In praise of the mixtape

‘The making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art. Many do’s and don’ts. First of all, you’re using someone else’s poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing.’
Rob Gordon, High Fidelity.

Hours of planning and execution. Running orders chosen and rejected. Song titles squeezed into tiny lines in your neatest handwriting. With a little help from Dylan, Aretha and REO Speedwagon, you’re going to get that message across.

There is no finer gift to give or receive than a mixtape. A time capsule, a love letter, a way to express feelings that you simply cannot put into words.

From cassettes to CDs to playlists, compilations given to me by others are among my most treasured possessions. Each one is like a secret doorway back to a time and place, shorthand to help your heart remember the feelings you had when you first played it.

Songs recorded off the radio for your friends, hand hovering over the pause button to deftly make a move as soon as the DJ drew breath. In-jokes and secret crushes alluded to, the rush to be the first to discover a new cool band and share it with each other.

Then came the boys. Standard practice – put a handful of songs on there to show off your musical taste. Stick on some songs you don’t actually like but that make you look cool. Pepper these with a few tunes that illustrate the way you feel. Hope your crush can work out which is which. Decide on the best order to put them in. Write the songs and artists in your best handwriting. Think up a witty title – ‘Now that’s what I call Music Camp 1995!’ or something equally mortifying – and hand it over.

In return, you receive just one side of a tape. Seven or eight songs. This half-arsed offering mirrors precisely the effort your crush is putting into the relationship and, within weeks, you have been unceremoniously dumped. By a typewritten letter. Signed yours sincerely.

Yes, that actually happened to me.

It’s true what they say, the course of true mixtaping never does run smooth. There are so many lessons to learn. If you’re a girl, you have carefully chosen some songs because their lyrics express how you feel. You think it’s obvious. You hope he gets the message. I mean, how could he miss it?

He’s listening to your tape. He thinks Wilson Phillips is an odd choice. He’s not mad about this Rod Stewart tune, but he likes that you’ve ended with The Clash. He replies with what he believes are the most seminal tunes from the 90s. You are left unpicking Happy Mondays’ coked up lyrics, desperately looking for hidden meanings. Wait. Here’s Oasis. HE WANTS TO TALK TONIGHT?!! Hallelujah!

In mixtaping as in life, I have always chosen to wear my heart on my sleeve. I like Chas and Dave and I don’t care who knows it! I like YOU and I don’t care who knows it! I go in early with the mixtape. I go in early with my feelings.

The problem with this – also in mixtaping as in life – is that not everyone feels the same.

I made a mixtape for my first proper boyfriend and it stepped right off into the deep end. Among VERY OBVIOUS I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU choices, I also chucked in a track from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert because, well, life. He was a Ibiza Classics kinda guy so this was a bold move, I’ll admit.

This is me! the compilation shouted. You’ll be beguiled by how cute I am! You’ll be touched by how thoughtfully I have segwayed Beatles into Oasis and impressed by how deftly I have recorded some of these most recent tracks off the radio without including any chat from Zoe Ball!

He didn’t seem bowled over when I handed over my gift. That’s okay, I thought. He’ll love it when he listens to it. He’ll love me! But it was never mentioned again and eventually I forgot about it.

Months later, he was having a party and playing some heavy house he’d recorded off the radio (this was the 90s, before iTunes and Spotify for you millennials sniggering at the back). Suddenly, the dance music stopped, and firing out of the speakers came the final seconds of I Don’t Care If The Sun Don’t Shine. His mates looked at him like he’d just burst out of the closet wearing sparkly pink tap shoes, and he hurriedly switched it off.

I was confused for a moment. And then I realised he had recorded Pete fucking Tong over my lovingly created compilation.

Now there was a crack in my heart, but it took a good five years until he broke it completely.

In a plot development worthy of High Fidelity itself, the man who mended that broken heart was, and still is, the King of the Compilation. Right from the start he made me the most beautifully crafted mixtapes. Deep cuts and artists that I’d never heard of but that he knew I would like, mixed with just the right amount of showing off, a tiny touch of meaningful lyrics and a crafty dose of which is which to keep me guessing.

I have a collection of compilations now, something approaching a boxset of Springsteen proportions. Each one is a slice of our life together, with sleeve notes providing a hefty dose of nostalgia, like a relationship scrapbook.

It’s easy to say that the art of the mixtape is lost now that we no longer need to record our masterpieces in real time with a twin tape deck. High speed dubbing has been replaced by Spotify playlists but the sentiment of baring a little bit of your soul remains untouched. Teenagers are sharing their creations with hope and trepidation just the same.

We might mourn analogue anthologies but, to me, even computer-generated playlists are a sweet side-effect of digital development. They’ve got the algorithm of my heart down to a tee and I like to think there’s a little robot out there, creating that weekly compilation just for me.

Oh. And here’s one I made just for you.

Wear your heart on your sleeve every day.

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