Before I had my own model built, Scarlett Amplifiers mastermind Paul Marchman was kind enough to loan me a stack of beautiful gear on occasion. Pictured here is the rig I used for Federation of Horsepower’s set at Rockfest 2007. In those days I was still playing through a very 1990s rack setup (ADA MP-1 preamp, BBE Sonic Maximizer et al.). Yeah, I eventually came around. At any rate, afforded a huge stage on which to perform, the rack rig was augmented heartily with this bi-amped monster. Paul provided a diagram to make sure all the cables knew where they were going. Needless to say, the results were glorious. Incidentally, it was rather amusing to assemble all of the above in my living room for a test run.
Please also note: Cheer-Accident and Satyricon stickers on the rack unit for added tone.
Posted in observations on March 27, 2011 by dukewisdom
The phrase “jam session” invokes both delight and horror in me. Impromptu musical get-togethers can be amazing and rewarding if there’s a common ground of literature or purpose, so to speak. Whether it means a group of players working through Monk’s “‘Round Midnight” or Thin Lizzy’s “Jailbreak,” some sort of agreement is crucial. Otherwise you might end up mired in an unending and directionless 12-bar loop (which in the hands of most is about as interesting as listening to paint dry) or with nothing at all to play.
Or so it would seem. Last night I found myself on the way to “jam” at the house of friends. And not only was the group decidedly not of the same musical background or direction, they weren’t even all musicians. Potential train wreck, I thought. But, in a sense it was an extreme instance of the fulcrum of experienced musicians and casual players that I’ve welcomed in the Association of Spacecraft Mechanics. So I was up for it.
Somewhere in the darkness I try to conjure Aynsley Dunbar, ca. Chunga's Revenge.
It turned out to be pretty refreshing and a hell of a lot of fun. For starters, I didn’t play guitar. At all. Instead, in a feat of multi-instrumentalism that would make Mike Keneally recoil in horror, I played organ and drums. I should point out that I began my musical life as a drummer around 2.8 million years ago and for quite a while I was a much better percussionist than guitarist. As for keyboard instruments, I have almost no technique but understand the relationships of notes. So, right: My contributions to the sesh were a functional knowledge of music theory and a decades-rusty grasp of the drums. What about my partners in musical crime?
Our host Brock is, by his admission, a babe in the woods at guitar playing. He’s a thoroughly creative person and a fantastic visual artist—and a comparative noob at music (I’m certain I started playing well before he was born). He played a variety of unconventional and motivational things left-handed on a right-hand guitar flipped over, Doyle Bramhall II style. During my stint on the organ I did my best to keep an eye on what he was playing so as to compliment the goings on as I channeled my inner Agharta.
Also along was my wife Venus, who sings so well it gives me chills, but who is no veteran of free-form freak-out improv. She alternately sang odd melodies and warbled weirdness, reading text from items stuck to the wall, like a Fly era Yoko Ono. Or something. Very avant-garde, V. Nice job.
The true wild card in the mix was our friend Patrick, who as far as I know has no musical training whatsoever. He proved himself to be an earthy, visceral drummer, and probably nearly as steady as a couple I’ve seen play in bands recently. But he really hit his stride on the keyboard. Patrick—another visual artist and possessor of a Masters—surprised me. It’s my guess that an extremely studied approach to art in general served him well. Though essentially blind as to the ways of the keys, he exhibited a sense of space and balance that just worked. Who the hell knew?
This went on for maybe 90 Heineken-fueled minutes. If we’d recorded everything, I bet we could’ve sculpted an edit of which Teo Macero would … maybe not approve, but not necessarily erase instantly.
And no one launched into “Sweet Home Chicago” even once.
In the interest of sharing with some friends who might not have heard the music before, I recently resurrected some recordings from times long past. Burning Mirror was a project that began on a lark, turned into an elaborate joke, then later became a real band. But I’m ahead of myself.
Around Labor Day 1997 (I think) my friend Nick Bretz and I decided to put his excellent home recording gear and engineering skills to good use and lay down a few tracks. We’d recently discovered the album Transmutation (Mutatis Mutandis)by Praxis which, if you’ve not heard it, is a record by a revolving cast led by Bill Laswell, an avant-garde smorgasbord of electronica, metal and other influences featuring Buckethead and Bootsy Collins. That should give you the idea. This album informed a certain freedom of vision and reminded me that so much of the music I love is free of boundaries. Though the Praxis album featured a real drummer (the infamous Brain, no less), the music still featured a somewhat synthetic texture, the style of which inspired us to build basic tracks with loops and drum samples. And off we went.
I’m going to run through the album track-by-track here in an effort to get the recollections all down before they escape me or are further mutated by the fog, feathers and sands of time. If you’d like to listen in and get a sample of the absurd mythology we built up around the project, please go here.
Anticoins
This opening atmospheric collage of digital racket provides a decent thesis for the entire album—and for the prevailing state of mind at the time of these recordings. The patchwork statement, “There is no meaning,” goes straight to the heart of the Dadaist leanings of its creators. Additionally, this track was placed so that if the CD were to be played on repeat, it would answer the question posed by its bookend, the album closer “Coins”: “What is the meaning?”
Battle of Fractions
The first proper song on the album was also (as I recall it) the first recorded. “Battle” almost didn’t make it to the real world. It was the victim of one of multiple digital storage failures suffered during the production. (Another example that didn’t make it: Somewhere in a landfill on some unsalvageable drive exists/does not exist a piece called “Infra-black Prism,” a casualty with elegant chords which will never be heard by humans.) When the original tracks were lost what remained was an incomplete test mix, a “flattened” version of the number which was layered upon. I know the harmony guitars during the “verses” were added post-crash. Aside from that I can’t be sure. The guitar solo at 1:02 was played by muting the strings near the nut with the right hand and hammering all the notes in what was meant to be some sort of fluid, quasi-Allan Holsdworth excursion. Just one such idea that didn’t quite get there, but is still pretty cool.
Incidentally, “Fractions” is the only link between Burning Mirror the recording concept and Burning Mirror the live band. It was played live at each of the group’s 13 or so shows.
You Call that Rust?
This song gains much of its character from the Roland VG-8 guitar synth. That’s its sound on the gargantuan main theme. I’ve always liked how the atmosphere opens up at 1:19 with Nick’s lyrical melody and accompanying acoustic guitars (done with a solid body Epiphone through the Roland) even though the boxy and claustrophobic drum pattern remains constant. Shades of Peter Gabriel? Maybe.
Speaking of equipment, the VG-8 is just one piece of gear used on this project that was later retired, stolen or otherwise misappropriated. I won’t get into the gory details, but it—along with some great guitars—was absconded with by someone with access and opinion that they were the rightful owners. It took me a long while to get over all that. But the galaxy will make all things right in the end.
The quote that ends the song, “Disc one,” marks the first appearance of another theme, the introduction of Latenight John.
Gods, Devils, Etc. …
The main riff was played on a drop-D tuned Gibson (either a Marauder or missing Les Paul Custom). It consists of descending then ascending chromatic lines sauced up with octave displacement. I just re-learned the part—pretty slick. Fairly bitchen solo at :58, though the rhythmic phrasing strikes me as somewhat erratic now. It’s an interesting reminder of what I played like 14 years ago.
As the guitar break ends a couple of things happen. First, there’s some crowd noise lifted from Journey Captured. I hope Herbie Herbert doesn’t come after me. At the same time there is a succession of 16th note triplets on the bass (Epiphone 5-string, also stolen). Those were played finger-style; in addition to guitar, I was teaching a lot of bass at that time, so that skill got put to use.
Listen Louder
I’ve been circumlocuting the fact that all was not exactly right with the world at the time of these recordings. In fact, my life was already in the process of going off the rails, though I couldn’t quite realize or face that at the time—more gory details that shall be omitted and which are not important because eventually life moved to an amazing place.
At any rate, “Listen Louder” was originally written with lyrics addressing aspects of the situation. It was performed once or twice as part of an acoustic duo, possibly at a Barnes & Noble in Independence, MO (talk about gory details). When the decision was made to record a version of the song for Burning Mirror, my roller coaster of thoughts had gone another direction and I no longer believed in or supported the lyrics. So it’s an instrumental.
I’ve always been pleased with the arrangement of this one, with its flute-like festooneries popping in and out, fake Hammond/Leslie, sprinkled piano. I was studying Steely Dan arrangements around the time I was writing “Listen,” a fact that would be reflected in some of the chord inversions were you to drill down that far. The chords to the solo are F#m – Em, implying D if you’d like to play along.
To Explore the Sea
Wherein we pretend to be on side two of Pink Floyd Animals or something. There was a lot of improvisation in the creation of Desired:Purity. The chords to “Explore” were born out of some long forgotten open tuning. This is most evident in the clean tone guitar solo at 3:38, a part that was played in that unfamiliar tuning. Guitarists will tell you that improvising in an alien tuning, while somewhat liberating, is akin to walking on ice with someone else’s feet. A spacious track.
I am a Robot!
Oh man. Layers and layers of guitar madness—I think I count five or six interlocking parts in the A section, the themes of which are varied throughout the track. I think I wrote out all the parts between guitar students at a store in Belton, MO. The site of that store now contains a Little Caesar’s carry-out pizza shop. Does it all make sense?
Amidst the late ’90s studio trickery there are some plain old analog parts. One in particular that comes to mind is the really bizarre high-pitched squeal that accompanies the sample, “You are a robot.” That’s nothing more than Nick’s voice. Into a microphone. (It can be heard in all its glory at 1:27 and 3:07 just before the majestic [?] return of the main theme.) He has since noted that his throat will no longer make such sounds.
At 1:11 comes another solo with which I’m still pretty happy. Behind that solo is … me riffing with Abe Laboriel Jr. Yeah, ok, it’s from a sample library. But hey—we’re groovin’ back there!
The piano solo at 1:56 was not actually played, but pieced together in a stepwise way for playback. We were going for the controlled madness of Mike Garson on David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane. That just goes to show you how great he is. Not sure what inspired the ensuing interlude. Creepy.
This track was a bitch to mix.
Player with Matches
Another labyrinth of guitar variations which might’ve been written in the same manner as the above. I love the angular rhythm shift at 1:08. That type of tempo switch almost certainly came from years of listening to Anthrax. What a huge sound and multifaceted sound in that section. The following variation features slide guitar that was played using a screwdriver, I believe.
The weird breakdown at about 3:00 contains sounds courtesy of my old ART rackmount processor. The patch was called “Spaceman (+) 7″ or some such ridiculousness. Another big pain in the ass to mix down.
Sky Burial
Latenight John returns to introduce this sprawling piece of improvisation. I think this was recorded as a live duet between Nick on keyboard (a Kurzweil PC88) and me on guitar—we just set the rhythm loop and let it go. You can certainly hear the searching at times, although I’ve heard it so many times that this is just the way it goes. I’d like to apologize for the exceedingly Santana-like lick at 2:23; I listened to Borboletta one too many times in high school, you see.
I’ve been astonished in the intervening years as to how subtle-to-nonexistent my vibrato sometimes is. It’s very apparent on “Sky.” Not sure how I feel about that.
40,000 Pages
In some cases I’m not sure which came first, the title, the music, or the concept. Regardless of its genesis, the story behind this song is that a university music composition professor (Yoke Pulliam) sets about to write his ultimate piece of music. Only as he jots the last note down (with India ink on parchment) does he realize he’s written the exact same piece he’s written countless times before. With a sigh he places the page on one of untold piles of manuscript paper jamming his apartment.
The chord progression was written on guitar and then arranged for piano.
The Hair that Won’t Sleep
Another primarily improvised, later decorated piece. There’s some nice thematic development here. The bass on this and one other track was played by a Kansas City area artist and musician who left my orbit and has not returned. I’ll tell you the story some life over a beer and a taco, if you like. See 2:55 for the conceptual continuity of Latenight John. This threading together of the project with recurring motifs is pure Zappa.
Moebius Owl Skulls
This track has overlapping bass parts played by yours truly. It also contains the famous line, “The town’s own berry is like a metaphor.” Yeah. Would you like to see a video that played in an obscure film festival or two? Ok, then:
Brain, Heart, Other Devices
This is another one of the first bits recorded for the project. It’s … frantic.
Last Days of Logic
That first quote may or may not be lifted from a Hendrix album. Over the years this has grown to be an unexpected favorite of mine. The percussion parts lumbering along in the background were precisely composed, then executed on the Kurzweil’s weighted keyboard with the accuracy of a disinterested high school marching band sitting in the stands in late October. There’s some backwards guitar at the end that I believe was flown in from another song, xenochronystyle.
Man Without Sanity
Another of the bridging vignettes, the maddening sound of this track perfectly summarizes several years of my life. In another instance of conceptual continuity, playing somewhere overhead is a distorted portion of the song “All Eyes West” (I think), an acoustic solo piece from another album of mine.
The System is Vague
This sounds pretty heavy, but it’s a compression stunt. The chunky guitar parts were recorded at a whisper late at night. “System” contains polyrhythmic events and a pseudo-Michael Schenker interlude. More Abe Jr. I think.
Vacant-Eyed John
No, that’s not really a banjo; it’s the Roland VG-8. The rhythmic background is a loop created from a CD of railroad sounds. At 1:07 you can hear a stuttering rhythmic motif, the presence of which was inspired by Zappa’s “Eat That Question.”And I think that clean tone guitar is in another long lost tuning.
Bipedal Foot
An odd interlude.
Intone
This is a dark and drifty piece that was likely largely influenced by Aphex Twin. The introduction has the sounds of digital gongs and analog reverb stunts. This is soundtrack music for falling down a space well.
Posted in writings on March 12, 2010 by dukewisdom
A number of Kansas City guitarists, including yours truly, were recently asked by the Kansas City Star’s Tim Finn what Jimi Hendrix meant to them. The Star is running a piece in conjunction with the Experience Hendrix tour which is coming to town. It was an honor to be asked and I was glad to contribute. The article was published in the March 11 “Preview” section and can also be read right here.
For the hell of it, here is the complete, overly verbose piece I submitted. You can see why newspapers employ editors.
I started playing guitar in about 1983, more than a decade after Jimi Hendrix began drifting on a sea of forgotten teardrops. At that point he was already familiar to me as a rock icon, if not as a guitarist. I knew I liked the music: “Crosstown Traffic,” “The Wind Cries Mary” and others stood out from the contemporary radio noise of my youth. And I was sucked into the overall vibe, plumbing the gatefold of Electric Ladylandfor the psychedelic wisdom of Letter to the Room Full of Mirrors: “And on he walked after crowning Ethel the dog the Only Queen of Ears, the sky cracked wide open and split many of his brothers’ and sisters’ heads all over the world apart …” What the hell does that mean? Who cares, it’s so trippy, man!
Once I got serious about guitar, I had to get a serious guitar. When I decided on a Fender Stratocaster($375 for a ’74 out of the Omaha World-Herald, baby!), it sure as hell wasn’t to emulate that other notable titan of the Strat Eric Clapton, but instead the likes of Ritchie Blackmore—and Jimi Hendrix. Of course, if you happen to be a teenager in possession of a bitchen Strat, you must attempt to play Jimi. It didn’t take long to figure out that there was a lot more going on than “Purple Haze” and a purple velvet jacket. To a novice, the extended and fractured chords of “Spanish Castle Magic” or “Angel” —perhaps the essence of Hendrixian magic—can seem nearly as impenetrable as … Letter to the Room Full of Mirrors. This is to say nothing of Jimi’s masterful, multi-hued lead playing, writing, and producing. Once digested,the musical language of Hendrix becomes something you hear everywhere and draw from constantly. That’s a lot of substance and essence, but it boils down to this: Hendrix’ flamboyant individuality as an artist is something that’s stayed with me through the better part of a lifetime trying to make music on the third stone.
Posted in writings on December 31, 2009 by dukewisdom
This entry is part of a continuing effort to document the music I make and play. I’m on schedule to start to forgetting it soon, you see. None but the most extreme Troy Van Horn completist (there is no such person) or possibly participants in the music being discussed would be likely to find anything of interest herein. Hell, I don’t even know if I care anymore: I started working on this in September 2009 and the year is almost out. This introductory caveat is presented in the hopes that I don’t come off as a self-important windbag. Though that probably is true.
…
The Association of Spacecraft Mechanics is one of the least active ensembles one could imagine. Evidence: the project began in late 2000, played one show, then didn’t resurface until 2006. Other bands seemingly have entire careers between ASM show dates. But that’s ok—I consider it to exist anyway. My hope is that it will rise from the ashes again in 2010. Or, you know, 2013—whatever works.
Way back when, Andrew Miller, writing in The Pitch, summed up the Mechanics as, “a sprawling nine-piece improvisational instrumental noise-metal ensemble.” And that was an accurate assessment of that version of the group. Really, the term “group” is a bit too solid —”amorphous theoretical collective” would be more accurate: aside from me there was only one carryover from the first lineup. I’ve now revealed that this thing hardly ever plays and has no real members. So, what the fuck is it?
The ASM is/was/may be my attempt to combine several experimental musical constructs in which I’ve become interested over the years. I’ve always been fascinated with Frank Zappa’s concept of “stock modules,”—textural blocks of sound or stylized variations of playing telegraphing subconscious information to the listener—which can be applied to any number of subjects upon visual cue. By his own example, a gesture simulating a dreadlock would signal the band to deliver whatever piece of music was being played à la reggae. (There is footage in the movie Baby Snakes and elsewhere of FZ giving bands direction through various gesticulations.)
Speaking of organized texture, Miles Davis’ early ’70s “electric period” is also an influence on the ASM concept. The tenets of musique concrète, where sound in and of itself is used as a musical building block equal to melody or rhythm, can be heard on albums like Bitches Brew and On the Corner.
Then there’s the idea of aleatoric, or “chance” music wherein some portion of a piece is left to either the whim of the player or some other force external to the original composition. (The previously discussed “In C” by Terry Riley is a type of aleatoric music.) Examples of this concept actually date to the 18th century practice of Musikalisches Würfelspiel, a musical game involving dice. (I haven’t been into the idea quite that long.) Meanwhile, chance and game concepts have been taken to an extreme level by John Zorn whose work Cobra has no written music, only a series of “game pieces” which instruct musicians with specific improvisational parameters.
Sounds like it could be a real fucking mess, eh? Well, it has its moments.
Anyway, the above notions form some sort of philosophical skeleton upon which the ASM cloak and top hat are draped. Here’s how it works: I start with simple musical themes, heads which function as unified outposts amid vast expanses of conducted improvisation. These typically 8-16 measure fragments are queued, and can be cued, at any given moment with the according hand signal. The pieces are somewhat tailored to the makeup of the group I know will be present; the original show featured a lineup of the few people I knew at the time who would put up with such an idea. As such the music had more of a “noise metal” character.
Some of the members of the Mk.I lineup surprised me by wearing bizarre self-constructed constumes to the show. This was mostly amazing, except in the case of the drummer who, aside from being stoned and playing everything in pretty much the same tempo, couldn't see out of his helmet (that sort of R2D2 looking affair) very well. Not so great when relying on visual cues. Oh well.
By the time of the second performance, I was connected with more like-minded individuals and so worked up phrases of a slightly more involved nature (each set piece of that show was based on musical ideas of Olivier Messiaen, one section titled “It’s all over, messiah”—oh I crack myself up).
The ASM Mk.II at Mike's Tavern in Kansas City. The "brass section" consisted of one very good sax player Sam Hughes, plus trumpet and another sax operated by people who didn't really know how to play those instruments. Kenny Bassett is on the right front and you can see E. Voeks hunched over Miles style under the Mike's sign. Folk art, people. Also present: Andy Critz, Mike Meyers, Michael Stover.
The composed bits are bridged by … whatever develops as a result of my conducting. Each player has a copy of the “texture matrix” containing various procedures—”Spikes,” “Drone – closed,” “Tantrum” etc.—their appropriate cues and other pertinent information. Each performer also possesses a copy of the Spacecraft Mechanics Relativity Tableaux:
Relativity Tableaux
I’m sure it’s all very clear now.
While the group at large starts with something structured, I will begin to direct various members to depart in certain ways. Their indication may be to solo in the same key as the rest of the ensemble, or to play something in another key, or to produce some sort of timbre.
Sounds like it could be a real fucking mess, eh? The collision, intersection and rejoining of all of these elements as woven by the group is the gist of the entire project. When it’s working well, I find it very magical. Unscripted motifs develop and are picked up on, set frameworks take on new life and after say, 45 uninterrupted minutes, a new thing exists where once there was nothing. And to me it’s a hell of a lot of fun as well as an honor to lead a collection of adventurous friends on a little journey. Y’know, once every few years.
To a guitarist, constructing a new pedal board might be akin to a Swiss pediatrician transferring her personal effects into a new suede purse … uhh, or something. In an act of uncalled for awesomeness, my buddy Mas recently bestowed upon me a couple bitchen vintage distortion pedals, necessitating the rearrangement and re-seating of my own personal effects. When I discovered that another friend, Winter (colleague, craftsman, and Thing-Fish referrer nonpareil), was going to wind up with some scrap lumber, I moved in.
Blank. Empty. Spaces.
A table saw cut or two later I had a sprawling canvas upon which to install my masterpiece.
Implements of ridiculousness.
As you might guess, we’re not talking about a Bob Bradshaw switching system here. This just needed to be a few stomp boxes anchored with Velcro. Not satisfied just to mount the devices on a plank of wood like a normal person, I set about “customizing” the new array. This eventually consisted of me wandering into the garage and finding a wrecked copy of the Captain Beyond album, Sufficiently Breathless. Opening the gatefold sleeve, I found that it was almost exactly the same width as the new setup. Bingo. So, yeah, now there’s a Captain Beyond album jacket embedded into my pedal board. It amuses me, ok?
Layout.
So now I have, left to right: Morley Bad Horsie wah-wah, Boss TR-2 tremolo, Boss DS-1 distortion (of which, according to Wikipedia so how could it be wrong, Steve Rothery of Marillion is a notable user) (Thanks, Mas), MXR Micro Amp, Boss TU-2 chromatic tuner.
Perspective.
Above is what it might look like if you fell face down onstage near me.
Addendum: I’ve used this new configuration on one show now. Everything worked and nothing fell apart. Success.
Or, “I knew I was hanging on to this crap for some reason.”
I recently got the urge to don my faux journalist hat again. Since the discontinuation of activity over at Heavy Frequency, where I’d been contributing the Grace & Fury column, I haven’t done much in the way of guitar writing. In that former capacity I’d outlined a six-part series of super evil etudes to be presented in great detail. While I only got around to completing four before the HF crew closed up shop, I found the process to be an excellent exercise; forcing myself to go over every note, every picking instruction, every comment with a fine tooth comb was good for the brain and the fingers.
When I learned that my buddy Aaron had launched a new site, Hardened Magazine, and was accepting content submissions, my wheels started turning. I wanted to resume the act of detailed, technical musical babbling, but to go in a different, slightly less labor intensive direction. And so I hatched the idea of a new column, Black Ops Guitar, which would contain exercises in a very pure sense. Whereas Grace & Fury spent a fair number of words delving into music theory and topics of diatonic ramification, Black Ops would be about making the fingers do twisted things and damn what it sounds like.
Great. Now what to put in the column? I’d had in mind a few warm ups I use and that have been standard handouts in my recent return to limited teaching. But in the back of my mind I knew I had dozens of such pieces completed in the dim and distant past. So I went digging for folders of yore and found a treasure trove for future exploitation.
Old school.
It was in a box under a box in the basement, dusty and damp. (Geez, sounds like the introduction to a Lovecraft story …) I’d unearthed the prototype of Exercises in Focus. Here in a purple folder was a taped-together, hand-written, typed-on-a-fucking-typewriter mockup of my first attempt at a book. (My second attempt, Meditations for the Modern Guitarist, made it a wee bit further than a forgotten folder. More on that another time. Maybe.) Back in 1995 I devoted a lot of time to crafting this set of exercises organized around specific aspects of technique. I believed very much in the thing and was hoping to self-publish it. Man, was I ambitious. Looking back, the idea is still pretty good, but much of the execution sucks. At any rate, there is plenty of material worth plundering.
Welcome back to daylight, baby.
See Black Ops Guitar and other ruminations in the Radiation section of Hardened.
