Introduction: The Timeless Song
I vividly recall the first time I heard the intro riff. It sounded like revolution at the time, and it evokes the same feeling today. With four power chords, Kurt Cobain had created “the ultimate pop song”, as he had described “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in a Rolling Stone magazine interview. At the time, I wasn’t paying too much attention to the nonsensical lyrics. I was hypnotized by what I was seeing. The images of the high school pep rally are burned in my retinas: the dingy gymnasium, students on bleachers, and cheerleaders wearing black with symbols of anarchy. The video, paired with the unforgettable opening riff, awakened something I didn’t know was there. The warm embrace of the cathode-ray tube had given my apathetic preadolescent mind something it didn’t realize it wanted: my first anthem. And whenever I listen to the song, I feel like I’m 12 again.
Ever since I started listening to punk rock in my early teens, music has been a huge part of my life. Nirvana was the first of many bands I became obsessed with: Guns N’ Roses, The White Stripes, Green Day, My Chemical Romance, The Strokes, and Paramore. In my early 20s, I bought a Stratocaster that I’ve played almost every day since. But now that I’m in my 30s, it feels like there aren’t any exciting new bands coming out. I find myself obsessively refreshing Pitchfork, only to be disappointed more often than not. So in this article, I want to explore nostalgia in relation to music, and more specifically, a well-documented cognitive bias known as rosy retrospection.
The Psychology of Rosy Retrospection
First, let’s look at how psychology can explain this. The most powerful concept I came across during research was something called rosy retrospection. This is the cognitive bias where we tend to remember the past more fondly than it actually was, and view the present (or future) more critically. Although I have fond memories of sitting in front of a CRT TV watching MTV and getting my mind blown song after song, the truth is that watching music videos was often an exercise in frustration.
I was a teenager in the 00s, and I loved everything rock and roll. That includes punk rock, pop-punk, post-grunge, emo, and garage rock. If it had an electric guitar with distortion, I was into it. In reality, for every band I loved, there were several artists I actively disliked: Black Eyed Peas, Justin Timberlake, Katy Perry, Beyoncé, Britney Spears, and the worst of them all, Coldplay, the human equivalent of beige. For someone who’s into rock and roll, that’s a never-ending list of hell. But that’s exactly how watching MTV felt back then: fulfilling at times, infuriating most times. Now, I can just pick a streaming service and fill my ears with music I love, and if Coldplay somehow sneaks its way into my playlist, I can hit the “not interested” button and go scream into a pillow somewhere.
Thinking that the past was better than the present is a common phenomenon. As people reach their 30s, they often start reflecting on their formative years (usually teens and twenties) with deep emotional attachment. Interestingly, there’s even research suggesting that people’s strongest musical and cultural preferences “freeze” around adolescence and early adulthood. This is called the reminiscence bump. And as difficult as it is to accept, that’s me. I went through my liked songs on YouTube Music and, with a few exceptions, there’s barely any evidence of bands from the 2010s or 2020s.
Another concept that helps conceptualize this obsession with the past is Terror Management Theory. TMT suggests that much of human behavior is motivated by a fear of death and that we manage this fear by clinging to beliefs, identities, and worldviews that give us a sense of meaning and symbolic immortality. The awareness of our mortality gives us anxiety and fear that influences our behavior and thoughts. As a way to cope with that anxiety, we become more attached to our beliefs, leading to prejudice and hostility toward those who have critical views. And don’t worry, I see the irony here, too. I am mocking the very bands that helped you survive your teenage angst while explaining why you’re psychologically wired to defend them with your life.
Going back to nostalgia, it helps us cope with mortality by reconnecting us to a sense of continuity and meaning. So TMT says we use culture to shield ourselves from the fear of death, which is probably why I still listen to the same three albums from high school. Maybe if I play American Idiot on repeat, the Grim Reaper will think I’m still 14 and move on to someone else.
Why Music Is Especially Powerful
When I first started thinking about the idea of seeing the past with rose-tinted glasses, movies, games, and other media came to mind. But none of them felt as powerful as music. This is because, unlike other media, music activates the amygdala (the emotion center) and nucleus accumbens (the pleasure center) within milliseconds. That’s why a song can make you cry without any lyrics. Listening to music is a visceral experience, not an analytical one. Not all songs that make me cry are sad. Some are just ska… But that’s a topic for another article.
Another way in which music is especially powerful is that it becomes part of our identity. The auditory cortex connects directly to parts of the brain responsible for long-term memory and emotional processing (like the hippocampus). Additionally, songs get encoded in your brain alongside the emotions you felt when you first heard them, hence everything I described when I listened to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” for the first time. This makes music a stronger memory trigger than images, smells, or dialogue. For instance, I vividly remember where I was the first time I heard Maroon 5: desperately looking for the “off” button
There’s something else at play when it comes to music. During adolescence (when identity formation peaks), we latch onto music as a tribal signal. Music, in other words, becomes part of who we are. We’re biologically more emotionally sensitive in our teens, so music from that era hits harder, and it stays that way forever. That’s why I don’t remember the plot of Snakes on a Plane, but I remember exactly how it felt to hear that opening guitar riff to “American Idiot”. Actually, I had to look up the name Snakes on a Plane. I couldn’t remember if it was an actual movie or a fever dream I had in 2006. The funny thing about that movie is that some Hollywood producer bravely asked the question: “How about snakes… but flying?” See, the 2000s weren’t that great.
And then, there’s the “neurological stickiness” related to music. Music is structured, and our brain loves patterns. Repetition and rhythm make music easy to encode, recall, and anticipate, which builds satisfaction and familiarity quickly. Unlike plot-heavy media like books or games, a 3-minute song can instantly bring back an entire era of your life. Sadly, some songs you can’t unhear, even if you try. Ricky Martin’s She Bangs is the audio version of glitter: you just can’t get rid of it.
Finally, there’s a social aspect to music that makes it communal: we dance to it, sing along, share it, and, more importantly, identify with it. It often accompanies key life events, such as parties, heartbreaks, weddings, adolescence, or phases of rebellion. That makes it more embedded in lived experience than passive media, like movies or books.
“Music Was Better Back Then”… Or Was It?
Let’s go back to the original question that served as the basis for this article: Was music better back in the 1990s and the 2000s? To answer that, we have to explore how the industry has changed in the past few decades or so. Back then, you’d listen to music on MTV or the radio. Now people consume music through streaming platforms like Spotify, Apple Music, and YouTube Music.
Those platforms have democratized music, but they also diluted the cultural weight of shared listening. These platforms give you free, instant access to nearly every song ever recorded. There’s even a subculture that still buys CDs, Vinyls, and even cassettes. Because nothing builds character like rewinding a tape with a pencil. Nowadays, most people launch an app on their phones and just listen to songs recommended by an algorithm. Needless to say, this is a massive change from what we were doing a couple of decades ago.
In the past, everyone listened to the same few radio stations or watched MTV. There were fewer choices, so when a song hit, it hit everyone. In the pre-streaming era, this limited access created shared cultural moments. But today, we have hyper-personalized listening bubbles driven by algorithmic curation. As a result, people no longer gather around the same campfire; they’re scattered across algorithmic tents. This also means that there aren’t any unified scenes like emo, grunge, or punk rock anymore. Now there’s Rage, Drill, and Phonk. No, those aren’t names of energy drinks. They’re popular music genres. Kids nowadays…
Back in the 00s, bands were still building a legacy, but in contrast, now everyone wants to go viral. The problem with virality is that when a song blows up on TikTok, it vanishes so fast that people don’t even know the name of the song or might have never heard the full track. The shelf life of a song is shorter and the emotional connection shallower than it’s ever been. Modern songs are like that sock I lost last summer. One moment they’re there, and next thing you know, they just… disappear.
Some argue that industries are more risk-averse now, recycling proven formulas instead of encouraging genuinely new sounds or stories. This led to changes in music production so that songs have more chances to go viral. Essentially, this means that songs are shorter to increase the number of streams, and hooks happen early and are repeated. Also, singles dominate, and albums are often treated as afterthoughts. The worst part is that viral potential dictates structure. This means memes, danceability, and quotable lyrics are engineered into songs. Emotional depth takes a back seat to catchiness and repeatability.
As John Seabrook suggests in The Song Machine, modern songs are engineered not to last, but to loop. In other words, they are designed for replayability, not longevity. It’s as if we’re living in a sad version of Groundhog Day, but instead of celebrating a beloved North American custom, we now have oversaturated colors and autotune.
Another important point to make about the algorithm is that it’s designed to serve your taste, not challenge it. Algorithms amplify individualization, not community. You don’t discover music; music is pushed to you whether you like it or not. Additionally, platforms prioritize themed playlists over artistic identity or cultural cohesion. Most songs in a playlist are interchangeable, and if you don’t pay enough attention, you never know who you’re listening to. As a consequence, music isn’t the generational marker it used to be. So when we pair fewer cultural anchors with the ability to scroll infinitely, music becomes less ritualistic and more transactional. As someone who loved record stores, waiting for video premieres, and listening to radio countdowns, it pains me to write those words. At least the radio DJ didn’t try to sell me wireless earbuds or a subscription to Spotify Premium in the middle of a breakup song.
In conclusion, was music actually better back then? Is this a cognitive bias or a cultural truth? Well, it’s both. As we’ve seen in the previous paragraph, psychology amplifies nostalgia. Nevertheless, industry shifts affect real quality and experience. Modern platforms fragment taste and reduce shared musical moments, and songs are now engineered for virality. On top of that, there are fewer cultural “monoliths” that unite entire generations due to the fragmented nature of streaming.
The Death of Rock and Roll?
One of the questions that interested me the most as I researched this article was: What happened to rock and roll? How does a genre that dominated music for decades now feel strangely absent from the cultural spotlight? Am I crazy? Well, not exactly. Since bands and artists bypass traditional channels (such as stations, radios, magazines, and record labels), there’s no one curating and promoting rock bands anymore. There’s also the fact that rock music specifically hasn’t adapted to the short-form, social-first virality the way rap, pop, or electronic music has.
The cultural aesthetics have changed dramatically as well. Rock often advocates for angst, rebellion, or sincerity, but today’s mainstream aesthetic leans toward irony and mood. That was a bad tradeoff if you ask me, but then again, I’m almost 40, and wait… What the hell are you doing on my lawn? Similarly, emo might be coming back, but it’s doing so in a postmodern, genre-blending way. Some bands associate themselves with pop-punk revival, such as Lil Peep, Olivia Rodrigo, and Machine Gun Kelly, but I strongly disagree. Have you listened to Olivia Rodrigo? I mean, the only pop-punk thing about her is the eyeliner budget.
Then, there’s the production aspect of music. Modern hits are often produced digitally, emphasizing rhythm and hooks. Rock, on the other hand, requires live instruments, studios, and, well, bands, which are more expensive and logistically demanding. There’s also the fact that rock doesn’t always translate well into streaming-first listening, where short songs with immediate payoffs win. Rock demands time and patience in a world that doesn’t have any. I can’t remember the number of times I went from “I hate this band” to “I love this band”, but that about sums up my relationship with the genre. And the fact that the demographic we often associate with rock is aging rapidly also doesn’t help. Rock’s heyday was shaped by Boomers and Gen X. As Millennials and Gen Z take cultural control, they’re defining taste through genres like rap, pop, K-pop, R&B, and genre mashups.
That doesn’t mean rock is dead, but it lives in smaller, niche communities rather than at the cultural center. The problem is that if you don’t live in towns large enough to foster those communities, you might have to do a lot of digging to find new rock bands, since the streaming space isn’t conducive to finding new music. I just want a bunch of people playing distorted instruments and wearing leather. Is that too much to ask?
The Comfort (and Danger) of Musical Nostalgia
Now that we’ve explored the industry’s particularities, let’s go back to the topic of nostalgia. Nostalgia isn’t just a pleasant indulgence. Psychologists have found that it serves real emotional and cognitive functions. The upside of nostalgia is that it increases well-being, social connection, and resilience. We use nostalgia to combat loneliness and boredom. Memories reinforce a sense of belonging and shared identity, reminding us who we are and what we’ve overcome. Memories related to music, in particular, function like a narrative device, turning personal moments into emotional milestones.
But nostalgia can also become a trap. Over-relying on the past can make us cynical about the present or resistant to new experiences. If we’re not careful, we can over-romanticize the past and become dismissive of current cultural moments. Claiming that “music isn’t what it used to be” filters the world through a lens of disappointment. Likewise, living in the past can become a form of emotional escapism. Instead of adapting to new experiences or forming new attachments, we retreat into well-worn memories that feel safe. This is the opposite of growth. Constantly referencing who we were can stop us from evolving into who we’re becoming. This is especially true with music, which is closely tied to youth and identity.
We cling tightly to the music of our past because it’s proof that we were here. This ties back to what we discussed earlier about Terror Management Theory. Music becomes a symbol of immortality because it will outlast our physical death. The music that’s part of our identity is proof that we lived, felt, and loved. That said, I do worry about future generations trying to form an identity around the music of the 2010s. If you told me the soundtrack to your soul included “Despacito,” I might assume your soul has buffering issues.
Conclusion: Listening Forward, Looking Back
I still hear “Smells Like Teen Spirit” the way I did when I was twelve, but now, it echoes through layers of memory. It’s no longer just the soundtrack to my adolescence. It’s the voice of who I used to be: awkward, confused, thrilled by distortion. Back then, I didn’t know much, but I knew this: music could set my soul on fire.
That’s the trick with nostalgia. It doesn’t just replay the past, it remixes it. And over time, that first anthem becomes something else entirely. It becomes a compass. A time machine. A mirror. Nostalgia isn’t a lie but a highlight reel. And music is the medium through which our younger selves still sing. So if you ever find yourself sighing, “Music just isn’t what it used to be,” take a moment to ask: Am I mourning the death of a genre, or the passing of a version of myself? Because here’s the thing: music never really stops evolving; we do. And maybe that’s okay.
So no, I don’t really listen to new music anymore. Maybe I gave up. Or maybe the world just stopped making music for people like me: people who once believed a guitar riff could change their life. But I still press play on the old stuff. And every now and then, I remember exactly who I was, and why it mattered.
Unless it’s Coldplay. Then I just remember that beige has always been my sworn enemy.
Read more articles: