What Makes Music Classical—And Who Gets to Be a Classical Musician?
Reclaiming a Misunderstood Term
Ask ten people what “classical music” means, and you’ll receive ten different answers—some naming Mozart and Beethoven, others invoking a vague sense of “serious” or “old” music. But at the heart of the confusion is a deeper issue: the collapse of classical music’s definition into either historical European art or elitist propaganda. The result? A sacred tradition reduced to a niche museum piece or a gatekept old white man’s club.
This post is not a defense of the canon, nor a manifesto against modern music. It is a reckoning with the meaning music takes. We will explore what actually makes music classical—not by taste or tradition alone, but by function, form, and cultural posture. And we will ask: who gets to be a classical musician in an age of branding, algorithms, and social media performance?
As a composer, conductor, and teacher, I am not writing from the outside looking in—I write from within the tradition and beneath its weight. I write as someone who believes classical music is not dead. But to keep it alive, we must first understand what it is, who it’s for, and who is allowed to carry it forward.
What Makes Music “Classical”?
The term “classical” is often misapplied as shorthand for European, elitist, or draconian. But its true essence lies neither in era nor ethnicity. Classical music is not defined by the date it was written or the skin tone of its composer—it is defined by its function and purpose. It is music crafted not as commodity or backdrop, but as an object of contemplation. It is designed to be listened to for its own sake, with structures that reward attention, memory, and reflection.
This is why Bach and William Grant Still both belong to the tradition. It’s why concert music—whether written for solo cello, symphony orchestra, gospel choir, or video game score—can be classical, so long as it calls the listener not merely to feel, but to reflect. It demands of its audience the same thing it demands of its creator: discipline, depth, and devotion.
Jazz, for instance, often stands apart in the public imagination, yet its harmonic logic and formal development mark it as an American continuation of the classical lineage. Likewise, film scores and video game music—though commercial in delivery—often uphold classical techniques in orchestration, thematic development, and emotional architecture. Nobuo Uematsu’s One-Winged Angel, blending choir, rock band, and orchestra, transcends genre to enter the realm of the concert hall.
So then, classical music is not a historical category. It is a way of composing—and more importantly, a way of listening. It invites not escapism, but transcendence. Not distraction, but elevation.
Music as Object vs. Artist as Product
To understand classical music today, we must confront the shift from music as object to artist as product. In earlier eras, the composer stood behind the score. Bach was not a brand. His music endures because it was not about him—it was about form, faith, and the reverence of the eternal.
Contrast that with modern pop culture, where the artist is the message. Beyoncé is a brilliant performer and cultural icon, but her music is inseparable from her persona. She is the product. By contrast, Hildegard von Bingen—composer, mystic, and abbess—wrote for the glorification of God and the edification of her cloister. Her chant still stirs the soul a thousand years later, even when sung by nameless choirs. The music is the object. It stands on its own.
We see this again in the pairing of Prokofiev and Metallica. Prokofiev’s Sonata No. 7 is a work of wartime catharsis, structurally rich and emotionally precise. Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls borrows a musical phrase from that sonata, repurposing it into an anthem of rebellion. Though Metallica often sells a brand, in this moment they channel the classical lineage, proving how ancient structures still breathe in modern sound.
The point is not to shame branding—but to diagnose what’s lost when music becomes a vessel for self-marketing. Classical music strives not for virality, but for vitality—to endure long after the composer is forgotten.
In this age of algorithms and commodified art, the classical composer must reclaim their role—not as the oil that burns bright for a moment, but as the vessel that holds oil meant to last. For once the vessel seeks to be the flame, the oil is wasted.
Who Gets to Be a Classical Musician?
In elite circles, “classical musician” often implies conservatory credentials, European repertoire, and an allegiance to precision over personality. But this definition is both historically shallow and spiritually limiting.
We must ask: who decides what counts as classical—and who’s been left out?
Musical theatre, for instance, is often dismissed as “less than” opera, despite requiring equal rigor, nuance, and vocal dexterity. Why is West Side Story treated as a cultural side dish while Carmen is the main course? When done with excellence, both unite music and drama to move the soul.
The same gatekeeping erases legacies. William Grant Still, Florence Price, and others composed symphonic works equal to their European counterparts, yet remain underprogrammed and undercelebrated. Gospel musicians, too, offer sacred music rich in symbolism and complexity—deserving of analysis, study, and reverence.
Being a classical musician isn’t about pedigree. It’s about substance. A composer fusing spirituals with opera, a conductor programming sacred fusion repertoire in small towns, a violinist improvising Bach alongside jazz—all these are classical musicians. Their music isn’t classical because of style. It’s classical because of sacred intent.
To reduce classical music to tuxedos and tonal purity is to betray its essence. The canon is not a cage. It is a chorus, still growing in song.
Reclaiming the Composer in the Age of the Brand
Today, musicians are expected to be more than creators—they must be content strategists, influencers, and self-branded products. It’s not enough to write good music. One must perform the image of someone who writes good music.
But the composer’s calling predates this noise.
Hildegard didn’t write chants for Spotify. Prokofiev didn’t write symphonies for social media virality. Their music was tied to sacred order, national memory, and inner truth.
To reclaim the composer’s role is not to reject platforms—but to resist distortion. You can be visible without becoming a spectacle. You can share without selling out.
Branding is a tool—but when it overtakes the art, the art suffocates. The classical composer writes music that breathes on its own, with or without applause.
This is not elitism. This is alignment.
Carrying the Tradition Forward
Classical music is not dead—but it can be forgotten if we fail to define it rightly. It is not a relic of empire or a genre for the privileged. It is a tradition of depth, of contemplation, of music that teaches us how to listen again.
To preserve it, we must steward it.
We must teach it without gatekeeping, perform it without ego, and expand it without diluting its essence. We must lift up forgotten composers, fuse new traditions with old, and reclaim the role of composer not as performer of self, but as servant of the sacred.
If this post stirred something in you—share it. Discuss your thoughts with a comment. And most of all, continue the work. Whether you’re a teacher, performer, student, or listener, classical music needs your hands to carry it forward.
Let us not bury it in nostalgia or smother it in branding.
Let us tend it like a flame—holy, alive, and worth passing on.
If something stirred while you read—if you’re craving art with more meaning, more humanity, more soul—
then take the next step.
Download Musical Building Blocks: A Sacred Primer for the Listening Musician—
a free guide designed to help you hear structure with the soul, not just the ear.
This is not homework.
This is the beginning of seeing music as sacred again.
Receive the Free PDF below and begin listening differently
