THE DEATH OF THE MASTERPIECE

Let’s be honest: your "Recommended" playlist is starting to feel like a dream you never asked for. You’re scrolling through TikTok, and your favorite influencer suddenly gets caught up in a massive public scandal that has everyone talking. Before the dust even settles, they’re dropping a "club banger" to capitalize on the drama. You hop over to the "Trending in Kenya" tab to see what’s hot, and every single track has that same shiny, predictable beat and a hook that starts before you can even take a breath. It’s not your imagination; we are in a tug-of-war between music that comes from the heart and songs made by a computer program. We’ve traded the "Slow Burn" for a five-second rush. Back in the day, a song was a journey that took its time to grow until you felt it in your bones. Now, music isn’t being written to move your soul; it’s being built to keep you from swiping to the next video. It’s the death of the masterpiece and the birth of "content."

If you think this is just an old-school opinion, the data proves it. Scientists in Italy recently looked at over 20,000 songs from the last 400 years, and the news was pretty sad. Music is literally getting simpler. When you map these songs out, modern hits look like a flat, straight line compared to the winding, exciting paths of the old classics. We are being fed musical mush because the people in charge think our brains are too tired to listen to a real melody. The digital attention economy has forced even the most gifted artists to moonlight as extreme content creators just to stay visible. Even if you have genuine talent, the pressure to go viral often outweighs the focus on the music itself. This has led to a spectacle-first approach where stunts and shock value become more important than the song. We see artists rolling in the mud, jumping off buildings, or performing chaotic stunts just to get noticed. It is a sad reflection of the struggle for visibility where artists feel they have to risk their dignity and safety just to make sure their voices aren't lost in the noise.

The most annoying part is how people become stars today. We’ve reached a point where someone with a lot of followers can become a singer overnight. Their fame guarantees the clicks, and a computer does the rest. With tools that fix every shaky note, anyone can sound professional, but there is a huge difference between sounding perfect and having a soul. We are drowning in music that sounds like a person but feels like hollow cardboard. Think about it like this: consider the humble chapati. Not long ago, a popular Kenyan politician made headlines by showing off a giant machine that can make a million chapatis a day. It’s fast and efficient, sure, but you wouldn't serve a machine-made disc to a guest you truly loved. You want the chapati from a real kitchen where food isn't just calories; it’s medicine. You want to see the flour on the hands and smell the charcoal because that rhythm of kneading dough by hand turns a simple meal into something that feeds your spirit.

Modern music has become that giant machine. It makes noise to fill the silence, but it doesn't provide soul nourishment. The kitchen of music—where a singer and a producer spent weeks fighting over a single drum sound just to make sure you felt the heartbreak—is being closed down for fast-food songs. Real music isn't something you just download; it’s a spiritual journey. The legend Fela Kuti once said that music is a spiritual thing and you shouldn't play around with it. When we treat music like just another product to sell, we break a promise. This spiritual weight is a universal truth that echoes through the foundations of the world’s major religions. It is an ancient recognition of how sound interacts with the soul. In the Christian scriptures, it is recorded that whenever the spirit from God came on Saul, David would take up his lyre and play, bringing relief and healing.

We see this same divine connection in Islam, where the tradition of Sama in Sufism uses music as a way of reaching spiritual closeness to God. In Hinduism, the concept of Nada Brahma teaches that the entire universe was created from divine sound, making music a path to enlightenment. Similarly, in Buddhism, the chanting of mantras aligns the mind with the frequency of the universe. You see this same power in African spirituality through Kilumi, the traditional music of the Kamba people. Kilumi isn't played for likes; it is played to heal. The drum is a sacred tool used to talk to the spirits to bring rain or help the sick. You can’t fake that with a computer program. There is a giant gap between a beat made by a software loop and the vibration of a real instrument played with intent. When a master plays, they are sharing their life with you.

We used to have giants who understood this. Take Franco Luambo Makiadi. He didn't care about your short attention span. He would lead his band through songs that lasted twenty minutes. The music was so beautiful and the feeling was so strong that it didn't matter what language you spoke. It wasn't just a song being pushed at you; it was a conversation. For a long time, this music lived on because it belonged to everyone. The history was kept in the rhythm, not on a server. As we move deeper into this digital world, we have to ask ourselves: Are we okay with being fed by a machine, or are we going to go back to the kitchen? To save our ears, we must learn to choose our medicine. Just as a pharmacy has different cures for different ailments, the history of music offers a wide variety of soul nourishment.

If you are grieving, find the blues or the deep cello of a classical master. If you need strength, look to the archives of the 1950s through the 90s—to the legends of Benga or Rhumba who cared more about the groove than the viral stunt. If you need peace, listen to the traditional chants and instruments that have vibrated for centuries. Be a fan, not a follower. Don't wait for an influencer to tell you what's good. Explore the history of the continent. When you understand where the rhythm comes from, you’ll recognize when the modern version is missing its heartbeat. At the end of the day, modern music is like a fast-food burger: it’s cheap and gives you a quick rush, but it never really satisfies. I’d rather have Tumbukiza. Give me that slow-boiled mix of meat and veggies that has been bubbling for hours. It’s messy, and it takes a long time to get right, but it heals your body and warms your soul. Music is supposed to be food for the heart, and our hearts deserve a meal that actually lasts. It’s time we stop settling for what's convenient and start looking for what's real. Choose your medicine wisely.