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The Echo of 80s Pop Culture
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If you were raised in the ’80s, you didn’t just hear music — you lived in it. Often, you also wore it, smelled faintly of hairspray because of it, and argued about it with your parents who just didn't "get it, man." Twisted Sister made a video that became an anthem.

That decade wasn’t just a time period; it was a cultural supernova, reshaping music, fashion, and identity in one neon-lit, shoulder-padded explosion. Unlike the hazy, heavy sounds of the ’70s — Floyd, Zeppelin, Sabbath — which felt like they were constantly asking, "Are you sure you're high enough for this?" the ’80s was sharp-edged and electric. It didn’t ask you to understand it; it demanded you move to it. Preferably with awkward, angular dance moves only seen again in modern TikTok trends.

I remember saving up a monumental $10.99 for a new Van Halen vinyl, back when albums still had weight — literally and figuratively. You’d carefully slide it out of the sleeve, convinced that even looking at it wrong would cause a scratch that would haunt your ears for decades. And, if included, you'd read the lyrics to each song, identifying the ones that resonated with your cured sense of style.

Meanwhile, a center aisle of cassettes was slowly swallowing up the record bins, like a slow-motion, plastic invasion. And let's be honest, 8-tracks never really manifested into a quintessential medium; they were like the beta-max of audio — a fleeting, clunky whisper in the wind. If you liked a band, your best access wasn’t a tweet or a TikTok; it was a magazine spread with glossy photos, oversized centrefolds of men whose hair defied gravity (and often physics), and a roster of deviant 1-800 and 1-900 numbers lurking in the back, promising who-knew-what if you would only call.

Pop wasn’t background noise — it was atmosphere. It was the air you breathed, perpetually scented with cheap cologne and teenage angst. It blasted from ghetto blasters slung over shoulders that probably gave us all scoliosis, leaked from half-cracked bedroom windows, and bonded friendships with the unspoken agreement: turn it up. Even today, those songs get massive airtime. It's never been so good to be a Gen-Z'er. They're basically time travelers with better hair. We, the glorious analog elders, have a foot locked into the past (usually with a slight limp from carrying that boombox) and one in the digital downloads of today. If the power went out tomorrow for a week, we wouldn't just happily hum a week's worth of 80s music; we'd perform it. Full air guitar solos, dramatic keytar poses, the whole nine yards. We etched it into our minds, largely because there was no "skip" button on the radio. It was a time that anyone with talent and a tune, could be a "one-hit wonder." (Spotify has 6 million songs, and half of those are from the last three years. How can anyone stay "current"?)

Wearing your band’s shirt was a statement – usually involving fluorescent colors or ripped sleeves. Wearing one from the concert was a badge of honor, proof you survived the sticky floors and questionable mosh pits.

Growing up in Vancouver meant we were on the edge — a city on the cusp, perpetually drizzly but musically vibrant. Big bands with big sounds came through, and if you were lucky, you caught the wave – often after standing in a line that snaked around two city blocks. Motley Crüe recorded at Little Mountain Studios. I met them because their location got spammed over the radio like it was part of the show – a primitive, glorious form of guerilla marketing. Guns ‘n Roses was a no-show one night and my little city rioted. Not a quiet protest, mind you, but a full-on, "Welcome to the Jungle" style riot. And let’s not forget the routine for accessing concert tickets: the hieroglyphic-era TicketMaster phone number, which you called incessantly, hitting redial until your finger cramped, hoping that one line would open up and get you seated in the lower nosebleeds, where the performers looked like action figures and the bass drum was just a dull thud. But the experience was worth a week-full of story around school.

Then the ’90s rolled in — and with it, the growl of Seattle Grunge. Suddenly, the radio wasn’t for dancing anymore; it brooded, wore flannel, and probably needed therapy. My beloved pop-metal anthems faded into whispered recommendations, like a secret handshake among survivors. Thankfully, I had a very musically-evolved cousin and uncle, and both let me drift into their Venn diagrams of musical tastes, a safe harbor from the sudden angst. There were no sites to scroll, no playlists to surf. If you wanted to sit in music, you needed the physical ritual: cassette, player, patience. And a pencil. Because without that trusty writing utensil, your favorite tape was doomed to a tangled, unplayable mess. We learned resilience, people!

I never really found my footing in music after the ’80s. It was like graduating from a wild, loud party to a contemplative, slightly depressing coffee shop. But now I see a kid in a Nirvana shirt, and I get it. The virtual world gave them everything — forty years of curated sound, from bubblegum to breakdowns. Every song, ever recorded, is a few taps away. Lucky ducks. They'll never know the heartbreak of a snapped cassette tape.

Karaoke’s been around just as long — a testament to the enduring singalong. Music still unites. The 80s still gets the market share of attempts at the mic — as hits from the 80s were some of the catchiest tunes this side of the crucifixion. Probably because they were designed to be shouted from a car window at 60 MPH, not delicately crooned.

But every time a ’70s tune kicks in, it still hits me like a guy in a leather jacket with sideburns who just told me to "mellow out, man": a little too cool, a little too late, and definitely smelling faintly of patchouli. The 80s birthed a style that still creates careers. And the list of songs that have been re-recorded from "my era" keeps them contemporary. It was a great time to be alive. So is now but the virtual world loses the leg-work involved in getting hold of edgy music outside of mainstream. The dream to tap a device a few times and bring up any piece is phenomena I routinely find surprises me with its simplicity.

This video singularly gave us a Manifesto and carved out who felt what about the 80s music theme. Everyone was represented in the hierarchy of the metalhead.

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