It seems like only yesterday when I was huddled in my tiny room, fingers poised over the record and play buttons of my cassette player, crafting a tapestry of songs of my choosing. This was not just a labor of love; this process, this art of making mixtapes, was a telltale sign of the times — a mark of my generation.
It is an art lost to time, lost to innovation, and lost in the mad rush of commercialization. It is the art dumbed down to a mere button on music streaming apps: ‘Add to playlist’.
Don’t get me wrong; if there was anything to be coveted from our present times, it would be the convenience of everything. But aren’t we sacrificing some intimate part of the process in this relentless race for convenience?
I’ve nurtured my love for music right here in Schenectady, New York. Lifelong loyalty to one’s hometown is rare these days, but Schenectady and I, we share the same DNA, the same way music and I are tangled in an endless dance.
I still remember, aged sixteen, orchestrating a meta soundtrack for my house parties which had more rhythm than the shuffling feet of awkward teenagers. Each mixtape was crafted with precision, each track having it’s place, never duplicated, never in disarray. It was a reflection of who we were, our tastes and preferences proudly on display for anyone willing to listen.
Back then, it wasn’t as simple as dragging and dropping. Making a mixtape was an elaborate act of love. Each song needed to flow into the next, the transitions leaving an aftertaste of the last track while gently introducing the mood of the next.
I recall doing more than my fair share of rewinds, forwarding, and stopping, waiting for a popular track to start on the radio so that I could record it. Wanted a hip new song by The Rolling Stones or The Beatles? You had better be prepared with a handful of cassettes and a whole lot of patience.
Ah, the things we did for music.
Sharing these cassettes then became a social currency. Swapping mixtapes was a direct insight into each other’s lives; an intrusion that was strangely welcome. The kind of music you curated was akin to a personality trait, the nuances beautifully captured on magnetic tape.
One mixtape I’ll always treasure was made by my wife, Margot, when we were dating. An unassuming package arrived at my doorstep with nothing but my name on it, Brian. On playing the tape, I laughed, cried, and fell in love all over, with each song reeking of her personality.
How I wish we could bring back that era, decelerate, set aside the smartphones, and pick up a pair of headphones. The ones with the jumble of wires that were prone to getting tangled up, not these wireless ones. The kind where the only thing that mattered was the music flowing through, as if one were tethered to the soul of the creator through their creation.
This longing stems not merely from the grip of nostalgia but from the erosion of emotional connection in this digital age. Navigating my sixties is teaching me important lessons about valuing things that have depth, a personal touch, things that take time, effort, and love to create. But these values seem to fade into the background.
But what saddens me most about our loss of mixtapes isn’t the music, but the stories and emotions they carried.
Do we recall the songs we added to our playlists five years ago, three years ago, even last month? Do we remember how they spoke to us in profound ways? What are the stories that these modern-day mixtapes hold?
A mixtape was something you could touch, feel, experience, and own. Even the stenciled handwriting on each tape added a charm that modern technological advancements could never recreate.
Sure, music has evolved, becoming more accessible than ever. But at what cost? We’ve begun to forget the essence of music — the way it touches our souls, the way it binds memories and emotions, wraps them in melodies that will forever hold significance.
What have we gained but lost time’s gratitude? A moment’s pause to feel, to acknowledge, and appreciate the love someone else puts into the creation not only of the music but the experiences they anticipate we should have?
When we traded mixtapes for playlists, did we unknowingly diminish a cultural lexicon born of music and emotion?
I’ll take a leaf from Bob Seger’s wisdom here; today’s music ain’t got the same soul. I somehow still identify with the old-time rock ‘n’ roll. Even though I realize that it’s an age gone by, I wish for a day when this lost art of making mixtapes, the act of creating encapsulated emotions, tangible feelings through music, is revived.
Maybe then, just maybe, we will experience music as more than just a background score to our busy lives.
