Late Transmissions

Late Transmissions: How AI (and good software engineering) surprised and delighted me.

Catalyst

The catalyst was an innocuous New Year's message we received from a friend. It was a short, fantastical AI-generated video that was uncanny and oddly charming. Watching it, we started wondering about the soundtrack. Was the music AI-generated too? Or was it stock audio stitched in afterward? We never quite answered the question, but it started us down the research path where we discovered tools that can be used for song generation.

We already knew that AI tools for music existed. A family member had even created a full album of country songs using them. We found it impressive, it didn’t spark any urgency in us to try it ourselves. That changed when we realized that some of these tools weren’t just about generating music from scratch. They allowed you to upload your own audio.

That’s when a light bulb went on. Somewhere in cloud storage sat a folder I rarely opened, filled with forgotten work: rough recordings with and without vocals, incomplete takes, old .wav files paired with scanned lyric sheets. Songs that had been written quickly, recorded imperfectly, and then set aside. The digital artifacts were from 30 years ago and suddenly had more currency.

The question wasn’t whether AI could write new songs. It was simpler and more personal: what would happen if I fed these old original-composition songs back into a new system? Would anything recognizable come back? Would it be interesting? Or would it flatten everything into something generic?

Experiment

After a bit of fiddling around, I tried my first test using Suno AI. The results were immediately pleasing and brought a smile to our faces. The tool didn’t feel like it was replacing the songs so much as re-voicing them in interesting ways. (In fact, in Suno it’s called a cover.) With some guidance in prompts and settings, the output came back remarkably close to what I remember wanting to do thirty years ago but couldn’t quite execute at the time. It was thrilling not because it was perfect, but because it felt like I was completing something left unfinished.

I think of these new versions as drafts that are an order of magnitude better than the originals. They’re not finished songs, and perhaps I don’t really want them to be. They aren’t finished because the AI process can introduce noise and artifacts into the final output. These can be removed in remastering Suno output (stems). We didn't go that far for our first attempt because we didn’t know how. And even with the noise and artifacts in our final songs, we were happy.

My preference for these songs is for real people to perform them someday. Or is that idea anachronistic? At least now these drafts can properly communicate the idea, the mood, the structure I had in mind. That, to me, is magic: not automation, but translation.

Expression

During the rediscovery and reimagining of these songs, I came around to the idea that songs function for me much like blog posts. They are audio blog posts. (Yeah, I know that much of the world has moved on from longer-form writing like blogs, but I haven’t.) Blog posts—and now songs—are formats in which I can express my thoughts or feelings.

Some of the messages from thirty years ago survived surprisingly well. Others needed a small amount of tuning, though I resisted changing the lyrics more than necessary for this first try. I wanted to hear what that earlier voice was actually saying, not rewrite it from the comfort of hindsight.

I was surprised at how many of the themes addressed in the songs are still relevant to me today: my voice, my sense of freedom, and ability to deal with modern life. In short, timeless themes.

In that sense, reinterpreting of these songs isn’t about reviving the past so much as finishing a sentence or blog post.

Release

Using AI in the process wasn’t about polishing or correcting the past, but about filtering it. It acted like a lens, separating signal from static, letting certain ideas come through more clearly than they ever had before. The result isn’t a set of finished songs so much as clearer drafts, and that feels right for now. Releasing them now isn’t a performance or a bid for attention; it’s simply a form of publication. It’s much easier to send a link than a batch of files. Publishing lets these transmissions complete their journey so I can move on to the next phase.

This post—and the album that shares its name—are both called Late Transmissions (Spotify, Apple, YouTube). The title felt unavoidable. These songs were written long ago, partially broadcast, and then abandoned mid-signal. They’re late not because they were delayed on purpose, but because they took a long route to their current form. 

A Sunday Walk to Find Il Becco di Dossena

Il Becco di Dossena was inaugurated in 2023, but it seems like we’ve been hearing about it longer. Recently, on the way home from a ski day at Piani di Bobbio as we were heading down Val Brembana, I looked up, saw it for a moment, and decided we should go. Then some friends said “hey, would you like to go for a walk on Sunday” and by the way “do you have any suggestions”. And voilà, a few days later we are standing on the beak (becco).

  

Left: Il Becco di Dossena in Dossena, Italy.

Center: Horses on Trail 599C in Dossena, Italy.

Right: The artwork Eco della Montagna near Il Becco di Dossena.

We think we followed the trail outlined here: Sentiero 599C: Dossena (SS. Trinità) - Miniere del Paglio | CAI Bergamo. We parked at the Chiesetta SS. Trinità and just started walking. After a short time, we arrived at the Parco Giochi (where you could also just as easily start from). If you're pressed for time or simply don’t want to walk, you can drive to the Parcheggio miniere and start from there. From the Parcheggio miniere, it’s a steady uphill climb on an old road.

The whole area leading up to Il Becco is well curated, with little bits of art to see. In particular, before the last push to the top there is an art installation called Eco della Montagna that celebrates the memory of all the people who worked in the former mining sites of the Dossena territory. The project consists of a circular fence, 25 meters in diameter, which "embraces" a large stone, sculpted by the artist Francesco Paterlini, isolating it from the surrounding landscape and giving it a symbolic and contemplative nature.

The piece is very Zen-like and fun to wander around.

After the “Eco” and just below Il Becco is another stopping point – again very Zen-inspired in our opinion – with a circular form, seating and a beautiful view east.

Il Becco is a 16 m (52.5 ft) walkway sticking out from the cliff edge. It’s about 250 m (820 ft) above Val Parina. Yours truly had a bit of trouble making it to the end without holding on tightly to the railing.

All in all, a beautiful project and a beautiful setting. And, free to visit.

Below the Parcheggio miniere there is the Miniere di Dossena, where you can find out more about the mines that once operated there and even visit inside the mines. We were there too early on our Sunday walk and missed the opening hours. Another reason to return.

  

Left: Dossena with Cima di Menna in the distance.
Center: Entrance to mines in Dossena, Italy.

Right: Horses in Dossena, Italy.

  

Left and center: Eco della montagna - Dossena, Italy

   

Left: Helleborus niger along Trail 599C.

Center left: Leucojum vernum along Trail 599C.

Center right: Trail 599C in Dossena, Italy.

Right: View to Parina in Val Brembana from Il Becco.

  

Il Becco di Dossena, Italy

 

Left: Sole - a whimsical art installation just below Il Becco di Dossena.
Right: A whimsical artwork on the way to Il Becco di Dossena.

Notes on Entropy from a Courtyard in Italy

We think about entropy more than is probably healthy. Not the physics kind, exactly, but the everyday version: the slow drift of things away from order when no one is paying attention. We were away from our apartment for a couple of weeks last year. When we came back, nothing dramatic happened. No disasters. No broken windows. And yet everything felt slightly off.

For example:

• Used napkins and cups appear in the planter near our entrance. The Nandina domestica, already struggling in the planter, had not been asked.
• Cigarette butts sprouted in a planter within reach of a café table. The Aspidistra elatior growing planter-ashtray slightly indignant at the situation.
• The large vases in the courtyard. We bought them. We planted them. While we were gone, they disappeared. We found them and quietly put them back where they belonged.
• The patch of garden near the trash area has acquired objects we cannot trace: balls, shards of glass, random objects. We don’t know their origin story.
• Advertising mail piles up in the shared mailbox, in the slot everyone agrees does not belong to anyone in particular. We cleaned it out like always.

Are we the only people working against entropy? Or are we just the only people who notice it? Or care enough to reset things? Or believe—perhaps incorrectly—that these small interventions matter?

Rather than asking whether some cultures generate more entropy than others, it may be more useful to ask how responsibility for dealing with it is distributed.

We keep coming back to two patterns.

In the first, responsibility is assigned explicitly. Someone is in charge. Someone is paid. Someone will handle it. Until then, things wait.

In many Italian contexts, responsibility is clearly defined but narrowly bounded. If it’s your role, you do it thoroughly. If it’s not, intervening can feel inappropriate, even slightly rude. The logic isn’t indifference so much as it isn’t my role. From that perspective, entropy accumulates in the gaps between roles.

In the second pattern, responsibility is shared. No one is explicitly assigned, but everyone feels a low-level obligation to intervene.

Japan is often cited as the clearest example. Responsibility there is diffuse but internalized. The question isn’t “Is this my job?” so much as “How will this reflect on the group?” Public trash cans can be scarce, yet streets are clean. People clean schools, offices, and even public spaces they don’t own. Disorder is pushed back early, in countless small gestures, before it has time to settle.

Living here in Italy, we operate as if responsibility is ambient as in Japan, in a place where responsibility is largely explicit. That mismatch may explain why we notice entropy so acutely. It’s just a hypothesis, but one we keep returning to.

We also catch ourselves wondering if geography plays a role. The farther north you go, the more things seem labeled, assigned, and maintained. But even as we think it, we don’t quite trust the idea.

Ivy and Language

We’ve written before about ivy in Italy, how it climbs and wraps itself around trees without anyone seeming particularly bothered. To our eyes, it looks like a problem waiting to be addressed. To others, it reads as part of the scenery, even something cozy. Like a scarf.

We’ve started to wonder if entropy works the same way. What we read as neglect, others read as life happening. Not because they don’t see it, but because intervening isn’t always the default response. Stepping in can feel like overstepping your role.

In that sense, entropy isn’t always decay. Sometimes it’s restraint. A decision, conscious or not, to let things be.

Also, as we’ve written about how the Italian language makes good use of the impersonal: si fa, si vede, è così. Things get done. Things get seen. Things simply are. No one in particular needs to step forward. Entropy fits comfortably into that kind of grammar.

Against Entropy, Briefly

We still pick up the glass. We still reset the plants. We still clear the mailbox. Not because we think we are winning, but because these small acts feel like a way of staying in conversation with a place, our home, our community.

Entropy always wins in the long run. But in the short run, noticing still feels like a choice. And for now, it’s one we keep making.