Seemingly, like every other summer night in 1996, I was at my friend Bobby’s house. Bobby was the kind of kid who could ace an AP exam, quote Kurt Cobain, and land a kick-flip before lunch. His parents had just upgraded from a modest three-bedroom house to what we all jokingly called a “McMansion,” complete with a pool and a pantry full of Gushers. With them working late most days, his house became our headquarters for mischief and music.
The rhythm of those days was predictable but perfect. Swim until the Texas sun made the water feel like bathwater. Ransack the pantry on a snack safari, piecing together a meal from off-brand cereal and leftover pizza. Lace up the Airwalks, grab our boards, and hit the pavement. The air shimmered with heat and freedom, and even though the new neighborhood was “fancier,” it didn’t matter. We were still the same kids, chasing the same feeling. Sometimes we'd catch a lift on someone’s handle bars, maybe tag behind on the bunny pegs or ride sketch. Between power slides and bunny hops, we’d skate until dusk, then rally the crew back to Bobby’s pool.
Someone always had a boombox nearby, MTV playing in the background through open windows. That was the soundtrack of our lives: The Smashing Pumpkins bleeding into Rage Against the Machine, followed by a flash of Mariah or Manson. We mocked the Spice Girls but knew every word.
Eventually, the grownups came home and sent half of us packing. But on the lucky nights, the sleepover nights, the real magic began. The glow of the TV, the hum of PlayStation loading screens, the laughter as Sweet Tooth torched us all in Twisted Metal. When the controller wars ended, we’d collapse into the glow of late-night MTV, Beavis and Butt-Head, Daria, maybe Loveline if we could stay awake.
And somewhere around 3AM, as “The Macarena” came on for the thousandth time, we’d lose it, tossing pillows, groaning, laughing, and eventually drifting off. Chlorine in our hair, static on the TV, and that faint hum of adolescence buzzing in the air.
Those were the nights that built us.
MTV wasn’t just a channel, it was a compass. It pointed us toward whatever was next. The bands, the clothes, the slang, the attitude. Sure, you could find an issue of Rolling Stone or Creem, but MTV showed you cool. It didn’t explain it. It didn’t hand it over in a feed. You had to tune in. Wait for it. Earn it. It birthed the “Golden Age of Cool.”
You couldn’t just pull up your favorite video, you had to catch it when it aired. You had to stay up late for the good stuff. You had to listen for what your friends said they saw. And that work, that anticipation, made it mean something. The first time you saw a video by Rage or Nirvana, it wasn’t background noise. It was an event. You felt like you discovered it before the world did.
Today, cool is infinite, and disposable. Algorithms spoon-feed us what we’re already supposed to like. We scroll through more culture in ten minutes than we could consume in a summer. Everything’s accessible, but nothing’s earned. There’s no more mystery in the hunt. No waiting for 120 Minutes. No staying up to catch that one song that defined your summer. No chlorine-scented sleepovers with the TV glow flickering across your friends’ faces.
The exploratory feeling, that anticipation, from digging through crates or catching an upcoming artist video at 2AM has been usurped by doom-scrolling. With zero intent and mindlessly, I consume media as if I were bored snacking. Don’t get me wrong, there are massive plusses to having never-ending accessibility. But the sheer quantity forces us to consume quicker.
When I had a Walkman, I was limited to one tape or one CD at a time. Often, the same one stayed in rotation for weeks. Like the back of my hand, I became well acquainted with an artist’s direction across an entire album…the lyrics, liner notes, artwork, the transitions between tracks, the rise and fall of each song.
It forced me to nurse my musings. Because there were so few of them, I had prolonged exposure to things I loved. We didn’t have streaming services in middle school. A CD in 1996 cost around $17, more than three times my $5 weekly allowance.
Now, with a tablet in hand and the help of AI, you can listen to your favorite artist instantly. If you’re good at prompts, you can even hear what your favorite artist would sound like through the lens of another decade. Fast-food entertainment.
Nearly forty years ago, MTV paved the way for how we discovered the music we craved. On December 31, 2025, MTV will conclude the broadcasts of its music-focused channels; MTV Music, MTV 80s, MTV 90s, Club MTV, and MTV Live. The decision, announced by Paramount Global, signifies the end of an era that began in 1981 when MTV revolutionized television by airing music videos 24/7.
This feels like the death of my youth. No longer an adolescent, MTV’s rebellion lives on in my heart. Before art was commoditized by streams, influencer crossovers, and brand deals, MTV showcased artistry and storytelling. There’s no way in hell you’d have seen Korn promoting a new SKIMS drop or Liam Gallagher touting “Wonderwall” flavored pasties from Greggs.
Yet, here we are.
McDonald’s in Canada released a “Bestie Bundle” in Taylor Swift’s honor, complete with friendship bracelets inspired by her concerts.
“Cool” isn’t about the algorithm. It’s about the feeling. It’s about gathering around the glow, whether it’s a TV screen, a fire pit, or the cherry of a good cigar, and knowing that something special is happening in real time. And maybe that’s the lesson MTV leaves behind: cool was never about access. It was about experience. About being there. About the mix of sound, smoke, and friendship that made you feel alive.
So here’s to the static, the soundtracks, and the summers that made us.
Signing off,
MTV.
And signing on,
Brolo.
