The enduring power of the perfect mix

Cut to the Feeling is a monthly column by Anne T. Donahue about the art and pop culture that sparks joy, grief, nostalgia, and everything in between.

Back in the late 2000s, my best friend met her now-husband after he gave her a mixed CD inspired by her on-campus radio show. It was, to me, the highest romantic gesture ever exhibited by a man. Not since Leo gave up the wardrobe door had I ever been so awed.

A mix was an extension of oneself; a glimpse into another person's soul. It was an opportunity to showcase exemplary musical taste while proving one's capacity for vulnerability. It was brave. It was bold. It was romantic. So I gave it a try.

Unfortunately, when I made a mixed CD for the guy I had a crush on that summer, it did not go according to plan. It turns out no amount of Bon Iver sandwiched between MGMT could win his heart. But I still believed in the power of the mix. I may have gotten it wrong in my sad attempt to woo a man via CD burner, but as a child of the 90s, I long understood the power of letting somebody else choose the tunes.

I grew up in an era in which buffets ruled all, especially music. Sometime in middle school, my parents and I went to an all-you-can eat brunch buffet and my dad mistook maple syrup for gravy and poured it on his mashed potatoes; the same year, I bought the Twister soundtrack and grooved along to k.d. lang and Goo Goo Dolls over a stretch of around 45 minutes. Both events made equal amounts of sense to me.

Without the context of available information (read: the internet) or a radio DJ (who insisted on interrupting the start and endings of songs with their godforsaken voices), compilation albums were one of the most accessible ways to learn about music. Each year's Grammy mix gave a front-row seat to the biggest mainstream tracks of the day, while series like Big Shiny Tunes, MuchDance, and Women and Songs operated under broad umbrellas that largely categorized artists into "rock," "pop," or "Lilith Fair." I knew what music I liked based on the CDs my friends would bring to school, or what my next-door neighbour and I would plan choreographed dances to.

I didn't have to commit to an artist or genre, because mixes allowed me to wade in and figure out what I liked. By the time Now 3 came out in 1998, I had grown to love artists like Brandy and Monica, Jewel, and Matchbox 20 equally.

It didn't hurt that evenings in front of the television all but guaranteed commercials for Cool Rock or Pure Moods, albums that consisted of music that not only promised hits, but absolute vibes — and ones you could only acquire with the phone, a credit card, and a commitment to CDs over cassettes. I memorized the clips of songs that accompanied the artists and titles that scrolled across my TV screen and assumed that this is what life was all about: playing music you'd heard at the dentist's office or blaring from your weird neighbour's garage, basing your cool factor or mood on the mix you chose to listen to. All for just $21.99. (Yes, we all used to buy music.)

My years of pouring babysitting money into volumes of Groove Station or Pure Energy not only appeased my inability to listen to the same thing for any extended period of time but also captured the nature of what it meant to be young. These ready-made mixes were chaotic. They made absolutely zero sense. Mixed albums evoked the type of chaos usually reserved for letting a drunk friend control the playlist at a wedding. It was extraordinary.

After all, the art of making a mix is not easily perfected. There must be congruence, but not so much that the tracklisting seems formulaic or boring. The order in which songs are placed should tell a story, but not one so obvious that the listener becomes aware of the time you've taken to assemble said soundtrack. Choices must be a mix of old and new, unheard of and mainstream; it's a display of one's style and tastes, and though earnest in nature, it must still seem "effortless."

The opposite is true of ready-made mixes: there is no order, no message, no attempt at nuance. Songs are included with the simple caveat that they are cool enough to incite demand, and enough demand leads to a mass-produced amalgamation of sound that can and will incite mental and emotional pandemonium.

It's the mall compared to an independently owned vintage shop. Its purpose is to appeal to everybody, and even if it's slightly soulless, it still does.

As a mall devotee, I can value this chaos, especially since it's been reincarnated through apps like TikTok where millions of sounds play back-to-back à la the spirit of Big Shiny Tunes or the Grammy Nominees. While Spotify and Apple use algorithms to tailor-make playlists that mirror your most-played anthems, social media scrolling has forsaken order and intention by prioritizing another person's taste over your own. Never has the feel of a 90s-era FM radio station been so evoked as it is when jumping down the TikTok rabbit hole. It's like MuchDance never left.

But regardless of what type of mix you're listening to, its treasure is in the moods they bring. To feast at the buffet of different artists and genres in one place is the fastest shortcut to a headspace you can take solace in, whether it's one rich in artistry and storytelling or one that evokes the car radio's offering of adult contemporary mish-mash.

Maybe that's why I still have the commercial for Cool Rock memorized, over 30 years later. In another world, I am an adult who embodies both those words, instead of one who still overthinks that damned mixed CD I made back in 2009.