One of our biggest pet peeves is listening to bands that use

Zacky Vengeance, with the fire of an artist who guards his craft, once declared: “One of our biggest pet peeves is listening to bands that use harmony guitars for the sake of it. If you can’t figure out how to do something different than Maiden, UFO, or even Boston, then what’s the point?” These words, though born in the world of music, echo with the weight of ancient wisdom: that imitation without soul is emptiness, and repetition without creation is vanity. For the true calling of the artist is not to mimic, but to forge anew; not to echo, but to sing in a voice unmistakably one’s own.

The harmony guitar, when wielded with inspiration, is a weapon of glory. It soars, it lifts the spirit, it adds depth like the blending of voices in a hymn. But when used merely “for the sake of it,” without thought, without purpose, it becomes hollow—a trinket, a decoration, an empty trick. Vengeance calls us to remember that art must be more than formula, more than copying the giants of old. To lean only on Maiden, UFO, or Boston without striving for difference is to remain a shadow while others stand in the light.

The ancients knew this truth well. The poets of Greece revered Homer, yet each sought to craft their own epics, adding new myths, new forms, new voices. To merely repeat the Iliad without invention was seen not as honor, but as weakness. In Rome, too, orators trained by mimicking Cicero, but their true power was measured by how they broke free of imitation to speak with a fire uniquely their own. So it is in music, and so it is in all arts: repetition without innovation diminishes the soul of the creator.

History offers a vivid example in the Renaissance. Painters once copied the forms of their masters stroke by stroke. Yet those who rose to greatness—Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael—did not stop at imitation. They took what was given and transformed it. Michelangelo carved stone as if it breathed. Leonardo infused even sketches with life and curiosity. Their greatness lay not in repeating what had been done, but in daring to go beyond, even if it meant breaking with tradition. This is the very spirit of Vengeance’s warning: do not let your art die in the shadow of another’s glory.

The foolish band that uses harmony guitars without thought is like the student who recites verses he does not understand. He may sound correct, but his words are lifeless. The true artist, however, seeks not only to master what exists but to ask: What has not yet been heard? What sound is still hidden in silence? This is the fire that drives creation, the hunger that separates the visionary from the imitator.

The lesson, then, is sharp and demanding: if you create, do so with purpose. Let every note, every brushstroke, every word serve a vision greater than mere mimicry. Study the masters, yes, but only as one studies the stars—to navigate new seas, not to remain staring forever at the heavens. For art that does not dare to be different is art already dead.

Practical action flows from this wisdom. If you are a musician, do not simply copy riffs or styles—experiment, bend the strings until they scream with your voice. If you are a writer, do not echo another’s phrases, but wrestle with language until it bends to your truth. If you are a maker of anything, ask not, How can I repeat what has been done? but rather, What can I add to the world that has not yet existed? In this way, you honor the giants by refusing to remain in their shadow.

Thus Zacky Vengeance’s words rise beyond complaint and become a commandment of creation: Do not imitate without soul. Do not copy without purpose. Seek the sound, the vision, the work that is yours alone to give. For only then does art live. Only then does the flame of creation burn bright enough to light the path for generations yet to come.