Analogue audio
COMEDIAN DAVID SMIEDT TAKES AN IRREVERENT, BUT APPRECIATIVE, LOOK AT THE CLASSIC THINGS THAT DEFINE YOU-BEAUT AUSSIE LIFE
emojis, kids, because there was once a time when music was not measured in megabytes but in minutes – when terms like “long play”, “45-rpm singles” and C90 tapes were as common as HD and 4G are today. Of course, there are obvious advantages to being able to cram hundreds of albums onto a device in your pocket, each song rendered with the kind of crystal clarity once reserved for master recordings. But, as various bearded hipsters and several generations can attest, something has been lost along with the snap, crackle and pop of analogue audio.
First up, vinyl. Before technology intervened, most Australian families had one record player. Kids held sway after school with their Blondies and Bowies, but when Mum and Dad returned from work, it was their choice. As a result, we actually got – read, “had no choice” – to hear music we may not have chosen. That often meant Billie Holliday, Ella Fitzgerald and a young roustabout named Elvis. We may have rolled our eyes at the time, but vinyl gave many of us a musical education millennials will never know.
The next – ahem – revolution was magnetic tape, onto which you could record your favourite tunes from other records, tapes or even – get this – the radio! Running 45, 60 or 90 minutes, and then 10 times those numbers in metres if their innards became unspooled, they were the most democratic music movement in history. For the first time, you could choose which songs you listened to and in what order.
This technology also provided the opportunity to create that most poignant of angst-ridden declarations of love: the mixtape.
For young Aussies whose spoken words couldn’t quite capture their pounding hearts, these playlists allowed Air Supply, Pat Benatar and, in some cases, Simon Le Bon to do the talking for them. Tape deck buttons – namely, “play” and “record” – had to be pushed with exquisite timing to ensure your musical selections (and only your selections) made it onto tape. No bits of the song before or after, no unnecessary stretches of hissy silence chewing up valuable time, and definitely no advertisements when recording off the radio. This last piece was particularly important, as the last thing you wanted was a bit of Chiko Roll in your Sherbet, Bread or Smashing Pumpkins.
After all this was done, you then had to meticulously write out the contents in miniscule letters on the piece of cardboard that fitted into the tape cover and was woefully inadequate for the size of the task. Mistakes were made, whiteout was required. Here was a project which took hours, and both its creator and recipient knew it.