Proof of Life

hippiechicky333
Aug 28
4 min read

AI can copy; it can’t connect.

By Grace Thompson

AI: Artificial Intelligence

Not too long ago, I was sitting on the patio at Chico Feo, where each table has an open-door policy and, most of the time, everyone’s bound by a shared love of music. Or so I thought. Music isn’t only something to listen to; it’s something to sit with until you feel like you understand it. That’s where the conversations happen, the exchanges that give it weight. So, that night, when a man I’d noticed mouthing lyrics during the set sat down across from me, I expected connection.

Instead, I got the opposite.

He told me he runs an AI company built on generating fake songs and artists, and when I asked what that meant for concerts, he said holograms. I pushed back. The exchange between artist and crowd, the give and receive of it, can’t be manufactured.

Music is the only universal language, the one thread that runs through all of us. Why reduce it to a simulation?

He talked about perfection; music without mistakes. I argued that the mistakes are the best part; the recoveries, the offbeat moments that only happen once and bind everyone in the room together. That’s the human side, and it’s what makes it matter. Each point he made crushed me, and I told him so.

His closing remark: “Wow, you’re actually really emotionally intelligent.”

I couldn’t tell if it was a dig at my age, my gender, or just my refusal to agree. Or maybe it was just the reaction of someone who hasn’t had a meaningful conversation with another human in a long time.

I wasn’t rude, but I was blunt: I told him I hoped his business would fail.

That night stayed with me as a weird bar story, but then in July, The Atlantic published a piece about "Velvet Sundown", a so-called band created entirely by AI, complete with machine-written songs, lyrics, album art, and even photos. On Spotify, Velvet Sundown was pulling in hundreds of thousands of monthly listeners. Johnny Delaware showed up as a “related artist,” as if he were another digital fabrication.

The article described Velvet Sundown’s music as neither good nor bad, but nothing. That word stuck with me. Because what AI is producing isn't just forgettable; it is hollow, a sound without a source. And worse, it cast doubt on whether the artists beside it were even real.

That’s what unsettled me most: AI didn’t just create fake bands. It made people question whether musicians like Johnny Delaware exist at all.

AI: Authentic Individual

Johnny Delaware

I first met Johnny Delaware at The Space, Ryan “Wolfgang” Zimmerman’s studio, or, as I like to call it, the place I’d hide out during an apocalypse. Johnny was recording a song called New Orleans, wearing two different socks, cracking jokes in between takes.

Give him five seconds and he proves how human he is; unguarded, funny, impossible to mistake for anything else. The kind of presence you don’t forget.

A few weeks later, we caught up again at Music Farm. I walked in during soundcheck, where Johnny was already on stage with Tommy Merritt and Drew Lewis (bass and drums for Tounds).

Tommy and Drew sound-check scrolling.

Tounds was opening that night, a newer Charleston group with a magical set that pulls together some of the city’s strongest musicians. For Johnny’s set, Tommy and Drew filled in as his rhythm section. It felt less like two bands crossing over and more like friends sharing the stage.

“You know when you pull your buddies up on stage and it’s just fun, it’s supposed to be loose.”

Before the show, Johnny was outside the venue with a suitcase cracked open on the sidewalk, digging for deodorant and an electric shaver. It was the kind of unfiltered, funny moment that makes him so easy to be around; nothing curated, just himself. We left soon after for a drink at Rarebit, where he borrowed a piece of paper from the bar and began writing out his setlist. By the time he was done, condensation from his glass had already smudged the ink.

Back at the venue, Johnny felt like the counterpoint to that conversation about AI. Where that man talked about holograms and flawless songs, Johnny’s set played out with the kind of things you can’t script. A string snapped mid-song, and he turned it into a joke: “The old my string came off excuse.” He tried out something unreleased, then turned to the crowd and said: “Guys, be honest…was that song shit?”

It was music happening in real time; unpredictable, present, and shared by everyone in the room.

Connor Hollifield (Tounds) came up for what was supposed to be one song, but Johnny waved him to stick around. What followed felt less like a fixed set and more like it was being built in the moment. A few songs later, Johnny leaned into the mic: “This is our last one.” He let the pause hang just long enough before breaking into a grin, “I’m just fucking kidding.” Glancing around the stage, he added, “I love where this night has gone, just jamming with the guys.”

Connor gets a mid-performance crash course. When Johnny tells you to stay on stage, you stay on stage.

The show felt less like a concert than a gathering. Friends were spread from the front rail to the back bar, singing along to Sweet from Secret Wave while others hugged and swayed together. Banter moved both ways, Johnny from the stage and his friends from the crowd, trading lines like it was all part of the set. At one point, he said, “No one does that music video shit anymore. Well, I rode a horse in mine,” talking about the video for Energy of Light.