It’s no secret that I am a bit of a Luddite, digging my heels in and obstinately, reluctantly, joining the new era of “interconnectedness”. To me this is a bit of a misnomer. Having access to incredible amounts of data, being able to text your fiends instead of speaking to them, never having to leave your house if you don’t want, procuring all your goods and services online…its convienient, sure. But I’m not sure anyone should call it “connected”. And if I was a teenager today, how would I express my (fleeting) undying love? Would I send a link to Pandora or Spotify, and ask that they check out a music folder I made for them? I should ask my babysitter. In my day (grumble grumble, scratch at aging body parts) we used to do it with class.
We used to make Mix Tapes.
The mix tape is an art in and of itself. We all started on those hand-held boxes, where you had to press record and play at the exact same time, and place the recorder next to the radio speaker or your turntable. God forbid your brother or sister should walk into your room and start talking, or then you’d hear Shut Up! Go Away! over the top of your song. The cool thing about this: you could get scratchy snippets of T.V., maybe some A Team theme action or one liners, or the bass line to Barney Miller. You would save these under the heading “cool stuff” and file it away. These tapes were usually low quality and pretty crappy, but you got the idea.
Then came the boom box, which was extremely helpful, as you could take once crappy tape and make a copy, producing an even crappier one. But now you could pause at just the right exact moment, grab your “cool stuff” tape, find the part where Hannibal says he loves it when a plan comes together, and splice it in between songs.
I was once asked to make a recording for a guy from junior high. He was kind of a jock, not really in my scene, and I was wary. But I thought sure, what the heck, and took the tape home. I was about to hit record when I thought, wait, lets see what’s on this tape. His older sister, Ericka, came through loud and clear. “Ericka loves ….blah blah blah, I love him so much I want to make out with him, big time. I want to….Shut Up! Get out of my room you little freak! …where was I. I want to stick my tongue in his ear…” at this point I turned the tape off. I had to think. This tape was worth pure gold, the best blackmail material anyone had ever held in their teen lives. The thing that really got me is that his sister had tormented me and my friends on many occasions. She’d threaten to beat you up if you looked at her wrong. She threatened to steal your stuff, and sometimes did, out of your gym locker. Her brother wasn’t much better, hence my initial hesitation. So I thought. I could tell the kid I lost it, and actively circulate it, much to Ericka’s horror. I could make a copy of it, and just play it to all my friends. I will admit, I had to think about it. But the greater good in me prevailed (or the fear of getting my shit kicked to the curb when she found out). I re-wound, and recorded over her sordid love fantasies. He thanked me at school the next day and asked if I had listened to it.
“No…why?” I asked.
“Nothing, just asking”…he said, searching my face before walking away. So making a tape for someone could be risky. You could even be beat up for it.
But really you mostly made a mix tape to impress someone. You wanted to show off your knowledge of west coast surf punk or hardcore or whatever it was that you were into. You wanted it to be cool with just enough weird to make yourself relevant, someone who knew things that perhaps not everyone knew. I still have a few I got from friends, and I still don’t know how one of my buddies got the record of “Throbbing Gristle” past this mom. Can’t find a cooler band name than that (Unless it’s Turds of Misery, which is still the best band name ever).
The real risk?
The ones you gave away with love. To make a really stellar mix tape, you took days finding the right songs. You spliced in funny parts. You re-recorded if you heard the small slippage of the tapes not recording in tandem. And then you played it cool.
“Here you go, I just thought maybe you’d like some of this stuff. Hey, what’s that over there…!”
You handed over your masterpiece.
And then you waited.
If you were blown off, you had given it up too soon. Not what was in your pants, but what was in your heart, and all the thoughts and dreams of your possible future with this love interest. You blew it, dickhead. And if they returned the favour, and had the tape playing in their car when they picked you up to go to a hot date at PizzaPlus, well then you had a chance. You might even be in.
But what do they do now? There’s no effort in it, no sweat. I luckily still have a friend who makes mix cd’s for me, and now that I think of it, the next time he gives me one I will give him a deep and honorable bow, for all the work he put into it, for all the love, and for the fact that he is still willing to do so for an old friend.