Columnist John Moore no longer has an 8-track in his car, but he hangs on to the technology in his house. Courtesy John Moore

When long hair was hot, the measure of male teenage coolness in the 1970s, was the sound system in your ride.

 Your car could burn oil like a cheap lawnmower, but if you had an 8-track under your dash, an equalizer next to it, and 6×9 speakers booming in the rear deck, you had arrived. 

But funding such an operation required dedication and diversification.

Saturday morning started with a push mower and a can of gasoline. Mowing lawns was the main way I scraped together enough cash to feed my growing obsession with car audio. Later, I worked at the Piggly Wiggly, but the end goal was always the same: more watts, more bass, and more bragging rights on the best-sounding car system.

Back then, 8-tracks ruled. They were clunky and hissed, but they brought music into cars in a way the radio never could. Today, people have the Internet. We had a box of tapes in the backseat. Sliding in Lynyrd Skynyrd while cruising down the highway felt like freedom.

My first car was a 1966 Ford Mustang. I had a Kraco under-dash deck. And I installed it myself. This was the do-it-yourself era. If you didn’t know how to run wires from the dash to the trunk, you learned from your buddies’ older brothers. They showed us how to pop off trim, run speaker wire under the carpet, and drill through steel.

Of course, it wasn’t enough to have sound behind you. We also cut holes in the door panels so that we could get the full effect of More Than a Feeling or Dark Side of the Moon.

And through all of it, every girlfriend who sat next to me was consistent. She never fully understood the importance of the tunes.

She’d dress up for a Friday night and sit beside me in her best outfit. But instead of complimenting her hair or perfume, I was more likely adjusting the equalizer sliders or explaining—for the third time—how I’d rewired the front speakers for better separation.

By the time I graduated from the Mustang, I was driving a 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. That car was a dream. Long, heavy, and smooth, with enough room to feel like a living room on wheels.

I mounted those Jensen 6x9s in the rear deck, paired them with a SoundDesign EQ up front, and had the Kraco ready to take any 8-track cartridge that reflected the mood of the evening.

Cruising through the Pizza Hut parking lot on a Friday night, friends in the back, girlfriend up front, the sound rattling the glass.

But just like 8-tracks, youth turned out to be temporary.

The 1970s slid into the 1980s, and suddenly the cool cars were traded in for something more practical. The stereos replaced by stock systems, and the money that once went toward speakers now went toward marriage, kids, and debt.

The girlfriends became wives, and while they never fully understood why we spent whole weekends on our backs under a dash, they were relieved when we grew out of it—or thought we had.

Now, I find myself circling back. I want another 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with a Kraco under-dash 8-track and those glowing Sound Design sliders. I want to feel the vibration of Jensen 6x9s in the rear deck again.

Unfortunately, I can no longer twist myself into a pretzel under the dash. I need a teenager to show the ropes, just like those older brothers once did for me. There’s something sacred in passing along that knowledge—the feel of stripping wire with a pocketknife, the thrill of hearing sound come alive for the first time, the pride of saying, “I installed that myself.”

Because in the end, it wasn’t just about the sound. It was about independence. It was about carving out an identity; about proving you could take a car and make it uniquely yours. And yes, it was about always having a girlfriend in the passenger seat who never quite understood why it mattered so much—but who came along for the ride anyway.

I’m looking again. For the Cutlass. For the Kraco. For the Jensen speakers. For a way to relive those nights when music meant everything and life stretched out ahead like an endless highway. And maybe, just maybe, for a kid willing to crawl under the dash with a flashlight and learn what it means to build something with your own two hands.

Looks as if my grandsons are next up.

By John Moore, author, Puns for Groan People and Write of Passage: A Southerner’s View of Then and Now Vol. 1 and 2, are available on his website TheCountryWriter.com, where you can also send him a message.

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