Love Is a Mix Tape.

Life and Loss, One Song at a Time.

by Rob Sheffield.

for Mom and Dad

I wasted all your precious time I wasted it all on you.

-PAVEMENT

rumblefish

IDES O' MARCH 1993

The playback: late night, Brooklyn, a pot of coffee, and a chair by the window. I'm listening to a mix tape from 1993. n.o.body can hear it but me. The neighbors are asleep. The skater kids who sit on my front steps, drink beer, and blast Polish hip-hop-they're gone for the night. The diner next door is closed, but the air is still full of borscht and kielbasa. This is where I live now. A different town, a different apartment, a different year. late night, Brooklyn, a pot of coffee, and a chair by the window. I'm listening to a mix tape from 1993. n.o.body can hear it but me. The neighbors are asleep. The skater kids who sit on my front steps, drink beer, and blast Polish hip-hop-they're gone for the night. The diner next door is closed, but the air is still full of borscht and kielbasa. This is where I live now. A different town, a different apartment, a different year.

This mix tape is just another piece of useless junk that Renee left behind. A category that I guess tonight includes me.

I should have gone to sleep hours ago. Instead, I was rummaging through old boxes, looking for some random paperwork, and I found this tape with her curly scribble on the label. She never played this one for me. She didn't write down the songs, so I have no idea what's in store. But I can already tell it's going to be a late night. It always is. I pop Rumblefish Rumblefish into my Panasonic RXC36 boombox on the kitchen counter, pour some more coffee, and let the music have its way with me. It's a date. Just me and Renee and some tunes she picked out. into my Panasonic RXC36 boombox on the kitchen counter, pour some more coffee, and let the music have its way with me. It's a date. Just me and Renee and some tunes she picked out.

All these tunes remind me of her now. It's like that old song, "88 Lines About 44 Women." Except it's 8,844 lines about one woman. We've done this before. We get together sometimes, in the dark, share a few songs. It's the closest we'll get to hearing each other's voices tonight.

The first song: Pavement's "Shoot the Singer." Just a sad California boy, plucking his guitar and singing about a girl he likes. They were Renee's favorite band. She used to say, "There's a lot of room in my dress for these boys."

Renee called this tape Rumblefish Rumblefish. I don't know why. She recorded it over a promo ca.s.sette by some band called Drunken Boat, who obviously didn't make a big impression, because she stuck her own label over their name, put Scotch tape over the punch holes, and made her own mix. She dated it "Ides o' March 1993." She also wrote this inspirational credo on the label: .

"You know what I'm doing-just follow along!" "You know what I'm doing-just follow along!"

-JENNIE GARTH .

Ah, the old Jennie Garth workout video, Body in Progress. Body in Progress. Some nights you go to the mall with your squeeze, you're both a little wasted, and you come home with a Jennie Garth workout video. That's probably buried in one of these boxes, too. Neither of us ever threw anything away. We made a lot of mix tapes while we were together. Tapes for making out, tapes for dancing, tapes for falling asleep. Tapes for doing the dishes, for walking the dog. I kept them all. I have them piled up on my bookshelves, spilling out of my kitchen cabinets, scattered all over the bedroom floor. I don't even have pots or pans in my kitchen, just that old boom-box on the counter, next to the sink. So many tapes. Some nights you go to the mall with your squeeze, you're both a little wasted, and you come home with a Jennie Garth workout video. That's probably buried in one of these boxes, too. Neither of us ever threw anything away. We made a lot of mix tapes while we were together. Tapes for making out, tapes for dancing, tapes for falling asleep. Tapes for doing the dishes, for walking the dog. I kept them all. I have them piled up on my bookshelves, spilling out of my kitchen cabinets, scattered all over the bedroom floor. I don't even have pots or pans in my kitchen, just that old boom-box on the counter, next to the sink. So many tapes.

I met Renee in Charlottesville, Virginia, when we were both twenty-three. When the bartender at the Eastern Standard put on a tape, Big Star's Radio City Radio City, she was the only other person in the room who perked up. So we drank bourbon and talked about music. We traded stories about the bands we liked, shows we'd seen. Renee loved the Replacements and Alex Chilton and the Meat Puppets. So did I.

I loved the Smiths. Renee hated the Smiths.

The second song on the tape is "Cemetry Gates" by The Smiths.

The first night we met, I told her the same thing I've told every single girl I've ever had a crush on: "I'll make you a tape!" Except this time, with this girl, it worked. When we were planning our wedding a year later, she said that instead of stepping on a gla.s.s at the end of the ceremony, she wanted to step on a ca.s.sette case, since that's what she'd been doing ever since she met me.

Falling in love with Renee was not the kind of thing you walk away from in one piece. I had no chance. She put a hitch in my git-along. She would wake up in the middle of the night and say things like "What if Bad Bad Leroy Brown was a girl?" or "Why don't they have commercials for salt like they do for milk?" Then she would fall back to sleep, while I would lie awake and give thanks for this alien creature beside whom I rested.

Renee was a real cool h.e.l.l-raising Appalachian punk-rock girl. Her favorite song was the Rolling Stones' "Let's Spend the Night Together." Her favorite alb.u.m was Pavement's Slanted and Enchanted Slanted and Enchanted. She rooted for the Atlanta Braves and sewed her own silver vinyl pants. She knew which kind of screwdriver was which. She baked pies, but not very often. She could rap Roxanne Shante's "Go on Girl" all the way through. She called Eudora Welty "Miss Eudora." She had an MFA in fiction and never got any stories published, but she kept writing them anyway. She bought too many shoes and dyed her hair red. Her voice was full of the frazzle and crackle of music.

Renee was a country girl, three months older than me. She was born on November 21, 1965, the same day as Bjork, in the Metropolitan Mobile Home Park in Northcross, Georgia. She grew up in southwest Virginia, with her parents, Buddy and Nadine, and her little sister. When she was three, Buddy was transferred to the defense plant in Pulaski County, and so her folks spent a summer building a house there. Renee used to sit in the backyard, feeding gra.s.s to the horses next door through the fence. She had gla.s.ses, curly brown hair, and a beagle named Snoopy. She went to Fairlawn Baptist Church and Pulaski High School and Hollins College. She got full-immersion baptized in Claytor Lake. The first record she ever owned was KC & the Sunshine Band's "Get Down Tonight." KC was her first love. I was her last.

I was a shy, skinny, Irish Catholic geek from Boston. I'd never met anybody like Renee before. I moved to Charlottesville for grad school, my plans all set: go down South, get my degree, then haul a.s.s to the next town. The South was a scary new world. The first time I saw a possum in my driveway, I shook a bony fist at the sky and cursed this G.o.dforsaken rustic h.e.l.lhole. I'm twenty-three! Life is pa.s.sing me by! My ancestors spent centuries in the hills of County Kerry, waist-deep in sheep s.h.i.t, getting shot at by English soldiers, and my grandparents crossed the ocean in coffin ships to come to America, just so I could get possum rabies?

Renee had never set foot north of Washington, D.C. For her, Charlottesville was the big bad city. She couldn't believe her eyes, just because there were sidewalks sidewalks everywhere. Her ancestors were Appalachians from the hills of West Virginia; both of her grandfathers were coal miners. We had nothing in common, except we both loved music. It was the first connection we had, and we depended on it to keep us together. We did a lot of work to meet in the middle. Music brought us together. So now music was stuck with us. everywhere. Her ancestors were Appalachians from the hills of West Virginia; both of her grandfathers were coal miners. We had nothing in common, except we both loved music. It was the first connection we had, and we depended on it to keep us together. We did a lot of work to meet in the middle. Music brought us together. So now music was stuck with us.

I was lucky I got to be her guy for a while.

I remember this song. L7, punk-rock girls from L.A., the "Shove" single on Sub Pop. Renee did a Spin Spin cover story on them, right after she made this tape. She'd never seen California before. The girls in the band took her shopping and picked out some jeans for her. cover story on them, right after she made this tape. She'd never seen California before. The girls in the band took her shopping and picked out some jeans for her.

When we were married we lived in Charlottesville, in a moldy bas.e.m.e.nt dump that flooded every time it rained. We often drove her creaky 1978 Chrysler LeBaron through the mountains, kicking around junk shops, looking for vinyl records and finding buried treasures on scratched-up 45s for a quarter a pop. She drove me up to the Meadow m.u.f.fin on Route 11, outside Stuart's Draft, for the finest banana milkshakes on the planet. Every afternoon, I picked Renee up from work. By night we'd head to Tokyo Rose, the local sushi bar, where bands played in the bas.e.m.e.nt. We went to hear every band that came to town, whether we liked them or not. If we'd waited around for famous, successful, important bands to play Charlottesville, we would have been waiting a long time. Charlottesville was a small town; we had to make our own fun. Renee would primp for the shows, sew herself a new skirt. We knew we would see all of our friends there, including all the rock boys Renee had crushes on. The ba.s.sist-always the ba.s.sist. I'm six-five, so I would hang in the back with the other tall rock dudes and lean against the wall. Renee was five-two, and she definitely wasn't the type of gal to hang in the back, so she'd dart up front and run around and wag her tail. She made a scene. She would dive right into the crowd and let me just linger behind her, basking in her glow. Any band that was in town, Renee would invite them to crash at our place, even though there wasn't even enough room for us.

Belly? Aaaargh! Renee! Why are you doing this to me? This band blows homeless goats. I can't believe she liked this song enough to tape it.

I get sentimental over the music of the '90s. Deplorable, really. But I love it all. As far as I'm concerned, the '90s was the best era for music ever, even the stuff that I loathed at the time, even the stuff that gave me stomach cramps. Every note from those years is charged with life for me now. For instance, I hated Pearl Jam at the time. I thought they were pompous blowhards. Now, whenever a Pearl Jam song comes on the car radio, I find myself pounding my fist on the dashboard, screaming, "Pearl JAM! Pearl JAM! Now this this is rock and roll! Jeremy's SPO-ken! But he's still al-LIIIIIIVE!" is rock and roll! Jeremy's SPO-ken! But he's still al-LIIIIIIVE!"

I don't recall making the decision to love Pearl Jam. Hating them was a lot more fun.

1991. The year punk broke. The palindrome year. In the Planet of the Apes Planet of the Apes movies, it was the year of the ape revolution, but I'll settle for the 1991 we got. This was the year we got married. We knew it would be a big deal, and it was. The next few years were a rush. It was a glorious time for pop culture, the decade of Nirvana and Lollapalooza and movies, it was the year of the ape revolution, but I'll settle for the 1991 we got. This was the year we got married. We knew it would be a big deal, and it was. The next few years were a rush. It was a glorious time for pop culture, the decade of Nirvana and Lollapalooza and Clueless Clueless and and My So-Called Life My So-Called Life and and Sa.s.sy Sa.s.sy and and Pulp Fiction Pulp Fiction and Greg Maddux and Garth Brooks and Green Day and Drew and Dre and Snoop and and Greg Maddux and Garth Brooks and Green Day and Drew and Dre and Snoop and Wayne's World. Wayne's World. It was the decade Johnny Depp got his It was the decade Johnny Depp got his Winona Forever Winona Forever tattoo, the decade Beavis and b.u.t.thead got b.u.t.t-shaped tattoos on their b.u.t.ts. It was the decade of Kurt Cobain and Shania Twain and Taylor Dayne and Brandy Chastain. The boundaries of American culture were exploding, and music was leading the way. tattoo, the decade Beavis and b.u.t.thead got b.u.t.t-shaped tattoos on their b.u.t.ts. It was the decade of Kurt Cobain and Shania Twain and Taylor Dayne and Brandy Chastain. The boundaries of American culture were exploding, and music was leading the way.

There was a song Renee and I made up in the car, singing along with the radio.

Out on the road today, I saw a Sub Pop sticker on a Subaru. Out on the road today, I saw a Sub Pop sticker on a Subaru.A little voice inside my head said, yuppies smell teen spirit too.I thought I knew what love was, but I was blind.Those days are gone forever, whatever, never mind.

At the end of the working day, we rubbed each other's feet and sang Pavement songs to each other, and we knew every word was true, even the one that went, "Fruit covered nails/Electricity and l.u.s.t." I rubbed Lubriderm into her pantyhose burns. The Reagan-Bush nightmare was coming to an end, so close we could taste it. Nirvana was all over the radio. Corporate rock was dead. On 90210, 90210, Dylan and Kelly were making out on the beach to "d.a.m.n, I Wish I Was Your Lover." We were young and in love and the world was changing. Dylan and Kelly were making out on the beach to "d.a.m.n, I Wish I Was Your Lover." We were young and in love and the world was changing.

When we weren't being students or working lame jobs, we were rock critics, freelancing for the Village Voice Village Voice and and Spin Spin and and Option. Option. Our friends in other towns had fanzines, so we wrote for them, too. We were DJs on our local independent radio station, WTJU. Bands that would have been too weird, too feminist, too rough for the mainstream a year earlier suddenly Our friends in other towns had fanzines, so we wrote for them, too. We were DJs on our local independent radio station, WTJU. Bands that would have been too weird, too feminist, too rough for the mainstream a year earlier suddenly were were the mainstream, making their noise in public. Our subcultural secrets were out there, in the world, where they belonged. After work, Renee and I would cruise by Plan 9 Records and flip through the vinyl 45s. There was always something new we the mainstream, making their noise in public. Our subcultural secrets were out there, in the world, where they belonged. After work, Renee and I would cruise by Plan 9 Records and flip through the vinyl 45s. There was always something new we had had to hear. We wrote as fast as we could, but still there was more great music out there than we had time to write about. Sometimes we got checks in the mail for writing, so we bought more records. Renee would hunker down over her typewriter and play the same Bratmobile single for hours, flipping it over every two and a half minutes, singing along: "If you be my bride, we can kiss and ride / We can have real fun, we can f.u.c.k and run." Everything was changing, that was obvious. The world was so full of music, it seemed we could never run out. 'Twas bliss in that dawn to be alive, but to be young and overworked and underexposed and stuck in a nowhere town was very heaven. It was our time, the first one we had to ourselves. to hear. We wrote as fast as we could, but still there was more great music out there than we had time to write about. Sometimes we got checks in the mail for writing, so we bought more records. Renee would hunker down over her typewriter and play the same Bratmobile single for hours, flipping it over every two and a half minutes, singing along: "If you be my bride, we can kiss and ride / We can have real fun, we can f.u.c.k and run." Everything was changing, that was obvious. The world was so full of music, it seemed we could never run out. 'Twas bliss in that dawn to be alive, but to be young and overworked and underexposed and stuck in a nowhere town was very heaven. It was our time, the first one we had to ourselves.

It was a smashing time, and then it ended, because that's what times do.

Whitney Houston, "I'm Every Woman." Mmmmm. Whitney was so rad back then. What the h.e.l.l happened?

Renee left a big mess behind: tapes, records, shoes, sewing patterns, piles of fabric she was planning to turn into skirts and handbags. Fashion mags and rock fanzines she was in the middle of reading. Novels jammed with bookmarks. Drafts of stories all over her desk. Pictures she'd ripped from magazines and taped up on the walls-Nirvana, PJ Harvey, John Travolta, Drew Barrymore, Shalom Harlow, Mo Vaughn. A framed photo of the 1975 Red Sox. A big clay Mexican sun G.o.d she brought back from doing the L7 story in L.A. A stuffed pumpkin head from-well, no idea. Nutty things she sewed for herself, mod minidresses from fabric she found with little snow peas or Marilyn Monroe faces all over. She was in the middle of everything, living her big, messy, epic life, and none of us who loved her will ever catch up with her.

Renee loved to do do things. That was mysterious to me, since I was more comfortable talking about things and never doing them. She liked pa.s.sion. She liked adventure. I cowered from pa.s.sion and talked myself out of adventure. Before I met her, I was just another hermit wolfboy, scared of life, hiding in my room with my records and my fanzines. One of Renee's friends asked her, "Does your boyfriend wear gla.s.ses?" She said, "No, he wears a Walkman." I was a wallflower who planned to stay that way, who never imagined anybody else to be. Suddenly, I got all tangled up in this girl's noisy, juicy, sparkly life. Without her, I didn't want to do anything, except keep being good at Renee. You know the story about Colonel Tom Parker, after Elvis died? The Colonel said, "h.e.l.l, I'll keep right on managing him." That's how I felt. Every tree in the woods, every car that pa.s.sed me on the road, every song on the radio, all seemed to be Gloria Grahame at the end of things. That was mysterious to me, since I was more comfortable talking about things and never doing them. She liked pa.s.sion. She liked adventure. I cowered from pa.s.sion and talked myself out of adventure. Before I met her, I was just another hermit wolfboy, scared of life, hiding in my room with my records and my fanzines. One of Renee's friends asked her, "Does your boyfriend wear gla.s.ses?" She said, "No, he wears a Walkman." I was a wallflower who planned to stay that way, who never imagined anybody else to be. Suddenly, I got all tangled up in this girl's noisy, juicy, sparkly life. Without her, I didn't want to do anything, except keep being good at Renee. You know the story about Colonel Tom Parker, after Elvis died? The Colonel said, "h.e.l.l, I'll keep right on managing him." That's how I felt. Every tree in the woods, every car that pa.s.sed me on the road, every song on the radio, all seemed to be Gloria Grahame at the end of The Big Heat The Big Heat, asking the same question: "What was your wife like?" It was the only conversation I was interested in.

Our friend Suzle told me her sister didn't understand-she always thought Suzle had one friend named "Robin Renee." How did Robin Renee turn into Rob and Renee, two different people?

The whole world got cheated out of Renee. I got cheated less than anybody, since I got more of her than anybody. But still, I wanted more of her. I wanted to be her guy forever and ever. I always pictured us growing old together, like William Holden and Ernest Borgnine in The Wild Bunch The Wild Bunch, side by side in our sleeping bags, drinking coffee and planning the next payroll heist. We only got five years. On our fifth anniversary, we drove out to Afton Mountain and checked into a motel. We got righteously wasted and blasted David Bowie's "Five Years" over and over. It's a song about how the world is going to end in five years, which forces everybody to seize the freedom to do whatever they want, to act out their craziest desires and devour the moment and not even think about the future.

"Five years!" we screamed in unison. "That's aaaooowwwlll aaaooowwwlll we got!" we got!"

It was was all we got. That was a good night. There were a lot of good nights. We got more of those than we had any right to expect, five years' worth, but I wanted more, anyway. all we got. That was a good night. There were a lot of good nights. We got more of those than we had any right to expect, five years' worth, but I wanted more, anyway.

Another L7 song, "Packin' a Rod." It's a cover of an old L.A. hardcore punk anthem-Renee could have told you who did the original version, but I can't. And already we're at the end of side one. Eject. Flip it.

It's too late to sleep anyway. The coffee's gone cold, so I just heat up another pot. Tonight, I feel like my whole body is made out of memories. I'm a mix tape, a ca.s.sette that's been rewound so many times you can hear the fingerprints smudged on the tape.

Press play.

First song, side two: R.E.M.'s "Man on the Moon." Did Renee ever make a mix tape without R.E.M.? A whole generation of southern girls, raised on the promise of Michael Stipe.

I now get scared of forgetting anything about Renee, even the tiniest detail, even the bands on this tape I can't stand-if she touched them, I want to hear her fingerprints. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding, trying to remember: What was Renee's shoe size? What color were her eyes? What was her birthday, her grandparents' first names, that Willie Nelson song we heard on the radio in Atlanta? The memory comes back, hours or days later. It always comes back. But in the moment, I panic. I'm positive it's gone for good. I'm shaking from that sensation now, trying to remember some of this music. Nothing connects to the moment like music. I count on the music to bring me back-or, more precisely, to bring her forward.

There are some songs on this tape that n.o.body else on the planet remembers. I guarantee it. Like the Grenadine song "In a World Without Heroes." Grenadine wasn't even a real band-just a goofball side project. As far as we were concerned, though, this was easily the finest pseudo-Bowie limp-wristed fuzz-guitar indie-boy girl-worship ballad of 1992. We never convinced anyone else to agree. Not even our so-called friends would lie to us about this one.

n.o.body ever liked it except me and Renee, and now she's gone, which means n.o.body remembers it. Not even the guy who wrote it. I know that for a fact, because Mark Robinson played a solo show at Tokyo Rose a few years later. When he asked for requests, we screamed for "In a World Without Heroes." He just stared and shook his head. A few songs later, with a little more liquid courage in us, we screamed for it again. He stopped asking for requests. So it's official: n.o.body n.o.body likes this song. likes this song.

A song n.o.body likes is a sad thing. But a love song n.o.body likes is hardly a thing at all.

Mary Chapin Carpenter. A big country-radio hit at the time. Wasn't she the one who wore leg-warmers?

The country singers understand. It's always that one song that gets you. You can hide, but the song comes to find you. Country singers are always tw.a.n.ging about that number on the jukebox they can't stand to hear you play, the one with the memories. If you're George Jones, it's 4-0-3-3. If you're Olivia Newton-John, it's B-17. If you're Johnny Paycheck, you can't stop yourself from going back to the bar where they play that song over and over, where they have a whole jukebox full of those songs. Johnny Paycheck called it "The Meanest Jukebox in Town."

Gangsters understand, too. In the old gangster movies, you're always running away to a new town, somewhere they won't know your mug shot. You can bury the dirty deeds of your past. Except the song follows you. In Detour Detour, it's "I Can't Believe You're in Love with Me." The killer hears it on the truck-stop jukebox, and he realizes there's no escape from the girl. In Gilda Gilda, it's "Put the Blame on Mame." In Dark Pa.s.sage Dark Pa.s.sage, it's "Too Marvelous for Words." Barbara Stanwyck in Clash by Night, Clash by Night, she's so cool and tough and unflappable, until she goes to a bar and gets jumped by a song on the jukebox, "I Hear a Rhapsody." She starts to ramble about a husband who died, and a small town where she used to sell sheet music. She's not so tough now. You can't get away from the meanest jukebox in town. she's so cool and tough and unflappable, until she goes to a bar and gets jumped by a song on the jukebox, "I Hear a Rhapsody." She starts to ramble about a husband who died, and a small town where she used to sell sheet music. She's not so tough now. You can't get away from the meanest jukebox in town.

Pavement again. "Texas Never Whispers." One of our favorites. The tape creaks a little. I know it must be getting near the end.

I've been playing Rumblefish Rumblefish all night. By now, I know all the tunes. I'm writing down their t.i.tles, so I won't forget. I'm still staring out the window, but the sun won't rise for another couple of hours. The city lights are blinking through the trees of McCarren Park. The house across the street has a stuffed wooden owl whose head spins around every fifteen minutes, which is extremely annoying. The city is full of adventure, just a couple of subway stops away. But I'm not going anywhere. all night. By now, I know all the tunes. I'm writing down their t.i.tles, so I won't forget. I'm still staring out the window, but the sun won't rise for another couple of hours. The city lights are blinking through the trees of McCarren Park. The house across the street has a stuffed wooden owl whose head spins around every fifteen minutes, which is extremely annoying. The city is full of adventure, just a couple of subway stops away. But I'm not going anywhere.

We met on September 17, 1989. We got married on July 13,1991. We were married for five years and ten months. Renee died on May 11, 1997, very suddenly and unexpectedly, at home with me, of a pulmonary embolism. She was thirty-one. She's buried in Pulaski County, Virginia, on the side of a hill, next to the Wal-Mart.

As soon as Side Two cuts off, right in the middle of a terrible Belly song, I sit there and wait for the final ca-chunka ca-chunka. Then I flip the tape and press play again. The first song is Pavement's "Shoot the Singer," which I just heard an hour ago. I have some unfinished business with these tunes. I'm going to be up for a while. Renee's not done with me yet.

hey jude

APRIL 1979.

One night when I was twelve, my dad and I went out to Howard Johnson's for hot chocolate. The jukebox in the booth offered two songs for a quarter, so we each picked one. I punched up my latest fave, Toto's "Hold the Line." My dad picked something I'd never heard before called "Duke of Earl," and he got real excited as that "duke, duke, duke" started bleating out of the speakers. I rolled my eyes as he sang along, but I thought to myself, Well this my dad and I went out to Howard Johnson's for hot chocolate. The jukebox in the booth offered two songs for a quarter, so we each picked one. I punched up my latest fave, Toto's "Hold the Line." My dad picked something I'd never heard before called "Duke of Earl," and he got real excited as that "duke, duke, duke" started bleating out of the speakers. I rolled my eyes as he sang along, but I thought to myself, Well this is is kind of better than "Hold the Line." kind of better than "Hold the Line."

As my Dad and I sat around the house one Sat.u.r.day afternoon, playing Beatles records, we started batting around the idea that it was theoretically possible to loop a version of "Hey Jude" long enough to fill up an entire ca.s.sette. All we had to do was press pause and lift the needle every once in a while, and fiddle with the volume k.n.o.bs. A few hours later, we had a ninety-minute tape of "na na nas," along with many "yeah yeah yeahs" and a few "Judy Judy Judy wows." We listened to the playback, and I could not believe what we had accomplished. This was a new Beatles song that hadn't existed before. It was Something New, as the Beatles would say. The difference between Yesterday . . . and Today. My dad and I had built model airplanes together, gone to Red Sox games. But listening to this tape, I knew it was our greatest hit. Paul McCartney couldn't have been more proud after writing the actual song.

I listen to Hey Jude Hey Jude now, and I think two things: I never want to hear this song again, and in 1979, my dad was around the age I am now, and given a Sat.u.r.day afternoon he could have spent any way he pleased, he chose to spend it with his twelve-year-old son, making this ridiculous little tape. He probably forgot about it the next day. But I didn't. now, and I think two things: I never want to hear this song again, and in 1979, my dad was around the age I am now, and given a Sat.u.r.day afternoon he could have spent any way he pleased, he chose to spend it with his twelve-year-old son, making this ridiculous little tape. He probably forgot about it the next day. But I didn't.

There are all kinds of mix tapes. There is always a reason to make one.

The Party Tape Par-tay! You know what that means-hours to create the perfect party tape, plus ten minutes to clean the house and pour all the two-thirds-empty liquor bottles into a bowl of Crystal Light and call it Orange Lotus Surprise Blossom. Then, after the party's over, you hold on to the tape. You never know when you might get a call, saying, "Dude, party tonight! Bring a tape!" You always make sure to keep a dance tape or two handy in your room, JUST IN CASE, because YOU NEVER KNOW, the same way Cosmo girls keep a spare bottle of bubbly in the fridge. A few friends are over having drinks, a song comes on, a couple girls start to dance, and you don't want it to fizzle out, do you? One summer in Charlottesville, I had these upstairs neighbors, Wally and Drew, whose mix tapes were neurobiologically engineered to get their girlfriends to make out with each other. I saw it happen. The tape goes in, Jeff Buckley moans one of his ten-minute thingies, then his falsetto fades into the guitar intro of Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On," and bam-their girlfriends are lap-dancing each other like brazen little colts. Those guys knew how to make a party tape.

I Want You Always a great reason to make a tape.

We're Doing It? Awesome!

An even better reason to make a tape. This is when you start trading tapes of songs like Shalamar's "Dancing in the Sheets" or the Staple Singers' "Let's Do It Again" or My b.l.o.o.d.y Valentine's "Soft as Snow (But Warm Inside)." Sad, really. I have reason to believe I was once dumped for giving a girl a tape with one of my favorite mushy '80s R&B ballads, Gregory Abbott's "Shake You Down." Never tried that again. These tapes are one of the primary perks of being in a relationship, along with the free haircuts. Some couples stop making each other tapes-I have no idea what happens to them.

You Like Music, I Like Music, I Can Tell We're Going to Be Friends You just met somebody. You're talking about the songs you like. Oh, yeah, that band! Ever hear this band? You would love love this song. I'll make you a tape! Frequently confused with the "I Want You" tape by the giving or receiving party, resulting in hijinks and hilarity all around. this song. I'll make you a tape! Frequently confused with the "I Want You" tape by the giving or receiving party, resulting in hijinks and hilarity all around.

You Broke My Heart and Made Me Cry and Here Are Twenty or Thirty Songs About It The best ever was the "Is She Really Going Out With Him?" mix, which my friend Heather's boyfriend Charles made while they were going through what is spinelessly referred to as a "transitional period." It began with the Violent Femmes' "Please Please Please Do Not Go," and then it got desperate-lovelorn boys begging for more punishment: Elvis Costello's "Why Don't You Love Me (Like You Used To Do)?", The English Beat's "Hands Off She's Mine," Don Henley's "Boys of Summer." It worked, though-it got them back together. Heather kept playing it for all her friends, right in front of Charles; she was proud she could put him through that kind of misery, and I guess he was proud, too. Twenty years later, they're living in Utah, married, with four kids who owe their lives lives to this tape. Scary. to this tape. Scary.

The Road Trip My friend Jane came to visit me in Boston the year after college, when she was living in Southern California. She wanted me to drive her around town all night, so she made a tape for the occasion. Every song got permanently fried into my brain. We hit the Southeast Expressway to Van Morrison's "Friday's Child." We cruised Castle Island to Peter Green's "Man of the World." We sang along to the Rolling Stones' "Ventilator Blues," Muddy Waters's "Stuff You Gotta Watch," the Jam's "Life Through a Window," and so many others. We drove all night, spinning that tape through Dorchester and Southie and Watertown and JP. When the sun was coming up, we tossed the tape out the window. I haven't seen Jane in years, but now I hang out at a bar in Brooklyn called Daddy's, where they have "Friday's Child" on the jukebox. Every time I'm there playing the Elvis pinball machine, I hit "Friday's Child," number 9317, and send it out to a faraway friend, wherever she is.

No Hard Feelings, Babe Renee always swore her best friend in high school would break up with girls by taping "Free Bird" for them. A guy I knew in college dumped his ladies by taping Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" for them. In college I once thought I was breaking up with a girl by giving her a tape that began with Roxy Music's "The Thrill of It All." It took a few days for me to realize that she had no idea we were broken up, which I guess means it didn't work. Why do people do this? a.s.shologists, please advise.

I Hate This f.u.c.king Job You know how sometimes you're reading the paper with a boysenberry m.u.f.fin and an iced soy cran-mocha colada and you notice the kids behind the counter screaming along with Fear's "Fresh Flesh" or Drunks with Guns' "Blood Bath"? Just their special way of reminding you that they hate this f.u.c.king job they hate this f.u.c.king job.

The Radio Tape Back when people listened to the radio, you kept a tape handy in your boombox at all times so you could capture the hot new hits of the week. The intro would always get cut off, and the DJ would chatter over the end. You also ended up with static, commercials, and jingles, but all that noise just added to the field-recording verisimilitude. The radio tape puts you right back in the original time and place when you first heard the songs. You are there there, my friend. A girl I knew once had a radio tape with "Rock Me Amadeus" five or six times on each side; she just pressed record every time she heard it.

The Walking Tape Some people like to make workout tapes and take them to the gym, but I can't fathom why. Any music I hear in a gym is ruined forever. I do like to take a lot of walks, though, which require long, mumble-trance guitar songs. Any time I hear the Byrds or Buffalo Springfield, I remember one spring day in Charlottesville when I accidentally climbed Dudley Mountain on the outskirts of town-I didn't know it was a mountain until I was on top of it, and the only way off was to walk back down. I had only one tape in my Walkman, so I listened to it continuously, end to end, for about ten hours. The opening strum of the Byrds' "What's Happening" still makes my legs ache.

There are lots more where these came from. The drug tape. The commute tape. The dishes tape. The shower tape. The collection of good songs from bad alb.u.ms you don't ever want to play again. The greatest hits of your significant other's record pile, the night before you break up. There are millions of songs in the world, and millions of ways to connect them into mixes. Making the connections is part of the fun of being a fan. where these came from. The drug tape. The commute tape. The dishes tape. The shower tape. The collection of good songs from bad alb.u.ms you don't ever want to play again. The greatest hits of your significant other's record pile, the night before you break up. There are millions of songs in the world, and millions of ways to connect them into mixes. Making the connections is part of the fun of being a fan.

I believe that when you're making a mix, you're making history. You ransack the vaults, you haul off all the junk you can carry, and you rewire all your ill-gotten loot into something new. You go through an artist's entire career, zero in on that one moment that makes you want to jump and dance and smoke bats and bite the heads off drugs. And then you play that one moment over and over.

A mix tape steals these moments from all over the musical cosmos, and splices them into a whole new groove.

Walter Benjamin, in his prescient 1923 essay "One Way Street," said a book was an outdated means of communication between two boxes of index cards. One professor goes through books, looking for tasty bits he can copy onto index cards. Then he types his index cards up into a book, so other professors can go through it and copy tasty bits onto their own index cards. Benjamin's joke was: Why not just sell the index cards? I guess that's why we trade mix tapes. We music fans love our cla.s.sic alb.u.ms, our seamless masterpieces, our Blonde on Blonde Blonde on Blondes and our Talking Book Talking Books. But we love to pluck songs off those alb.u.ms and mix them up with other songs, plunging them back into the rest of the manic slipstream of rock and roll. I'd rather hear the Beatles' "Getting Better" on a mix tape than on Sgt. Pepper Sgt. Pepper any day. I'd rather hear a Frank Sinatra song between Run-DMC and Bananarama than between two other Frank Sinatra songs. When you stick a song on a tape, you set it free. any day. I'd rather hear a Frank Sinatra song between Run-DMC and Bananarama than between two other Frank Sinatra songs. When you stick a song on a tape, you set it free.

Most mix tapes are CDs now, yet people still call them mix tapes. The technology changes, but the spirit is the same. I can load up my iPod with weeks' worth of music and set it on shuffle to play a different mix every time. I can borrow somebody else's iPod and pack it with songs I think they'd like. I can talk to a friend on the phone, mention a couple of songs, download them on LimeWire while we're talking, and listen together. The hip-hop world now thrives on mix tapes, with artists circulating their rhymes on the street via bootleg CDs. They're never technically tapes, but they're always called mix tapes anyway, just because tapes are always cool.

It's a fundamental human need to pa.s.s music around, and however the technology evolves, the music keeps moving. Renee's dad, Buddy, has a file on his hard drive that his cousin Jerry e-mailed to him. It's reel-to-reel tapes from his parents' house back in West Virginia, from the 1950s, with Papaw playing guitar and the kids harmonizing. Back then they would sit around and sing all night. Buddy and his brothers sang The Sons of the Pioneers' "Cool Water." Mamaw would always sing her favorite, Hank Snow's "Wedding Bells." Papaw would serenade Mamaw with some of the old Merle Travis songs, like "Fat Gal" and "I Like My Chicken Fryin' Size." Renee told me about these nights when she was a little girl, the long summer nights when she would lie on the floor in her grandparents' house and listen to her aunt and uncles sing these ancient songs. She never got to hear any of these home recordings, though, because by the 1970s n.o.body had reel-to-reel players anymore, so they were sitting around unheard. After she died, Cousin Jerry found the old tapes, digitized them, and e-mailed them around. Buddy can now sit at his computer and go back to a shack in West Virginia, listening to his father sing "So Round, So Firm, So Fully Packed" to his mother.

I listen to music practically every waking hour. I'm a writer for Rolling Stone Rolling Stone, which means my typical workday is going to hear bands play and listening to records. I have lived the absurd life of a rock journalist. I have seen Aerosmith call room service to order incense, and I've seen them deal with a ringing hotel-room phone by ripping it out of the wall. I have listened to Britney Spears freak out in the back of a limo on her cell phone. I was in an elevator with Madonna once. I have eaten french fries on the tour bus with Linkin Park, shared hangover cures with Ryan Adams, debated Dylan lyrics with Richard Gere, sung karaoke with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I have smoked pot at the SoHo Grand Hotel with Ma.s.sive Attack (I won't be doing that again-d.a.m.n, those guys had some strong pot). On MTV, Carson Daly introduced me as "the man who knows music the way the Naked Chef knows beef stroganoff," and although I remain unsure of what he meant by that, I feel strongly that it was a compliment. I've watched myself on VH1, talking about filthy Frankie Goes to Hollywood lyrics, in front of my mom-that sucked. Billy Corgan and Scott Weiland have denounced me. Garbage's Shirley Manson criticized my haircut. She was right, too-that haircut was c.r.a.p. Did I mention I was in an elevator with Madonna once?

I have built my entire life around loving music, and I surround myself with it. I'm always racing to catch up on my next favorite song. But I never stop playing my mixes. Every fan makes them. The times you lived through, the people you shared those times with-nothing brings it all to life like an old mix tape. It does a better job of storing up memories than actual brain tissue can do. Every mix tape tells a story. Put them together, and they add up to the story of a life.

roller boogie