There is two kinds of music, the good, and the bad. I play the

When Louis Armstrong declared, “There is two kinds of music, the good, and the bad. I play the good kind,” he spoke with the simplicity of genius. His words were not the arrogance of a man boasting of himself, but the wisdom of one who had seen beyond the endless divisions of style, genre, and form. For Armstrong knew that music is not measured by category or convention, but by its truth—whether it lives, whether it moves the heart, whether it breathes spirit into those who hear it. All else is chatter and distraction.

The ancients would have heard in his words the echo of their own wisdom. They too divided art not by fashion but by essence. To the Greeks, poetry that stirred the soul was good, and that which dulled the spirit was bad. The Romans, though masters of order, judged oratory by whether it persuaded, not by whether it conformed. Armstrong, born in a world that sought to divide jazz from classical, high art from low, refused such prisons. He declared that only two measures exist: life-giving or lifeless, good or bad.

Consider the story of Armstrong’s own life. Born into poverty in New Orleans, he was surrounded not by formal conservatories but by the raw sounds of the streets—church hymns, marching bands, blues, ragtime. These sounds did not belong to one category, nor were they sanctioned by the powerful. Yet they carried soul, and in them Armstrong discovered the good kind of music: that which brings joy, sorrow, and humanity to life. His trumpet was not confined to labels—it rose above them, speaking directly to the heart.

History gives us other witnesses to this truth. When Beethoven broke the formal rules of his age, many critics said his music was chaotic, even bad. Yet his works have endured not because of their conformity, but because of their life, their truth, their power to stir the human spirit. Likewise, Armstrong reminds us that what critics call “low” or “unrefined” may be the very music that endures through centuries, because it is good in essence, not because it is sanctioned by authority.

There is also humility hidden in Armstrong’s words. He does not claim that all he plays is perfect, nor does he say that others play only the bad. He simply affirms his devotion: “I play the good kind.” His creed is simple yet profound—an artist must strive always to lift, not degrade; to heal, not harm. In this way, Armstrong presents music not as mere entertainment, but as a moral act, an offering of goodness to the world.

The lesson for us is clear: do not become trapped in labels, categories, or the judgments of fashion. In your own work, whether in art, in speech, or in life, ask yourself only this: is it good? Does it lift the soul, does it bring truth, does it breathe life? If it does, then it will endure, no matter what others call it. If it does not, then no amount of polish or prestige can disguise its emptiness.

Practically, this means cultivating sincerity and discernment. When you listen, do not judge by genre—listen for goodness, for life, for honesty. When you create, do not imitate labels—create with heart, and let the result be measured by its ability to stir, to move, to endure. And in daily living, remember Armstrong’s creed: play the good kind. Let your words, your actions, your choices be good in essence, not because they are praised, but because they are true.

Thus, Armstrong’s words shine like a trumpet call across the ages: there are only two kinds of music, the good and the bad. Strip away all else, and the truth remains. Seek the good, create the good, live the good—and in doing so, you will not only play the right notes, you will play the song of life itself.