People often assume there are only two reasons to make music. The first is professional because it’s your career, your livelihood, the thing you do to pay the bills (or help pay some of the bills perhaps). The second is passion – you write songs, play instruments or record albums simply because you love it. It’s your hobby, your creative outlet, the thing that makes you feel alive. I understand both of those reasons however, for me, there’s a third one that has become increasingly important. Legacy – just leaving something behind.
Every song you record is more than a piece of music. It’s a snapshot of who you were at a particular moment in your life, and history. The lyrics you wrote, the sounds you loved, the way you played and the technology you had available. One hundred years from now, somebody might stumble across those recordings and hear not just music, but a glimpse into your life. They’ll hear what mattered to you, what inspired you, and perhaps even understand you a little better than any entry in a family tree ever could.
Julie has a wonderfully musical extended family. A relative, Charles Hill, was a professional tenor in the 1920s and 1930s. His records were even played by Christopher Stone, the BBC’s very first radio DJ—quite an achievement at a time when radio broadcasts were almost entirely live. Through another family member, we managed to get hold of one of Charles’ recordings.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t in pristine condition. The original 78 RPM record had been played into a phone, saved as an MP3 and passed around over the years. It was noisy, distorted and full of crackles. We spent time cleaning it up as best we could.
Even with all its imperfections, hearing that recording was extraordinary. For a few moments, the distant past was a live again. It was just Charles and a piano. No overdubs, no editing – just one performance, captured forever.
We’re not famous and probably never will be, but perhaps that’s beside the point. Every recording becomes part of our family’s history. It’s something our children, grandchildren, and perhaps generations beyond them can discover. Imagine someone in 2126 pressing play on one of our songs. They’ll hear what alternative rock sounded like in our little studio. They’ll hear the production choices we made, the instruments we played and the voices we had. In many ways, they’ll know us better than if all we left behind were photographs.
Genealogy usually focuses on names, dates and places – birth, marriage and death certificates and census entries. We know our ancestor’s jobs, where they lived and how they fitted into our families but less what they felt – that’s what music can do. It lets future generations hear their creativity, their reflections on life and gives them a glimpse into their lived experiences. That’s a remarkable gift to leave behind.
So yes, we continue making music because we enjoy it. We continue because it’s creative and endlessly creatively rewarding. But perhaps the biggest reason is knowing that long after we’re gone, these songs may still exist. They may become little time capsules – tiny but important pieces of who we were.
And if, a hundred years from now, one of our descendants listens to an old OLDER recording and smiles the way we smiled listening to Charles Hill, then every hour spent writing, recording and producing will have been worthwhile. Sometimes the audience you’re really creating for hasn’t even been born yet.
