On the release of rock supergroup Chickenfoot''s sophomore effort, guitarist Joe Satriani and bassist Mike Anthony confess that making it look easy is precisely the point.
“We’d meet up in the morning,” says Satriani, ”and someone would say, ‘I really like that song, let’s do that one.’ And we’d spend a few hours learning it and arranging it, and then record it and that would be it. We’d move on to the next song.”
This mad dash proved to be a good thing and gave the album its fresh sound. “There’s a lot of spontaneity on this album because there wasn’t a lot of time to rehearse the songs,” says Anthony. “We would rehearse it 20, 30 times and then we recorded it.” The time constraints extend beyond the recording session. Because of Smith’s commitments, drummer Kenny Aronoff will be filling in for him on the band’s upcoming tour. But this won’t be a permanent lineup switch. Anthony says, “We didn’t want this to be a revolving-door band.”
The long road to Chickenfoot’s origin can be traced back to 1985 when Van Halen and vocalist David Lee Roth parted company. After this breakup, Roth did what any crafty jilted lover would do: He got sweet revenge. He recruited über-virtuoso Steve Vai along with bass hero Billy Sheehan to form a supergroup with superhuman, pyrotechnical abilities. Van Halen counteracted by bringing in Sammy Hagar as the new lead singer, but as Eddie Van Halen became more and more content to rest on his laurels, his position as the king of rock guitar was slowly being usurped by the continually innovative Vai, who ended up becoming the guitar hero to round out the ’80s and onward to the present day.
Flash forward to 2007 when the impossible happened and Van Halen reunited with Diamond Dave. This reunion came with a twist, however. Eddie’s teenage son, Wolfgang replaced founding member bassist Michael Anthony, leaving both Anthony and Hagar without a gig. They must have asked themselves “what would Dave do?” because soon after, they formed Chickenfoot, a supergroup featuring Joe Satriani—Vai’s former mentor—and Chad Smith from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
This ensemble proved to be a success with Chickenfoot’s selftitled first album debuting at No. 3 on the Billboard Top 100 and going Gold. But this is no poor man’s Van Halen. “During the first tour we wanted to establish ourselves as Chickenfoot so we decided not to play any Van Halen or Chili Peppers stuff,” says Anthony. “Obviously some of the stuff is going to sound like Van Halen vocally because that’s where Sammy and I come from and people can identify with that sound in our voices. But we don’t want to be like Van Halen. We don’t want to be like the Chili Peppers, we don’t want to be like Joe’s solo stuff. We just do what we do.”
How did Chickenfoot III
come about?
Anthony: Because we were
going to be losing Chad to his
other band [laughs]. Actually,
we wanted Chad on the new
Chickenfoot record and we
knew once he got fired up with
the Chili Peppers that would
pretty much be impossible.
So we said, “Hey, let’s go into
the studio and put some stuff
together while Chad’s still free.”
Satriani: We always knew we’d
get together again and continue
it. After the set of tours that
we did, we really solidified as
a band and I think we all look
back on the first record like,
“Wow, that’s hardly representative
of what we can do.”
What revelations did you have?
Satriani: We felt like a band,
but we didn’t know if we
sounded like a band until we
had that first album. When we
hit the road we had to prove a
lot to ourselves. We went from
the club thing to the festival
tour and did the theaters and
the arenas in the summer and
then it was over. But in that
period we learned so much
about each other musically, and
the potential of the band would
really blossom every night that
we would play.
Anthony: I think we’ve really
niched out what Chickenfoot is
about on this record.
Michael, do you approach your
bass lines differently depending
on whether the guitarist is
playing more in the pocket and
bluesy or going crazy?
Anthony: The difference here is
when Eddie would go off, he’d
be like, “Pump on this note, it’s
king of like an AC/DC thing,”
whereas Joe gives me a chance
to play different things and not
just ride on one note.
Are you enjoying the freedom
you have now?
Anthony: Oh, it’s great. I don’t
think there was one time on
this album where Joe came up
to me and said, “Can you play
this here?” He let me go off
and develop my own bass parts.
Everybody was allowed to put
in their own two cents.
What differences and similarities
do you see in Joe and
Eddie’s approach?
Anthony: They’re both great
guitarists in their own right.
Eddie would treat every song
like it was an instrumental and
either Dave or Sammy or even
Gary would fit their vocals
around it. I had to be more
basic in my playing to really
hold it down.
Joe Satriani’s Gearbox
Guitars
Ibanez JS prototype with DiMarzio pickups, Ibanez
JS2400, ’55 Gibson Les Paul, ’58 Fender Esquire, ’59
Gibson ES-335, Rickenbacker, Deering banjo, Ovation
12-string, Gibson Jimmy Page No. 1 Les Paul
Amps
Marshall JVM 410 Joe Satriani Signature Model, ’53
Fender Deluxe, ’59 Fender Twin
Effects
Electro-Harmonix POG, Vox Big Bad Wah, Vox Time
Machine, Voodoo Lab Proctavia, Roger Mayer Voodoo Vibe
Strings, Picks, and Accessories
D’Addario .010–.046, D’Addario .011 sets on some vintage
guitars, Planet Waves signature picks (heavy), Planet
Waves signature straps, Planet Waves cables
Joe, with this band, do you
feel Eddie’s shadow lingering
over the music?
Satriani: It was obvious that, at
least for me, I’m not going to
try and recreate the over-playing
heroics of the ’80s that was pioneered
really by Eddie. Nobody
can do it, really, like Eddie. So
why would you do it?
Anthony: I don’t want Joe to
do anything like Eddie Van
Halen or sound like him. We
get enough comparisons to Van
Halen the way it is [laughs].
People on the internet are like,
“Chickenfoot III...they’re jabbing
at Van Halen III.” I have
to laugh at these references—
they’ll make them musically,
too. I’m thinking, “Do these
people sit around all day long
and try to find one note that
Joe has in common with Eddie
and just go off on it?”
Joe, on this record you seem
to play less technically than
someone might expect, given
the band’s lineage.
Satriani: That can be said for
everybody in the band. Sammy
can try to sing higher than he
did with Van Halen, although
I can’t imagine trying to sing
higher than that [laughs]. Chad
can try to be funkier than he
is with the Chili Peppers and,
as you mentioned, I can try to
do flashier, more outside stuff,
but that’s so calculated and so
wrong to me. It’s the antithesis
of why we got together.
Anthony: Obviously, when you
have a lead singer, you don’t
have to be playing notes every
second. So now Joe doesn’t
have to play the melody and
everything all the time on the
guitar. I know he enjoys doing
all the rhythmic stuff, too, and
not just being the guy playing
the lead all the time. Maybe he
is making his own conscious
effort to kind of hold back on
the album. All I can say to that
is that people should come see
us live—Joe’s on fire.
Joe, your older stuff like Not
of this Earth is more cerebral,
whereas this is more feelgood,
jam music. Is it hard to
switch gears?
Satriani: No, it’s not. I know
that it seems odd from the
outside looking in. Twenty-four
hours in the day of Joe Satriani,
there are so many different
kinds of music running through
my head, and if I’m hanging
around at home I play lots of
different stuff. Stuff that you
would never release or you
wouldn’t want people to hear
because they wouldn’t know
what you were or what kind of
stylistic box to put you in.
But that’s typical for the way that a musician thinks. An artist is just simply being artistic, so when they see a mandolin, they start playing some mandolin music. Someone says, “Check out this piano,” they sit down and they play whatever piano music they know or like at that moment. We’re always hopping stylistic fences or at least, I should say, I am. I’m always playing lots of different things on an average day at home playing music. When you’re making an album you can’t do that. It’s very difficult to have a career based on being scattered stylistically.
But you’re the guy who
whipped rock guitarists of the
’80s into getting serious about
learning music theory and
studying the enigmatic scale
and pitch axis, among other
things, and now it’s back to
the basic blues scale. Isn’t that
quite a contrast?
Satriani: It is. That’s a really
good question you’re asking
and the answer is quite profound
for someone like me who
started out knowing absolutely
nothing and, little by little,
learning from very gifted and
patient teachers. What I’ve
arrived at, which is what all
musicians arrive at once they
get through all the learning, is
that a three-note scale doesn’t
carry any more extra weight
than a 12-note scale. Whether a
scale is called Lydian Dominant
or whether it’s called blues, it
doesn’t mean one is better than
the other.
A complicated arrangement is not necessarily better than a simple arrangement. It’s just music and what matters is whether it’s powerful—does it move people? Does it move you, the artist? So it’s really great when you arrive at that point and generally you can’t, until you actually know all of it. I’ve been as good a student as I can possibly be all these years. So I can say, “Yeah, I can play harmonic minor scales harmonized in any way that you want, in any key, anywhere on the guitar.” None of that phases me anymore. So that means that everything’s equal. I’m not impressed by complications.
Joe, Chickenfoot’s music is
definitely less complex than
a lot of your own music. No
adjustment issues?
Satriani: Well, Sammy’s always
dogging me about two things.
He wants me just to go crazy.
He doesn’t want me to work
things out, and he’s always trying
to convince me that commercial
success is a good thing.
My success is based on being
under the radar, so it’s natural
for me to go for the odd, not
the accessible. The joke in the
band is that whenever we’re
working on a song that we
think might have some commercial
success, it’s guaranteed
to put me in a bad mood and
I’ll want to stop working on it.
“Different Devil” comes to
mind as one with a commercial
sound.
Satriani: I think the worst
mood I was ever in with
Chickenfoot was when we
recorded that song. When I
brought the song in it was
about 90-percent finished and
I thought it could be a really
good and weird song—the
typical way I think of things. I
bring it in and everybody starts
tidying it up, and then I start
to think, “Hey, it sounds like
you guys want to make this an
accessible piece of music.” And
I’m bumming out about it.
Later Chad took my acoustic guitar back to the hotel room. He shows up the next morning with a new part to the song and Sammy hears it and says, “I could sing a chorus over that.” So we insert it into the arrangement, and after awhile I’m going, “They’re right, this is actually sounding pretty good.” And so we built up the track until the end of the day. Then over the next couple of weeks as we’re doing the overdubs, I started to realize that the melody Sammy’s singing doesn’t actually go with the chords that Chad wrote for the chorus part. So I had to go and listen to Sammy’s vocals without guitars and bass, and figure out melodically what he thought he was singing over harmonically. Once I realized what he was singing over in his mind, I had to go find those chords.
Did the reharmonized version
throw him off?
Satriani: No, it fit because
I think when we did the last
tracking together everyone was
just worried about their parts,
they really weren’t thinking
about what Sammy was singing,
they figured he’d change
his vocals. But I know Sammy
and when Sammy gets on a
trajectory he’s not going to
change his vocals. He’s going
to look at me and say, “Joe,
change those chords.”
“Come Closer” showcases a
moodier side of the band.
Anthony: That’s a song where
Sammy already had the vocals
and lyrics first.
Satriani: One morning I just
went over to my piano and
put the cup of coffee on
one end and the iPhone on
the other side and I very
quietly sang a moody… it
was sort of like, if you can
imagine, Radiohead doing
an R&B song. It was kind of
drifty, especially in my croaky
voice. I quickly emailed it
to Sammy to see if this was
something he could get into
because this was me putting
him in a lower register.
Was that one originally written
on the piano in A♭ minor
(as it sounds) or A minor but
then played tuned down?
Satriani: It was written in
A minor. I’m not too good
with A♭ minor [laughs]. I play
just enough piano to get a
song across.
Michael Anthony’s Gearbox
Basses
Yamaha BB300MA Michael Anthony signature bass
Amps
Ampeg B-50R
Effects
MXR Micro Chorus (live only), MXR Blue Box (live)
Strings, Picks, and Accessories
Dunlop picks, Jim Dunlop strings (.045, .065, .087,
.107), Monster Cable (studio), Shure wireless (live)
Joe, in your “Come Closer”
solo, you play this long arpeggiated
sequence then in the
last two measures you break
away from it so it doesn’t
sound predictable.
Satriani: Right, I had to let
loose. To tell you the truth,
when we were rehearsing, it
had a loaded bluesy solo in the
beginning, and I just started
thinking that it sounded too
much like a power ballad where
the guitar player steps up and
he’s blowing a solo on the
mountain top. I thought that
was too corny. I kept thinking
with the solo that I wanted to
be part of the band.
Let’s talk gear for a second.
Joe, I understand on this
record you used that blue
Ibanez prototype with three
single-coils you played on the
Experience Hendrix tour.
Satriani: Yeah, that prototype
is a winner, man. We’ve worked
on that one for almost 10
years now and Steve Blucher
at DiMarzio just came up with
really cool pickups that, for
some reason, really go together
with a maple neck and that
particular body. It just sounds
like the punchiest Strat you ever
heard in your life.
Is this the first album you
recorded with this guitar?
Satriani: I think it is. And
the whole record was done
primarily on my new 4-channel
Marshall signature amp
called the JVM 410 Joe Satriani
Signature Model.
Michael, I know you generally
use your Yamaha signature
bass, but what happened to
the Jack Daniel’s bass?
Anthony: I still have it and
it will probably come out on
tour. At the end of every tour,
I put it in the closet and say
I’m done with it. And there’s
always somebody like you who
says, “Hey, what’s with the Jack
Daniel’s bass?” My original one
has been on display for at least
a couple of years now at the
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
in Cleveland.
Michael, there’s a rumor that
you’re the richest among the
original Van Halen members,
is that true?
Anthony: [Laughs.] Well, everybody
used to joke that I saved
the first dollar that I ever made
in Van Halen. I probably did
somewhere. You know what,
my wife Sue and I, we just celebrated
our 30th wedding anniversary
in February. That might
have something to do with it,
because every guy in Van Halen
is divorced—a couple of them
a couple of times. So, of course,
that’s going to tax their account
a little bit.
Some people out there say
Chickenfoot is in it just for
the money, but you guys don’t
really need the money. Sammy
made something like 80 million
dollars selling a share of
his tequila business.
Anthony: And that was just
selling the first 80 percent.
Once he sold the last 20 percent,
I’m sure he made a good
penny on that, too. The best
part about Chickenfoot is that
nobody needs the money. We’ve
got nothing we need to prove
to anybody. We wanted this to
be a fun band and when we get
in the studio it’s just so loose,
relaxed, and open. It’s like
the early days of Van Halen.
Everybody’s just throwing in
their input and having a great
time making music. We don’t
want any pressure and we said
if any came up, we should just
stop doing this.
Michael, if the situation presented
itself, would you rejoin
Van Halen?
Anthony: At this point in my
life and career, I’m so happy with
what I’m doing and I want to
have fun making music. I don’t
want any drama. That whole
drama thing in Van Halen, the
way it ended up, I was like, “I’d
rather make no money having
fun playing music than make a
shitload of money tearing my
hair out.” Maybe when I was 20
it would have been different, but
not at this point. I want to keep
my sanity.
Some of us love drum machines and synths and others don’t, but we all love Billy.
Billy Gibbons is an undisputable guitar force whose feel, tone, and all-around vibe make him the highest level of hero. But that’s not to say he hasn’t made some odd choices in his career, like when ZZ Top re-recorded parts of their classic albums for CD release. And fans will argue which era of the band’s career is best. Some of us love drum machines and synths and others don’t, but we all love Billy.
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The English guitarist expands his extensive discography with 1967: Vacations in the Past, an album paired with a separate book release, both dedicated to the year 1967 and the 14-year-old version of himself that still lives in him today.
English singer-songwriter Robyn Hitchcock is one of those people who, in his art as well as in his every expression, presents himself fully, without scrim. I don’t know if that’s because he intends to, exactly, or if it’s just that he doesn’t know how to be anyone but himself. And it’s that genuine quality that privileges you or I, as the listener, to recognize him in tone or lyrics alone, the same way one knows the sound of Miles Davis’ horn within an instant of hearing it—or the same way one could tell Hitchcock apart in a crowd by his vibrantly hued, often loudly patterned fashion choices.
Itchycoo Park
“I like my songs, but I don’t necessarily think I’m the best singer of them,” he effaces to me over Zoom, as it’s approaching midnight where he’s staying in London. “I just wanted to be a singer-songwriter because that’s what Bob Dylan did. And I like to create; I’m happiest when I’m producing something. But my records are blueprints, really. They just show you what the song could be, but they’re not necessarily the best performance of them. Whereas if you listen to … oh, I don’t know, the great records of ’67, they actually sound like the best performances you could get.”
He mentions that particular year not offhandedly, but because that’s the theme of the conversation: He’s just released an album, 1967: Vacations in the Past, which is a collection of covers of songs released in 1967, and one original song—the title track. Boasting his takes on Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life,” Pink Floyd’s “See Emily Play,” and Small Faces’ “Itchycoo Park,” among eight other tracks, it serves as a sort of soundtrack or musical accompaniment to his new memoir, 1967: How I Got There and Why I Never Left.
Hitchcock, who was 14 years old and attending boarding school in England in 1967, describes how who he is today is encased in that period of his life, much like a mosquito in amber. But why share that with the world now?
In the mid ’70s, before he launched his solo career, Hitchcock was the leader of the psychedelic group the Soft Boys.
Photo by Tim Bugbee/tinnitus photography
“I’m 71; I’ve been alive quite a long time,” he shares. “If I want to leave a record of anything apart from all the songs I’ve written, now is a good time to do it. By writing about 1966 to ’67, I’m basically giving the context for Robyn Hitchcock, as Robyn Hitchcock then lived the rest of his life.”
Hopefully, I say, the publication of these works won’t ring as some sort of death knell for him.
“Well, it’s a relative death knell,” he replies. “But everyone’s on the conveyor belt. We all go over the edge. And none of our legacies are permanent. Even the plastic chairs and Coke bottles and stuff like that that we’re leaving behind.... In 10- or 20-thousand-years’ time, we’ll probably just be some weird, scummy layer on the great fruitcake of the Earth. But I suppose you do probably get to an age where you want to try and explain yourself, maybe to yourself. Maybe it’s me that needs to read the book, you know?”
“I’m basically giving the context for Robyn Hitchcock, as Robyn Hitchcock then lived the rest of his life.”
To counter his description of his songs above, I would say that Hitchcock’s performances on 1967: Vacations in the Past carve out their own deserved little planet in the vintage-rock Milky Way. I was excited in particular by some of his selections: the endorsement of foundational prog in the Procol Harum cover; the otherwise forgotten Traffic tune, “No Face, No Name and No Number,” off of Mr. Fantasy, the Mamas & the Papas’ nostalgic “San Francisco,” and of course, the aforementioned Floyd single. There’s also the lesser known “My White Bicycle” by Tomorrow and “I Can Hear the Grass Grow” by the Move, and the Hendrix B-side, “Burning of the Midnight Lamp.”
Through these recordings, Hitchcock pays homage to “that lovely time when people were inventing new strands of music, and they couldn’t define them,” he replies. “People didn’t really know what to call Pink Floyd. Was it jazz, or was it pop, or psychedelia, or freeform, or systems music?”
His renditions call to mind a cooking reduction, defined by Wikipedia as “the process of thickening and intensifying the flavor of a liquid mixture, such as a soup, sauce, wine, or juice, by simmering or boiling.” Hitchcock’s distinctive, classic folk-singer voice and steel-string-guided arrangements do just that to this iconic roster. There are some gentle twists and turns—Eastern-instrumental touches; subtly applied, ethereal delay and reverb, and the like—but nothing that should cloud the revived conduit to the listener’s memory of the originals.
And yet, here’s his review of his music, in general: “I hear [my songs] back and I think, ‘God, my voice is horrible! This is just … ugh! Why do I sing through my nose like that?’ And the answer is because Bob Dylan sang through his nose, you know. I was just singing through Bob Dylan’s nose, really.”
1967: Vacations in the Pastfeatures 11 covers of songs that were released in 1967, and one original song—the title track.
❦
“I wait for songs to come to me: They’re independent like cats, rather than like dogs who will faithfully trail you everywhere,” Hitchcock explains, sharing about his songwriting process. “All I can do is leave a plate of food out for the songs—in the form of my open mind—and hope they will appear in there, hungry for my neural pathways.”
Once he’s domesticated the wild idea, he says, “It’s important to remain as unselfconscious as possible in the [writing] process. If I start worrying about composing the next line, the embryonic song slips away from me. Often I’m left with a verse-and-a-half and an unresolved melody because my creation has lost its innocence and fled from my brain.
“[Then] there are times when creativity itself is simply not what’s called for: You just have to do some more living until the songs appear again. That’s as close as I can get to describing the process, which still, thankfully, remains mysterious to me after all this time.”
“In 10- or 20-thousand-years’ time, we’ll probably just be some weird, scummy layer on the great fruitcake of the Earth.”
In the prose of 1967: How I Got There and Why I Never Left, Hitchcock expresses himself similarly to how he does so distinctively in his lyrics and speech. Amidst his tales of roughing his first experiences in the infamously ruthless environs of English boarding school, he shares an abundance of insight about his parents and upbringing, as well as a self-diagnosis of having Asperger’s syndrome—whose name is now gradually becoming adapted in modern lexicon to “low-support-needs” autism spectrum disorder. When I touch on the subject, he reaffirms the observation, and elaborates, “I think I probably am also OCD, whatever that means. I’ve always been obsessed with trying to get things in the right order.”
He relates an anecdote about his school days: “So, if I got out of lunch—‘Yippee! I’ve got three hours to dress like a hippie before they put me back in my school clothes. Oh damn, I’ve put the purple pants on, but actually, I should put the red ones on. No! I put the red ones on; it’s not good—I’ll put my jeans on.’
Robyn Hitchcock's Gear
Hitchcock in 1998, after embarking on the tour behind one of his earlier acoustic albums, Moss Elixir.
Guitars
- Two Fylde Olivia acoustics equipped with Sennheiser II lavalier mics (for touring)
- Larrivée acoustic
- Fender Telecaster
- Fender Stratocaster
Strings & Picks
- Elixir .011–.052 (acoustic)
- Ernie Ball Skinny Top Heavy Bottom .010–.054 (electric)
- Dunlop 1.0 mm
“I’d just get into a real state. And then the only thing that would do would be listening to Trout Mask Replica by Captain Beefheart. There was something about Trout Mask that was so liberating that I thought, ‘Oh, I don’t care what trousers I’m wearing. This is just, whoa! This music is it.’”
With him having chosen to cover “See Emily Play,” a Syd Barrett composition, the conversation soon turns to the topic of the late, troubled songwriter. I comment, “It’s hard to listen to Syd’s solo records.... It’s weird that people enabled that. You can hear him losing his mind.”
“You can, but at the same time, the fact they enabled it means that these things did come out,” Robyn counters. “And he obviously had nothing else to give after that. So, at least, David Gilmour and the old Floyd guys.... It meant they gave the world those songs, which, although the performances are quite … rickety, quite fragile, they’re incredibly beautiful songs. There’s nothing forced about Barrett. He can only be himself.”
“There was something about Trout Mask Replica that was so liberating that I thought, ‘Oh, I don’t care what trousers I’m wearing. This is just, whoa!’”
I briefly compare Barrett to singer-songwriter Daniel Johnston, and we agree there are some similarities. And then with a segue, ask, “When did you first fall in love with the guitar? Was it when you came home from boarding school and found the guitar your parents gifted you on your bed?”
Robyn pauses thoughtfully.“Ah, I think I liked the idea of the guitar probably around that time,” he shares. “I always used to draw men with guns. I’m not really macho, but I had a very kind of post-World War II upbringing where men were always carrying guns. And I thought, ‘Well, if he’s a man, he’s got to carry a gun.’ Then, around the age of 13, I swapped the gun for the guitar. And then every man I drew was carrying a guitar instead.”
Elaborating on getting his first 6-string, he says, “I had lessons from a man who had three fingers bent back from an industrial accident. He was a nice old man with whiskers, and he showed me how to get the guitar in tune and what the basic notes were. And then I got hold of a Bob Dylan songbook, and—‘Oh my gosh, I can play “Mr. Tambourine Man!”’ It was really fast—about 10 minutes between not being able to play anything, and suddenly being able to play songs by my heroes.”
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Hitchcock does me the kindness, during our atypically deep conversation—at least, for a press interview—of sharing more acute perceptions of his parents, and their own neurodivergence. Ultimately, he feels that his mother didn’t necessarily like him, but loved the idea of him—and that later in life, he came to better understand his lonely, depressive father. “My mother was protective but in an oddly cold way. People are like that,” he shares. “We just contain so many things that don’t make sense with each other: colors that you would not mix as a painter; themes you would not intermingle as a writer; characters you would not create.... We defy any sense of balance or harmony.
“Although the performances are quite rickety, quite fragile, they’re incredibly beautiful songs. There’s nothing forced about Barrett. He can only be himself.”
“The idea of normality.... ‘Normal’ is tautological,” he continues. “Nothing is normal. A belief in normality is an aberration. It’s a form of insanity, I think.
“It’s just hard for us to accept ourselves because we’re brought up with the myth of normality, and the myth of what people are supposed to be like gender-wise, sex-wise, and psychologically what we’re supposed to want. And in a way, some of that’s beginning to melt, now. But that probably just causes more confusion. It’s no wonder people like me want to live in 1967.”
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In this excerpt from the Jonathan Demme-directed concert film of Robyn Hitchcock, Storefront Hitchcock, the songwriter performs an absurdist “upbeat” song about a man who dies of cancer.
The legendary bass amp used by Geddy Lee and Glenn Hughes has been redesigned and revamped.
The new AD200 is still designed on the premise that the best tone comes from the shortest signal path from bass to speaker. Whatever type of bass, playing style, or genre of music, the AD200 faithfully retains the tone of that instrument.
The addition of a new clean switch, in combination with a powerful three-band EQ, gives AD200 players an even broader frequency spectrum to dial into their amp. In addition, a brand new output transformer, with 3 inches of laminations, harnesses double the power at 30Hz, offering better response at low frequencies. ‘It now pushes more air, flaps more trouser leg — simple as that,’ explains Orange Amps Technical Director Ade Emsley. From mellow hues to heavy, percussive growl and even slap bass, the ultimate incarnation of the AD200, has just become even more versatile.
Internal changes make the amp easier to service and maintain. Each output valve now has its own 12 turn bias pot, so unmatched valves can sit side by side. ‘Now, any tech with a multimeter can bias the amp and match the valves into the amp,’ explains Emsley. ‘So, if you’re on the road with a band, you can go swap a worn valve for a new one, dial it in and you’re good to go.’ Whilst the four KT88 output valves push 200 Watts of power, the amp will run equally as well on 6550s or a combination of the two.
‘It’s a big improvement on the previous version,’ says Ade Emsley, of his work on the updated AD200. ‘It still does everything the old one does, it’s still the industry standard, but it’s now simpler, easier to use, easier to service and futureproof.’
The new, decluttered front panel design is reminiscent of the company’s iconic 1970’s amps with its original ‘bubble-writing’ Orange logo and the ‘pics-only’ hieroglyphs, all wrapped in the company’s distinctive orange Tolex covering.
Over the last forty years, the Orange Bass Cabinets have become an undeniable industry standard. They have been remodelled to use Celestion Pulse XL bass speakers across the OBC810C, OBC410HC, and OBC115C cabs. The upgrade delivers a tight, punchy low-end with a warm mid-range that’s full of presence. The premium build of these cabinets remains, delivering players, bands and techs the road-worthy dependability they demand. In addition, the popular OBC410HC has been modified by removing one vertical partition and strengthening the horizontal one to be lighter and tighten up low-end response.
For more information, please visit orangeamps.com.