True music must repeat the thought and inspirations of the

George Gershwin once declared, “True music must repeat the thought and inspirations of the people and the time.” These words shine like a beacon, reminding us that music is not an island unto itself, nor a dream sealed away from the world. Rather, it is the voice of the age, the echo of the multitude, the mirror of the collective heart. True music is not carved in ivory towers; it is born of streets and struggles, of laughter and tears, of the fire that burns in a people at a given hour in history.

To say that music must repeat the thought of the people is to recognize that it is a vessel for their dreams and their sorrows. A song is not merely the creation of one, but the chorus of many, spoken through a single instrument or voice. When the farmer hears a tune that recalls the toil of his fields, or when the worker hears a rhythm that beats like his weary heart, he feels understood. In this way, music becomes the language of the crowd, expressing what they could not phrase in words.

Gershwin himself lived this truth. In the 1920s, amid the pulse of jazz and the spirit of Harlem, he composed Rhapsody in Blue. It was not the distant, austere music of aristocratic halls, but the vibrant mingling of classical form with the jazz rhythms of the city. This was America’s music—restless, diverse, filled with longing and ambition. By weaving the inspirations of his time, Gershwin gave voice to an entire nation stepping boldly into modernity. His work lives on because it did not belong only to him; it belonged to the people whose age he captured.

History overflows with such examples. The folk songs of enslaved Africans in America, which later became the foundation of the blues, were born from suffering but also from hope. These were not the polished compositions of courts, but the raw prayers of a people in chains. And yet, because they embodied the thought and inspiration of those who sang them, they endured, becoming the lifeblood of gospel, jazz, and rock. They prove Gershwin’s words true: only when music speaks for the people and the time does it become eternal.

The meaning is clear—music that forgets its roots in humanity may dazzle for a season but will wither like a flower cut from its soil. True music must be bound to life itself. It must rise from the soil of its people, reflecting their struggles, joys, and transformations. When it does, it transcends entertainment and becomes testimony, a record of spirit that future generations may inherit.

For us who hear these words, the lesson is profound: if we are creators, let our creations reflect not only our private world but also the collective heartbeat of our age. If we are listeners, let us seek out songs that do not merely decorate silence but carry meaning, that echo the voices of those who lived before us and those who live beside us now. For in such music we find not only beauty, but truth.

Practical steps flow from this teaching. Pay attention to the songs of your community, the music rising from gatherings, protests, and celebrations. Notice how each generation forges its own sound, and how those sounds tell the story of their struggles and triumphs. If you are a maker, let your art be honest, grounded in the life you witness. If you are a seeker, listen with more than your ears—listen with your soul for the thought and inspirations of the people and the time.

Thus, Gershwin’s wisdom endures: “True music must repeat the thought and inspirations of the people and the time.” Let this be a law for all who make or hear music. For when music speaks truthfully of its people and its age, it becomes more than sound—it becomes history, memory, and spirit woven into song, echoing long after the voices of the living have passed.