Until high school, I had no music of my own. Yet my life was still defined by it. 

From the first time my dad tuned the car to “Ozzy’s Boneyard” on SiriusXM and classic rock met my ears, I was hooked. Everything he listened to immediately became my textbook definition of “good” music. 

Styx, Van Halen, Rush — these bands were my paternal heirlooms. I spent hours in the upstairs office of my childhood home sifting through my dad’s old CDs, carefully removing each one from its slot so as not to damage the ancient relics. Time seemed to stand still up there: just me, a dusty pair of Roland V-Drums headphones and a Sony stereo that had been state of the art when those albums first came out. 

A few cases were cracked, a lot were misplaced and some of the discs skipped so much, you could barely get through a song. But I couldn’t have cared less. These treasures were a window into the past for me, a way to glance back at a generation of music I wanted so badly to understand firsthand.

I studied liner notes like the Bible. I memorized which players left which bands and who they started new ones with. I tracked influences and documented a chronological history of how classic rock evolved through the ’70s and somehow gave birth to — mostly — abhorrent hair metal in the ’80s. 

While my Little League Baseball teammates liked Drake and Post Malone, I walked up to the plate blaring “Detroit Rock City” by KISS. On the bus to school, my headphones played Rage Against The Machine among a sea of viral Musical.ly audios. 

A part of me couldn’t help but feel born in the wrong generation. I loved all this music so dearly, but why couldn’t I have been there to witness its magic?

It wasn’t until a sophomore-year gym class that I realized I was looking for answers in the wrong place. Glancing over the shoulder of the kid next to me, I saw Genesis and Led Zeppelin saved in his library. I thought I’d finally found someone my age who appreciated “real” music — a term I reserved exclusively for pre-2000s rock. 

But when my new friend lent me an AirPod, that wasn’t what he played. I heard Tyler, The Creator and Kendrick Lamar for the first time — my first experience with rap that wasn’t a TikTok meme or a video game soundtrack — and unlocked another form of musical storytelling. There were no guitar solos or belted choruses, and although the vehicle had changed, I still resonated with the message. 

These artists didn’t give me nostalgia for a time I had never lived in — they embodied the emotions I felt about the world right now. 

After shedding my genrephobia, there was no going back. I dove into indie and folk, acid jazz and ambient electronic. It’s taken years and countless phases obsessing over niche scenes to build my now-eclectic taste.

Music publications and online critics’ comment sections have become my new liner notes. I discover new artists by researching who my favorite bands bring on tour, dissecting their producers’ discographies and tracing connections between every of their side projects.

Inside each rabbit hole and temporary obsession, I find the same thing: artists who spoke to me in a contemporary language. 

It’s not that MJ Lenderman is a more authentic songwriter than Bob Dylan; it’s just that he’s much more tangible. The issues behind their songs might be the same — social commentary and everyday Americana — but their setting is different. I empathize with Lenderman’s lyrics about Guitar Hero and Lightning McQueen because I grew up with those same cultural landmarks. 

Music will always serve a purpose as a historical timestamp, but its relatability is relative. 

Trends are cyclical for a reason — timeless messages have to be repackaged for each generation. New artists aren’t always reinventing the past; they’re just adapting it to reflect the needs of their modern audience. For 14 years, I wondered why there was a disconnect between myself and the music I loved. And for the last six, I’ve made it my mission to discover new artists who bridge that gap. 

I’ll always love throwing on The Black Crowes or TOOL to soundtrack a road trip with my dad, but now I’ve also grown to love getting bodied in hardcore pits with my friends at Haywire or End It shows. 

Opening my mind hasn’t only deepened my appreciation for the role music plays in my life, it’s made me more in touch with a generational culture that is mine, no matter how much my pre-adolescent self refused to believe it. 

No matter what your process of musical socialization has looked like, make an effort to find new artists who resonate with you. I guarantee they’re out there waiting for you.