As I carry with me my digital musical collection, assembled with tireless dedication, beamed down to a device just about anywhere I am, I don’t really pine for bygone days. Yes, I have a tremendous affection for formats that were once the only conveyance for music, which is why I’m one of those sorry fellows who pays exorbitant prices for new music “on vinyl” (I know this is a fancy, hipster way of saying, “record”). Really, the only part of my music culture that I’m helplessly nostalgic for is the art of making a mixtape.

All through the night
They begin to take shape
From the crack of the vinyl
To the hiss of the tape

I’ve pulled together playlists in other ways — using iTunes, cobbling together videos on YouTube — and it’s simply not the same. For one thing, it’s far too easy. If I want to string together a few songs that all share word in the title, there’s a search function for that. There’s no comparison to the sense of accomplishment when the feats of unity spring from the memory, especially if that memory is compromised by late night hours and, sure, a touch of liquor. Additionally, I almost use those digital platforms to assemble my procession of songs in  real time. When making a mixtape, I was required to listen to the song as it recorded, often finding my way to some new inspiration during those few minutes of pop bliss or punk revolt. I lived the tape as I made it. That resulted in a completely different finished product than I would have otherwise.

Play and record
Held down together
Tabs pushed off
So you can’t tape over it ever

And mixtapes were a means of communication for my generation, or at least they were for me and my fellow music obsessives. I have clear memories — albeit probably enhanced by retroactive romanticism — of agonizing over every song selection as I tried to co-opt the testimony of fluttery affection embedded in some string of songs, telling some lovely young woman I’d fallen for where my heart and head was at. Borrowed words were better. Safer anyway. When it was an announcement of intent rather than a reiteration of established feelings, a whole other strategy was required; roughly two steps forward and one step back, across two sides and ninety minutes.

Are we after the same thing?
Am I crossing a line?
I’m checking the lyrics
I’m pressing rewind

All this came reverberating back to me the other day when I listened to Art Brut’s song “Sound of Summer.” Relating the bittersweet tale of a summer relationship built upon regular exchange of mixtapes, the track perfectly captures the sensation of sitting before a tape deck, making an artifact that takes the art of others and makes it deeply, profoundly personal.

Of course, that recent listening experience occurred because the song shuffled up on a digital device.

Listen or download –> Art Brut, “Sound of Summer”

(Disclaimer: I believe Art Brut’s album It’s a Bit Complicated, which is home to the track “Sound of Summer,” to be out of print as a physical object that can be procured through your favorite local, independently-owned record store in a manner that compensates both the owner of said store and the original artist. It looks like other Art Brut releases can be bought that was, and I strongly urge anyone who likes this track to do so. So please consider this song I’ve shared to be a sample that encourages fiscal support of the artist rather than a replacement for such behavior. I will gladly and promptly remove it from my little corner of the digital world if asked to do so by any individual or entity with due authority to make such a request.)