This hacker mansion blends elements of a startup hub, a luxurious retreat, and a high-tech boutique. Scattered throughout Silicon Valley, these spaces serve as residences for tech founders and visionaries. The most opulent I’ve encountered is in Hillsboro, one of the Bay Area’s affluent neighborhoods just south of San Francisco. Inside, polished marble floors shine beneath high-tech royal portraits affixed with tape. The garden boasts gravel meticulously raked into Zen spirals, and a pond glistens behind well-maintained hedges.

On a sunny June afternoon, I accompanied producer Faye Lomas to capture an interview for a show. BBC Radio 3 documentary discussing the intersection of generative AI and classical music in both San Francisco and Silicon Valley.

We were cheerfully informed that professional creators, including us, would soon be relegated to hobbyists. This wasn’t meant as provocation or sarcasm—just a straightforward reality. At that moment, Faye interjected in the documentary, her voice tinged with agitation: “Does this mean AI is going to take my job?” It was a natural reaction, but it shifted the room’s energy.

When I embarked on making this documentary, I harbored the same curiosity as everyone else. “The cat is out of the bag,” I joked, believing this to be a wise observation. Technology has arrived, and facing it is better than ignoring it.

When I recently spoke with Faye, she recounted the moment vividly. “We swiftly moved from talking about AI’s potential to aid the creative fields to casually mentioning how AI could easily replace every job in the company. The tone was friendly and encouraging, almost as if I should be excited,” she reflected.

This interaction feels pivotal to the narrative. Those small, human moments of awkwardness occur when discussions shift from the theoretical to the tangible.

They contemplated replacing us.

That was back in June. With October now upon us and Oasis on tour in the UK and US, I’ve been reflecting on a different kind of mansion. The band’s concert at Knebworth House in 1996 drew 250,000 attendees over two nights, where people waved lighters instead of phones—one of the last great communal singalongs before everything transformed. Before Napster and MP3s, before cell phones, and before our culture underwent invisible algorithmic reorganization.

What followed was a subtle yet profound transition from ownership to access. Playlists replaced albums, curated by algorithms rather than musicians, designed to blend seamlessly with our activities. Initially, I believed this was the future of music. Maybe it truly was.

So, long after finishing the documentary, an article like this gave me pause. RBO/Shift is an exciting initiative from the Royal Ballet and Opera, exploring how art interacts with AI. It stems from an institution I deeply respect, run by individuals who have supported me and many others over the years. This initiative is touted as a bold, positive dialogue between technology and creativity, representing a potential compelling partnership. However, what catches my attention isn’t what’s included, but what is glaringly absent.

There is no reference to ethics, training data, consent, environmental impacts, or job security. It’s unimaginable that this technology threatens to significantly undermine the entire ecosystem of artists, crafts, and labor that RBOs have nurtured.

The tone is reminiscent of what we heard at the Hillsboro mansion—always optimistic. Royal Opera Artistic Director Oliver Mears declared, “AI is here to stay” in a recent New York Times interview. “You can bury your head in the sand or embrace the waves.”

However, I find no one I meet in San Francisco, where this technology is innovated and marketed, is simply riding any waves. Embracing a wave suggests succumbing to its force. People here are focused on managing the tides and altering the moon if needed.

I don’t want to dismiss AI. However, my earlier phrase, “the cat is out of the bag,” now feels like a form of moral indifference, suggesting ethics fall by the wayside the moment something novel appears. After spending a summer immersed in machinery, it’s unsettling to witness major institutions handling AI as if it’s the nuclear power of art. It’s attractive, profitable, already causing harm, yet remarkably it carries no warning label.

In this fast-paced environment, our documentary already seems like a piece of history, a snapshot from the last moment when the future ceased asking for permission. That afternoon, with gravel being shoveled and sunlight pouring in, there was a palpable silence in the Hacker mansion, which now feels suspended—an interlude before the surge.

Listening back, I can sense the atmosphere shift—the silence that followed Faye’s question and my nervous chuckle. It’s the sound of tension, the sound of humanity still grounded.

If Knebworth’s Oasis was the last significant singalong before the internet, perhaps this brief moment we chronicled represents the anxious inhalation before the machine begins to produce its own melody.