‘Friday I’m in Love’ by The Cure next to ‘The You and Me Song’ by The Wannadies. Or something like that.
Party Tape. For lazy DJs everywhere. A couple of well-sequenced C90s could ensure even the dullest party had a bit of a buzz about it, and leave the host plenty of time to wander round with canapés instead of mixin’ and scratchin’ at the turntables. This mix would be filled with plenty of uptempo tracks to dance to, a handful of singalong classics, and the obligatory run of three slow songs, timed to come on towards the end of the evening when there was plenty of snogging to be done.
Impress Your Friends. The teenage muso, and those quite a bit older, to be fair, would often share mixes with fellow music-enthusiast schoolmates and friends. These were crucial in securing your position in the social hierarchy, and balance was the key. You needed just enough recognisable-but-not-too-obvious stuff (lesser-known album tracks from popular new-wave bands were ideal) plus some indie anthems (‘God, I love that song, man. Good choice’), topped off with a sprinkling of really obscure songs that no one else would have heard. Even the geekiest nerd could shoot up the popularity charts if word got out that he had some REM demo tracks and that Violent Femmes’ song with the swearing on his last mixtape.
Linked Themes. Mixtapes could take on any theme: Christmas songs, cover versions, driving, tracks to work out to; the list is endless. I was once given a mix where each song title contained a word from the song title before. It was shit.
The Break-up Tape. Sadly, not every tape sent to a potential partner led to love, marriage, and happily-ever-after. The majority of relationships came a cropper, and that would inevitably result in a break-up tape, and no more sorry an example of wallowing in self-pity has ever been witnessed in popular culture. Whether it included ‘All By Myself ’ by Eric Carmen, ‘I Want You’ by Elvis Costello (surely the most heartbreaking song ever?) or ‘Without You’ by Harry Nilsson, they were painful to listen to, on an emotional level at least. Thankfully, most break-up tapes never got sent to the ex and were just played repeatedly in darkened bedrooms to the backdrop of self-indulgent sobs.
Nowadays, of course, mixtapes have been largely replaced by Spotify playlists, iTunes mixes and the habit of burning CDs, but though these represent technological progress, they lack the heart, the soul and the sheer effort of their cassette-based predecessor.
And that is where a mixtape wins every time. If I were to create one for you, I would spend hours, days even, going through my records and CDs to compile the perfect tracklisting, a collection of songs that was just the right balance between stuff I like and stuff I think you would like. This would almost certainly be written down in a spiral-bound notebook, and go through many revisions before it was ready to be recorded.
Running order and sequencing were everything. Some songs naturally work well when placed together on a mixtape; others jar or clash. Tempo changes need to be handled with skill – moving from a piece of thrash metal to some ambient dance might work, but it requires planning, a brave attitude, and a rather diverse record collection.
Once all that was sorted, the physicality of the process would kick in, if that’s not too pompous an expression (I know it is, but it’s my book so I am using it anyway). I would have to arrange all the albums so they were in the right order for recording, taking each one in turn, queuing up the correct track on the turntable or CD player before dropping the stylus or pressing play, and then immediately releasing the PAUSE button on the tape deck. Any slip of the hand or delay and I’d miss the start of the track and have to rewind and start again.
It was something that took a lot of time. The fact that I would spend hours working on a mixtape spoke volumes about my opinion of the recipient. Consequently, a mixtape beats a CD or playlist. It just does.
And I haven’t even mentioned the artwork. Blank tapes came with a liner card, usually on the reverse side of the packaging, with space for you to write the tracklisting. Well, I say space, but there was never enough of it. A small grid might allow you to jot down ‘Stop’ by Sam Brown, but was no use whatsoever if your mixtape included ‘It’s The End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)’ by REM. Consequently, many mixtape compilers customised their covers by either ignoring the lines completely and creating elaborate spidery biro listings or, preferably, by creating their own covers by hand.
Entire books and exhibitions have been dedicated to mixtape art, most notably Mix Tape: The Art of Cassette Culture by Thurston Moore of the band Sonic Youth (who claims to only listen to music on cassette, although I think he might be fibbing). It was a whole subgenre of creativity, adding even further to the personal nature of the object itself. I once received a pop-up tracklisting from a girlfriend, and though she later dumped me for some tosser in the year above, she retains a small corner of my heart for the effort she put into the mixtape alone.
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VHS
Ahh, who’s gloating now, eh, VHS? You thought you had won the war when you saw off the technically superior, but undoubtedly less popular, Betamax, didn’t you? There you were as the King of Home Entertainment, happily lording it up over laserdiscs and anything else that came along, only for you to be made almost completely irrelevant by the onset of digital technology.
To add insult to injury when I tried to donate some videotapes to my local charity shop recently, they refused to take them. ‘No one wants these any more, love,’ said the delightful old lady in the polyester dress.
Oh, VHS, how did it come to this?
The Video Home System (or VHS, for short) burst into our living rooms in the late 1970s. It had been created by JVC in Japan, who realised that the road to world domination lay in sharing the technology, so they licensed it to other manufacturers to ensure a wide range of machines were on the market.
The very first video cassette recorders (VCRs) went on sale in 1977, but were, to begin with, very much a luxury item. Once prices started to come down they became far more popular, and by the time the ’80s were in full flow they were a common feature in many homes below, or above, the TV set.
Video had two major attractions. One was the fact that you could now watch films on your television when you wanted to, not just when the three (count them!) TV stations chose to broadcast them. The other was the ability to record programmes to watch later.
The film thing was really a very big deal at the time, something we can often forget in this age of Sky Movies, LoveFilm, and internet streaming. For one thing, the UK didn’t get to see US films in the cinema until quite a while, often months, after America, something I talk about in more detail in a later entry. Outside of the cinema, the only place to watch a film was on the telly, but TV stations did not get to show the big Hollywood blockbusters until years after release. Because of this, the first showing of a big film on BBC1 or ITV was a major deal, and there would be trailers for weeks beforehand, often resulting in huge viewing figures. For example, Jaws premiered on UK television on ITV on 8 October 1981. It had first been shown in cinemas in 1975, six years earlier! That night, 23.25 million people tuned in to watch it, just under half of the entire population, and more than the peak audience for the Royal Wedding between William and Kate in 2011.
So you can see why the home video rental market exploded as the ’80s went on. Every town, and almost every village, had its own rental store, and people had access to thousands of films whenever they wanted to see them, changing the sorts of films we watched. This was before the day of the multiplex cinema, and most local film theatres only had two screens. Two cinema screens and three TV channels did not really offer a huge selection, but all of a sudden we had video stores with aisles of cassettes. This meant that you could rent a new film, or perhaps an old classic, but you could also borrow all sorts of shite you had never heard of – the straight-to-video market was born.
The appetite for watching films at home was so great that it was difficult to meet the demand. Studios realised that consumers would potentially watch almost anything, especially if all the block-busters were out of stock at 8pm on a Saturday night, and films that had previously sat on distributors’ shelves unwatched and unloved were quickly converted to VHS and