Seven 9s and 10s

joshualapierre: ENO Oh man. Eno playing an EMS VCS3. That synthesizer single handedly steered me away from music education and into composition and performance. My alma mater has (had?) one in their music studio and, as the only student at the college who had any interest in taking Intro to Electronic Music, I was given free reign to play with it and all the other great vintage gear in the studio (tape machines, Yamaha DX7 IIFD, some primitive orchestral sampler MIDI box… all kinds of great inspiring stuff). All that gear, combined with the realization that I just didn’t feel comfortable standing in front of a classroom full of kids, led me to give up on music education (though I still earned the degree). I would spend, quite literally, all night locked alone in that studio playing with the VCS3. That joystick was badass and the routing matrix was a much better solution to patching than the cables typical of other modular synths, and the Ring Modulator was brilliant. I still miss cranking the volume up, manually syncing those three oscillators, patching them into the filter, and slowly sweeping through its frequency range. I swear the whole music building would vibrate. “Sccchhhhweeeeeoooooooooooouuuuuuuhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmm” That tactile control of synthesis - the feeling of the knobs and dials and switches in your fingers - is something I’ll never forget. Just looking at this gif I can still remember how smoothly those 30 year old pots turned, with just the right amount of pressure and resistance so that you actually had to put some effort into the action. Goddamn. I need to contact them and see if they still own it.

joshualapierre:

ENO

Oh man. Eno playing an EMS VCS3.

That synthesizer single handedly steered me away from music education and into composition and performance. My alma mater has (had?) one in their music studio and, as the only student at the college who had any interest in taking Intro to Electronic Music, I was given free reign to play with it and all the other great vintage gear in the studio (tape machines, Yamaha DX7 IIFD, some primitive orchestral sampler MIDI box… all kinds of great inspiring stuff). All that gear, combined with the realization that I just didn’t feel comfortable standing in front of a classroom full of kids, led me to give up on music education (though I still earned the degree).

I would spend, quite literally, all night locked alone in that studio playing with the VCS3. That joystick was badass and the routing matrix was a much better solution to patching than the cables typical of other modular synths, and the Ring Modulator was brilliant.

I still miss cranking the volume up, manually syncing those three oscillators, patching them into the filter, and slowly sweeping through its frequency range. I swear the whole music building would vibrate.

“Sccchhhhweeeeeoooooooooooouuuuuuuhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmm”

That tactile control of synthesis - the feeling of the knobs and dials and switches in your fingers - is something I’ll never forget. Just looking at this gif I can still remember how smoothly those 30 year old pots turned, with just the right amount of pressure and resistance so that you actually had to put some effort into the action. Goddamn. I need to contact them and see if they still own it.

(via recordarchive)

High-res So… that was awesome. I attempted to make a video of the experience but I couldn’t get the suction cup to stick to the window, so I gave up and decided to just live in the moment. My flight instructor was in control during takeoff, but once we reached our cruising altitude (2,500 feet) I was in control. We were in the air about 35 minutes as I flew over my house, southeast towards Canandaigua Lake, then north up to the Erie Canal, turning west over Fairport, over my parent’s house (where I grew up), towards downtown Rochester, and then back southwest to the airport; he took over again for landing. I’ve wanted to fly planes ever since I was a kid. I was only 6 years old when Top Gun and Iron Eagle were released. Sure, they’re both super campy with ridiculous cold war era plotlines  but none of that mattered to a little kid; I just loved seeing those awesome jets flying around and blowing each other out of the sky.  My best childhood friend moved away before the start of 6th grade. I never truly recovered, from a social perspective, and to this day I’m sure a big part of my social anxiety and introversion can be traced back to that event. It was around that time when the first Gulf War started (just as I was entering middle school) and I was awed by the scenes unfolding on TV every night. I spent hundreds of hours through middle school and into high school building model airplanes. The smell of Testors model cement and paint will always conjure up great memories of time spent in the basement carefully airbrushing wings and missiles and gluing them together. When finished, they’d get strung up with fishing line and hung from my bedroom ceiling. The walls were emblazoned with posters of jets. I devoured aviation magazines and could rattle off facts and specs for dozens of famous military airplanes, both old and new. You could say I was a bit obsessed, and it was largely driven by the fact that I didn’t really have much of a social life. Rather than hanging out with other kids, I was building models and memorizing wingspans and airspeeds and learning the principals of flight. As high school began, I very seriously envisioned myself enlisting in the Air Force upon graduation and pursing a career in military aviation; I I was frequently talking to recruiters in school (I don’t think local districts even allow recruiters to come into the buildings these days). Then during my junior year I got glasses and the recruiters basically gave me the bird and told me to get lost - anything less than perfect vision was unacceptable. That sucked, but in hindsight it was probably for the best. My obsession and dedication to aviation diminished as my talent and love for music grew, and now, rather than dropping bombs on foreign countries, I get to spend my time making music and posting poop jokes on the internet.. not a bad trade off, I guess.

So… that was awesome.

I attempted to make a video of the experience but I couldn’t get the suction cup to stick to the window, so I gave up and decided to just live in the moment.

My flight instructor was in control during takeoff, but once we reached our cruising altitude (2,500 feet) I was in control. We were in the air about 35 minutes as I flew over my house, southeast towards Canandaigua Lake, then north up to the Erie Canal, turning west over Fairport, over my parent’s house (where I grew up), towards downtown Rochester, and then back southwest to the airport; he took over again for landing.

I’ve wanted to fly planes ever since I was a kid. I was only 6 years old when Top Gun and Iron Eagle were released. Sure, they’re both super campy with ridiculous cold war era plotlines  but none of that mattered to a little kid; I just loved seeing those awesome jets flying around and blowing each other out of the sky.  My best childhood friend moved away before the start of 6th grade. I never truly recovered, from a social perspective, and to this day I’m sure a big part of my social anxiety and introversion can be traced back to that event.

It was around that time when the first Gulf War started (just as I was entering middle school) and I was awed by the scenes unfolding on TV every night. I spent hundreds of hours through middle school and into high school building model airplanes. The smell of Testors model cement and paint will always conjure up great memories of time spent in the basement carefully airbrushing wings and missiles and gluing them together. When finished, they’d get strung up with fishing line and hung from my bedroom ceiling. The walls were emblazoned with posters of jets. I devoured aviation magazines and could rattle off facts and specs for dozens of famous military airplanes, both old and new. You could say I was a bit obsessed, and it was largely driven by the fact that I didn’t really have much of a social life. Rather than hanging out with other kids, I was building models and memorizing wingspans and airspeeds and learning the principals of flight.

As high school began, I very seriously envisioned myself enlisting in the Air Force upon graduation and pursing a career in military aviation; I I was frequently talking to recruiters in school (I don’t think local districts even allow recruiters to come into the buildings these days). Then during my junior year I got glasses and the recruiters basically gave me the bird and told me to get lost - anything less than perfect vision was unacceptable. That sucked, but in hindsight it was probably for the best. My obsession and dedication to aviation diminished as my talent and love for music grew, and now, rather than dropping bombs on foreign countries, I get to spend my time making music and posting poop jokes on the internet.. not a bad trade off, I guess.

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter - The Anniversary

Track:
The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter

Artist:
The Anniversary

Album:
Designing A Nervous Breakdown

150 plays

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter - The Anniversary

This album was released over 10 years ago. I’m only 31, but goddamn this makes me feel old.  I listened to this a lot back then and saw them play three times within about a year. I was a sucker for any band with a girl and a synthesizer.

Angela’s post got me thinking about my last visit to the CN Tower and how did my best to take some non-traditional photos that day with my dinky 3.1MP Kodak DX4330 point and shoot.

The date was August 14, 2003. On first glance that doesn’t appear to be a special day, but look a little closer and you’ll recognize it as the date of the Northeast Blackout of 2003.  Myself and my girlfriend at the time were visiting Toronto that day.  We walked off the elevator at the base of the tower and drove away less than 15 minutes before the power went out.  I still sorta wish we had gotten stuck up top (at least until the backup generators kicked in), because I can think of few places I enjoy more than being up in the Skypod.

Out of Reach - The Get Up Kids

Track:
Out of Reach

Artist:
The Get Up Kids

Album:
Something To Write Home About

291 plays

The Get Up Kids - Out Of Reach

I’m not exactly what you could call a big fan of The Get Up Kids, but this particular song transports me right back to late summer of 2000. I had a huge crush on a girl that I met online (weezerfly mailing list) and she sent me a mixtape with this song. Good song; sad memories.

lazybaby:

thebluehoodie:

ok as a major weezer fan, this kinda sucks.

remember the rebel weezer alliance?

that sure was a long time ago.

i just don’t know what to think….

=rwa= and related fansites (weezerone, weezerfanclub, weerez) are the only reason the band stayed popular enough to even attempt a successful comeback in 2000.  Those were the good ol’ days.

I don’t know why anyone is shocked by how bad this new song is.  Did you people even listen to the crap on Raditude? Do you remember “Heart Songs” from the red album?  How about “We Are All On Drugs” from Make Believe?  Oh, and don’t forget about “Love Explosion” from Maladroit and “Crab” from the green album.

Each post-pinkerton record has had bullshit songs on it.  Stop expecting weezer to release something that sounds like it was written and performed by the 1997-pre-Matt-Sharp-departure-version of the band.  Rivers is FORTY.  Most of those songs you fell in love with… he wrote when he was TWENTY.

Nothing since their 1999 cover of Pixies Velouria has given the world any reason to expect more greatness.  That was the last time the band sounded great… and it wasn’t even their song.  Yet, year-in and year-out, people hold them to the same ridiculous standards, and these people never learn, and they’re subsequently disappointed, and then they act all surprised when it happens again the next year.

Perhaps it’s because I’m a Buffalo Bills fan that I’ve learned to keep my expectations low and hope for a positive surprise, rather than expect too much and be continually disappointed.  On Hurley: I expect to hear one great song, a few that are listenable, and a bunch that are embarrassing.  I’m just being realistic.

High-res GPOYW Today was pretty rough. A very busy day at work plus a favored co-worker’s last day. Also, not enough coffee.  So I stopped at my parents house on the way home to see my dad who had just returned from Florida after several months, and to pick up some old stuff to bring back to my house. One of those things is my prized ~1991 Double Vision skateboard.  It’s hard to believe that I used to know how to ride that thing.  I never really had much in the way of skills, but it was totally fun and a great way for an 11 year old to get around town.  I distinctly remember being the only kid in school to have a double-kick board (some googling seems to have confirmed my suspiscion that the Vision Double was the first DK deck ever mass-produced). 19 years later, it’s still a totally great-looking slab of wood.

GPOYW

Today was pretty rough. A very busy day at work plus a favored co-worker’s last day. Also, not enough coffee.  So I stopped at my parents house on the way home to see my dad who had just returned from Florida after several months, and to pick up some old stuff to bring back to my house.

One of those things is my prized ~1991 Double Vision skateboard.  It’s hard to believe that I used to know how to ride that thing.  I never really had much in the way of skills, but it was totally fun and a great way for an 11 year old to get around town.  I distinctly remember being the only kid in school to have a double-kick board (some googling seems to have confirmed my suspiscion that the Vision Double was the first DK deck ever mass-produced).

19 years later, it’s still a totally great-looking slab of wood.

My bonus addition to today’s GCPOYT action. Click through for the Flickr notes. My mom taught me the value of a dollar early in life. She’d go picking fresh strawberries at a local farm and bring back dozens of quarts.  Then we’d set up this table and chair at the end of our lawn where I would sit for hours and sell strawberries to anyone that happened to drive by.  We’d put signs up at the nearby street corners trying to direct traffic in our direction.  This was a surprisingly profitable venture.  I was never given an allowance in my youth, so I had to earn any money I could by selling strawberries.  No doubt it was a good lesson.  Nothing in life is free. (Gratuitous Childhood Picture Of Yourself Thursday, started by inthefade)

My bonus addition to today’s GCPOYT action. Click through for the Flickr notes.

My mom taught me the value of a dollar early in life.

She’d go picking fresh strawberries at a local farm and bring back dozens of quarts.  Then we’d set up this table and chair at the end of our lawn where I would sit for hours and sell strawberries to anyone that happened to drive by.  We’d put signs up at the nearby street corners trying to direct traffic in our direction.  This was a surprisingly profitable venture.  I was never given an allowance in my youth, so I had to earn any money I could by selling strawberries.  No doubt it was a good lesson.  Nothing in life is free.

(Gratuitous Childhood Picture Of Yourself Thursday, started by inthefade)

A girl and her dog.

Sometime in the spring or summer of 2007 is when I first noticed her.  I was 27 at the time and it was the first time I had seen someone my age walking around my neighborhood.  It’s a cookie-cutter suburban housing development, like so many thousands that sprang up across America in the Fifties and Sixties: carved into what used to be a forest, houses of 4 or 5 different designs scattered amongst twisty streets that are laid out in no discernible pattern, no sidewalks.

She appeared to be of similar age to me and she had a waiflike and aloof appearance: like Liz Lemon when she’s not at work.  She wore well-worn hoodies and corduroy pants of varying shades of drab.  Her hair was long and brown, her glasses - thick and heavy - also brown, and she stumbled along the street and past my house - being tugged along by an adorable Chocolate Lab puppy: lanky, full of energy, and… brown.

Every morning around 7:45AM, as I would be getting into my car to leave for work, that dog would be yanking her along the street past my driveway.  There’s no doubt in my mind that if she were to strap on rollerblades or a hop on a skateboard, that puppy would have been fully content running around the neighborhood for hours, towing it’s equally-adorable owner along behind.  Even as summer turned to fall, and fall to winter, they would still be there every morning.  If nothing else - they were punctual, and she was clearly dedicated to making sure that puppy had a chance to expel a bunch of energy before the bulk of the day even began.

We never really communicated beyond a passing “Hello,” or “Good Morning!” but there was always a moment of awkwardness as we caught each-others eyes.  You know: that awkward feeling you get when you see someone consistently but you don’t really know them enough to converse.  Somedays I’d already be in the car and ready to back into the road as they moved past; there I’d wait patiently for them to clear as I’d catch a glimpse of them in my rear-view mirror.  Somedays I’d be picking up the newspaper.  Somedays I’d be hustling to brush inches of lake effect from my Subaru.  Yet, the one constant was that they’d be there, every morning.

I can’t remember specifically when I stopped seeing them, but it must have been sometime in March or April of 2008.  The mornings felt relatively empty without them.  We were total strangers, but after several months of seeing them I couldn’t help but feel like I knew her and the dog on more than just a passing-hello basis.  As time passed by, through the spring and summer, I would catch myself glancing up and down the street on occasion, checking to see if they were anywhere to be seen.  No luck.  They had seemingly vanished.  Perhaps they moved away, or maybe something terrible had happened to her or the dog?  Maybe the reason she wasn’t walking by anymore was because the dog was gone?  Whatever the reason, I was certainly curious and admittedly a bit sad - the kind of sadness you might feel when watching a Purina commercial about the ethical treatment of animals.

This past Wednesday morning, I saw them again.  There they were, walking past my driveway again, at roughly the same time - but a few things were different.  She still looked the same: brown glasses, brown hair, drab clothes.  The puppy had grown into its ears and it’s legs no longer flailed around wildly as it strolled down the street.  But the biggest difference provided a logical explanation for their 7 month sabbatical; there was a new addition to their team: a baby stroller - brown, of course.