The renowned fusion master gets futuristic with Black Light, his latest album with the virtuosic band, the 4th Dimension.
Even six decades into a legendary career, John McLaughlin is as fierce and passionate about playing guitar as he was when he picked it up in 1953. Young McLaughlin had already been playing piano for three years before his parents got him an acoustic. “I didn’t even know what an electric guitar was,” he remembers. Luckily for music fans everywhere, McLaughlin not only discovered the electric guitar but also used it to influence generations of musicians and create a singularly identifiable style that blends high-energy rock with sophisticated harmonic, melodic, and rhythmic elements.
It wasn’t long before such jazz luminaries as Tony Williams and Miles Davis brought McLaughlin into their bands. Williams’ landmark 1969 album, Emergency! was an early demonstration of how McLaughlin’s jazz chops and rock ethos could transform an organ trio into a three-headed muscle car of improvisation. During the ’70s, Davis (who was notorious for disdaining the guitar) formed an electric band, brought on McLaughlin for the iconic Bitches Brew and Jack Johnson albums, and helped lay the foundation for the fusion movement that gained popularity during the decade. Even while staying busy as a sideman, McLaughlin released solo albums and projects that included the rich acoustic sounds of Belo Horizonte and the game-changing Mahavishnu Orchestra.
Now 73, McLaughlin recently released Black Light, a work that combines the virtuosity that has symbolized his style with electronic elements and other-worldly soundscapes. In short: it’s not your typical “fusion” album. The muscular opening track, “Here Comes the Jiis,” features McLaughlin’s smooth, amp-free tones and rapid-fire melodies skimming over a mix of drummer Ranjit Barot’s propulsive rhythms and electronic sounds that wouldn’t be frowned upon at a Skrillex show.
Throughout Black Light, McLaughlin creates harmonically complex compositions by seamlessly weaving elements of live performance with pre-recorded sounds. “The sounds have to mean something. You can get a sound, but you have to make it your own,” says McLaughlin about the work-intensive process. We recently caught up with McLaughlin to discuss how he approaches composition, his deep love of rhythm, and his touching tribute to famed flamenco guitarist, Paco de Lucia.
This album is full of energy. Even on multiple listens it holds up with some of the best work you’ve done.
Yeah, there’s a lot of energy. But I don’t really think of it as energy. I think of it more of how much passion is in the band. We’re old school, especially me. We’re not part of this “smooth” jazz movement, if you know what I mean. Basically, we feel if there’s no passion in the music, there’s no gas in the tank. Look at the passion Miles played with. The passion equals energy. It’s beautiful to feel that in the music. It’s very important to me.
some sex in it.
It’s inspiring that you’re hitting at this level in your seventies.
I’m an old hippie [laughs]. Thank God, I’m still playing. It’s wonderful that I’m still able to continue, but the machine is getting older. I’m happy to have been a musician my whole life and to still be a musician. I don’t think there’s a better privilege, frankly.
Black Light can be viewed as the third album with your latest working band, the 4th Dimension. How did this specific group come together?
Actually, it came from an idea I had over 10 years ago. I was very lucky because I got this invitation from Réunion Island, which is near Madagascar. They said I could bring whatever band I want. This was the chance to put together this quartet that I had bubbling in my mind for a while. The only member remaining from that original lineup is Gary Husband, who plays everything—keyboards, drums, percussion. What an unbelievable musician he is. I knew him from his work with Allan Holdsworth. I also called the Mondesir brothers, [drummer] Mark and [bassist] Mike. Mark played in the group for a while, but Mike was only on that one gig.
Did you start recording and touring with that band right after those gigs?
Right after that gig I came back to finish Thieves & Poets, which was a huge job for me since it involved symphony and guitar. I got the group back together to do some tracks for Industrial Zen. So we’ve been a working band for about nine years, at least. There have been a few personnel changes, but the current band with Étienne M’Bappé on bass and Ranjit Barot on drums has been together for about three years.
Over the years you’ve brought a lot of traditional Indian influences to your music. Ranjit seems like such a natural bridge between several different genres.
Yeah, he was on Floating Point, which I recorded in India. I really like that recording and it features some young Indian players that are just killing. We’d been hanging for a while and I finally got him in the band because he’s very busy working with a famous Bollywood musician named A.R. Rahman. In a way, Ranjit was made for this band.
Watching a YouTube video of a recent concert you did, I was really impressed with Ranjit’s vocal abilities.
Oh yeah. You can hear a few places on this album where Ranjit sings in konokol, which is a way to vocally express rhythm. I studied that system with the late, great Ravi Shankar in the mid ’70s. He took me under his wing just like that. I wasn’t even playing sitar. I was in New York at the time and anytime he came to New York he’d call me and he would teach me. One day he said he was going to really show me some theory. And he taught me that system of vocal rhythm. If you can sing it, then you can play it. All rhythm, in the end, is just mathematics with a beat and some sex in it. [Laughs.] You’ve got to be rhythm crazy to like that stuff, and I am.
When you’re performing, how does rhythm affect your improvisations?
Rhythm is rhythm. Whether it’s Brazil or Africa or India or New York. The big thing is if it’s swinging, or is it funky, or does it move you. That’s the whole thing. And the great ones always do. They always swing, but I don’t even know what jazz music is anymore. The whole point of playing live is that everyone is playing with the drummer. You have to be with the drummer. To play with a drummer you have to know what the drummer is doing and understand and feel the way he feels rhythms. He’s waiting to be provoked just like I’m waiting to be provoked. When I go onstage, I want the drummer to provoke me and stimulate me. But at the same time he needs stimulation. I have to understand the rhythm so I can kick his butt too. We all need this kind of stimulation to get out of the ordinary “what you know.” In improvisation, which is the real key to playing collective music, there’s spontaneity, and without the knowledge of each other and the knowledge of the rhythm, it’s very difficult to develop the kind of complicity to be able to improvise together. Even if there’s only one chord, it doesn’t matter. You’ve got to have that thing together. That’s all that counts. Being together.
Did you record this album in your home studio?
Actually, we did it in a couple of different places. Part of it was done at home. I live in Monte Carlo and I have a studio in my home. Not a big one—it’s enough to record. Then we did some in London and Paris. Gary lives in London, so we went there to do some of his recording. Étienne lives in Paris, so we did some there.
During a recent event to celebrate PRS Guitars’ 30th anniversary, McLaughlin sat in with fellow PRS endorser Jimmy Herring and the Aquarium Rescue Unit. ”I don’t know anyone who plays like Jimmy,” raves McLaughlin.
Photo by Victoria Selman
John McLaughlin's Gear
Guitars
PRS McCarty Violin
PRS Private Stock Signature Ltd.
Abe Wechter nylon string
Effects
Seymour Duncan SFX-03 Twin Tube Classic
MXR Stereo Chorus
MXR Carbon Copy Delay
Hermida Audio Zendrive 2
Fishman GuitAero WGS6000-RX
Mesa/Boogie V-Twin
Strings and Accessories
D’Addario strings
Line 6 G30 Wireless
Korg Pitchblack tuner
Dunlop DC Brick
In some parts, this record has that visceral live-in-the-studio feel and in others, you can sense these expansive soundscapes. Were you all in the same room when you recorded?
No, not all the time. Part of the problem for Étienne was he had an operation on both his hands. It was really difficult. He needed about six weeks to recover and because we were running a bit late, we started to record without him. Basically, the bulk of the recording was done in London where we were all together, except for Étienne. We traveled to Paris to record his parts.
On Industrial Zen, I did a lot of pre-work with sound design and layers I wanted to use. This album, in a way, is an extension of that work because you can hear in the music that there are passages where we really aren’t playing. There’s sound and layers with some playing going on behind. That’s part of the dynamic where you move out of a group sound to another dimension. It’s a lot of work, actually, to prepare the sound design. You have to make it personal. But I’m very happy with how it came out with this combination of unusual dimensions and some really serious playing going on. There’s a lot of stuff going on, but at the same time I don’t want to be just permanently intense and full volume. We have to breathe, and the dynamics are really an important part of the music. To have that intensity of the playing, which is really personal and totally spontaneous, then all of a sudden you move out and it’s like this floating sound that takes you to another place. I really like that and the effect it has on me.
With so many moving parts within a particular composition, how do you present the tunes to the band when you go in the studio?
As far as the compositions, I can’t just sit down and write music. That might be why I don’t make records every year. I have to wait for the music to come to me. The music arrives and the form arrives, but what I’ll do is draw out a sketch. For Gary, I might say, “This is the harmonic structure, but when it’s time to play, go where you want and take it where you want.” With the drums, I’ll use konokol and sing the rhythm. For example, in “360 Flip,” even though it sounds a little strange, I had Ranjit change the beat around a bit. He follows these directions, to a certain extent, and then integrates them into his own playing. But once the improvisation starts, that’s it. Everyone’s free. I want them to be who they are. It’s very important to me for them to have space to express themselves in the way they want to.
Did you use your custom PRS on this album?
Oh yeah—what a beauty. I have another one Paul gave me that I used for the guitar synth on the melody of “Gaza City.” Synth guitar makes me play in a different way. I don’t want to play it all the time—I like the electric guitar or the acoustic guitar. But usually, I’ll bring it out for one track on a studio album. It makes me think differently, and I like that.
How does it make you play differently?
Basically, I’m a simple guy. I always use the same kind of sound that is a little flutey. It’s a very simple tone, not complex at all, but it reacts to the whammy bar very nicely. It reacts in a very subtle way and I’m able to express things with that sound. For me, it’s a totally different instrument, I just happen to control it with a guitar. The minute I hear the sound I play differently. It’s not that I want to play differently, it makes me play differently. It’s really strange, but I like that. It’s like playing with a great drummer, keyboard player, or bass player. They all stimulate you in different ways. I generally don’t take it on the road, although I did with Shakti from time to time. It seems to work best in the stability of the studio. I’ve been on tour with it, and one day it works great and the next it just wobbles. It’s really temperamental, so I’m very nervous about taking it out on the road.
What synth are you using?
I’m just using Apple Logic. It’s a sound that I found in the ES2 [virtual analog synth] and I’ve been working on it for, I don’t know, 10 years? And I’m still tweaking.
YouTube It
This complete concert from 2012 shows how McLaughlin and his band of virtuosos tackle blazing jazz-rock on the opening track, “Trancefusion.” Dig the dynamics during the start of McLaughlin’s solo at 0:57.
You’ve been known to not use traditional amps for your tone. Was that the case on this album?
I’m a little old to schlep an amp around. On the album, I used the Seymour Duncan Twin Tube Classic. It’s pretty much that along with an MXR Stereo Chorus and an MXR Carbon Copy delay. I really like those pedals. As far as wireless units, the Line 6 is great. It even has a switch to give you a virtual cable ... far out.
Recently, you got to play with Jimmy Herring at a PRS event. He’s a huge fan of your work and has cited you as a major influence.
He’s a very special guitar player. Not only is he a great guitar player, but one of the sweetest human beings I’ve ever met. Don’t tell him I told ya [laughs]. I remember when Chick Corea called me once and said, “Hey man, do you know a good guitar player?” I had just heard Jimmy and told Chick about him. I hooked those two up and Chick flipped when he heard Jimmy play. Chick invited him into his band and Jimmy couldn’t do it. He’s a busy guy. I wish there was a way for them to work it out because when you play with musicians like that, you level up. But Jimmy’s got his own priorities and obligations. I think it was for a Return to Forever variation and Chick needed some rocking guitar. And Jimmy’s got it.
He recorded one of my tunes on an album [“Hope” on Subject to Change Without Notice]. It was a tune that I never improvised on, only played the melody. When I heard the solo he played on that tune I said, “Holy moly. I should have played a solo like that.” He’s something else. I wish he was more known in Europe. I don’t know anybody who plays like Jimmy.
“El Hombre Que Sabía” is a wonderful tribute to the late Paco de Lucia. Was that originally composed with his memory in mind?
Paco and I were supposed to record last year but on February the 25th, it was all over. This was one of the pieces that he really liked, so I thought, “Well, I’m going to just make a homage to him.” That was one of the tunes we were supposed to record. I sent it to him just before he left for Central America, which is where he died, in Mexico. A couple of days before he left he called me and said, “Juanito, this tune. I really love this tune.” I said, “Great. We’ll record it when you come back.” And of course, he never came back. It’s a really personal homage. The title means “The Man Who Knew.” Paco knew, all right.
When did you first meet Paco?
I met him in Paris in 1978. A long time ago, man. I heard him on the radio and I was able to get a hold of him and said, “Let’s get together and play. And not just make a record. We need to work.” We jammed, just the two of us, and he asked what my plans were. I thought it would be great to have three guitars, and I’d spoken to Larry Coryell—we go back to the ’60s. I told Larry, “I’m sitting here with the greatest flamenco player ever, and I’d like you to come in.” That was the first trio. We toured Europe in ’78 and ’79, and it was amazing. But Larry had to leave because of personal issues. It was really a shame because he’s a lovely guitar player and a great musician. And Al [Di Meola] had already done some recording with Paco, so he suggested we call him. That was the first time we toured the U.S. and during that tour we recorded Friday Night in San Francisco.
You and Paco did some touring on your own, right?
Yeah, we did duo tours in Europe. There was a tour we did in the mid ’80s, and one of the concerts was in Switzerland at the Montreux Jazz Festival. That recording will be coming out at the end of the year. It was a fantastic night—you can hear it. I know the guitar trio was special, but Paco and I … on that album you can hear what a long friendship can bring you.
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John Mayer Silver Slinky Strings feature a unique 10.5-47 gauge combination, crafted to meet John's standards for tone and tension.
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Product Features
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The folk-rock outfit’s frontman Taylor Goldsmith wrote their debut at 23. Now, with the release of their ninth full-length, Oh Brother, he shares his many insights into how he’s grown as a songwriter, and what that says about him as an artist and an individual.
I’ve been following the songwriting of Taylor Goldsmith, the frontman of L.A.-based, folk-rock band Dawes, since early 2011. At the time, I was a sophomore in college, and had just discovered their debut, North Hills, a year-and-a-half late. (That was thanks in part to one of its tracks, “When My Time Comes,” pervading cable TV via its placement in a Chevy commercial over my winter break.) As I caught on, I became fully entranced.
Goldsmith’s lyrics spoke to me the loudest, with lines like “Well, you can judge the whole world on the sparkle that you think it lacks / Yes, you can stare into the abyss, but it’s starin’ right back” (a casual Nietzsche paraphrase); and “Oh, the snowfall this time of year / It’s not what Birmingham is used to / I get the feeling that I brought it here / And now I’m taking it away.” The way his words painted a portrait of the sincere, sentimental man behind them, along with his cozy, unassuming guitar work and the band’s four-part harmonies, had me hooked.
Nothing Is Wrong and Stories Don’t End came next, and I happily gobbled up more folksy fodder in tracks like “If I Wanted,” “Most People,” and “From a Window Seat.” But 2015’s All Your Favorite Bands, which debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard Folk Albumschart, didn’t land with me, and by the time 2016’s We’re All Gonna Die was released, it was clear that Goldsmith had shifted thematically in his writing. A friend drew a thoughtful Warren Zevon comparison to the single, “When the Tequila Runs Out”—a commentary on vapid, conceited, American-socialite party culture—but it still didn’t really do it for me. I fell off the Dawes train a bit, and became somewhat oblivious to their three full-lengths that followed.
Oh Brotheris Goldsmith’s latest addition to the Dawes songbook, and I’m grateful to say that it’s brought me back. After having done some catching up, I’d posit that it’s the second work in the third act, or fall season, of his songwriting—where 2022’s Misadventures of Doomscrollercracked open the door, Oh Brother swings it wide. And it doesn’t have much more than Dawes’ meat and potatoes, per se, in common with acts one or two. Some moodiness has stayed—as well as societal disgruntlement and the arrangement elements that first had me intoxicated. But then there’s the 7/4 section in the middle of “Front Row Seat”; the gently unwinding, quiet, intimate jazz-club feel of “Surprise!”; the experimentally percussive, soft-spoken “Enough Already”; and the unexpected, dare I say, Danny Elfman-esque harmonic twists and turns in the closing track, “Hilarity Ensues.”
The main engine behind Dawes, the Goldsmith brothers are both native “Angelinos,” having been born and raised in the L.A. area. Taylor is still proud to call the city his home.
Photo by Jon Chu
“I have this working hypothesis that who you are as a songwriter through the years is pretty close to who you are in a dinner conversation,” Goldsmith tells me in an interview, as I ask him about that thematic shift. “When I was 23, if I was invited to dinner with grownups [laughs], or just friends or whatever, and they say, ‘How you doin’, Taylor?’ I probably wouldn’t think twice to be like, ‘I’m not that good. There’s this girl, and … I don’t know where things are at—can I share this with you? Is that okay?’ I would just go in in a way that’s fairly indiscreet! And I’m grateful to that version of me, especially as a writer, because that’s what I wanted to hear, so that’s what I was making at the time.
“But then as I got older, it became, ‘Oh, maybe that’s not an appropriate way to answer the question of how I’m doing.’ Or, ‘Maybe I’ve spent enough years thinking about me! What does it feel like to turn the lens around?’” he continues, naming Elvis Costello and Paul Simon as inspirations along the way through that self-evolution. “Also, trying to be mindful of—I had strengths then that I don’t have now, but I have strengths now that I didn’t have then. And now it’s time to celebrate those. Even in just a physical way, like hearing Frank Zappa talking about how his agility as a guitar player was waning as he got older. It’s like, that just means that you showcase different aspects of your skills.
“I am a changing person. It would be weird if I was still writing the same way I was when I was 23. There would probably be some weird implications there as to who I’d be becoming as a human [laughs].”
Taylor Goldsmith considers Oh Brother, the ninth full-length in Dawes’ catalog, to be the beginning of a new phase of Dawes, containing some of his most unfiltered, unedited songwriting.
Since its inception, the engine behind Dawes has been the brothers Goldsmith, with Taylor on guitar and vocals and Griffin on drums and sometimes vocal harmonies. But they’ve always had consistent backup. For the first several years, that was Wylie Gelber on bass and Tay Strathairn on keyboards. On We’re All Gonna Die, Lee Pardini replaced Strathairn and has been with the band since. Oh Brother, however, marks the departure of Gelber and Pardini.
“We were like, ‘Wow, this is an intense time; this is a vulnerable time,’” remarks Goldsmith, who says that their parting was supportive and loving, but still rocked him and Griffin. “You get a glimpse of your vulnerability in a way that you haven’t felt in a long time when things are just up and running. For a second there, we’re like, ‘We’re getting a little rattled—how do we survive this?’”
They decided to pair up with producer Mike Viola, a close family friend, who has also worked with Mandy Moore—Taylor’s spouse—along with Panic! At the Disco, Andrew Bird, and Jenny Lewis. “[We knew that] he understands all of the parameters of that raw state. And, you know, I always show Mike my songs, so he was aware of what we had cookin’,” says Goldsmith.
Griffin stayed behind the kit, but Taylor took over on bass and keys, the latter of which he has more experience with than he’s displayed on past releases. “We’ve made records where it’s very tempting to appeal to your strengths, where it’s like, ‘Oh, I know how to do this, I’m just gonna nail it,’” he says. “Then there’s records that we make where we really push ourselves into territories where we aren’t comfortable. That contributed to [Misadventures of Doomscroller] feeling like a living, breathing thing—very reactive, very urgent, very aware. We were paying very close attention. And I would say the same goes for this.”
That new terrain, says Goldsmith, “forced us to react to each other and react to the music in new ways, and all of a sudden, we’re exploring new corners of what we do. I’m really excited in that sense, because it’s like this is the first album of a new phase.”
“That forced us to react to each other and react to the music in new ways, and all of a sudden, we’re exploring new corners of what we do.”
In proper folk (or even folk-rock) tradition, the music of Dawes isn’t exactly riddled with guitar solos, but that’s not to say that Goldsmith doesn’t show off his chops when the timing is right. Just listen to the languid, fluent lick on “Surprise!”, the shamelessly prog-inspired riff in the bridge of “Front Row Seat,” and the tactful, articulate line that threads through “Enough Already.” Goldsmith has a strong, individual sense of phrasing, where his improvised melodies can be just as biting as his catalog’s occasional lyrical jabs at presumably toxic ex-girlfriends, and just as melancholy as his self-reflective metaphors, all the while without drawing too much attention to himself over the song.
Of course, most of our conversation revolves around songwriting, as that’s the craft that’s the truest and closest to his identity. “There’s an openness, a goofiness—I even struggle to say it now, but—an earnestness that goes along with who I am, not only as a writer but as a person,” Goldsmith elaborates. “And I think it’s important that those two things reflect one another. ’Cause when you meet someone and they don’t, I get a little bit weirded out, like, ‘What have I been listening to? Are you lying to me?’” he says with a smile.
Taylor Goldsmith's Gear
Pictured here performing live in 2014, Taylor Goldsmith has been the primary songwriter for all of Dawes' records, beginning with 2009’s North Hills.
Photo by Tim Bugbee/Tinnitus Photography
Guitars
- Fender Telecaster
- Gibson ES-345
- Radocaster (made by Wylie Gelber)
Amps
- ’64 Fender Deluxe
- Matchless Laurel Canyon
Effects
- 29 Pedals EUNA
- Jackson Audio Bloom
- Ibanez Tube Screamer with Keeley mod
- Vintage Boss Chorus
- Vintage Boss VB-2 Vibrato
- Strymon Flint
- Strymon El Capistan
Strings
- Ernie Ball .010s
In Goldsmith’s songwriting process, he explains that he’s learned to lean away from the inclination towards perfectionism. Paraphrasing something he heard Father John Misty share about Leonard Cohen, he says, “People think you’re cultivating these songs, or, ‘I wouldn’t deign to write something that’s beneath me,’ but the reality is, ‘I’m a rat, and I’ll take whatever I can possibly get, and then I’ll just try to get the best of it.’
“Ever since Misadventures of Doomscroller,” he adds, “I’ve enjoyed this quality of, rather than try to be a minimalist, I want to be a maximalist. I want to see how much a song can handle.” For the songs on Oh Brother, that meant that he decided to continue adding “more observations within the universe” of “Surprise!”, ultimately writing six verses. A similar approach to “King of the Never-Wills,” a ballad about a character suffering from alcoholism, resulted in four verses.
“The economy of songwriting that we’re all taught would buck that,” says Goldsmith. “It would insist that I only keep the very best and shed something that isn’t as good. But I’m not going to think economically. I’m not going to think, ‘Is this self-indulgent?’
Goldsmith’s songwriting has shifted thematically over the years, from more personal, introspective expression to more social commentary and, at times, even satire, in songs like We’re All Gonna Die’s “When the Tequila Runs Out.”
Photo by Mike White
“I don’t abide that term being applied to music. Because if there’s a concern about self-indulgence, then you’d have to dismiss all of jazz. All of it. You’d have to dismiss so many of my most favorite songs. Because in a weird way, I feel like that’s the whole point—self-indulgence. And then obviously relating to someone else, to another human being.” (He elaborates that, if Bob Dylan had trimmed back any of the verses on “Desolation Row,” it would have deprived him of the unique experience it creates for him when he listens to it.)
One of the joys of speaking with Goldsmith is just listening to his thought processes. When I ask him a question, he seems compelled to share every backstory to every detail that’s going through his head, in an effort to both do his insights justice and to generously provide me with the most complete answer. That makes him a bit verbose, but not in a bad way, because he never rambles. There is an endpoint to his thoughts. When he’s done, however, it takes me a second to realize that it’s then my turn to speak.
To his point on artistic self-indulgence, I offer that there’s no need for artists to feel “icky” about self-promotion—that to promote your art is to celebrate it, and to create a shared experience with your audience.
“I hear what you’re saying loud and clear; I couldn’t agree more,” Goldsmith replies. “But I also try to be mindful of this when I’m writing, like if I’m going to drag you through the mud of, ‘She left today, she’s not coming back, I’m a piece of shit, what’s wrong with me, the end’.... That might be relatable, that might evoke a response, but I don’t know if that’s necessarily helpful … other than dragging someone else through the shit with me.
“In a weird way, I feel like that’s the whole point—self-indulgence. And then obviously relating to someone else, to another human being.”
“So, if I’m going to share, I want there to be something to offer, something that feels like: ‘Here’s a path that’s helped me through this, or here’s an observation that has changed how I see this particular experience.’ It’s so hard to delineate between the two, but I feel like there is a difference.”
Naming the opening track “Mister Los Angeles,” “King of the Never-Wills,” and even the title track to his 2015 chart-topper, “All Your Favorite Bands,” he remarks, “I wouldn’t call these songs ‘cool.’ Like, when I hear what cool music is, I wouldn’t put those songs next to them [laughs]. But maybe this record was my strongest dose of just letting me be me, and recognizing what that essence is rather than trying to force out certain aspects of who I am, and force in certain aspects of what I’m not. I think a big part of writing these songs was just self-acceptance,” he concludes, laughing, “and just a whole lot of fishing.”
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Led by Goldsmith, Dawes infuses more rock power into their folk sound live at the Los Angeles Ace Hotel in 2023.
A more affordable path to satisfying your 1176 lust.
An affordable alternative to Cali76 and 1176 comps that sounds brilliant. Effective, satisfying controls.
Big!
$269
Warm Audio Pedal76
warmaudio.com
Though compressors are often used to add excitement to flat tones, pedal compressors for guitar are often … boring. Not so theWarm Audio Pedal76. The FET-driven, CineMag transformer-equipped Pedal76 is fun to look at, fun to operate, and fun to experiment with. Well, maybe it’s not fun fitting it on a pedalboard—at a little less than 6.5” wide and about 3.25” tall, it’s big. But its potential to enliven your guitar sounds is also pretty huge.
Warm Audio already builds a very authentic and inexpensive clone of the Urei 1176, theWA76. But the font used for the model’s name, its control layout, and its dimensions all suggest a clone of Origin Effects’ much-admired first-generation Cali76, which makes this a sort of clone of an homage. Much of the 1176’s essence is retained in that evolution, however. The Pedal76 also approximates the 1176’s operational feel. The generous control spacing and the satisfying resistance in the knobs means fast, precise adjustments, which, in turn, invite fine-tuning and experimentation.
Well-worn 1176 formulas deliver very satisfying results from the Pedal76. The 10–2–4 recipe (the numbers correspond to compression ratio and “clock” positions on the ratio, attack, and release controls, respectively) illuminates lifeless tones—adding body without flab, and an effervescent, sparkly color that preserves dynamics and overtones. Less subtle compression tricks sound fantastic, too. Drive from aggressive input levels is growling and thick but retains brightness and nuance. Heavy-duty compression ratios combined with fast attack and slow release times lend otherworldly sustain to jangly parts. Impractically large? Maybe. But I’d happily consider bumping the rest of my gain devices for the Pedal76.