What makes a song feel human?
Cebuano playwright and songwriter Jude Gitamondoc says the answer is not always found in a perfect vocal take or polished production. Sometimes, it is in the breath left between words, the pause before a note or the slight imperfections that make a performance feel alive.
“We correct the obvious mistakes, yes, but we keep human artifacts like breathing, the pauses, the feel and vibe of the performance,” Gitamondoc said.
“Some producers like to mute breath marks. I love to keep them. These are the stuff I know audiences would connect with on a subliminal level. They’d know it’s a human being on the other side of the mic.”
His perspective comes at a time when artificial intelligence is becoming increasingly visible in music production. As the technology becomes more accessible, artists and listeners are also being pushed to reconsider what makes a song worth hearing.
This article revisits selected conversations with Cebuano creatives and their thoughts on AI. Their perspectives, shared at different points in the technology’s rise, offer a look at how artists are making sense of its growing place in creative work.
When the numbers become the goal
The debate has become particularly visible on streaming platforms, where songs compete for attention in an environment shaped by algorithms, playlists and short-form video.
Recent online controversies surrounding AI-assisted music, including the reception of Tyga’s album “$TARFACE” and the viral track “RUBBERZ” by Fenix Flexin, have brought renewed attention to the difficulty of distinguishing human-made music from machine-generated work.
Streaming platforms reward plays, while short-form video often favors songs that can capture attention within seconds. For artists, this can create an incentive to prioritize an immediate hook over a slower build, an unusual arrangement or a performance that takes time to appreciate.
Yet Gitamondoc believes the desire for recognition is not new.
“I think it’s psychological, too. When something becomes successful, you want to believe it came from your own effort,” he said. “In a space where technology is doing most of the work, that impulse to claim authorship is probably the most human thing of all.”
The technology may change the process, but the desire to create something that belongs to the artist remains.
The beauty of the imperfect
For Cebuano band The Fisheyes, that sense of ownership is closely tied to the imperfections of a performance.
“AI music is trash,” said Kristian Tumulak, the band’s lead guitarist. “AI-generated tracks lose the magic and human touch because they sound too flawlessly polished. There’s no organic variation, like a slight string bend or being slightly off-key, which gives music its character. Music needs to be made with love.”
Marky Oracion, the band’s vocalist, agrees that AI-generated tracks can feel robotic and “soulless.”
Kristian points to The Police as an example of how imperfections can become part of a song’s identity. Their classic recordings, he notes, contain noticeable variations that have not prevented them from becoming timeless.
“Don’t let perfectionism get in the way of releasing your art,” he said. “Embrace the human touch.”
That does not mean rejecting technology altogether. Rather, it means recognizing that tools should serve the artist, not replace the reason for making art in the first place.
A wider creative conversation
The same tension between polish and authenticity can be seen beyond music.
Cebu-based illustrator Alreena Levy recently reflected on the experience of bringing people together through comics, a medium she describes as a more private and less performative form of artistic expression.
“Comics are something you do privately as a hobby, far less performative than other arts,” Levy said. “So seeing more than 10 participants show up (for the workshop) was exciting. Hearing and reading their comics amazed me. It’s no shock that they’re imaginative, but witnessing how they whip up stories and draw traditionally amidst AI and digitalization warms my heart.”
Her observation points to another part of the conversation: the value of making something by hand, even when digital tools can make the process faster.
For Cebu street poet Shan Danielle Mortejo, that value is rooted in vulnerability.
“I had to unlearn perfectionism,” Danielle said. “To me, it’s a mask for people who are unwilling to try and fail and be vulnerable. There’s just such an endearing charm to raw and honest vulnerability, people connect more when they see you strip off your shiny armor.”
She recalls a stranger telling her not to cross out or correct a mistake in her work because the error itself showed that it was “100 percent made by a human, not AI.”
Her live street poetry remains donation-based, allowing her to keep the work rooted in direct interaction and community connection.
What remains human
The interviews with these artists suggest that the more important question is not simply whether a work was made by a person or a machine. It is what the creator wanted to express, what choices were made and what remains of the person behind the work.
Gitamondoc’s preference for keeping breaths and pauses in a recording, The Fisheyes’ appreciation for organic variation, Levy’s excitement over traditionally made comics and Danielle’s embrace of mistakes all point to the same idea: art does not become meaningful because it is imperfect, but because it carries something of the person who made it.