By Sam Silveira

Some things are better sourced locally: fruits, vegetables, morning news, drugs. Those concerned with the sourcing of these materials often enlist the help of a dealer or distributor. The smaller the scope of locality, the greater the likelihood of commonality between the dealer and consumer. My small-town high school’s drug dealer operated five lockers down from me, and we took swim lessons together as kids — that’s local.

The local music dealer functions on the same principle. They might be your neighbor, long-time friend, acquaintance, or the person who’s always getting coffee around the time you are. And in the instance they occupy none of those roles, there’s comfort in knowing that they could. You can trust them. In any case, the exchange between music dealer and client is extremely low-stakes, an intentionally casual role.

The tradition of “dealing” locally began with the mixtape. As a medium, the mixtape has a history far vaster than its role in high school hallways. While private mixtapes became a cultural staple of the ’80s, public mixtapes created a completely separate art form in the ’90s. Also called street albums, these were composed of original or mostly-original content and served as an outlet for up-and-coming hip-hop artists to release their material. The medium allowed for more creative freedom, and the inherently limited quantities created scarcity, elusivity, and in turn, hype.

Black artists created and popularized the public mixtape form: DJ Clue and 50 Cent were among the first and greatest to ever do it. Black communities fostered the music dealing tradition in many ways. Community support contributed to the hype around new street albums and gave way to networks, wherein people making mixtapes knew people who were distributing them and people who were seeking them. The public mixtape was essential to the burgeoning rap scene of the ’90s and 2000s.

The private mixtape—very different—was essential to the blossoming youth of America in the 1980s. The music dealing that took place in Black spaces in the

My habit indicates a trend rather than an isolated case: Young people are increasingly excited to curate music for their friends and have the action reciprocated.

’90s was intricate and powerful; for the music industry, it was revolutionary. The music dealing that preceded it was adolescent and local, an insufficient prototype of what would soon be perfected.

During a weeknight phone call, my dad and I discussed his high school days. We mulled over what mattered to him at 17, the strange details that you forget to sit with as the years go on. One such detail was a friend named Jon Bowers who made mixtapes. He made such good mixtapes that he was known even at the neighboring town’s high school, my mom’s alma mater. My dad laughed, recalling that they had both known, but not known, this particular kid. After all these years, he still remembered the little things that made a Bowers mix truly special: he always opened with an instrumental and had a knack for putting artists like Fine Young Cannibals, Elvis Costello, and Sam Cook all in conversation with one another.

“He was shy, very quiet,” he told me. “I think this is kind of how he expressed himself.” Though an overwrought generalization, there is something to be said for the character my dad remembered: mindful, quiet, paying just enough attention to curate music to the tastes of his community. Bowers is one of a long tradition of this particular kind of curator, catering to the local.

Visual by Sam Palmer

Today, the tradition lives on in playlists. Most streaming platforms sport features that allow users to create and share playlists easily. These can cater to highly specific activities, inexplicable feelings, individuals, or any other motivation one may have to curate. Though celebrities and influencers, even artists themselves, have taken to this mode of sharing and can offer unique perspectives, we still turn to the local. I find myself regularly returning to the playlists my friends have made me containing my favorite songs, memories and feelings. My habit indicates

a trend rather than an isolated case: young people are increasingly excited to curate music for their friends and have the action reciprocated.

There’s no way to know whether or not my dad was right about Bowers, but there’s also no denying that value of music curation. People continue to deal in playlists today for this very reason. Cameron Mannings, a junior at Emerson College, said, “It’s just a really good feeling being able to share what you love with others.” Mannings enjoys curating playlists for his friends and embodies joy when he talks about it. Curation is a manner of expression for him, a way to show love.

On the other hand, Elijah Benson, a junior at The New School in New York, is motivated by stories. He curates specific playlists for friends based on moments they’ve shared together, moments he’s been told about, and even their sex lives — an approach that’s intensely intimate and inherently modern. Bowers wouldn’t have done the same for my dad. The modern approach has earned its merits.

The mixtape-maker was motivated by the music. In the case of someone like Bowers, with a keen ear and a less social aspect, the mixtapes he crafted fell on welcome ears and became his legacy. It’s no surprise that the public mixtape form and method of dealing is the one that lasted; it combined music and community. But the local playlist maker is almost always driven by people. Playlists exist in inherently shared playlists. They’re easily linked, sent, and shared (no meeting up in the high school parking lot required). The people who are dealing locally today are taking a client-centered approach, reinventing community music distribution once again.