About the song
Six voices around one table, each one blamed for finishing off the thing they all love. Nobody has managed it yet.
"Who killed music? Place your bet.
The last real thing ain't been invented yet."
About these notes
AI-assisted song notes, based on the sources shown here. Not yet human-reviewed.
Words from the artist’s archive
WHO KILLED MUSIC? lyrics
Artist-supplied lyric sheet, matched by title. The sheet may differ from this released performance. Production notes and alternate promotional cuts are omitted.
Read the lyric sheet
Intro
Voice took the head chair, chest full of thunder. "Before wood, wire, or wall, I was enough. Breath made rhythm. Grief found pitch. I was music when the room was just dust." Instrument dragged in strings, skins, brass. Voice leaned back. "You need tools for that?"
Verse 1
Instrument tuned up, let the timber talk. "Your lungs got limits. I can fill the dark." Then a mic and a reel rolled up to the plate, said, "One good take does not have to fade." Instrument laughed, "Soul lives in the air. Trap it in a box, there is nothing in there." Recorder hit play. A dead room breathed. Yesterday walked in with sound on its sleeve. Soon the family framed what it called obscene, then a needle came dragging a new machine.
Chorus
Who killed music? Nobody yet. New hands reach, old hands object. Your door was art. My door is a threat. Then my strange sound earns your family crest. Who killed music? Place your bet. The last real thing ain't been invented yet.
Verse 2
Turntable spun the past by the edge of its coat, cut one drum break till the old bar spoke. "I make new rooms from the walls you made." Recorder yelled, "Thief. Put it back in its grave." Turntable rose from the corner to a crown, then the drum box came with a kick drawn out. MPC said, "Give me two clean seconds. I can bend that dust to a different direction." The drummer said, "Fake." The DJ said, "Soft." The player said, "No hands, so it does not count." MPC tapped pads, let a generation in. Three old rebels called the new rebel a sin.
Chorus
Who killed music? Nobody yet. New hands reach, old hands object. Your door was art. My door is a threat. Then my strange sound earns your family crest. Who killed music? Place your bet. The last real thing ain't been invented yet.
Verse 3
Computer came carrying a studio flat, put a board and a booth in a bedroom bag. MPC crossed arms. "Now they all make beats." DAW said, "More doors make a wider street." Then Auto-Tune entered in a mirror-bright suit. Voice stood up. "That is fraud in a booth. You fix bad notes, put a mask on weak." It smiled, "You stretched me till I learned to speak. The mic made you bigger. The tape gave you twins. Effects changed rooms. Where does cheating begin?" Soon its bend was a color, its glow was a choice. Another court case turned into a voice.
Bridge
Then the youngest child came in without a chair. AI on the name card. Silence in the air. "You can clone a throat. You can flood the shelf. You can cut the wage. You can hide the source." AI said, "Those are risks. Write rules with teeth. Name what I borrowed. Pay hands underneath. But fear is not proof that the art is dead." The table rose pointing. One sentence spread: "YOU'RE GOING TO DESTROY MUSIC!" AI scanned each face, then tilted its head. "Interesting. Which one of you did not hear that when you first walked through the door?"
Chorus
Who killed music? Nobody yet. New hands reach, old hands object. Your door was art. My door is a threat. Then my strange sound earns your family crest. Who killed music? No verdict yet. The last real thing ain't been invented yet.
Outro
The head chair moved down one place.
Inside the recording
Voice took the head chair, chest full of thunder. "Before wood, wire, or wall, I was enough.
Who killed music? Nobody yet. New hands reach, old hands object.
The head chair moved down one place.
Excerpts from artist-supplied lyric files matched by title. Lyric sheets may differ from the released performance.