In third grade, I made a mix CD of epic proportions. It was simply titled “Lyndsie”s Awesome Mix No. 7.” It began with Avril Lavigne”s rendition of the Spongebob theme song, concluded with The Killers” “Somebody Told Me,” while also containing “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” by Big and Rich.
This was my 8-year-old life”s soundtrack – the consistent playlist of my bus rides to school. I would hunch against the rattling bus window, foam-lined headphones on, my butterfly-clad portable CD player in my lap, and pretend I was in a music video.
So many of my fondest memories stem from my irrational endearment of burned CDs. It all began with the Walkman my grandma got me for my seventh birthday, and when my older sister presented me with “Lyndsie”s Awesome Mix No. 1.” As the slots in my super cool CD holder filled, so did my growing admiration for the act of mix-making.
At age 12, a boy made me a mix he so carefully dubbed the “Max”s Music is Better than Lyndsie”s” mix. It was full of Led Zeppelin, The Beach Boys and ZZ Top – and I was elated. What had gone through his mind as he made it? Was this a plea for my affection? Because if he wanted it, he had it. I mean it was a MIX CD. FOR ME. I played it until every song skipped.
Despite the impending death of music on disc and the fact that I”ve now owned three iPods and two iPhones, I”ve continued making mixes. When my boyfriend had his wisdom teeth pulled last winter, I couldn”t help but honor the occasion with “The Wisdom Teeth Mix.” My friends know what to expect for their birthdays nearly every year, and they don”t complain.
Yes, I have copious amounts of Spotify playlists saved to my phone, and they may make up the basis of my everyday listening, but there”s something in the way a mix feels when you take the time to make it just right. To carefully pen the words “Desiree”s 18th Birthday Jamz” or “Bring in the spring: songs for driving to tennis practice 2012″ onto a disc is something permanent and special. It isn”t just audio clips compiled from a massive database and carelessly titled in your cell phone only to be retitled later. A mix is made to commemorate a time and place in our lives. I still love the concept with the romantic nostalgia of my dad reminiscing his 8-track collection.
No, I am not the leader of a CD-exclusive hipster cult, and I value the convenience of Spotify”s “Browse” section. But I can”t help but sentimentalize the act of choosing a disc from the visor CD holder, breathing steamy air and gently rubbing on the back of it to clear away the scratches, popping it into the stereo, and being transported back to the day you chose the songs – back to who you were when you clicked “Burn to disc.”
“Lyndsie”s Awesome Mix No. 7″ is still a classic in my eyes. From Bowling For Soup to Blondie, it was a well-rounded art piece. I don”t know where it is today – probably packed away somewhere between the From Justin to Kelly soundtrack and some pre-pubescent Jesse McCartney. But if it were in my hands today, third grade Sharpie handwriting and all, it would still mean as much to me today as it did when I was 8 years old, riding the bus. That”s the magic of the mix CD.
Lyndsie Kiebert can be reached at [email protected]