Some songs take us back to a moment. Others open a door to an entire history. When Starship’s “We Built This City” exploded into the Gen X soundtrack, Grace Slick seemed perfectly at home in the neon world of 1985. But follow her backward and the road leads through Jefferson Starship, “Find Your Way Back,” Jefferson Airplane, and finally to “White Rabbit” and the psychedelic heart of San Francisco. For this San Francisco girl, discovering that history meant realizing something wonderful: I thought Grace Slick had entered my musical world. It turned out I had entered hers.

Some songs take you back to a moment. Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” takes me back to an entire time. The guitars start to sing, the air changes, and suddenly I’m surrounded by the sights, sounds, and freedom of growing up Gen X. But Boston’s story is as remarkable as their unmistakable sound: three extraordinary albums across ten years, battles with the music industry, years between records, and a voice in Brad Delp that seemed capable of soaring forever. Nearly fifty years later, Boston still stands among rock’s legends. Maybe legacy isn’t about how much you leave behind. Maybe it’s about what happens when someone presses play.

Sometimes the music that opens a new world isn't new at all. When “Owner of a Lonely Heart” led me to 90125, I thought I'd discovered an incredible contemporary band. Then I learned Yes had already been rock gods for years, realized the “Roundabout” I'd heard on classic-rock radio was them, and did what any curious young music lover had to do: I headed to Tower Records. What started with one killer album became the doorway to an entire musical past, and the beginning of my journey into classic rock.

Before I knew anything about genres, musical movements, or the history behind the sounds I loved, Earth, Wind & Fire was already building worlds inside my imagination. Through my brother Rick’s record collection, a kalimba that sent him exploring, the wonder of “Fantasy,” the breathtaking vocals of Maurice White and Philip Bailey, and a band that seemed to move effortlessly through every musical era, they became part of the soundtrack of my childhood. Some bands have hits. Some become legends. But every once in a while, royalty walks into the room.

Sometimes music is love at first listen. Sometimes it takes another bite. My first taste of Depeche Mode came during a spontaneous college road trip, when a cute guy pulled a cassette from his pocket and introduced me to “People Are People.” What began as the soundtrack to a beautiful day became something much bigger: a band unafraid to question prejudice, power, faith, desire, truth and the complicated business of being human. Depeche Mode gave us a hell of a Gen X Reflex, but they also helped turn our generation’s most sacred rule into law: Don’t tell me what to do.

Devo was never just the strange band with the red hats and “Whip It.” For me, they began with a cool older brother, a ridiculously oversized birthday box and two concert tickets, then became part of a lifelong habit of digging deeper into the music that made Gen X wonderfully weird. Beneath the synths, jerky rhythms, bizarre imagery and songs that sometimes seemed almost deliberately wrong was a band that understood the rules well enough to break them. Devo didn't simply make weird music. They made weird special.

Tim Curry didn’t simply appear in the movies and television Gen X grew up with. He danced along the spine of it. From Annie and Clue to Legend, IT, Home Alone 2 and the gloriously fearless performance that made The Rocky Horror Picture Show a cultural phenomenon, Curry had a gift for making every character memorable. I became a fan almost without realizing it, following that unmistakable face, voice and wonderfully British wit across decades. As we say goodbye to another performer who has been part of our world for most of our lives, I’m remembering the man who made us laugh, gave us nightmares, embraced the weird and never seemed afraid to go all the way.

There are moments when a generation suddenly feels the passage of time, and losing Dolly Parton is one of them. I first knew her as the spectacular woman singing “Jolene” on television, then watched as she moved through 9 to 5, Hollywood, Dollywood, philanthropy and even the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, never allowing herself to be contained by a genre or an expectation. Dolly belonged to country music, but somehow she belonged to all of us. Her passing isn't simply the loss of an icon. It feels like another column from the world Gen X grew up in has fallen, leaving us to remember the extraordinary woman who spent a lifetime being unmistakably, unapologetically Dolly.

Before Joan Jett became a rock ’n’ roll icon and Lita Ford stood toe to toe with the guitar gods, they were teenage girls in one wild, short-lived band called The Runaways. I discovered them backward, first through Joan, then through Lita, and only later understood what that little band had helped set in motion. From “Cherry Bomb” to “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll,” “Kiss Me Deadly,” Vixen and the women who followed, this is about two very different rock legends, the doors they helped kick open, and what it meant for a Gen X girl falling in love with rock to see women holding the guitars too.

One song. One speed limit. One Red Rocker who refused to slow down. 🤘 “I Can’t Drive 55” sent me down a Sammy Hagar rabbit hole that led through Tower Records, Montrose, Heavy Metal, countless concerts and eventually Van Halen. But decades later, the song means something different. Sammy may not be a Gen Xer, but his determination to keep creating rather than live entirely on yesterday feels a whole lot like us. We’re not ready for the greatest-hits album. We’re still recording. Get on. Ride. And don’t let anybody else set your speed.