I’m guessing the vast majority of you have read Nick Hornby’s ‘High Fidelity’. Oh, how we laughed as we spotted ourselves in that character, sniggered at all the pathetic little foibles we recognised as our own, took heart in the fact that we weren’t the only ones who did things like that, and breathed a sigh of relief that a best-selling book was going to excuse us all from being so sad.

This was brought home to me recently when a friend of mine asked me to record a tape for her to listen to in her car, and I thought “cool, I get to compile a tape, and it won’t have to ‘mean’ anything, or have ‘appropriate’ songs on it. I can just put cool songs on it and not worry about if I’m giving the wrong messages”. And then it struck me; this tape is the exception, not the rule. After it’s done, it’ll be back to business as usual, recording tapes for people that ‘say’ something.

Is there any wonder that the character in ‘High Fidelity’ and those of us who empathise with him, find it so difficult to actually talk to women? Last issue, Ben pondered why we at the Baggage, people who can talk about music and bands in minute detail, are unable to express ourselves to other people, people we care about, with even a third of that eloquence. Well, I think I have the answer - it’s because these feelings seem to have ceased to exist independently of music. Every mood has its record, a soundtrack without which it is completely incomplete. In fact, my brother and I share a copy of Sebadoh’s ‘Bakesale’, and I am under strict instructions to post it to him should he ever break up with his girlfriend.

So we no longer get angry, we listen to The Afghan Whigs, and instead of getting depressed, we put on a Portishead album. Which, as the protagonist of ‘High Fidelity’ points out, can’t help but make things worse. And as you build up a dependence, the more extreme the music becomes and the more fed up you feel. Music’s a crippling addiction, and one that leaves you a financial wreck and an emotional cripple.

Which takes me back to the whole idea of making tapes as a substitute for actually talking to people. Think about it - if you can only identify the way you feel yourself through somebody else’s music, then the most obvious way to communicate these feelings to somebody is by playing them these songs. Apart from which, the people on the records say it so much better than we could anyway, don’t they? But take a step back (to where normal people live) and it’s really quite sad. The main problem, of course, is that no song is going to mean the same thing to different people. To some people, ‘I Love You Always Forever’ by Donna Lewis is a beautiful pæan to everlasting love, whereas to me it’s a pile of sub-Enya synth arse, which means that the whole idea of making tapes for someone makes about as much sense as telling them you love them in a language they don’t understand. Knowing that they will understand your intentions is nearly as bad; Christ, you might as well be one of those appalling couples who have ‘a song’ and go all misty-smoochy eyed when some git puts ‘Wonderwall’ on the jukebox.

I’m not saying music shouldn’t mean anything, shouldn’t be important - if I was to say that then The Baggage would completely cease to exist - but I can’t help feeling it ought to be in some kind of perspective, that there ought to be a few concessions to reality in there somewhere. But then reality bites, with big scary real-life teeth, whereas my record collection is safe and comfortable and is always there when I need it. And anyway, I have a tape to compile...

Tim.