All the music and lyrics I release are original.
I have been writing poetry for many years. Some poems become songs; others eventually find their place in poetry collections. Everything I write grows out of my own life — out of the events I have lived through, my feelings, losses, doubts, and questions to which I sometimes continue searching for answers for years.
I have long since established myself as a musician and, far more importantly to me, as a person. So the project I launched at the beginning of 2026 was not an attempt to find myself in a hurry or adapt to the latest trend.
It was, rather, an experiment I decided to conduct on myself.
The world is changing so quickly that we can no longer afford simply to watch from the sidelines. We can embrace these changes or argue with them; we can feel excitement or fear — but first, we need to understand where we are going.
That is exactly what I am doing through the Alex Kryve project.
From a Military Orchestra to Heavy Metal
My path began at music school, followed by music college, an academy, postgraduate study, and doctoral study. I have already spoken about this in the interview on the website, so I will not repeat the whole story here. In 1991, during my military service, I played in a military orchestra. After completing my service, I spent many years performing with well-known rock bands.
I am a guitarist, and heavy metal was my main musical world for a long time. The lifestyle suited the genre: girls, alcohol, drugs, endless touring, and a life lived between stages, roads, and hotel rooms.
In 2017, something happened to me that changed my life completely. I do not want to go into the details here. I will say only what matters most: I survived.
After a long and difficult recovery, my relationship with time, people, music, and the reasons for continuing to do anything at all was transformed.
Today, I write music for films and animated projects. I genuinely enjoy this work: the opportunity to create not merely a separate composition, but an entire emotional world that exists together with the images, the story, and its characters.
“No Machine Will Ever Replace Me”
Seven or eight years ago, I first began hearing seriously about artificial intelligence. And, to be honest, I did not like the idea at all.
I was one of those musicians who confidently declared:
“I am a musician. No machine will ever replace me.”
At the time, it seemed to me that the very attempt to introduce artificial intelligence into creativity posed a threat to the profession. I saw the machine not as a new instrument, but as something that might one day try to take a human being’s place — even though it all looked so primitive and unserious back then.
But life does not stop because of our fears.
Time passed, and I watched primitive solutions develop into increasingly professional tools. I realised that I could continue fighting something I did not understand, or I could try to learn how it worked. I chose the latter.
An Experiment with Music — and with Myself
Through this project, I study how streaming platforms work and observe how their algorithms respond to music, release strategies, promotion, and audience behaviour.
But I am even more interested in the creative possibilities of artificial intelligence.
Every song in this project deliberately goes through AI-assisted production. Artificial intelligence may be involved at different stages: sound processing, editing, the reconstruction of individual elements, mixing, or mastering. All of this is done with the knowledge and consent of the musicians whose original material is used in the work.
What matters to me is showing that the presence of AI does not automatically mean that the result is cheap or soulless.
When approached professionally, this work is complex, slow, expensive, and extraordinarily demanding. Finding the right sound, correcting details, and combining human performance with new technologies can take far more time than anyone looking in from the outside might imagine.
Bad music can be created both with artificial intelligence and without it.
Bad art existed long before generative models appeared. Quality has never been determined by a set of tools alone.
“I Don’t Use AI”
Today, I am slightly amused when someone declares with particular pride:
“I don’t use artificial intelligence.”
Perhaps that person genuinely does not use generative music platforms. But modern sound recording, processing, and reproduction have long relied on complex digital algorithms, while AI-powered features are increasingly appearing in mixing systems, production software, vocal and guitar processors, audio restoration, and mastering.
Even when performing in a small club with nothing but a voice and a guitar, a musician rarely delivers a completely untreated signal to the listener. Songs around a campfire may be the exception. Between performer and audience, there is already an entire chain of technology.
Of course, not every form of digital processing is artificial intelligence. The two should not be confused. But the boundary between familiar music technology and new intelligent tools is becoming less and less obvious.
So the question is no longer whether we have ever touched AI.
The real question is whether we understand where and why we use it.
And who are we trying to fool by pretending that modern music can exist outside modern technology?
The Real Divide Is Not Between Human and Machine
The true dividing line is not between those who use AI and those who refuse it.
It lies between people who have nothing to say and people who possess a voice of their own.
It is possible to mass-produce faceless content by relying entirely on a machine, caring nothing about the result, and asking no questions. But it is also possible to use the same technology as another creative instrument — to investigate it, argue with it, and make it serve your own idea and artistic language.
Through this project, I have met many musicians who belong to the second group.
They are not trying to remove the human being. They are trying to understand where music is going. They study how streaming algorithms respond, experiment with models trained on their own material, preserve unique sounds, and search for ways to integrate these technologies into genuine creative work.
This is not a button that produces a finished masterpiece when pressed.
It is serious and difficult work.
And I genuinely believe that this is the direction in which music will develop.
Voices That Must Not Disappear
One of my interests is collecting rare and exotic flutes. I record their sounds and use those recordings in my work with my own AI models.
For me, this is more than a technical experiment.
Some instruments are gradually disappearing. Their makers pass away, performance traditions are lost, and the instrument’s unique voice may vanish with them. By preserving and cataloguing these recordings, I am trying to give that voice a chance to continue existing.
When the Train Has Already Left
I understand why musicians are afraid. I once felt that fear myself.
But fear cannot stop technology from developing. Jealousy, denial, and loud declarations about “real art” will not stop it either.
You can remain on the platform and insist that the train should never have departed. You can turn away so that you do not have to watch it gather speed. You can even convince yourself that the train does not exist at all.
But one day, you may look up and discover that it has already gone.
And the train will not return simply because someone chose not to board it.
I do not know where this experiment will ultimately lead. That is precisely why I continue it. I do not want merely to use a new technology; I want to understand it — to see its possibilities, its limitations, and its dangers.
Above all, I want to preserve the human being within this process.
Artificial intelligence can process sound, reconstruct a performance, assist with mixing, or learn to reproduce a voice.
But it cannot live my life for me.
It has no losses to remember. Nothing to forgive. No one to miss. No reason to rise after a fall.
The source of a song is still not inside the machine.
It lives in the person who has something to say.