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Back to the 70s

Back to the 70s: The Soundtrack of a Generation’s Youth By Preston Ivan Lewis There’s a certain magic in nostalgia—the kind that doesn’t just live in photographs or yearbooks, but in the sounds of a bygone era. For me, that sound is the clatter of a steel ball ricocheting across a pinball machine, the electric bloop of a high score being hit, and the flicker of neon lights reflecting in the wide eyes of a kid who’s just discovered he’s the best player in the arcade. My song “Back to the 70s” isn’t just a tribute to a decade—it’s a time machine disguised as a melody. It’s about the golden afternoons after school when the hallways emptied not toward home, but toward the local arcade, where dreams were made one quarter at a time. The early 70s were a strange and wonderful time. Bell-bottoms, shag carpets, and transistor radios blasting AM hits were all part of the scenery. But for kids like me, the real thrill wasn’t on the radio—it was behind the glass of a Bally pinball machine, where flashing lights and bouncing steel balls turned ordinary afternoons into epic quests. I remember it like it was yesterday: the fluorescent hum of the arcade, the sticky floors, the smell of popcorn and possibility in the air. A single quarter in my pocket felt like a golden ticket. Drop it in, and suddenly—I was in control. My hands danced on the flippers, my eyes locked onto the trajectory of that tiny silver orb. It wasn’t just a game. It was precision. It was rhythm. It was art. And oh, the joy of seeing your initials flash on the high score board. That was fame. You didn’t need social media back then—just a seven-digit number glowing under a cartoon spaceship or a flashing star, and the entire school knew your name. I can still hear the groans of other kids waiting behind me, arms crossed, muttering, “Man, he’s been on that machine for an hour!” Sorry, fellas—but the machine was calling, and I was answering. In those days, we didn’t have smartphones or streaming playlists. We had sound. The ting of a bonus point. The thwack of a well-timed flipper. The rising pitch of the machine as the score climbed higher. Each game was a performance, and the arcade was our stage. We weren’t just playing—we were performing under the glow of incandescent bulbs and painted steel. But it wasn’t just about the games. It was about the friendships forged in those neon-lit corners, the rivalries turned camaraderie, the shared laughter after someone inevitably tilted the machine in frustration. We raced each other not just for points, but for glory—fueled by nothing more than soda pop and Saturday freedom. Now, decades later, the world moves faster. Screens are smaller. Entertainment is endless—but sometimes, it feels hollow. There’s something lost when instant gratification replaces earned triumph. Back then, you couldn’t just reset or restart. You had to master the machine. You had to earn your place on the board. That’s why I wrote “Back to the 70s.” It’s not just a song about pinball. It’s about a feeling—the pride of skill, the simplicity of joy, the warmth of belonging to a moment in time when life moved at the speed of a bouncing steel ball. The 70s weren’t perfect. But they were real. And in my mind, I’m still standing there—worn jacket on my shoulders, quarter in hand, heart racing as the ball shoots up the chute. The lights flash. The crowd (okay, maybe just two friends) goes quiet. And for a few glorious minutes, I’m not just playing a game. I’m a king. So, here’s to those days—when fun didn’t fit in a pocket, and memories were made one game at a time. The future is fast, bright, and always on. But sometimes, the best place to be is back to the 70s. Roll on, steel ball. Roll on.