Suno AI music finally doesn't sound terrible—here's why

1010Benja's new EP, Time Has Nothing To Do With What You Choose…, opens with "Semiramis' Dream," a track that immediately stands out from the typically bland, obviously AI-generated music that floods the market from Suno. The song explodes with a jungle beat and Benja's own voice front and center, undeniably human. The backup choir—the most visibly AI element—blends so seamlessly into the hyperpop-inflected rapid-fire vocal chops that it reads as intentional production choice rather than an obvious seam.

Benja has been open about his method from the start. In an interview with Hearing Things, he explained: "My friend Patrick Holder did the beat. I recorded the vocals. Then we fed Suno the elements, settled on something, brought it out, edited it on Ableton, and then put it back into Suno." This cycle—feeding material into Suno, editing the output in Ableton, feeding it back—happened hundreds of times. Benja estimates he iterated a few hundred times to land on the final version of "Semiramis' Dream." He notes that Deezer explicitly marks the song as AI-generated, and he expressed no shame about it: "We're not hiding it. We don't feel any shame about it."

Why did Benja turn to generative AI? He is a struggling artist who has experienced periods of homelessness. Despite recent recognition—Pitchfork awarded his 2024 EP Ten Total a coveted Best New Music—financial stability has eluded him. He puts it bluntly: "The only reason I'm using gen at all is because my visions are currently far beyond my means. I haven't paid rent last month, and I won't pay rent this month." When asked if he used AI, he offered a sarcastic retort: "No, I hired a professional children's choir." The backup choir in the song, though it fits the aesthetic, is not particularly convincing—but Benja didn't need it to be; he needed a tool that could fill a gap his budget could not.

Benja also grapples with the broader ethical implications. He acknowledges that generative AI is causing environmental damage and that the power imbalance—greedy corporations controlling the technology—works against artists. Yet he expresses a pragmatic, almost nihilistic resignation: "The good guy doesn't win this one." Still, the article notes a subtler point: very little in "Semiramis' Dream" actually required AI to achieve. The layered, processed-sounding vocals are a staple of modern hyperpop and trap; similar effects could be built through layered vocal performances and smart processing. Benja used AI not because it was the only way, but because it was the available way, given his constraints.

The article's author—typically skeptical of generative AI in music—concedes that Benja has demonstrated something meaningful: in the right hands, with clear intent and substantial human labor, Suno doesn't have to be the "slop engine" that dominates the platform. But the victory is qualified. Benja proved not that generative AI is inherently creative, but that when a skilled artist combines their own work (writing, singing, beat-making) with iterative AI use and rigorous editing, the result can transcend the usual sterility of AI music. The tool worked because the artist did the real work—and that distinction matters.

The article hinges on a genuine surprise: music made with Suno AI that actually works. The writer, typically skeptical of generative AI in music, finds themselves enjoying "Semiramis' Dream" despite their stated bias against AI music—a contradiction that makes the piece worth attention. The reason for the success, however, is instructive and somewhat deflating to the AI-music narrative: Benja didn't let the tool drive the process. He started with intentional human work (lyrics, vocals, beat collaboration), then used Suno as one step in a multi-step production pipeline, iterating hundreds of times and manually editing in Ableton between cycles. The AI wasn't the primary creative engine; it was a tool deployed within a labor-intensive, deeply human creative process.

Benja's candor about the ethical weight of AI—he acknowledges the environmental damage and offers a wry, nihilistic shrug ("The good guy doesn't win this one")—adds texture. He frames his use of generative AI not as a principled choice but as economic necessity: he cannot afford session musicians. Yet the article also notes a crucial detail: sonically, little in "Semiramis' Dream" could not have been achieved without AI. The backup choir is convincing only because Benja deliberately masked it within hyperpop's own heavily processed aesthetic, a choice that neutralizes rather than exploits the AI tool. The takeaway is subtle but important: when generative AI works in the hands of a skilled artist with clear intent, it works not because the tool is powerful, but because the artist is doing the real work—writing, performing, and editing—and using the AI as one component among many.