All the good music has already been written by people with wigs

Hear the words of Frank Zappa, the iconoclast, the jester of sound, who proclaimed: “All the good music has already been written by people with wigs and stuff.” At first glance, it is a jest, a playful dismissal of his own age in favor of the powdered giants of the past. Yet within this jest lies a deeper wisdom, a recognition of the immensity of tradition, the weight of heritage, and the eternal struggle of the artist who must find his voice in a world already filled with voices.

By “people with wigs,” Zappa speaks of the masters of the classical era: Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and their kin. These men, adorned in powdered hair and formal dress, laid the very foundations of Western music. Their works were so profound, so intricately woven with mathematical order and divine passion, that later generations might look upon them and despair, believing that nothing more could be said. Zappa’s quip acknowledges this burden—that the past seems to have already spoken every word worth saying, leaving the present with little more than echoes.

Yet Zappa himself, in irony, proved the opposite. Though he claimed that all “good music” had been written, he forged sounds and visions that no powdered composer could have dreamed of. With satire, orchestration, experimentation, and daring rebellion, he broke boundaries of genre, showing that creativity never ends—it only transforms. His words, then, must be read as both homage and challenge: homage to the greatness of the past, and challenge to the living artist to wrestle with that greatness, not in fear, but in audacity.

History offers parallels. Think of the Renaissance painters who looked back to ancient Greece and Rome, believing that the ancients had perfected art. Yet rather than despair, they imitated, reinterpreted, and expanded those ancient forms, birthing a new golden age. Or consider the poets of Rome, who said the Greeks had already written the finest verse. Did they then grow silent? No—they gave us Virgil and Ovid, works not merely copies, but creations born of dialogue with the past. So too must every generation of musicians face the towering shadow of their predecessors, and yet continue to create.

The meaning of Zappa’s words is thus twofold. First, it reminds us of humility: we are not the first, nor will we be the last. The greatness of music—or of any art—rests on the labor of those who came before. Second, it warns us not to be paralyzed by this weight. For even if the past feels complete, the present holds new voices, new instruments, new contexts, and new emotions that must be expressed. What Bach was to the church and court, Zappa was to the modern stage and satire. Each age finds its own necessity, and therefore its own music.

The lesson, then, is this: honor the past, but do not fear it. Study the masters, wear their traditions like armor, but do not let them silence your own voice. Every age has its truth, and truth demands expression. What you create may never rival Bach in counterpoint, nor Mozart in melody, nor Beethoven in power, but it can speak with your soul’s voice—and that is something the ancients could not give.

Practical actions flow from this. Learn from the greats—immerse yourself in their craft, for in their work lies wisdom eternal. Yet do not bind yourself to imitation. Take what you learn and forge it anew in the fire of your own time. Let satire, experiment, courage, and honesty shape your art, just as Zappa did. And above all, remember that “all the good music” is not only in the past—it is also waiting in the present, in your hands, if you dare to create it.

Thus the words of Frank Zappa endure: at once mocking, reverent, and provocative. “All the good music has already been written by people with wigs and stuff.” Hear in them the laughter of the rebel and the challenge of the sage. The past may seem to hold all treasures, but the present too has jewels to uncover—if only you have the audacity to seek them.