I have a pet peeve about bands that don't play their hits. I

In the words of Art Alexakis: “I have a pet peeve about bands that don't play their hits. I think it's kind of selfish.” At first, these words may sound like a mere critique of musicians and their choices, but beneath them lies a timeless truth about art, service, and the bond between creator and audience. For music is not made only for the artist; it is also given as a gift to the people. When a band withholds its most beloved songs, it withholds the very thread that connects hearts—the melodies that once carried listeners through joy, grief, or hope. Alexakis calls this act selfish, for it breaks the covenant between artist and admirer.

The origin of this sentiment is rooted in the ancient understanding that art is both personal expression and public service. The poet sings not only for himself but for the tribe; the storyteller weaves his tale not only to delight his own mind but to strengthen the soul of his people. In ancient Greece, bards like Homer were honored not because they recited new stories each night, but because they faithfully delivered the familiar epics of gods and heroes—the “hits” of their time. To refuse such songs would have been seen as neglecting the duty of memory and community.

When Alexakis speaks of bands that don’t play their hits, he points to a failure of gratitude. A song becomes a “hit” not by the will of the artist alone but by the embrace of the people. These songs are milestones in the shared history of artist and audience. They are not merely notes and lyrics, but vessels of memory, carrying the moments when lovers first met, when hearts were broken, when souls were uplifted. To deny these songs is to deny the listeners their place in the story.

Consider the story of Sinatra, who, even in the twilight of his career, sang “My Way” night after night, though he may have grown weary of it. He understood that the song no longer belonged only to him—it belonged to millions who found themselves within it. Or think of The Beatles, who could not escape the cries for “Hey Jude” or “Let It Be.” These songs had become the people’s inheritance, and the true artist gives what the people hold sacred, even if it means surrendering novelty for connection.

The deeper meaning of Alexakis’s words is that art carries responsibility. To be gifted with an audience is to be entrusted with their longing. The artist must balance personal desire with communal duty, remembering that performance is not only self-expression but service. To play one’s hits is to acknowledge this trust; to refuse is to elevate ego above devotion. Thus, selfishness in art is not merely personal pride—it is a breach of the sacred bond between the giver and the receiver.

The lesson for us all is simple yet profound: do not withhold the gifts that others cherish. Whether you are a musician, a teacher, a leader, or simply a friend, remember that what others love in you is not yours alone—it is something you have given, something they carry in their hearts. To deny it is to wound their memory; to share it again and again is to strengthen the bond of love.

In practice, this means living with generosity. If you have words that once lifted another, speak them again. If you have acts of kindness that others remember, repeat them with joy. Do not grow weary of giving, even when it feels repetitive to you, for to others it may be the very light they need. Like the artist who plays his beloved songs, give freely what the world has already embraced from you.

Thus, Art Alexakis’s words, though framed as a pet peeve, become a teaching of the ancients: true greatness lies not only in creating but in giving again and again, with humility and with love. For the artist’s greatest song is not the one he sings once, but the one he sings until it becomes the heartbeat of a people. And so must we, in our own ways, play our “hits” faithfully, that others may continue to find life in them.