Making a mixtape means exchanging the void of not releasing music with releasing the musical void.
As in, when all the half-finished songs from days of yore don’t necessarily have a permanent home, or a permanent place anywhere, you put them, rhizome-like, into the body of a mix, instead of placing them tree-like and infinite down into the bunker of a record forever-and-ever-until-the-end-of-all-time.
A mix. A theoretical space. A sketchpad. A beautiful bunch of sketches, out in the air.
Sound stretched across air, complex and messy. Samples of sports broadcasts. The squeak of sneakers on an indoor basketball court.
An otherness, a hiddenness, a scentlessness. But most importantly: an approaching fullness; an ongoing alterity.