Steady Clappin'

I’m (maybe unfortunately) nostalgic about a lot of things. The end of summer is prime for feeling that way. There’s that blanket sunset light that makes everything orange and dream-like. There’s the heat that you savor because you know it’s about to go away. It’s the last day before school. It’s the last day of vacation. It’s Sunday night. It’s bitter sweet. Sure, it’s August now, but before you know it, leaves are gonna be strewn across the ground like training bras at a Justin Bieber concert.

Nostalgia is the reason we take pictures and write in journals. It’s why we can gather around a table and talk for hours into the night. If it’s anything, it’s a love for life lived.

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It’s finally gotten to that time of year where you’re always self-conscious about having sweat show through your shirt on your lower back; or in the case of the lady I saw at the busstop the other day, worried that you’re going to soak through your stretched-to-the-limit hot pants. It’s hot and miserable to have any serious amount of clothing on, yet completely wonderful because of it. So kick back, put on this mix, and take your shirt off. The neighbors won’t mind. Except for maybe that one lady. She’s a real trick.

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I originally went an entirely different direction for this mixtape, carefully weighing lyrics against tone and tempo, and then I thought to myself: this is hard. So I stopped and made this one. I made you a silver medal!

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If there’s one thing I’ve learned while reading magazines while on the toilet, it’s that you should never trust Popular Science. According to them and their sensationalist imagery, we should all be getting to work with jetpacks and turning all kinds of knobs to have our food sent to us via pneumatic tube by now. I don’t know about you, but that sounds awesome and I’m slightly disappointed. Shame on you, science.

Anyways, something I’ve always loved about those pictures was that no matter how far in the future it was supposed to depict, it always looked like it was still 1957. That’s what the theme of this mix is. It all has that retro vibe to it except all the music was made in the last few years. It’s what Judy Jetson would listen to.

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Trust me. Despite the alleged threats by the lady Linda, this is one green knight of a mix. Because of it, les enfants in the village of Odessa dance in the face of their conquerors. They’ll shout, “Look and dance and be our disco friends. Forget all that which happened on melancholy hill and embrace this unforgettable season.”

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Eight is a wonderful number. It is satisfying to write—just one fluid motion of the pen. It’s the symbol for infinity (albeit tilted 90 degrees). It also looks like one of those little snowmen from Calvin & Hobbes. Anything that brings together Bill Watterson and infinity gets a stamp of approval from the Destin Book of That’s What I’m Talking About. Unfortunately for Eight, I didn’t come up with a theme. Fortunately for you, dear reader, it doesn’t really need one. It just sounds good and goes down smooth. Kind of like my pillow talk. Except without the mumbling and mouth breathing.

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There are sexy songs, and then there are sex-y songs. There is a difference. This mixtape is of the latter. I thought about calling it Boner Jams 2010, but figured my mom wouldn’t like that too much. It was certainly the hardest (oh snap!) mix I’ve done so far—trying to capture that exact mood. There’s a million different layers of intimacy involved in making whoopey. Usher doesn’t cover them all. This mixtape isn’t supposed to get you in the mood (though it might make you hump your chair) as much as it’s supposed to be your soundtrack for the main event. This isn’t baby making music. This is unplanned-baby making music. Kitchen table music.

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When I make a mixtape with all of my fancy audio editing equipment, I usually come up with some sort of theme, then sort through my iTunes library, picking and choosing songs that would be appropriate. This time, I simply made a playlist and discovered the theme afterwards. And apparently it’s about robots falling in love. Maybe I was influenced by Spike Jonze. Maybe I just like to get weird with a USB cord every now and then. Whatever the case, listening to this mixtape makes me want to go make some hasty decisions with a sexy android.

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Don’t let the fact that I haven’t made a mixtape for over a month fool you. My skills at the computer haven’t dwindled or been worsened with idleness. I’ve just been busy. Thanks to this hiatus, all of my Transformer toys are now arranged into neat little tupperware containers with labels indicating whether they are bad guys, good guys, or poorly written racist stereotypes.

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Each of the songs included on this tape could be played during the ending credits to a thoughtful movie involving space. Realizing that we don’t have control of everything, but that it’s ok—maybe even good that we don’t. I suppose that’s the theme. Each song (and mixtape as a whole) tends to build slowly to a climax. Just like your mom. Oh snap! Hey everybody! We landed on the moon!

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