Pink Floyd first recruited Snowy White and his ’57 goldtop Les Paul to back them on the road in 1976. Thirty-four years later, vocalist/bassist Roger Waters is still relying on the bluesman and his handful of Boss and Line 6 pedals to pull off an epic presentation of "The Wall."
Sometime in the mid ’70s, Roger Waters, the leader of the progressive rock band Pink Floyd, began to feel a wall developing between the group and its stadium audiences—who were increasingly rowdy and beer-swilling, and seemingly indifferent to the music. This sense of alienation served as the inspiration for Floyd’s epic 1979 double album, The Wall—a rock opera that also addressed some of the other difficult personalities in Waters’ life, including abusive schoolteachers (“Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2”) and an overprotective parent (“Mother”), among others.
Despite its derisive tone, The Wall earned Pink Floyd even larger audiences. A decade after the album was released, more than a quarter of a million fans saw a live concert of the album in its entirety in Germany as Waters and guests like Cyndi Lauper, Van Morrison, and Joni Mitchell celebrated the fall of the Berlin Wall. Now, 20 years after that historic concert, and 30 years after the album was released, Waters has embarked on an ambitious worldwide tour: The Wall Live is playing before packed houses from Toronto to Manchester, England, until June 2011. The mammoth tour features some killer guitarists: former Saturday Night Live mainstay G.E. Smith, Dave Kilminster (known for his work with legendary keyboardist Keith Emerson), and Snowy White, a British instrumentalist steeped in the blues.
White, now 62, got his start as a professional guitarist in early 1970s London. Thanks to his tasteful playing—and to being an affable bloke in general—he made a name for himself on the UK scene without great difficulty. White’s first big gig was a stint as an auxiliary live guitarist for Pink Floyd in the late 1970s, followed in the early ’80s by a slot in the rock band Thin Lizzy.
Since then, White, a consummate pro, has had an enviable career. As a solo artist, he scored a major hit with the 1984 single “Bird of Paradise” from the album White Flames, which is also the name of the band he’s long fronted. At the same time, White has regrouped periodically with Waters for the 1990 Berlin performance of The Wall and for Waters’ 2000 In the Flesh tour, among other occasions. Meanwhile, the Snowy White Blues Project finds White in a more straightforward bluesman mode. “I’m lucky, really—I’ve got both worlds here,” he says.
We met up with White in the lobby of a swanky hotel in Manhattan’s SoHo district—which is, appropriately enough, a neighborhood rife with guitar history—to talk about everything from the Wall tour to his blues roots.
How’d you get into the blues?
What’s the story behind the goldtop Les Paul that has been with you throughout your entire career?
When I was 18 I met a Swedish girl, so I went to Sweden, because that’s the sort of thing you do when you’re younger—you go where the girlfriend is. I got in a band there—a trio called the Train—and the drummer knew somebody who had a Les Paul for sale. I didn’t know anything about guitars at all—and I still don’t—but I wanted a Les Paul. I had a Stratocaster, which I didn’t like, and I swapped it for the Les Paul— an all-original 1957 goldtop. That was in 1969. I’ve had the guitar for 41 years.
Is it still 100 percent original?
It’s a working guitar, and I’m not precious about it, so I’ve changed things when they needed changing. It’s had different machine heads. It’s been rewired. It’s been refretted a couple of times. And it’s got a different bridge, which I put on because [Fleetwood Mac founder] Peter Green gave it to me, even though it was identical to the original bridge. It’s a fantastic guitar, really true in the neck and fingerboard after all these years—and it sings on every fret just as it should. It’s just lucky, really.
For about 30 years, my Les Paul was my only guitar, and I never wanted another one. But since I’ve been doing other things, like with Roger Waters, I’ve needed a few guitars. I bought a Strat, which is similar to the black Stratocaster David Gilmour has—I figured I would use that for a couple of songs to get the appropriate sound. And on the last tour for Dark Side of the Moon [2006–2008], I bought a ’57 Les Paul reissue, which felt exactly the same as my old one. I put a tremolo arm on it, because I needed to do a few tremolo bits. I also got an ES-345 from Gibson, which is a really great semi-hollowbody. And I’ve got a Martin acoustic, a D-28 that came straight from the factory—they found a nice one for me. So I have bought some guitars I only use when I’m playing with other people. When I’m doing my thing, I just use my Les Paul.
What amps do you prefer?
I used to use a Fender Twin Reverb, but for many years all I’ve used is the Vox AC30. I switched to Vox because it was more complimentary to the sound of my Les Paul. With Roger, even on big stages, I use an AC30. I’ve got two, and I kick the second one in only for solos—that’s it.
When he was 18 and living in Sweden, White traded a Strat for this 1957 goldtop Les Paul. Ever since,
it has been his main touring guitar for gigs with Pink Floyd, Thin Lizzy, and Roger Waters. The label
on the side of the flight case reads “Snowy’s Baby.” Photo by Snowy White
Are your AC30s new or vintage?
They’re new. The thing with Vox, for me, is that they’re all good—a new one, an old one. As long as it’s been looked after, they’re all great.
Let’s talk about your effects.
I don’t use a lot when I’m doing my own thing, but with Roger I obviously need to use a few bits and pieces. I’ve got this Line 6 M9 stompbox that I’m using for the first time. I can get all my repeats and delays—it’s great and works really well. For my basic sound, I use a little Boss Blues Driver, which gives me a bit of an edge. I haven’t got much else really: an Ernie Ball volume pedal, a Boss OverDrive, and a Boss Rotary Ensemble, and that’s about it.
What about strings and picks?
That’s a really good question, because I have no idea what brand of strings I’m using—it depends on what my guitar techs have. For me, to be honest, all brands sound good. I do know the gauges, though: On my Les Paul, I use a light top and heavy bottom—.010, .013, .017, .030, .042, and .052—since I hit the bass strings really hard. The Stratocaster can’t really handle those heavy strings, so I use a regular light set on that guitar. As for picks, when I was with Thin Lizzy the road crew made some little white ones in the size I like with my name on them— 3000 of them. This was in 1980, and I’ve still got a couple hundred left. But when I’m playing my music, I hardly use a pick at all. Sometimes I don’t even take one onstage with me. With Roger’s thing, I use a pick most of the time.
What was it like as a more or less traditional blues player working with huge rock bands like Pink Floyd and Thin Lizzy in the 1970s?
It’s true that I’m quite a narrow person in my playing. I’ve always been into blues and haven’t really expanded my playing beyond it, because I’m very content to do what I do. But, funnily enough, the original Pink Floyd gig was actually very based in blues when you broke it down. I mean, I could play my sort of guitar in Pink Floyd and it wasn’t out of place. And so I was really pleased when I was invited to be their first augmenting guitar player in 1976. I hadn’t really heard Pink Floyd, because if it wasn’t blues, I didn’t listen to it. So when they sent me the albums to listen to, I was pleasantly surprised. David Gilmour played some really nice guitar and I thought, “Oh, I can fit in here quite nicely. And I think I did. It worked out okay. In a way, things were the same with Thin Lizzy—there’s a lot of harmony guitar work in there, but it’s really mostly blues licks. That was good fun. I very much enjoyed playing the harmony guitar with Scott Gorham. It was a great band with great songs.
White mics his stock, recent-vintage Vox AC30s just slightly off axis with a
pair of Shure SM57s. Photo by Snowy White
How does working with Roger Waters these days compare to playing with Pink Floyd three decades ago?
Musically, it’s very much the same as the original Wall. And it’s quite strange, really, because that was 30 years ago and I’m still playing the same songs. But the songs have a freshness to me—they never get boring. I’ve heard them so many times, and I still look forward to playing them, because even if you have to do the same licks every night, you can still try to get them a little bit sweeter, a little bit more on the button, a little bit nicer. There’s always a little sort of contest there—just try and make it a bit better ever night. I quite enjoy that. When I originally played with Pink Floyd, David Gilmour was very generous, always giving me solos. When I listen to some of the things I did to start with, I hear that I just went for my thing in my solos and didn’t really think about what the song needed. And I must have disappointed a lot of people, because they knew all of the original solos. So nowadays I’ve tempered my approach and think a bit more about the context.
What did you do to prepare for this Wall tour?
I just got out the album and listened through, and it all came back to me. Until we started rehearsing, we didn’t know who was going to play what, especially among the guitarists. We had to shuffle it around a bit, so we each had a reasonable amount to do. Apart from that, it was all fairly straightforward.
What has been like working with guitarists Dave Kilminster and G.E. Smith on the tour?
Dave Kilminster is a great musician. He notated all of Dave Gilmour’s solos and learned them intimately. I really enjoy listening to him nail the solos each night. I’ve never notated anything, by the way. I’ve done a lot of bluffing in my time, and I’ve learned to bluff really well. That or I’ve learned to sidestep really well. G.E.’s great, too. I didn’t know G.E. before this tour, and he’s a fine guitar player. He’s what I call a real musician—he plays all sorts of things and is into all sorts of music. He’s great to be on the road with. He’s got so many stories, and I really enjoy listening to his solos in the show, as well. The thing is, because the show’s so structured and we have our separate parts, we don’t play off of each other very much. But Dave, G.E., and I do listen to, appreciate, and complement each other.
White’s main-stage pedalboard for The Wall tour includes a Boss TU-2 tuner, an Ernie Ball volume pedal,
a Boss BD-2 Blues Driver that he uses for his basic sound, a Boss OD-3 OverDrive, a Boss RT-20 Rotary
Ensemble (used for the solo in “Mother” and other chorusing sounds), a Line 6 M9 Stompbox Modeler (the
“Chorus” switch is for the verse of “Comfortably Numb,” and the “Spaces” switch provides delay for “Hey
You”), and a Voodoo Lab Pedal Power 2 Plus. Photo by Snowy White
White keeps a separate pedalboard on the front stage of The Wall production. It features a Vox 845 wah,
an Ernie Ball volume pedal, a Line 6 M9 Stompbox Modeler, a Korg Pitchblack tuner, a Morley ABY switch
that selects between his two Vox AC30s, and a Voodoo Lab Pedal Power 2 Plus. Photo by Snowy White
Tell us about some of your other projects.
In between working with Roger and the other odd things that come up, I do my own thing. I’ve had a band for a number of years called the White Flames. We’ve recorded about 12 or 13 albums, and we go out around Europe a bit. We’ve got a new album coming out in February called Realistic. For another project, a lot of people told me they’d like to hear more basic blues. So I thought, “I’m not a blues singer, but I’ll get a few people together and get some good vocalists and I can just sit back and play guitar a bit.” I was lucky to get Matt Taylor in there, who’s got a great voice and is a great guitarist, and Ruud Weber, a really good blues bass player and singer who does frontman stuff, which means I can relax and just play my blues thing. So we got together as the Snowy White Blues Project and made an album, In Our Time of Living. The thing is, we didn’t all assemble in the same room together until the day we started recording. We were able to come up with ideas via email. Nobody had even met everybody at the same time. We had a rehearsal in the afternoon, and the next day we went to the studio for about five days and put down everything fresh, mostly live. And I was really pleased, because when you do that you never know what the result will be. It could’ve been a disaster and cost a lot of money—and I was paying for everything. But it went really well and I was very pleased with it, so we decided to go and put some gigs together and get out on the road, which you can hear on In Our Time… Live—a title we chose just to keep the name alive while I’m out with Roger. By the end of this Wall tour, I should be looking forward to going back to some small clubs and playing some blues.
How much songwriting did you do for these projects, and what’s your writing process like?
I write nearly all the songs on the White Flames albums. But with the blues project, we’ve got a few songs each and a few covers. It’s good, because everybody gets his thing in and that’s the best way to do it, really. I’m happy to take a backseat just playing my blues. As for the process, I sit down with my guitar and I strum a few chords to get some sort of direction. If I’m in a mood, I’ll play a minor thing and I might start thinking about what it would be like to play a guitar solo over those minors. And then I come up with a lyric or hook line, and over a period of weeks or months or even years, I just kick it around and put it together. Some songs come really quickly. I had a hit single around ’84 called “Bird of Paradise” that took me about 15 minutes to write—one of those songs that just came out complete with lyrics and everything. And others kick around for ages and eventually something makes it work or not. So there’s no real technique to it for me, no plan—it just comes or it doesn’t.
Is there any new music that inspires you?
I don’t actually listen to music at home. I play it in my car. Occasionally, I’ll hear something I really like. But most of the time I don’t know who it is. People will ask me, “What do you think about this guitarist and that guitarist?”— new young guys—and I listen and say, “That’s great.” But then I forget who they are. And I can hear that a young player’s been listening to Albert King, for instance, and then I remember my old days and think, I know just how he feels—he’s all excited that he’s discovered Albert King. Honestly, though, I’d prefer to listen to Albert King. But I wish all these guys a lot of luck, because they’re some great players and they’re helping keep the blues alive.
Snowy White’s Wall Tour Gearbox
Guitars
1957 Gibson goldtop Les Paul, Gibson goldtop Les Paul reissue with Stetsbar tremolo, 1957 Gibson Les Paul Historic, Gibson ES-345, Fender David Gilmour Signature Series Stratocaster, Fender Stratocaster
Amps
Two Vox AC30s (one is set with extra treble for solos)
Effects
Line 6 M9 Stompbox Modeler, Boss BD-2 Blues Driver, Boss OD-3 OverDrive, Boss RT-20 Rotary Ensemble, Ernie Ball volume pedal, Vox V845 wah
Strings and Picks
.010–.052 sets for Les Pauls, .010–.046 sets for Stratocasters, custom “Snowy White” teardrop-shaped picks
Miscellaneous
Boss TU-2 chromatic tuner, Korg Pitchblack chromatic tuner, Voodoo Lab Pedal Power 2 Plus
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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.”
YouTube It
Led by Goldsmith, Dawes infuses more rock power into their folk sound live at the Los Angeles Ace Hotel in 2023.
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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.
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