I feel quite sad for the young musicians coming up because they

Hear, O children of song, the lament of Bryan Adams, who has walked the long road of melody and fame, and yet sees with sorrow the plight of those who come after him. He said: “I feel quite sad for the young musicians coming up because they may never get to pay their rent properly. It doesn’t matter what the genre; nowadays, it’s so much harder than it ever was.” These words, though born of the world of music, resound far beyond it—they are a testimony of struggle, a recognition of how the labor of the heart is not always rewarded in the market of the world.

First, let us weigh the sorrow in his tone: I feel quite sad. This is not the sadness of one man for himself, but the grief of a seasoned traveler who looks behind and sees the younger ones stumbling on a path that has grown more treacherous. For in the days of Adams’s rise, the gate of music was difficult, yet it led to the possibility of stability, of survival through art. Today, he fears, the gate opens not to promise but to scarcity, not to livelihood but to perpetual struggle.

And so he names the plight directly: the inability to pay their rent. Rent is not glory, not riches, not fame; it is the most basic of needs, the shelter above one’s head. If the musician cannot secure even this, then the art that springs from the soul is endangered. For how can one write songs of truth while consumed with hunger, or practice melodies when forced to abandon the craft for survival? Adams speaks here of the cruel paradox: that art, which enriches humanity, may leave its own maker impoverished.

Then he widens the horizon: it doesn’t matter what the genre. This is no complaint limited to country or rock, to jazz or folk, but a universal truth across all sounds and voices. Whether the guitar strums in Nashville, the violin cries in Vienna, or the drumbeat rises in Lagos, the burden is the same. The world has shifted, and with it the foundations upon which artists once built their lives. What was once a profession that could sustain has become, for many, a calling that demands sacrifice with little return.

Reflect, then, on the story of Franz Schubert, the Austrian composer who wrote symphonies, operas, and lieder that would inspire centuries to come. Yet in his own lifetime, he struggled constantly with poverty, often depending on the kindness of friends for food and shelter. He died young, without wealth or comfort, yet left behind treasures of music that the world would only value after his passing. His tale is the same sorrow Adams warns of: that brilliance may flourish, but without support, the creator suffers.

The meaning of Adams’s lament is clear: the world must remember that artists are not mere entertainers, but builders of culture, carriers of emotion, and keepers of memory. If their labor is not supported, the songs of tomorrow may never be written, and humanity itself will be poorer for it. The sadness he feels is not only for the musicians, but for all of us, who risk losing the beauty their voices could bring.

And so, let us take this teaching to heart. Support the young musicians, the painters, the writers, the dancers in your midst. Buy their work, attend their shows, share their creations—not for charity, but for the survival of art itself. And if you yourself are a maker, remember: though the world may not reward you with gold, your craft carries eternal weight. Endure as Schubert endured, as Adams himself endured, and let your voice rise, even in hardship. For though the world may be harder now, still the flame of art, once kindled, can light the path of generations to come.