Cassettes: The New Black?

I suppose this was inevitable. Or was it? Is it me or is the cassette having the best summer ever? That's right. The cassette. Guys want to be him. Girls want to be with him. So. hot. right. now. Don't call it a comeback. He's been here for years. After all, he is big. It's just the music that got small. Sham-wow. I mean, what do we even know about the cassette? Apparently, it began with a single intrepid German (as does seemingly everything on this blog - We're beginning to wonder where we might be without this nation and its industrious, innovative people) Literally translated from the French for "little box", cassette tapes were first mass-produced in Europe in 1964, and whether you're currently a musician or a music fan, you were likely raised in a time of cassette hegemony (or at the very least, consumer co-equaldom). But is it possible, is it really possible, that anyone truly misses the tape?

It began with a little more than a whimper. First, Dirty Projectors release Bitte Orca on tape. Now, every lo-fi, tech-pop and indie rock outfit of (limited) consequence has a cassette release pending. How did it come to this? Is it possible that the tape, that cumbersome relic, that seeming fossil of your once and former youth, is the new vinyl? Is the tape quickly becoming a shibboleth for anti-commercialism in an independent music world increasingly beset by technological advancement and nascent stardom? Will there come a day in the not too distant future when irony-minded twenty-somethings will eschew their iPods for Walkmans (can someone from Sony please tell me the appropriate pluralization for this word)?

As children of the 80s and early 90s, we undoubtedly maintain a certain redolence for the cassette. It was there when you actually thought you liked the Spin Doctors. When you realized that Wilson Phillips were the only people, other than maybe Jesus Jones, who really understood you. It stood by you during that unfortunate Nelson/Firehouse dalliance. It was there when it was socially acceptable to listen to U2. And, of course, it was there when Kurt Cobain died. For so many of us, the tape was an essential and inextricable part of many of our earliest music experiences (that is until we discovered Columbia House's CD subscription service and they began mailing us copies of Red Hot Chili Peppers' What Hits!?! for the low, low price of $17.98 because we claimed an interest in "alternative musics". This still seems strangely unforgivable. Seriously. Worst CD of all-time. Hands down. It's like an album made by people who hate music for people who want to hate music more. They probably don't even have copies of this thing in prison). But was this principal technology of our largely misspent youths really that awesome? No, but maybe that's the point. With all this sleek, new, shiny technology, what could be crazier than releasing your music on tape? You can't do anything with a tape. Other than maybe make another tape. And then maybe make some more tapes.

Needless to say, the CD lobby did not see this coming. Just when they thought it was safe to go outside, it's suddenly 1985 all over again (well, perhaps some sort of alternate 1985 with more internet, less communism, no 227, and fewer choices for the discriminating, sartorially-inclined stonewashed fabric devotee). Just imagine how these once happy few must feel. Talk about a losing streak. First, Creed disbands. Then, the widespread proliferation of increasingly empowering, egalitarian technologies all but guarantees the inevitable demise of your extant industrial model. Sure, that was a bit of a setback, but a few timely lawsuits directed at senior citizens, small children and baby seals, not to mention the unflagging support of those fabled lovers of legality, Metallica and Dr. Dre (They are down with the kids! They speak their language. Maybe they can reason with them) would surely convince the public of the dangers of multimedia content, free music and their internet connection, not to mention their true love of overpriced CDs.

But the cassette? No one expects the cassette. It's kinda like that time in the seventh grade. You know the time. No, not that time. That other time. C'mon. How could you possibly forget that time. You know what time we're talking about. You liked that girl and you thought she liked you more than she liked that other guy (Wait. This does sound familiar. Who wouldn't like you? You're great. She's great. You have so much in common. You're practically the same person. You're both in the seventh grade. Her locker is pretty close to your locker. You're both "struggling" in Health. Your signature fabric is stonewashed denim. You're pretty sure she owns something denim that may or may not have been stonewashed. She confessed to you during the recent class trip to the iMax theater that she finds it hard to respect a man who wears a fannypack (oh what bracing honesty!) and you say you "feel the same way" and "don't know why you continue to wear this thing to most school-sponsored functions" (although you secretly think that you may never be able to fully love a woman who is unable to appreciate the obvious merits of a tote that is neither a valise nor a satchel but gives a man the freedom to wander this world unencumbered yet adequately supplied)).

Next thing you know it's the Holiday Informal and you think, "This is my moment. Perhaps I'll ask her to dance during 'Stairway to Heaven'. After all, it's a really long song. Perhaps we'll talk about Health class." You put on a tie and your best stonewashed jeans, and your mom drives you to school. You arrive at the dance only to find most of your friends loitering in the men's bathroom. Somewhat troubled by this most unusual social practice, you spend the next forty-five minutes trying to find a suitable hiding place for your fannypack. After safely stowing it behind a trashcan in what appears to be a well-lit, low-traffic area, you head for the dancefloor. And then you see her.

Boyz II Men blares forth from the speakers as you begin to obliquely move in her general direction. While "Stairway to Heaven" would have been nice (after all, it is a very long song - plenty of time to talk about Health class), you feel that this number is somehow more perfect as it will finally give you that rare opportunity to say without saying all the things you've always wanted to say. Iridescent lights oscillate wildly. Smooth East-coast harmonies intone promises of timeless fidelity. How could one man's voice be so deep? Could this moment be more perfect? Your thoughts turn to the inevitable: eighth grade, being seen in relative proximity to one another in public spaces, the open sharing of undesired lunch items, the long talks about Health class, and maybe even a life together. Then you realize that she's dancing with her ex-boyfriend who you thought moved to Kansas. Oh the horror. The horror. Mistah Kurtz. He dead.

Yep. It's just like that. At least if you're the CD lobby living (and marketing) in a world increasingly hostile to the CD. Have we arrived at the peculiar, wholly unanticipated juncture when both the internet and home taping will begin killing the music industry? Have we stumbled upon some sort of high tech/no tech apocalypse scenario for an industry already reeling from the combined toll of peer-to-peer networks and declining consumer preference for the physical record and the album format? Well, probably not. But for whatever reason the tape is back, and in a less than big, but seemingly consequential way. While we can't say we're exactly excited about it, this recent analog renaissance will make us feel a little less bad when we inevitably spend next weekend listening to the Billy Joel tapes we stole from our parents. After all, we're just doing it because everybody else is.