A dedication to
the mix tape.

Before the algorithm, before the endless feed, there was a cassette with someone's handwriting on the J-card. A mix tape was a gift — a set of choices, in a chosen order, made by a person who knew you.

The format kept changing; the impulse didn't. We started out as kids with a radio and two tape decks, fingers hovering over the record button, waiting for the DJ to stop talking. One deck played, the other recorded — you paste-edited your way to a TDK 60, or a 90 if you were ambitious. The felt-tip handwriting on the J-card, the chrome dioxide hiss, the little blank stretch at the end where you'd taped over a song that didn't earn its slot. That was the entire craft.

Then CDs got cheap and we started burning mixed CDs — no hiss, no auto-reverse, but the same rules: choose the songs, choose the order, write the name on the case. Then MP3s on a USB stick, slipped to a friend at the door. Then Spotify, where the tape became a link you could share before the party started.

The last move was the screen. As YouTube grew up alongside us, the playlist stopped being audio-only — throw the music videos up on the TV during a party and the room suddenly had a backdrop. The mix tape's sequence, lit from behind.

Different formats, same gift. Every playlist here is sequenced like a tape: a starting track that earns the room, a B-side that surprises you, and an ending you can feel. No shuffle. No autoplay rabbit hole. Just one curator, one tracklist, top to bottom.