Hey there,

So I spent three hours listening to Rick Rubin interview about music production, and I'm pretty sure my neighbors now think I'm having an existential crisis based on the number of times I yelled "YES!" at my speakers. Full disclosure: I have absolutely zero music production credentials. My greatest musical achievement to date is figuring out that connecting cheap chinese hi-fi player via bluetooth shutdowns the media computer of my wife's Volvo and I once tried to explain to someone why a particular song was "well-produced" only to realize halfway through that I was just describing the volume.

What's fascinating is how Rubin's approach to music production mirrors the broader art of curation - something that feels increasingly relevant in our AI-saturated world. His ability to filter signal from noise, to notice what others miss, is a masterclass in human discernment.

What strikes me most about Rubin is how un-intellectual his approach is. While other producers might dive deep into music theory or technical specifications, Rubin operates purely on instinct - like someone who's developed such a refined taste palette that they don't need to analyze why something works. They just know. It's like watching a master chef who's moved beyond measuring ingredients to cooking purely by feel.

The Art of True Listening

Rubin believes most of us are terrible listeners. When someone's talking, we're usually just waiting for our turn to speak or mentally preparing our clever response. We're not actually hearing them.

"Most of us, when listening, are formulating an opinion," Rubin explains. "We take a little piece and then tune out from what's being said."

This hit me like a ton of bricks because I'm absolutely guilty of this. Just yesterday, my partner was telling me about their day, and I caught myself mentally drafting a grocery list while nodding sympathetically. I'm basically the human equivalent of those chatbots that pretend to understand what you're saying but are really just waiting to suggest you buy something.

Rubin suggests we should listen with the sole intention of understanding, not responding. Ask questions to clarify, not to challenge. When we truly open ourselves to people, they tell us everything.

I'm trying to implement this in my daily life, but it's hard when my brain is constantly screaming "I KNOW BEST".

The Invisible Producer

In perhaps the most Rick Rubin moment ever, he claims his ideal production scenario would be never meeting the artist at all.

"The ultimate version would be to know that an artist wants to work with me, for that somehow to be arranged, for me to never meet the artist or speak to them, and have them make the greatest work of their lives, knowing that we have this connection."

At first, I thought this was just Rubin being provocative, but watching him explain it, you can tell it's not some clever intellectual position - it's just his natural state of being. He's like a human tuning fork who's found his perfect resonance frequency and doesn't need to overthink it. His goal is to have "the biggest impact on the work with the least amount of fingerprints." He wants the artist's work to be wholly their own.

This invisible touch feels particularly relevant today, when we're all becoming curators of sorts - filtering through AI-generated content, selecting what resonates, and amplifying human insights. Maybe the art isn't in creating anymore, but in knowing what to elevate and what to let go.

In a way it is similar to ignoring all reviews about Movies, Music, Books, Games and so on not to form opinion before engaging it.

Creativity Is Noticing, Not Creating

Here's a mind-bender: Rubin doesn't believe creators actually create anything. Instead, he thinks creativity is the act of noticing what others don't.

"The creator isn't making the thing," he says. "The creator is recognizing the thing, noticing the thing, and then sharing it in a way where the audience can hopefully get a glimpse of what we've noticed."

I have seen this in action when a friend operated l-fusion - it seemed that he just let through some sounds he wanted to share with us and filtered out everything else.

In a world where AI can generate endless variations of content, perhaps our real value lies in this human ability to notice - to recognize patterns, emotions, and connections that algorithms might miss. We're all becoming curators of reality, selecting and amplifying what truly matters from an infinite stream of possibilities.

And here's the thing that keeps me up at night: did Rubin develop this supernatural taste through decades of practice, or was he just born with it? There's definitely some "skin in the game" element here - you don't produce that many legendary albums without learning something along the way. But watching him work, it feels more like a genetic gift, like someone born with perfect pitch or the ability to taste subtle notes in wine that the rest of us miss completely. It's almost unfair - while the rest of us are studying music theory and reading production manuals, he just... knows. Though maybe that's exactly why he's so good at what he does - he's not overthinking it.

The Hanging Notes of Silence

When asked about moments of silence in music, Rubin talked about Glenn Gould's later recording of the Goldberg Variations, where the pianist takes his sweet time between notes. The space between becomes as important as the notes themselves.

"In the later one, there are times when the next note seemingly never comes," Rubin explains. "That gives me that same feeling of the notes hanging in space."

It made me think about how we're all so uncomfortable with silence. We fill every moment with noise—podcasts while cooking, music while working, TikTok while in the bathroom (don't pretend you don't). What if we're missing out on the beauty of those hanging notes in our own lives?

I tried sitting in silence for five minutes after hearing this. I made it to about 47 seconds before checking my phone. I'm a work in progress.

The Miracle of Growing Up in Long Island

Rubin describes growing up in Long Island as a "miracle" for his cultural development. He was close enough to Manhattan to access museums, Broadway shows, and the cutting edge of culture, but lived in the suburbs where he experienced mainstream American tastes.

"I had the best of both worlds," he says. "I was close enough to get to the city and understand what was going on in fine art and live in the suburbs and experience what Americans like."

But there's something deeper here about Rubin's genius. He seems to understand that truly great popular music isn't about achieving some kind of avant-garde perfection - it's about finding the perfect "average." And I don't mean average as in mediocre. I mean hitting that sweet spot where a song becomes a masterpiece of accessibility, where experimental meets universal in exactly the right proportions. Johnny Cash covering "Hurt" is a perfect example - it's both deeply artistic and completely accessible. Rubin has this uncanny ability to recognize when something sits in that perfect intersection of artistic integrity and mass appeal, without sacrificing either.

The Whistling Album

Rubin shares a fascinating story about producing Neil Young's latest album, which started with Young recording himself whistling while hiking. "He noticed that the whistling was interesting, so he started recording the whistling," Rubin explains. Young then wrote lyrics to match these whistled melodies in just two days.

The recording process was chaotic. The first week was "a mess," with the band struggling to learn the songs. But surprisingly, that messy first week contained the entire album—they just had to find it in the chaos.

This story perfectly captures Rubin's intuitive approach. While most producers would be frantically planning how to turn whistling into an album, he just... lets it happen. Sometimes the good stuff is already there in the mess; you just have to develop the taste to recognize it. No analysis needed, just pure instinct refined over decades of listening.

AI Can't Make Soul Music (Yet)

When asked if AI will be creating good music in five years, Rubin is skeptical. "What makes art good is the point of view. It's not the actual content itself, but it's the humanity in it. It's the soul in it that makes it good."

I find this reassuring as someone who's been having minor panic attacks about AI replacing human creativity. But I also wonder if we'll just move the goalposts. Twenty years ago, we might have said computers could never beat humans at chess because it requires intuition and strategic thinking. Now we say they can't create art because it requires soul.

What if in five years we're saying, "Well sure, AI can create soulful art, but it can't create transcendent art"? And then five years after that we're all worshipping at the altar of our AI creative overlords? (I'm only half-joking here. I've seen what a new version of DALL-E can do, and it's both impressive and terrifying.)

The Disposability of Streaming Music

Rubin makes a fascinating point about how streaming has changed our relationship with music. In the past, buying a physical album meant you were invested in it. Now, with everything available instantly, music has become more disposable.

"Even the thing you love—you listen to it, but then there's something new right behind it, coming right behind it, always something new coming right behind it," he explains. "The shelf life is very short now."

This hit home for me. I used to save up to buy CDs (yeah, right), then listen to them obsessively for weeks because that's all I had. Now I add songs to playlists and sometimes forget they exist within days. My relationship with music has become both broader and shallower.

It's the paradox of abundance—having access to everything means nothing feels special anymore. I wonder if this applies to other areas of modern life too. Dating apps give you endless potential partners, streaming services give us endless shows, social media gives us endless connections. Are we trading depth for breadth across the board?

The Punk Rock Democratic Revolution

Rubin was a punk fan before he was a hip-hop fan, drawn to its democratic nature. "It felt like it was being made by people who weren't technically musicians," he explains. "It was really a democratic kind of music."

This is such a refreshing perspective in our credential-obsessed culture. You didn't need a music degree or years of training to make punk rock—you just needed energy and something to say. It was music by and for everyone.

I wonder where that spirit exists today. Maybe in TikTok creators? Podcasters? AI curators? (A girl can dream.) There's something powerful about art forms that lower the barrier to entry without necessarily lowering the ceiling for quality.

Though I have to laugh at myself here—I'm curating thoughts in this newsletter partly because I don't have the credentials to write for "legitimate" publications. So maybe I'm just justifying my own punk rock newsletter approach. "I'm not unqualified; I'm DEMOCRATIC!"

Dividing the Audience

Rubin recently received two reviews of his new book—one absolutely hated it, and one loved it. Rather than being upset, he was pleased. "One of the things I talk about in the book is that the best work divides the audience," he explains. "If everybody thinks it's just okay or pretty good, it's not so interesting."

This is such a liberating perspective. We're often taught to aim for universal appeal, but Rubin suggests that strong reactions—both positive and negative—are a sign you've created something worthwhile.

I'm going to try to embrace this more in my own work. If everyone likes what I'm doing, maybe I'm not pushing hard enough. If some people hate it and others love it, maybe I'm onto something interesting.

Though knowing my luck, I'll create something that manages to be universally disliked. "Congratulations, you've achieved something remarkable—unanimous hatred!" Not exactly what Rubin was going for, but hey, at least it's a strong reaction.

If you enjoyed these musings from someone whose production experience consists entirely of making playlists for road trips that my friends politely tolerate, consider subscribing to this newsletter. I promise to continue noticing things that may or may not be worth noticing, and sharing them with you in slightly-too-long emails.

P.S. If you know Rick Rubin, please don't show him this newsletter. I'd like to maintain the illusion that I understand anything about music production. Though according to his own philosophy, maybe he'd prefer never to meet me anyway!