A couple of years ago, I was convinced rock music had taken its final breath—I even wrote about it.

That post set off a firestorm on my X account. Some argued that rock was dead because no one wanted to hear it anymore. Others insisted that Gen Z had no interest in the scene at all.

Were they right?

Back in high school, I spent my nights crammed into dingy garages thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap beer, watching the guys I knew hammer out old rock songs.

No one cared what was popular at the time. They weren’t chasing trends or playing the latest alternative hits. They were lost in the music of the ’70s—Skynyrd, Zeppelin, the Allman Brothers.

They dressed like slobs—long hair, frayed jean jackets, baggy jeans—but when they picked up their instruments, they played like gods.

Some of them even made it, taking their garage bands pro.

Of course, my generation wasn’t the first to turn cluttered garages into makeshift stages. Garage bands have been the heartbeat of the South since the 1960s.

Was all of that just a phase? If so, it seems like a mighty long one.

The thought has plagued me for years. Rock can’t just die. It can’t.

Honestly, the whole idea bummed me out. But then I took Belle to Virginia for her birthday, and while we were there, I got an invitation to a band practice—in a garage.

I had no idea what to expect. Had kids changed too much? Was rock really gone?

We pulled up to an open garage door. Inside, a pack of rowdy teenage boys pounded Monster energy drinks and cracked inappropriate jokes.

And they looked shockingly familiar—long hair, ripped jeans, oversized flannels. The same uniform of rebellion I remembered from my youth.

But what about the music?

They weren’t playing Machine Gun Kelly or Imagine Dragons. Oh no. These kids were tearing through Stone Temple Pilots. Audioslave. Alice in Chains. Foo Fighters. Limp Bizkit.

The soundtrack of my youth.

Turns out, rock isn’t dead. It was just waiting for the next generation to pick up a guitar.