The Sound of Design: Architecture, Artificial Intelligence, and How I Found My Voice

Unapologetically Eighties: My True Musical Palette

Over time, I have explored a broad spectrum of musical styles, ranging from country to R&B and blues, from lively samba and salsa to vintage and futuristic sounds. Yet I must openly admit that, being a synthesizer person at heart, much of my music remains deeply synth driven.

I make no apologies for the fact that many of my personal favourites sound somewhat similar, or like tracks that could have dropped straight out of the 1980s. That was my era, and that was where the spark for all of this originated. Most artists find themselves drawn to a specific aesthetic or time period, and I think that is completely fair.

For me, nothing compares to the power of synthesizer music layered with running arpeggios, warm analogue pads, and deep, resonant bass lines. My constant goal is to discover the words with chords and melodies that uplift the spirit, creating an expansive emotional atmosphere. Above all, it has to sound fantastic played loud.

Artificial Intelligence as My Super Synthesizer

Using modern AI platforms, those archival compositions are being completely revived, polished, and given a vocal voice. Naturally, the idea of AI assisted music draws scepticism, but I view it through the daily reality of an architect.

When purely digital acts emerged in the 1980s, purists scoffed, claiming that music made without traditional acoustic instruments was not authentic. Yet, that distinct electronic sound defined an entire generation. AI is the next step in technological evolution, all be it a big one.

As the artistic director of a luxury architecture practice, I no longer do much physical drawing. A team of skilled architects uses complex software that I openly admit I would not know how to navigate today. Yet, I oversee every project, guiding the aesthetic direction, refining proportions, and making the crucial design decisions. My human team functions much like an intelligent extension of my vision, processing my ideas. The final design remains unmistakably mine, even if I did not physically draft every single line myself.

Very few young architects today can draw properly by hand, as it is a dying skill. Yet, if the finished building is spectacular, no one asks whether it was drawn with a pencil or rendered on a computer. In time, public perception will view AI music the exact same way, but of course it wont replace the treult talented artists.

I hold immense respect for true artists like Michael Jackson or Taylor Swift who possess extraordinary vocal capabilities, songcraft, and world class performing gifts. I readily admit I do not possess those specific physical abilities. But a lack of physical dexterity should not disadvantage a creative mind. If you have the ears to know what you want to hear, AI provides the bridge between imagination and reality. It is for now, my ultimate super synthesizer.

Hands on Keys, Scratch Vocals, and the Missing Ten Per Cent

While I am certainly not an expert pianist or synthesizer player, having never taken formal music lessons, I can play well enough to experiment with small riffs and chord arrangements. That hands on playing is vital. Those original keyboard ideas often form that missing ten per cent that truly makes or breaks a song.

I sample these musical phrases and chord progressions directly into computer software, which are then integrated into modern AI platform which are remarkably advanced today, offering incredible editing depth. Once my musical ideas and guide tracks are inside the software, I can chop, rearrange, and sculpt the composition just like any record producer or audio engineer would at a mixing console.

In some instances, I will record my own voice directly into the project. I do not do this to showcase my raw vocal tone, which I do not consider acceptable on its own unless it is heavily enhanced and layered through AI processing. Instead, I record scratch vocals to map out the exact phrasing, cadence, and delivery style I want for the lyrics.

This is not dissimilar to when I do hand sketches to initiate ideas, or to adjust and correct concepts developed by the other architects in my office. My team in turn takes those sketches and completes them using CAD software, but I have still fundamentally directed and authored the design.

For some reason, I have always had a natural affinity for writing poems and stories, so finding lyrics is rarely where I struggle. The key, in my experience, is simply letting the words flow first with exactly what I want to express. In the beginning, I never worry about sentence structure, formal grammar, or rhyming. The priority is just to get the honest message out into the world. Then, as the music begins to accompany the words, those lines naturally start to reshape and settle into place. That evolution requires patience, and because music is an artistic passion rather than my daily career, I am fortunate not to be constrained by rigid commercial deadlines.

Just like my architectural house designs, where no two homes are ever alike because each is inspired by the individual personality of the client, my songs each demand their own identity. With AI, I have the freedom to cast the ideal vocal character for each specific piece. Depending on the mood of the music and the story within the lyrics, I can choose anything from a raspy female lead to a polished pop delivery or even a cold, robotic tone. The voice is chosen to serve the design of the song.

Finite Mathematics, Infinite Emotion, and the Nocturnal Studio

I approach musical composition with a unique dualistic philosophy:

First, music is pure mathematics. Because the human ear perceives a limited range of frequencies, every melody technically already exists in a mathematical sense. The composer’s art is to channel those existing frequencies into our current space and time. This finite nature of music highlights another incredible benefit of the AI tools I use: they can detect copyright infringement. Even when you write something purely from within, there is always a chance someone else has already plucked that exact mathematical sequence from the ether and released it first. The AI acts as a crucial safeguard to ensure my creations remain original.

Second, human emotion is infinite. While the math of music is finite, human emotion is boundless. Because of this, one hundred per cent of my lyrics are written entirely by me, directly from my own life, memories, and heart, with zero AI assistance.

Music offers a completely different kind of creative release that I simply cannot get from drawing, sculpting, or painting alone. Writing music is fun, but it is also deeply therapeutic. At times, it feels like seeing a counsellor, allowing you to take complex emotions, vulnerable reflections, and heavy thoughts off your chest, transforming them into something beautiful and lasting.

The songwriting process usually begins in one of two ways. Often, I have a story in mind, perhaps about a relationship or a personal struggle, and I let the narrative lead. Other times, I create a sound first, and if the chords radiate happiness, the lyrics naturally follow that light.

My rule for early success is simple: a song must be catchy. If I can remember the chorus after hearing it once, it is a winner. However, while a track might hit eighty or ninety per cent completion relatively smoothly, that final stretch can take weeks to refine.

Because that final stage can be demanding, I rarely work on just one track in isolation. I usually keep three songs on the go at any given time. Focusing on a single piece for too long can lead to creative fatigue, or you find yourself completely stuck on a lyric, an arrangement, or a sound. Bouncing between a few tracks keeps the energy fresh. Stepping away to work on something else often unlocks the exact answer I was searching for.

This is no different from our architectural practice, where several residences are always being designed simultaneously. A specific door detail or entryway concept originally sketched for one home might not feel quite right there, yet it turns out to be the exact solution needed for a completely different house. Creative ideas cross pollinate between projects, and that same rhythm works wonders when moving between songs.

This entire creative process almost exclusively unfolds in the stillness of the night.

My studio sessions typically happen between 11:00 PM and 2:00 AM. While the world sleeps and the constant hum of daytime communications fades away, an uninterrupted mental landscape opens up. In that nocturnal quiet, free from phone calls, client queries, and operational demands, focus deepens. That tranquil silence provides the exact environment needed to hear subtle details, test emotional nuances, and let the chords expand into the dark.

Musical Siblings, B-Sides, and Parallel Paths

Because I work on multiple songs concurrently during those late night hours, very few of the pieces I compose ever actually make it to public ears.

When you hear a song of mine that you love, you can be certain that it almost always has one or two siblings quietly resting in the vault. In traditional record making, artists often spoke of B-sides; for me, I view these unreleased tracks as musical twins or siblings.

These are not inferior songs by any means. Immense time, passion, and creative care went into building them, and at times, I even feel a quiet sympathy for them because they remain hidden away in the dark. Yet their existence was entirely necessary. They were the essential stepping stones and laboratory experiments that allowed the eventual public track to emerge.

Often, these sibling songs carry the exact same core message or emotional spark as the final release, but I was testing alternative ways to tell the story. One sibling might explore the theme from a completely different lyrical perspective; another might test a radically different vocal tone, tempo, or genre entirely. It is precisely because of that deep conceptual similarity that I keep them shelved. Releasing two songs exploring the same thematic territory at the exact same moment would simply dilute the impact of both.

Nearly every piece in my catalogue carries a twin somewhere in the studio archives. And just because they are shelved does not mean they are forgotten. Every now and then, I will reopen those archives, revisit a neglected sibling, continue its development, and bring it out into the light.

The Ultimate Proving Ground and Renovating the Archives

As an architect and a designer, I am often burdened with an inherent designer’s curse: an eye for detail that instinctively zeroes in on flaws and constantly seeks to improve everything around me. I naturally want to redesign almost everything I see, especially things I did not create myself.

Music is no exception. How often do you listen to the radio and find yourself spending more time changing channels to find a song you actually like, or avoiding agonisingly long ad breaks, than actually enjoying the music? So often, I would just switch the radio off and enjoy the silence. But now, I have the power to create exactly what I want to hear.

When a song feels close to completion, it faces the absolute proving ground: my car.

I take the track out for a drive, turn the volume up, and belt it out at the top of my lungs. If the track sounds massive roaring through the car speakers, and I feel that undeniable urge to sing along at full volume, I know it is finally ready.

Even after a song is finished, a great deal of my work simply sits in storage. Yet I still pull those older tracks out to listen to on long country drives. Much like renovating an established home, I often start hearing fresh possibilities, new lyrical angles, or different emotional directions during those drives. An older, shelved song that was once considered complete might suddenly receive a full makeover. It might simply need a different vocal delivery or a surprising genre transformation, and all of a sudden, it comes alive again as a vibrant, finished piece.

The One in Ten Rule: Designing for Others and Private Gifts

There is another fascinating parallel between building homes and writing songs: I do not always personally love every track I complete. A piece can be worked to a point where it is structurally finished, with nothing left to alter, yet it might simply not match my own everyday taste.

Architecture taught me that truth decades ago. You do not have to be personally in love with your own creation for it to be great design. If our clients love the home, if it fulfils their lifestyle, then the design has succeeded. It is their residence to live in, after all, and we architects rarely live in the spaces we create.

Music works the exact same way. A song carries a distinct mood, an honest message, and a clear purpose. For the right person, it will be deeply meaningful, even if the creator is not head over heels with that particular style.

That is why out of every ten songs I create, perhaps only one ever gets presented publicly. Most musicians and artists work with that same discipline: you play, you experiment, you test ideas, and every now and then something emerges that feels worthy of being shared with the world.

Many tracks live a much more private, joyful life. I love sending unreleased songs to friends and family just for fun, or to deliver a message crafted especially for them. For instance, I once wrote a cheeky reggae tune for my family all about poop scooping, using rhythm and humour as my creative way to get everyone out doing their chores. Other times, for milestone anniversaries or big birthday celebrations, I will assemble a film and photo collage set to a personalised soundtrack with lyrics written straight from the heart. Those private gifts are often the most rewarding songs of all.

Sharing the Music: Comfort, Joy, and Living the Design

Rather than keeping these sounds locked away in my studio, I have begun sharing them on YouTube and Spotify under WAAMusic.

Think of the channel not as a commercial album release, but as a lively gallery of different moods. Some days call for an upbeat dance groove or a lively Latin rhythm. Other days belong to reflective country storytelling, gentle ambient tracks that play in the background while our studio designs, or uplifting anthems composed specifically to give someone a boost when life feels heavy. We are even creating dedicated visual videos for the songs, connecting the stories in the lyrics with moving imagery.

I have absolutely no intention or desire to become famous for my music. At the end of the day, this is a passionate hobby, a creative playground, and a pure expression of my imagination. Because I cannot step onto a stage and perform these songs live, I will always take my hat off with absolute respect to true musicians who possess the grit, vocal power, and performance craft to move an audience in person.

I put this music out into the world simply in the hope that someone listening might find a moment of comfort, a reason to smile, or a spark of inspiration to pursue their own creative ideas.

For me personally, this musical journey represents the completion of a much larger puzzle.

Today, I live in a house I designed. It is filled with artworks and sculptures I created myself, and furnished with pieces I detailed with my own hands. On any given evening, I might sit down to enjoy a meal cooked entirely from my own recipe, and afterwards find myself dancing in the living room to a Cha Cha Cha music video playing on the television, enjoying a song I wrote accompanied by visuals I personally produced. I drive classic cars that I have restored, and as the engine hums, I am listening to music that came directly from my own heart and imagination.

It is the deeply satisfying realisation of a lifelong pursuit: to apply design to every single facet of life, to build the worlds you wish to inhabit, and to share that joy openly with anyone along for the ride.