For anyone my age who has ever made a mixtape: this is an idea I was messing with for my book. It got axed, so I played with it to post and hopefully start a conversation with the people of Facebook.
The premise: making a mixtape of the top three songs of every year since my birth.
So here’s a fun idea: let’s take a musical journey through every year since 1981 — my birth year, because obviously the universe began then — and look at Billboard’s top three songs each year. Simple, right?
Turns out, tracking down Billboard’s official year-end top threes for every single year since Reagan was president is like trying to find a drink in parts of Utah: theoretically possible, but surprisingly elusive. I spent a day doing this (avoiding real work in the process) to write this chunk, which will decidedly not make the book. However, I enjoyed doing it, and writing it took three days. I can’t let it go to waste. Hopefully at least one person reads it instead of blindly scrolling.
Decade Snapshots
1980s: Synths, Sass, and Shoulder Pads
Scrolling through the lists and realizing I need to hear songs I haven’t thought about in decades, the early ’80s delivered some absolute bangers. “Physical” by Olivia Newton-John ruled 1981 like a spandex-clad dictator teaching an aerobics class at LA Fitness, while “Bette Davis Eyes” had everyone wondering what those eyes actually looked like. (My dog has Joan Crawford eyebrows, does that count?) It sounded like it beamed in from an alternate universe where people didn’t clear their throats before singing, and everyone wore more leather and had better cheekbones.
I’m not going to be that guy who claims music was better “back in my day.” Every generation thinks their soundtrack was superior — until they catch themselves belting out “Call Me Maybe” alone in traffic. (Okay, guilty, but come on, it’s catchy.)
Still, it’s fascinating to trace the yearly anthems. “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” (1982) turned Chicago — the once-jazz-rock rebels with a killer horn section (big fan of horns in rock) — into the kings of soft-rock apologies. Then came 1983, when The Police topped the charts with “Every Breath You Take,” the all-star stalker anthem disguised as a love song.
The ’80s were pure neon insanity. MTV was new, cocaine was “just a pick-me-up,” and fashion looked like everyone lost a fight with a lawnmower. Madonna turned sex appeal into an outfit, Prince made weird sexy, and Michael Jackson moonwalked straight into pop immortality. “When Doves Cry” was an existential crisis you could dance to, and “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” taught us that even guys in eyeliner and silk shirts have feelings.
1990s: Flannel, Feelings, and the Macarena Economy
The ’90s hit like puberty for pop culture inside a coffee shop with terrible ventilation. One minute we were slow-dancing to “End of the Road” by Boyz II Men, and the next we were screaming “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in a basement.
We had power singers: Whitney owned the early years, Mariah hit notes that shouldn’t legally exist, and TLC warned us about chasing waterfalls while inspiring every Halloween costume for girls who didn’t want to dress up.
Then came “Macarena” — a song/virus so catchy it convinced millions of adults to publicly perform synchronized pelvic thrusts at weddings while mumbling gibberish and riding an invisible swing.
2000s: The iPod Generation
The 2000s were chaotic. Napster blew up the record industry, and suddenly everyone with a dial-up connection and a chin beard was a music critic. The idea of growing as an artist seemed secondary; it all became about one or two singles rather than cohesive albums.
“Hey Ya!” was art disguised as a dance-floor must, “Crazy in Love” made Beyoncé a deity, and “Umbrella” made Rihanna royalty. Meanwhile, Nickelback, Creed, and Linkin Park dominated radio like a fungus nobody asked for, and “Hollaback Girl” taught an entire generation how to spell “bananas.”
2010s: Algorithms and Emotional Terrorism
By the 2010s, music had fully merged with the internet. I suffered from serious cultural lag due to relentless touring on the road. I didn’t discover songs — Spotify’s algorithm found me at 3 a.m. when it apparently decided I was depressed enough to relate to Adele’s divorce.
“Uptown Funk” convinced me I could still (try to) dance, and Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You” became so omnipresent it started playing inside my dentist’s thoughts. Pop stars were no longer people; they were corporations with publicists, engineering every chorus in a lab.
2020s: Everything, Everywhere, All at Once
Now we live in musical chaos theory. Genres don’t exist — just vibes and anxiety. Billie Eilish whispers her trauma, Taylor Swift controls the global economy with friendship bracelets, and half of TikTok thinks Fleetwood Mac is a new indie band.
We’re in an age where nostalgia remixes nostalgia. (What’s next, a reboot of Happy Days?) Your playlist can go from Sinatra to Slayer without warning. If the ’80s were hairspray and keytars, the 2020s are FaceTime and ring lights.
The Spotify Problem
Back then, Billboard measured actual sales and radio spins — tangible proof of what people were buying or begging DJs to play. No waiting for Casey Kasem to count backward from 40, which was a nightmare for a dyslexic kid who needed a physical chart just to see the big picture.
The downside now is that the shared cultural soundtrack is gone. When’s the last time you could bet everyone at a party knew the exact same song that wasn’t twenty years old? Now it’s just a room full of people showing each other obscure tracks that formed in the basement of a Buddhist church in Chattanooga.
Revisiting old Billboard hits is like flipping through old photo albums. Songs become timestamps: “That was our wedding song.” “That played the week we won the league.” “That was my Caesar haircut phase.” Some tracks age like fine wine, while others age like milk left in the glove box of a muscle car in July.
Maybe the real treasure isn’t the list itself. It’s remembering that music has always been this glorious rigmarole where art and money collide, and someone’s Tuesday afternoon in a studio becomes someone else’s first kiss. Diana Ross and Lionel Richie should probably pay child support for half the kids conceived over their slow jams.
Every year since I’ve been alive, somebody wrote a song that made someone fall in love, break up, cry, or dance like an idiot at a school function. Billboard just tallied the aftermath.
The real chart lives in your car stereo, your headphones, and that one song that still hits like it was written just for you. My personal walk-on music? Probably Doc Watson’s “Windy and Warm” (not what you expected, I know).