Old music used to mean something. There is none of that today.

Ziggy Marley, heir to a lineage of rhythm and truth, once spoke with lament: “Old music used to mean something. There is none of that today.” His words are not simply nostalgia, but a cry from the soul, reminding us that music was once more than entertainment—it was message, memory, prophecy, and prayer. To him, the old music carried weight, it bore the burden of a people’s struggle, it lifted the weary, it awakened the conscience. What he mourns is not merely sound, but the fading of meaning in an age where noise has often replaced voice.

In the ancient days, music was sacred. It was the chant before battle, the hymn in worship, the psalm in sorrow, the anthem of freedom. It was never idle, never empty, but always tied to the heart of life. The griots of Africa preserved entire histories in song. The prophets of Israel carried their cries through psalms and laments. The enslaved in the Americas, bound in chains, forged spirituals that whispered hope beneath the lash. In all of these, music was meaning, a flame that guided people through the darkness. Ziggy’s words remind us of this ancient truth: to sing without meaning is to sing without soul.

Consider his own father, Bob Marley, whose songs were not crafted only for rhythm but for revolution. When Bob sang Redemption Song, he was not seeking to entertain, but to awaken, calling his people to “emancipate themselves from mental slavery.” Those words became more than lyrics—they became scripture for the oppressed. That is what Ziggy speaks of when he honors the old music: songs that meant something, songs that outlived their singers, songs that carried liberation in their very chords.

But Ziggy also warns of the present: that much of today’s music—though polished, though loud—is empty of substance. Too often it is consumed as fleeting distraction, a commodity to be sold and forgotten, rather than a truth to be lived. The melodies may charm the ear, but they do not pierce the heart. They move the body, but not the soul. And so he speaks with sorrow, for the sacred role of music has been dimmed by the hunger for profit and the worship of trend.

Yet his words are not only a mourning, but also a call to return. For if the old music once carried meaning, then so can the new. The power of music has not died—it waits for the artist willing to clothe it again in truth. Every generation is given this choice: to create songs of vanity, or songs of vision; to sing for noise, or to sing for life. Ziggy reminds us that music is at its highest when it becomes a voice for something greater than itself.

The lesson, then, is this: do not consume music thoughtlessly. Seek the songs that stir you, that challenge you, that remind you of your humanity. Do not let your ears be dulled by the empty, but feed your spirit with the meaningful. And if you are a creator, let your art carry weight—let it be a weapon against injustice, a balm for sorrow, a torch for hope. Let your music mean something, for the world is in desperate need of meaning.

Practical wisdom follows: revisit the old music. Listen to the songs of resistance, of love, of longing, of truth. Let them remind you of what music can and should be. Then carry that spirit into your own time—demand of artists and of yourself that sound be wedded to substance. Sing with intention, listen with discernment, live with awareness. In this way, you keep the flame alive, and the lament of Ziggy Marley becomes not an ending, but a beginning.

So remember his words: “Old music used to mean something.” Take them as both warning and invitation. For meaning is not bound to the past—it can live again in the present, if only we choose it. Let us, then, create and cherish music that speaks not just to the ear, but to the soul. In this way, the eternal power of music will never die, but will continue to guide humanity, as it always has, through darkness into light.