This is not an argument calling for the end of generative AI. That will take care of itself. AI will change healthcare and science for the better, but generative AI in the creative industry will be the next VR goggles or 3D cinema. It lacks market penetration and staying power because original artistry is better.

Tuning into the surfing at the Paris Summer Games, I was presented with a cloyingly overwrought aerial view of the island nation of Tahiti as portrayed by some mix of generative AI and CGI. It was Pandora-esque in its Crayola oversaturation. The eye naturally looked for rainbows and unicorns. But just as I was guffawing, the intro ended and NBC segued to real footage of Tahiti shot from a helicopter with what must have been world-class image stabilization gimbals and big cameras.

Tahiti is mesmerizing. I knew from reading that it was mountainous, but I didn’t realize just how striking the sawtoothed verticality ensconced in jungle canopy is.

Which begs the question: Why bother with the artifice? Just because technology can make a virtual Tahiti doesn’t mean we should waste our time with it. The human brain is capable of knowing both natural splendor and fantasy. That’s why art works. We fill in the gaps with our imagination. The phone book is, or was anyway, a compilation of facts, but it was never a story. I don’t need to be told what the ending of Citizen Kane or Openheimer means. I want to be left thinking about it. A 14-line sonnet can create an entire world just as a landscape painting can be impressionistic, abstract, or realistic—and still convey truth. A young man can turn into a 170-pound cockroach in Kafka and tell me more about the human condition than a thousand philosophical treatises. Beauty is everywhere, but art does not exist without the artist.

And that brings us back to the word “authentic.” Especially in the hands of business people, when words are overused, they can lose their meaning. “Epic” becomes “luxurious.” “Disruptive” becomes “bluster.” But “authentic” shares its root with the word “author” for a reason. It means duly authorized; genuine; original. It should connote a similar dynamic as art and artist. Original work does not exist without the author, the auteur, the auto-bio-grapher (self, life, write). And original work, because of its authenticity, is what rises above the noise.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the interplay of music and film. The outdoor and action sports genres crank out a disproportionate amount of quality short films. (Also plenty of trash but that’s true of all categories.) The strong films feature original storylines, original interviews, original cinematography, and a sense of authorship—the filmmaker had a point and a vision.

But only the strongest films get the music right. To understand why that happens I connected with Jeremy Chatelain and Matt Mateus, the founders of Timber Music Supply Co. out of Salt Lake City.

Jeremy and Matt started off in the music world as teenage Salt Lake City punk rockers. By age 16, Matt, and Jeremy (21) were playing in the same band. Jeremy was already a figure in SLC punk. Jeremy signed with a record producer out of Chicago and grew a national following. Following their dreams, they both landed in New York City. All in, they spent 15 (Matt) to 20 (Jeremy) years moving from band to band and touring. It was never as glamorous as it might sound, but they were committed to a life of music.

In New York, Jeremy experimented with other genres and began licensing music to filmmakers, and Matt, who had dreamed of working as a recording engineer since he was a kid, found himself surrounded by some of the world’s finest engineers in a New York studio. Keith Richards lived upstairs.

Eventually though, the city and the lifestyle were too much. The guys missed trees and mountains. Back in Utah, they collaborated again and eventually that collaboration turned into Timber Music. The business model is two-pronged: Matt and Jeremy create original music—albums really—that they self publish across genres. That music is in turn licensed and distributed by a high-end library. They intentionally get weird with it and challenge each other. The music might end up playing on a boombox in the background of a period piece or provide an undertone to a film. To create the music, it’s just two friends riffing in a studio. But here’s the thing, even though they’re working in established genres and they aren’t really a band, their shared history as bandmates putting out albums means they put pride into the work. The goal is to create an original sound. And because the eventual customers recognize that, Timber’s stock library has had a lot of success. Their albums stand out from the noise.

The second element of Timber is more interactive. They make custom music for films, podcasts, brand anthems, and even audiobooks. It’s here that they take a journalistic approach with the client, asking questions, watching film, meeting subjects in person, trying to figure out the story that the music needs to tell.

As with journalism or documentary filmmaking, this is hard. The film “One Revolution,” which told the story of the 13-time Paralympic medalist Chris Waddell, is a good example. Matt watched an opening clip of the film, which focused on Chris’ accident and recovery. It was heavy stuff, so he naturally produced a somber tone to match. “The filmmakers were like, ‘Nope. You won’t be able to get the music right until you meet Chris,’” says Matt.

“As soon as I met him I knew the direction the music had to go. Chris is anything but somber. He’s a triumphant character. The music became all about positive energy. We like the custom work because we are pulled into the team. It’s collaborative. It’s iterative. And it puts us in a position that most people find awkward. It’s almost like an identity crisis. We want to create great music, but it has to be great music that works for the client. We can’t let our egos dictate the final product because it doesn’t live by itself. It has to work with the film.”

The films in which Timber’s music has appeared have premiered at Sundance and won Emmy’s. In part the accolades happened because the music wasn’t treated as an afterthought. But more to the point of this essay, when there is an author there is authenticity. Original music written and edited for a project complements all the other original work that went into it. Whereas a jingle picked up from some bottom feeding service, or worse, some AI generated music, is just more noise.

These are the universal outcomes you get when you hire real people to do real work. A photographer who understands branding can create a company’s entire look and feel. A writer who knows gear can articulate why your product stands out. An athlete who makes human connections with your customers is more valuable than some random influencer who is in it for the swag. And a filmmaker who understands how to make an adventure or a company both approachable to new users and legitimate in the eyes of core participants and is worth more than a dozen out of touch agencies.

That’s what we mean when we talk about authenticity. And that’s why, despite how overused the word is, the idea behind it still matters. Storytelling, no matter the form, is about defining something bigger than the next post. And content, by itself, is not a strategy. If it was then generative AI could take over the creative industry. But that won’t happen because there is no authenticity without an author.