Misadventures of a Mixed-Tape Maniac

There is an amazing amount of power contained in the average mixed-tape. With it you possess control over the listeners’ moods and the ability to set the atmosphere in any place equipped with a tape deck. You are a superhero. However, like young Peter Parker discovered when he became Spiderman – with great power there must also come great responsibility. This is not a Spiderman story. This is a cautionary tale of a mixed-tape mishap, and a bizarre character named…Bat-Stan.

Let’s set the scene…It is the summer of 1995. The Verve’s Northern Soul album is rocking the sound systems and the film Kids is freaking out parents and stealing the libidos of sensitive young artists across the nation. Lollapalooza that year features Sonic Youth, Hole, Cypress Hill, Pavement and Beck. Most of my crew has either just graduated from highschool or are coming off their first mind expanding year of university, and all is right with the world.

One weekend we were all invited up to this guy Stan’s parents’ place in a small rural community north-east of the city.

Stan was always a bit of a mysterious character. He was several years older then the rest of us, and much more of a Chip&Pepper jock rock dude. He was a muscular, fake and bake tan, bleach blonde, thin mustachioed, tuck and bloused No Fear t-shirt kind of guy. A stark contrast to the waifish, pale, messy hair and indie-wear that typified our crowd. He claimed to have at one point been in an eighties pop band and his falsetto surfer guy voice would frequently offer up its two cents worth on music production and other general opinions on our lifestyles.

For some unspoken reason he lived in the basement of his “best friend” Kyle’s parents’ place. Kyle was a good friend of ours but always seemed to be trapped in some sort of odd servitude to the overprotective Stan. This creepy master/servant spell became more noticeable after Stan would swallow several mouthfuls of gin and the shadows of his alter ego would begin to creep in. We would then be treated to several awkward Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? moments. He was a definite control freak. This guy could turn anything from a house party to a short trip to the bank into a horrific Club Med style journey up the river.

Bat-Stan earned his name by virtue of his car; a black eighties Fiero with sponge-painted interior and, (I swear this is God’s honest truth) a huge Batman symbol painted on the hood. The symbol itself was “special” in that it was different from any symbol that had been used in any comic or movie. Bat-Stan claimed that it was his own “originally inspired piece”. Popular opinion, citing the fact that the changes he had made where very, very slight, held that he was actually going for one of the other symbols and just screwed up. Stan would never own up to this of course.

Despite all of his quirks, Stan seemed relatively harmless and was always willing to provide facilities in which to party. The weekend would be a fun little relaxing escape to the wilderness for a couple of days, with the weather forecast positive all weekend. Another opportunity to indulge in our vices away from daddy and mommy’s “oppressive regime”. And so a group of about 18 of us – aspiring artists, college drop outs, starry eyed highschool girls, would-be rock stars and rave promoters -- got our acts together, got our rides together and descended into Bat-Stan’s lair.

Our drive up was wild. Sun was shining, we weren’t in a mad rush to get there and Kyle took the scenic route. I’d made a handful of mixed tapes for the weekend knowing that my stoned brethren would dig, dig? It was also my duty to provide some sort of counter balance to the cavalcade of “top ten treasures” that Stan had in store for us.

When we arrived, Stan immediately started yelling at Kyle. Something about Kyle forgetting a box that had some extra speaker cables and a few more mixed tapes in it. He started accusing Kyle of forgetting it, before he even asked if he had brought it, so it was fairly obvious that he had never even asked Kyle to bring the box in the first place. We had been there for less than a minute and already the first signs of a crack in Stan’s psyche were showing.

Originally Stan’s “Weekend Bash of the Century” was to include our crew of 18 and 100 other of Stan’s closest friends. We arrived on the scene to discover that it would actually include the 18 of us, 1 balding middle-aged jock from Stan’s football team, the jock’s girlfriend, Stan’s girlfriend and Stan’s parents. I’m not sure if the other people just never showed up, or if they ever existed in the first place, but of course Stan saved face by claiming that “you can’t really bond with people if there is a real raging party going on”. He had considerately decided to keep things intimate. Yeah, right. As far as his parents went…”Don’t worry about them guys. They’re cool with everything. Just do whatever you want to do.”

By the time the sun went down half of us had dropped acid and the rest were blind drunk. Stan’s earlier outburst was long behind us and uncharacteristically he had allowed us free reign of the stereo. The Orb’s “Little Fluffy Clouds” wafted through the air as our blitzed group danced around in circles on the lawn, throwing glowsticks into the air and talking about what it would be like if dolphins ruled the world. Stan sat observing this spectacle from a picnic table, sipping his gin. Waiting? Plotting? The smile on his face grew wider and wider as the night went on.

During the second day of action, at around 4:00 in the afternoon, everyone was hitting the wall. We had been going solid since the night before and it was time to chill. People were stealing away to their tents for pow-wows and siestas. Some wandered to the shade of a tree for a reflective smoke. I was leaning back in a lawn chair, soaking up the sunshine and serenity, a chilly beer resting gently in my lap.

Suddenly all this peace was blown wide open by the discordant caterwauling of Annie Lennox, dished out by Bat-Stan’s handy-dandy sound cannon. This had the equivalent effect of being awoken from a deep sleep simultaneously by a jumbo jet exploding and someone slapping a penis on your forehead – Completely jarring and inappropriately out of context.

“Heeey guuys. I’m just gonna pop on some “chilling” tunes while we wait for the ‘za to get here. Kay? I got veggie and pepperoniiiii!”

From that point on it was all about Stan’s musical manifesto. Bob Marley’s Legend was the only album that could be playing during a game of volleyball. Sarah McLachlan was ideal for post-dinner pre-party relaxing. AC/DC’s Thunderstruck was the “rock injection” required to “bring the party up a notch”. And so on and so forth. Dissident factions rose to suggest other selections, only to be smote down by Bat-Stan.

“I appreciate how much you are really into your kind of music, but what we are trying to do here is to be fair to everyone. You sort of had your turn last night, so now we are going to give someone else a chance. Okay buh-dee?”

And so the weekend went. Aided by the pressure of litres and litres of gin, the tiny cracks slowly branched out across the surface of Stan’s sanity. During the final night of our stay Bat-Stan had finally reached the breaking point.

A group of us decided to “defect” and traveled through the woods to a nearby rock quarry to have a swim and listen to our kind of music for a little while. Armed with a small battery powered tape deck, a few flashlights and some mixed tapes, we had a great time, splashing around and relaxing in nature. As you might have guessed, this serenity did not last long. An approaching ruckus in the woods – the thrashing of trees, stamping of underbrush and occasional curse word – let us know that our fun was nearing a close

Emerging from the woods, swaying slightly, stood a dark muscular figure caught in the moonlight – Bat-Stan: The Drunk Knight Returns. He stormed immediately over to the tape deck, demanding that Kyle show his face. He popped the tape out and turned to the half-naked swimmers. The crowd was caught in an awe-struck tableau, frozen on the rocks, or in the water, glistening like wet seals. All eyes were on Bat-Stan.

“Whozz tape iz thizz?”

“Mine” I said

“You wannit?”

Without waiting for an answer he threw the tape over my head, smashing it against the jagged rock face of the quarry.

“You wannit? Go geddit”

Way to go mister Grade six bully.

“Where the fffug iz Kyle? Kaaaayyyyyeeeellll!!”

After a few heated and confusing words with Kyle, Bat-Stan stumbled off into the woods, in search of another good time that he could rape and pillage his way through.

When we returned to Stan’s parents place, he was lying in wait, slumped on the picnic table, chin at his chest, eyes looking upward, into our souls - his best Clockwork Orange pose. In other circumstances all this pulling a suck and posing up on the picnic table routine might be funny…but this is a really big guy that we are talking about here – big and obviously very unbalanced. We all decided that going to our tents right away may not be the best idea and opted to hang out in the safety of the loft above the garage until he simmered down a bit. Kyle decided to stay outside and have a word with him. You know the deal…work it out buddy to buddy, talk him down a bit, and then both of them would come in and join the rest of us so we could all have a good laugh about it together. Well, within two minutes of us going into the loft, Stan had punched Kyle out and sped away, drunk out of his mind, in his Bat-Stanmobile. We all decided that we should ALL sleep in the loft that night.

After about an hour and half of sleeping bag giggle time, shared stories and speculation about Bat-Stan, our lookout at the window gave word that the enemy was approaching. Stan stumbled up the driveway and made a beeline for the loft. We all dove deep into our sleeping bags and a fake-sleep silence hung in the air. Under covers people clutched flashlights, Swiss Army knives, and cork screws. The door to the loft creaked open and Bat-Stan’s head rose from the darkness below.

“I need three able-bodied men”

The room froze up for a full minute, thoughts of bizarre gladiator rituals fixed in our minds. At last I offered the sole response in my meekest, most non-threatening voice.

“Well...um...what for, Stan?”

“I crashed my car”

The door creaked shut as Stan made his way back down to ground level. There was a brief pause, and then everyone leapt up and hurried to get their shoes on, anxious to catch a glimpse of the shattered Bat-Stanmobile.

Dejectedly, Stan lead us about half a kilometre up the road to where his car sat in the ditch. A few people went down to haul it out as he stood by grinning sheepishly.

My friend Trevor quietly mocked this goofy grin to our amusement. - “Oopsie...Stan made a silly. He went and got all drunk and wiped out again. What a silly billy.” Everyone bit their lips…hard.

After a few moments, a few of us bystanders began to notice the most alarming thing about the whole “scene of the crime”. The tire tracks seemed to indicate that Stan had actually backed his car into the ditch. The car was unharmed and there were no skid marks on the road whatsoever, just a clean path of crushed grass leading into the ditch. Was it possible that he had staged the whole car crash in an effort to win sympathy and therefore save face for smashing up my mixed tape and punching out Kyle?

When we got back to his parents’ house we all made our way cautiously back towards the loft. Everyone was quietly suffering with the effort to hold back laughter. Everyone was quiet that is except my friend Murray, who broke the silence.

“Hey Stan. How did it feel when your head exploded?”

The dam burst and we all started crying with laughter. Everyone bolted for the loft, people wiping out on the grass and staying down there rolling and convulsing with giggles.

Stan just stood by his car, a feigned look of confusion on his face.

“What did he say? I couldn’t hear him”

The last thing I remember of Stan, was him reaching into his newly rescued Bat-Stanmobile and ejecting the tape from the deck. He slipped it into his breast pocket and walked slowly inside the house.

Kyle was our ride home so we left early the next morning, before Stan had risen to face his hangover. He would be sweeping out the loft alone, free to listen to whatever music suited that “cleaning up after getting drunk and punching out your best friend” time of day.

PINO ALTIMONT