In cultures around the world, music is sound that holds memory, language, lineage inside it. Traditional music carries the collective memory of a people across generations, especially in oral cultures.

No single person can hold the memory of a people. Deep memory — memory of ways of knowing and being — is held collectively. It lives in the stories we tell, the rhythms we share, the melodies passed from voice to voice. Nowhere is that memory more alive than in world music traditions.

In West Africa, the griots are musicians, yes. And they are also historians, genealogists, counselors — entrusted with the oral memory of entire communities. Through song, they pass on the lineages of families, the rise and fall of empires, the codes of ethics and belonging. The story of their peoples is not written in books; it is heard on the strings of the kora, the beat of the drum, the poems of remembrance.

Among Indigenous Australians, memory is mapped in songlines — ancient musical paths that trace geography, cosmology, and ancestry. Each melody is a map, each lyric a landmark. To walk and sing a songline is to remember how the world came into being, and to remember one’s place within it.

In medieval Europe, troubadours roamed the land with verses of love, war, faith, and satire. Through their songs, they captured the dreams and dramas of their time and planted the roots of modern poetry and storytelling.

In the Middle East, the maqāmāt are melodic modes that impart moods and feelings, and bring healing. They are living vessels capable of carrying centuries-old poetry, spiritual insight, and emotional nuance. Through their vibrancy, musical traditions remain alive in today’s performances.

In India, devotional music has long carried sacred text and philosophical depth. A raga is a mood, a season, a myth, a prayer, the passing of a day. Passed from guru to disciple, the true power of a raga is transmitted aurally and experientially. For the few who become masters, its power comes through both effort and grace.

In oral cultures especially, music is the archive where memory is held. It preserves the names of the ancestors, the shape of rituals, the weight of sorrow, the fire of celebration. Books can be burned or lost, but as long as the memories of songs survive, the culture, with all its mysteries, is not forgotten.

In contemporary composition, memory is drawn from these traditions — the songs, the modes, the spirit of transmission. But it is not simply an echo of the past. It is the creation of something new: a new chapter in the story, a meeting place for artistic worlds once separated by geography or language. It is a new voice woven into an ancient fabric.

This is tradition in the making.