By Robert Thony
Why should our kids learn music, not just enjoy it, but study it deeply? Why commit to an art that demands years of practice, patience, and vulnerability in a world where a machine can generate a symphony in seconds?
Because music holds a secret code.

Not the kind of code that powers AI or tells a program what to do. This is older, messier, and more beautiful. It’s a human code—one that unlocks emotion, connection, memory, and meaning. It’s the difference between what a computer can simulate and what a soul can feel.
AI can compose. It can copy. But it can’t recreate the moment my son Nolan heard Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal for the first time and just… froze. Didn’t dance. Didn’t speak. Just listened. “Play it again, Daddy.” And again. Then: “Can I watch the video?” That wasn’t consumption. That was curiosity, awe, and love awakening.

Or my daughter Nova, shouting full Hamilton verses in the shower like she’s the whole cast. For her, music isn’t about performing; it’s how she processes the world.

Music activates more than just the brain. It’s math, yes—but it’s also physics, memory, biology, rhythm, and empathy. It teaches our children to notice subtleties, feel deeply, and listen—not just with ears, but with presence. That kind of focus is rare. That kind of focus is human.
As a child, I fell for the piano—the beauty of the keys, the grace of PBS recitals, the feel of harmony under my fingertips. That love led me to choirs, composition, and eventually to representing the rights of music creators. But somewhere between work and parenting, I forgot: my kids don’t just need my support—they need my authenticity. And mine is rooted in music.

So yes, anyone can go viral today without artistry. But real music—the kind that touches something eternal—requires work. And it’s worth it. When we teach our kids music, we give them more than a skill. We hand them a compass. We remind them what it means to feel.
Beat that, AI.

First Notes
My brother and I started piano lessons together—thirty minutes for him, thirty for me. We took turns, one of us playing while the other waited outside with our parents. It was a simple rhythm at first, but in hindsight, it planted the seeds of a musical bond we still share today—a foundation for a lifetime of collaboration, creativity, and connection.

I was nine—nervous, but excited. I had asked for lessons myself, eager to learn what felt like a secret language. When we met our teacher, I was struck by the pronounced shaking in her hands and head—a result of moderate Parkinson’s. It was a little jarring at first, but I felt more curiosity and compassion than fear. Then she sat at the piano.
And the shaking stopped.

Her hands, once trembling, became steady. The music flowed—fluid, full of grace and purpose. For the length of that demonstration, it was as if the piano restored her. That moment left a lasting impression—not just because of what she played, but because of what it meant: music as peace, power, and presence.

It was the first time I understood music not just as something you do, but something you become. That image still returns to me every time I sit at the keys, now with my own children beside me, the way my parents once sat with us.