An Ode to the Lost Rituals of Listening to Music

This post is dedicated to G and J.
My soul sisters. Love y’all.

Not long ago, music lived in our hands.

It clicked, hissed, warped, spun.

It demanded patience, demanded touch, demanded presence.

⸻

We rewound with pencils jammed into plastic wheels,

ears straining for the hum that said you’re close.

We cursed the overshoot,

fast-forwarded again,

and wore grooves into the very fabric of our favorite songs.

⸻

We lived by the pause button,

waiting for the DJ to shut the hell up

so we could catch that guitar riff clean.

Sometimes the station ID bled in,

branding our mixtape forever with “THE ROCK 107!”

The scar was part of the memory.

The flaw was proof we were there.

⸻

We flipped sides.

Tapes ejected with a thunk.

Vinyl whispered in our palms.

We turned them over like sacred texts,

honoring the pause,

accepting the arc the artist designed —

Side A burning bright, Side B lingering slow.

No shuffle. No algorithm.

Only sequence, intention, patience.

⸻

We hacked write-protect tabs with Scotch tape,

rebelling against corporate plastic squares.

Rod Stewart gave way to Sonic Youth,

Bon Jovi to the Cure,

ownership reclaimed by a strip of stationery.

It wasn’t theft.

It was freedom.

Our fingerprints pressed into the ribbon,

our scratches pressed into the wax.

⸻

We carried Walkmans like relics,

zippers full of tapes rattling at our sides.

We untangled ribbons with pinkies and pens,

hoping the music survived.

Sometimes warped, sometimes wounded —

but alive, always alive.

⸻

We made mixtapes as letters,

as declarations,

as silent confessions.

Tracklists scrawled in cramped handwriting,

side by side with doodles and secrets.

A mixtape said I like you without speaking.

It said I’m your friend, I get you.

It said this is my tribe.

You couldn’t share it with a link;

you had to hand it over.

Weight. Intention. Presence.

⸻

And still we collect —

vinyl, sleeves heavy in our hands,

artwork big enough to crawl inside,

liner notes stained with ink and time.

Every crackle is memory.

Every pop is history.

Every side demands a pause.

⸻

Streaming gave us perfection.

Endless choice.

Music on tap.

But convenience strips away the ceremony.

No pencils, no flips, no tape hiss, no patience.

Everything available, nothing remembered.

⸻

So here’s to the rituals —

to the rewinds,

to the pause buttons,

to the Scotch tape hacks,

to the hiss and the crackle,

to the imperfections that made the music ours.

⸻

We didn’t just listen.

We worked for it.

We earned it.

And the songs stayed with us

because the rituals stitched them into our bones.

⸻

Stay curious.

Keep the rituals…they remind us we’re still alive.

⸻

Coming up:

the full post on “The Lost Rituals of Listening to Music” that inspired the ode, along with a mixtape playlist. Don’t miss it!