Musical Messages Through Time
The goal of this series is simple: go back through the years and figure out what popular music was actually saying at the time. For each year, I take a group of notable albums and “shuffle the deck,” letting a handful of songs reveal themselves. From there, I organize them into three acts and break down what they’re communicating…individually and as a whole.
I’m not entirely sure what I was doing for most of 1981, but I can say with confidence that a significant portion of it involved sitting in front of a television set…studying it, really, like it might eventually reveal some deeper truth about the world or at least tell me what I was supposed to do next.
Growing up in the ’70s, media was a limited resource. You didn’t consume it so much as you caught it, like a passing train. If you missed a show or a movie, that was it. Maybe you’d see it again in six months, maybe never. Scarcity gave everything a kind of accidental importance.
Cable TV ended that overnight.
Suddenly, content wasn’t something you waited for, it was something that waited for you. Around the clock. On demand, or at least as close to it as 1981 technology could manage. And living in a rural area, we were late to the party, which only made its arrival feel more momentous. I distinctly remember sitting on the front porch waiting for the cable guy to show up like a dog anticipating dinner, convinced that whatever came through that wire was going to change everything. And in a way, it did.
Not only did cable expand access to movies and programming, it also quietly shifted the boundaries of what was considered normal viewing. R-rated films, late-night content, and eventually the softer edges of what had once been strictly off-limits began to circulate freely, repeatedly, predictably, and without much resistance. What had once required effort, or at least intent, was now simply…there.
As a teenager in the pre-cable era, I had virtually no exposure to pornography. My awareness of it was almost mythical…something that existed somewhere across the river in a run-down theater that respectable people pretended not to know about. Cable changed that dynamic. Cinemax, among others, began to blur the lines, offering a version of adult content that was sanitized just enough to pass through the filter, yet pervasive enough to become familiar.
From there, the progression was inevitable. VCRs arrived, expanding both access and privacy, and what had once been rare became routine. Over time, the novelty faded for me personally, but the trajectory didn’t. If anything, it accelerated with each new technology removing another layer of friction, making access easier, faster, and more immersive. By the time we arrive at the present, with AI and deepfake technology reshaping the landscape yet again, it’s difficult not to wonder how far that line has moved…and whether it exists at all anymore.
Which brings us back to 1981.
Because the music of that year doesn’t just reflect these changes…it anticipates them. There’s an increasing awareness that the systems we engage with – media, culture, technology – don’t simply entertain us; they shape us. And perhaps more importantly, they rely on our participation. The songs of 1981 begin to hint at a subtle but significant shift: we are no longer just observers of the culture…we are contributors to it.
And once that line is crossed, the question is no longer what we are being shown…but what we are choosing to accept.
ACT I – The Design
1. “Penthouse and Pavement” – Heaven 17
2. “America is Waiting” – Brian Eno & David Byrne
3. “Spirits in the Material World” – The Police
Locating songs from 1981 that had something worth saying proved more challenging than expected, but Act I feels less like a fresh beginning and more like a continuation of the tone set in 1980: controlled, performative, and just a little too polished to be trusted.
We open with “Penthouse and Pavement”, where relationships are replaced entirely by ambition. Here, the characters aren’t negotiating feelings, they’re optimizing outcomes. Success is the goal, and whatever remains of the soul is treated as expendable. Beneath the surface, though, there’s a quiet exhaustion. “Feel safe in the crowd, and no one admits they’re crying aloud.” It’s a busy world, but not necessarily a fulfilled one.
“America Is Waiting” shifts the perspective outward, functioning less like a traditional song and more like a constant media presence humming in the background. Information is everywhere, but clarity is scarce. Messages blur together, and whatever might be considered positive or enlightening struggles to break through the noise. It’s not that meaning has disappeared…it’s just increasingly difficult to locate.
Act I closes with “Spirits in the Material World”, which delivers the most direct observation of the set. After the posturing and the noise, what remains is a system that seems fundamentally misaligned with anything resembling higher purpose. “If it’s something we can’t buy, there must be another way.” It’s a line that feels less like a solution and more like a diagnosis…an acknowledgment that something essential has been displaced.
If 1980 hinted at detachment, 1981 begins to recognize it. The question now is whether that awareness leads anywhere, or simply becomes another part of the system itself.
ACT II – The Function
4. “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do)” – Hall & Oates
5. “Give the People What They Want” – The Kinks
6. “Denim and Leather” – Saxon
Act II opens by drawing a line in the sand. The narrator of “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do)” isn’t naïve, he understands the concessions that come with participation. There’s a willingness to play along, to a point. But when the terms shift from compromise to surrender, especially when something more essential is at stake, the answer is immediate and final: no can do. It’s one of the few moments in this sequence where a boundary is clearly defined…and held.
Of course, not everyone resists. “Give the People What They Want” suggests that, more often than not, the easier path is to align with demand. Ideals give way to expectations, and expression becomes a form of supply. It’s not framed as a moral failing so much as a practical one…this is simply how things work. If history is any guide, it always has been.
Which brings us to “Denim and Leather”, where the dynamic becomes more self-referential. The song celebrates participation, asking the listener to confirm their involvement…have you been there, done that, worn the uniform? For anyone engaged with mainstream music culture, the answer is almost certainly yes. And then comes the turn: “It was you that set the spirit free.” It’s a flattering sentiment, but also a complicated one. Are we participants in something liberating…or contributors to something more calculated?
That ambiguity is the point. By the end of Act II, the lines between influence and complicity begin to blur. The system may shape behavior, but it also depends on it. And whether that realization feels empowering or uncomfortable likely says more about the listener than the song itself.
ACT III – The Residue
7. “Winning” – Santana
8. “The Voice” – The Moody Blues
9. “A Life of Illusion” – Joe Walsh
“One day I was on the ground… when I needed a hand, then it couldn’t be found…” And suddenly…momentum. A surge of clarity. A reclaiming of self. This is the moment where the individual believes they’ve broken free. The narrative shifts inward: I can rise, I can overcome, I can win. But placed here, this triumph feels…fragile. Earnest, yes,,,but also untested. Because nothing external has actually changed. The system remains. The pressure remains. Only the feeling has shifted.
After that, the arrival of “The Voice” feels almost disorienting. Its inward focus and spiritual tone seem to drift in from another era entirely, like a faint echo of the late ’60s interrupting a much more grounded – and transactional – moment. “Understand the voice within” sounds less like advice and more like a forgotten concept, something that once felt intuitive but now requires translation. In the context of everything that has come before, it borders on the surreal.
That leaves “A Life of Illusion” to close things out, and it does so without offering a clear resolution. Whether it reads as resignation or clarity likely depends on where you’re standing. There’s no grand solution here, no sudden shift in direction, just a quiet acknowledgment that not everything is what it seems, paired with a suggestion to trust something more instinctive, more natural, and perhaps a little less serious.
Which may not solve anything…but after everything that’s come before, it might be the closest thing to perspective.
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