“Bye, bye Miss American Pie…”
“Welcome to the Hotel California…”
Two songs. Two haunting refrains. Two deeply American expressions of nostalgia, loss, and change.
And yet, the ache these songs evoke is not confined to America. Nor are they tied solely to the decades they describe. Whether you were born in the 1950s or the 1980s, grew up in the Midwest or cities in other countries, there’s something about these lyrics—about the feeling they carry—that speaks to anyone who has ever looked back at a lost time and quietly thought: things used to feel different.
Don McLean’s American Pie begins with a simple memory: a boy who “still remembers how that music used to make [him] smile.” But it quickly becomes an epic elegy, recalling the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper in 1959. The tragedy, for McLean, marked “the day the music died.” And yet, the song isn’t just about a plane crash. It’s about a shift in the culture—a turning point when innocence faded and the world became more complicated.
Similarly, Hotel California, written by the Eagles nearly two decades later, takes us on a surreal journey through a glamorous yet eerie hotel that no one ever truly leaves. There’s no direct mention of Buddy Holly or Woodstock, but the symbolism is potent. With lines like “we haven’t had that spirit here since 1969,” the song quietly laments the death of a spirit—whether it be the idealism of the ‘60s, the hope of counterculture, or the original soul of rock and roll itself.
What unites both songs is a recognition that something once vibrant, alive, and full of promise has slipped away. And the grief that follows isn’t just for a historical moment—it’s for a feeling, an era, a texture of life that can no longer be reclaimed.
***
I didn’t grow up in the 1960s. I didn’t personally witness the plane crash McLean mourned or walk the halls of Hotel California. But I know that feeling. I have my own version of the day the music died. My own hotel with no exit. And it lives in the decade I cherish most—the 1980s.
For me, the 1980s weren’t just a time of bold colors, boomboxes, and shoulder pads. They were the last breath of a life before the internet, before digitalization flattened experience, before everything became searchable, scrollable, skippable. The 1980s felt, as someone once beautifully put it, like a summer vacation that never ends.
Back then, we listened to music on LP records and cassette tapes. Each track mattered, because rewinding and fast-forwarding took effort. The hiss of the tape and the click of the Walkman weren’t glitches—they were part of the music’s soul. A mixtape wasn’t a Spotify playlist—it was an offering, a gift you made for someone, full of thought and emotional risk. You couldn’t share it with a link; you handed it over, watched the other person press play, hoping they’d feel what you felt.
And writing? It happened in notebooks. With pens. Your handwriting—messy, evolving, sometimes unreadable—was part of who you were. There was no delete button. Your mistakes remained, crossing out your past with a single line, reminding you that writing, like living, could not be so easily edited.
When we wanted to watch a movie, we went to the theater. Not because we were trying to “escape” into content, but because going to the movies was an event. We lined up. We bought pamphlets. We passed popcorn down the row. The lights dimmed and something communal happened. We were together in the dark, sharing the same story, the same laughter, the same held breath.
Bookstores and libraries were sanctuaries. I could stay for hours, wandering between shelves, never quite knowing what I was looking for until I found it. There was magic in getting lost in a sea of spines and titles. The weight of a thick paperback in your hands. The smell of old pages. The quiet hum of thought in the air.
It was a world of texture, weight, friction. A world that demanded your presence.
***
Looking back now, I realize that what I miss is not just the artifacts of the era—the records, the theaters, the notebooks—but the slowness, the ritual, the materiality of living.
In a sense, the internet didn’t just digitize life. It dematerialized it.
Today, everything is fast, light, effortless. We stream, we scroll, we swipe. We’re drowning in choice, but somehow feel emptier. We consume more music than ever, but rarely listen. We write more messages, but fewer letters. We read tweets and articles, but fewer books. Everything is here—and yet, something is missing.
What died wasn’t just music. It was a kind of attention. A kind of being.
That’s why songs like American Pie and Hotel California still resonate in 2025. Because they aren’t just about the ’60s or ’70s. They’re about us. They’re about anyone who has felt time slipping through their fingers. Anyone who has looked around at a hyper-connected world and thought: Wasn’t there more to life than this?
***
The grief is real—but so is the memory. And memory is a strange and powerful thing. It softens the edges of the past, yes, but it also reveals what mattered. It helps us see not just what we lost, but why it meant so much.
The 1980s taught me to pay attention—to music, to writing, to people. It taught me to wait, to savor, to find joy in the ordinary. It gave me moments that weren’t captured on camera or shared on social media, but remain etched in my mind more clearly than any Instagram story ever could.
I remember sitting in my room, the cassette spinning, rewinding a song just to hear that one lyric again. I remember standing in front of a bookstore, deciding which single book to buy with the little money I had. I remember going to the movie theater not knowing what to expect—and leaving forever changed by the story I had just seen.
Those aren’t just memories. They are anchors. And maybe that’s the gift of nostalgia—not to trap us in the past, but to remind us of what’s still worth carrying forward.
***
I often wonder: what will future generations feel nostalgic for? Will they miss the infinite feeds and algorithmic recommendations? Will they long for the days when conversations were typed out and avatars were the only faces we knew?
Or will they look back further, drawn to a time they never lived but deeply feel—a time when life had friction, presence, and a kind of unspoken poetry?
Maybe that’s what makes American Pie and Hotel California so enduring. They’re not just about what happened—they’re about what happens when you wake up one day and realize: the world has changed, and I didn’t even notice it happening.
And yet, if you listen closely, if you pick up a pen, put on a record, walk into a quiet library, or step into a darkened theater… the past isn’t gone. It’s just quieter now, waiting…
The music never truly dies.
It just waits for someone to remember.
To press play.
To listen—fully, deeply, lovingly.
The way we used to.
Image by Bruno
Tom’s Blog 