For 45 years, Donnie Iris gave me two songs I never stopped loving: “Ah! Leah!” and “Love Is Like a Rock.” But somehow, despite a lifetime spent exploring rock ’n’ roll, I never discovered the remarkable musician behind them. Now, with the news of his passing, I’m taking a long-overdue musical journey through the Jaggerz, Wild Cherry, and the Cruisers. Along the way, I’m revisiting a treasured teenage memory, uncovering some wonderful rock history, and paying tribute to a man who deserved far more of my curiosity. Because Donnie Iris wasn't just worth listening to. He was worth discovering.

Why does everyone still love 80s music? From the doo-wop harmonies and rock ’n’ roll rebels of the 1950s to the bold individuality of the MTV generation, every era has had its own soundtrack of change. As a Gen Xer who grew up loving the oldies before witnessing the explosion of Prince, Michael Jackson, Madonna, Billy Idol, and heavy metal, I've come to realize something: we're watching a new generation discover our music just as we discovered the music of our parents. But what makes those songs resonate decades later? Maybe it's more than nostalgia. Maybe it's the freedom, individuality, and rebellious spirit that never really go out of style. Because the music gets older. The rebellion doesn't.

What happens when a California girl looks back at the music of her youth and discovers she's been an Eagles fan all along? In *A Peaceful Easy Confession: OMG, I'm an Eagles Fan!*, Dr. AY Heath revisits the songs that shaped her voice, the performances that built her confidence, and the unforgettable memories woven through decades of music. From her first standing ovation to Marine Corps boot camp, bluesy Christmas favorites, misunderstood lyrics, and an unexpected connection to a zombie movie, the evidence keeps piling up. Now the Superior Court of Rock ’n’ Roll is in session, and the verdict may be unavoidable: sometimes the music that shapes us most is the music that has always felt like home.

Some bands become part of your life because you discover them. Others have been there all along. For me, Creedence Clearwater Revival was woven into the soundtrack of growing up Gen X in the San Francisco Bay Area—from my parents' stories about war and the civil rights movement to my brother David introducing me to the wonderfully strange “Lookin' Out My Back Door.” CCR was a hit-making machine whose music became part of America's cultural identity, yet remarkably, they never scored a No. 1 single on the Billboard Hot 100. Then the band broke up, John Fogerty went quiet, and the songs kept playing. When Fogerty returned with *Centerfield* in 1985, MTV helped bring that familiar voice into a new era. This is a story about family, music, memories, and the extraordinary power of songs that never stopped connecting generations. Even when the man behind them stepped away.

In the early days of MTV, we weren't just watching music videos—we were discovering music, artists, and entire musical worlds. For me, one of those discoveries was Golden Earring, a veteran Dutch rock band whose cinematic video for “Twilight Zone” captured my imagination and sent me searching through their history, where I fell in love with “Radar Love.” What I didn't realize then was that the band had been considering calling it quits before taking one more chance on a changing music industry. Looking back, their story is about more than a remarkable MTV-era success. It's about creativity, experience, reinvention, and the courage to go all in when the rules of the game are changing. And it raises a question that's just as relevant today: when an older artist suddenly finds a new audience, is it really a comeback—or simply a new generation discovering that great music never had an expiration date?

Some albums give us great music. Others become part of our lives. For me, Foreigner’s *4* was both. Released in 1981, its ten unforgettable songs became intertwined with some of my most defining memories—from losing my brother and navigating the awkwardness of growing up to discovering first crushes, finding courage, and learning to use my voice as a singer. What began with one incredible song and a trip to the neighborhood record store became a musical journey that followed me for more than four decades. This is the story of an extraordinary rock album, the memories it carries, and why I’m still singing along today.

Today, musical collaborations are everywhere, with artists crossing genres, audiences, and generations. But growing up Gen X, I discovered another kind of musical partnership: the supergroup. My introduction came through Asia's extraordinary 1982 debut album, a record I loved so much I had to buy it three times. I didn't know the musicians were already rock royalty. I just knew their music transported me somewhere wonderful. What followed was a journey through worn-out vinyl, vocal lessons, a generous guy at Tower Records, and a free cassette that introduced me to Emerson, Lake & Palmer. Sometimes discovering one band opens the door to an entire musical universe.

Some bands are made for those moments when nobody has anywhere important to be. Friends sitting around, a few beers, a card game, somebody telling stories, and great music playing in the background. For me, 38 Special has always been one of those bands. Their combination of Southern rock, blues, memorable guitar riffs, and voices that seem to settle right into your soul made them a favorite. But their music also takes me back to my early days as a singer, a wonderful vocal coach named Susan Steele, and a garage band that helped me discover what it meant to truly own my voice.

Every October, the monsters come out to play, and nobody knows how to welcome us into a nightmare quite like Alice Cooper. For more than five decades, he's been rock's favorite theatrical troublemaker, frightening parents, thrilling audiences, and reinventing his sound without surrendering his identity. But my Alice Cooper story didn't begin with snakes, guillotines, or horror. It began with a borrowed 45, a science-fiction-loving little girl, and a song about clones who just wanted to be themselves. This Halloween, we're going behind the makeup to celebrate the music, the man, and the extraordinary freedom of being different.

Sometimes music sends me searching. I hear a guitar player, a voice, a strange arrangement, and suddenly I'm off trying to figure out who made that sound and where they came from. Rick Springfield was different. I didn't have to search for him. In the early '80s, he was simply there: on the radio, on General Hospital, on my bedroom wall and eventually on a concert stage in front of me. Then, more than forty years later, four words sung during a completely unrelated meeting brought all of it rushing back. Funny how music does that. And even funnier what happens when the woman you are today starts listening to the songs the girl you were once loved.