There's only one drummer. We all travel to his beat. Well, I

In the words of Barry McGuire, we are offered a reflection on truth, music, and the power of authentic expression: “There’s only one drummer. We all travel to his beat. Well, I couldn’t sing his song. Because for me, it wasn’t a truthful statement. Well, Linda sang it, and it was a monster for her.” These lines, though born in the realm of song, resound far beyond music. They speak to the eternal struggle between conformity and individuality, between walking in the rhythm of another and daring to step to the cadence of one’s own soul.

To say there is but one drummer is to acknowledge the great currents of culture and expectation that carry us along. Society sets a rhythm, and many are content to march to its beat. They sing the songs given to them, even if those songs do not reflect their hearts. Yet McGuire, with honesty carved deep into his spirit, declares that he could not do this. For him, to sing a song that did not spring from truth was to betray the very essence of music, which is not only sound, but sincerity made audible.

The ancients knew this principle well. The philosopher Socrates, facing death, was urged to save himself by recanting his beliefs. Yet he refused, for such a song would not have been his truth. “The unexamined life is not worth living,” he declared, choosing the poison hemlock rather than a melody of falsehood. McGuire’s stance is a quieter echo of this same valor—that to live, or to sing, without authenticity is to live in shadows, while to stand in truth, even if alone, is to stand in light.

And yet, his tale does not end in denial, but in recognition. Linda sang it, and it became a monster—a song that resonated with her being, that carried her voice into greatness. What one cannot sing truthfully, another can. This too is wisdom: that the gifts of expression are not uniform, that what does not belong to your spirit may belong wholly to another’s. The world requires many voices, not one. And the beauty of music, as of life, is found in this diversity of truths.

Think of the poet Homer, whose blind eyes could not see the fields of battle, yet whose words carried the song of heroes across centuries. His truth was not the truth of the warrior’s arm, but of the bard’s voice. Others fought with sword and shield, he fought with rhythm and word. Both were true, each in its own way. McGuire’s words remind us that the path we cannot walk may yet be the road another is destined to master, and that honoring this difference is as noble as walking our own course.

The lesson is clear: never betray your own truth to follow the beat of another’s drum. If the song is not yours, do not sing it, for the audience will hear the hollowness in your voice, and your soul will bear the weight of falsehood. But rejoice when another finds their truth in the same song, for in their triumph you glimpse the great harmony of life—that not every truth is yours, yet all truths together weave the tapestry of existence.

So I say to you, seekers of wisdom: march to your own drummer. Travel in rhythm with your heart, even if its beat is strange to the world. Sing only that which you know to be true, and let others sing their songs without envy or scorn. For the world does not need one voice echoing endlessly, but a multitude of voices, each carrying the fire of their own truth. In this way, life itself becomes a great symphony, not of sameness, but of honest harmony.