It’s one of those gadgets that gets left behind by history, like the VHS tape, the floppy disk or the rotary phone. But it has its fervent devotees. Like the MP3, it was a push-button mode of temporary pleasures. As seven-inches disappeared, and twelve-inches became iconic cultural documents, cassingles were something that just got stuffed into a shoebox under the bureau. Twelve-inches were for big brothers; cassingles were for little sisters. But the pure no-frills functionality was part of the beauty. It never had the pretensions of the regular CD single, which always seemed like a total waste—one song on a seventy-minute CD?— or the short-lived and just plain stupid three-inch disc, which required a clumsy little adapter to play. The cassingle was inherently devoid of any artistic aspirations at all. Like any pop format worth its salt, then or now, it was designed for kids on the go, an impulse purchase to be spun a few times on a banged-up Walkman, then thrown away and ash-canned forever.
There was no such thing as a cassingles career. Nobody wanted to look like they put any kind of effort into their cassingles, so the artwork and packaging was shoddy on purpose. But the cassingle could do things with ’80s/’90s sonics that neither vinyl nor aluminum singles could do. The glossier, shinier, more treble-driven the production, the more snazzily it adapted to the tight storage capacity. It was designed for flimsy sound, again like the MP3—when you were listening on vinyl or CD, and you heard a hit by Paula Abdul or Fine Young Cannibals, you could hear how screechy and thin the production was. But those beats sounded immense on a cheap little cassingle. It was also designed for rickety careers, which is why most of my most cherished cassingles came from one-hit wonders. They were about fun fun fun. The idea of a culturally significant cassingle is absurd by definition—that was the point.
The cassingle was perfect for teen screams: albums were for grown-ups, and the cassingle was the most anticredibility music gadget ever devised. If you debased your art to cassingles, grown-up CD-player owners wouldn’t touch your album. Between 1988 and 1991, the cost of an album basically tripled, and never came back down; the cassingle was the result.
That’s probably why it’s been scorned and despised through the years. But it’s time to hail the noble cassingle. It gave us so much and asked for so little. The cassingle served its technologically appointed purpose in history and then fled into the night. We shall not see its like again.
In honor of the cassingle, a brief shrine to thirty historic favorites, the ones that defined that groovy little piece of plastic. Some I stole from my youngest sister, Caroline. Others I bought for her, then “borrowed” like it was last month’s Sassy. Some I bought and she stole from me. Who keeps track? They’re all scattered around in shoeboxes now, most of them in her basement, where her now five-year-old daughter will no doubt dig them up any day now and ask the questions every mother longs to hear: “Mommy, what was a Bobby Brown? What does ‘NKOTB’ mean? Why was there a Wild Thing?”
Some of these songs have become eternal classics; most haven’t. But none of them were by respectable adult artists, because they avoided these things like the plague. If you’re Sting, and you’ve just recorded a sensitive, jazzy song that rhymes “Mephistopheles” with “autumn breeze,” do you want to see it in a fuchsia-and-lime-striped cardboard box with Bubblicious stuck to it? No! Sting liked money, but he didn’t like it that much.
If you released your song on a cassingle, it’s because you were desperate. But that just meant you were trying harder.
Note, the following list contains relics from both the ’80s and ’90s, so I could show the love to this format’s entire spectrum.
Tone Loc, “Funky Cold Medina” (1988)
What the Kingsmen were to the rock-and-roll 45, what Henry Fielding was to the epistolary English novel, what Tim Conway was to the comedy-golf VHS, Tone Loc was to the cassingle. If I were taking a cassingle to a desert island, which admittedly would be kind of stupid, this is the one I would take.
Tone Loc, “Wild Thing” (1988)
Or maybe this one.
Paula Abdul, “Forever Your Girl” (1989)
Long before she became America’s favorite not-at-all-drug-crazed judge in a TV singing competition, and don’t those days already seem like a dream too good to be true, she just wanted to sing disco ditties about banging cats and chasing coldhearted snakes.
Debbie Gibson, “Foolish Beat” (1988)
There’s an actual cover photo: Debbie sitting alone at a restaurant table looking sad because the boy of her dreams stood her up. The flip side has a “Debbie Gibson Mega Mix” medley of “Only in My Dreams,” “Shake Your Love” and “Out of the Blue,” making this a very special value. I paid three bucks for it, probably the most I ever shelled out for a cassingle.
George Michael, “Monkey” (1988)
I would totally wear that lederhosen ensemble he’s rocking in this video. But no way could my calves be as seductive as George Michael’s.
Whitney Houston, “So Emotional” (1987)
The one where she sings, “When you talk, I just watch your mouth.” We know what that’s like, Whitney.
Bobby Brown, “Every Little Step” (1989)
Every girl wanted to be Bobby B’s prerogative in 1989. Every boy wanted to be him.
Fine Young Cannibals, “I’m Not the Man I Used to Be” (1989)
If I ever told you that once upon a time, Fine Young Cannibals were cool, you would probably conclude I’d been sipping the angel dust slurpees again, but you’d be wrong. If you were a hipster gal in 1989, you were madly in love with this guy, partly because of his androgynous, post-racial, multicultural looks, but partly also because he sang about girls who drive him crazy (Whoop! Whoop!) and he can’t help himself.
Young MC, “Bust a Move” (1989)
“You want it, you got it.” I loved this one so much, I totally wore out its little cardboard case and relocated it to a full-size plastic cassette case. Only a handful of cassingles earn that.
Rick Astley, “It Would Take a Strong Strong Man” (1988)
Everybody knows Rick Astley because of the phenomenon of “rickrolling.” But I remember him fondly because I had a crush on a girl in Boston who looked a lot like him (and was a big fan of his, as so many girls mysteriously were). So each Rick Astley cassingle seemed like another chapter in our story. First, there was the giddy crush of “Never Gonna Give You Up,” then the deeper longing of “Together Forever.” By the time of this song, Rick’s starting to realize it’s never going to work out with this girl, but he still can’t move on because “It Would Take a Strong Strong Man” to ever let her go. Poor dude—his next hit was “Giving Up on Love.” Nobody even noticed when he made an attempted comeback in the ’90s with a new haircut and the self-explanatory “Cry for Help.” Jesus, I sure hope he met somebody.
Neneh Cherry, “Buffalo Stance” (1989)
At the same time as the above crush, I also kind of liked her best friend—it was the by-no-means rare circumstance of crushing out on two girls who are friends and not being sure which one you want to make a move on, so they both slip away. This song was playing in the bar the night she told me that if you can peel the whole Bud label off in one piece, it means you’re a virgin.
Soul II Soul, “Keep on Movin’” (1989)
This song is surprisingly obscure today, but it’s the ultimate fusion of London hip-hop, Caribbean reggae, Philly soul and California new wave—a cultural event that only could have happened on a cassingle.
Blackstreet, “No Diggity” (1996)
I stole this one from my mom, who got it as a Christmas gift from one of her students. Note: my mom was teaching first grade at the time! Damn! I liked my first grade teacher too, but I never gave her a song about a hooker who got game by the pound.
Jellybean with Elisa Fiorillo, “Who Found Who” (1988)
This disco bopper was the first time I noticed that a single had obviously been produced with the cassingle consumer in mind—it sounded flat and lifeless as a twelve-inch, bu
t totally perky on tape. Not a huge hit, but a technological pivot point.
Sir Mix-A-Lot, “Baby Got Back” (1992)
The only hit song of the cassingle era (of my lifetime, actually) that literally everybody can quote at will. As far as I can tell, this is the most famous song on earth. Any English speaker under the age of eighty can rap at least a few lines from this song. My nieces and nephews know it from Shrek. I am not aware of any Beatles song to achieve this level of cultural saturation.
Sophie B. Hawkins, “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” (1992)
This song is still in rotation anywhere music is played, even though it was never on a hit album and never got any airplay as a video. It was just pure cassingle consciousness, distilled to its essence.
Milli Vanilli, “Blame It on the Rain” (1989)
My sister Caroline had this theory that the Milli Vanilli hits were a continuous soap opera. First they meet the girl (“Girl You Know It’s True”), then they beg her not to dis them (“Baby Don’t Forget My Number”), then they break up (“Girl I’m Gonna Miss You”), until finally accepting their fate (“Blame It on the Rain”). I totally buy this theory. Rob and Fab did this at Ricky Schroeder’s birthday party on Silver Spoons. Personally, I think Milli Vanilli should be honored as a fantastic pop scam instead of demonized over some silly lip-synching scandal. Some blame their producer, some blame the media, but I, like Rob and Fab, prefer to blame it on the rain.
Ralph Tresvant, “Sensitivity” (1990)
The only New Edition guy who never became a huge solo star, but the one who made the finest cassingle.
Kon Kan, “I Beg Your Pardon” (1989)
I defy you to name another era that could produce a Canadian disco group who could rip off New Order, sample a vintage country classic, do the rock, do the freak, and then have the decency to disappear as soon as the song is done.
Kris Kross, “Jump” (1992)
It’s only in the past few years I’ve noticed the existence of people who are too cool to like this song. They will all wither, blow away in the wind and drift to the sea, where the waves will be singing along with Kris Kross.
Kris Kross, “Warm It Up” (1992)
Like The Godfather: Part II, a sequel that tops the original. “Warm it up, Kris! I’m about to! Warm it up, Kris! ’Cause that’s what I was born to do!” (Beavis: “What were we born to do?” Butt-Head: “Uuuuh . . . I don’t know.”)
Corina, “Temptation” (1991)
She wears handcuffs on the cover, symbolizing her enslavement by the addictions she sings about, whether it’s sex or cassingles. I also bought the twelve-inch and the entire Corina album, but it’s this item I still play.
Londonbeat, “I’ve Been Thinking About You” (1991)
Fine Young Cannibals took too long to come up with a follow-up, so Londonbeat moved in. You still hear this one sometimes, usually in the supermarket. The cassingle cover photo has the members of this band with chins in palms and eyebrows furrowed—they are thinking. Side 2 is a medley of album tracks.
Kristine W, “One More Try” (1996)
The guy who cuts my hair now is one of her friends, so I get to hear gossip about her all the time now. He is never surprised I know who she is.
Biz Markie, “Just a Friend” (1989)
One of the truly classic cassingle covers: Biz is holding a handkerchief to wipe away his tears, although he makes sure his handkerchief doesn’t cover up his gold dookie rope. And that’s why he’s the Biz.
Tiffany, “All This Time” (1988)
I bought this at a flea market a couple years ago, from a grizzled bastard with Dewar’s breath who was selling cassingles out of a shoebox for three bucks. I was aghast—ninety-nine cents max! But I really wanted this, and unlike doves, cassingle fans have no pride, so I talked him down to two bucks. But every time I play this, I still get mad about it.
Caroline and Kerry, “Twist and Shout” (1989)
My sister and one of her girlfriends recorded this at the make-your-own-tape booth at the mall. What ever happened to those make-your-own-tape booths? They didn’t last long, but they were such a big deal at the time—for fifty cents, you could record your own karaoke cassingle. As far as I know, Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon was the only rock star to release one of these on an album (“Addicted to Love”), but naturally, I prefer the sound of two screamy Irish girls.
Usher, “You Make Me Wanna” (1997)
One Saturday morning, I heard this song on MTV and immediately drove to the mall to buy it. The girl at the counter sang it as she rang it up. Usher’s album didn’t even exist yet—he may be the last historic example of an artist who broke via tape.
Somethin’ for the People, “My Love Is the Shhh!” (1997)
I first heard this on MTV the same day as “You Make Me Wanna,” and bought it at the same time, but Usher’s the one who got famous. Sorry, Somethin’ for the People! Three months after this R & B slow jam dominated the airwaves, it was gone and forgotten permanently, and I haven’t heard it on the radio once since. But it was damn good, and if it weren’t for my cassingle copy, it basically wouldn’t even exist in my world. I guess it’s the People’s loss!
Billie Ray Martin, “Your Loving Arms” (1995)
Late in the game, purchased with love and ardor from the used-tape rack at Plan 9 Records. It cost me a quarter. It was 1999, four years after the song came and went and long after the rest of the world had forgotten it, and I was grateful to find proof it ever existed. I also found Alison Krauss’s huge 1995 country hit “Baby, Now That I’ve Found You,” and on the drive home, I gave them both elegiac spins in the car. It sounded like cassingles were saying good-bye, and indeed they were—they had entered their pity-retail phase.
But the glory of these songs summed up why the cassingle was solid gold, in that plastic kind of way.
NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK
“Hangin’ Tough”
1989
In the spring of 1989, I was the stacks manager at Harvard’s Cabot Library. In librarian jargon, a stacks manager is a tall guy who puts heavy books in high places. The word “manager” doesn’t mean that I had anyone under me. (In fact, the lack of anybody under me was a problem all year, but that’s another issue.) I loved my work at the library. It was a long winter and a cold spring and I spent most of my hours in the underground stacks shelving books about biology in the HQ section, grooving to my Walkman. I was in the second year of what turned out to be a longer year of celibacy than I’d planned. You remember the George Michael song about sex, the one that goes, “Sex is natural, sex is fun, sex is best when it’s one on one”? I wondered if maybe George Michael was only half right: sex is best when it’s one.
At this time I was heavily involved in trading tapes with my little sister Caroline, whose Catholic middle school class had just voted her “Most Daring” and “Most Awesome.” For her thirteenth birthday party, she had the whole basement packed with the girls in her class, and led them all in a chant: “We hate boys! Except the New Kids! On the Block!” She meant it too. Caroline was heavily involved in stalking the New Kids on the Block, who were still mainly a local Boston phenomenon. She wrote an essay for school on the topic of the “Person I Most Admire,” and picked Joey McIntyre.
Unfortunately, I no longer have my copy of this essay, since I made the mistake of giving it to her husband as a gift, whereupon Caroline grabbed it and ripped it to shreds. She has informed all her siblings that none of her four adorable children are ever allowed to know how much their mom loved the New Kids on the Block. This has something to do with the fact that it violates the fourth commandment against worshipping graven images (and that Donnie Wahlberg sure was graven). So my lips are sealed. Sydney, if you’re reading, put this book down now! Dora’s on! Go!
Caroline was the ultimate badass baby sister. She did not really have the neuroses that afflicted her big brother. In fact, she wasn’t frightened of anything. We big kids never stayed out all night or raised hell or stal
ked pop stars. We had no idea being badass was even an option. Our parents were infuriatingly trusting, so we never got to outrage them. They never gave us any curfew, so we never stayed out late. They never locked up their liquor, so it never occurred to us to sneak any of it. If we felt like cutting school, they’d just shrug and say “fine,” so what was the point? It drove us crazy.
But Caroline? She got away with the things that older siblings never even imagine. Believe me, none of us ever told one another to “fuck off” at the dinner table. Saying “fuck off” at dinner, with my mom sitting right there, would have been like kneeling before the Holy Inquisition and using my tongue to fold the communion wafer into a paper airplane. But when Caroline told Tracey to “fuck off,” all Mom did was make Caroline write up a list of twenty-five things she should have said instead. Caroline’s list of twenty-five “fuck off ” alternatives began strong, but by the end she was struggling—the final two items she came up with were “Forsake me” and “Begone.” “Forsake me!” is still a popular conversation-ender in our sibling circle.
My sisters and I were shocked. None of us dared to say “frickin’” or “stupid” or “douchebag” at home. Not even “d-bag,” which I tried once. We sure screwed up by getting born so early, when our folks had so much more energy.
Talking to Girls About Duran Duran: One Young Man's Quest for True Love and a Cooler Haircut Page 17
