In the Time of Lost Mixtapes
The word Mixtape is defined as a compilation of favorite pieces of music, typically by different artists, recorded onto a cassette tape or other medium by an individual.
Suffice to say, this musical artifact died years ago. It’s never coming back by the way, despite what the people working at Urban Outfitters think.
But it represents something vital that was lost a very long time ago. Mixtapes were not just really cool things to make or to play in your car. They were also gifts — if you liked someone enough, you’d put blood, sweat and tears into finding those perfect tracks that coul make someone smile.
God. That sounds so ridiculous now.
Lately, I’ve been in a stranglehold of nostalgia. It’s all I think about it during a day of Instagram stories, pictures, Facebook notifications, more social media nonsensical shit that means less and less each day. I find myself unable to fall into novels the way I used to, unable to stop myself from scrolling every minute of my day. I’ve become a millennial drone obsessed with knowing, seeing, and listening to everything but not really getting smarter through any of it.
In a time where people follow the lives of strangers and celebrities and models and their friends (not to mention the friends of those strangers and celebrity models) I’ve been often wondering about those lost mixtapes and what they meant back then. Because before we shared pictures with the world, we shared our songs with one another. And although that’s a corny sentiment, it’s entirely true in the age of Twitter.
We often talk about how we’ll be known as the last generation who ever had to wait for anything — songs, CD’s, films — and that’s never been truer at this time in history. In the United States of Netflix there’s no need to wait — and this unbelievable feat of time-skipping is tried day in and day out by everyone. It’s just fucking instant (provided you have high speed internet, and if you’re reading this you probably do).
Because the mixtape is no longer around, I find myself also reminiscing about the things that used to make me happy before my eyes began an everlasting love affair with an Iphone screen.
Because… I grew up in a place that no longer exists. It used to be a place that existed solely for people who loved movies more than anything in the world. These places were the equivalent of churches and synagogues, but for a different religion, only observed by those that loved not just films , but films arranged by categories, by genres, by directors, by new releases and old time classics. Films that sat on a shelf that had a lifetime of love to give to the viewers who reached for them. They were sanctuaries, in a silly way. They provided solace to the loners and to the misfits who felt more at home browsing the endless aisles of a Blockbuster then they did at their own high school. Somehow, just by staring at dozens of films full of their different stories, there was a chance that they would feel a little less alone. It was like that line from Almost Famous,
“and if you ever get lonely, just go to the record store and visit your friends.”
When I was young, the most nerve racking moment of an evening would come when we’d pull into the video store parking lot, and see how long the actual line was from the checkout desk. It would sometimes run to the back you’d worry that new release you had your eye on would be all sold out. That anxiety of missing out on a certain film that weekend (which doesn’t exist anymore, you can find literally ANYTHING with a click of a button) was replaced by the comfort that there were dozens of others to check out.
Were things really that simple? Perhaps they were. You didn’t need to worry about liking your friends photo or wishing them happy birthday online for the world to see. You didn’t need to read TV recaps or Film Nerd Top 10 lists or look at stupid Gifs and Memes to feel like you were being included in the culture around around. You just had to sit and wait for things.
So maybe I just miss waiting.
Here’s my final story. Deep breath.
The other night I was at home watching a TV show on HBO. It is a critically acclaimed show that not a lot of other people watch but I wanted to take a picture of the screen as I watched and express my undying love for it and share it over an Instagram story which is basically becoming the new Snapchat. Seriously it would take me years to try to explain the fucking point of this stuff. But I wanted to say:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING IF YOU’RE NOT WATCHING THE LEFTOVERS. IT’S INCREDIBLE. JUSTIN THEROUX! CARRIE COON! RELIGION AND VIOLENCE AND JUSTICE ALL IN ONE. BEST SHOW ON TELEVISION.
It probably sounded something like that. Maybe less deranged.
And I was really close to. There’s still a 84% chance I post something about The Leftovers before the day is over.
But Reader, it will be awhile before I realize that no one cares. People have been looking at pictures and stupid things for the past few years now and certainly another photo with a TV recommendation isn’t the worse thing that their eyes will fall upon, but at the end of the day, posting pictures that last 24 hours with captions on them is the equivalent to taking a big bad dose of Who Gives a Fuck.
Who knows, maybe this entire piece of writing is just a recommendation for you to start watching The Leftovers.
But you know what? I really hope for the day that people keep their moments to themselves. I hope people find a way to be mysterious again. That they find a way to start waiting again.
Because it’s only going to get worse of course — more information on the internet, more musical festivals, more Twitter feuds, more, more everything.
But Reader, I really, really hope you keep the small moments. They are few and far between these days.
Like me, you may just find yourself missing those lost mixtapes.
