The new generation of musicians is writing music on computers

“The new generation of musicians is writing music on computers, and this is very sad because the quality of songwriting has crashed and dived. There are some songs out that are made by only one guy who works a computer and doesn't play any instruments.” – Joe Walsh

In these lamenting and prophetic words, Joe Walsh, the legendary guitarist of The Eagles, speaks not merely as a musician, but as a guardian of an ancient craft—the sacred art of creating music from the human soul. His tone is not one of bitterness, but of mourning, for he bears witness to a great transformation in the realm of song. Where once melodies were born of breath and touch—of fingers on strings and hearts in harmony—they are now, he says, too often fashioned by algorithms and machines. When he declares that “the quality of songwriting has crashed and dived,” he is not only speaking of melody and lyric, but of the spirit that once animated them.

To understand his lament, one must remember that music was once a language of the divine. In every age, from the ancient lyres of Greece to the violins of the Renaissance, the making of music demanded intimacy between the artist and the instrument. The musician was not merely a performer, but a priest of emotion—translating grief, joy, and longing into sound. The act of creation required discipline, patience, and soul. But now, in an age of computers, that sacred struggle has been replaced by convenience. Music can be generated by keystrokes rather than calloused hands. The air that once trembled with the living resonance of strings now vibrates with synthetic echoes.

When Joe Walsh laments this, he speaks as one who has felt both the ecstasy and agony of true musicianship. He has stood beneath the burning lights of stages, his guitar an extension of his own heart, his fingers telling stories that no machine could replicate. For him, the art of songwriting is not merely assembling sounds—it is communion between the human soul and the unseen world. To write a song is to wrestle with silence until it yields meaning. And when that process is replaced by digital automation, the song loses something essential: its imperfection, its humanity, its truth.

History, too, offers examples of such turning points—moments when art faced the temptation of ease. When photography first arose, many painters feared that the brush would be forgotten. Yet the greatest artists, like Van Gogh and Monet, did not abandon their craft—they deepened it, pouring emotion into form as no camera could. So it must be with music. The computer, like the camera, is a tool—but when the tool becomes the artist, when the machine replaces the struggle, art itself is diminished. Joe Walsh does not condemn technology; he warns against surrendering the soul to it.

The heart of his message lies in the word “play.” To play an instrument is to engage in something deeply human: a dance between mind and body, thought and feeling. When one “plays,” the instrument answers back; the sound becomes a conversation. But when one simply programs, the dialogue ends. There is no resistance, no emotion, no moment of transcendence. In that loss, Walsh sees the fading of a vital human experience—the one that connects us not just to sound, but to one another. For true music is born of touch and breath, not code and circuitry.

And yet, there is also hope in his lament. For even as machines grow louder, the human spirit still yearns for the authentic. Across the world, young musicians are rediscovering the beauty of imperfection—the warmth of analog sound, the simplicity of acoustic instruments, the living pulse of the real. Walsh’s words call them, as a prophet calls a wandering tribe, back to the roots of the craft. He does not say abandon technology; he says reclaim the heart within it. Let the computer serve the musician, not the other way around.

Thus, the wisdom of Joe Walsh becomes a teaching for all creators: Do not trade authenticity for convenience. The greatest art, in any age, requires struggle, sincerity, and soul. To those who make music, remember—the machine can mimic rhythm, but it cannot feel rhythm. It can arrange melody, but it cannot ache. So take up your instruments. Let your hands tremble on the strings, let your voice crack in truth, and let your imperfections sing. For in those flaws lies the eternal heartbeat of art itself—the sound of humanity refusing to be silenced by its own inventions.

So let his words echo as both warning and blessing: Technology can amplify the song, but only the human soul can write it. Guard that truth as the ancients guarded their fire, for once it fades, the world will have sound—but no longer music.