My Life as a Playlist

It was my friend Rebekah's birthday the other day and I did what I try to do for any special occasion -- I began to compose a playlist for her in iTunes.

Russell and I like to make up games and just a few months ago, we made up a new one. It's called "My name is --- and I ---" What this means is that you identify who you are and then name something by which you identify that person. For instance, I usually do Russell, so I'll say something like, "My name is Russell and I only drink rice milk." You say funny things or odd things -- the object is to try to make the other person laugh with recognition, as in, "Am I really like that?" The answer is mostly yes, I really am that odd and other people notice it. Then you get to think about it in private later, and maybe, if you're prone to obsess, lay awake pondering the series of events that made you such an oddball who still manages to function somewhat normally in society.

We only get on a roll once in a great while, but the last time we were, one of Russ's was, "My name is Sarah and I spend hours and hours making playlists for my iPod." I laughed, not only because it was true, but because it was the first time it occured to me that perhaps not everyone else I know sits around at 11:30 at night, composing a playlist for her car ride or walk to the local post office the next day.

I once whimsically dubbed myself "Sar-Mix-A-Lot," a name I still associate with my unreal perception that I could in some parallel, upside-down universe, be a good DJ. Unfortunately, in my current life, I'm scared of standing in any loud room for too long because hearing loss runs in my family. I spent my childhood yelling at my mom, who wears a hearing aide, and then, being told to speak more quietly in all public arenas. Already, sometimes I worry that my hearing is slipping -- today, while walking downtown, a woman asked me how many blocks south "muffle-muffle-muffle" was. I had no idea what she said, but instead of being normal and asking her to repeat it, my fear manifested itself in the form of a lie: "Two blocks down," I said.

But there's nothing imaginary about my playlist habit. All one has to do is glance at the extremely long list of them in my iTunes and they'll see that I'm always creating, rearranging, and once in a while, destroying out of complete frustration, sets of songs. Like most creative work, they're a case study in evolution. I'll design one for a car ride and upon listening to it, figure out that the transition between Belle and Sebastian's "I'm a Cuckoo" and Bruce Springsteen's "Rosalita" doesn't quite work. Likewise, it's such a rush when I discover that the transition between Solomon Burke's "Don't Give Up On Me" and Shelby Lynne's "Jesus on a Greyhound" rolls from one to the other with the greatest of ease. If Russ happens to be with me, I'll say, "Damn! Did you hear that?!" and sometimes, based on the sheer power of good pairings, I find myself a little misty-eyed.

Perhaps some reading this might think that it's just a manifestation of my love of Nick Hornby and Rob Fleming, that I'm one of those people who once read a book/saw a movie and decided that it was going to be my new personality. But seriously, I was making Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith mix tapes before he ever flirted with the idea of writing a book about his obsessive love of the Arsenals. Besides, Nick doesn't own the market on obsessive. A good part of my junior high was spent shut away in my room and if I wasn't contemplating the universe in my journal - not a journaly-journal, but a spiral bound $2 notebook - then, I was busy arranging and recording new mix tapes of my favorite artists. I had mix tapes for every occasion -- for doing homework, for stretching, even for when me and my sister played "business office" in the basement. Because Lord knows, every business office has a soundtrack composed of Christian Top 40 from the late 1980's.

When I was a senior in high school, I rode down to a college in Kentucky that I was contemplating attending - I didn't sign up because they had an 11:00 curfew - and my English teacher at the time had this awesome Indigo Girls mix, with a little Edie Brickell thrown in for good measure. And two things dawned on me: 1.) I loved this Indigo Girls band and had to buy one of their CDs when I got back home and 2.) My high school English teacher, who I thought was sleek and cool, made mixes, too. It meant that I was sort of cool, by association. I began to share my mixes, first with Rebekah, who loves music as much as I do, and then, later on, with other friends.

That was the year that Rebekah and I learned every single Indigo Girls song on "12:00 Curfews" and the harmonies. It was also the year that I rode around with my bare feet hanging out the window until a policemen called out, "Nice toes" at a stop sign.

With the advent of iTunes, my mixing life has been made even easier, one of the many reasons that I'm insanely devoted to my Mac. But ease of creation doesn't necessarily equal successful mixes. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not always successful. Christina has been my hardest friend to mix for at this point, mostly because we have a very different musical aesthetic, though there are a few bands for whom we share a mutual love. Best summed up, I'm a little bit country and she's a little bit rock-n-roll. And I don't care for Throwing Muses. I stream Morning Becomes Eclectic, she streams Woxy. But I like hearing what she likes because it expands my musical consciousness. She reminds me that there's a lot out there, infinite mixable possibilities, and to not only keep my ears open for myself, but for music I think my friends might like.

I think when it all comes down to it, my own creation complexes aside, I love mixing because it's doesn't end up being only for myself. If I make a great mix, one that I'm proud of, then I inevitably want to share it, whether I have to send it a few thousand miles or simply turn it on in my car. I get to give my friends an insider glimpse into what's pushing my musical buttons, whether it's Eleni Mandell or Ozomatli or Randy Newman. It really is a rush. I'm sure that Jefferey Steingarten feels the same way when one of those crazy food experiments of his works out beyond his wildest dreams and even his long-suffering wife proclaims it to be good.