Being a child of the 80's, and a teenager of the 90's, in other words, when music was last any good [and YES Mr Cowell, I am point the finger of blame squarely in your smug, inauthentic direction !!] I remember the days when carefully compiling an EMI C90 cassette of personally selected tunes for a friend or potential love interest was a key, almost holy bonding moment in almost any kind of relationship, romantic or platonic.
You'd meticulously assemble a collection of your favourite tunes then spend an hour painstakingly inking the titles and artist names on the inlay card, which never had enough room on it anyway, unless you scratched away in tiny capitals as though manually typesetting a newspaper press aimed at squinty-faced ants working in a dollhouse ... on the moon.
It took effort, craftsmanship and patience. It was a specially-tailored gift. It showed that you genuinely cared and that the other person really mattered a great deal to you.
Making a compilation for a friend was one thing. Assembling a tape for someone you wanted to go out with romantically was something else entirely; a real high-wire-with-a-bed-of-nails-surrounded-by-a-moat-filled-with-starving-alligators-replacing-the-safety-net act. Open with something earnestly romantic and you'd mark yourself out as a soppy, anti-sexual drip. Go the other way, spicing up the playlist with an explicit R&B tune in which the protagonist lists 5,826 assorted tricks he can perform with his tongue and you'd still fail ... only twice as quickly.
And if you somehow avoided soppy ballads entirely, and concentrated instead on showcasing how radical and eclectic your musical tastes were by segueing NewOrder and Led Zeppelin into a self-consciously difficult 19-minute electronic Kraftwerk epic which sounded like someone hitting a gigantic metal pig with a damp phonebook while a broken synthesizer slowly asks for directions to the kettle factory ... then you'd totally alienate them completely and forever.
Alternatively there was still the radio, but what if the all-important signature tune that signified the moment to go for it was suddenly replaced with a breaking news bulletin - specifically a live police press conference in which two cardigan-shod parents tearfully begged for the safe return of their daughter’s missing and very much beloved pet hamster Mr Snuffles ??
As mood-killers go, it would be on a par with looking across at your red-hot date to discover she had suddenly and impossibly sprouted the face of Alan Titchmarsh, and was looking back at you, licking his lips whilst grinning madly and reciting dirty limericks in a high-pitched voice.
But then, technological progress muffed it all up.
First of all, CD’s smothered cassettes. Then 50% of 18-24-year-olds started running their own DJ night, which was just like compiling a tape minus the faffing around with the inlay card, except you had to take it even more seriously and pretend you were cool by designing your own sleeves with a bunch of felt-tip pens.
And then finally, everyone got iPods, effectively granting control to Steve Jobs and his pals over their existing musical collection allowing a total and almost Rupert Murdoch-like dictatorial monopoly over their own ears.
Compilation tapes were dead ... or WERE they ??
The other week I finally checked out Spotify. If you're not familiar with it, it's basically a cross between iTunes and a customisable online radio station.
I'd heard various people raving about it and didn't entirely grasp why, until I realised that it meant that you could compile a playlist, then generate a URL for others to click on. It's like being able to mass-produce a compilation tape in minutes. OK, it's broken up with irritating adverts now and then, but hey, it's easy to use and seems to work quite well.
What this means is I'm suddenly in a position to offer you, dear reader, a free compilation tape. But rather than any old tape, I've rustled up a special challenge: Summer's here, so consequently many of you will be embarking upon thrilling new romances. Others will be cementing existing ones. But don’t forget that passion can be fleeting.
So here’s the gig. Beckon over your beloved. Dim the lights. Get yourselves in the mood, press play, and prepare to test your ardour to its very limits. The first couple to successfully make out through my entire playlist wins a trophy or something.
If that's too much, total respect will still be accorded to anyone who manages to kiss and cuddle for the entire duration of the "Monstrous Psychedelic Bubble Exploding In Your Mind Remix" of Oasis’s “Falling Down”, and then uploads the evidence to YouTube.
It won't be easy. But if you manage to make it to the end, then congratulations: you've proved that your love will abide through the ages. Oh, and as a bonus, why not pick one of the entries for the first dance at your wedding.
That is, if you CAN actually bear watching all your guests drunkenly doing a heavy-metal version of the Macarena`, and then violently throwing up.