Side A, Side B, and Everything In Between

The Soundtrack of Our Living Room

I grew up listening to my parents’ old records on a stereo that encapsulated pure magic. I could Twist and Shout, do the Curly Shuffle, then belt out I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar better than Helen Reddy all in the same night. And sometimes… I did. My brother and I would dance around the living room in our footed pajamas, jumping off the couch like we were in an episode of He-Man or Kids Incorporated. When we weren’t pretending to be GI Joe saving the world, we were spinning around that shag-carpeted stage of our childhood, two kids fueled by music, make-believe, and the kind of wonder only the ’80s could inspire.

Cruising with the Windows Down

My dad had an old 8-track player in his 1977 Monte Carlo. Dark blue with a tan interior that smelled like sun and vinyl. On summer evenings, we’d go cruising with our “2-55 air”-two windows down, fifty-five miles an hour-singing along to the Beach Boys, Three Dog Night, and Fleetwood Mac like we were the backup band. The music would skip and crackle as the tape clicked over, but to us, it was perfection. That car was our concert hall, our time machine, and sometimes, our escape. Just a family, a soundtrack, and the open road ahead.

Press Play, Rewind, Repeat

The first cassette tape I owned was Paula Abdul’s Forever Your Girl. I must have played it a million times, rewinding “Straight Up” with my finger when the tape got tangled, dancing in my room like the floor was a stage and the mirror was my audience. And when I needed to really show off my moves, I’d grab my Get in Shape, Girl! ribbon, crank up the music, and let it swirl through the air like I was leading a parade. Even then, I think we understood that music wasn’t just background noise, it was how we connected, before connection became something instant.

The Magic of the Mixtape

Then came one of the greatest upgrades to childhood magic: the blank cassette tape. Suddenly, music wasn’t just something you listened to, it was something you created. By the mid-80s, boomboxes were the crown jewels of every front porch and bedroom floor, and if you were lucky enough to have a dual cassette deck, you ruled the airwaves of your own little world. My friends and I would spend entire afternoons recording songs off the radio, timing the record button just right, hoping the DJ wouldn’t talk over the intro to our favorite songs. We made dedication tapes for each other, as if we were radio personalities paying homage to our best friends through music. Songs they listened to when they thought of their crush, songs they heard when they were sad, songs that made them laugh or dance like no one was watching. Each tape was a little universe, a snapshot of a moment in time of who we were and who we wanted to be, recorded with care and the kind of magic that only existed in the simple pleasures of childhood. The hope of being understood, the thrill of connection, and the friendships that molded us into the people we were destined to become.

Walkmans and Private Worlds

And when the Walkman showed up? Game changer. Music became portable and private. You could slip those orange-foam headphones on and disappear into your own soundtrack. Every mixtape told a story. Who you liked, who broke your heart, who you wanted to be. It wasn’t just music, it was identity, captured on magnetic tape and wrapped in hope. Side A for when your heart was wide open. The windows down, hair flying, believing anything was possible. Side B broke your heart. The quiet, contemplative tracks where you rewound your soul, dreamed an impossible dream, and allowed yourself to believe it.

When CDs Shined Like the Future

Then….compact discs hit the scene. Tiny, circular and reminiscent of a record. Suddenly, music was cleaner, shinier, and less prone to tape tangles. Making your own CD was still a ritual. You had to burn it carefully, one track at a time, praying your computer wouldn’t freeze, then label it with a Sharpie in your neatest handwriting. And just when it felt like we had mastered the art of personal music collections, the digital frontier exploded: Napster, LimeWire, and Kazaa. Downloading songs with our dial-up modems became a mix of thrill, risk, and rebellion. Every new track was a treasure, every corrupted file a heartbreak. Through it all, the essence of it remained the same. Making your own playlist was a labor of love. You thought about order, flow, and mood. Each burned disc had meaning, and playlists weren’t just convenient, they were stories.

The Digital Frontier

Today, music is everywhere at once. Streaming platforms let you build a playlist in minutes, shuffle songs with the tap of a finger, and share it instantly with anyone around the world. It’s easy. No tapes to rewind, no CDs to burn, no dial-up waiting, no fear of a corrupted file erasing your carefully curated masterpiece. But sometimes I wonder if that ease comes at a cost. Does being able to create a playlist in three minutes numb us to its purpose? The thoughtfulness, the emotional choreography of each song flowing into the next, the tiny rituals that made each mixtape feel like a love letter, a story, a secret?

Playlists Without Patience

There’s still magic in playlists, of course. But the deliberate patience of recording, dedicating, and labeling your mixtape was something entirely different and sometimes I wonder if the ease we’ve wandered into in this digital age has softened its meaning. Sharing a playlist today can feel like tossing a handful of songs into the digital wind. Quick, efficient, and somehow… less personal. A text link, a few clicks, and it’s done.

What We Gave Up for Convenience

Giving a mixtape was different. It was deliberate. You sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones half on, fingers ready on the record and stop buttons, waiting for that perfect opening chord. You thought about the track order like a story. How to start strong, where to let it breathe, and how to end in a whisper. You scribbled the titles onto a label, maybe added a doodle or a secret message only the receiver would understand. And when you finally handed it off, that small rectangle of plastic and emotion meant something. It was proof of effort, attention, and care. A handmade soundtrack for someone who mattered.

Maybe that’s what’s missing now. Not the music, but the making. The patience. The waiting. The intention that turned ordinary songs into a personal confession.

I know we have it easy now. In seconds, I can pull up any song ever recorded, stream it through every room of my house, and share it with someone halfway across the world, and I’m grateful for that. For the access, the abundance, the instant connection. But sometimes, I miss the slowness of it all.

We live in a world where everything is instantaneous. Music, messages, even emotions. Songs come to us through algorithms that learn our moods before we’ve named them. We don’t wait for connection anymore, we expect it. And maybe that’s progress. Maybe that’s what makes this generation’s soundtrack so endlessly accessible. But sometimes, I think we’ve traded the effort for ease.

Back then, the waiting was part of the wanting. The pauses, the rewinds, the slow build of a mixtape taught us patience and attention. Music didn’t just fill silence, it gave it shape. Now, when everything is available all the time, maybe the challenge isn’t finding the song, but feeling it long enough to let it stay.

The patience it took to rewind a tape with a pencil, to sit by the radio waiting for your favorite song to come on, to hold your breath hoping the DJ wouldn’t talk through the intro. I miss the click of the deck closing, the way a cassette would rattle around in its plastic case, the handwritten titles scribbled in ballpoint pen on those tiny paper inserts.

I miss the way music used to live in a place. In the Monte Carlo’s glove box, on the bedroom floor next to the boombox, in the shoebox under your bed filled with old mixes that smelled faintly of the people and places you made them for. There was an intimacy to it. The weight of a tape in your hand, the effort behind every song choice, and the anticipation of giving it to someone who mattered.

I still have a few of those old mixtapes in a box in my closet. Most of them didn’t survive the decades. Magnetic tape wasn’t built to last thirty years, and time has a way of softening the sound. The ribbon warps, the cases crack, and sometimes the music simply gives out. But maybe that’s fitting. The songs may fade, but the feelings they inspired never really do.

Now, playlists come and go. We build them in minutes, rename them on a whim, and delete them just as easily. But the sentiment is definitely not as loud and the delivery much less profound. You can’t hold a playlist. You can’t tuck it into your backpack or slip it into someone’s locker with a note that says, “Dude, track 3 will blow your mind.”

Maybe I’m Just Getting Old… or Maybe I Still Have the Right Stuff

My kids would probably say I’m just getting old. That Mom’s fallen off her rocker, stuck between Side A and Side B of her Hangin’ Tough tape back when I still believed I’d marry Joey McIntyre if I just nailed the “Right Stuff” dance moves.

Maybe I am. And spoiler alert: I never married Joey McIntyre. Some nights, though, I still find myself standing in front of the mirror, just to see if I’ve still got the Right Stuff. Turns out…I do. The moves might be a little slower but the music still hits the same.

But isn’t that what growing up is for? To remember where you came from, who you were, and the tiny, perfect moments that made you feel alive. Even if it was just you, a cassette, and a living room full of dreams.