Life is a mixtape

Singles remind me of kisses, albums remind me of plans. — Squeeze

Mixtapes remind me of everything. — Me

The math hurts. Try your best to not do the math.

So what if Tears for Fears released Songs from the Big Chair way back in February 1985, just in time for your senior prom? Your head and your heels are sure to ache if you keep reminding yourself that you’ve been swaying to “Head Over Heels” for 40+ years. It doesn’t matter that Talking Heads 77 was released – wait for it – in 1977, just a few months after the original Star Wars movie hit the movie theaters. Yes, it was a very long time ago in a galaxy far, far away that “Psycho Killer” and so many of our other favorite songs first came out. 

So no, try not to do the math. Instead, focus on the feelings.

Long before our adult selves found a therapist, our younger selves found that “our music” – New Wave, Punk, Alternative, Post-Punk, whatever you call it –  helped us make sense of our ever-changing adolescent moods. Somehow, New Wave music temporarily eased the teenage anxiety we felt over anything and everything, and bands like Roxy Music and Devo and The Violent Femmes sparked something inside of us that almost felt like confidence. And because we were a little different from many of our classmates (geeks, nerds, “drama fags” and so on), we found a much-needed sense of community when we discovered other geeks and nerds and drama fags who really liked this weird music, too. 

In our freshman year of high school, we didn’t categorize ourselves as “disco” – Madonna, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston and the like. Nor did we gravitate to the fist-pumping, latex-clad metal/hair bands – Quiet Riot, Motley Crue, Def Lepard. And we were getting kinda tired of our older siblings’ music – Peter Frampton, ZZ Top, Led Zeppelin. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, we knew all the words to those songs from an unavoidable form of social osmosis called “Top 40 radio.” But those songs didn’t really speak to us. They didn’t feel like ours.

And then one day we heard Ian Dury and Blockheads singing “Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll,” or Devo urging us to “Whip It,” or maybe the B-52s shouting in irrational harmony about something called a “Rock Lobster.” And things changed.
The mixtapes we made back then, and the record collections we built with our precious disposable incomes, were (and still are) our audio Rorschach tests. What images and emotions did those songs conjure up when you first heard them, 40 or 45 years ago? What do you see and hear and feel when you listen to those songs today? Does a favorite song by The Pet Shop Boys, REM, The Pretenders, Squeeze, or The Cure take you right back to a very specific time and place? Is the journey back there sweet, or bitter? Do you wish you could stay?

We’re not all the same, of course, when it comes to the intensity of our connection to our this music. On one end of the New Wave fandom spectrum are the people who have a modest stash of vinyl records from college in a box somewhere in the house, happy just knowing they still exist – even if they don’t own a functioning turntable. Somewhere in the middle are those of us who routinely post “now spinning” pics of our albums on social media, eager to share with our online friends the genuine glee we feel when we drop the needle on an old favorite by Nick Lowe, Big Country or Til Tuesday. And at the other end of the fandom spectrum are the friends we always know that, without a doubt, we’re sure to bump into at the concert hall the next time The English Beat, Adam Ant or Simple Minds come to town for what haters call “The 401K Tour.”

No matter which end of the musical spectrum we’re on, though, almost all of us become shameless car-singers and world-class steering wheel percussionists whenever a Go-Go’s song comes on the car radio. We’re the people who preserve concert ticket stubs from the 1980s like they’re baby pictures or second-place ribbons from our third-grade Field Day. With pride, we can name all 52 girls from that B-52s song about 52 girls. (Go ahead – try!) 

And much to the discomfort of our kids, we joyfully sing along to the rap from Blondie’s “Rapture,” remembering every single word from that 1980 song like it was yesterday — even if we can’t remember where we left the goddamn car keys. 

Our music is always on, somewhere in the background or right up front and center. And it’s not just because we love the songs themselves, although we do love them, we really do. No, our music is always on because of the feelings we never fail to feel when we hear those songs. 

I’ve moved house a few times in the last few years, and for a while there I lost track of my beloved 1980s homemade mixtapes, many of which I had simply labeled “Those Songs.” I wasn’t particularly concerned about the possibility of losing access to the songs on those tapes; I still have a lot of them on vinyl, they stream on demand via “smart devices,” and they even play over the PA system in the grocery store when we pop in for a box of fiber-enriched bran flakes. 

No, I was upset that losing those mixtapes might forever erase the precious memories they hold, as effectively as a magnet can erase a 60-minute Memorex or a 90-minute Maxell. 

Thankfully, dozens of my mixtapes from the 1980s recently turned up in a mislabeled box in the new garage, the music and the memories intact. This book is about those mixtapes, and it’s about the people, some long gone, who never fail to come back to life when those songs get replayed for the millionth time. This blog is about us, and about those songs. Our songs.

Just yesterday I stopped by the post office to buy some stamps, and the clerk noticed the address on the birthday card I was sending my son, Evan, who is (ouch, for me) turning 30 this year. The clerk, looking to be in her late 50s like me, smiled and asked: “Does he really live on Electric Avenue?” I confirmed that indeed he does. And then, spontaneously, we both started singing that very song with our hilariously awful impressions of Eddie Grant: 

“We gonna rock down to

Electric Avenue

And then we’ll take it higher…” 

We laughed, and she sighed a wistful sigh. “The 80s were the best,” she said. “I wish I could go back.” 

Me too, nice postal lady. Me too. 

So, let’s go!