044: Mixtape

Nick Hornby's "High Fidelity," boys/boyishness, Briahna Joy Gray, finding our people & why we should stop shaming men + Doodle Dispatches & cool Substack recs

My desert-island, all-time, top five, most favorite things about being GenX, in chronological order:

1. Riding in those fold up seats they used to put in the back of station wagons

2. Having a teen line that was listed in a printed phone book

3. Mixtapes

4. Thinking we could avoid “selling out”

5. Radiohead

Of these, the one I wish I could get back is mixtapes. I loved mixtapes, even in the early days before I got a dual cassette player, when I had to wait for the song I wanted to come on the radio and then race to press the record and play buttons down at the same time. Later, when I had slightly more control of the content, I was extremely into the subliminal message kind of mixtape for which you picked the songs and order of songs to convey a subtle (or not so subtle) message to your recipient. I remember balancing the “I want you” energy of Yaz’s “Don’t Go” with the “we’re friends, but maybe something else, too,” of Depeche Mode’s “Never Let Me Down Again” and feeling certain that its intended recipient would totally know what to do. (He totally did not.)

Cue the entrance of Rob Gordon, the music-loving, misanthrope of Nick Horby’s High Fidelity who, when the book came out in the mid-nineties, became the standard-bearer of the rules for making mixtapes:

A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention . . . and then you've got to up it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs, and ... oh there are loads of rules.

The other two things Rob Gordon is known for is Top 5 lists and his ridiculously poor understanding of women, both of which converge when he makes his infamous “desert-island, all-time, top five most memorable split-ups, in chronological order” list as a response to being dumped by his girlfriend, Laura.

The appeal of the book is the mix of unflinching honesty about Rob’s selfish immaturity and the good-humored portrayal of his slow, bumbling personal growth. A “Fresh Air” interview from 1996 speaks to the importance of the tension between the two. In it, Hornby describes Rob’s habit of making mixtapes for women in two different ways: a) “a means of seduction” and b) “like dogs and lampposts and setting your mark in some way.” Terri Gross then chooses option b and doubles down, saying, “You know, I have to tell you, I've always found that kind of–that male urge to mentor a girlfriend kind of irritating.” Hornby’s genius is in the fact that both of his descriptions are true. Gross’s lies in being frustrated about mansplaining twenty-five years before the concept hit the mainstream.

And, I get it. I get that Rob’s—and that of the men he represents—mixtape- making and general approach to dating and relationships is in some ways problematic and irritating, I do.

And yet, I also kind of don’t.

*

One of my current favorite podcasts is “Bad Faith” with Briahna Joy Gray. BJG is a former national director of communications for the Bernie Sanders campaign, a Harvard-trained lawyer, and one of the smartest interlocutors of the American left (as distinct from American liberalism). She’s also pretty and funny and young and can weave slang and pop culture references into panel-style interviews with academic experts across a range of progressive topics. She’s so good at what she does that she recently dropped a credible episode that was just her and several friends discussing whether or not it’s possible to date someone who doesn’t agree with their lefty politics. It was called “Swipe Left,” which is almost as good of a title as the one on the youtube version, which asks, “Would you date a Kamala Harris stan?”

It was a delightful mess of girltalk with, yes, a lot of man-bashing and not just on men who aren’t on the left. True to millennial form, this group was highly self-aware; they continuously questioned their own assumptions even as they spoke from them. But the shimmer of frustration about men who couldn’t or wouldn’t respect these women’s professional expertise and intelligence, couldn’t or wouldn’t keep up emotionally, and/or were intimidated by their professional success was real. The conceit—would dating a leftist prevent any of these frustrations—never really got answered. Or, maybe it is that the answer is, actually, no.

I am so very much older than BJG and friends, but I have the same sensibilities. I, too, struggle to imagine dating a Buttiegieg supporter and don’t want to date someone who is looking for a woman to do his laundry for him. It was nice to have my feelings validated.

Which is why I started thinking about High Fidelity again. Rob and his music buddies at Championship Vinyl are as snobbish and obsessive about music as BJG and friends are about the political left, and they are also just as certain that it is a key factor when it comes to dating. The whole premise of the “Swipe Left” podcast is hilariously reminiscent of the scene in the book when Rob and his bros explicate the need for a music and culture questionnaire for prospective partners:

a two- or three-page multiple-choice document that covered all the music, film, TV, book bases. It was intended, A, to dispense with awkward conversation and, B, to prevent a chap from leaping into bed with somebody who might, at a later date, turn out to have every Julio Iglesias record ever made . . . there was an important and essential truth contained in the idea, and the truth was that these things matter, and it's no good pretending that any relationship has a future if your record collections disagree violently or if your favorite films wouldn't even speak to each other if they met at a party.

It’s the same heterodox, identity-building impulse.

Now, in one of these examples, space—social and cultural—is being reclaimed and in the other one the social and cultural space is assumed. There is a way in which five successful women of color talking about the perils and frustrations of dating to a big audience can be seen as an important and overdue change of conversation—maybe even a radical one. Likewise, it’s hard to see three dudes talking about how to get laid as anything other than a story as common as time.

That said, there are a couple of other ways to see this juxtaposition.

One is that Rob and his boys aren’t as normie as 2021 might think they are. It’s easy to forget that in 1995 it wasn’t cool to be a guy and like music in the way that these guys do. They are coming at the world as sensitive, nerdy guys existing on the margins of mainstream straight guy culture. They aren’t athletes who drive around in sportscars and slay the ladies; they were probably bullied by those kinds of guys. There’s a way in which we can see Rob and his bros as identifying themselves in opposition to mainstream male culture in the same ways as BJG and friends are identifying themselves in opposition to mainstream liberal politics. They feel beset, are principled about their positions, and they’re trying to find their people—their home base. Wanting to belong is not inherently xenophobic.

Second, the character of Rob Gordon offers us an opportunity to reflect on the idea that guys might need space to fail and grow just like everyone else does. High Fidelity is foremost about someone who has lost his way and is trying to find his way back. As Rob says,

“I lost the plot for a while then. And I lost the subplot, the script, the soundtrack, the intermission, my popcorn, the credits, and the exit sign.”

His path back from the brink isn’t pretty, and there’s a way that Rob’s journey is out of touch with 2021 sensibilities. His cluelessness is bordering on misogyny, he’s barrelling around thinking and talking only about himself, and he’s boorish about his area of expertise. Then, again, that’s the point of the book: Rob’s a mess and he’s got to figure out how to grow up. For me, the plot holds up.

*

There are two screen versions of High Fidelity. In the earlier, feature film version, John Cusack as Rob is almost too sympathetic. You can see right away that what is driving his behavior is sadness and loneliness, not ego. He’s not even close to being the kind of douchebag that Rob is in the book. And, since the Championship Vinyl of the film is being run out of business by big chain stores and digital music, it’s easier to see that they are underdogs. Even his rebound hook-up with the super hot musician played by Lisa Bonet is more hero-worship than notches-on-bedpost. There’s Cusack’s earlier character, Lloyd Dobbler from Say Anything, lurking in the background, too—the original 80’s anti-hero, boombox-holding, unlaced-hightops-wearing male archetype.

In last year’s Hulu version, Lisa Bonet’s daughter, Zoë Kravitz, gets her chance at the franchise, but plot twist, she’s cast as Rob, not the super hot musician hook-up. Also fun is the fact that Kravitz’s portrayal of Rob is closer to the badly behaved boy version in the book than John Cusack’s. Faced with her break-up, Kravitz-as-Rob is by turns grouchily withdrawn and extrovertedly defensive. She goes out and sleeps with a super hot, super young male musician and brags about it while, at the same time, treating her other love interest, Clyde (played by the adorable Jake Lacy), really boorishly. She acts like a stereotypical boy, and it doesn’t come off as any less selfish just because she’s phenomenally beautiful woman. For me, it underscored the universality of Rob’s issues: he’s lonely and scared and has had his heart broken and doesn’t know what to do about it.

Show me the person who’s their best self when going through this regrettably universal human experience. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

*

Look. I really am starting to worry that there’s no space left for men to walk the earth as ordinarily flawed human beings. Feminist thinking is in the process of bringing a bounty of good things to the raising and empowering of girls and women. Justice movements like #metoo are bringing important and needed reckonings and shifts in cultural expectations about how we treat women. But, we seem to have forgotten to fix the problem of how we raise boys and how we define masculinity. Which is a pretty important missing leg in a triad: helping men get out of the toxic masculinity paradigm because it doesn’t actually serve them either. It feels a bit like we airlifted girls and women to a world where they can finally actualize and left the men back in the dumpster of human existence, foraging for bugs and fighting each other for spare parts.

I care about this because I know and love a lot of wonderful straight white men whom I don’t think deserve an increasingly steady diet of listening to how awful straight white men are.

I also care about this because shaming men doesn’t work and won’t ever work. Even if you know men whom you think deserve to suffer, there is the inescapable fact that shame doesn’t make people better—it makes them worse. Creating opportunities to cultivate empathy is one thing. Saturation bombing with shame and condemnation is another. This is true about people who don’t want to take the Covid-19 the vaccine. It’s true about white people who don’t want to be told they are inherently racist. It’s true about people who don’t want to be told to lose weight, or stop smoking, or stop drinking, too. We don’t approve of coaches who shame their players when they lose. We don’t beat children when they fail tests. Why would we think that a practical and lasting solution to toxic masculinity is just to shame and punish men.

I think about this especially with young adult men, whose lives are still filled with models of bad and misogynist behavior, but for whom the stakes now seem unbearably high if they should mimic these models in real life. If they are lucky, they have parents and adults in their lives who are modeling something they can emulate. If they aren’t so lucky, or if they make a mistake because they are teenagers, the consequences are starting to seem extreme. I’m not saying that young men shouldn’t be held accountable for inappropriate or violent behavior toward women; I’m saying that while holding them accountable we should also be providing opportunities and encouragement to course correct.

I don’t think we are helping the cause of women by sending men to Iraq and Afghanistan and then blaming them when they come back traumatized or violent. I don’t think we help women when we ignore how men exhibit depression and grief differently, or when we expect our teenage sons to understand the nuances of sexual consent when we don’t proactively talk to them about it. I don’t think it helps women to hate on men. I think if we want less violence, we have to be less violent.

*

One of the few mixtapes that I still have with me was made by a friend who we lost when he was in his twenties. His name was Michael, and I remember that when he gave me the mixtape he proactively pointed out the quality of the cassette and the fades he’d put on the song transitions. I don’t have the cassette case or its insert anymore, but I remember that it was carefully annotated; when it came to music Michael cared about the details. There was that time when he brought another friend of ours over to my house, sat us both down, and made us listen to U2’s “Rattle and Hum” straight through. I remember him telling me that if I could only buy one version of an album, to buy the live concert version. I remember how he would press pause on a song and then replay a section over while telling me what it was that made it so great.

Was my friend mentoring me? Was he mansplaining? Maybe. He had a strong, charismatic personality and was perfectly capable of dominating the conversation or room.

So was he a toxic male? Or was he a gifted young man at the beginning of his potential who loved music and his friends and was passionate about his interests. Did he want to be seen? To experience intimacy and connection? I think so. I think he was putting himself out there and trusting that it was the best way to find his people. Was he passionate about the things that captured his interest? Yep, he was that, too. I relate. I’m still that way.

I guess I’m just wondering what would happen if we paused the tape on our collective cultural boombox and remembered that it takes a lot of time and feedback, the right tools and conditions, and the ability to erase and record a new track over a mistake to make a great mixtape—as well as to grow a good human.

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Fan Club

Doodle Dispatches is SBB’s resident artist and saves us all, every week, from the dreaded Wall of Text. You can see her work on Twitter and Instagram, as well as order all kinds of fun prints and gifts at DoodleDispatches.com

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Good Things

The 3 Minute Club, a newsletter that sends 3 “Ms” (Movement, Mindfulness, and Mantra) to its readers each week, written by Singapore-based writer and wellness coach, Yan Huang. Keep an eye out for a guest post from Yan in a couple of weeks as part of a collaboration that we cooked up.

Changing Habits - Do We Focus On Outcomes or Identity?

I started reading The Ruffian for the politics, but stayed for the tennis. Ian Leslie is a UK-based writer and commentator for The New Statesman and this essay about Emma Raducanu in the U.S. Open is gorgeous from beginning to end. It’s about tennis, sure, but it’s also about why we love the idea of genius.

Supernatural

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That’s it for this week. Next week will be another installment of the memoir-in-progress, Socially Distanced, and since it is paywalled now would be a great moment to hit that subscription button.

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