Tell us what 8 tracks you like and we’ll find them for you on Hastings. Prices vary.

Solid Snake leaned against a dusty jukebox in the back of an East Van thrift shop, holding a chunky plastic cartridge like it was a classified relic.

“Eight-track,” he said, turning it over in his gloved hands. “The codec of the analog battlefield.”

Kevin Bouzane laughed. “Snake, it literally clunks when it switches programs mid-song.”

“Exactly,” Snake replied. “You can hear the machine thinking. No invisible algorithm. No silent update. Just ka-chunk. Mechanical honesty.”

Kevin picked up a Fleetwood Mac cartridge. “You really think we can bring this back? In a world of streaming and AI playlists?”

Snake crossed his arms. “Planned obsolescence is the real enemy. Not Metal Gears. Not shadow governments. It’s the idea that your tools are designed to die.”

Kevin nodded slowly. “Phones sealed shut. Batteries glued in. Software updates that slow everything down.”

“Eight-tracks weren’t perfect,” Snake admitted. “But you could open them. Fix the foam pad. Splice the tape. Repair was part of ownership.”

Kevin grinned. “So what’s the plan? Vintage nostalgia project?”

Snake shook his head. “Not nostalgia. Resistance.”

He laid out the vision like a tactical briefing.

“Step one: refurbish old players. Publish open repair guides.
Step two: indie bands release limited-run eight-tracks—physical art objects, not disposable files.
Step three: modular hardware. No proprietary screws. No DRM. A format that forces you to commit to listening.”

Kevin smirked. “You mean no skipping every 10 seconds?”

Snake tapped the cartridge. “You listen to the whole program. You live with the imperfections. Culture used to have friction. Friction creates memory.”

Kevin walked over to a dusty record player. “Vinyl already came back. Cassettes too. Why eight-track?”

Snake’s voice lowered. “Because it’s absurd. And absurdity breaks trends. When corporations optimize everything for efficiency, the most rebellious act is embracing something gloriously inefficient.”

Kevin laughed. “So reversing planned obsolescence… with a format that was obsolete by 1982?”

Snake allowed the faintest smile. “Exactly.”

Kevin’s eyes lit up. “We brand it as anti-disposable tech. The Dandelion Sound Initiative. Music that grows through concrete.”

Snake nodded approvingly. “And all hardware schematics open-source. If it breaks, you fix it. No subscription required.”

Kevin held up the cartridge again. “What about the clunk?”

Snake looked toward the door, like he was scanning for surveillance.

“We amplify it.”

Kevin blinked. “What?”

“We mic the program switch. Make it part of the aesthetic. The ‘ka-chunk’ becomes a signature. A reminder the machine is physical. Fallible. Human.”

Kevin burst out laughing. “You’re serious.”

Snake shrugged. “In a world of invisible clouds and endless scrolling… sometimes the revolution sounds like a plastic cartridge slamming into place.”

Kevin slid the Fleetwood Mac eight-track into the old player. There was a loud, satisfying CLUNK.

Music crackled through the speakers.

Snake closed his eyes for a second.

“No updates,” he said quietly. “No ads. No tracking. Just tape.”

Kevin nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s reverse the trend.”

Snake picked up a screwdriver from the counter.

“Then we start by fixing this one.”