Bach was very dead,
his cantatas all ignored.
His passions had been sung
and long forgotten with the harpsichord.
Till they brought him back on stage to take one last concert,
gey bow,
and propped him in the pantheon,
which we're still
living under now.
The day the music never died,
the old beat out the new.
The classics now don't have to go when their composers do.
And everyone knows all the grace this western canon saves.
We're the masters,
we're the slaves.
The future world was shoved aside.
The day the music never died, the day the
music
never died.
Handed down,
timeless treasures built to last.
Our
golden oldies broke the moldy's relics from
unsurpassed past.
And while this universal
art no longer moves your average bloke,
it is unchanged, imperious,
it's serious.
Those recent genres are just a joke.
The day the music never died,
the world was made to wait.
The hottest trends of yore now
bore no expiration date.
The great three B's have no more hits to churn out from their graves.
But they're the masters, we're the slaves.
The classics could not be denied.
The day the music never died, the day the
music never died.
History is the river we all swim in.
High water marks we rate our present by.
The current,
current where we play could one day wash us all away.
And so we've built a levee,
but the levee is dry.
The day the music never died,
we yield it to the old.
To all be crushed by footsteps we would walk in we were told.
And all that's new must now compete with what drew bygone race.
A
sumptuous feast, we're forced then tilled.
It's all the blue haired
public craves.
And who are the masters, who are the slaves?
When tried and true beats the new untried.
If it's familiar let it slide.
Irrelevant and mummified.