Then I'd sit in front of my computer, slide in a blank disc, and listen to the low whirr of the machine as it did its mysterious work, being careful not to so much as nudge it, for fear of something going horribly wrong. I burned them for everyone I had a crush on in middle school, painstakingly adding and removing and re-adding songs to the tracklists, changing up the order (and changing it, and changing it, and changing it again) until I was satisfied that it said "I like you" just the way I wanted it to. This is the decade that mix CDs died-and with them, a little part of us died, too.Īs I got older, the thrill of receiving a mix CD was supplanted by the thrill of making one. Most of the ones we still have are too scratched up to play even if they aren't, it's rare to own the outdated technology it would take to listen to them. It sounds ridiculous now, but the moment I finally got one-the moment she came into my bedroom and handed me a shiny silver disc with the words "DREW'S MIX" scrawled on its face in black Sharpie-was one of the most thrilling moments of my life.Įighteen years later, mix CDs have been innovated out of existence, reduced to something we might wax nostalgic about at a party, but would never seriously consider making. In my mind, a mix CD was something almost otherworldly, something teenaged and edgy and just impossibly cool. ![]() It was a term I had heard her and my older brother throw around casually but that, to me, was imbued with a kind of magic. I just cared about the thing itself, the mix. ![]() I didn't care about the music I don't think I even knew 18 songs at that age.
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