Love Is A Mix Tape Rob Sheffield

Rob Sheffield is one of those names that I’ve read for years. I’ve been getting Rolling Stone for almost 15 years now and always saw his name under the music reviews. I never thought too much of it, though. Never really put him above or below any of the other music critics in the magazine. (Although, I have to call his taste into question after reading that he though REM’s Document was “truly wretched.” It’s only one of the best albums of the 80s.)

So I was a little surprised to see his name attached to a book that a friend of mine told me that I had to read. I had no idea that this guy could write anything beyond a few paragraphs about how much an album sucked.

But, as with all critics, Rob is indeed a human being. And in 1997, tragedy struck his home when his young wife of five years suddenly died. And by “suddenly,” I do mean SUDDENLY. One minute she was talking to him as always, the next she was gone. Just like that.

The two had met in a whirlwind of music knowledge and love. They made friends over Big Star and fell in love to Marshall Crenshaw. And along the way, they both made mix tapes. Lots and lots of mix tapes.

The mix tape has been a right of passage for people since it became feasible back in the 70s. (Sure, reel to reel might have been the first “mix tape,” but who used it for that? Too fuckin’ hard.) Ever since the cassette was introduced, teenagers everywhere have poured their hearts into finding just the right sequence of songs to show how they really felt, either about another person or about an event. Everyone has a road trip tape, or a “Pissed Off At The World” tape. (That’s the only one I think I have left.)

Music does something to us. It transforms us and makes us one with each other, whether we like it or not. It brings back memories, good or bad. A movie uses a song during a scene that resonates with you, and that song ends up having the same meaning as the scene. Or maybe a song reminds you of a junior high dance. Or maybe it was used at a funeral for a friend. Just about any song you hear will have some memory attached to it.

For Rob (and for millions of people across the world), songs ARE people. They are so entwined with his wife, Renee, that he can’t hear them the same again. Big Star, Pavement, Hank Williams…all will forever be connected to Renee for him.

He tells his story through mix tapes. 22 chapters, 22 mix tapes. All full of memories. Whether they’re made from the radio, records, cds or him and his dad editing “Hey Jude” so that it takes up two sides of a tape, they are a part of his life just as the people once were. And through these tapes he tells the story of these people.

Especially Renee. The chapters after her death are, of course, the most emotional. His grief over the woman who made him a whole human being is more palpable than many other writers have been able to produce. I felt his pain more than I’ve felt some of my own pain. Maybe it’s because of his writing, but it’s probably because he actually lived it. Being a widow (he hates the word “widower”) at 30 isn’t right. It’s difficult to find anyone else who has gone through it. There’s no book about it…until now.

Anyone who loves music should take a look at this book. Anyone who has ever lost someone they love should take a look at this book. It’s sad, funny and full of life even when death is all around.

And just a note about mix tapes…we still call cds “mix tapes.” Isn’t that strange? The cds that the guys on the streets of New York sell are “mix tapes.” And the idea lives on with iPods and playlists. But there’s really something about a tape. I don’t use them anymore and probably never will again. But I think we’ve lost something because of that. Not only were they easier to put together, but they seemed more real. The quality was shit and they broke pretty easily or wore out, but, yeah. They were real.