What Makes Music Great – BradQuan Copeland

The true revelation came through Bobby Krlic’s original score: Killing Spree, a haunting, choir-layered sonata seasoned with ethereal tones that serenaded my eardrums. It thrust me into the primal heat of the film’s internal battle: man versus the three-headed beast of the ego. Goosebumps erupted as my heart thumped like a bassline. For a moment, I felt what the film longed to be as its fangs finally flashed and raked across my heartstrings. My spirit, held captive by the atmosphere, began to ponder: what makes music truly great?

I suppose it’s like what makes an actor great, the ability to turn a meek premise into a boisterous triumph. That question pulled me back to my own beginnings. I was once a rapper, never known, but fame doesn’t equate to greatness. Greatness, as I’ve come to understand, lies in one’s ability to channel spiritual emotion.

At the start of my artistic endeavors, I lacked identity and purpose. My words couldn’t breathe, and my performances fell flat. To unearth my voice, I ventured down an abstract path to faith, though my curiosity first wandered through the temptations of Lucifer. Within the maelstrom, I was engulfed by wailing waves, from the psychedelic reverberations of the 60s, to the digital channels of EDM, indie alternative, rap, and R&B. These genres revealed that art isn’t simply entertainment but a force that commands attention through unapologetic honesty. Even when its meaning isn’t clear, you return until familiarity speaks. That attention creates a presence, feeding you an energy that shapes itself to any state of being.

Bearing that, I cut through the jungle obscuring my potential. I began mingling with diverse groups, unveiling music as a universal vessel. No matter how strange life became, the soul-stirring truths spewed through fearless mouths not only cradled me but expanded my perception.

Suddenly, I could understand grand paintings and sculptures simply through presence. I resonated with writers like Sylvia Plath, Arthur Rimbaud, and Emily Dickinson. Films became excursions, reflecting hidden parts of myself. This newfound grip on a world once foreign allowed me to paint words in a voice all my own. My music became more than a vibe; it forced listeners to confront themselves in uncomfortable ways. My later writing, and I pray always will, do the same. This became clear when my first chapbook, Unhinged, resonated with a man in Australia, proving how far the power of words can flow.

What makes music truly great is its throbbing pulse felt beyond the layers of mundanity. Its ability to shoot vigor through the veins of the feeble and shed light through thick clouds of ruin. Like Krlic’s sonata in HIM, great music teaches us that greatness itself is always possible, no matter where we are, as long as we’re there.