Xania Monet Doesn't Bleed: A Metalhead's Guide to the AI Music Invasion
Courtesy of Kiko Loureiro and the Kiko Loureiro Guitar Academy
Photographer: Ricardo Winzel
Picture this: A "singer" who never gets tired. Never complains about tour conditions. Never overdoses in a hotel room at 27. Never argues with the label. Never demands creative control. Never even exists.
Meet Xania Monet, the first AI-generated artist to chart on Billboard's Radio Airplay chart. She—it—just triggered a bidding war among major labels, with offers reaching $3 million. The AI gospel singer has racked up 1.3 million YouTube views for her single "Let Go, Let God," and hardly anyone in the comments seems to care that there's no actual human behind the microphone.
"Thank you, Lord, for this message," one commenter wrote, completely oblivious or indifferent to the fact they're praising lines of code. "I need you to heal me from the inside."
Here's what should terrify every metalhead reading this: Xania Monet is just the beginning. For four consecutive weeks, at least one AI or AI-assisted "artist" has debuted on Billboard charts. We're not talking about the distant future anymore. We're talking about right now. And if you think metal is somehow immune to this invasion because our music is too complex, too emotional, too real—think again.
Metal has always been about blood, sweat, and calluses. It's about the thousands of hours spent perfecting that sweep-picking technique, the decades honing your growl, the suffering that fuels the art. We've built our entire identity on authenticity, on the struggle, on the very human experience of transforming pain into catharsis.
Xania Monet doesn't bleed. She doesn't struggle. She doesn't feel.
And she's exactly what the music industry has been dreaming of for decades: an artist they can control completely.
What's Actually Happening Right Now
Let's cut through the noise and talk facts, because this situation is evolving faster than most musicians realize.
In a landmark move that should have sent shockwaves through every rehearsal space and home studio in the world, Universal Music Group—the planet's largest record label—just settled its copyright lawsuit against Udio, one of the leading AI music generation platforms. But here's the kicker: they didn't just settle. They partnered.
Universal had originally sued Udio for scraping copyrighted material to train their AI models without permission or compensation. The lawsuit showed how Udio could generate songs eerily similar to classics like Frank Sinatra's "My Way," ABBA's "Dancing Queen," and dozens of other Universal-owned tracks. Then, suddenly, all those copyright infringement charges disappeared. Dropped. Gone. Poof.
In exchange, Universal and Udio announced they're launching a joint "music creation, consumption and streaming" platform slated for 2026. Translation: a subscription-based service where users can generate music within what they're calling a "licensed and protected environment."
Let that sink in for a second… and then ask,
Who Are These "Users"?
This is where it gets really interesting—and really threatening. When they say "users," they're not just talking about bedroom producers or aspiring musicians. They're talking about:
Content farms cranking out background music for YouTube videos, TikToks, and Instagram reels by the thousands
Brands and corporations generating custom jingles and campaign music without hiring composers
Streaming playlist curators flooding platforms with AI-generated "mood music" that's cheap and infinite
Other record labels who will inevitably follow Universal's lead and cut similar deals
The platform isn't about democratizing music creation—it's about industrializing it. It's about turning music into a utility, like stock photos or lorem ipsum text. Abundant. Cheap. Disposable. Soulless.
And here's the thing that should keep you up at night: Universal claims that artists whose music was used to train these AI models will be "compensated" through licensing agreements. But which artists will opt in? Will they even have a choice if their label decides for them? Will session musicians, songwriters, and independent artists get a cut, or just the major label acts?
The Artist Rights Alliance responded with measured concern, noting that while licensing is better than outright theft, the deal "raises questions about whether independent artists, session musicians and songwriters will be sufficiently protected from AI practices that present an existential threat to their careers."
Universal isn't alone in facing this reckoning. Udio's competitor, Suno (the platform that created Xania Monet), is also being sued by major labels. How long before they strike similar deals? We're watching a template being created in real-time—one that could reshape the entire music industry landscape.
The Technology Behind the Curtain
Let's talk about how this actually works, because understanding your enemy is the first step in fighting back.
AI music generators like Suno and Udio function through text prompts. You type in something like "aggressive thrash metal with double bass drums and harsh vocals about corporate greed," and within seconds, the AI spits out a complete song—vocals, instrumentation, arrangement, mix, everything. No instruments required. No years of practice. No understanding of music theory. Just a text box and a credit card.
The AI behind Xania Monet, for instance, was fed lyrics written by Mississippi songwriter Telisha "Nikki" Jones. Jones wrote the words, entered them into Suno along with descriptions of the desired Gospel/R&B style, and the platform generated the vocals, melodies, harmonies, and full production. Jones then selected the best outputs and released them under the Xania Monet persona.
It's a hybrid approach: human creative direction, AI execution. And it's remarkably effective.
The music industry is preparing for the flood. Performing rights organizations like Canada's SOCAN announced they'll accept registrations for partially AI-generated music. Spotify has stopped short of banning AI music, instead implementing policies against "spam, impersonation, and deception" while maintaining that "music has always been shaped by technology."
But here's the difference: previous technologies—from electric guitars to drum machines to digital audio workstations—were tools that required human skill to operate. These AI platforms replace the human entirely. They don't augment creativity; they simulate it.
Why This Threatens Everything Metal Stands For
Metal isn't just a genre. It's a philosophy. A way of processing the world. And at its core, metal is about transformation through suffering.
Think about the origins of your favorite albums. Think about the stories behind them. Metallica's Master of Puppets was born from the band's brutal tour schedule and James Hetfield's exploration of control and addiction. Dave Mustaine turned the rage and humiliation of being fired from Metallica into Megadeth's entire discography—that rejection became the burning fuel for Rust in Peace and Peace Sells, proving that spite and resilience can create legendary music. Pantera's Vulgar Display of Power was Dimebag Darrell pushing himself to create the heaviest, most aggressive riffs possible while the band fought to prove themselves. Alice in Chains' Dirt was Layne Staley pouring his heroin addiction and depression into every agonizing vocal line.
These weren't just collections of songs. They were primal screams wrapped in music. They were therapy sessions that millions of people used to process their own pain.
When a kid picks up a guitar after his parents' messy divorce, when a vocalist screams out the trauma of abuse, when a drummer pounds out their rage at a world that doesn't understand them—that's not just "making music." That's alchemy. That's turning lead into gold, turning suffering into something beautiful and cathartic.
Metal has always been the soundtrack for outcasts, for the wounded, for people who don't fit into neat corporate boxes. Our music is raw, confrontational, and unapologetically human. It demands authenticity. We can spot a poser from a mile away, and we've built an entire culture around gatekeeping against those who don't genuinely live the music.
So what happens when the artist doesn't live at all?
The Therapeutic Power of Real Struggle
Oni Hasan, 2003
Photography by Samiul Alam
There's a reason why metal shows feel like religious experiences. The mosh pit isn't just chaos—it's controlled catharsis. The wall of death isn't violence—it's communion. When you're at a show and the breakdown hits and the entire crowd moves as one, you're experiencing something deeply, fundamentally human. You're sharing in collective pain and collective release.
A musician on stage has earned the right to that moment. They've spent years developing their craft. They've endured the skepticism of family members who asked when they'd get a "real job." They've played to empty rooms and loaded their own gear and survived on gas station food during tours that barely broke even. They've bled—literally—on their instruments. Split knuckles from hitting too hard at shows. Calluses that never quite heal. Tinnitus that's the price of doing business.
That struggle isn't incidental to the art. It is the art.
When you listen to a metal song and it speaks to something deep in your soul, you're connecting with the very real human who created it. You're hearing their pain, their anger, their defiance. You're not alone in your suffering because someone else has been there, felt that, and transformed it into sound.
AI can analyze the musical patterns of a million metal songs. It can replicate the technical structures, the tempo changes, the harmonic progressions. It can generate something that sounds like metal.
But it can't replicate the why.
It can't replicate the guitarist who learned to play through the grief of losing a parent. It can't replicate the vocalist who found their scream after years of being told to shut up and conform. It can't replicate the songwriter who channeled their suicidal ideation into lyrics that ultimately saved their own life—and the lives of listeners who found those words at the exact moment they needed them.
Xania Monet doesn't bleed. She doesn't know despair. She doesn't understand what it means to pick yourself up after the tenth rejection, the hundredth bad show, the thousandth doubt.
She's just code optimized to sound pleasant and familiar.
And that should offend every single one of us.
The Business Reality Check: What This Means For You
Alright, let's get brutally practical, because whether we like it or not, this is the landscape we're operating in now. If you're a working musician, an aspiring artist, or someone who makes any part of their living in the music ecosystem, here's what you need to understand:
The Streaming Apocalypse Just Got Worse
Streaming platforms were already a raw deal for most artists. Now imagine those platforms flooded with AI-generated content that costs virtually nothing to produce. We're not talking about a few songs here and there—we're talking about a tsunami of content.
Google's AI overview on this topic puts it plainly: "Streaming services could be overwhelmed with a massive volume of AI-generated music, making it harder for human artists to be discovered."
When anyone with $20/month can generate hundreds of songs and upload them to Spotify, Apple Music, and YouTube, the competition for listener attention becomes exponential. Your carefully crafted album that took two years to write, record, and produce will be competing with infinite AI-generated alternatives that cost nothing and can be optimized for algorithmic discovery.
This isn't speculation. It's already happening. The past month alone has seen a wave of AI artists charting on Billboard. Breaking Rust, an AI country music "product," debuted on country sales charts. These aren't isolated incidents—they're the new normal.
Your Royalties Are About To Tank
Here's the math that should terrify you: streaming platforms pay out based on total plays. If AI-generated music starts consuming a significant percentage of total listening time—and there's every indication it will—the pool of money available for human artists shrinks proportionally.
Let's say the total royalty pool is $100 million. If AI music goes from 0% to 30% of total streams, that's $30 million no longer going to human musicians. And unlike human artists who have limits on how much they can produce, AI has no limits. It can generate music 24/7, forever, in every conceivable genre and style.
The financial impact will hit session musicians and commercial music creators first. Need background music for a commercial? Why hire a composer when you can generate something "good enough" in seconds? Need music for a corporate video? AI's got you covered. Need a jingle? Done.
All those gigs that weren't glamorous but paid the bills—they're on the chopping block.
The Entire Ecosystem Is At Risk
Think bigger than just artists. Think about everyone whose livelihood depends on human music creation:
Recording studios are already struggling. Why book studio time when AI can generate a fully produced track instantly?
Music teachers who've built careers teaching guitar, drums, vocals—what happens when the aspiration to make music is replaced by the ability to generate it?
Instrument manufacturers like Gibson, Fender, Pearl, Zildjian—when fewer people are learning instruments, who's buying gear?
Live sound engineers, producers, mixing engineers, mastering engineers—if music creation becomes automated, where do these craftspeople fit?
Music photographers, videographers, merchandise designers—the entire infrastructure built around human artists starts to crumble when the artist is a hologram.
There's a Reddit comment from someone who works in the industry that's worth sharing: "There's nothing the record labels would love more than to outsource this part of their work to some 'meta-AI' that could save them the costs of producers/musicians, but the reality is fans don't want it—and artists refuse to work with labels who engage in it—to the point that most major labels now require both DSPs and artists to sign deals that guarantee zero AI usage."
But here's the question: How long does that last? Universal just broke ranks. They took the money and cut the deal. How long before the others follow?
The Copyright Minefield
Here's something that should send chills down your spine: these AI models were trained on existing music. Probably your music, if you've released anything on streaming platforms.
The Chamber of Progress, a tech industry lobby group, recently asked President Trump to sign an executive order directing federal attorneys to defend AI companies against copyright lawsuits. They cited more than 50 pending federal cases with "potentially company-killing penalties."
Translation: AI companies have been using copyrighted music without permission to train their models, and they're now desperately trying to get government protection to continue doing so.
Anthropic, the AI company, just settled with authors for $1.5 billion—$3,000 per book—for illegally training on nearly half a million copyrighted works. That's the kind of money we're talking about. AND the mindset- Kill them all now, sort it out later.
But here's the sick irony: while AI companies fight to use your art to train their models, they're simultaneously creating systems that will compete with you for listeners, streams, and revenue.
You're not just losing potential income—you're actively providing the raw material for your own replacement.
The Practical Response: Adapt or Die (But Don't Lose Your Soul)
Here's where we need to have an uncomfortable conversation, one that's going to piss off some of you. But if there's one thing metal has taught us, it's that we don't survive by pretending threats don't exist. We survive by facing them head-on.
You need to understand AI. Not to surrender to it—to outsmart it.
I can already hear the pushback: "I'm not touching that corporate bullshit. I'm a real musician." And I respect that fury. But let me share a hard truth: ignorance is not rebellion. Ignorance is just giving your enemy a tactical advantage.
Know Your Enemy
The musicians who will survive this upheaval are the ones who understand exactly what AI can and cannot do. That means actually using these tools, not to replace your artistry, but to comprehend the battlefield.
Spend an hour with Suno or Udio. Generate some tracks. See what it does well (spoiler: generic, formulaic music) and what it fails at (genuine emotion, innovative arrangements, anything that requires actual artistic vision). Understand its limitations so you can position yourself in the spaces where AI falls short.
This isn't collaboration with the enemy—it's reconnaissance.
The "AI Should Carry My Gear" Philosophy
There's a quote making the rounds that perfectly captures the frustration: "I want AI to do my laundry so I have more time for making art." Instead, we've got AI making art so we have more time for... what exactly? Laundry?
But here's the thing: there are aspects of the music industry that are soul-crushing administrative bullshit that steal time from actual creation. And if AI can handle those tasks, maybe—maybe—we should let it.
Consider where AI might actually be useful:
Social media content creation: Generating post copy, basic graphics, content calendars. This stuff is exhausting and pulls you away from music.
Basic promotional materials: Email templates, press release drafts, bio copy.
Administrative tasks: Organizing files, basic bookkeeping, scheduling.
Research: Finding venues, compiling contact lists, analyzing market data.
Notice what's not on that list? Anything creative. Anything that touches the actual music. Anything that defines who you are as an artist.
The key is drawing hard, non-negotiable lines. AI can be your intern, but it can never be your music. It can help you reach fans, but it can never replace the authentic connection between artist and audience.
Double Down on What Makes You Human
If AI is coming for the generic and formulaic, then your survival strategy is simple: don't be generic or formulaic.
This is actually metal's natural advantage. Our genre has always valued:
Technical virtuosity: AI can replicate patterns, but it can't innovate technique. Your signature style, your unique approach to your instrument—that's irreplaceable.
Raw emotion: The guttural scream, the anguished growl, the passionate clean vocal— your voice that people already know is real. Right now, the vocals in AI generated music all have the same sound and feel. There’s no uniqueness to the tone and the timbre of people we can all recognize singing because we recognize those people. There’s an imperfection in real voices, and we can still detect that. This really carries weight because we know there's a real human experiencing real emotion. AI can't fake that convincingly, and listeners can sense the difference.
Live performance: AI can't tour. It can't command a stage. It can't create that electric connection with a crowd. Double down on being an incredible live act.
Authentic storytelling: Write from your genuine experience. The more specific and personal your lyrics, the more they resonate—and the less they sound like AI-generated generic sentiment.
Innovation: AI is trained on what already exists. It can recombine, but it can't truly create something new. Push boundaries. Experiment. Be weird. We all like “weird”.
Build Direct Relationships With Your Fans
The streaming model was already broken. AI just exposed how broken it was. The future isn't competing for algorithmic placement against infinite AI content—it's building direct relationships with people who genuinely care about you as an artist.
That means:
Patreon or similar platforms where fans support you directly
Physical merch that can't be replicated digitally
Exclusive experiences like small shows, meet-and-greets, studio access
Community building through Discord, forums, or other direct channels
When fans have a personal connection to you as a human being, they're not going to abandon you for an AI alternative. They're invested in your story, your journey.
Protect Your Work
Understand your rights. Read your contracts carefully. If you're signing with a label, know what they can do with your recordings. Can they license your music to AI companies? Can they use your vocals to train AI models?
Some artists are already taking proactive steps:
Using metadata tags that identify their work as human-created
Including clauses in contracts that prohibit AI training use
Joining organizations that advocate for artist rights in the AI era
Stay informed about legislation and court cases. The legal landscape is evolving rapidly, and the decisions being made now will determine the industry's future.
Accept That Some Things Will Change (And That's Okay)
The uncomfortable truth: AI isn't going away. That ship has sailed. The question isn't whether AI will be part of the music landscape—it already is. The question is how we navigate that landscape without losing our souls in the process.
Some changes might actually be okay. If AI means you can spend less time on promotional grunt work and more time writing music, that's not necessarily bad. If it means independent artists can afford better-sounding demos without expensive studio time for pre-production, that might open doors.
The key is maintaining control. You decide where AI fits in your process. Not the label. Not the algorithm. You.
And if your decision is "nowhere," that's valid too. But make that decision from a place of knowledge, not fear.
Rally Cry: We've Fought This Battle Before
Sabaton Show in Helsinki, 2019
If you're old enough to remember the 1980s, this whole situation should feel familiar. Uncomfortably familiar.
Back then, we were the enemy. Metal was corrupting youth, promoting Satan worship, encouraging suicide and violence. Tipper Gore and the Parents Music Resource Center wanted warning labels on our albums. Politicians held congressional hearings. Religious leaders held record burnings. We were the scapegoats for every parent who couldn't understand why their kid was angry.
They tried to kill us. They tried to censor us, marginalize us, make us irrelevant.
And you know what? We won.
Not because we rolled over and compromised. Not because we politely asked for a seat at the table. We won because we refused to go away. We won because Dee Snider showed up to Congress in ripped jeans and told them exactly what metal meant to the kids who needed it. We won because Frank Zappa testified that censorship was un-American. We won because John Denver—John Denver—stood up and said this was about freedom of expression.
We won because when they told us we were dangerous, we said, "You're goddamn right we are. We're dangerous to your hypocrisy. We're dangerous to your fake morality. We're dangerous to your need to control what people think and feel."
And we kept making music. Louder. Heavier. More aggressive. More unapologetic.
The Enemy Has Changed, But The Fight Hasn't
This time, it's not religious zealots or politicians trying to destroy metal. It's something more insidious: it's corporations trying to replace us with machines that will never talk back, never demand fair pay, never question authority.
They want music without musicians. Art without artists. They want the product without the pesky humans who create it.
And just like the PMRC hearings, this is about control. It's about powerful entities deciding that human creativity is too expensive, too unpredictable, too human.
But here's what they don't understand: Metal has never been about convenience. It's never been about being easy to digest or comfortable to listen to. Metal is confrontational by design. It's supposed to make you feel something—even if that something is uncomfortable.
You can't program that. You can't generate it with an algorithm. You can't fake the catharsis of a breakdown or the transcendence of a perfectly executed guitar solo or the way a vocal line can crack open your chest and reach inside.
What We Do Now
We fight. Not with violence, but with defiance. We fight by:
Refusing to be replaced. Keep making music. Keep getting better at your craft. Keep pushing boundaries.
Supporting each other. Buy albums from independent artists. Go to shows. Share music from human creators. Build networks of mutual support.
Staying loud. When you see AI "artists" getting praised, say something. When labels announce AI deals, call them out. When platforms prioritize AI content over human artists, make noise.
Educating the next generation. Teach kids to play instruments. Pass on the knowledge. Make sure there's a future generation that understands the value of human-created music.
Maintaining our standards. Don't let the bar drop. Don't accept "good enough." Metal has always been about excellence—about musicians who are so good they make it look effortless.
Remembering why we do this. We didn’t originally make metal for the money (let's be honest, most of us never did). We make it because we have to. Because there's something inside us that needs to get out. Because music is therapy, rebellion, community, and identity all wrapped together.
The Future Is Unwritten
Look, I'm not going to lie to you and say everything's going to be fine. It's not. This is going to get worse before it gets better. More AI "artists" will chart. More labels will cut deals. More musicians will lose gigs to algorithms.
But we've been counted out before. We've been told we're dead, irrelevant, a relic of the past. And every single time, we've come back heavier.
The kids who need metal—the outcasts, the weirdos, the ones who don't fit—they're not going to find what they need in AI-generated content. They're going to need real humans who've been through real shit and transformed it into something powerful.
That's you. You know who you are.
So here's my challenge: Don't let fear make you complacent. Don't let anger make you blind. And absolutely, under no circumstances, let them convince you that your art doesn't matter because a machine can approximate it.
Xania Monet doesn't bleed. She doesn't know what it means to struggle, to sacrifice, to pour everything you have into a riff or a lyric or a performance.
But you do.
And that's why you'll survive this.
That's why we'll survive this.
Because metal has never been about taking the easy path. It's about the hard one. The one that requires blood, sweat, and complete commitment.
They can keep their algorithms and their AI-generated slop.
We've got something they can never replicate: we've got souls.
Now get back to your instrument and remind the world what real music sounds like.
\m/
