Real Talk

Why Some Music Stays With Us

There’s a kind of music that doesn’t just play—it stays.

It stays in your body.

It stays in your memory.

It stays tied to moments you can still see, feel, and even smell if you close your eyes long enough.

I’m a 60’s baby, raised in a Black community, and the soundtrack of my life was R&B, Soul, Funk, Jazz, and Gospel. That music wasn’t background noise—it was part of how we lived. It shaped our joy, our heartbreak, our faith, and our celebrations.

Hands down, my era came up on music that didn’t just chart—it became classic. Songs that are still sampled, covered, and replayed today. Music you can hear and immediately remember where you were, who you were with, and even what you had on.

We had radio stations that mattered. DJs with voices you trusted.

You could call in a dedication and remember exactly who you were dating—or crushing on—when that song played.

Music had intention. It arrived in your life organically.

As I got older and became involved with independent music, I saw something shift. There were artists with real talent who should’ve gone further. Music that had soul but never got the push. And then there was music that had hype but didn’t move people in the same way.

Mainstream artists received all the platforms.

Independent artists struggled to match the exposure.

Now music feels oversaturated.

We don’t have DJs breaking records the way they used to.

We don’t have music shows that helped build anticipation and connection.

Streaming platforms offer endless choices, but sometimes too many choices make it harder to feel anything.

My generation valued music because we had to sit with it.

We listened to the radio.

We learned the words.

We danced with our friends.

We bought 45s and albums, then moved to 8-tracks and cassettes.

Our music was cherished like trophies—earned, replayed, protected.

Today, people say money is made through streaming, but I don’t personally know independent artists who are thriving that way.

I miss the hustle—the music sold out of the trunk of a car, the conversations, the connection. I miss knowing the artist’s name and story, not just the song.

And I wonder—how much of the music I played during my radio days truly stuck with people? How much of it do they still remember twenty years later? Can they still name the artist? Still sing the words?

I think the lack of exposure made it harder for independent music to build a relationship with listeners.

We still recognize a few mainstream names because the noise around them never stops—but the deeper connection? That’s harder to find now.

There’s a reason cities like Vegas are built on entertainment that brings back familiar music. People want to sing along. They want to feel nostalgia. They want to remember who they used to be, even for a few minutes.

Music from the 60’s through the 90’s didn’t just play during our lives—it became part of our memories.

And maybe that’s why it still lives with us.