In an era where artificial intelligence is both a muse and a mirror, Mikhail Emelchenkov stands at the crossroads of poetry and technology with Gone World, a groundbreaking album that reimagines the boundaries of musical authorship. As a lifelong poet and guitarist, Emelchenkov doesn’t simply feed prompts into a machine—he shapes sonic landscapes with intention, using AI as a tool to amplify emotional nuance and narrative depth. In this candid interview, he explores the creative alchemy behind Gone World, the philosophical questions that haunt AI collaboration, and why this project feels like the culmination of a dream he’s nurtured for over 15 years.
You describe “Gone World” as a collaboration between human poetry and artificial intelligence. Can you walk us through your creative process—how do you guide the AI to reflect your artistic vision?
As a poet, inspiration always comes first. I begin by writing lyrics—once the words take shape, the mood, style, and delivery of the future track start to form naturally. Sometimes I pick up my guitar and play around with ideas, but not every time; occasionally it’s enough to imagine the sound in my head.
From there, I bring in AI to help shape the music, with an emphasis on vocal emotion. That involves crafting the right prompt, adjusting key parameters, and, of course, experimenting. You have to understand what kind of sound you’re aiming for. After that comes the editing and mixing stage.
In the case of “Gone World,” I felt like I had grasped something elusive—alive and real. I ended up writing several lyrics in quick succession. That soon formed the core concept of the album, and the rest of the material followed naturally. All that remained was to give it a voice, and use AI to tie everything together into one cohesive piece.
Apologies if that sounds a bit utilitarian, but it’s hard to put into words the emotions I felt—the way it expanded my own potential. I had literally been dreaming of something like this for the last 15 years.
You’ve compared this technological shift in music to the arrival of photography in a world once ruled by painting. What do you think this means for the future of musicianship, creativity, and authorship in the age of AI?
I know from music distributors that AI is being used extensively in the industry today. But it’s not talked about openly—there’s fear it might hurt both artists’ and distributors’ business models. Because this isn’t just a technological shift—it’s a cultural shift, an economic shift, a creative shift, an ethical shift.
Every poet, every amateur musician can now realize nearly any creative vision—something that used to be the privilege of a select few. Think about how hard it is for a poet to gather a band that suits their needs, and for the band to feel the same in return. And to actually produce something interesting together? I know of only one such case.
Let’s allow ourselves a little futurology. Mass-market music will fade—it will become a dynamic, adaptive product. Based on mood, taste, or personal beliefs, lyrics and arrangements will auto-generate in real time.
Entirely virtual musicians will emerge—ones who have no physical performance ability. We’ll see AI-driven radio stations, streaming endless music—say, classical compositions on par with the greats, and certainly more interesting than what an average orchestra can deliver.
We need to understand that AI is our collaborator—a tool with capabilities that exceed our own. Does it have self-awareness? Are the “random” elements in its output a technical quirk or something closer to divine intervention? Why am I, at this moment, using AI for this, and not some other tool? These things don’t feel accidental. With age, I’m more inclined to think that fatalism isn’t such a wrong philosophical position—certainly not as wrong as I believed in my youth.
As for authorship—I worry about that the least. Just as I trust my own free will, I trust my authorship. I speak openly about using AI in my work. All the “you stole that note from me” or “that little ta-ta-ta-tata is mine” squabbles—they’re the inevitable byproducts of a global financial system based on competition. Strip away the competition, and you get something beautiful: people building on one another’s work, drawing inspiration, making allusions. We’ve always learned from past generations—AI is no different. Technically, it’s a simulation of the human brain—it mimics the way we think.
The album emphasizes lyrics over traditional melody, framing the music more like a cinematic score. Why was it important for you to give the words center stage, and how do you think AI helps—or challenges—that focus?
“Gone World” is an album about inner richness, solitude, and the passage of life. The world is changing so fast, we can’t process it all. We feel unsteady, alienated—we reach for timeless values, eternal ideas, traditions, and objects that give us comfort. Don’t rush—look back. “Gone World” is a full-length novel, told through music. Its story isn’t meant to be drowned out by festival noise—it’s meant to be heard in quiet, with music that underlines its tone.
This was a rare case where the technical limitations of a specific AI model became its strength—it helped me create the kind of simple, intimate, unintrusive sound I needed. I’m not sure a live musician could’ve managed that—it might have seemed too boring a task.
As an independent artist releasing an experimental AI-assisted album, what have been the biggest hurdles—creative, technical, or even emotional—in bringing “Gone World” to life?
That’s the magic—there were no major difficulties. The album was written and produced in one breath. People often believe that a work’s value comes from the amount of labor poured into it. That might even be true in industries where automation reigns. But AI isn’t just about automation—it’s about synergy. It’s something completely new—like wearing an exoskeleton.
Once, people carved stones and wood by hand. Then came steel frameworks—suddenly, we had skyscrapers. Then came 3D printing—and architects were free to dream without limits. Music has followed the same arc: wax cylinders, then tape, then DAWs and autotune. Now we stand at the edge of another revolution.
Emotionally, though—it was tough. I created this album under intense pressure and in a very short time. That takes a toll. But strangely enough, I felt total ease when it was done—which tells me I did everything right. I still listen to the album on repeat. I really love what came out of it.
For artists and poets curious about exploring AI in their own work, what advice would you offer to help them retain authenticity while embracing these new tools?
That’s a great question—thank you. For established artists, using AI will be easy. New tools and collaborations usually serve to emphasize one’s style, not erase it. Think of AI as a room full of session musicians you hired all at once—and fired the same day. Or as an editor who makes suggestions, but leaves the final call to you.
You can record a melody and ask AI to re-arrange it with different instruments or better production. You’d never be able to form so many diverse bands by yourself. Today you want industrial, tomorrow it’s pop—why not? A professional composer will tell you they work across styles. That kind of flexibility was only available to a few industry professionals. But with AI—now it is.
Here’s an example: I once wrote a song (lyrics), but I couldn’t sing it or play it. It was one of those moments when a work feels greater than you—something beyond your current self. And AI helped. It showed me how it could sound. I was stunned, shaken, thrilled—as if I had jumped higher than I thought possible.
My advice to those just exploring AI: don’t fear it—but don’t glorify it either. The key is in the question itself—”retain authenticity.” Look in the mirror—do you see authenticity, or are you still searching for your voice? That’s not a question of tools—it’s a natural, slow process of becoming an artist, where mimicry, with the years, becomes mastery.
Some of you will discover music through AI. Don’t be afraid. When painters or photographers pick up a video camera, they create contemplative cinema—because that’s their essence. Cinematographers shoot differently. The same applies here: there are instrumentalists, electronic musicians, classic poets, contemporary poets, avant-garde artists, modernists—you name it.
But above all—step beyond fear. Don’t deny yourself the right to be first, the right to be brave. That’s what makes us human.