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Ep 10: WYLD STALLYNS · The Starter

• WYLD STALLYNS: The Art of the Mixtape My ears were ringing as we walked out of St Andrew’s. They would still be ringing in the morning. A small price to pay. “I should probably invest in some good ear plugs,” said Henry as we walked to the car. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Gotta protect those ears.” They might help him earn a living someday. The streetlights glowed a warm yellow along the Detroit city street. Medium Build had just put on a damn good show. We had the unfortunate circumstance of standing directly behind the most annoying person at the concert that night. Settle down, Manbun, I thought to myself, watching the back of this guy’s enthusiastic head bob and weave inches from my face. Manbun jumped and danced and belted out the words to every song. So did his pal; Dready Guy. Dready Guy had his girlfriend with him. Throughout the show, whenever Manbun and Dready Guy’s levels of enthusiasm were peaking, the girlfriend would routinely step back and let Manbun take her place, so he and Dready Guy could superfan out together. Like Paul Rudd in the movie I Love You Man, sitting on Jason Segel’s shoulders at the Rush concert, while Rashida Jones stands by and watches the boys have their moment. Bros ‘til the end. I knew about Medium Build because of TikTok. Something I don’t like to admit - like actually enjoying the flavor of pumpkin spice, or unironically listening to the music of Ariana Grande. A couple years ago, I stumbled upon a clip of Medium Build performing the song “Stick Around,” and I’ve been a fan ever since. He didn’t play it that night, but that was okay. He kicked out all the jams. Henry dug it. “I should listen to more of his stuff,” Henry said as we got in the car. “Yeah,” I agreed. “You should. His new album is fantastic.” Then I started up the Jeep, and put on the Gorillaz. As Henry and I drove home along I-94, we talked music. It’s what we do. “I like a lot of the older stuff,” said Henry. “Like music from the 90s.” “That’s funny,” I said. “When I was a kid, I was obsessed with classic rock - the stuff my parents grew up on. And now, the music from my childhood is like that for you.” “I remember a lot of the stuff you used to play,” said Henry. “And when you would make me mixtapes.” “Yeah, I had the setup,” I smiled. “Stereo was hooked right up to the computer.” We dubbed directly from YouTube, granting us access to anything and everything. A whole world of songs out there just waiting for us to pull ‘em down and put ‘em in our pocket. The other day, I brought those mixtapes home. They had been sitting in a box in my mom’s basement for years; a ragtag collection of old cassettes. At one point I had run out of labels, and I used turquoise duck tape with permanent black marker instead. There was a stereo in my mom’s basement and sometimes I would throw on an old tape when we were down there playing pingpong. But for the most part, those mixtapes just sat and gathered dust. I decided they belonged at home. I dug through the old box of cassettes, and one of those turquoise duck tape labels caught my eye: DJ H-Bomb’s Everything is Awesome Mix. Henry and I had made it together, back at the old condo. We would spend hours sitting in front of the computer in the little office, sifting through tracks on YouTube, and making them our own. Sometimes I even let Henry choose. The computer speakers had a sub woofer, and the walls in the office were paper thin. Occasionally, the neighbor lady would come by to knock on our door and tell us to keep it down. The ritual of crafting a mixtape with my son was akin to imparting a closely guarded family recipe. This was legacy. As Forrest Gump would say, “I bet if I think about it real hard, I could remember my first pair of shoes…” The year was 1993. And there I was… Riding my bike around our old neighborhood. I’ve got my Walkman and headphones on, and I’m listening to a mixtape that my older brother Brian had made for me. WYLD STALLYNS. The holy grail of mixtapes; the one that started it all, named after the fictitious band from Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Brian had dubbed it for me a few years back. It had all the bangers. “Sweet Child of Mine,” and “Paradise City” by Guns n Roses - my personal favorite at the time. Early Chili Peppers, like “True Men Don’t Kill Coyotes,” and “Mommy, Where’s Daddy?” “Blaze of Glory” by Bon Jovi, and “Something to Believe In” by Poison. Brian even threw on some DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince - “Parents Just Don’t Understand,” and “Nightmare on My Street.” On that particular afternoon in 1993, I was riding along on my bike, and I stopped at the top of what was normally the sledding hill in wintertime. It was spring then. The hill was lush and green, and sloped down to a creek at the bottom. In my headphones, blasting at full volume, was the song “Epic,” by Faith No More. You want it all But you can’t have it It’s in your face But you can’t grab it What is it? It’s it What is it? It’s it So cryptic; edgy and cool. In my exaggerated memory, I picture the wind blowing through my bowlcut as I stand astride my bike at the top of the hill. The collar is turned up on my Levi’s jean jacket, and somewhere in the distance, an eagle screams. Yeah, let’s remember it that way. Even on this mixtape, which I revered as sacred, I had to add my own flavor. At the end of sides A and B, Brian had left a little space, no more than a few minutes here and there, but just enough to tack on a couple extra songs. I threw on some Metallica, and Beastie Boys. At ten years old, I knew what was cool - or at least I thought I did. As the youngest of three brothers, I experienced what I like to call The Trickledown Effect. There were certain aspects of life that I was exposed to at a younger age, for better or worse. Childhood pastimes like playing with fire and watching R-rated movies. At the very top of that list, for me, was the music. I was plugged in. Take me down to the Paradise City Where the grass is green And the girls are pretty Oh won’t you please Take me home ‘Twas the summer of my sixteenth year, and I was Up North - working as a junior counselor at Camp Sancta Maria; the all boys Catholic summer camp that was our home away from home for many years. I had scored the job of Corral Boy - a heralded position; many steps above my fellow JCs who were sweating it out in the dish tank, cleaning up after camper meals three times a day at the mess hall. The eczema on my hands spared me from dish detail. I had a doctor’s note and everything. Every morning I would rise at dawn, while everyone else still lay asleep in their bunks. I’d walk down to the corral to let the horses loose from their stables, feed them, water them, and maintain their general care. I loved it. At sixteen, I had long hair pulled back under a bandana, and I had taken to wearing the same old holey pair of Osh Kosh B’Gosh carpenter jeans I had inherited from Brian as hand-me-downs. They tore, and I patched. All summer long, I smelled like horse shit. It was a whole thing. My brother Greg had stopped coming to summer camp a couple years before, after he got fired for bumming a cigarette from a camper; a 13-year-old delinquent from my cabin who routinely wandered off into the woods to go smoke. I remember the day Greg got busted. I was standing outside the rec cabin, and I saw him walking toward the mess hall, pulling his trunk behind him along the gravel path. There were tears in his eyes. Instead of Catholic boys camp that summer of my sixteenth year, Greg had an apartment in downtown Ann Arbor with his friend Marc. It was right on campus, directly across the street from a party store and a record shop. What more could you ask for? While I was Up North caring for horses and smelling like shit, Greg was partying - with my friends, back in Ann Arbor. My crew had taken to stopping by Greg’s apartment whenever they felt like it. Sometimes they were welcome. Either way, they stayed. There was weed, and beer, and a whole lot of good times. I was missing out. I caught the tail end of the party that summer when I got back from camp, and tried to make up for lost time. We would sit on the balcony of Greg’s third-floor apartment, getting stoned and heckling at pedestrians. One day I walked over to the record shop across the street; PJ’s Used Records, a staple of downtown Ann Arbor for many years. At the top of the staircase, right outside the shop was a cardboard box filled with cassettes - blank ones. They had been recorded on, and labeled, but they could be dubbed over again. There was a sign: FREE - TAKE ONE. I picked up the box and looked down at all the Maxell II’s - premium quality blank tapes that cost a pretty penny at that age. My junior counselor wages didn’t add up to much after I got back from summer camp. I took the whole damn box. That collection of blanks presented endless opportunities for me to impart my teenage musical wisdom. I got to work. I made mixes for studying, for long walks and drives, and lonely nights. I made them for my brothers and friends, and for girls. I assembled a vast library, with tracks dubbed from borrowed CDs and live concert recordings. I had a decent collection of vinyl at the time; a whole lot of classic rock. Everything from Aerosmith to ZZ Top. Most of these albums came from the old Liberty Records shop, with the BUY SELL TRADE neon sign hanging in the front window. LPs were priced at $7.55, so they would ring up to $8 even, with tax. My stereo was a beast - multiple decks with a turntable, and speakers that cranked up to eleven. I spun my favorite records, and dubbed them onto an old black and gold Maxell II. Old Scratchy Sounds, I called it. You could hear the fuzz and pops of the vinyl coming through the tape. I drove a 1991 Ford Taurus at the time- maroon, with gray interior. My first car. One day the tape deck crapped out in the Taurus. It ate the cassette and wouldn’t let go. It would still play, but that tape was stuck forever. I debated yanking the goddamn thing out with pliers, but feared it would demolish the inner workings of the cassette deck, and I would be stuck with only the radio. Old Scratchy Sounds and I spent a whole lot of quality time together that year. Side B began with “Fire on the Mountain” from Shakedown Street by the Grateful Dead. There was a glitch with the tape. The first 30 seconds or so were hushed - ultra quiet, and then it kicked on at full volume right at the moment when Jerry sings, “Takes a whole pail of water just to COOL HIM DOWN. FIRE. FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN.” “Dude - that’s great!” Greg said one day as we were driving around. “Just to COOL HIM DOWN. Perfect timing.” My brother was right - it was a nice effect. That botched transition had a certain je ne sais quoi that I grew to love. Stones, Doors, Hendrix, Zeppelin. Old Scratchy Sounds was a shrine to the kings of classic rock. It was epic; vinyl pops and all. Of course at some point, I tired of listening to the same old twenty songs over and over again, and I took to riding around with a little battery powered boombox, just so I could play some new stuff. One day I parked downtown and left my windows open. The little boombox disappeared, and it was just me and Old Scratchy Sounds again. Around that same time, Brian had moved out to Montana after visiting a friend in Bozeman. Something called our brother Out West, and he never wanted to come back. I went out there to visit the summer after my sophomore year of high school. Brian had been working at a woodshop and started making his own furniture. His little duplex apartment was adorned with tables and shelves and cabinets he had built. He had braided sweetgrass, and sage plucked straight from the fields along the state highway. It was scattered throughout the apartment. There was a screened-in porch with a futon, and I slept out there in the cool Montana night. Brian gave me a handblown glass pendant, and showed me how to make a hemp necklace. I took that skill back home with me, and became the “Hemp Necklace Guy.” Brian made me a mixtape, and mailed it to me later that year. I always loved getting packages from him. He would send me pottery or black and white photographs he had taken. With love, from Montana. Folk Favorites, the tape was called. All laidback, acoustic stuff; slowed down and peaceful. At the time, I was into the rockers. I wanted loud and heavy and psychedelic. Unsure at first, I gave it a listen. There were some Garcia - Grisman tracks on there that I loved. Songs like “Dreadful Wind and Rain,” and “Shady Grove.” It opened me up to the world of bluegrass, and to the magic of Jerry Garcia playing banjo and acoustic guitar, backed by David “Dawg” Grisman himself on mandolin. Brian threw on a couple Stones’ tracks, “Let It Bleed,” followed up with “Wild Horses,” a song that took me years to truly appreciate. Upon my first listen, I deemed it soft. It wasn’t until I watched the Gimme Shelter documentary years later that I finally came around. The scene where the band hears the playback of the “Wild Horses” studio recording for the first time brings tears to your eyes. Brian threw on some Zeppelin - but not the stuff I was used to. “Your Time is Gonna Come.” A simple, three-chord deal that I labored over on acoustic guitar, trying to figure out the little Jimmy Page intricacies. A softer side of Zeppelin that I learned to love. There were a couple Allman Brothers tracks on there from Eat a Peach; “Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More,” and “Melissa.” Brian had met a girl, and fallen in love. I could hear it. Later that year, he called me one day, and there was excitement in his voice. “Hey I got some news,” he said. “I’m getting married,” he paused. “And I’m gonna be a dad.” Those old songs - the folk favorites, always bring me back to that time, when Brian was newly in love and couldn’t wait to be a father. It looked good on him. He and Becky got married that next summer after Jasmine was born. There are certain summers that stand out - a head above the rest. Seasons of life when you look back on them now, and there is a warm glow surrounding the whole effervescent scene. I was 22. I had just finished college. I had my own apartment, an ‘87 Volvo, a girlfriend, and a pending DUI. What a time to be alive. Me and all my friends, we worked at a restaurant that felt like family. I was slowly pushing my way up the ladder from waiter to bartender, and bringing home a decent chunk of cash every night. We worked, we played, and damn near every night of the week, we closed down the bar. Fourth of July that year, I had the incredible fortune of both being off work, and knowing someone who had a lake house. Chris and Benny were bartenders at our favorite after-work hangout; the Heidelberg. A real drinker’s bar. Chris’s mom had a lake house about an hour away, and he invited us to come hang out for the weekend. The girlfriend and I drove out there in my Volvo; a real classic POS I had bought for $600 earlier that year. Maroon on the outside, tan on the inside. I have always loved a nice boxy automobile, and you can’t deny those iconic Volvo headrests with the three slots. Style for days. The Volvo had a manual transmission. I had no idea how to drive stick at the time, and I burned out the clutch on its maiden voyage, driving home from the KMart parking lot where I found it sitting with a For Sale sign in the window. When we pulled up to the lake house, I parked the Volvo in the grass and grabbed a couple bottles of wine and some steaks I had bought out of the trunk. We came prepared, and ready for a weekend of shotgunning beers, sleeping on floors, and taking the boat out on the lake. “I have this buzzing feeling in my head,” said Chris. “It’s like my brain knows that I’m gonna be drunk for the next three days straight.” Amen, brother. The pontoon boat had a tape deck, and I - oh, I had tapes. My Volvo of course played cassettes only, so naturally I traveled with a box of expertly crafted mixtapes; a wide selection to pair well with any occasion. One night out on the boat, I grabbed the perfect tape: Disco Stu’s Saturday Mix. If ever there was a mixtape that could make a pontoon boat full of drunk twenty somethings shake ass and howl at the moon, this was it. Nothing but absolute, certifiable bangers. Side A kicked it off with “Days Go By” by Dirty Vegas, a hypnotic electro groove from the early 2000s that had, in my humble-ass opinion, one of the best music videos of all time. The tape played on, and the boat rocked under the night sky. Reflections of the moon danced over the lake. Notorious BIG and some early 2000s Eminem. Back when Mark Wahlberg was Marky Mark This is how we used to make the party start We drank, we danced, and we carried on. Our bare feet pounded to the rhythm over the carpeted pontoon deck. Every so often, someone would jump ship to cool off in the lake, with a cannonball or backflip attempt. Side A played on. I had even thrown on a classic club track from my days in Spain; “Murder on the Dancefloor” by Sophie Ellis-Bextor; a massive hit in Europe when it first came out. The string-laden groove brought me right back to the discotecas in Madrid, with neon beams of light and strobes cutting through the whole sweaty scene. It’s murder on the dancefloor But you better not kill the groove DJ, gonna burn this goddam house right down Side A ran its course, and the tape clicked to a stop. I flipped it over, and the first track of side B came on. That’s when the magic happened. “Sandstorm” by Darude. As the first few notes of this iconic techno anthem descended like a cloud of smoke over the dancefloor, we felt the pressure build; a steady pulsing beat, pounding drums and heavy synth working right up to the grand release. Arms raised to the night sky, our bare feet shuffled across the pontoon deck, keeping time with the pulsing beat of one of the most epic dance songs ever made. It wasn’t just the song, or the boat, or the endless supply of alcohol. It was a moment in time from a simpler world. Back when smoking was still cool, our livers were indestructible, and nobody was posting about it the next day. Benny was driving the boat that night. He must have been the “sober one.” After we got back to the house, I begged him to take the boat out again, so we could dance one more time; so we could recreate that magic. Benny looked at me, deadpan. “That was something you just can’t recreate, man,” he said. And I knew he was right. I couldn’t tell you what happened to Disco Stu’s Saturday Mix, or Folk Favorites, or Old Scratchy Sounds. And rarely a day goes by when I don’t stop and catch myself trying to recall every single track my brother had dubbed onto WYLD STALLYNS. But the songs still bring me back - to the feeling of holding those plastic cassettes in my hand, and the magic contained within those brown reels of tape. The other day, I decided to revisit that dusty old box of mixtapes I had unearthed from my mom’s basement. I thumbed through the cassettes and found the one I was looking for: DJ H-Bomb’s Everything is Awesome Mix; the title scrawled on turquoise duck tape in black permanent marker. I had recently invested in a new boombox, and I decided to take it for a spin. I popped the tape into the deck and pushed PLAY. “Backslider,” by Wild Belle trickled through the speakers, a song I was moderately obsessed with when it first came out. The sultry vocals and baritone sax carried me right back to our old condo, to afternoons well spent with Henry, pulling tracks off YouTube and dubbing them onto cassette. With my recent purchase of the boombox, I also bought a pack of blank tapes - TDK’s. No fancy Maxell II’s this time, but close enough for rock and roll. I pulled one off the shelf, and held the blank in my hand. A whole new world, just waiting to be opened up. I unwrapped the plastic packaging, and the tape was fresh and clean and ready to be impressed upon. DJ H-Bomb’s Mix carried on with a track from The Clash; “Straight to Hell” from Combat Rock. I pulled out my old book of CDs, and flipped through the pages of colorful discs, searching for the perfect first track. Halfway through, I found it; a sepia toned image of Paul Simon looking swarthy and resplendent in a ranger’s hat, with a full mustache. I pulled the disc out of its sleeve, and ejected DJ H-Bomb from the tape deck. It was time to create something new. I grabbed my fresh blank TDK, slid it into the deck, and pushed RECORD right as the Paul Simon disc kicked on. Track 1 opens with the keys - Fender Rhodes, soothing and tender, inviting you to come in, and sit down. Stay a while. Then Paul’s voice settles in, as if singing from a dream; I met my old lover on the street last night She seemed so glad to see me, I just smiled And we talked about some old times And we drank ourselves some beers Still crazy after all these years Oh, still crazy after all these years