though deaf, wrote symphonies that shook the heavens. No machine could feel what he felt when he carved sound out of silence. He did not need electricity to move hearts; only his soul and his suffering. When the Ninth Symphony rose in that grand hall and the deaf composer stood weeping, the world understood — music is not heard by the ears but felt by the heart. Contrast this with our time, where algorithms mix beats and emotion is automated — a haunting echo of what once was divine.

Yet let us not despise the tools of our age. The computer, like the chisel of a sculptor, is neither good nor evil; it is the hand that wields it which determines its worth. There are artists who breathe soul into silicon, who summon storms from circuits and transform the artificial into art. But Sivamani’s words remind us: beware when money and convenience become the masters of creation. For when art is ruled by economy, the muse departs, leaving behind a hollow song.

The lesson, then, is this: never let the instrument overshadow the intention. Whether your stage is made of marble or microchips, let your heart be the true instrument. If you are a creator, resist the temptation to let machines do your dreaming. Use them, but do not be used by them. Seek not only the sound that pleases the ear, but the resonance that touches the soul.

In every act of creation — be it music, word, or craft — remember the orchestra: the harmony of many hearts, the living breath behind the sound. Reclaim that spirit in your work and your life. Let your art be something that cannot be downloaded or simulated — something that breathes. For when the last machine falls silent, it is only the human song that will remain — the eternal melody of heart and hand, joined in divine rhythm.

So take heed, O seeker of sound and spirit. Let not your music be born of convenience, but of conviction. Compose with courage, create with soul, and spend the wealth of your time — not merely your money — to make something truly alive. For though computers may hum and synthesize, only the human heart can sing.