One of the most pervasive—and least anticipated—uses of AI turned out to be the universal addition of mood music to everyday life.
Not soundtracks chosen by people, but soundtracks generated for them: foreboding strings when you walked into a difficult meeting, a jaunty clarinet when you bumped into a friend at the grocery store, slow contemplative piano when you opened the refrigerator at 2 a.m. to rethink your life.
At first it was magical. A handful of early adopters floated through the world as if starring in a beautifully directed film. But within a year, once the feature went mainstream, any space containing more than six people became a small sonic riot—like twelve orchestras frantically scoring twelve overlapping subplots.
Still, society adapted. Parents quickly realized that the music served as a nearly subliminal social tutor. Children learned, without instruction, what level of decorum was expected simply by the incidental score: reverent hush (string quartet), gentle playfulness (marimba), or “for the love of everything, not here” (solo bassoon).
By the end, mood music did more than dramatize our lives.
It replaced what used to be called manners.
And honestly? It worked astonishingly well—at least until the algorithm started adding ominous strings every time Uncle Arnold approached with political opinions.
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