30@30 (2006)

In the early 2000s I stumbled onto a free streaming station broadcasting out of Talkeetna, Alaska called Whole Wheat Radio (WWR). It felt like discovering a secret frequency. The indie and folk artists they played weren't mainstream names, but the community around them was deeply personal. WWR leaned into the early internet in a way that felt handmade. Listeners edited artist pages on a shared wiki, called an automated line to leave shoutouts that later aired between songs, and tuned in around the clock to a stream coming from a small cabin in Alaska.

These emerging folk artists would occasionally visit the cabin to perform live. The whole experience was broadcast, from the opening remarks about where to find the bathroom ("outhouse is out there, over a berm, watch for snow shedding off the roof") and where to grab extra pillows, to the sound of furniture being moved as locals walked in. I felt like I was in that cabin, sitting on a blanket on the floor, listening. It was a house concert. No tickets, just a collection plate passed around and a reminder to buy some merch on your way out.

Listening never felt remote. The voices of Jim and Esther, the regular callers, the easy chatter between songs made that cabin feel less like a remote place on a map and more like a room you could step into. Many of the artists that found their way onto my birthday mixes first came from that period. I ordered CDs directly through WWR, sometimes signed copies, and eventually saw a few of them perform in person. But the first connection was always through that small wooden room and a late-night stream.

Sari Baker's performance of "Crossroads" captures that feeling perfectly. Most of the live WWR sets were stripped down to almost nothing, usually just a guitar, sometimes a piano or accordion. No polish, no layers, no production tricks. Just a voice carrying across a quiet room. This recording sounds exactly like what Whole Wheat Radio felt like. Listening alone at night, it was easy to imagine sitting cross-legged on a blanket on the cabin floor, close enough to hear the shift of a chair or the soft intake of breath before a line. No spectacle. Just the song and the space around it.

I held my breath as you came near
You seemed to have something to say
I leaned in close so I could hear
A roll of duct tape in your hand
"We have a show next saturday"
You hung a flyer on the wall
"Will you come and see us play?"

Prince stands out as musician that brought creativity to his sound through his voice, instruments, and his being. The energy and world of Prince captivates me and his technical and emotional execution is a rare treat. Prince has a box set titled Crystal Ball with three discs of older material and remixes. That box set contained a 4th disc titled The Truth which contains a number of acoustic tracks, including Welcome 2 the Dawn included here.

The Stevie Wonder I remembered from the 80s was smooth and radio-friendly. That was the version I grew up with.

In the 2000s I started listening to bootlegs of Stevie from the 70s on my laptop. Hearing him stretch out live was different. The songs felt looser, fuller, and more alive. That led me back into his 70s albums, where the groove and improvisation were front and center.

Few artists have earned multiple spots on my birthday mixes. Stevie in the 70s has. "Sir Duke" opens this disc for that reason.

"'Cause I'll hammer your toe like a pediatrician." The rhyme is always more important than the semantics.

That line alone makes me hit the replay button. The silliness, the confidence, the absurd punchlines stacked on top of sharp dance beats, it all works. Add in the sound of seams bursting, the thud of a car trunk, then the sudden muted shift as if I'm inside it, and the whole track feels like it's having fun at full volume.

What a great track.

During my first year of college I took a film class as an elective. I was already watching movies constantly. Weekends meant trips to Blockbuster and whatever new release we could find. But this class introduced me to films that felt completely different from anything I had seen before.

Brazil (1985) was one of those films. It was strange, layered, and visually overwhelming in the best way. The production design was intricate, the satire sharp, and the soundtrack lingered long after the credits. I thought about that movie for days afterward.

Geoff Muldaur's theme for "Brazil" carries that same mood for me. It feels cinematic and slightly surreal, like it belongs to a world just off from our own. Hearing it takes me back to those classrooms, when I first started watching movies differently.

I was still using physical CDs in 2006 to distribute my mixtape and needed short tracks full of nostalgia.

The film Clueless (1995) featured the song Supermodel performed by Jill Sobule. Fantastic song and it led me to dive into more of Jill's works. This was a favorite to play around the house and earned enough playtime to be featured on a mix.

Similar themes around our house to Underdog Victorious. Fun song with empowering lyrics that painted a visual for me, listened to this song a ton at the time.

soundcloud and bandcamp

I first heard Cliff Eberhardt through Whole Wheat Radio. WWR gave him generous airtime, and his live performances and live stories from that small cabin in Alaska stuck with me. His songs weren't flashy. They were deliberate, built around stories that unfolded slowly and honestly. He quickly became a top ten artist for me because of the emotional weight he carried in his voice and the patience in letting a song unfold.

When he came to Utah to perform at the Angelus Theater in Spanish Fork, I made sure to go. I brought some of the kids, and my father came as well. Hearing Cliff tell the stories behind his songs in person felt like an extension of those late nights listening to WWR. We sat in the front row, and the small theater wasn't even close to capacity. It felt personal.

After the show we had the chance to talk with him. He signed my poster and we spoke like we were old friends. We even talked about Jim and Whole Wheat Radio, sharing memories of that little cabin in Alaska. It felt like the circle had closed, from a remote stream to a small theater in Utah.

"The Long Road" fits perfectly to close out this mix. I chose the live performance from the Alaska cabin because it carries the intimacy and emotion I felt sitting in the front row at the Angelus. The clear voice, the long notes on the guitar, the patience in the way the song moves forward, it brings me right back to that night.

I remember buying Jagged Little Pill new in 1995, but I didn't hear the hidden track the first time I played it. Or the second. It wasn't until I had listened to the album a dozen times that I let the CD run long enough to notice something unexpected waiting in the silence. I thought the album had ended. The room was quiet long enough that I stopped paying attention. And then, out of that stillness, Alanis Morissette's voice appeared, unguarded.

"Your House" didn't feel like a bonus song. It felt like something I had stumbled into by accident. There were no instruments to cushion it, no production to soften the edges. Just her voice telling a story that sounded almost too personal to be public. Hidden songs felt like rewards for patience.

When I was still publishing these birthday mixes on CD in 2006, I wanted to recreate that feeling. The sense that the music was finished and you could take the disc out, and then suddenly something new begins. Not as a trick, but as a small gift for anyone who stayed.

"Spirit In The Sky" felt perfect for that moment. The music comes in from nowhere, full of energy and brightness, and the lyrics carry a simple kind of truth and light. After the quiet, it feels almost celebratory. I liked the idea of someone thinking the mix was over and then being surprised by that opening riff. It's pure CD-era nostalgia, the kind of accidental discovery that only really worked when you let a disc spin just a little longer than you meant to.