Culture

The Curse Of Instant Everything

Have we managed to kill the pleasure of anticipation?

Photo by henry perks on Unsplash

I have a milk crate full of cassette tapes. There’s stuff in there I can guarantee you’ve never heard of, like Danielle Dax’s Dark Adapted Eye which features a song called Inky Bloaters. Or something called Bonk by a band apparently named Big Pig. There’s some Hoodoo Gurus, some Guadalcanal Diary. Lots and lots of R.E.M. I don’t remember being a big Rush fan, but the evidence is undeniable.

Dear God, here’s a single of I Touch Myself. Why did I pay money for that? Ugh, Milli Vanilli. Talk about simpler times.

There’s just an embarrassing amount of Sting.

I still have the mix tape that my first boyfriend made for me. He was a part-time disc jockey working a factory job like me. He introduced me to the Ramones, Julian Cope, Squeeze, Stevie Ray Vaughan, the Grateful Dead.

He was also an alcoholic, but I only found that out after he drove his car into a semi.

My first boyfriend’s actual mix tape.

He doesn’t remember who I am, and I can’t play the tape. But I still hang on to it as a form of masochism, I suppose…