Mixed Up in the Music

Getting to the Moods Behind the Media

Songs, and sharing them with others: David’s mention in his last post about listening to a Steve Allen record had me thinking about the days when music was both essential to existence and housed in tangible objects made of plastic. About the wonder of transferring a song from one medium to another, and designing your own mix tape, a soundtrack to accompany and convey your thoughts and feelings, your deepest self in that moment, complete with cover art and liner notes. And handing it off shyly or with a put-on shrug to throw the recipient off the scent of what you really wanted to say: I like you, and I want you to like me, too.

Those thoughts also brought to mind the only part of the film version of The Virgin Suicides that really said anything to me: the scene in which the neighborhood boys connect to the Lisbon sisters, confined to their house by an insanely overprotective mother, via telephone and record player. One group plays a song, holding the receiver over the turntable; the next group does the same, sending its own collective answer or reaction over the wire. A scene heavy with feeling and inarticulate yearning, the sending and receiving of coded musical messages filmed in the soft light of nostalgia.

For teens of a certain generation, at least, still unable or too afraid to put feeling into words, music was the magical language you hoped would speak for you, simultaneously revealing your heart’s desire while also acting as a buffer, should those feelings be rejected. What? No, I’m not saying I love you; it’s just a cool song I thought you’d like. All the thought, the energy, the sheer amount of time that went into planning and crafting and exchanging mix tapes: who wouldn’t be nostalgic about a period of life that contained such a sense of purpose, and (for those of us lucky enough not to be burdened with any real responsibilities), so much space available to devote to its achievement?

Mix tape sleeve notes, courtesy Antony Mayfield on a CC BY 2.0 license via Wikimedia Commons.

I can’t remember the last time I made a mix tape for anyone. That may partially be due to the fact that very few of us still use CDs or LPs or especially cassettes to listen to music, relying instead on the intangible bits that somehow travel through the ether to arrange themselves into the tunes and lyrics that get us through life. And I’ll admit: once the playlist became the dominant form of sharing musical tastes, I began to lose interest in the exchange. There was something depersonalized about e-mailing a link or sending a file to someone, no clumsy artwork or careful penmanship involved. But this eventual disappearance from my life of the mix tape (or its virtual equivalent) probably has more to do with the fact that I just grew out of the need to encode all my messages, out of the fierce load of young emotion that demanded both to be let out, and to be accepted for whatever it was.

There is the matter of time, of course: time to know your music fully, and to pull it all together in an arrangement that states clearly, “This is me.” Adulthood, after all, is perpetually short on enough hours in one day—and so I wonder whether all the nostalgia we, or at least I, feel for the world of mix tapes isn’t so much for the music, or even that particular period of our lives itself, but for the amount of time we had to indulge in it and to root around in all those feelings we were trying to figure out. And I wonder, too, whether it’s not the media we miss, whether vinyl or cassette or CD, or even the products they let us create, but the sentiments they let us show. In its way, that scene from The Virgin Suicides is much like the misguided efforts of the heroes of Annie Hall or Groundhog Day, trying desperately to recreate past moments filled with love. It’s not so much the exact narratives we want to relive—the creepy zaniness of getting a lobster in a pot, the laughter-filled tumble into the snow, the music offered over the phone to captive listeners—but the rare warmth, the assurance of affection usually only felt in small doses, that pulled them all together.

Fresh off reading Morrissey’s Autobiography, I was seized the other day with memories of how I once let music do my talking for me. Discussing the book with a friend who wasn’t familiar with the artist or most of the other groups I listened to in high school, I played a few things for him: some Smiths, some Violent Femmes. It was nice to share something about myself; nice for someone to understand who I’d been, or at least get a glimpse of the resources I’d used to get through a particular part of my life. But then we moved on to the present day, to the projects we were thinking about, to the things we wanted to do.

The music, still enjoyed without the crippling desperation of the past, was turned off until next time; the moods, the insecurities, the fearful shyness that had made sharing it so necessary all those years ago, never made an appearance, and weren’t recalled to bolster any form of nostalgic celebration. And the success of the moment didn’t depend upon this music conveying every last aspect of who I am or had been. Of course I hoped my friend would see something in the songs—but even if he wondered how the hell I could let such stuff touch my ears, that was fine; we’d learned how deeply complex people are, and that relationships don’t—or shouldn’t—stand or fall on shared love of a lyric or melody, that in order to last, they require, among other things, words and gestures offered openly and honestly.

I still love the thought of a mix tape, of the creative exchange of enthusiasms and emotions they involved. But it felt good the other day to know I didn’t need a song to speak for me, or to hold the key to others’ approval. It felt marvelous to know that I had a voice I no longer had qualms about using, that I was free of any need to encode my contentment. That I was rooted firmly in the present, with no ache for any other time or space but the one that held me, right in the everyday there.