The Mixtape Generation

Those of you who’ve grown up in the age of digital music won’t know about the pleasures and pains of putting together an analogue mix-tape. It is now a lost art, like basket weaving or dowsing or doing impressions of that time Ant got blinded by a paintball in Byker Grove, which you also won’t remember. You won’t know about the painstaking effort that’s involved, you won’t know about the five seconds of white noise you must leave before the opening track, or about the dilemma you face when side A runs out thirty seconds before the end of the last song. Do you just allow it to finish on side B? Do you duplicate the entire track? Do you leave a large gap at the end of side A, causing a massive fast-forward issue and carry on where you left off? Or, do you go outside and try and make some friends? In the words of Dennis Hopper in Speed, “What do you do? What do you do?”

There are lots of reasons to make a mix tape, but if we’re all honest the most common reason as a lustful teen of the nineties was to try and get into someone’s pants, using the words of others to say what you really feel, maaaan. When I was a teenager the mix-tape was as big a part of a relationship as the first date, first kiss or first irritating itch followed closely by the first awkward trip to the clinic. It was a tried and tested seduction technique which only those with a heart of stone could resist, and kept me from having to learn to actually talk to girls for years. In the world of playground romance it was the ace up our sleeve, the H-bomb in our arsenal, the something-else-that-I-can’t-think-of-right-now-that-would-nicely-round-off-this-sentence.

During the first year of university I was so proficient at making mix-tapes that I even made a special ‘seduction mix’ which permanently resided in deck A of my stereo on the off-chance that a girl would get lost and wander into my room. This isn’t easy for me to admit, and in retrospect it does make me seem a bit rapey, but in my defence I was self-aware enough at the time to see how ridiculous it was and only record on one side of the tape. This actually resulted in an interesting problem where on the odd occasion I did find myself with company, I knew I had to seal the deal within 45 minutes. If not, any potential coitus would be interrupted by an audio book of Lord Of The Rings as read by Brian Sibley. It always came on at the point where the hobbits were about to enter Mordor, which incidentally is the very reason my ex’s vajayjay was given a rather peculiar nickname. Even more peculiar than vajayjay, which is a word I wish I’d never used and would encourage you to forget. I kind of wish I hadn’t said any of that now.

The truth is, all nostalgia aside, I don’t really miss the reality of mix-taping as much as the thought of it. As I’ve grown older, more cynical and infinitely less motivated I’d much rather email someone a Spotify playlist than actually have to get out of bed and press buttons. Also, as we age, the majority of us find new and more sophisticated ways to share our feelings with the opposite sex – namely getting hopelessly drunk, grabbing clumsily at each others genitals and trying not to be sick before falling asleep in a pool of our own detritus. It’s much more civilised, much more practical, and, most importantly, much less time consuming. A quick search of some internet forums however will inform you that certain members of the public (who I assume very seldom venture out into the public) still regard mix-tape making as some sort of sacred seductive art, pouring over transitions, timings, themes, mix titles and hand-drawn artwork before making tiny effigies of the intended recipient with chewed up magnetic tape and spaffing all over them.

I just watched a YouTube video of such a person who goes by the name of Matt. Matt is an American gentleman and a self-professed mix-tape expert, who claims he wants to “tear into someone’s heart and then slowly put it back together”. Obviously he means this as a metaphor for the impact his mix tape will make, but that only makes the claim slightly less harrowing. Matt is the perfect example of someone who has clung on to the mix tape a little too tightly, turning what was once a hobby into some kind of pseudo sex-crime, wherein he purposefully tries to manipulate women’s emotions using other people’s art in order fool them into thinking he might actually be an okay guy and not a borderline-obsessive deviant. As I watched the video and starred into Matt’s empty eyes that reflected a lifetime’s worth of low-resolution internet porn, I decided I never, ever want to turn into this type of person. The faux-Amish bowl haircut, the odd predilection for Goo Goo Dolls singles and the face that screamed of loneliness and extended periods of furious masturbation; it was all a stark reminder of the path my life could’ve taken. Now I know I admitted to doing similar things as a teenager, but back then I, along with most adolescent boys, would have sold my own Grandmother’s liver for a chance of sex. Matt however is a grown man. A grown man who still gives women mix-tapes, and I can’t help but think he should probably be made to sign some sort of register.

So it is today, mostly out of fear of becoming a Matt-a-like, that I have decided to relinquish the habit of mix-taping once and for all. I say today, I probably haven’t made a mix in just under a decade but it seems writing it down makes it more official. I suppose then this is essentially a written declaration that I will shed my teenage habits and embrace manhood. Think of it like a Bar Mitzvah, albeit a shit one because none of you bought me a gift, and an unnecessary one because I’m not Jewish and a belated one because I’m 27. Other than that this is the perfect metaphor. From now on, if I want to impress a girl I’ll simply run around in a trilby pretending to be Dick Tracy like I did when I was eight, it worked then and I’m sure it will work now. But before I can fully take the step into bona fide adulthood, I must have one last shebang, one last farewell, one last compilation. Behold, readers, the one mix to end them all; a gift from me to you that is in no way an attempt to do sex at you through your ears. Those days are behind me.

One Playlist to Rule Them All

NB – The title might be a bit grandiose but I really wouldn’t get your hopes up too much.