• The Music Mechanic: A Requiem

    Can you write a temporary eulogy for something you have to kill but may someday resurrect?

    A little over 7 years ago, I made a Facebook post a reality. I posted, “God, I wish I could just get a job soldering all day.”. I’d just brought a synth I bought from a friend for $100 back to life with the minimal skills I had at the time, and I was jazzed. I had no idea a year later, I would embark on the opportunity to murder my excitement with a jackhammer.

    I couldn’t be more grateful to have been given that opportunity.

    Opportunities never really come outta nowhere. Electronics repair kinda runs in my family, actually. My dad troubleshot computer circuits for a living, way back when a computer was a village of hulking, discreet confabulations that took up an entire room just to do basic math. In my teens, I got into electric music gear, but with only a teen’s income, all I could afford was the vintage budget stuff. Christmas 1999, as an A-ha & Depeche Mode-obsessed kid, I asked for a genuine analog Oberheim synth. This was back when they cost $135. They go for nearly 10 times that now! Christmas day, I ferociously tore through the wrapping to lay eyes on my destiny. It was glorious. It would not turn on all the way. My dad, heartbroken at my despondence, sprung into action. We rushed the Oberheim to his workbench to perform emergency neurosurgery. An hour later, I was banging out the lead melody of “Take On Me”. Being an aspiring punk rocker, I was pretty rough & tumble with my equipment. My dad assumed the role of my touring tech. He could have just performed the role silently, but he always asked me to come watch & listen. Gradually, he had passed on enough of his expertise that I could be my own tech. Fixing guitar cables, resoldering the joints of abused input jacks, replacing blown resistors & leaky electrolytic caps… Under his tutelage, I grew in competence until I was also helping maintain friends’ equipment. I’d always been intrigued by electronics; I actually tried to construct a robot with leftover parts he had from keeping my mom’s work computer cutting edge throughout the 90’s. I got further than somebody who had no idea what they were doing should’ve. By the time I graduated highschool, I was keeping that Oberheim I got for Christmas in ‘99 alive.

    When I moved to Pittsburgh, I wasn’t very good at interviews. I had trouble finding work. A friend saw my knack for keeping my gear out of a landfill and asked if I’d be his tech. I didn’t do a very good job, but the job did get done. I realized I’d need some kinda education if I wanted to improve. I put that possibility on a backburner to simmer quietly in the background. It didn’t wind up being fate that finally presented me with the opportunity, but frustration and a fat tax return. In 2015, the screamo band that was my impetus in life broke up and I was out of an artistic outlet. Maybe it was just the free time to let my imagination meander, but fragments of songs that’d been floating around in my mind for ages suddenly congealed into an album. Grungy synthy indie rock, painstakingly crafted songs recklessly rammed through outdated FX racks & tape decks in dire need of refurbishing. I needed some of that vintage gear again; I’d sold my childhood Oberheim one desperate month to avoid homelessness. The internet had since found out about the magic of old gear, so bargains were hard to come by. I jumped on the first couple I found: a Radioshack Moog and the worst Korg that was still all analog & polyphonic. The Realistic MG-1 was suffering from the dreaded crumbling dust-trap foam under the front panel, I thought I could just buy some rubbing alcohol and solve the issue with my knife & a washcloth. The Korg Poly61 was advertised as working fine, but arrived in a sad, crumpled heap on my doorstep. I quickly realized both were way beyond my paygrade. Instead of just admitting I’d sunk the only spare change I had into total lemons, I turned up the heat on the backburner dream. I scoured the world over for some kinda music gear technician program, found only one: the Analog Lab tech mentorship course. $2k, and you get online sessions with a genuine mad genius: one of Pink Floyd’s head gear techs from their heyday in the 70’s. I’d had a busy year working as a shift supervisor at a bagel shop, so I was owed a hefty return that April. I could’ve put that $2k toward a lotta things, but everyone around me implored me: maybe there’s no such thing as fate, but it was just too uncanny that my tax refund & the tuition fees for that gear tech program were the same exact amount. I sent my money to Jeff of The Analog Lab and the rest is history. 18 months later, I graduated the tech mentorship course. A couple months after that, I quit my miserable bagel boy day job and launched The Music Mechanic.

    I know I was still not very good for the first few years. I made a lot of rookie mistakes, but no matter what it cost me, I made up for every one of them. I got a reputation not as a precise master, but as someone who will just keep plugging away til it gets done. As such, my success rate was 99%, but my turnaround time was spotty as hell. If not for friends who believed in me, I might’ve had to come crawling back to that bagel shop. It was a pretty hairy couple years, but I never had to turn back. That is, until the world was dumped unceremoniously into a pandemic…

    So much of my work depends on Mouser’s cheap prices & 2 day shipping. When quarantine was starting to grip every aspect of the global economy, I saw the writing on the wall for The Music Mechanic and placed a desperate bid: I applied at the cute French bakery up the street. To my utter surprise, they hired me to begin immediately. Thank god, because I was spot-on about the parts market supply chain crash, but there was an upside to the pandemic I didn’t anticipate: the effect stimulus checks would have on musicians who found themselves with a whole lot more free time on their hands. Soon as I started my first week at Madeleine Bakery, friends of friends of guys who saw my ads on Craigslist started hitting me up to bring the beloved old kit that’d been rotting in the back of their closet back to working order. The avalanche of work I had pouring in throughout the 1st couple years of the pandemic was an economic accelerant, and soon, it looked like I might beat the economics adage that it takes every startup 5 years to become profitable. If I could just hang 10 on the tidal wave, I might ride to shore in style. I did my absolute best, but it became clear pretty quickly that I was in over my head. I worked 3 short 5-hour days at the bakery and put in around 60hrs at The Music Mechanic. Guess which one was paying my bills? In life, money is time, and time is money. You can make big money, but if you don’t make big money quick, it’s the same as small money. It would take me months to get through a pile someone would hand me, and at the end of it all, I would only break even. The stress was too much to even process. If I would ever even start to think about it, it would upset the whole delicate balance and hamper my ability to even attempt the work at all. That did happen a couple times and it set me back a whole season. I have to admit, I think it affected my relationship too…

    Throughout the years of just putting in the time as The Music Mechanic, I’ve had a secret goal for the job: to accumulate my own studio of gear. When I started The Music Mechanic, the attic of the house I shared with my honey was my music room. It’s a huge room and it was full of gear. I was working on finally creating all the music that’s piled up in my head since I was a kid. It was my main reason for being! I was so miserable at my shift supe gig, though, that I sold it all to fund the startup costs of The Music Mechanic. All I had left was the gear I couldn’t ever fix up enough to sell. It was painful losing all those tools, friends, I had acquired through the agony of food service purgatory, but the hope of financial freedom was worth the gamble. It was a bigger sacrifice than I may have realized at the time, so thank god it paid off, but it was pretty depressing trying to replace a room full of glorious old equipment that simply sounded like I’d always dreamed any time I played it with all software. I know folks say it’s not the gear, it’s the musician, but there’s a reason everyone still shells out several grand for Roland Junos when virtual versions exist for chump change. I tried to hold out as long as I could, but there was just nothing for it: I needed to rebuild my studio again. Over the course of the next 5 years, I became a gear broker. Having the skills to salvage almost anything from the brink of oblivion meant I could pick up decent kit for peanuts. Time is money, but money is time, and maybe what I saved in upfront costs I lost in the days & days it takes to get abused equipment back to the pink of health, but I was so successful at this game that I could play it on a whim and come out ahead every time. I never lost a dime on it. I guess it helps that, in step with the ethos of how broken & decayed I want my music to sound, I only keep gear that I can never fix up enough to sell for top dollar. I’ve had to let things go that were an ache of a goodbye to say, and the utter insanity of the vintage gear market means there’s gear I miss dearly that I may just never be able to justify owning again, but by the time my I broke up with my partner and was ready to move out, I had to rent a huge truck to haul my Laboratory of Misfit Kit. A strange thing happened, though; I found I didn’t even turn a lot of it on for a long time. It wasn’t that I’d given up on the dream, the ideas never stopped flooding in, it’s just that I was always so tired by the time I hung up my soldering iron to cool off for the day. Why then did I keep stockpiling all these treasures I can’t take to heaven? It wasn’t what forum dorks call GAS (or, Gear Acquisition Syndrome); nobody lusts after a Yamaha SY77 or Roland D10, both cornerstones of my recordings. I was gearing up in a couple different senses for a season of my life to come, I just didn’t know it in the front of my mind yet. Of all the backburner dreams, one has been simmering since I was a child. Lately, that pan has been boiling over.

    I try not to believe in fate, but I’m susceptible to magical thinking. I try not to see signs everywhere, but sometimes the coincidences in life are just too dang apparent. I try not to believe metaphorical doors just mystically close & open to usher you through life’s labyrinth when you get discombobulated, but that’s simply always been my experience. Whenever I feel stuck or lost, I knock on a door to see if it beckons me in or slams in my face. I’ve felt both stuck & lost as The Music Mechanic for a long time. The pandemic was honestly a rejuvenating period of reflection for me. It granted me the time & space to try some things I’d always wanted to try, like building my own guitar pedals from scratch or developing synth hacks I could sell as a side hustle or making jewelry from parts left over after a repair job, but the stimulus checks also gave me the chance to try something I’d always been almost too curious about to want to actually attempt: going back to school. School & have always been arch enemies. By the time I graduated high school, I was pulling decent enough grades, but I was never a great student all around. In particular, I always had a hell of a time with math. In my inaugural year of high school, my turmoil with arithmetic was so great that I finally undertook an intensive evaluation to see if I had any learning disabilities. I turned out to have most of the major ones, but also number dyslexia: dyscalculia. There it was, in a doctor’s report, my trouble with numbers. Unlike words, which I always scored in the top percentile of the world for on achievement tests, numbers are slippery devils. They change shape as I work with them. I’ll put two of them together in simple addition and it won’t add up. I graduated with an A in Algebra 2, but that was my second attempt at it. I took a week of Geometry and washed out. I’ve always approached my repair work as an enlightened guesser. My window into understanding reverse-engineering was my comprehension of the moving parts of music itself. I grasp the operational flow of a synthesizer, so I can visualize what must be wrong with it if it fails. If there’s digital shriek in the analog output of a reverb rack, I know instinctually it must be a decoupling cap that wandered out of spec, even though I couldn’t tell you the formula for why exactly the unwelcome frequency curve suddenly audible betrayed that it was a decoupling cap and not a coupling cap. Almost always, my instincts are right, but often not in the way I initially think. Troubleshooting would be a crapshoot even with an MIT degree, but without one it can be a shot in the dark. I’ve rarely been so wrong that I’ve exacerbated the problem I was trying to solve, but it has happened, and I think that’s just not acceptable for a professional. Plus, my turnaround times were only marginally better after years of honing my skills. Two years after lockdown hit, I found myself with a lull in repair work, stability at the bakery, stimulus checks in hand, and several grand in Pell Grants, so I went back to school. Anticipating an uphill battle from the logical side of the subject, I opted for a community college certificate in a part time curriculum. Any other program, I would have to work full time at the bakery to make ends meet, but the Electrical Engineering cert at CCAC was so cheap, I’d get to keep a lot of the Pell money to put towards my bills so I could just focus on learning as much as possible. I thought it would be the perfect scenario. It ended up being the first major stroke of bad luck that forced my hand.

    After lockdown, college enrollment was down across the board. It affected even Ivy League institutions, but hit community colleges the hardest. The CCAC campus I attended was a ghost town. I was in the EE program with 10 other people. It was pretty spooky. The first semester played out auspiciously enough. With the resources to accommodate my dyscalculia, I unveiled myself as a straight-A student who was only buried under an archaic education model that didn’t suit me. I made the Dean’s List for the first time in my life. I was stimulated, engaged, hopeful. It wasn’t meant to be. Midway through the 2nd semester, the CCAC board announced they were shutting down almost every program at that campus except for nursing. They’d still honor everyone who’d already enrolled, but they wouldn’t be taking any new admissions. I completely commiserate with my EE teacher, who was also the head of the department, but she flew into a panic. The carefully crafted curriculum fell apart, and I could feel my education flying off the rails. The semester ended without much incident, and I still made the Dean’s List again, but I was worried and wondering if I should jump ship before I went down with it. I didn’t have a choice. I could not afford to jump ship now. I’ve always done my best learning as basically an autodidact who needs an occasional course-correction from a patient mentor, so I resolved to just be the teacher I needed for myself, use the college’s resources to give myself an education then collect the piece of paper I paid for at the end. I didn’t know it would all devolve into a class full of people expecting to learn about microcontrollers getting conscripted to construct an automated farmbot for some bizarre scheme to sell produce at a farmer’s market to save a teacher’s job. Obviously, her ploy didn’t work out and we did not receive even a day of learning on the subject we signed up for. 3 weeks into the 3rd (and final) semester, she was placed on administrative leave. The classes were the hardest for me yet: digital logic & the math behind the black magic of transistors. I genuinely wracked my brain just trying to keep up, but felt myself falling behind. The employee tasked with picking up the disgraced department head’s slack was the lab moderator, who was given a week to make sense of her scribbled notes for the courses. He did his best, and I commend him endlessly, but it was just not enough. I was relegated to turning to Google to answer my muddled questions about this subject I was having a hard time with. Somehow, I managed to pull through with a perfect GPA. I graduated on the Dean’s List. I wish I could go back in time to when I was struggling with my multiplication tables while the rest of the class was given ice cream money for breezing through theirs, show myself that it was always the setting and not my worth as a human… Worthy as I definitively proved myself to be, education had failed me again. I got my certificate, but it felt like a waste. The improvements to my practical skills were only subtle. It saved me minutes, not months. It was not enough. With only enough left of my lifetime Pell eligibility to take the last couple EE courses CCAC was offering before the program shut down for good, but without the certainty that I had even gleaned enough knowledge to not just find myself needing to start over from the beginning, I conceded that I had reached a stalemate with higher learning. I needed a 4 year degree that I needed to already have the benefits of to embark on attaining. I had sought a ladder upwards and bumped my head on a low ceiling.

    There was only one hope for me now if I ever wanted upward mobility: the gear game. With school over, and my social life empty after the breakup, I threw myself into the used gear market. I’d accidentally bought a stack of dead rack FX processors while checking the tax on an eBay listing as the bus I was on tackled one of those famous Pittsburgh potholes, and it ended up being such a stroke of fortune, I thought I had finally found my way forward. With relative efficiency, I turned $350 worth of burnt-smelling metal into $1.5k of sales. Time is money and money is time and big money is small money if it isn’t fast money, and this was the fastest money I had ever made. I’ve made more refurbishing synthesizers, and my record at the time was a pure grand of profit from resurrecting then upgrading the hell out of a Roland JX-10, but rack units were the perfect gambit: typically straightforward to solve, easy to acquire parts for, and cheap to ship. More than any other type of gear, they seem to not only get listed for peanuts, but to sell in only a couple weeks. Some of the synths I’ve sold have taken seasons to finally get the hell out of my hair. Racks were always out of my sight in a month tops. The Lexicon PCM91 I got for $200 and sold for $900 may not have topped that JX-10 I sold for $1.6k, but it took an afternoon of work to get in selling shape vs. half a year of toil to finish. In a line of work where nothing ever seems to just go smoothly, reselling racks was such a cakewalk it felt like fate. I scored a Yamaha SPX2000 that I was sure was fried for good, only to solve it with $20 of parts for $300 of profit. In just two months of buying, fixing, and selling rack FX, I had covered the costs of moving AND going from paying $500 a month in bills to $1k. I had finally managed to buy myself time for the first time since I founded The Music Mechanic.

    Over time, a backlog of gear I couldn’t fix yet for one reason or another had piled up so much that it filled my workshop. With my financial lead, I resolved to get through the backlog once & for all, take a short break, then start over with a clean slate. First, though, one of earliest & staunchest supporters had a job for me: a massive overhaul on a 60’s combo organ salvaged from rotting in a barn since at least the 80’s. It didn’t sound like it would be the hugest deal, it was advertised as only suffering from one bum note card, but I geared up for potentially my largest endeavor yet. I had no fucking idea what I was in for. I bought my new spool of solder for the season and got to work. Within a week, I had the whole job looking like it was finished. There was a lot more wrong than just that one bum note card, but the problem was only film capacitors so old they had started to mold over. I evicted all of ‘em for nice new substitutes and the organ seemed to work better than projected new. I replaced tons of the deranged old germanium transistors with functional modern silicon equivalents and it was such a success, there was no warmup time for the tuning anymore. Still, I’d learned a couple cautions over the years, and I opted to let the organ sit with the lid open for a couple days, just to make sure nothing unexpected would rear its head in a stress test. I saved a lot of face with my friend that way. I turned the organ back on a couple days later to find all my work had been undone by some unseen force. Now all the notes were scrambled, some weren’t even producing notes but netherworldly howls. I tried not to panic because sometimes with these old dogs, things get worse before they can be made better. I plunged into that freejazz dissociative state all athletes & performing artists slip into to make the magic happen, and I came to half a day later with the organ working like a charm again. I went to bed hopeful that I’d hit my stride at long last and not even a minor college scandal that robbed me of an education could dull my shine now. So when I woke up the next day to test the organ, I was treated to a full-on emotional breakdown. I thought the howling notes were jarring yesterday, but this was like an aural portal to hell. The tormented wailing of the damned… I just had to shut the lid and go to bed.

    A week later, my emotional fortitude had replenished enough that I opened up the organ again. Each note of a transistor organ is handled by one of a handful of cards, with pairs of transistors screaming at each other filtered by capacitors to produce 5 octaves of every note. It’s a wonder it even works at all, especially considering Germanium’s ungermain disposition and the way old components go senile, so maybe I just needed to replace everything in the entire organ? It wouldn’t have even cost that much… I asked my friend if she wanted to just go this route and be done with it and she said hell yeah. She sent me the $50 or so I needed for the parts, and I felt hopeful again. The note cards of my own mind stopped their agonized caterwauling. Couple days later, I set to work. Somehow, I knocked out the entire endeavor in a day. It was my greatest feat of freejazz athleticism yet. I felt like fate wanted to see a display of determination from me that it would respond to in good faith. I felt the light of Christ illuminating me the next morning when I finally got to test it. So obviously, it was among the worst feelings I’ve ever felt in my life when the screams of the damned greeted me with extra bile at having been silenced for a moment. I felt like I was losing my mind. I fell to the floor and cried. It did not make one lick of logical sense. I did not know what the fuck to do. I broke the bad news to my friend and tried to work on something else.

    I tried to focus on other things, only to be met with a baffling resistance. I began to believe I had been cursed, a hex I earned by not having any idea yet what I had done to earn it. A month later, I was so numb from nothing going right in any aspect of my life that I turned on the organ for another session of self-flagellation. The screams of the damned greeted me sardonically, asking how I’d been. It pissed me the fuck off. Something in my mind turned from despair to steely hate. I would solve this problem out of sheer malice. I would send the devil out on his fucking ass! I put on my magnifying glasses and inspected the worst offender of the note cards: the F key, funnily enough. It was eaten alive by strange, aquamarine mold. In a jolt of panic, I tossed it across the room. I ran to the grocery store, bought bleach and gloves and masks. I set up a quarantine room to rid this poor instrument of the scourge. I disassembled it completely and sprayed every millimeter of it with bleach. I let it dry in a wind tunnel of fans. I checked on it later, the mold had multiplied, eaten the bleach & flourished. I did not despair, the flames of my loathing roared. I borrowed some industrial grade mold killer from a friend. In a day, I had won the war that had plagued my life. A week later, I handed the organ back to its owner for the most vehemently needed chunk of change in my life.

    I felt empowered. I had come up against the most manxome foe of my career and come out… well, not ahead, and definitely not unscathed, but intact. I almost quit this work entirely. I thought I had degraded mentally somehow to where I could no longer perform my profession reliably. It was all a lark! It was just a problem I did not understand. It broadened my perspective. I may have had my feet held to the fire, but I walked away with wisdom. I determined myself to launch into a new chapter of The Music Mechanic, sure that I would make my way up the ladder and maybe even be able to buy a car soon.

    It’s often the positive takeaways that set you up for despondence most masterfully, huh.

    The friend who commissioned me to fix the organ dropped off a drum machine for me to refurbish. It was mostly fine, the master tempo clock just seemed to get confused. She actually wanted me to see if I could put it on a switch as a fun feature for experimental performances. It sounded like a cinch. After the fiascos I’d just endured, I was confident. I found the issue right away: more moldy film caps & dementia-addled germanium transistors. I replaced them and it looked like I had finished the job in an afternoon. I let it sit overnight just to make sure. I fired it on the next day and was shoveled right back into hell again. It was not working at all. Not even a little bit. I’ll spare you the month long quest I tumbled into, but nothing I did made a lick of difference. It was even more baffling than the organ, because this time, there was no visible mold. It made even less sense than no sense, it was so nonsensical it dragged all of reality into a realm of higgledy-piggledy. I put the poor dear on a shelf and tried to lose myself in other work. Another friend dropped off a beautiful vintage receiver that just wasn’t passing audio. After testing, I concluded definitively that the whole problem was just gunk inside an input selector switch. I cleaned it out and fixed a bunch of iffy solder joints for good measure. It sounded fantastic upon testing and I gave it a clean bill of health. She was set to pick it up a few days later. I happened to just want to hear one of my favorite records through it, so I turned it on again. I was greeted not with the melodious strains of Elysian Fields through honeyed 70’s solid state, but a battlefield of crickets being roasted alive like popcorn. I popped the lid and watched tiny bolts of lightning flit inexplicably between a 35v power rail & a -15v volt line. The screams of the damned threw off their popcorn cricket disguises. Hell had claimed itself as my home now. I inspected the power supply board with my magnifying glasses in lieu of knowing what the hell else to do. I’ve long used AIM no-clean flux solder because I lose a lot of time scraping resin off PCB’s, so I don’t let my OCD get anal about it. This resin looked different, though. There was no mold in this receiver to skirmish with, so what I was seeing was something alien to me even after all the strangeness I’d witnessed lately. It looked like beeswax gone rancid. I touched it, and sure as the surprise on my face, I received a jolt of electricity. I measured just the clump of the rancid resin with my voltmeter, a straight 12v DC, just sitting there where no metal was. A couple of the traces on the PCB weren’t coated right from the factory, leaving random corners exposed. The resin had formed a short between several of them. I got to work scraping it all off, but found the filmy, gummy grease needed to be scrubbed out with rubbing alcohol too. I cleaned all the gunk off all the boards almost automatically; I don’t even remember doing it, really. I turned the receiver on to test… and it just very simply worked fine, as if nothing ever happened.

    That spool of solder I bought for the big organ job? I got sent the wrong kind by Mouser. I like to work with thin gage solder wire, usually .32, but this was .62. I figured I’d just use it for the wider joints and save the rest of the thin wire spoil for tighter spacings then buy another spool of .32 after this crop of jobs was done. What I didn’t notice was that this wasn’t merely thicker gage solder wire, it was water-soluble rosin-core wire. A new product, with some jargon gimmick name… The datasheet was a little cagey, it referred to the newly developed flux by an acronym but never told us what the acronym stood for. It said the residue must be cleaned up after a job immediately with scalding hot water from a high pressure hose. I looked up the jargon, something about “Halides”, and found in an electrical engineering forum a circle of techs trashtalking water soluble flux as a perilously destructive chemical compound. Everything they were saying matched the trouble I was having! It looks like water-soluble flux was a failure back in the day, but is getting a rebrand now. I fell unwitting victim to it. It was only after doing due diligence on a frenzied hunch that I connected the dots. This solder I was given by mistake, it was rife with gremlins. I could not have known going into it, there was nothing to indicate it on the spool of solder itself, but I still felt like I should have caught it earlier, at least. I didn’t use it on everything I worked on through that period. Coupled with the fact that two of the things I worked on were suffering from mold infestations, my deductive prowess was muddied. I didn’t feel any better realizing that, though. I felt punished. I actually started to look for new jobs. I had a certificate in Electrical Engineering, after all! It didn’t do me any favors. I knocked on around 50 doors, only one opened to me: a job at a Mitsubishi plant. 50hrs a week, mandatory overtime on weekends & holidays, swing shifts, and a 2 & 1/2 hr commute. I would’ve had to buy a car just to start working there. It wasn’t even that much better than the $20 an hour I was making at the bakery. Seeing the bleakness of my alternatives, I decided to give Mu-Mek another go. This time, I sold something I didn’t need, but hurt to part with: that Lexicon PCM91 I made around $700 of profit on. I put some of the money towards debts, some towards savings (the first time I’d been able to save money in too long a time), and around $100 into another reverb that would help me not miss the PCM91 so much. I had broken even and could invest back into the biz!
    Then a Korg DSS-1 I sold got damaged in shipping. Then a Yamaha SPX2000 I sold got damaged in shipping. The DSS-1 was infected with the demon solder anyway. Took a month til I had it working again. Things got so tight, I sold a phaser pedal I bought for myself and was thrilled to break even. All told, the demon solder nearly bankrupted me, and UPS’s handling didn’t help either. It was a foetid stretch of time that I barely survived, but I did survive and in spite of everything, I was raring to try again. I decided to put half my tax return toward a nice Hakko desoldering gun, and the other half toward a project to fix up to put me in the big leagues. I scanned the web for a week then found the perfect candidate: a Lexicon PCM70 for $350 that wasn’t passing wet audio. I’d fixed all the budget Lexicons from the same era as the PCM70, and reading the listing, I figured it must just be a shorted -15v analog rail. I was right, but I should’ve done my due diligence. I broke one of my cardinal rules of buying iffy stuff to fix: always ask the seller about the history of the unit first, then look up the issue to make sure it isn’t a death knell. I didn’t do either of those things. I’ve watched gear sell while I was waiting for a response from the seller, and I didn’t wanna miss this opportunity. I pounced on it what I thought was my destiny. I really should’ve known by now that destiny is just the bait for a trap. Lexicon PCM70’s are infamous for a total roll of the dice. The way they were designed, Lexicon cut a couple key corners in interfacing the digital circuits with the analog ones, and basically left the custom FX processor chips potentially vulnerable to a -15v shotgun blast. I would’ve known this if I’d done my due diligence. If I’d looked it up, I’d have seen that what the seller was describing were the symptoms of the FX processor chips potentially dying. Instead, I learned this truth slowly, through about a month of tinkering. I figured this would be fast cash, Lexicon PCM70’s in great condition with the newest firmware yet older presets go for $1.5k. I figured I would just have to replace a couple op-amps. I did have to replace them, but I wound up having to replace just about everything else too. In trying to deny the ticket I just bought to bust, I replaced everything inside the PCM70 I could get my hands on. Most of it is still manufactured, but there’s two last things that could be causing the trouble. One is these chips that are common, but hard to find someone who can burn the firmware onto. The other is simply not available for sale as a spare anywhere in the world. There’s a guy on a forum who says he’s working on a replacement for the unobtainium, but the going is slow and he won’t divulge any details. Probably because he thinks if he can solve this issue, this will be his big ticket. I despise him for it, but I know the feeling. I’ve had a very distant backburner idea I’ve thought might be my own big ticket. See, there’s this drum machine that everybody used in the 90’s. Autechre, Aphex Twin, Squarepusher, every Chicago house legend… Roland’s R8. The original is beloved and goes for around $3-500, which is really good for a digital drum machine. There’s an upgraded version that contains all the card expansions with extra drum samples onboard. That one started selling for a grand. I’ve seen the schematics for both, the difference is pretty negligible. The firmware for the MKII is online, so I tried it in my MKI R8, and it boots up fine, it’s just missing the extra waveforms of the MKII’s ROM. The sample ROMs aren’t anywhere online, so I’ve always meant to buy an MKII, rip the ROMs, and see about designing a kit to upgrade an MKI into an MKII. If I could pull it off, I could sell them as an expansion. It’s not BIG money, but it might be car money! R8 MKII’s are expensive now, so I’ve kept my eyes peeled for one in need of some love. I sold a few things I fixed and wondered what to do with the extra $$, when lo & behold a $300 R8 MKII shows up on Reverb.com. I pounced. I knew this time, even if the kit idea doesn’t work out, I can definitely sell the MKII for at least double what I put in. It was a safe bet either way, but I could strike it… well, richer than I am. I was ignoring the fact that we’re in a recession and the vintage gear market is in the coalmine canary index.

    I receive the drum machine and rip the ROMs and burn copies to test, and yes, it looks like an MKI can indeed be turned into an MKII. It just is not as straightforward a process as it looked in the schematics. Not only are the wave ROMs different, but the mapping is different. There’s also an extra RAM chip in the MKII and a couple extra logic chips to handle the expanded memory. To turn an MKI into an MKII, I need to design adapter boards for the ROMs, but I also need to cut the traces of a logic chip, rewire it with the new chip, solder in the new SRAM chip, and rewire a couple other traces. Even when I have the adapter board done, it’s not a simple upgrade at all. Anyone who wants it done would have to send their R8 to me and I would have to do the installation by hand. It’s not terribly extensive, and it would get easier with the practice, but it’s not a kit I can just sell. I would have to charge extra for the labor for it to be worth my time. I haven’t mocked up a cost yet because I don’t know what the custom PCB’s will cost, but it’s looking like at the end of the day, for all I have to charge for the upgrade, you kinda might as well just wait for a kinda scuffed up R8 MKII to show up for sale. This isn’t a huge blow by any means, and I was prepared for this eventuality, but… it just isn’t the leg up I really need. It’s kinda disappointing, and I could handle that, if it weren’t for it falling in the most cursed year of my career. I can’t help but feel like it’s a sign. I am the coyote chasing the roadrunner here. I am only going to keep smacking into a wall if I keep trying.

    The truth is, we’re headed for certain economic collapse. I think it may be part of the Trump team’s plan, or something. I don’t know. I really don’t care. I finally sat down to do a cost analysis and doodle up a working budget and update my pricing, and it just hurts my soul. I’ve always undersold my services for commissioned repairs, probably out of a sense of imposter syndrome, yeah, but also because I really want everyone to be able to afford me. I know the excitement of scoring a tape deck from Goodwill for $20 just to get it home and realize it wasn’t even worth the $20. I don’t want someone to have to shell out $100 to me just to feel good about that $20 tape deck. It hurts my heart. I don’t do this job for the love of money, I do it for the love of gear, but really, the love of people. I want to help people! I want to be a boon to my community. It feels great to say I’m The Music Mechanic. Not because it’s cred or some bullshit, but because musicians always light up: “Oh! I should get your number! I’ve got this Tascam…”. I want to be radical in whatever way I can afford to be, and fighting planned obsolescence is punk as fuck. I know the joy I feel in watching my efforts bring a beloved instrument back from the dead. I want to give that to as many people as possible. I just… I can’t. It takes so much time for me to do this work. I’m always drastically underestimating how long jobs will take. Musicians who aren’t versed in electronics can only describe the problem the gear exhibits to a degree, so often my initial prognosis is that this should be a cinch. It almost never is. There’s always comorbidities or snags that only arise somewhere deep down the line. I’ll take on a project that someone who doesn’t really know this stuff looked up and saw hopeful analyses for only to find that they should’ve read the warnings before sending it to me. A lot of the time, I’m fixing what was a simple problem, but musicians poking around turned it into a near-impossibility. Sometimes, I just need some technical info from the manufacturers they refuse to give me because I’m not in their authorized network. I can’t get in their authorized network because they only let you apply if you’re a brick & mortar retailer. That’s why Syntaur sells new synths while their parts warehouse is almost completely out of stock. When I got into this game, I thought I could grant music gear the immortality humans will never attain. It’s just not true. Everything will die someday. We will all flame out into the sun. When I think about that, it makes me ponder what I really want to do with my time. The answer, frankly, is just not this work anymore. Yes, I am driven by passion. Yes, I do love this job when my eyes cloud over and I’m operating at lightspeed from my second sight. Most of the time, I’m stuck grinding down my tire tread in 1st gear, though. If I’m honest with myself, I do not have the resources I need to be The Music Mechanic my city deserves. I need to go back to school, get a 4 year degree. There’s just nothing else for it, I need more education. There’s no way I can make that happen at this juncture. Not financially, not intellectually, not even emotionally. I do not have the money, I do not have the time, and I do not have the gumption to start over from the bottom again. I am exhausted. I need to not worry if I’ll be able to pull all these threads together again this time. I am not a businessman, I’m an anticapitalist. Why am I trying to be a petit bourgeois?

    I’m not giving up on it entirely. Not forever, just indefinitely. I’ll probably always buy & resell gear I fix up, I just don’t want to rely on it for my livelihood. I don’t want to have to raise my prices. I don’t want to have to move to LA to make it work. What I want is the thing the Music Mechanic was supposed to give me all those years ago when my fast food job was sabotaging all my efforts to never work in fast food again: time to make my own music a reality. It’s been 10 years since I recorded the demo of my first album. The songs never stopped piling up. I have 18 albums of material all ready to be realized. I have to embark on that while my body is still willing. Another thing is, my favorite aspect of the Music Mechanic, by far, is interfacing with fellow musicians. It has opened so many doors for me, introduced me to so many cool new people. I was afraid that if I took a break, I would lose that. I’m not so afraid anymore. I’ve been meeting people now not under the auspices of fixing their stuff, but creating art together. Booking shows, dancing, recording songs, jamming… That is what fills my soul with joy and all I want is the freedom to explore that to whatever level I can take it to. I need to get it out of my system at the very least, but I suspect I might see some kinda success if I keep at it. I believe in it. It is my reason for living now. I want to devote everything to it, but like the repair work, it just takes so much time. It also eats up the same energy I spend doing repair work, so if I deplete the one reserve, I have none left in the tank for the other. Plus, I kinda suspect solder fumes & the dust of ages fucks with my allergies. Maybe there is no such thing as fate, but all I see are signs that I need to put the brakes on and try something new, even if only for a few years. I doubt I will fully close the chapter on this book, there will always be burning questions in my mind that I need to answer, like what the hell should I do with this colossal arsenal of vintage 4558 op-amps I’ve accumulated over the years… I just need to put a pin in it for now.

    Going forward, I’m obviously gonna wrap up everything currently on my bench. If I’ve talked to you about fixing your kit and we just haven’t gotten the chance to make it happen yet, I’ll hold a place in line for you. It also never hurts to ask, the worst I can say is no and you’re only in the same position you were in before you asked.

    My plan is, I’m gonna just work at Madeleine 4-5 days a week. I’m hoping to have an income from music I make ASAP, whether that’s from scoring whatever I can score or playing gigs. I’m gonna finally have a chance to turn all these discarded transistors into jewelry. I’m gonna try to write for some local mags. I’m gonna help my friend make a record. Gonna try to find a way to go viral in a way I don’t bristle at the thought of. The Music Mechanic is honestly very lonely, I’m excited to try to work with people again. I’m still apprehensive that in this world, this economy, I’ll ever own a house or anything, but if I ever have a shot at it, I think my only hope is in music. I guess we’ll see if the demon solder changes forms and follows me everywhere I try to go. I just know that if I’m really doing what I love, if I’m truly content & surrounded by people, I can defeat any demon solder formed against me. Who knows, maybe someday when I’ve made my records and said my peace, I’ll have the money & time & wherewithal to go to a tech school and get that EE degree. Then I’ll return, The Music Mechanic my city deserves.

    May 11, 2025
    Mu-crit
  • Searching For Analog In Digital: Synthesizing Prepared Piano

    I got the chance to score a short film. I got the opportunity because I took a pretty audacious step in creating my first piano piece this past Autumn. It was audacious because I do not play the piano. Well, not well anyway. Piano was actually the instrument I started out on, but guitar was where I really came into my own as a musician. The physicality of guitar just made instant sense to me in a way piano never did. Now I see myself as more of a singer / songwriter, and I wear every hat in the audio production chain making music from scratch all by myself, but when I envision notes, the representative interface that comes to mind is always a keyboard. The shapes chords form from the keys, the cues that let you know you’re entering a new octave, the ergonomics of figuring out if you can even play that beefy cluster of notes all at once or if you can fly through that run for a flashy melody… It’s my first language. I am a transplant on any other instrument, fluent as I may be. The first music I fell for was piano pieces, too. Solo piano. Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Debussy… Debussy is probably my favorite musician ever. To play piano proficiently, in my worldview, is the loftiest endeavor. I cannot do it. The muscular disorder that kept me from mastering Van Halen when I cut my teeth on guitar by imitation, it means I’ll never be able to really tickle the ivories either. I’ve never been able to bifurcate my brain to get each hand playing a seperate musical passage anyway. I have a hell of a time multitasking anything repetitive. What the hell am I doing writing piano pieces? You can hear them, they’re on my Whyp or SoundCloud! How is that possible? Well, I cheat. No, I can’t play an entire piece from start to finish with my own two hands. I can play each individual part a buncha times until I get it right. I can record it from the decent keybed of my Yamaha SY77 as MIDI data. I can create a composite from each take until I have the whole song in MIDI, just waiting to trigger a synth. It’s studio magic, the same way you hear this polished, astonishing performance of a song that’s in actuality a patchwork of the absolute best takes of each part, stitched together and encased in the resin of audio engineering & production tricks. Is that wrong? Is it removing the human element from art, so any piano piece I create isn’t worth a damn? Idk, man, listen and tell me! Since the MIDI is a patchwork of my physical playing, it contains my mistakes, my missed timing, the velocity data of how hard or soft I hit the notes, as much of me as can be encoded in a digital signal. Art means different things to every artist. For me, it’s the most vivid hallucination, a fever dream rapping on the door of my conscious that will drive me insane if left unanswered. I didn’t answer it for most of my life, and now it is a fugue state that seizes me. It’s triggered by my synaesthesia, so it has the power to shunt me into catatonia at any moment of my waking life. Now that I’ve spent years assembling a home studio and have finally embarked on translating these intrusive signals into forms anyone else can experience, it’s calmed down. I believe I have a calling to make music. I don’t know if anything will ever come of it, I just have to do it. I will answer the call by any means necessary! Even if that means resorting to machines.

    When I tried to score this short film, I relied on inspirational lightning strikes as usual. I’ve learned by now how to wade out into the stream of the collective subconscious to catch a big fish, David Lynch style. Everything I got was really good, actually probably pretty damn impressive for a moment’s notice (in my experience, melodies need to steep like tea, but for years upon years if possible), but none of it was what the director envisioned. He namedropped Olafur Arnalds’ “They Sink” as a reference and it clicked. Acoustic! Also, E flat major, which also turned out to be astute, but the piece I finally recorded that won the director’s approval was a workup of an old song of mine that ended up sounding like a classical guitarist soundtracking a beach wedding (a beautiful event I once witnessed). All it is in the end is acoustic guitar recorded messily into a tube compressor. Now, I know it was really the melodic content, the sentiment that the director was looking for. The other pieces I submitted were the wrong mood. This acoustic guitar instrumental wound up kinda cool, cavalier, ambivalent. That’s all true, but I think the texture must’ve been a pivotal part of it too. There’s just something about the way an acoustic instrument radiates sound in a room, and how that interacts with the realm of analog audio tech. It feels alive to us. It’s organic. It reminds us of ourselves, so we can imprint on it. That brings me to the real problem of recording synthesized piano pieces. Even if the MIDI data is spliced with my DNA, what can I do with that data to breathe life into the final product? There are a few really nerdy answers. If I really wanted to be authentic as possible about this, I would forgo MIDI with its outdated, 2-dimensional conventions. Timing, velocity, and pitch are only 3 factors, expressive as they may be in conjunction. What if I used an MPE controller for more variables? Well, that would absolutely capture another element of myself in the note data, but it hasn’t answered the question of what do I do with it! I’m not rich as Aphex Twin; I can’t buy a piano with MIDI triggers for the keys! The piano I have access to was obviously dropped at some point in its journey to its final resting place in the front room of this house where I’m renting. The keys are sunk into the keybed so you can’t wring the full range of expression from them; the dynamics are stuck in a dampened timbre. It’s a discouraging slog to play. It’s also horrifically out of tune, so not even good fodder for a sampler. What did I use to create the sound in these tracks then? It’s all a pitifully obsolete rompler from Y2K: the Roland XV-5080.

    The 5080 is an anachronism now, but back in 2000, it was the zenith of Roland’s progress. A rompler is a pejorative term for a class of synthesizer. It’s a synthesizer whose oscillators are samples, recordings of acoustic sounds or synth waves. “Rompler” is a contraction of “rom player”. In other hopefully less geeky words, a synthesizer engine that doesn’t actually generate sound by itself, but just plays back the contents of a memorybank of recordings. To the worst kind of synth nerd, that’s an affront. A rompler isn’t a “pure” synthesizer, a legit instrument, but a convenient doodad to help sellout hacks churn out drivel. I think that’s really funny. I’ve heard hackneyed crap come from a Prophet VS, and I’ve heard ragged glory come from a Yamaha SY55. It’s the creator, not the tools. There are folks making scorched-earth industrial punk with General MIDI. So trying to extract organic emotion from basically a CD player with a home secrutiy system interface, I’m committed to that bit. The 5080 is digital to the core. Sampled waves through digital filters into digital amplifiers summed into a digital multiFX section. Only at the last second it becomes analog, and only because it has to. It could’ve very easily been more analog, it could’ve ran sampled waves into the VCA/VCF chips used in analog synths from around that time, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near as powerful. The 5080 is a powerhouse. The basic architecture is a wide open horizon. On a patch level, it’s 4 oscillators, but each oscillator is its own individual synth with tuning & pitch scaling, frequency modulation, signal clipping, amplifier & filter with an envelope for each, and an LFO with its own mod matrix. The oscillators don’t generate their own sound electronically, but play back samples from a bank of thousands of sounds. Not just bread & butter orchestral instruments either, but weird stuff like fret noise, closeup captures of piano hammers in action, just the breath sounds of a flute, or clangorous synth waves that on their own are grating. Having the option to layer all these possible sounds in one patch is a dizzying possibility. Add in the option to clash two of the waves together in a distortion or ring modulator, and things can get outta hand quick. Yes, the 5080 is capable of saccharine cinematic soundscapes, but I’ve made some of the ugliest instruments imaginable with it too. You’d think a digital synth wouldn’t offer any special character of its own the way even a hybrid digital-waves-through-analog-filters-&-amps synth would, but this was only the year 2000; the tech was still in its early adolescence. Music manufacturers have been marching towards ironed-smooth perfection since the 80’s. May they never truly arrive there. I do not find a total absence of inconveniences compelling. I don’t want to just type in my MIDI data and hear it spat flawlessly back out at me. I want errors, artifacts. The 5080 offers them. I’m not even totally sure why, and I’ve done brain surgery on this thing to resurrect it from the sorry state I bought it for peanuts in. The sampled wavebanks, they’re all culled from recording sessions done in the 90’s, both before digital recording reached high-definition and before RAM was bountiful & cheap. The onboard sample RAM of the 5080 is tiny, megabytes compared to today’s gigabytes. Studio pros would laugh, but that’s ideal for me. To fit all those samples onto such cramped chips, the sample rate is degraded. Detail is jettisoned, unwanted side effects are invited in. The range of human hearing is supposed to top out at 20kHz, but it’s been demonstrated that we can still percieve frequencies beyond that. Respectable digital recording devices at the time top out at 48k, but now they go all they way up to 96k, 192k. The samples in the 5080 mostly cut off abruptly at 32k. Most of them aren’t multisamples, but a single sample transposed over several octaves. When a sample is transposed lower than the original frequency, clarity is shaved off. The treble disappears by the time you get to bass notes. Instead, you start to hear ghost notes, a geode encrusting that music manufacturers seem to find embarassing. I love it. I think it’s beautiful. It scintillates. Something similar happens in the high end when you transpose a sample up from the original pitch: aliasing. It’s the high frequncies doubling over on themselves, treble information compounding into a new harmonics that may not sit in harmony with the fundamental pitch. It’s not always a pretty sound. It can mar a celestial melody. Sometimes, it even annoys me if I’m trying to record say, a music box ditty that keeps devolving into a series of wrong notes duking it out with the right ones. Manufacturers have tricks for exorcising aliasing from a signal, but it’s often at the cost of clarity. Try as Roland might, they couldn’t evict all the artifacts from the 5080’s signal path. Ironically, all the soundscaping tools they bestowed on this synth, none of them impart more realism than these inconveniences! Acoustic is the sound of inconvenience. Most acoustic instruments have terrible intonation. There’s just nothing for it. You can adjust bridges & saddles on an electric guitar, but my $1k Martin dreadnought has phantom overtones everywhere. There’s nothing that can be done. Thank god! If it was free of demons in the details, I would wonder if I was even really playing the thing or if it was a clever simulation. The sampled waves the 5080 relies on, a lot of them capture the nuances of acoustic inconvenience, but by nature of the lower resolution the synth is working with, a lot of those details are jettisoned. If it weren’t for the shortcomings of turn-of-the-millennium digital audio, the 5080 might just sound lifeless. As it works out in reality, the naunces it can’t help but exude make it an interesting instrument to work with!

    If you want a passable piano sound out of the XV-5080, all you have to do is initialize a patch. Initializing is a menu setting the resets a patch to a predetermined basic state. In the 5080’s case, it sets the envelopes, filter, amplifier, and mod matrix to wide open, zero variation. It also shuts off all the oscillators but the first one, and sets the first one’s wave sample to the very first one in the onboard memory: a softer piano sound. You could already create music with this sound, but after playing it for a moment, you realize it sounds stilted, joyless. There’s a lack of vitality. That has to be added. How can vitality be achieved? Roland provided a couple means. The technology was still in its infancy, so Roland were a little naive in their aspirations. The shortcomings of the 5080 necessitated further development of the rompler concept. We’ve come very far since Y2K, but how does the 5080 fare? It’s pretty damn dodgy. There are phase issues, phantom clipping, nasty overtone spikes, and everything is swathed in the plastic wrap of early CD quality sound. The initial jump from carved grooves in wax & electromagnetic imprints on tape to zeroes & ones wasn’t a smooth transition. I remember playing a cassette of an album against the CD copy and laughing, because neither was perfect. The cassette was warmer, more organic, but had a comically higher noisefloor. The CD sounded like a cheap & slightly queasy facsimile of itself, like a teleported man who hadn’t quite been reconstituted 100%. I much preferred the cassette. If you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, if you never paid that much attention or just missed the CD era altogether, envision the sound of a low-res mp3. When you get down to 128kbps, you start to hear the missing, the information discarded. It manifests as odd clicks, pops, warbles, a strange aluminum shimmering tone coating the treble range. In extremes, it sounds like the music is playing through strange water on an alien planet. That’s what I’m talking about. It’s present in all CD player DAC’s if you listen too closely. The 5080 displays early CD DAC dirt in its final output. You’d think I hate that, but I’ve come to love it! I’m not sure when I changed my tune; it must’ve come over me at some point since CD’s were my only option. Now, I embrace it, per Brian Eno’s treatise on the shortcomings of a supplanted technology becoming their hallmark in an artist’s exploration of them.

    Anyway, how does this all shake out in practice? How do you create a reasonably convincing piano sound from outdated digital technology? Let’s dig into those means Roland provided for us. First is the oscillator. The 5080 offers thousands of samples in its internal wave memory, but offers up to 6 slots for expansion cards too. It also has user sample RAM and allows you to import your own samples. The internal memory of the 5080 offers around 25 piano sounds, including recordings of piano hammer noises without a fundamental pitch or just the attack portion of a piano strike. I have a few expansion cards I collected fixing up & reselling other Roland synths in the JV/XP/XV series, but none with more piano samples. I could import some really nice piano samples into the user wave memory, but the user wave memory caps out at 128 megabytes. This was generous for Y2K, but for today it’s not even enough to load up a decent set of multisamples. I’d have to truncate their duration (NOOOO, anything but truncating a duration!!!) and downsample them into smaller wav files because the 5080 is so old, it doesn’t work with mp3’s. Even then, I might not have any memory space left to autoload my trove of lo-fi single cycle waves too! So, guess I’m stuck with the onboard piano samples for now. No worries, they’re a great starting point. They are sorely inadequate right off the bat. If you only had one oscillator to work with, you would be despondent. The 5080 was designed to be layered and filtered and manipulated. It is a true synthesizer. Unadultered, the piano waves are a little thin, brittle, plunky. When you consider that that’s just because they’re meant to be filtered and chopped up by envelopes and layered with other sounds, you understand that it wasn’t an oversight. Since the 80’s, Roland has been obsessed with the idea of layering different attack sounds over sustain sounds. The D50 kicked off this novel form of synthesis and is now one of the most beloved & recognizable digital synths there will ever be. The 5080 takes everything a step further with the massive trove of sampled waves. If a piano sound is too wan and decays too quickly, just layer it with a distorted Rhodes sample! Pair it with a fat Oberheim saw wave. If the soft piano samples are perfect for the quieter sections of your song, but you need more high-end punch for the chorus, layer it with the spiky sounding synth piano wave pulled from the MKS-20 digital piano module and filter it, set the cutoff to add brightness when the notes are played harder. Which brings me to the next tool Roland gave us: the filter. The filter syphons off frequences depending what type of filter you use. Most filters are low-pass: the shave off treble. The 5080 filters are multimode; you can switch ’em from low-pass to high-pass (filtering low frequencies) to band-pass (filtering everything but a very narrow clump of frequencies). You can task the filter with filtering more or less depending on how hard you hit the notes or how much mod wheel you dial in. For tones functioning as a fundamental pitch, you can add a low pass filter that filters less treble as you play harder to simulate the way a piano responds to really banging on the keys. You can also use a highpass filter on other oscillators so you could keep just the key ticks from an electric piano sound in the mix, but introduce more of the fundamental pitch the harder you play for a thicker sound. To my ears, the basic piano samples in the 5080 are a little dry and dark. For gentle, sentimental scores, maximum impact can come from the sound of an acoustic instrument played too softly into a mic preamp turned up very high to compensate. At that gain stage, you can hear so much normally-unwanted detail from the instrument, mechanical sounds that I find imbue the music with more life, even a sense of intimacy you don’t get from a louder performance mic’d from further away. To simulate a closemic’d sound for piano, find one of the samples of an acoustic instrument’s operating noises. The piano hammer sounds is good, but the strat fret & pick noise is great too. For softer sounds, you can blend it in just to the point of audibility, filter it, and even drop the pitch an octave so the sample’s high-end energy is diminished. It’s possible to achieve sweet results before even having to resort to using Velocity, but Velocity is absolutely the 5080’s most effective weapon. In MIDI terms, Velocity is the data for how hard or soft you hit a note. It’s encoded with MIDI notes if you play on a Velocity-equipped keyboard. It’s practically primitive now, but it’s still such slight-of-hand. It’s the difference between the uncanny valley & naturalism in electronic music. It’s the human element that would otherwise be missed. The 5080 allows velocity to control a host of parameters all at once. It can trigger a swap between sample layers, open or close the filter, or tell the amplifier to be shout or shut the heck up. No, it was not the only expressive tool we would ever need, and MPE tech has improved upon it to the point that it’s probably obsolete. It’s a neat trick for coaxing humanity from these outdated synths, but its limits become clear pretty quickly. It can’t change the data in a sampled sound. Velocity assigned to the amp of an oscillator would only make it quieter or louder, it wouldn’t interact with the harmonic content of the sampled wave the same way striking a piano key vs. gently tapping it generates entirely different tones. If the output signal of the synth is run hot into a preamp, velocity could change the harmonic saturation, but that’s still only a nitpicky subtlety. How do I overcome that fact? The piano samples in the 5080 vary in keyboard velocity from mezzopiano to forte. Not a universe of range, but I can work with it. You can set one oscillator layer yeild to another as you play the keyboard harder, so set the mezzopiano sample to blend into the mezzoforte and onto the forte sample with your playing dynamics… It’s not the best, but in a mix, heavily reverbed as it will be, it actually sings. Again, the XV-5080 is meant to be layered; every sound is only one voice in a choir. Altogether, it adds up to more than the sonic impression a single patch implies. Still, mixing engineers know: you can’t just dash in a parade of ingredients and expect them to gel into a meal. There’s gotta be GLUE. Some element has to tie it all together. Here’s where the last trick of the 5080 comes in: the FX. The XV-5080 has a multiFX engine you can run each patch through. There’s one suped up FX slot (MFX) with hundreds of options, everything from light EQing to mutliFX patches for hair metal guitarists. I like using the Enhancer to draw out artifacts in the details of samples Roland wanted to hide. There’s also a dedicated chorus & reverb bus, and typical of Roland, they’re lush & enveloping. You can dial in the best of both worlds all at once, the dreamy & the nightmarish. There’s some esoteric offerings in the MFX section. Guitar amp modeling, weird distortions, strange modulated delays, pitch shifting that isn’t entirely successful… One of the FX options is a lo-fi compressor. It doesn’t just squash the signal, it adds bit crushing & aliasing artifacts & radio static & vinyl crackle too. Just slathered onto a sound, it can come across as chintzy, but dialed in sparingly, it can pepper in just the right amount of grit I hope for. This is a digital synth, though so it should be recorded too hot into a 1073 style preamp anyway. I employed all these tricks in my pursuit of a great dream piano sound, yet somthing still isn’t right. It’s not wrong enough!

    What I need is a prepared piano emulation.

    Prepared piano becomes a whole new instrument. It takes the aural equivalent of a sunrise, such a normality to us by now that we can take it for boring granted, and introduces an element of chaos that makes it somehow even more beautiful than it was unhindered. Humans gravitate towards the imperfections in music, and I love a noise that haunts a melody. The sound of disruption can be enthralling. Prepared piano is the sound of aristocratic eloquence cracking under the meddling of nuisances. By nature, the sound of that failure is what endears it to us. An audible representation of the struggle of life, as portrayed as organically as inhumanly possible… Why the hell am I trying to replicate it with this haplessly digital synthesizer? By synthesizing the sound of mechanical limitation with a limited computer instrument, I hope to create a new experience: the sound of emulation failing in its imitation. I have to be careful, though, or it can tumble into an offputting uncanny valley, and I can sterilize my music of the human element I’ve gone to such lengths to preserve. The question is, can synthesized sound be made acoustic? Can a binary boy become a real boy? Well, yeah, sorta. Through distortion! The sound of failure. We may grow inpatient when our computers display limitations, but in their failure, we see ourselves. After all, they only do what we tell them. If they fail, was it not our failure, really? When I run the MIDI of my playing into the XV-5080, and it spits it back out with the human element erased, that’s my failure. I did not succeed in keeping myself intact in the MIDI data. If I can get the 5080 to fail at its goal (to be as perfect a powerful music computer as was possible a quarter century ago) instead of mine, I have won, the human has triumphed, and the human element I seek to impart might just find itself present. How do I get a computer to fail? It turns out the XV-5080 is exactly the anachronism it needs to be for my purposes. If it were the latest Roland workstation, with a cutting edge physically modeled piano program layered with pristine velocity-switching multisamples of a Steinway grand, I would be up shit crick. You might hear something you like in the end result, but it wouldn’t be one iota of me. It might even fool the average listener, and prompt them to ask when I became such an accomplished pianist, but if I basked in the moment, I would be a fraud. I don’t want you to hear this music and wonder if it was a microphone recording of me actually playing a real piano in a room. I want you to hear this music and be transported to another world, parallel to our own, and only ever so slightly extraterrestrial. I want you to kinda wonder what instrument you’re even listening to. Some of the timbres present suggest a piano, but the attack is too clacky, the decay portion of the envelope is all wrong, the sustain lingers unnnaturally long. I want you to hear this music and notice the distortion, how it sparkles in the moonlight like a shattered gemstone. How it reflects sunlight like shrapnel. I hope that stands out just enough that you notice it, but not enough that it overtakes the impact of the treacly melody or the melancholy reverb. I hope all the elements blend together to create tension, dissonance, but also harmony, unique resolution that couldn’t have have germinated from another source. In the Roland XV-5080’s limitations, in the way its digital convertor circuitry glitches, or the way the waveforms clash against each other, or the way the signal clips when an audio engineer going by the book would say it shouldn’t… I hope you hear me in those elements. I put them there! I set the stage for them to happen. I hope you hear them and understand why I decided they were necessary, even if you may not agree. In the end, that’s the human element all art needs to be considered art: human decisionmaking. It’s what AI will always lack, and why I don’t feel conflicted in exploring this approach even though I’m the type of imperfection perfectionist who records every guitar part again for each repetition in the song, even though I could just copypaste the first iteration into the second instance. My body is a machine that fails me. Any machine I can make fail becomes an extension of my body.

    Last night, I finished the structure & melodic details of my next piano piece. I was lying in bed as I worked on it, Handel-style, so I just used a VST as a stand-in for the sounds. The VST I used was Plogue Sforzando, an SFZ file player. A VST rompler, similar to a software Roland XV-5080, in other words. I auditioned several different piano patches made by strangers on the internet, found one that just seemed to fit. The piano piece is a romantic one, a melody that came to me on the first date I ever went on way back when I was a teen and has knocked around in my imagination ever since. It’s a soft serenade in A# major, a key that triggers my synaesthesia to show me amber hues, warm summer nights under electric lights with the gentle rustle of trees swaying in a breeze. It’s a piece that needs a pretty damn gentle piano sound. This patch in Sforzando, it approached the ideal in my head, but didn’t quite get there. It’s comprised of 2 piano parts, rhythm & lead, and a warm synth bass. I tried running the piano parts through distortion. At just the threshold of breakup, I found perfect imperfection. The rhythm part is powered by MIDI of me playing without much variance in the dynamics, so it jives with my MO of limited velocity control I employed for the XV-5080. It sounds like a piano, but slightly unreal, and suggests synthesis. The lead line, though, is me playing expressively. Sforzando offers fairly powerful velocity layer-switching, and this piano patch has surprisingly decent dynamics for a thing I downloaded for free off the internet. It took some extra practice, but it was worth it to get the dynamics right, line them up to shift with the moods of the song. It worked out so well that I wondered if the piece was finished, if I even needed to try running the MIDI through the XV-5080 to achieve a final product. The expressivity of Sforzando’s multisample layer-switching is much greater than what I could coax out of the 5080 with just amplitude and filter cutoff or even the 5080’s layer-switching. This Sforzando patch just feels more natural. Is it the imperfections in the sample recordings? That the room is more audible in these samples? Run through distortion, all the artifacts of a person recording their own playing in a room leap out of the audio image. As much as the frequencies the distortion conjured out of the tracks, it was these artifacts that I was missing upon listening back to the initial mix. Bringing them to the fore made me forget for a moment that I wasn’t hearing a microphone recording of me playing an acoustic instrument in a room. The illusion was that convincing. I’m still not finished, though. I hear only more of what’s missing when I listen back. I think I know what it is: running these yet-digital tracks through an analog preamp, then replacing the plugin reverb with a similar spaciousness from my Lexicon 300.

    Art is as much what the artist intends as what the audience interprets. Maybe none of this matters, and listeners will only hear a pleasant melody they either bond with or tune out. Maybe for my next piece (or this one if a conclusion can’t be reached through my current MO) I’ll try to find someone with a piano in decent shape I may plod away on for an afternoon. I could hold a blind test, see if anyone can spot which one is all me or only partly me. It would be interesting just to see if anyone cared about the distinction. I know that for myself, it’s not really me I want to hear in this music, only the human element the music requires. I would love if, while I’m listening to it, I forgot I’m me at all.

    Here’s a demonstration of this case study. It’s 100% Roland XV-5080, run through a Lexicon 300. Prepared piano & guitar pinch harmonic sounds. An ode to 90’s George Winston, Enya, and Steve Roach. Also a sendup of the idea of eternal recurrence. Eternal recurrence is the notion that everything that happens has happened before and is only ever happening again. I set a reiterated melody over shifting chords then altered the melody over the same chords to demonstrate how, even if there are observable historic parallels between past & present events, context has the power to render them utterly disparate. Nothing is truly cyclical, nothing is exactly the same. It’s impossible. The 5080 is proof. As a digital synth playing static samples, each repeated note should sound the same, but they never do for a host of reasons. I could ferret all of them out, cut the patch down to one oscillator with the filter & amplitude all the way up and the LFO off and the velocity not touching anything, and still the notes would vary noticeably because this is an old synth with an outdated microprocessor translating computer commands into audio through a digital convertor that’s not getting any younger.

    https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2072183540&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true

    Spooky Mulder · Recurrence

    April 6, 2025
    Mu-crit
    ambient, experimental-music, music, music-theory, piano, prepared-piano, roland, sound-design, synthesis, synthesizer
  • Scoring A Film For The First Time

    I gotta tell this whole story, cuz it’s everything I love about life.

    Scoring a film has always been a backburner dream of mine. I figured maybe it’d happen someday if I put my songs out there, but, it’s happening the other way around! I don’t write a lot of instrumentals. I get songs beamed into my head and I consider that my main thing, but the first real album I put out was ghostly tape music: The Unbearable Lightness – And The Days Meander On, way back in 2014. I always meant to make more, but lacked the inspiration. In Autumn, I got a piano piece beamed into my head riding my bike home from work in one of the prettiest creamsicle sunsets I’ve ever seen. It’s like George Winston collabing with John Carpenter on a Halloween sequel. I jotted down a demo to show my friends. My bestie Christine showed it to her filmmaker sibling in Cali. Frank’s in film school. They’re wrapping up a final with their class: a short film called The Flower Lady, about a son trying to fill his mom’s role in her flower shop & community after her passing. It was written by a guy who is French but doesn’t speak French but texts exactly the way you imagine a French director would text. Frank liked my demo, proposed it to the director who liked the textures, but felt the song itself wasn’t right for the film. I agreed; too witchy for a sentimental coming-of-age vignette. I tried to make something that would match. The director dropped the word “gossamer” & Olafur Arnalds as reference points. That sparked a new piece in my head, but I already knew it wasn’t what he wanted; it was like Phillip Glass collabing with Enya for the X-Files. I tried again, waded out into the collective subconscious to catch a big fish, Lynch style. This time, I got what I thought was IT: a sincere, nostalgic piece for Sigur Ros-style ambient electric piano. I worked on it all day, leveled up my mixing skills, and at the end, had something I thought was sterling. The melody says things I feel deeply but will never be able to say with words. The director liked it, but was still unsure. “I think my most salient note would be, pianissimo to pianississimo.” Dammit, he was right! As much as I could scale the energy of the sounds back, the notes themselves just sprang forth like Spring. It was too loud, still. But what could I do? This film is due Friday! This was becoming a cruelty thrust upon the postproduction team… I wracked my brain, became obsessed with Olafur Arnalds’ “They Sink”, and realized what was missing: I was using a 90’s synth to replicate prepared piano sounds. I needed to use a real acoustic instrument, played softly, into a tube compressor with the noise floor up too high, so the air around the notes swelled gently with the music, as if the very vibrations were breathing. I banged out an ambient guitar version of an old dream pop song of mine about leaving my hometown. An hour later, the director was congratulating me on making the cut!
    Though it’s only a student film, this was more than just a fun brainteaser. It was a crash course in working in this industry. I’ve proven to myself that I got what it takes. Budget gear be damned, I did what I set out to do! And now I have the inspiration for a new ghost music album… The Unbearable Lightness is born again.

    Anyway, here’s the track:

    https://whyp.it/tracks/268563/the-final-time

    March 26, 2025
    Mu-crit
    ambient, classical-music, film-score, interview, movie, music, musician, new-music, reviews, soundtrack
  • Tyson vs. Paul: An Existential Bout For The Ages

    Midnight on Friday, November 15th, the biggest boxing match of all time fizzled out anti-climactically. News outlets claim it broke several different kinds of records, but who knows if that’s true. See… There’s a problem with objective journalism on the topic of this match: Jake Paul was involved. Netflix was too. They hosted the streaming, and apparently did such a poor job that subscribers tuning in missed most of the fight to unbridled buffering. I tuned in through a stream of the venue’s jumbotron hosted by Antonio Brown’s Twitter. The pauper seats, in other words. I found out about Antonio’s stream through an internet thread that was the only source of up-to-the-moment info on the fight I could find. News outlets up til the moment itself were just rehashing the lead-up hype, the now-iconic moment of Mike Tyson slapping Paul HARD at their weigh-in for stepping on his toes. Mike Tyson is long past his prime, and told reporters that Paul stepping on his toes inflamed his sciatica. The match between the two had been postponed when Tyson got beseiged by ulcers. This is far from the first time Tyson’s health has plagued him. The previous penultimate match of his career ended with Tyson getting knocked out after tearing a ligament in his knee, which killed his ability to throw his signature punch. His last match before his retirement ended with Mike quitting the sport altogether in a torrent of frustration. It would be 20 years before he’d enter the ring again. His reign was a brief yet brilliant flash in the history of the sport. He won the heavyweight title at 20, the youngest person to ever do it. He was the first to hold the World Boxing Association, World Boxing Council, and International Boxing Federation titles all at once, and the only person to ever attain them all in a row. He didn’t just win fights, he knocked out opponents in seconds. His reign as world champ lasted 3 years, which seems insane to me for a sport where you try not to be concussed into involuntary submission. He ascended with a fury that was legendary even at the time, but he went out in a blaze of notoriety that will never be topped. Despite the shocking upset of his biggest losses, he’ll always be remembered at his most formidable. In most people’s minds, he’s the crazy guy who bit a guy. He says he only bit both of Holyfield’s ears in retaliation for Holyfield illegally headbutting him throughout their multiple matches, but Tyson also swears he never sexually assaulted anyone. His prison stint for sexual assualt in 1991 would disagree. If you look too closely, the truth tends to blur around Tyson. His status as a symbol has been contested. Was he really the terrifying machine portrayed in The Hangover, of all things? Did he line up easy opponents to knock down like tomato cans? Did trouble mysteriously flare up any time he faced a bonafide world-class athlete? Should he have been disqualified from the sport forever for taking a chunk out of Holyfield’s ear, even though the two are now such good friends they released CBD gummies in the shape of Evander’s missing cartilege? Should Mike Tyson be rotting in prison for raping an 18 year old? The world at large can’t seem to agree, passionate as we all are in the disparate ways we feel about him as a person and as a figure. It’s obvious he had a troubled life, full of the kind of extenuating circumstances that paint his downfall as a sympathetic tragedy, despite everything else we know about him. He was the most controversial figure in a sport that may only be second in controversy to wrestling. Even still, every comment I read everywhere was rooting for him that Friday night.

    I summarized Tyson’s controversies to properly set the stage for how much the world loves to hate Jake Paul right now. Jake Paul is arguably the most polarizing figure in the entire history of boxing. I’ve never followed any sport too closely, but from my point of view as a casual bystander, there is no greater heel, at least in this moment, than Jake Paul. Is that an achievment in itself? I guess so. The question is, how much control does Paul have over that? The Paul brothers are about as visible as stars get in such an overexposed age. They’re avatars for a new brand of opulence that’s especially exhausting. They sprouted from the prank YouTuber mire and have continually climbed the ladders of success, to the protest of pretty everyone I have ever talked to. I do not understand their popularity. They are thoroughly fuckin’ odious to me. They have the kind of rancid vibes that make people hate them feverishly without any clear cause, so that when inevitably, these infallibly human dudebros actually do something repugnant, it’s a bit of a strain to react to. We already despised them with every ounce of flesh on our bones, there’s no headroom left for our disgust. Do the Pauls know this? Am I just viewing them from a bubble, and in their world, they’re beloved figures who’ve earned every cent of their ostentatiousness? I tried asking uh, anyone I know. Everyone backed me up. The Pauls are indeed insufferable. That is precisely what makes their pivot into the boxing world such a historically lucrative business move. They’re the perfect heels; heels that seem totally unaware that they’re heels. Like how a bad movie is all the richer for thinking it’s a good movie. They can’t possibly be as fuckin’ bonebrained as they appear; if they were really that brick-stupid, somewhere in their brutal ascendancies, they would’ve fallen through a bridge they burned into the poverty of irrelevance. Instead, they have the kind of creature comforts a tzar couldn’t even dream of, while a figure like Bougie2988 apears to be one inevitable breakup away from as hellish an existence as is possible in our spoiled rotten age. The Pauls are essentially the apex promotors of our time. Their sideswipe into the boxing world may have been met with backlash that was audible from space, but it was greeted with record profits too.

    When I see copy that Tyson vs Paul broke several kinds of records, I believe it, unlikey as it seems. How could it beat the Fight of the Century, or the Thrilla In Manilla? Those are ingrained in our collective consciousness as historic events. Muhammed Ali, avatar to a staggeringly varied amount of people, clawed his way back into his profession after being punished for consciensciously objecting to the goddamn Vietnam War only to suffer shocking defeat, then achieve his revenge twice. Now that was a fight we could project our own personal & societal struggles onto! Was Tyson vs. Paul a historic event? Nope! The sponsors sure wanted it to be, but if all the feedback I’ve seen so far is any indication, this was only a great disappointment, too dull to even be a historically notable letdown like The Great Disappointment (when all the doomsaying of a Christian sub-cult failed to produce Christ’s 2nd coming). This was not the poetic deliciousness of Christ staying home again, it was the proverbial wimper instead of the advertised bang. It simply didn’t go like anyone hoped. It did not deliver anything anyone wanted. The dissatisfaction started with the outcome. Jake Paul won… by unanimous decision. Unanimous decision is as unsatisfying a thing as has ever been devised. It’s winning by technicality in a contest of brute force. It’s like a chess move clinching a rock fight, a drag race won by parallel parking. It’s not what we come for. We want a knockout! God, even a TKO will do. These are bodies pitted against each other in a sweepstakes of agony. We wanna see bonecrunching blows. We wanna grit our teeth as the punch connects. We wanna see flesh yeild to flesh, a fist reshape a face, even if only for a moment in a slow-mo replay. Tyson vs. Paul did not gratify this least dignified yet most enthralling desire. For some hullaballoo involving two of the most risible heels we’ve ever seen, that was the greatest sin the event could have committed.

    If Tyson vs. Paul goes down in history, it will be with the joke epitaph, “elder abuse”. A 27 year old facing a 58 year old with health issues who had not set foot in a ring in years, had been professionally retired for two decades… One of the records the match broke was for the largest age discrepancy in history. 31 years. That’s almost as long as I’ve been alive. That’s over a third of a lifetime. Tyson actually looked great for his age. Promos showed the same spry panzer of a man that’s existed in the public imagination since his last knockout. Health issues can be overcome, the kinda wealth Tyson has is as great a help in that aim as time to work on it. Did he fix his bum leg? This couldn’t just be a total farce. So much has to happen behind the scenes for a fight to even be announced, especially on a record setting scale, so it had to mean Tyson was at least in comparable fighting shape to the man three decades his junior, right? The question went from whether an old hasbeen stood a chance against a fresh upstart to whether a contender could stand a chance against a champion. Whatever hype machine the Paul brothers pilot, it was working Tyson’s tried & true intimidation magic for him in the public imagination if not the Pauls’. The buzz around the fight turned from bewilderment to wonder. It was clear from the comments who we were all rooting for, even if in a hesitant or bedraggled way. From heel vs. heel, a face emerged. A face with an iconoclastic face tattoo.

    I had forgotten the fight was happening that night. I had no plans to watch it. I just saw an ad somewhere, and found myself home from hanging out with friends. When I saw that ad, I felt a twinge of something. Something compelled me about the matchup. I hadn’t even thought about it since it was announced everywhere like a virtual version of the changing of a season, but I instantly was rooting for one of the fighters. A narative unfurled in my head, a vision floated like a butterfly & stung like a bee in my mind. I needed to watch this dang skirmish. I needed to see what would happen. It could get ugly, but I hoped against hope. I wanted Mike Tyson to win. I tried to find some up-to-the-moment reporting on the event. I dug through the piles of second-hand reporting reported third-hand, nearly gave up after a Twitter search only yeilded a sea of spam accounts posting engagment bait, then serendipitously stumbled upon a random-ass forum with members commenting in real time. The match hadn’t started yet, but it was unclear when it would because the Netflix stream was suffering technical issues. Finally, shortly after the opponents’ walk-ons, somebody found the jumbotron stream on wide receiver Antonio Brown’s Twitter. I refreshed the thread to read commenter’s thoughts in between each round. From their comments, my narative suspicions were confirmed: stray weirdos glossed over, the whole world was rooting for the former undisputed heavyweight world champion. The match looked promising at first. Tyson was back! He lurched out of his corner with purpose, landed a couple nasty jabs on Paul immediately. This was fantastic, exactly what I tuned in for. It lasted about as long as Tyson’s opponents in his defining matches. Age & nerve damage emerged from his corner with him for round two. It reminded me of my grandma, near the end of her life, shuffling across the living room with her walker. Paul obviously had Tyson licked in reach, but by round 4, he had Tyson licked in so many other ways, he dropped his gloves. Tyson’s rarely left his face. I realized halfway through the fight, that wasn’t just because it’s his style, but also because Tyson was biting them. By the end of the 8 rounds, Tyson looked like I feel after biking up this one hill that seems to go on for miles. I tried to tell myself, “It’s a feat that he’s even in the ring, on his feet.”, but boxing is not the setting for venerating vulnerability like that. It’s not appealing to the wholesome nurturer in us. I wanted to see a notoriously terrifying man unleash the beast, one last time. What I saw instead was a muddle that couldn’t be explained by the abysmal streaming quality. Soon as it began, it was over. At an undefinable point, Tyson stood almost still, like he was simply struggling to find his bearings. Paul got in one spurt of punches that made my heart flop wrongside up, and then Paul suddenly went kinda slack, like his gusto keeled over in his chest. As another grindingly boring round concluded with two confused looking dudes just kinda stumbling away, I must have blinked or something. There was no sound in the stream, at least not for me, so I had no idea what had just happened after that 8th round. All I could make out was Paul bowing graciously to someone he obviously admired, and the two sharing a hug that radiated all the enveloping warmth of human goodness even through several layers of glitching pixels. It would have been touching if I was not screaming internally, “THE HELL?? THAT’S IT??”. It was pretty silly of me. I wasn’t watching on a Netflix subscription, yet I felt robbed. Somehow, I knew it was Paul’s fault. For the first time in my life, he had suckered me too. All those eons of hairbrained crypto schemes he’ll never answer for, all his dues paid in frown-inducing hijinks waged, he finally pulled one over on me through a sport I only tangentially care about. God, it pissed me off. I think in that way, Paul showed his mastery of his craft. He was the consummate heel, right down to the behind-the-scenes real life cutaway. His brother knocking his hat off in his moment of triumph was my only balm.

    In wrestling, there’s a grand tradition when a decorated wrestler retires. Instead of unceremoniously hanging up the belt, one last pageant is arranged: the passing of the mantle. In this case, the mantle is that honkin’ championship belt, and the retiring legend passes it on to a successor only after one final feat of fortitude. I love it so much. It’s a rare example of kindness in a cruel business, in a cruel world. It lets an employee who paid their dues exit on a high note. Isn’t that sweet? I guess if you take the kind of beating that could kill you on a chance off night for a stage hand, the least the big wigs could do is toss you the bone of an crowd applause severance package. Maybe the boss should just offer healthcare. Or acknowledge that CTE is a real occupational hazard? I dunno! I can’t help but love the practice still. It doesn’t always go right, though. It’s impossible to control every aspect of the show, right down to public perception of it. And in the case of Andre the Giant’s exit, he was done dirty by perpetual real-life heel Vince McMahon. I don’t want to wander into the kayfabe argument, how real wrestling is or isn’t, and how similar boxing as an industry is from its more unhinged cousin. I mean, Holyfield is undoubtedly missing a chunk of his ear. But was Tyson’s performance in the ring that night a performance in a different sense? Was Paul’s? I saw a lot of speculation everywhere I looked. How could Tyson stiffen up that much, so quickly? If Tyson wasn’t faking, how could Paul hold back with such self control when he’s a mindless twit? We came to see punches fly, but someone was pulling theirs. Only one of them was wearing boxing gloves, the other one was wearing kid gloves. It made the spectacle all the more deflating. As one forum commenter put it, “This is just sad, man. This is making me reflect on my mortality and shit.”. Some other people theorized that Tyson was biting his gloves in a desperate bid to curtail his infamously tempestuous temper as he held back on jackhammering away all possibility that Paul could ever look cute for YouTube again, but that sounded like a stretch to me. Missing pixels be damned, I know a winded dude when I see one. I look in the mirror often enough… The only explanation that made any sense was that Tyson yeilded to the siren call of a $20mil purse too soon into recorvering from ulcers, and experienced a debilitating sciatica flareup during the one representative punch he managed to land. Paul, who only plays a buffoon on TV, knew his role in the belt-bequeathing pageant as the heel granted a face turn from the most powerful facemaking force of all, nostalgia, restricted him to sparing his foe’s ass at the expense of delivering a memorable show. A young buck in his prime bestowed mercy on an old man past his. Of all the possible outcomes of the fight, I think commenters were bound to chafe at that one the most. Would they have preferred to watch one of the most reviled people on the planet deconstruct a living myth, in those godawful yet implausibly expensive shorts? God, yes. There is no juicier way to open a new chapter in a heel’s career than to have them absolutely demolish a familiar favorite. You know deep down that even if boxing is more real than wrestling, any ascendance is merely an arc, bound to end by the fact that it began. Paul would get his in time, just as Lennox Lewis shut up Tyson aggrandizing himself to the level of Sonny Liston back in the day. In a way, it would’ve been more honorable to Tyson’s legacy for him to go out with the bang of getting his ass beat by a worthy contender. Watching Paul hold back felt like a feedback loop of disrespect. There’s nothing cockier than a heel sparing a face the full brunt of their power. It says, I don’t think you can withstand my best shot because yours has not even phased me. In a traditional wrestling arc, that’s masterful theatrics, but in the context of a 58 year old man engaging in the profession that made him a star for the last time, it’s just anticlimactic. Why even hold this contest at all if it was just gonna be thrown in such an ingratiating, conspicuous way?

    The twinge I felt seeing the ad again moments before the fight aired, the sudden hope I felt for seeing Tyson prevail, it touched on a deeper conflict than just an old heel softened by the limelight of nostalgia vs. the most intrusive backpfeifengesicht of the moment. On face value, this was not the match of the ages it was billed as. Lotta boxing wonks don’t seem to consider Tyson to be one of the true GOATs, and nobody takes the Paul brothers seriously. What this conflict represented was what its central players represented. It’s why I had to highlight all the context. A controversial figure recast into a beacon of our hopes in the contrast of an even more controversial figure that represents all the forces we feel stand against us… It’s not quite David & Goliath, unless it could be David after he had Uriah murdered so he could shack up with Bathsheba. Not a proper Goliath either, but a Philistine of a different kind: an artless oaf, an unsettling statue to tackiness, incuriosity, brutish opportunism. Tyson vs. Paul isn’t man vs. man, but man vs. nature, man vs. the world, man vs. himself. It’s a nigh literary struggle, it occupies mythic proportions. Am I being precious about the sport where huge, scary men beat the tar out of each other? We can temporarily forgive Tyson’s evils in order that we may repudiate Paul’s, because we can project our plight onto Tyson more easily than Paul. Answer honestly, do you relate to Jake Paul? Have you reaped not what you have sewn, but a harvest too bountiful for it to be what you alone could have ever planted? Have you succeeded in spite of, not the odds exactly, but your own flawed nature? Do you like Huey Lewis & The News, though their early work was a little too new wave for your taste? If you’re actually reading this far into my blather, I bet the answer’s a big, existentially-laden “I guess not.”. We are not Jake Paul. We are not really Tyson either, or at least I hope not, but we are definitely not Jake Paul. Mike Tyson, the figure and not the man, represents the artisan, the auteur, the passionate madman, the raw, undiluted potential of simply taking yourself seriously enough to try as though you’ll succeed. Paul represents the entitled brat, the grating figure of fun, the asshole the world loves but you see through. Irrespective of the toi he’s poured in and the savy he’s had to hone, he appears to have been handed everything we secretly believe we deserve but suspect we’ll never have. Stability, popularity, fucking heaps of so much money you couldn’t even count the piles… I don’t know if there’s more to his story, if I’m glossing over the fine details of the big picture. I don’t care. It’s almost immaterial that he’s been endlessly outed as a top dog con man, running insultingly lazy schemes in the most infuriatingly spam-infested time in history. The stories of his diverse methods of abuse are a Google search away. There are whole YouTube channels devoted to trying to expose him. It’s fruitless because everybody already knows. It’s the same effect as Donald Trump. Everybody knows he’s a scam, his fans just love him for it. If you don’t know you’re being scammed, the most effective trick a scammer can pull on you is to convince you they’re only scamming everyone else. Maybe they’re only scamming people you hate! Maybe they’re on your side, you’re in this together. I can’t fucking stand the genre of prank videos the Pauls spawned their fame from, but I imagine the draw of it is feeling like you’re in on a joke with actual stakes. The crueler the prank, the greater the honor that you’re on the “laughing at” end of it. In the politics of the parasocial, it’s a intoxicating feigned form of intimacy. For people who see through that, or simply detest the spectacle of louts mistreating people for yuks, it’s utterly invigorating in its ability to enrage in the way that only truly trivial things can be. For Paul to have the gall to cut his teeth in that godforsaken field then attempt to shift into another that engenders a solemn, earthy respect for embattled victors akin to the way people feel about grizzled war vets, well, it probably feels a bit like stolen valor to afficionados. It’s the difference between Muhammed Ali as an icon vs. uh… PewDiePie? Even Jackass, there’s something kinda loveable about those hooligans. Despite doing fairly similar work on paper, Steve O has a gravitas the Pauls will never barge their way into posession of. There’s just something horrifyingly uncanny about the Pauls. I know a couple diagnosed sociopaths, and I’m glad the language around sociopathy is shifting toward understanding rather than blanket ostracization, but “sociopath” as it’s commonly thrown around wantonly does describe a phenomenon usefully. The Pauls are Patricks Bateman, with all the airbrushed posturing and chipper goofiness camoflauging unsettling inhumanity. I respect hard work, but not a hustle. They’re hustlers, in the most pejorative sense of the word. There are working class YouTubers, you can be essentially a blue collar content creator, but the Pauls are of the influencer caste. They’re just a stack of grifters in a trenchcoat. That’s what it all boils down to, what this fight is at its core: the venerable old guard vs. the unworthy heir, a genuine legend vs. a wannabe huckster, the originator vs. the poser, the truth we know vs. the lie we’re sold. It’s all a show, and we all know it, but we still wanted to see the American dream hand the American reality its spoiled rotten ass. If hard work doesn’t triump over even a lazy grift, if integrity isn’t its own reward, if justice can be paid off to turn a blind eye, if there’s no Heaven for the righteous but more importantly no Hell for the wicked, what’s it all for? Jake Paul is the embodiment of white cis male privilege, the patron demon of failing upward into demigodhood. He has only ever fucked around, never found out. Mike Tyson went to prison for his crimes, got suspended from his profession for his transgressions. Mike Tyson got off easy, but he knows the sting of consequence. He has male privilege, but not white privilege. Jake Paul may never know the sting of consequence, not really. He’ll always be shielded from the brunt of it, even if that shield is human. Mike Tyson could’ve become, for a shining moment, the embodiment of Jake Paul’s consequences. This match could’ve been fucking around vs. finding out. A week after Trump somehow failed upwards into the highest formal seat of power in America AGAIN, we were robbed of even momentary catharsis. The grifter bully principality had a historic run of wins this month. Like Tyson standing there stunned as a deer in the headlights of some punk kid’s fists, the Democrats were as helplessly senile as if Joe Biden didn’t do the right thing and drop out. I cannot help but draw parallels, they’re hamfistedly hammered into every detail of this stupid punching competition like fate itself is a pugilist shackled to ineptitude by refusing to acknowledge its prime is in the past.

    With all that said, I still haven’t even dug into the core of why the idea of this fight was so compelling and why the result is such a fucking bummer. The beating heart of it is, beyond some kinda avatar of heroic ideals our gusto subsists on, Tyson represented our fears of aging. “This is just sad, man. This is making me reflect on my mortality and shit.”, is comical in how distraught it is to feel so unexpectedly world-weary watching what should’ve been the visual equivalent of fast food. We all worry that, as time winds down our mortal coil, our power diminishes. All the anti-ageism in the world can’t argue away my mortal terror when I hear of a grandparent suffering a catastrophic injury. At that age, a simple slip down a step can change your whole paradigm for the worse. At 36, my body aches in ways that jar open new vistas of horrid speculation. To see Mike Tyson, still a tiger of a man in pop culture’s mind, visibly crumble in what shoulda been his element was not fun. It was even worse to commiserate with goddamn Jake Paul in the heat of the moment. What would I do if I had agreed to participate in a mass market cultural event, only to find myself suddenly thrust into the decision how much mercy to show a man entering his 6th decade of a notably turbulent life? How much I should potentially alter the paradigm of how his body is able to function, all to appease his fans and mine, the two of which are probably belligerently mutually exclusive? I… would question all my life choices. Then ultimately do the same thing Paul did. And I hate that with all my soul. I’m a late bloomer. I hope! I took a little longer than most people I know to find my niche in the world, at least in the job market. I’ve always wanted to be a recording artist, a singer songwriter, but it has only really started to come together for me in the last few years. I know I’m not old by any means, but I feel like my prime is now in the past tense. I’ve had trouble with allergies, cramps, my memory. Age has pilfered the ease with which I could’ve enacted my grand plans had the inspiration struck in my 20’s like it’s apparently supposed to. I know there are exceptions to the rule. In my field, Leonard Cohen only got started at my age, didn’t write “Hallelujah” until his 50’s. In Tyson’s field, George Forman was still knocking opponents out at 46. Whether these anxieties are unfounded or not, I still feel them. They flared up like a rash watching Tyson in that ring. Other comments I’ve seen, some of the copy I’ve read, conversations I had at work today have all touched upon this common dread around entropy claming our spark, the flair that we think makes us special. All the zen in the world, all the mindfullness that contentment is the only worthwhile goal can’t mollify that dread away, not when we see a cultural byword for indomitable virility reduced to pitiful blind jabs at thin air. Even more elemental than a defender for romanticized notions of self-determination, Tyson became the conduit for our terror over the self-reliance age will pry from us. Am I just projecting? Did you feel it too? It depresses me because it depresses me. I don’t want to feel sad for Mike Tyson. I want to feel vaguely irritated that he’d have the gall to put himself on Cassius Clay’s pedestal, but then kinda think he might not be too far off-base when I see him in action. As with the reactionary boomer confabulation that all the epochs in human glory are behind us, it’s aggravating to see people treat some possibly misplaced idea of a human being’s prime as a bygone era instead of one pinnacle descended to ascend another you weren’t capable of scaling before. Maybe I’ll never be able to scream in full chest voice the notes in the 5th octave of my range like I could in my 20’s, but my ability to craft a song from scratch is lightyears beyond what I was able to dream of back then. Maybe George Foreman’s boxing career ended at 46, but it’s not at all like he hasn’t lived an eventful life since then. Tyson hasn’t managed a KO since the 90’s, but has managed to stay in evergreen relevance in the quicksand of our culture by playing the weirdest hand a boxer has ever been dealt. I mean, you try spinning being “the guy who bit a chunk outta a guy’s ear” into a positive career! I feel wrong for feeling embarassed for him. Age isn’t a pitfall to fear, but a change to embrace, right? I think it’s like deconditioning out of capitalism’s toxic body image: an accomplishment we love for other people, but refuse to grant ourselves. Perhaps we’re looking at this match all wrong. We shouldn’t fear what age can take from us; age can never steal what he had, that we once had it. It was ours, and always will be, even if not materially, tangible in our hands, anymore. Age will never strip Tyson of his accomplishments. On the flipside, age will never let Tyson off the hook for his evils. Both will always exist as things that happened. In that way, we have triumphed over Jake Paul, but we didn’t need to do it vicariously through Mike Tyson. We have won over Jake Paul directly. We are not Jake Paul. We do not have to wake up tomorrow and face the kinda shit everyone is saying about Jake Paul after this absolute farce of a match. We do not have to live with Jake Paul’s decisions. We do not have to fear Jake Paul’s consequences. We do not have to pretend like Jake Paul does that we will ever belong in the boxing world, that we will ever be remembered as more than the heel in a face’s story. No matter what Jake Paul does henceforth, he will never be listed among the greats. Tyson is, and got to see it happen earlier in life than it usually happens for anyone. In that way, though Mike Tyson the human lost to Jake Paul the human, Mike Tyson the icon beat Jake Paul the upstart, and not by some namby pamby unanimous decision. It wasn’t a TKO either. It was a bonafide knockout, before Tyson even entered the ring. A career best for Tyson, another record broken. World’s youngest heavyweight champ, world’s first to get all the titles in a row, world’s first to bite an opponent’s ear so viciously it is branded with his name for life, and now, world’s first has-been to lose his last match to a wannabe with years of matches ahead and still come out the undisputed champion in the grand scheme of things. If you need proof that last honor is true, look up the memes of Tyson that emerged from the match. Watch Mike Tyson Mysteries. Look up a clip of his cameo in The Hangover (but for christ’s sake, don’t watch the whole thing). Whatever that is, charisma, star power, the “it” factor, Jake Paul will never have it. He may never know the unblunted sting of consequences, but he will never know the joy of being appreciated for who he actually is. Maybe you could have that over Jake Paul too.

    The other type of commentary about this match I made note of was boxing fans pointing out that the undercard fights provided all the guts & glory the main event lacked, with the women’s match singled out as a top notch fireworks display. We see in part, not in whole. We don’t know the true story of Mike Tyson vs. Jake Paul. We see a Lord Fauntleroy cosplaying the prizefighter life as a shiny new toy. We see a former paragon return to his profession long after he acknowledged his prime was slipping into the past. We see the gears of the machinery, glimpses of the inner workings of the industry. We have our suspicions, but they will never be confirmed. Maybe it was all a sham, more of a circus than we’d like to admit. Maybe it’s all for money, that’s the only purpose that drives any of it. Is boxing like art, is it important if there’s soul in it? The biggest names on the bill may have let us down, but the smaller print names didn’t. Sure as Jake Paul’s name now exists in the pantheon, another name will paper over his in the zoomed-out billing of history. Names have the power to make themselves, but the audience has the power to make them too. Maybe Jake Paul understands this. Maybe he knows his may not be a name that’s fondly remembered, but it’s a name that draws eyeballs all the same. While eyes are on him, maybe they’ll chance over some of the other names on the bill. If enough of us notice them, say them to each other the names will begin to stand out in bold. Jake Paul has the power to italisize the names, but he needs our help. If Jake Paul is evil, maybe he’s a necessary evil. The shadow reveals the light, the heel reveals the face. Our struggles reveal our strengths, just as the Jake Paul reveals the next Mike Tyson.

    …Nah! Fuck the Pauls. Hope Their shit gets ROCKED.

    November 17, 2024
    Mu-crit
    boxing, critical-analysis, jake-paul, mike-tyson, news, sports
  • I Was (Almost) A Teenage Zionist

    Do you consider yourself woke? Do you relish the epithet “SJW” as a badge of honor? Do you see the situation in Palestine / Israel and feel sick? Do you wonder what the hell America has to do with it, why we fund Israel’s apartheid state? The answer is much weirder than you may have guessed. I know because I had a front row seat to it.

    America is not a Christian nation, but try telling Christians that. They have always toiled in the background to make it so. I’m not going to even try to sum up the history of the church’s furious attempts to dissolve the line separating it from the state; it’s best if you just watch the docu-series The Family. There is a conspiracy puppeting the American government, but it isn’t some anti-Semitic caricature of a shadowy elite cabal. The NWO, the Illuminati, is just a few hundred pastors, sporting bad hair & cheap suits, telling watered-down sexist jokes about their wives and causing a scene praying gibberish over strangers. Doofy as they are, they’re an evil only a fool would scoff at. Just since Trump’s election in 2016, they were so swift to enact their agenda that America is now a litigiously dangerous place to have a miscarriage, racist police brutality is at an all-time high since the early days of slave-catching, and trans people are increasingly unable to live freely again. It’s impossible to say how long it will take to reverse the decades of progress that this cabal of pastors has undone in just 4 years. The entire Democratic party as a whole doesn’t seem to have the courage to stand up to them. Now, the Christian agenda has become national policy. You may think that’s giving the Evangelical right too much credit. Maybe all this reversal of progress is actually the will of some majority we just don’t hear from in mainstream news? No, America is truly kowtowing to the whims of a lunatic fringe. Nowhere is this clearer than in our relationship with Israel.

    It’s an issue I went all my life without really questioning, but once I finally really thought about it, it completely takes my head: why do we give Israel so many billions in aid every year?? America has always been exceptionalist in its foreign policy. We don’t do pro bono, just quid pro quo. We might give a little here & there from time to time, but that’s so we don’t look like total assholes. Or else it’s to protect our material interests. Any time this country has ever intervened in a conflict, it’s to overthrow the will of the people and install whichever status quo-stan promises to honor our access to their resources most unquestioningly. Didn’t George Dubbayuh himself admit there were no weapons, it was all about the oil? America’s history on the world stage begs the question: what the hell does America get out of giving more to Israel than our own cities for infrastructure maintenance? I don’t think that land is well known for its natural resources, at least not more than Texas or even Pennsylvania, which I’ve watched fracking destroy… So what is it then? Are you ready for this? America’s relationship with Israel is 100% driven by lunatic Christians hell-bent on dominating the world with their religion. It’s completely nefarious, but they don’t think so, they see it as enacting God’s will. The endeavor is entirely extracurricular to the Gospel, the Great Commission, the whole of the law according to Jesus Himself. It’s the result of people getting fed up with God’s will, with its infuriating timing & seemingly counterproductive chess strategy, deciding to take matters into their own hands, and realizing the best way to do that is to infiltrate politics and gradually shift the Overton Window until America is begging to vote in a Christofascist theocracy. Again, watch The Family; it’s on Netflix. All of it is true. I can vouch because I was almost sucked into the machinery when I was coming of age.

    Before proceeding, I have to drop a disclaimer to prematurely disarm the defensive arguments detractors try to use to write off anyone trying to call them out. Anti-Zionism is not anti-Semitism. Judaism does not equal Zionism. You do not become the best Judaist you can by adopting Zionism. Zionism isn’t an oppressed people taking pride in their history to protect themselves in the present. Zionism is nothing more than yet another niche form of jingoism & xenophobia. It’s not radical love, it’s cloistering hatred. It’s wounded people seeking to wound people. There is no defense of it, just like there is no defense of any other strain of supremacist belief. It’s funny, but it’s similar to the Black Hebrew Israelite movement: an extremist faction of an oppressed demographic using their historic persecution to try to leverage becoming oppressors. Both ideologies were founded to elevate an oppressed demographic into equality with the rest of the world, but both bitterly morphed into elevating adherents into supremacy. You don’t have to be a Zionist to support Judaism just like you don’t have to let Nation of Yahweh cultists harangue you to be a good anti-racist. Judaism is a rich & ancient tradition to be revered & preserved forever. Zionism is a relatively recent fringe movement to be thwarted. When folks criticize Israel, they aren’t condemning Judaism, they’re calling out Zionism. Jewish people wanting their own home is not the problem, trampling an entire other race of people to attain it is the problem. If anyone tries to call me anti-Semitic for this piece, I’ll know what they’re really trying to accomplish. If they can paint all criticism as the same bigotry that led to the Holocaust, they can shut down dissent under the guise of compassion. Really, they’re only doing themselves a disservice. The Holocaust was, of course, an unimaginable tragedy that should’ve been prevented. Israel’s wholesale genocide of Palestine is the same thing. Both are true. Anyone with a conscience can see that. If you try to dismiss Palestine’s plight, you spit on why the Holocaust is one of the most heinous atrocities this world has ever suffered. You neglect its lesson, the lesson humanity should never have had to learn. In that way, Zionism is anti-Semitic, not anti-Zionism. To overcompensate for your people’s oppression by trying to elevate your kin above other people on this Earth is to say the Nazis had the right idea, just about the wrong group of people. The Holocaust was a tragedy not because of who it was waged upon, but because it was waged on anyone at all. No one should ever have to endure oppression. We are all equal, we are all valuable. The moment you declare someone is lesser than you, you open yourself up for others to make that claim against you. We’re either all in this together, or war is the natural state of our species. Does Israel really want that, perpetual violent unrest? Does it want a peaceful home, or bloody supremacy? If the answer was peace, why is there a war still raging on, over a century later? I won’t accept answers in the form of propaganda blaming Hamas either. By how many years does the Balfour Declaration pre-date Hamas, is it something in the ballpark of 70? For Palestinians, any opposition to Zionism is self-defense, not anti-Semitism. For From River To Sea allies, anti-Zionism is beyond simple praxis, it’s merely being a good neighbor, a concerned humanist. Like a Scooby Doo villain, if we unmask Zionism to see its true nature, nothing will stare back at us but desperate excuses for imperialism, settler colonialism. Colonialism is never the good guy.
    I hope I have made myself understood.

    Zionism is planted in Christians from the beginning. I definitely fell into it, I even called myself a Zionist in my early teens. I actually looked into if it was possible to become a literal card-carrying member. My dad’s family descends from Ashkenazi who fled Germany just before the Night of the Long Knives. My mom’s family were Austrians who probably rode the same boat to America as my dad’s family. We were never culturally Orthodox in any way; my family apparently converted to Evangelical Christianity and shed any other traditions as a rite of assimilation into America. Still, I could commiserate with the Israelites as a kid. Every other Sunday school lesson seemed to touch on their trials, like an old serial story told over the course of several magazine issues. If you grew up in the church, you know the rhetoric around Israelites being God’s chosen people: how they constantly messed up but always repented, how God never gave up on them but opened up the club doors for everyone to join, how important the re-establishment of a new Jerusalem is to end times prophecies… I get it! After all the Old Testament stories, you root for Israel. If you’re told how its reestablishment ties into the aftermath of WWII, you gain a modernized appreciation for their struggle. But then I learned about *how* the land itself was claimed through wars, oppression, endless cycles of violence kicked off over a century ago by a single act of covetousness that could’ve been another cautionary Old Testament tale itself… I still feel conflicted about it in some deep part of me. How could the Israelites commit genocide? How could the God’s Chosen reconcile such a diabolical sin? In answering that question, I see now how dangerous the rhetoric around Israel in Evangelicalism can be in the outside world. I can’t unsee how the rhetoric has been used to justify atrocities Israel has committed. I can’t let the American church off the hook for funding, supporting, encouraging those atrocities. My Sunday school teachers never lacked an understanding of good narrative structure. If the lesson that week ended on a bitter note, it was only because there was a cautionary tale to be gleaned. Next time, the Israelites would remind us why God chose them as His people. They never disappointed whenever that next time was narratively necessary. They may have royally screwed up, but they historically endured and made amends. It was through that lens that we were desensitized to the genocide committed to protect our favorite gaggle of scruffy screwballs, God’s chosen schlemiels. For all their failings, the Israelites were ultimately good at heart. When they crushed their enemies, it was because those foes were the most godless degenerates possible. They sacrificed babies to demons, they cut themselves for blood rites, they were horrifying barbarians, they murdered casually and raped gleefully. It’s impossible for me not to see parallels between those descriptions & the way colonial settlers maligned the Indigenous people they trampled by westward expansion. The Indigenous were savages, unfit stewards for this God-given land. When this continent was seized by force, it was Manifest Destiny. When Israel eradicated their foes, that was Manifest Destiny too. The settlers redeemed the promised land, paved hell to create paradise. When Israel triumphed in battle, they had rid the Earth of a vile scourge. The parallels were startling. I felt a needle-prick of guilt I couldn’t quite verbalize when I saw it clearly for the 1st time. I had fallen for a double standard! When Israel’s disgusting Pagan antagonists partook in the spoils of war, it was more proof of how unfit they were to exist for another Sunday school lesson. When Israel indulged the same despicable acts, it was cathartic, a release of righteous indignation. God Himself sanctioned it, even punished the Israelites for not partaking in it once. I’ve never forgotten that. I’ve never forgotten the cheers of the class when the good guys won the story this week. It reminds me of the bluster after 9/11, the way it felt so gratifyingly patriotic to revel in homicidal racism. Never mind what America did to provoke the attack, how it was laid out plainly in Bin Laden’s manifesto like yet another hamfistedly written cautionary tale, we were the Israelites. Victory is God’s and God is on our side. I hope I never stop feeling viscerally ashamed when I think about how I went with the flow back then. The needle-prick of guilt blossomed into a belligerent acupuncture session. If I never felt that pain, maybe I never would have changed. Thank actual god, whoever that may really be, for that. Regret doesn’t render me a messy pile of tatters, though, because I know I can create a purpose from having experienced it. I was wrong, but because I know better now, I know how the mentality is kept alive, how it spreads. 

    An organization like Eagle’s Wings is central to it. They’re Zionists for the cause of Christian supremacy, world domination by one religion. I was drawn to their organization at first. They seemed to be arranging direct action in the heart of the conflict. I thought they were brave. The leader of the org, Robert Stearns, led a whirlwind guest service at my church one Sunday. The spectacle moved me, he was a consummate showman, but it was his depiction of God’s Chosen under siege from Biblical enemies in the present day that really spoke to me. We had the power to pitch in to help save the Israelites! The idea of taking part in a modern Bible story like the ones I grew up on sold me. I spoke to some of his staff afterward, and they urged me to get involved. A short while later, I got invited to a conference they were hosting in DC. It was an all expenses paid trip promising bougie room & board. Eventually, if it seemed we were a collaborative match, they’d pay my way to visit Jerusalem, the holy land I’d dreamt of all my life. It was a daydream come true, but something about the offer just didn’t sit right with me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Was it the recruitment tactics from attractive young volunteers that reminded me vaguely of flirty fishing? The wizbang branding? The unanswered question of how to square Evangelicalism’s invasive mission with Judaism’s sharply-drawn personal boundaries against proselytizers? It all seemed a little too slick to me, like there was too much money behind it for it to really be the populist movement it portrayed itself as. I decided I had some digging to do. A friend of mine had already become involved and had a hell of a time untangling himself. He said that behind the front of trying to protect a marginalized group of humans, they were trying to use peace in the Middle East as a stepping stone for Christianity to supplant Islam. It sounded a bit farfetched to me, but I checked it out. I found someone who ran a blog trying to expose them in whatever capacity she could, and she verified what my friend said. Eagle’s Wings was basically a front for lobbyists and the most imperialist kind of missionaries. They had access to more money than they knew how to squander. Thanks to backdoor donors, they never had to ask plebeian Sunday tithers for another red cent, but they still did, regularly. There was a whole extra offering plate just for supporting Israel! I thought that was strange. Where did it all go? It appeared to exclusively bankroll lavish luncheons, extravagant conferences in posh hotels, a traveling U2-knockoff band with a multimedia stage show, accommodations for US students to visit the Wailing Wall. It was hard not to see how carefully crafted their image was. The impression they presented was urbane, even progressive! This was a typically conservative demographic delving into identity politics activism! Christians going out on a limb to practice what they preached, infiltrating the inner workings of government to influence the unfolding of history. I’d be lying if there wasn’t a twinge of romance about it, like the thrill of a spy novel. And it didn’t matter who you were, what branch of obscure beliefs your church’s congregation splintered off from, how you felt about Orthodox Judaism, Eagle’s Wings, Israel, needed your help. It was intoxicatingly empowering. I completely understood how my friend and this blogger were roped in. If you were like me, a “true believer”, you internalized the message of Keith Green’s “Jesus Commands Us To Go”. I was anxious to see action because all I heard for years were sermons about how it’s a weird kind of difficult to be a Christian in America, one of few places on Earth where the middle class lives in conditions comparable to royalty back when the Bible was written. We were spoiled, so our “straight & narrow road” was the “camel through the eye of a needle” path to heaven. The prospect of giving all of that up to preach the Gospel abroad was the ultimate test of our faith, a test the vast majority of us were happy to never take over the summer break for more than a couple week’s worth of guilt-assuaging bragging rights. I always wanted to be different. I wanted to prove I was a hardcore Jesus freak. Could this be my chance to walk the talk? Still, from the glossy hi-res pamphlet, it didn’t look like it’d be too drastic a sacrifice to skip college and join Eagle’s Wings. The accommodations were promised to be downright cushy. Kids already hooked into the student ambassador program spun me spiels about the best food they’d ever eaten, the most beautiful sights they’d ever seen, an unprecedented sense of purpose, breathtaking girls just dying for a beau to make them a stateside bride… I think if my friend hadn’t already blazed that trail from Bumblefuck, East PA to Jesus’s homeland, if I hadn’t stumbled upon that blog, I would’ve guilted myself into joining after a year of puttering around at a minimum wage job. I’m glad it never happened. I didn’t have to learn that lesson the hard way. Still, I got close enough to see the inner workings expose themselves, to hear the way the leadership talked about Christianity’s relation to Israel and what their words revealed about their motivations. I got a peek behind the veneer without having to extricate myself from inside it. Even the glimpse I caught spooked me away for good.

    To properly proceed, I have to back up for a preface. If you want a concrete, comprehensive retelling of how Zionism found root in Evangelicalism, it’s worth looking up “premillennial dispensationalism”. How did a movement with such a mouthful for a name ever catch on? Sadly, fearmongering is very effective in religion. The American doomsday prepper movement, TEOTWAWKI & the Y2K, all of that stems from premillennial dispensationalism. PD, I’ll call it for short hitherto, is the belief that the book of Revelation is an honest-to-goodness end times prophecy that’s a bit flowery in its language, but is still an accurate account of what we can expect to happen when Christ comes back and the Earth self-destructs. The rapture WILL happen, then the anti-Christ, the Tribulation, then ka-boom: new Heaven, new Earth. PD is the ideology behind all of the infamous final days predictions that’ve been spouted unfounded since the dawn of American pop culture. Or I should say, one of PD’s innumerable pseudopods… Like everything to do with religion, it was fractured by disagreements and splinters off into too many branches to keep track of. Some people believe that Christ comes back before the anti-Christ, some believe anyone who asks for salvation after the Rapture will be denied, some believe we won’t know the day or the hour, some believe we keep pushing it back, like a stayed execution or time off for good behavior. That’s just what happens when you base your ideology on the writings of an already unstable man tripping on food poisoning in prison a thousand years ago! It’s fun to make fun of, but it’s actually pretty goddamn terrifying. I try to keep an open mind and accept everyone’s sincere beliefs as possibly true, but the fact that adults believe this horseshit enough to choose it for their life’s work is as alarming as it is depressing. Turns out that an ancient text retranslated for thousands of years through unforeseeably drastic cultural upheavals leaves a lot to interpretation. Christians may all refer to themselves by the same title and claim to serve the same deity, but nobody can agree on anything much but beyond that. Are we saved by faith alone, or by works? Is faith without works dead? Is the whole of the law really just love, or do at least a couple of those Ten Commandments still apply? Answer a fool according to his folly lest he become wise in his own eyes, or answer not a fool according to his folly lest you become like him? These debates will continue to erupt like zits until Christ comes home to roost. I always thought it was fucking silly, but these detail devils mean everything to people. My family has trudged through the aftermath of a couple church splits; one extremely silly indeed, but the other so serious that a bad faith doctrinal misinterpretation by the head pastor resulted in him drunk-driving a van full of kids home after midnight. I kinda get the drama then; followers just wanna know they’re following correctly, and in the absence of their true leader, everyone is just a chain of followers, interpreting commands from eons ago. As much as I wished we could all just get along, it ain’t gonna happen. Not in my lifetime, I hope anyway… For all the Left Behind books I read, all the crazed prophecies that bent my ears over my tenure as a church kid, I never had a genuine inkling that we were living in the end of days. Everybody else wanted it so badly, though. Like they needed it. That never made sense to me. Wasn’t there more than enough work for us to bash our heads against for the rest of our lives? I know now that there’s never any such thing as a true believer. There exists in everyone the capacity for doubt. It’s always possible that some curveball will sideswipe you out of fervid belief into just calmly living your life like a normal person. What about the girl who devoted her teen years to missions work in distressingly inconvenient parts of Africa, much to the equal delight & despair of all the boys hoping to win her hand in marriage? She met a dude in Africa and flew right back home to settle immediately into the most vanilla life possible. What of the traveling musician couple I toured with for a short stint of my own young adulthood? They had kids and got dayjobs. They still play out occasionally, but they mostly raise their autistic son. I love that for them. I don’t wish the true believer life on anybody anymore. Ministry can be such a lonesome drag, a total bummer that takes you a world away from the affection & connection that’s supposed to be the point of organized religion. It doesn’t have to be an isolating slog, which is why another friend of mine left her boyfriend to go rescue kids from sex trafficking in Brazil and never came back to her safe life in the States, but her job itself isn’t really religious. It sounds more like social work than proselytizing. She probably talks to the kids about Jesus, but her role is to help them overcome trauma and live a healthy life. Her goal is very tangible, she’s essentially a direct-action activist. The goal of so much ministry is frustratingly intangible. What the hell does winning a soul really mean? Unless you devote part of every day to personally overseeing the personal development of someone you just prayed the salvation prayer with, how do you know the seed you planted really took? It’s a crapshoot, ultimately. You may have that person thank you in Heaven, or you may have Christ lambast you for letting them slip into the burning lake of fire. I was a guitarist for a worship band. How’s that for an abstract goal? How would I know if my ministry was effective, if that tasty lick I just peeled off during the bridge visibly moved anybody? Now imagine you’re not even in the ministry at all, you’re just a working stiff who also happens to be a believer. If I felt phantom pressure just tickling a fretboard for Jesus, how would your subconscious assault you as a white collar job drone, a milquetoast suburban parent? The one itch Capitalism still has no idea how to scratch, the reason there’s an ongoing war on drugs as well as an establishment media-backed battle for the soul of the nation in the arena of pop culture Puritans can’t even stand, is the inherent human need for conflict, drama, push & pull, perpetual climaxes & resolutions. If you have no grand purpose to break your body every day for, especially if you hold these paradigm-shifting beliefs that get inflamed by a professional orator every Sunday yet you have no outlet for them, you’re gonna go a bit bonkers. I think that’s what happens, anyway. As somebody who’s contended with borderline or bipolar 2 or whatever, the doctors never reached a conclusive conclusion, I’ve had brushes with delusions of grandeur. For me, they weren’t merely a spontaneous shift in chemicals, they were a spontaneous shift in chemicals that acted like a toxic waste spill that granted my ongoing neuroses superpowers. The world of the mind interacts with the world of the brain in nigh unquantifiable ways. I could see how middle class ennui could be a pipeline to the kind of mania that gripped John the Baptist in that prison cell. Maybe the need for the end to be just around the corner, the compulsion to describe Christ coming back with the hair-raising phrase “like a thief in the night”, is like spiking the tapioca of your mundane existence, microdosing before attending that board meeting, driving under the influence. Cutting off your rationality to spite your mind-warpingly soporific routine. I’m just spitballin’. Whatever primed Americans to be such fertile soil for such a febrile seed, it blossomed like an epidemic. The PD crowd took endtimes mania as Gospel, even though it isn’t actual Gospel. Revelations is an impressionistic tone poem, like God was trying to end His book with a bang by doing His best impression of TS Elliott rewriting Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” for Hebrew kids trying to freak out their Pharisee parents. Millennialists escalated a cock-eyed analysis of prose all the way to mob madness. They started a whole movement around an insane idea, so it’s no wonder the way they acted on their beliefs was also deranged. If you’re a fellow 90’s kid, do you remember those late night TV spots, foaming at the mouth about the tribulation being upon us? Or maybe you’re vaguely aware of 50 years of some whacko demanding that the last whacko had it wrong, the end of the world is actually now, 1985. Maybe you saw the Left Behind movies and slid into your chair, eyes agape at the absolute lunacy they tried to film as gritty realism. Maybe you were like me and even had your own Rapture scares: you ran downstairs on a Sunday morning to find no sign of anyone, save for your grandma’s sweater draped over a chair as if she had just evaporated into thin air. The sheer idea of the Rapture terrified me. I remember making my mom paranoid behind the wheel of our car, pelting her with questions about how the Rapture’s supposed to happen without killing everybody driving at that exact moment. Jesus, take the wheel of everyone zooted up to Heaven in an instant? She had a killer answer that finally shut me up: God is omnipotent & omnipresent, so yeah, Jesus is really gonna take every wheel on Earth simultaneously. Boats & planes & submarines & even space shuttles too, don’t worry. That’s how pervasive PD has managed to be in the church, my accountant mom was even stumping for the ideology off the cuff to get a moment’s calm while driving. I was as satisfied with that answer as I was with the ideology as a whole. I took the bait, hook, line, & sinker. Was that what Christ meant by, “Be a fisher of men.”? Reel ‘em in, baby!

    The PD movement has roots dating back to the 2nd Century, AD. It is not a new thing, unless you consider time itself to be a relatively recent development. It plays with my brain like putty to think of how long that idea survived. It sounds batshit crazy to me now. Sure, yeah, the world is going to end, not because the 99% couldn’t stop the 1% from polluting our planet into an uninhabitable cesspool, but because God’s looking at a Doomsday watch and the little hand is a few ticks off from “The jig is up!”. When His egg timer goes off, a few different types of hell will break loose, including famines, locusts, plagues, water turning to blood, and like, half the Earth’s population just dropping off. Then the really scary stuff happens when a guy called the anti-Christ appears, tries to create a one-world government that enforces atheism under threat of death, and everybody who gets this tattoo that says, “Suck my ass, God!”, shall be spared. Well, maybe. Maybe that anti-Christ dude shows up before the plagues & stuff, Idk… Anyway, before anything bad happens at all, all the believers are beamed up into Heaven like Heaven’s a mothership sucking Jesus Freaks up with tractor beams. Or maybe that happens after the bad stuff, but not before the bad guy… or maybe the bad guy is first, then the bad stuff, then “Beam me up, Goddy!”… Idk, nobody can say for sure, but a lot of people swear their version’s the right one, so they refer to themselves by a different 7-syllable word. Pre-millennialists, post-millennialists, a-millennialists… All amateurs compared to the premillennial dispensationalists. I don’t have to count all the syllables in that moniker to know it’s a seal of commitment. Almost like they’re just improvising all this shit to feel that first high of purpose again? They say you can never recapture the high of inviting Christ into your heart for the first time… PD’s try. Imagine being so gung-ho about one tiny detail of your ideology that you make it your whole personality. The PD party line is that vanilla-ass premillennialists got one thing wrong: “the church”, as a name for all Christians, is not the same as Israel. PD’s believe Israel isn’t God’s favorite anymore, that honor was passed on to the church. The church has taken the place of the Israelites of those Old Testament stories now. Israel is still vital to the cause, but Israelites are God’s bastard kids since they disowned Him. How you gonna come back for a 2nd round as somebody’s Messiah when they don’t believe you ever arrived in the 1st place? PD’s get indignant on behalf of Christ. Never mind that the Son of the God of love would be selfless as a rule, Christ has pride and can afford to have pride since He already bounced back from the downfall that cometh with the sin of esteeming yourself. Christ isn’t gonna debase Himself to leave His cozy throne in His personally-crafted paradise, just to invite the people who murdered Him over for, oh, the rest of forever! Nah, Christ is only coming back for His real friends, who He’ll carpool to the biggest house party ever to happen. Maybe I’m having a little too much fun paraphrasing these beliefs. I’m not really being too respectful, huh. It’s just that once you know where it all leads, the bit that dispensationalists find so important that they make it their whole steez, you kinda lose all respect for the idea of the Fairness Doctrine. I’m only giving these beliefs the time of day so you can know the depths of doltishness that is the American Christian Zionist movement. Are you ready for this big reveal? These Zionists are rabid anti-Semites. They’re Mel Gibson ranting about the Jews killing his Lord on the press tour for The Passion Of The Christ. At their core, they’re only slightly less virulent about it than any garden variety neo-Nazi, they just have to maintain a polite veneer of support for the Jews because the Jews are useful. See, while Christ may not be casting Himself like a pearl before swine to come save His Dad’s erstwhile chosen people, the book of Revelation still peskily mentions Israel, and that has to mean something, right? For Christ to come back, for the endtimes to launch like a SpaceX rocket, Israel has to be ratified into a bonafide state again. Like I did as a kid in Sunday school, these Christians need the Israelites to win again. They’re on their own once it happens, but it has to happen or Senpai will have ghosted His church for good. I think that’s what PD is, anyway. I’m not researching this part, just rappin’ off the top of my dome here, relaying PD as it was explained to me by my church’s elders when I asked. I could just paraphrase some investigative journalism on the topic, but I’m going the gonzo route here. There’s always a gulf between intent & action, so if my recounting of PD beliefs isn’t completely true to the core of the teachings, that’s because its believers have taken what they saw as necessary liberties in whispering it down the lane. Obviously, the anti-Semitic stuff is my own interpretation of what they told me, but if reading between the lines is good enough for them to start a movement, it’s good enough for me. There’s also the fact that they openly gave the game away in offhanded cracks at Jews as a monolith. That recording of Mel Gibson’s screed gave me deja vu; I’d heard those exact words from unassuming deacons, youth pastors, friends’ parents. Even friends of mine complained about the Jews. The “They killed our Lord” shit was the least of it. That’s like a prelude, or a bigot’s gateway drug. Really, the entire PD movement is a dogwhistle blown to recruit converts who understand the real goal implicitly. Jewish people aren’t whole people unto themselves, they’re the worst kind of fools: servants who refuse to recognize their master. Why don’t they believe in Jesus? I heard that question asked with anguish. It frustrated me as a church kid too. Here, God sent His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him would have eternal life. Not just eternal life, as if that deal already couldn’t get any sweeter, but they’d be spared from eternal damnation. Why willingly pick the stick over the carrot? Why would you choose eternal damnation when you could just say the guy was The Guy and then He would pull the lever that unfolds the ladder instead of the one that activates the trap door? To these Christians, Jews aren’t custodians of a rich culture that deserves preservation, they’re savages who need to be salvaged from their ignorance. Dispensationalists don’t completely shut the door on Jews; PD’s believe there’s still time for Jews to repent, and that the Jews who aren’t total fools will repent during the 7 years of tribulation. After they see Jesus, they’ll be sorry! That’s really just xenophobia disguised as ideological disagreement. None of the PD’s I talked to ever stopped to wonder why Judaism as a whole isn’t just the other half of Judeo-Christianity. Why don’t Jews accept Jesus as the Messiah? Is it because Jesus, as a character, was too convenient? As though His arch helped the Romans more than it helped the Hebrews? If the Romans wanted to quell a Hebrew uprising, they could’ve tried a million lousier ideas than co-opting Hebrew religion to preach radical pacifism that would metastasize into resignation, apathy… Maybe Jews feel like a Messiah that would universalize their identity’s underpinnings is no savior at all, but a provocateur trying to muddy the waters of sacred traditions for their oppressors’ gain. Maybe they expected a Messiah to lead them out of material oppression, back home to the promised land. If that’s true, I don’t blame them for sitting out on Jesus. I’ve heard a litany of different answers to the PD’s favorite “Gotcha!” which all make sense, but ultimately, the only answer that matters is that Jews have free will too. They aren’t just minions in a theocracy’s ascendance. If Christ died, He died for them too, and whether they acknowledge that or not, they deserve their right to decide for themselves what they believe and how they’ll live their beliefs out. If there’s one thing you can say about the Christian God, He wanted people to have a choice. They’re free to make the wrong choice, but He sent His Son as a convoluted loophole around deciding for people. What does that say about His character, and what does it say about His followers that they won’t embody that same respect of personal boundaries? Stowed away inside PD’s embrace of Israel as a necessity for their dogma’s future history is a smug superiority complex. Ever hear that Bible verse, “Every knee shall bow, every tongue confess, that Jesus Christ is Lord.”? PD’s want that from Jews so badly. It’s almost like they think hearing this group they consider so close to getting it finally concede will rid them of their own doubts, once & for all. PD’s want Christ to return so they can say, “Toldja so!”. I hate that shit so much. Know what it really is? Colonial imperialism by proxy. The days when you could be a conquistador are long gone, but your God can be your Christopher Columbus! When I was a Christian, I was inflicted with this sense of how my inability to win souls for Christ was a reflection on me, it was my personal failure if I didn’t lead everyone I talked to into accepting Christ on the spot. I was always ashamed that I viewed preaching the Good News that way, but almost everyone I knew (who wasn’t this one insufferable extrovert who became a televangelist) admitted they felt that way. The way Evangelicalism inculcates you with this twisted sense of responsibility is insidious. Kinder, more progressive mentors tried to tell me, “It’s Him, not you.”, but even in that mentality that’s supposed to relieve you they hide the implication that you have to do a good job getting out of God’s way so He can do His job through you. I know that single complex has swelled into a mass neurosis for the Evangelical church. It’s like the ascetic version of a grindset, hustle culture. That mindset is settler colonialism. There’s a reason Christianity was present for every jackbooted step of America’s progress. It’s a mind virus whose sole goal is to spread itself. You better believe it plays an enormous role in all the ideologies that justify Palestine’s oppression. It’s what convinces Americans to vote for the politicians who’ll send Israel another heap of aid & weapons. It’s the undergirding principle for Israel’s genocide of Palestinians. The true motive for Israel trying to pave over Palestine to build a promised land is just bog standard greed, but the PR spin that justifies it, the loud part that conceals the quiet part Israel can only imply, is that Palestians are godless heathens. Religious piety & righteous vengeance are the rhetorical tranquilizers that allow Israel to move with open impunity. Hamas are terrorists, they won’t stop until Islam has devoured Judaism. Israel is just acting in self defense! Israelites are battling persecution again, just like in those Old Testament stories. Evangelical rhetoric enables Zionist violence. Evangelicalism & Zionism are co-conspirators, even if they’re uneasy bedfellows.

    The condescension PD’s show Jews is disgusting, and the utter disregard PD’s show Palestinians is even worse, but worst of all to me somehow is how Israel accepts all PD’s backhanded support. Of course PD’s are casually racist, and of course a majority-Caucasian religious movement is genocidally dismissive of Muslim Middle Easterners, but Israel happily partnering with the fanatics who just want to use them is just a new level of dismay to me. It’s pathetic to watch colonizers pander to a group who wants them to suffer the Tribulation at best, burn in Hell forever for not accepting their take on the doctrine at worst. It’s such a shameless betrayal of everything sacred. It shows me that for Israel, religion, tradition, honor, empathy, morality, everything of true value is worth casting aside for material gain. Israel is a nation of hypocrites. Genocide is always hypocrisy, because it’s never justified, but genocide is the lowest form of hypocrisy. I’m a hypocrite if I advocate for recycling and then never separate the recyclables from the trash, but my hypocrisy is on such a minuscule scale. It only really hurts my reputation in the grand scheme of things, but I’m sure most people who know me wouldn’t care if I didn’t recycle. Israel’s hypocrisy is devastating on a mass scale. The number of Palestinians murdered since October alone knocks the wind out of me every time the tally is added to. Hypocrisy itself isn’t the worst evil, but Israel’s hypocrisy is the worst evil I’ve seen play out in my lifetime. Their hypocrisy is a compound evil. Enabling a deranged death cult’s apocalypse fantasies is just one facet of that evil. Even the act of slaughtering Palestinians itself is only another facet of Israel’s evil. The spread of propaganda, the flagrant political wheeling & dealing, the flippant poker face slips to openly give away the game because they’re so self-assured that they’ll get away with it… All just facets of a greater evil. It shocks me because, well, how could genocide not be the sole evil? And yet, as I watch these atrocities unfold, I know the taking of innumerable human lives is just a portion of evil in a platter of evils, that’s how evil Israel’s actions are. The overarching evil, the driving evil, is that Israel is resuscitating colonialism and dragging the world back into crueler times. Colonialism never truly died, it just lay dormant in most world powers, and rumblings of it have rippled through recent history like tectonic plate shifts that only those on the shifting plate notice. It has had to go incognito, move underground. It most often takes the form of foreign meddling over resources, like the War On Terror being a front for seizing control of oil in the Middle East. Or how slavery was repurposed as prison labor. It was no longer as socially acceptable after the 1st world war, so like white supremacy, it has recently had to operate under euphemisms & excuses and launder its atrocities. With Israel’s refusal to take the October 7th Hamas attack as a cue to stand down and work toward real peace, though, colonialism is openly back and bad as ever. As much as possible, anyway; Israel still has to verbally dance around it in public, but nobody’s fooled. South Africa filed a suit against Israel with the International Court of Justice. Protests have erupted all over the world, calling for a ceasefire. All over America, college students have occupied their campuses and staged demonstrations to get the board to stop funding Israel. For all the conscience that people are displaying, the powers that be are responding heinously. Instead of meeting the students’ very reasonable demands, college boards sic the police on them in echoes of Kent State. A memo was leaked admitting the New York Times had a moratorium on reporting on the genocide with the word “genocide”. In almost all the reporting I see, the genocide is framed as “the conflict”, or worse yet, “the Israel / Hamas war”. The whitewashing of our very eyes is taken up as a gauntlet by Zionist celebrities too. Bret Gelman, the actor who played the asshole brother-in-law in Fleabag, uses his platform on Instagram to help dox New Yorkers who get filmed ripping down Zionist propaganda posters. He’s not alone, I’ve seen many other comedians & actors joining in and I didn’t even go looking too hard. I’ve even argued with Zionist college kids in comments sections on posts about student protests; it’s horrifying how eager they are to straight-up lie about historical events that are so easy to fact check. It isn’t difficult to see where they get it from, though. Even though fact checking is easier than ever, there’s currently a mainstream media blackout on the plain truth about the situation, with all the coverage of the genocide deploying the euphemisms & excuses that’ve long been par for the colonialist course. The alarmism that plagues American media took Israel’s side immediately on October 7th, which has led to all manner of bizarre defensiveness. The Anti-Defamation League reported that upticks in anti-Semitic incidents increased by several hundredfold since that day, but when asked what the ADL’s criteria for anti-Semitic incidents were, they hemmed & hawed and ultimately shuffled their feet coyly around admitting they counted all support of Palestine as individual anti-Semitic attacks. It’s all so thinly veiled, and everybody sees it, but people are having their lives ruined for speaking out about it. America’s crackdown on its own citizens has reached villain-caricature levels. It’s so demented that a school lunch bill was struck down and the money went to Israel instead. It’s looking like there won’t be a viable presidential candidate who won’t enable the genocide for another 4 years. Instead, our politicians are making deals with resort developers to turn Gaza into beachside vacation property. Our collective conscience is given no recourse in America. We can only watch in horror as our tax dollars fund more massacres while our kids are beaten with batons for daring to try to do something about it. I’ve been racking my mind ever since October, but I’m only a musician, writer, and music gear tech. I don’t know much about effective civil unrest, much less how to topple a corrupt government with UFO military technology. All I can think to do is join in the protests and write.

    The scariest part about Israel’s primary evil is that it’s setting a precedent. If Israel gets away with effacing Palestine, we’re not just facing down the loss of Palestinians. It’s enraging to the point of derealization that there’s more at stake than Palestinian lives, but there is. A victory for Israel is a victory for premillennial dispensationalists is a victory for all religious extremism. If Israel is finally formally established as a state, the Evangelicals are watching their prophecies unfold in real time. I’d hope that would be a pacifier for them, that they could then just sit back and wait for Jesus, but they pushed this rock up the hill. If it doesn’t roll back down and crush them under it, they did the impossible. They’ll have made God’s will happen. Do you think they’ll be content to stop there? They won’t be content ‘til they force Jesus’s hand. Until Christ Himself rides down from the sky on a cloud, they’ll be restless. They’re chafing at the bit of fate so hard that they successfully installed a network in our government to ensure their interests are taken care of on the world stage. Israel was just a pawn. The game wasn’t ever about forcing the end, nobody really wants the end of all things, it was always about sending the nonbelievers to their chosen final destination. If we don’t curtail it now, they won’t be able to help themselves. It’s an unfortunate paradox of reality that peace has to constantly be fought for. If you have any ideas, hit me up, even if only to talk. I’m ready to take action, I just don’t know what to do.

    May 8, 2024
    Mu-crit
    bible, christianity, from-the-river-to-the-sea, israel, palestine, politics, zionism
  • Morrissey Code

    With the news of Sinead O’Connor’s passing, headlines this week have been a flood of tributes. This is to be expected, that’s what happens when a celebrity passes. Everyone comes out of the woodwork to regale the world with even the most tangential connection to the deceased. Sinead wasn’t your average celeb, though. It isn’t possible to eulogize her without mentioning what she’s most famous for and how much it cost her. In the moment that she tore up a photo of the pope on live TV, she became something bigger than herself, she became a symbol. Symbols are polarizing by nature. For most of the people eulogizing her, their connection to her is how Sinead the symbol impacted them. Sinead was an anomaly even for a symbol, though, as she became a symbol relatively early in her life. Her life continued for decades after that moment. All symbols suffer detractors, but she had to suffer hers while she was still alive. In that regard, she became a sort of modern artist version of Joan of Arc. The persecution she suffered was a reflection of the times: she wasn’t burnt at the stake literally, just figuratively. It may have only been emotionally barbaric, but she was still made to suffer for speaking the truth. She was persecuted as an artist and as a person, and was ultimately a victim of the same corrupt system she spoke out against. To the type of person who’d keep score of such a thing, Sinead O’Connor was the realest possible deal. She attained the highest level of cred. It’s a craven mentality, but it’s a mentality we’re seeing pop up more & more, with a new grating voice joining its droning choir every other day. Feigning outrage is a cottage industry now, and some of the highest-paid media figures exist solely to lead as many viewers as possible in a national salute of pearl-clutching. Some of those talking heads were the establishment figures who derided her back in the day. The subject of this spiel is perhaps their most lamented recruit.

    It shouldn’t be surprising that there’d be people who want to ride her coattails posthumously. I don’t begrudge even casual fans posting their stories about how much an artist’s work meant to them after that artist is gone. Everyone I know has done it at least once, myself included. It’s a normal, healthy response. It’s also just part of the deal; if this finite being’s life work touches you, you may outlive them, but you can’t outlive their impact. Are there people who post eulogies for cool kid points? Man, I don’t know, and I don’t really care. Why would that matter? Posting your eulogy on social media is a surefire way to feel less alone in the often sobering event of a seemingly immortal icon’s physical form failing them. Perhaps someone who wasn’t really a fan just wanted to feel part of something for an afternoon. I wasn’t the most avid fan of Sinead; I’ve always loved her music, it speaks to me in a unique way, but I didn’t listen frequently enough to feel like I was qualified to eulogize her publicly. I still felt the loss when reading others’ stories about her & her effect on them, though. I cried! Sinead the symbol meant something to me too. That one colossal, universal moment alone was inspiring to me, but how she lived afterward, weathered the backlash, never apologized, never backed down, just kept being herself, that was fuel for my own fire. As a repressed church kid all too aware of the injustices my religion swept under its prayer rug, I looked up to her. Seeing thousands of other people on my social media feeds expressing the same sentiment was a wonderful feeling. I felt less alone reading eulogies for Sinead, I felt vindicated for believing most of my life that she was a gift to the world but was given a raw deal in return. There were a few pieces from some very unlikely sources, people & institutions that failed her after that SNL performance! They took the opportunity to apologize, set the record straight once and for all that they eventually came around, that after her passing, they can admit they were wrong in how they reacted to her historic moment. I don’t side-eye those eulogies, I see them as proof that people can learn, can change. Isn’t that a good thing, redemption?
    Of course, there was one person in the world who didn’t see it that way. There’s always a Grinch, spying on the world through a telescope on his remote, dreary mountain top. Of course this Grinch just had to insert himself into this press cycle. This Grinch had a hot take to deliver, Whoville be damned. Like the actual inactual Grinch, this man is mononymous & famously surly. The master of mope, the godfather of gloom, the original indie rock Elvis, the Oscar Wilde of the 80’s, the former frontman of the most sacred cow in all of hipsterdom… Have you guessed it yet? Born Steven Patrick, but he goes by his last name: Morrissey. Morrissey! Not too many people in this world convince the world to know them by a mononym, but The Smiths are still universally beloved, still considered one of the best, most iconic bands in human history. That’s excellent news for Morrissey, because if you’ve followed his arc since The Smiths broke up, you know that he’s had a pretty controversial run since parting ways with the band that put him on the map. Now, he’s so dreaded as the Bigmouth who never has the decency to refrain from striking again that I’m the zillionth music writer to make that joke. The bad reputation began as what sounded like a misunderstanding snowballed out of proportion by overzealous young music journos, but that rep has since been confirmed by words constantly spat out by the man himself. In the 90’s, there was an incident involving him performing at a Madness concert shrouded in the Union Jack (which was considered a nod to the white supremacist gang National Front at that juncture in time) that prompted music mag NME to print a piece asking if Morrissey was actually a racist. I thought that sounded like a stretch, but it didn’t help that he’d written songs like “Bengali In Platforms”, “Asian Rut”, or “National Front Disco”, and that the most optimistic reading of the lyrics for those songs was oddly vague. It also didn’t help that he’d dismissed genres of music like rap, R&B, and reggae, or that he told an interviewer that he thought it was impossible for black & white people to ever get along. His willingness to put his foot in his mouth has only turned into a deepthroating of right winger boots over the years. He has endorsed anti-immigrant political parties, couched various forms of bigotry in vegan legalism, and laid out his horrible politics plainly in an interview with his own nephew. He tried to sell tour shirts emblazoned with an appropriation of iconic civil rights writer James Baldwin’s likeness but the “Unloveable” Smiths lyrics: “I wear black on the outside because black is how I feel on the inside”. He did an interview with a German magazine, then claimed the mag misquoted him when the interview was published with sections of him blathering about how Harvey Weinstein & Kevin Spacey’s victims must have known what they were getting into. He accused the mag of misquoting him, and demanded the mag publish the full audio of the interview to clear his name. The mag published the full interview and the world found out that they only edited his appalling tirades for brevity.

    Morrissey sucks. There’s no way around “telling it like it is”. If your politics are at all progressive, if you’re anti-racist, anti-fascist, if you want to smash the patriarchy and defund the police, if you believe in welcoming refugees, if you believe in just giving as many people as possible the benefit of the doubt, if you believe in the core goodness of most people, you will find contention with Morrissey. If your worldview is reactionary, if your politics are regressive, if you believe in “cancel culture run amok” instead of assholes facing the consequences of their actions, if you believe Trump or Boris Johnson or Bolsonaro or Erdogan have done nothing wrong, if you’re Brexit, if you’re MAGA, if you’re QANON, if you believe Louis CK or Dave Chappelle did nothing wrong, you will find a comrade in Morrissey. Never mind police brutality, the dystopian criminalization of terminating a pregnancy, states legislating schools to plaster over the unflattering aspects of American history, or the state-sanctioned silent genocide of trans people, what really worries Morrissey is cancel culture. Homicidal bigots being forced back into the shadows, out of the public debate, that’s the real danger we’re in. I’m not just doing a hatchet job on the man here, I’m quoting Morrissey about Morrissey. He’s made his stances abundantly clear by now, so we’re fools if we keep trying to reinterpret his own words.
    I hate saying that. I am just like anyone else in my demographic: powerless against the charms of The Smiths. They were simply a force. Like Sinead, they became a symbol, but they didn’t have to suffer to be the type of symbol they became because they stood for something more than against something. They became an aspirational symbol for outcasts all over the world. Their appeal is so universal, Morrissey is an icon everywhere. Language barriers are no match for his talent. He has a direct line to the heart of everyone his lyrics would speak to. It’s a power anyone would die to possess, and it’s not enough for Morrissey. He wants more.

    While everyone was eulogizing Sinead by lamenting how the world she gave her all to turned on her and crucified her, Morrissey, ever the contrarian, eulogized her by accusing everyone eulogizing her of being charlatans. He couldn’t simply make bizarre accusations, though, he also had to insert himself into the praise. He conflated his arc with hers, said that everyone who makes news in the world makes enemies too, and in that way they were kin. The eternally nebulous “they” tried to shoot her out of the sky, just like they shot at Morrissey, but just like Sinead, Morrissey never let “them” take him down. It’s pitiful to read. Frankly, Mr. Shankly, Morrissey’s guilty of the exact act he’s accusing others of doing: he’s trying to ride the coattails of a deceased icon to 15 more minutes of fame. For all the ire he heaps on the music press, they sure were eager to grant him his wish.
    There’s a fucking gigantic difference between defacing the image of a religious figurehead in righteous protest and an asshat reaping the rewards of sewing bigotry for decades. Sinead suffered because she spoke truth powerful people paid hush money to never hear, Morrissey suffered because he wouldn’t shut the fuck up and listen when he was called out for whichever of Enoch Powell’s lies he was spewing during that day’s interview. Instead of learning & growing, he dug into ignorance, doubled down on the very vice he’s never gone a whole record without repudiating. We loved him because he portrayed the kind of person who believes in being kind to those who really need kindness, but hilariously merciless toward the unmerciful. His acerbic wit was only brandished protectively, against the people that would seek to hurt him or those like him. It felt like with him, we were all an “us”, and suddenly it wasn’t such a cruel fate to be an outsider, we were outsiders together. Thus, he’s become the worst thing an icon that’s iconic for being sensitive could become: intractably, irascibly insensitive. He doesn’t stand up for outcasts anymore, just fellow obscenely wealthy right wingers. He has totally jumped the shark and jumped ship to cruise in leisure with the real fake news peddlers. This isn’t news. His first solo record was even named Viva Hate, for Christ’s sake. “Oh, that’s just a lark, you can’t take everything he says at face value! He employs sarcasm to degrade the targets of his arguments!” Does his intent really matter when he has National Front holdovers singing, “England for the English”? Does it really matter if “Bengali In Platforms” is satire if it genuinely alienated his immigrant fans? It isn’t even his worst offense that he seems to relish in the fate of the vengeful eponymous Asian from “Asian Rut” after taunting him over the course of the song, it’s his last sentiment that underscores why Morrissey is no longer universally beloved: “I’m just passing through here on my way to somewhere civilized, maybe I’ll even arrive.” Can you hear that? It’s not a dogwhistle, it’s just shouting the dog’s name.
    In extremist circles, there’s an understanding that there’s a quiet part to the things you say, an innuendo you don’t speak aloud in the company of nonbelievers. This is called “dogwhistling”, after the way a dog whistle emits a frequency dogs can intercept, but humans don’t have the capacity to hear. Just imagine there was a group of people who came together to advance the cause of white nationalism. Imagine they wanted to infiltrate politics, spread their ideas, eventually convince enough people to adopt their beliefs that they could enact their policies, eradicate minorities, establish an ethnostate. Would they just storm right up to the podium and start rattling off hatespeech? You would hope any such attempt by such a group would be dragged off the stage. No, extremist groups spread their ideologies through mainstream organizations covertly. They don’t say the quiet part out loud, they can’t. They have to code the quiet part into language their supporters will understand, but outsiders will hear as mostly innocuous. It sounds crazy, right? That’s one tin-foil-hat idea I just dropped, huh. I’m not just making this up. Take Trump’s infamous campaign announcement speech, the part about Mexico not sending us their best people. He makes sure to clarify that he assumes not all Mexican immigrants are bad people, just an unspecified number are bad. He doesn’t ever offer a number, not even a percentage or a fraction. He leaves it up to his audience to decipher why, if most Mexican immigrants are good people, he would bring the issue up at all. He only mentions the good Mexican immigrants so nobody would accuse him outright of being racist. The problem isn’t that they’re coming here, it’s that some are coming here illegally, and if they’re coming here without the full blessing of the law, they must be coming with the intent to break the law. If he says only some are bad, and that’s a problem, the problem isn’t that all Mexicans are bad, but that some are and Mexico isn’t doing anything to keep America safe from them. Those Mexican immigrants are bad not because all Mexicans are bad, but because there are bad apples in every bunch. “Every bunch” means that any type of human could be bad or good, we just need to be careful about the bad ones. So how could anybody say that’s racist?? He’s just speaking the truth! That’s all he’s saying. Right? *Trump voice*: WRONG
    When racists dogwhistle, they have to qualify two things: that what they’re saying isn’t being applied to a whole race but just the bad examples, and that there are good people who are of that race too. It’s the “My friend is (insert race, sexuality, etc)!” defense. They don’t have to mean a word of that, they just have to sneak the central idea past anyone who’d be averse to what they’re insinuating. Does Trump really think Mexicans are like any other race of person, that there are good or bad people, it could go either way, and that the problem is really just people sneaking in through the border with ill intent? His speech was a dogwhistle factory, but I’m not inside his head. He did say, “Mexico isn’t sending us their best people.”, as though it was some nefarious plot by a race of evil people that aren’t his honorable race, but that’s only my interpretation of his often just poorly-chosen words at the end of the day. I don’t know what his mind truly believes, but I do know how he acts. His administration enacted the most sweeping, cruel waves of deportation I’ve seen in my lifetime, and I thought Obama was harsh. Trump really tried to build that stupid fucking wall just to keep an entire kind of person out. He accused migrant families fleeing devastation of being covert violent drug cartels trying to infiltrate our peaceful country. He victim-blamed desperate refugees and encouraged his crazed followers to harm them. He detained innumerable people in concentration camps. He separated over 20 thousand migrant children from their families, and lost track of them. 20 thousand children unaccounted for, lost in a system that hates them, to a group of people that would traffic them. It isn’t what he said that mattered, it’s what he did, and he only ever behaved like he was racist against Mexicans. Isn’t it interesting then that white supremacists flocked to him? Trump became a symbol to them, and he embraced it, sending them constant dogwhistles that were so poorly executed they became a symphony of duck calls. If you can sincerely look me in the eyes and tell me Trump isn’t racist, you’re delusional. You simply must not believe that racism exists then. …or you know it does because you are one and you’re trying to hide it.
    Thankfully, we still live in a country where racism is so frowned upon that racists have to disavow racism when caught in the act, but that’s only a start. There shouldn’t be racists in power. If you are bigoted against any group, and I’m talking actual bigotry and not just well-founded anger or suspicion learned from bad experiences, you should not be given any power over their lives. I feel insane for feeling like I have to say that. It should be common sense. It definitely is not, and definitely not in England, where horrifying news about an atrocity an immigrant committed prompts instant cries of, “ENGLAND IS LOST”. Instead of treating a bad apple as a bad apple, Brexit Britons want to throw out the whole bunch. It isn’t just inhumane, it’s batshit insane. Your brain has to be swollen with poison to want to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Morrissey is fucking crazy. He’s bugnuts! He’s lost it! Look on his website, Morrissey Central, in the messages from Morrissey section. In between the tour photos, read what he writes. There’s one headline to a post, “GREAT SHOW TONIGHT NOT LIKE THE MUSIC INDUSTRY TOOK ANY NOTICE”. He’s the old man yelling at a cloud. He’s sipped the haterade for so long, his human decency has gone Jonestown. Read his eulogy to Sinead, he can’t even pay respects to a fellow indigo child of the Emerald Isle without turning it into a screed against “the woke mob”. He can’t go a whole eulogy without making it about himself. You’re not dead yet, pal! You do still have a career, and the music industry has never rescinded your platform. You’ve never really been persecuted, just rightly told off. Sinead was the “woke mob” you get all frothy about every time you unzip your yap. Sinead was the Joan of Arc you’ve always wished you were. If your Walkman is melting in the flames crawling up your feet, it’s self-immolation. For what? What is the cause you’re alienating half your fanbase over? You can’t even articulate it blatantly. Is it worth it? You can step down off the pyre any time, you would actually be welcomed if you did.


    What I really hate about Morrissey isn’t even that I disagree with his politics fundamentally. What I really hate about Morrissey is that he’s just another sociopath who will never apologize. In other words, he’s just another bore. There’s nothing more abominable than that. White nationalists use dogwhistling to shift the Overton window until polite society is talking about tossing migrants fleeing a crisis out on their asses. Morrissey is trying to shift the Overton window in music journalism so everyone who is justified in simply not liking him is begging at his feet for an autograph. What if I just don’t want to like you after all you’ve done, Moz? Do I have that right, or am I now part of some insidious agenda?
    Does Morrissey really want to return to some romanticized past era of England, when things were worse for Irish immigrants like his parents? I can’t help but think that what “Morrissey the For Britain voter” wants, as far as his reactionary impulses are concerned, is immaterial. What’s important is what “Morrissey the icon” needs to feel fed. Morrissey the mononymous once stood for something, something I respected as much as I respected Sinead O’Connor’s stances. Morrissey & Sinead were once the same kind of symbol, actually: empowerment to the disenfranchised. Sinead was a symbol for women, abused children, anyone who lives in a white-founded-or-occupied country but isn’t white themselves. Morrissey was a symbol for a smaller group whose plight is less urgent: shy kids who don’t fit in. Morrissey was a god to us, but we weren’t enough for him. It wasn’t enough to be a champion for unpopular kids, losers, subculture geeks, nerds, softbois. Martyrdom has always been his true aim, his actions over the last 30 years have proven that. But why? Why martyrdom of stardom? I have a theory. After The Smiths, he was afraid that without the band he made his name under, he would fade into obscurity. Maybe he did play around with fascism back in the day, maybe he just flirted with the National Front for attention. Maybe he truly believed in “England for the English!”, or maybe he’s just like African Americans waving Confederate flags: kowtowing to the heinous powers that be to save his own Irish hide. Maybe he started to chafe at his image as a vulnerable, brooding dandy. Maybe after years of browbeating in agonizing self-loathing, he started resenting the fans who loved him for it. The company you keep is who you are, and if you believe the people around you are the losers, you’re going to start to hate yourself along with them. And there aren’t any music awards just for writing compassionate songs, you don’t get worshiped for being a decent human being. As an artist, you risk trying to become only the traits you are praised for exhibiting. Your whole impetus can turn into fiending for accolades, especially if you’re insecure. Then when you slip up, when you inevitably out yourself as a flawed human just like the rest of us, you might choose the low road, because the high road doesn’t let you escape without showing genuine humility. After years of dodging the limelight you could’ve been thriving in for the relative anonymity of not having to own up to your bullshit, you become like a cave creature: adapted to the darkness, but squirming in the light. Morrissey is like the spawn of the Grinch & Gollum by now, I’m sorry as hell for that image, but it’s apt, I think. He’s poisoned by his unwillingness to let go of his hatred, no matter how much it hurts him. All he has to do is drop it, walk into the light. His heart may be shrunken, but it’s still there, still beating. It could grow a thousand sizes in one instant of acceptance, if he’d only welcome immigrants to Whoville. The difference between him & Sinead is really the difference between a martyr and a messiah complex, but he could be a genuine martyr, it’s just that that road is harder. (Hey, that actually sounds kinda like a Morrissey lyric…) It’s not too late for him to be a true friend to her and stop being the kind of person who persecuted her. This is an open invitation: Morrissey, step back into the light with us. We could use your unique tenderness tempered with protective sarcasm more than ever now.

    August 17, 2023
    Mu-crit
    cancel culture, eulogy, expose, indie rock, morrissey, nationalism, politics, sinead, sinead o’connor, the smiths
  • Another Damn Tube Screamer Review

    I’ve finally come to my senses.
    See, when I was a kid just getting into playing guitar, if there was one symbol that summed up everything I hated about guitarist culture, it was the Ibanez Tube Screamer. Even back then, when you could buy a Roland Juno 60 for $150, Tube Screamers cost way too much for what they offered. I’ve never been a shredder, kinda am disabled from shredding, and the shredder kids always made sure I felt awful about it. I was never against being proficient at guitar, I desperately wanted to be at least impressive at it, but somewhere along the way, I became an anti-guitar guitarist. Everyone I’d see had a Tube Screamer & a Metal Zone on their pedalboard. I took to Big Muff’s, Fuzz Faces, & ProCo Rats instead. Any way I could muffle what I was playing while also making it sound as huge as possible, that was my jam. I was all about meshing shoegaze & doom metal with punk rock, so I had no use for transparent boosts or mild overdrives. I’ve always been drawn to the aesthetics of TS9’s, though, so I tried a friend’s… I fucking hated it. He had an original 808: the holy grail, supposedly. I thought it took every aspect of guitar tone I loved and trashed it for the muddest midrange grumble I could never imagine because my mind would never want to visit that sonic place. It was that bad, sorta. Actually what I really hated was that the effect itself sounded like it was lightly layered over the uneffected signal, like a mosquito buzzing faintly near my ear. Of course, I was playing straight into a totally clean blackface Fender, and with a poorly set-up Strat at that. I’ve always balked at guitarists who have to defend a pedal’s worth by disclaiming, “You have to know how to use it!”. What good is a pedal that you can’t just get right down to making sick-ass rock music with as soon as you plug it in? You have to understand its purpose, know something about the science of sound? That didn’t sound very punk to me at the time.
    Obviously, that’s actually about as truly punk as it gets. Knowledge is power, so having knowledge behind your power chords? It’s exponential power! Maybe there’s something in the psychology of someone snagged in the vector of having strong personal beliefs and being reviled for those beliefs that makes a person double down on counterintuitive stubborn stupiditiy… but I think getting picked on by shredders for not being the next Yngwie Malmsteen to eventually languish as a nobody in a small town made me double down on hating guitar culture signifiers like Fender guitars or Tube Screamers or even tube amps. It took me til much later in life to realize, hey, maybe all that stuff is considered cool because it is, at its heart? Now a Strat, a Jaguar, & a Jazz Bass are my sole instruments. I play tube amps alongside my old solid state ones. Now I’m going to Guitar Center to buy a Tube Screamer.


    So, I did it. I bought a Tube Screamer. I shelled out my hard earned (& entirely too scarce) money for one of those fucking things. And man, I love it. I am so happy with this purchase. Guess what? It turns out, you do have to know what you’re doing. It helps to know *how* to use an effect. I’d been just ramming my guitar through a Muff or Rat straight into a fairly clean amp all my life, I didn’t know there was another approach or an order you have to chain FX in to achieve actually good tone. Or that “good tone” wasn’t just an arbitrarily defined marketing term. No, there is such a thing as good tone; it may have a bazillion different faces, but you know it when you hear it and you definitely know it when you don’t. It’s the difference between a sound that just works for what you’re trying to achieve musically versus one that simply does not do the trick. If I were going to play blackened shoegaze, I’d get something that does the op-amp Muff sound, not a Blues Driver. Conversely, if I were going to play jazzy blues for a dinner party, I wouldn’t let a Muff anywhere near my setup, but a Blues Driver might be just the thing for solo’s. Even for noise music, there are don’ts, and I found that out the hard way recording an afternoon of FX loop noodling into Ableton with the audio device settings all wrong. Everything is created for some purpose, so even though they may be few in some instance, there are rules for everything. The Tube Screamer circuit was designed back before amps offered gales of gain, back even before Master Volumes were completely & utterly the norm. It was made specifically to push an already cranked amp over the edge. If you like your guitar sound, but wish it had just a little bit *more* you could wring from it, Maxon could’ve just called this pedal “More *More*”. It gives you more of that “more”ness, but not too much, only just enough. It achieves this zenith through exactly the mechanism that made me hate the pedal as a kid: that dadburned clean bleed.
    “Clean bleed” is the phenomenon of still being able to hear your damn unsullied virginal guitar signal through the distortion. It’s a strangely disconcerting effect, and it’s hard to pinpoint why, but it’s universally avoided as a standard. Don’t believe me? Listen to Bad Brains’ Black Dots album, focus on the guitars in the mix, tell me how you feel about them. See? It’s terrible! Well, maybe it sounds cool on that record, but it usually doesn’t. It’s like Thanksgiving dinner getting in your pumpkin pie, it just doesn’t mesh. The earliest channel switching amps were prone to malfunctioning in ways that meant you could still hear the distortion channel in the background of the clean channel & vice versa. That was considered a problem! You want your cleans to be clean, your dirties to be dirty, and your in-betweens perfectly in-between. Right? But then life throws guitarists a curveball: the invention of the Tube Screamer.

    When you stomp a Screamer on into a totally clean amp, what you hear is that clean signal still, but with these like, mold sprouts of distortion over top. It sounds wrong, queasy even. It’s gross! Turn it off! Now, take that same clean amp, crank it til it’s just shy of howling. Now stomp that Screamer on! Holy Shit, right? Notice the difference? It sounds awesome when the amp’s already goin’ off. How about as a boost after other dirt pedals? Try an overdrive. Uhhhh…. Not too terrible, but it sounds like it has a cold or something, right? It has an unpleasantly chalky texture to it, and if you crank the gain on the Tube Screamer, it sounds like a hiss or a sneeze. There’s a lid for every pot and there’s a song for every guitar tone, but that’s not a tone you’ll be bursting into song with anywhere anytime soon. Maybe you’re just having bad luck so far. Try something more unhinged, like a Rat or Muff. How’s that? …I’m sorry, I tricked you. It sounds like the worst ass in the world, right? Total ass hell? Well, now try switching the order of the pedals. Now that overdrive harmonizes with the Screamer, now that Muff sounds like a completely different effect, something creamier & more refined. That’s because the real utility of a Tube Screamer is as a mid boost, but also a slight low-pass filter and a very pronounced high-pass filter. The standard Tone control, like the one on a Tube Screamer, is usually a low-pass filter: it removes highs from the signal as it’s turned down. A high pass-filter removes the lows. So when your Bassman is jacked to highest hell and it sounds like a mudslide, kick on the Tube Screamer. It’s not a completely different sound, but it’s more manageable now! Or you can wring more sustain from it! That’s the power of a Tube Screamer. It’s a master sculpter for the uncut marble of your tone. They were originally used by metal dudes back in the day to take a cranked JCM800 over the top. A cranked JCM800 don’t need any help with highs, but the lows can get flubby, like cruisin’ on blown-out tires. I’ve heard it said that Tube Screamers are great for “tightening up the bass”, and having used one through a Randall RG series amp for slash metal greatness, I can vouch. I totally get it now. I can’t believe I was missing out on that this whole time.
    See, even a lows-hound like me can benefit. Sure, the op-amp Muff I built myself sounds incredible in the room with me, but if I try recording it? All I get is a wash of highs gnashing at my ears and bass swirling around my feet. Get a Tube Screamer in front of it, though… It doesn’t sound as good in the room now, but in the mix? It actually complies! It’s audible, yet the notes can be distinguished. The character is still there, but now any of the other elements of the song aren’t drowned out in tonal pandemonium.

    I have to confess, I did try modding my TS9 to please my teenage standards. It’s well known that upping the 0.047uf capacitor before the 4.7k resistor can give you your bass signal back, but the mod I was interested in was getting rid of the clean bleed once & for all. Imagine being able to ever use the gain knob on a Tube Screamer, and not just setting the Level & Tone high to use as a boost? Imagine the pedal finally getting to stand on its own as a distortion! Maybe you don’t have an imagination that’s as divorced from reality as mine, maybe you can already guess what’s coming: I figured out how to mod a TS to only (well, 90% mostly) pass the clipped signal through. It involves swapping the pinout of the 4558 op-amp, switching pin 3 with pin 2 so that the non-inverted input of the 4558 gets shunted to ground while the inverted input, clipped by diodes, gets all the input signal. I succeeded in my mission and did what would have pleased teen me to hear, but… It ruined the pedal. Sure, yeah, do the “No clean” mod and dime everything straight into a clean amp, you finally hear that glorious clipping section of the Tube Screamer all by itself. Was it worth it? You can get the same damn sound a myriad of ways, it actually probably sounds better coming from just your amp! Now try all the uses we found for the Screamer, see how those go. As a final push into a teetering-on-the-edge amp? Man, it sounds choked up & sweaty! As a pre-input boost for other pedals? Now it sounds even worse than if you put the Screamer afterwards! It just simply does not work for its intended purposes anymore, and all you’re left with is a very underwhelming overdrive for totally clean tones. Remember how much ass it kicked pushing your amp’s gain at 2 o’clock over the edge? Remember how much it altered the Muff so it fit harmoniously in a mix? Undo the “No clean mod”, get that shit back to stock. That’s better, isn’t it?

    The Tube Screamer ciruit is a feat of pure alchemy. As a gear tech, I know the exact principles that make it true, but it still seems like magic to me. I even had to undo the bigger capacitor mod, because I got too greedy with my low end and ended up with a horrid strangled in filth sound that not even noise musicians would dig. Turns out just under 0.1uf is perfect for keeping your bass but keeping the effect, so Maxon got it 99% right the first time. I got it all wrong the first time. I gotta cede this one to Maxon. The Tube Screamer is brilliant. Mine will probably be used in some way on every recording session I do from here on out. It’s taken my tone from, “You could see how this was going for a sound I would think was cool when I was 14” all the way to “This is absolutely a sound I would’ve loved when I was 14”. If I’m being honest, there really isn’t any higher honor when it comes to guitar.

    July 23, 2023
    Mu-crit
    guitar, ibanez, pedal, review, shred, tube screamer
  • Appetite For Introduction

    (welcome to the junkhole)

    Bowing to popular demand, I blast off on a solo venture at long last. B-side of the moon or bust! Follow me as I go off-groove, venture to the flip-side. Fuck Rolling Stone, Pitchfork, AV Club, let’s challenge some conventional wisdom, huh? I’m gonna share my hottest takes, point blank off the cuff. John Lennon? Not as good as Paul McCartney. Kurt Cobain? Woulda made way better music later on in life. Pavement? Ok, yeah, I have to concede that Pavement is pretty much the best indie rock band imaginable, but for Brighten The Corners, not Crooked Rain or Slanted. See? I’m gonna really upset the apple cart here. And not just as far as music crit, but movies, pop culture, current events, and even the English language. I just started that last sentence with an “and”, you’re like, really not supposed to do that, I think. Bear with me through a minefield of commas as I tear the English language a new one! No holds barred! No prisoners! No sleep ‘til Shamoken!
    God damn, I am nervous. But that’s ok! I have the rest of my life to get in the groove.
    Welcome to the lightningdrome, scallywags.
    In space, you can’t even scream to begin with.
    -MaF

    January 2, 2023
    Mu-crit
 

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