Aliens, Guitars, and Maxell Tapes: The Epic Fifth Grade Mixtape That Had It All
There was a time—before Spotify, before burned CDs, even before Napster—when a mixtape was a sacred offering. A plastic rectangle packed with more meaning than we probably understood at the time. It said: This is who I am. This is what I think you need to hear.
And in fifth grade, one of my friends gave me a mixtape that was pure time-capsule gold.
It had everything a growing preteen needed:
Van Halen’s 1984 opened the gates with synths and swagger.
“Parasite” by KISS dropped in like a sledgehammer.
Motley Crüe’s Shout at the Devil dared us to be louder, meaner, cooler than we were.
And somewhere between the double-bass drums and power chords, there it was:
“Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft” — The Carpenters’ cosmic ballad to alien life.
What the hell was that doing there?
And yet… I loved it. All of it.
The guitars. The growls. The intergalactic diplomacy.
It was like the tape was telling a story: Fight, rage, dream, hope.
And somehow, in the middle of all that noise, that weird, beautiful alien anthem didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like a portal. Like whoever made this mixtape knew that under all that bravado, we were still kids—soft-hearted, curious, and wondering if something bigger might be out there.
That song made space feel sad. And beautiful. And possible.
Like aliens might actually hear us—and care.
It was the first time I remember really pondering the idea of alien life. Not in a sci-fi movie kind of way, but in the quiet space behind my eyes. Could there be someone else out there? Watching us? Listening?
That’s a big thought for a fifth grader.
But that tape wasn’t done with me yet.
Tucked between KISS and the cosmos came the thundering jungle of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” That tribal drum solo didn’t just entertain me—it possessed me. It was lightning in my chest. A calling. I’ve got to do that.
Clarity.
I didn’t know what it meant yet. I just knew I needed sticks in my hands and something to hit.
And 40 years later, I still do.
That mixtape cracked something open. It gave me guitars to rage with, aliens to wonder about, and drums that stitched a rhythm into my bones. I didn’t have the language for it at the time, but looking back, I see it now: it was an invitation. To feel. To question. To create.
I still carry that fifth grade tape with me. Not literally—it’s long gone, probably sitting in a dusty box in someone’s basement. But the message? Still plays loud and clear.
Drums in my soul. Curiosity in my heart.
It’s amazing what happens when someone lets you into their world—even just for the length of a mixtape.
You don’t forget it.
You grow from it.
And if you’re lucky, a little piece of it lives in you forever.
From mix tapes and college soundtracks to Sunday morning pancakes, music has always marked the chapters of my life. Rediscovering vinyl brought me back to that magic — slowing down, savoring albums front to back, and hearing them in a way that feels alive.
Discover how the music of Sly Stone became a lifeline during my darkest days, guiding me through loneliness, self-reflection, and ultimately back to myself.
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