Mix tapes. I think everyone who has ever made or received a mix tape will have happy memories of them. Having both made and received mix tapes, however great and quick and easy a modern digital playlist is, the digital version will never hold the magic of a cassette tape with varied-quality recordings, the occasional off-radio recording with the beginning and end interrupted by the DJ talking, minutes of blank tape where the last song didn’t fit on, the long thin title stickers and the list of songs on the contents list, handwritten and given a mix tape title to reflect the mood of the tracks or the maker or receiver of the mix tape.
When I wrote about pen pals, which developed into a very basic chronology of my life through letters, I realised the possible extent to which a childhood hobby became a feature of my adult life, almost a thread connecting me to my earlier, less-rose-tinted years (I didn’t really enjoy the school years). Perhaps to a lesser, or maybe just different, extent, mix tapes and the idea of them has followed me through life.
It was only about five years ago that I no longer had easy access to a tape player (my last car) and up until that point, I still listened to some of my early mix tapes, an enjoyable nostalgia-fest.
The photo is of a cafe in Forest Hill, southeast London, which is where I spent part of the five or so hours between starting this post and stenoing the next chapter.