Sunday 1649 23 July 2023
The mix is close. Most of my weekend is spent in a loop of bouncing the track, listening, bouncing, making subtle changes. I prefer this workflow because it allows my brain to reset and change context.
I fill out the bass line to give it a bit more heft and color. It sounds like a knife; sharp and heavy. Dangerous. Cynical.
I fix a phase issue that was causing the entire rhythm section to implode any time it played. I rather liked when it did that; but — begrudgingly — admit it sounds better fixed. When the rhythm section switches between “voices”, the contrast is clarified. The organic is run rough-shod by the mechanical and the digital, as it attempts to negotiate a truce between all three.
Downstairs, Mother is busy trying to buy things she doesn’t need. German food, delivered “fresh” from someplace in Long Island City; another Macy’s handbag to throw on the pile of dead carcasses from previous hunting expeditions. Multiple Grubhub orders from various restaurants.
This is how it is these days: bedridden and weak; or, cruising through the late-stage Keynes wasteland in a gasping Mac Mini, raspy fan whirring.
I take her momentary lucidity as an opportunity for a car test.
Jumping into the cab of my truck, I point it towards Target. Mother needs more Frito Lays chips and Sunkist Orange soda. I’ll listen to the mix on the way.
Sunday 2304 23 July 2023
The mix feels done now. Neat song. It’s a dumb hobby, but it passes the time.
I’ve since re-initialized the patch bay. A few newly installed euro rack modules stoically display fresh rack rash. A new Logic project is open displaying the MIDI notes I just entered from the keyboard. I’m feeling so very Gminor this time with a slow time signature.
A Chase Bliss Mood mk2 guitar pedal obliterates an electric piano indifferently miming an arpeggio while it’s being fed into the audio cheese grater. The result is a distorted glitched-out landscape wailing in the background. An Eventide TimeFactor and Walrus Audio Juliana consummate their union as the sole voice of reason on a Roland synth line. A sickly kick drum from the Calsynth Pleiades aches like congestive heart failure. The Moog Minitaur is all business; heavy, yet evasive.
I’m just playing around. Matching voices, designing the sound. A director of the auditory absurd languidly assessing the harmony while looking for the right melody.
A chord progression would be good. Maybe a 9th here.
In the distance, Mother heaves from the fluid in her lungs. The harmony of her distended voice sounds like a fifth to the pulsating clatter of gameshow hopes and dreams.
I have a new concept to pursue. A piece that describes the feeling of slowly suffocating under the weight of deferred responsibility.
I’ll call it ‘hypoxia’.