Planet 81 is the recording project of Phoenix, Arizona-based artist Justin Cohn.

Streaming links:

• Spotify

• Apple Music

• YouTube Music

• Amazon Music

• Bandcamp

No upcoming dates

There's this psychology concept called the “reminiscence bump" that says middle-aged people tend to overemphasize their adolescence in retelling the story of their lives. This is especially evident in music preferences, possibly because “adolescence may be a time during which individuals show a socially-boosted increase in the rewards of music listening.”

A less well-documented phenomenon, though not completely unexplored, is the inheritability of a musical reminiscence bump across generations. We feel a strong connection to the music of our formative years, but also to our parents' music.

When I started this project, I was in the middle of my own cascading reminiscence bump, a short but intense obsession with music from the year 1981. Prince, Hall and Oates, The Cars, etc. I loved how records like Private Eyes and Controversy sounded—punchy, clear, thoughtfully arranged, all with the forty-year-old patina of golden age consoles, early digital effects, and synthesizers. It was like a lot of new "retro" music I was listening to, but more direct and authentic. I wanted to know how records like these were made so I could make one myself.

The range of my obsession came to encompass the early '80s in general, a time when my parents were graduating college and starting their adult lives. I asked them about what they were doing at the time, what their lives were like, where they lived, where they worked, how they socialized, what they listened to, what they wanted. I compared notes with my own internet research, and sought out books, TV shows, films, art from the era.

I wrote a bunch of songs based on this experience, which became my first record as Planet 81. I recorded all the parts myself in my home studio, trying wherever possible to approximate a workflow that a recording artist would have used in the early eighties, with whatever old gear I could afford. I committed to the sounds, recorded full takes, and tried to be mindful about editing, as if I were splicing tape.

In retrospect, as much as I was interested in recording a sonic period piece that reflected my interest in '81, I was also trying to escape modern recording technology. The mix window, cycle recording, autotune, unlimited hard drive space: all these innovations that were aimed at making recording easier in practice were effectively eroding my discipline as a songwriter, arranger, and performer. Accepting imperfections and finishing songs became easier as I imposed more limitations upon the process.

Retreating into the past as refuge from a present, painting over the sordid details of the old era with its few surviving charms, is the disease of conservatives and reactionaries. And though I could hardly be accused of nostalgia for an era I didn't live through, there is a legitimate case to be made against anybody who becomes so blinded by what Fred Davis calls the "antiquarian feeling" as to lose touch with the moment they share with their peers.

So, for Rhythm Rock, my second album, I enlisted the help of more outside collaborators. Aware of but not obligated to share my compulsion for rejecting new technology, they added their own special touches to elevate my music out of the realm of pastiche and into a simple more easily recognizable form: an indie rock band in the year 2026.