The familiar logo. Toxic apparel printed across the record’s inner sleeve: Home Taping Is Killing Music.
As an expression it has appeal; the anachronistic charm that – in the same way as shellac, 78rpm, 8-track cartridge, and a relevant New Order – will mean little to future generations too busy guffawing at our primitive ways to spot any nuance or charm. Positively medieval, we were back then, with our puffball skirts and Frankie Says t-shirts and a mother who confiscated our freshly-purchased Birthday Party single because she was convinced she’d heard Nick Cave wailing a “dirty word”.
There was a fair degree of bloodlust and weird science about in the 1980’s. Even before home taping finally finished off music – leaving us with little more than white noise and taxi drivers phoning in their reactionary opinions to talk radio – video had snuffed out the radio star, synth-pop wombat Howard Jones performed on nationwide, early evening TV with some kind of chained-up gimp boy in tow (mundane recollection: here – that’s shitty VHS for you), and people willingly exchanged their hard-earned cash for Huey Lewis And The News albums (I’ve never actually met anyone willing to admit purchasing a Huey Lewis album, but somebody somewhere harbours guilt; expect a 6am visit from the goon squad, whoever you are).
But it was tape that did the real damage. C60 – never C90, whose extra half hour of playing time arrived with the promise of a hearty mangling courtesy of the cheap imported hardware we’d received for Xmas. My Cassette Pet, indeed; copyright theft at an early age, swapping home-made Ultravox tapes in the playground whilst we waited for something better to come along…
Bow Wow Wow / C30, C60, C90, Go!