
ZOPA, from left: drummer Olmo Tighe, guitarist and singer Michael Imperioli, and bassist Elijah Amitin. On the table sits a guitar built by NYC-based luthier Cindy Hulej.
The actor—known for his work on The Sopranosand The White Lotus—explores his influences, from Lou Reed to Dinosaur Jr. to Galaxie 500, and the power of the trio on ZOPA’s latest, Diamond Vehicle.
In Kurt Vonnegut’s groundbreaking 1963 satirical novel, Cat’s Cradle, the author lays out the framework of the jargon-heavy Bokononist religion. One recurring concept is the karass—a group of people pulled together by forces outside of their control to complete a mission beyond their understanding. If you’re a member of a karass, you don’t really know who’s in it with you or what you’re doing, but you might pick up the clues through context. Anyone who’s formed a band and experienced the unexplainable, inevitable pull of musical connection among a group of musicians who often come together despite sometimes improbable circumstances can surely relate.
Without citing Vonnegut, actor and musician Michael Imperioli, whose A-list filmography includes early career parts in Goodfellas and Trees Lounge through his recent role as Dominic Di Grasso on season two of The White Lotus, has felt these forces at work throughout his life. Whether it’s foresight, intuition, or even magic, Imperioli jokes that some friends have accused him of being a witch. Whether or not that’s the case is probably a matter of perspective.
Take, for example, Imperioli’s relationship with John Ventimiglia. In 1986, the two aspiring actors, who’d already known each other for years, were roommates when Ventimiglia, also a musician playing in bands around the New York and New Jersey underground rock scenes at the time, showed the then-20-year-old Imperioli his first chords on a guitar. He quickly took to the instrument, forming his first band almost immediately. At the end of the next decade, the two were cast to play life-changing roles on The Sopranos—Imperioli as Tony Soprano-protégé Christopher Moltisanti and Ventimiglia as the capo’s lifelong pal, chef Artie Bucco—forever intertwining their artistic paths on one of the most important television shows of all time.
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Coincidence has tied Imperioli to his guitars as well. After falling in love with his 1966 Fender Jaguar, which he had Rick Kelly of Carmine Street Guitars modify with humbuckers, he decided to track down a second. When that guitar landed on Kelly’s bench and the luthier popped the neck off, they learned just how much the two Jaguars had in common. “Those two guitars were made in the same factory on the same day in September of 1966. This is the year I was born,” Imperioli points out, incredulously. “And they’re maybe 30 serial numbers apart.”
So it goes that “very strange connections” pulled Imperioli into orbit with drummer Olmo Tighe and bassist Elijah Amitin in the mid 2000s and led them to form their now-long-standing trio, ZOPA. Imperioli and Tighe had first met while working on the 1994 film Postcards from America, when Olmo was only eight years old. They didn’t reconnect until years later, when Imperioli ran into Olmo’s older brother, Michael, at a party. In this chance meeting, Imperioli learned Olmo was drumming, and “for some bizarre reason—and I still don’t know why—I thought he and I should play music together,” he recalls.
“I had the idea of forming a trio, and it was really inspired by Galaxie 500 and what they did with a trio and the way it was three distinctive musicians coming from three different point of views making this one thing happen together.”
The two eventually connected against the odds, Imperioli going to great lengths to find the drummer, and they set up a time to rehearse. On bass, Olmo suggested Amitin, who, they learned, had his own family connections to Imperioli through his old management and family—real small world kind of stuff. By the time the three ended up in the same room, they already felt like they belonged together, and ZOPA was born.
Michael Imperioli's Gear
On stage, ZOPA manifest the trio energy of their influences, from Lou Reed to Dinosaur Jr. to Galaxie 500.
Guitars
- Two 1966 Fender Jaguars
Amps
- Fender Twin Reverb
- Fender Princeton Reverb
Effects
- Death By Audio Fuzz War
- Dunlop Cry Baby
- EHX Small Clone
- EHX Big Muff
- MXR Distortion +
- MXR Duke of Tone
- MXR Phase 100
- MXR Carbon Copy
- Neunaber Immerse Reverberator
- Walrus Audio Phoenix power supply
Strings and Picks
- D’Addario XL or Ernie Ball .010s
- Custom ZOPA Dunlop Tortex .88 mm
As much as this is a fun story, to Imperioli, it’s much more. The relationship, and their coming together seemingly at random to discover connections between them, resonates. And it makes ZOPA an extra tightly knit unit. (The band became even tighter when Tighe married Imperioli’s cousin and the two became family.) “I think it comes from good intentions and getting a good perception of somebody and wanting to further that connection,” he says.
At a recent show at Philadelphia rock club Kung Fu Necktie, there was a different kind of energy buzzing throughout ZOPA’s tightly packed audience. It was a frenetic, excited, and celebratory scene, with fans at times reaching for strums on Imperioli’s Jaguar as the band kicked out a set of mostly new songs from their newest, Diamond Vehicle, which was yet to be released at the time, as well as a song or two from their debut, La Dolce Vita.“That love of music was definitely infused into The Sopranos.”
ZOPA is a formidable unit; they’re a trio, with all the special rock ’n’ roll spirit that implies. Tighe appears on stage as bashful at first, but he emerges as a basher in the style of Dinosaur Jr. drummer Murph (though Imperioli suggests John Bonham is probably his more dominant reference point). At stage left, Amitin bops around confidently, donning a rock stance, bare chest popping through a one-third-unbuttoned shirt, easily dominating his Peavey 4-string. Imperioli’s presence lands somewhere between the two. He’s casual and engaging, comfortable taking the limelight during brief, melodic Big Muff-driven solo spots, but otherwise delivering a low-key stagecraft that evokes that of his biggest influences, which range from Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground to Dinosaur Jr. to dream-pop pioneers Galaxie 500.
Those influences play out across Diamond Vehicle. Produced by John Agnello, whose extensive credits include Dinosaur Jr., Kurt Vile, Lee Ranaldo, and Son Volt, the album evokes intimate rock clubs, where live music is mutually transformed by audience and artist. A few days after that show in Philly, we caught up with Imperioli to talk about his life in music.There was a lot of energy at your show the other night. Is that the ZOPA vibe or was that a Philly thing?
Imperioli: I have to say the Philadelphia audiences are consistently fantastic. I think it’s kind of a combination, but Philly has a certain spirit. I think just the spirit of the city, especially that neighborhood [Fishtown], where we’ve played a few times. They love music and they want to have a good time and they let you know it when they’re having fun. It makes it really exciting as a performer, without a doubt.
The audience included all ages of people but skewed young. Has that always been the case?
Imperioli: We started performing in 2006. In those first seven years, our audiences were more our own age group for the most part. We stopped playing together around 2013 for about seven years because I was living on the West Coast. During the pandemic, we released an album [La Dolce Vita]. I was on Instagram and often would post things about music, not just our music, but my musical tastes. When we started playing together again in 2021, we noticed that the audience had gotten a lot younger than when we started the band.
I think it’s a combination of being able to reach younger people through social media, and through some of the other projects I’ve been involved in, and The Sopranos finding a younger audience, and The White Lotus, which kind of hit a younger audience.You started playing when you were 20 years old. How soon after learning your first chords did you start performing?
Imperioli: I immediately started playing with one guy who was in my acting class who had been a musician first, and then two other musicians. We started a band that was really kind of a no-wave band based on the Mudd Club scene of the early ’80s, and it was just instrumental. There was no singer, and there was guitar, bass, and drums. I had the only guitar I could afford at the time, which was a nylon-string acoustic guitar. It was the cheapest thing in the store. I tried to mic it and it didn’t really sound good. Then, I bought a little pickup and glued it, and then I was able to plug into the amplifier and try to make sounds. And that’s how I started playing.
The band’s second record, Diamond Vehicle, was recorded with producer John Agnello, known for his work with artists such as Dinosaur Jr. and Kurt Vile.
What was that band called?
Imperioli: Black Angus. I didn’t really know anything. Then, I bought my first electric guitar, maybe a year or two after. That was a Telecaster, which I bought at Matt Umanov Guitars, which used to be on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village. It was a little easier to play no-wave music with an electric guitar.
We only recorded demos, didn’t record in a studio at all. We did play one gig. It was an Earth Day benefit at a place called McGovern’s, which was a dive bar that had live music in SoHo on Spring Street.
Who influenced your no-wave guitar playing?
Imperioli: One of my favorite guitarists is Pat Place from the Bush Tetras. We did a benefit with them a couple of years ago, which was kind of a thrill to be on the bill with them. Pat Place’s approach to the guitar always really cut through for me. I think she’s somebody who really found her own style and really mastered that and just adds such a unique dynamic to the music.
“Going back to when I was 20, I was playing in bands and doing little plays and writing and producing plays and directing plays…. That’s always been my life.”
Speaking of that scene, I’ve seen you post on Instagram about Robert Quine.
Imperioli: Robert Quine, I think, was a genius. From Richard Hell’s Band, the Voidoids, and his work with Lou Reed. He was a distinctive, expressive guitar player with a unique voice that always stood out in his work. As a young person, he recorded the Velvet Underground at Max’s Kansas City, then eventually wound up playing with Lou.
I think Lou Reed is a very underrated guitar player. Of course, as a rhythm guitar player, it’s known, but his leads were very interesting, especially when he was improvising. He really was able to express a certain point of view from inside those songs. And when Quine decided to play with Lou, one of the stipulations he made was that he wanted Lou to play leads as well.
After Black Angus, you were in the band Wild Carnation.
Imperioli: Yeah, it was a couple of years later, before they were named Wild Carnation.
I was singing, I wasn’t playing guitar. That was kind of a brief thing for me. I had to leave the country for some project, and they really were ready to record. So, it wound up not being a good time for that.
Then, I met Olmo and Elijah in 2006, and I had been working on guitar stuff then. Shortly after we started playing, I started taking some lessons with Richard Lloyd from Television, who basically taught me how to practice, and that made a big difference. I mean, I was practicing before, but I just learned different ways to approach it from him. It was a really big, big step for me.
I only had a few lessons with him, but they really made a big impact over the course of a few months. He’s a very demanding and exacting teacher.
Michael Imperioli with his humbucker-loaded 1966 Fender Jaguar.
So, ZOPA was your first band that was based more around your songwriting.
Imperioli: I brought some songs that I had had kicking around for a while, and we created some songs—the process is pretty collaborative. Some songs come from a drumbeat, some songs come from a bass line, some come from ideas that Elijah or Olmo have lyrically. Some come from me, even if it’s something that I bring in like a chord progression and some lyrics. It really doesn’t become a ZOPA song until it’s worked out by all of us.
I had the idea of forming a trio, and it was really inspired by Galaxie 500 and what they did with a trio and the way it was three distinctive musicians coming from three different point of views making this one thing happen together. It’s never just a singer-songwriter with a rhythm section. That’s kind of always been the approach.
Dinosaur Jr. is an example that is similar, which is a big influence on me, and I think on ZOPA as well.
I can hear the Dinosaur influence in the band. Has J been a longtime favorite of yours?
Imperioli: For a long time. J’s a virtuoso as far as rock guitar goes, he’s really quite incredible.
My abilities are so far less than his, but sonically how he uses the guitar, and how he approaches a lead, the way he expresses himself, especially his lead playing, I think is spectacular and sometimes really breathtaking and moving.
I think my favorite guitar solo in all of rock might be the song “Pick Me Up,” from the Beyond album. Three minutes into the song, he starts this three-and-a-half-minute guitar solo. I think it’s just genius and perfection, and he’s definitely a compass point of guitar playing for me.
“I’m someone who likes to be engaged in things that are creative and exciting to me and find a way to keep doing that.”
When did you start writing songs?
Imperioli: Pretty much right when I started playing guitar. There’s one song that was on our first album that I think was the first song I ever wrote, called “Roll It Off Your Skin.” The last verse was written when I was living at the Chelsea Hotel in ’95, and then we started playing it together 10 years after that.
The Death by Audio Fuzz War informed the direction of the story in “Love and Other Forms of Violence” from Diamond Vehicle. Can you tell me how that song was written and the role that pedal played?
Imperioli: Sometimes, we’ll write songs and they’ll come out of jams in practice sessions for ZOPA. That’s all electric obviously. But if I’m writing at home, I’ll either use an acoustic guitar or an electric guitar that my son made that has a Strat body. I’ll just play that and record on my phone. So, that song just started off with a very simple two-chord thing for the verses.
I started practicing that alone in the studio with the Jaguar, and I had just gotten the Fuzz War from Oliver Ackerman who makes them—he’s a friend and a musician I really admire. His band is a Place to Bury Strangers. It’s a great band. I was going to use that in place of the Big Muff and just see what would happen.
I was using the Fuzz War for the rhythm part of these verses, and there was something in the way it fed back in a very weird way. There was this little high frequency that just surprised me. And it happened every time, no matter what amp I would use or what the settings were. But there was something about that, doing the verses cleaner and then doing them with the Fuzz War, and I was like, “Oh, this is what this song is about, light and darkness.” And it just gave me a direction for the chorus.
Our February issue had Stevie Van Zandt on the cover, so talking to you, I’m now thinking about the heavy musical vibe going on in Sopranoscasting.
Imperioli: That really comes from David Chase, who in high school was a drummer. He loved music, especially the British bands from the ’60s, like the Stones and the Kinks—like, David was at Altamont to see the Stones. That love of music was definitely infused intoThe Sopranos. I mean, David at some point thought Steven Van Zandt could be Tony Soprano. He was watching the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductions, and Steven Van Zandt inducted the Rascals. And David loved his speech so much and thought it was so charismatic that he had him audition for Tony Soprano. Stevie was one of the three finalists for Tony Soprano.
At Philly rock club Kung Fu Necktie this winter, ZOPA delivered a fiery performance that ignited the packed audience with a setlist of mostly new material from Diamond Vehicle.
Photo by Nick Millevoi
I’m curious about the intersection between your acting career and your music, and finding time and how you navigate that.
Imperioli: It’s an extension of what I always did. Going back to when I was 20, I was playing in bands and writing and producing plays and directing plays. My wife and I opened this off-Broadway theater in 2003, and I was producing and directing and acting there. So that’s always been my life: writing, directing, acting, producing, film, theater, television, fiction, podcasts, Sopranos podcast….
If it’s something you’re passionate about, you just budget your time to include the important things. That’s all. There’s no formula to it. It’s just that I’m someone who likes to be engaged in things that are creative and exciting to me and find a way to keep doing that.
Is music any more important in your life now than it was before? Have you intentionally foregrounded that?
Imperioli: I think we’ve just gotten more confident. Recording is a big part of that, especially recording the new record. The first album was stuff we had written over the course of six years, and the new album was stuff that was in the last year or two for the most part.
We tend to do best when we play in local places that have a local music scene. Something like Kung Fu Necktie, the band that opened for us, Andorra, is a local Philly band. And in New York we’ve been playing a lot at Baby’s All Right and Mercury Lounge, places where people go to see bands, both local bands and bands that are touring. So, a lot of musicians come to the gig. I love playing clubs that are part of a local music scene.
Sometimes when we’re on the road, if we played a theater that has a very wide variety of touring bands, we don’t do as well. And it’s not as fun as playing at a club that’s part of a local indie music scene.
It connects more, I think.
Imperioli: Exactly. Meeting other bands, playing with other bands that are from similar scenes, it’s been really, really satisfying being part of that.YouTube It
ZOPA perform their two-song Lou Reed medley at Manhattan’s Mercury Lounge, with Imperioli’s phaser set to max swirling, psychedelic effect.
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AI, which generated this image in seconds, can obviously do amazing things. But can it actually replace human creativity?
Technology has always disrupted the music biz, but we’ve never seen anything like this.
AI has me deeply thinking: Is guitar (or any instrument) still valid? Are musicians still valid? I don’t think the answer is as obvious as I’d like it to be.
As a professional musician, I’ve spent the vast majority of my days immersed in the tones of tube amps, the resistance of steel strings under my fingers, and the endless pursuit of musical expression. Each day, I strive to tap into the Source, channel something new into the world (however small), and share it. Yet, lately, a new presence has entered the room—artificial intelligence. It is an interloper unlike any I’ve ever encountered. If you’re thinking that AI is something off in the “not-too-distant future,” you’re exponentially wrong. So, this month I’m going to ask that we sit and meditate on this technology, and hopefully gain some insight into how we are just beginning to use it.
AI: Friend or Foe?
In the last 12 months, I’ve heard quite a bit of AI-generated music. Algorithms can now “compose,” “perform” (with vocals of your choosing), and “produce” entire songs in minutes, with prompts as flippant as, “Write a song about__in the style of__.” AI never misses a note and can mimic the finer details of almost any genre with unnerving precision. For those who are merely curious about music, or those easily distracted by novelty, this might seem exciting … a shortcut to creating “professional” sounding music without years of practice. But for those of us who are deeply passionate about music, it raises some profound existential questions.
When you play an instrument, you engage in something deeply human. Each musician carries their life experiences into their playing. The pain of heartbreak, the joy of new beginnings, or the struggle to find a voice in an increasingly noisy and artificial online world dominated by algorithms. Sweat, tears, and callouses develop from your efforts and repetition. Your mistakes can lead to new creative vistas and shape the evolution of your style.
Emotions shape the music we create. While an algorithm can only infer and assign a “value” to the vast variety of our experience, it is ruthlessly proficient at analyzing and recording the entire corpus of human existence, and further, cataloging every known human behavioral action and response in mere fractions of a second.
Pardon the Disruption
Technology has always disrupted the music industry. The invention of musical notation provided unprecedented access to compositions. The advent of records allowed performances of music to be captured and shared. When radio brought music into every home, there was fear that no one would buy records. Television added visual spectacle, sparking fears that it would kill live performance. MIDI revolutionized music production but raised concerns about replacing human players. The internet, paired with the MP3 format, democratized music distribution, shattered traditional revenue models, and shifted power from labels to artists. Each of these innovations was met with resistance and uncertainty, but ultimately, they expanded the ways music could be created, shared, and experienced.
Every revolution in art and technology forces us to rediscover what is uniquely human about creativity. To me, though, this is different. AI isn’t a tool that requires a significant amount of human input in order to work. It’s already analyzed the minutia of all of humanity’s greatest creations—from the most esoteric to the ubiquitous, and it is wholly capable of creating entire works of art that are as commercially competitive as anything you’ve ever heard. This will force us to recalibrate our definition of art and push us to dig deeper into our personal truths.
“In an age where performed perfection is casually synthesized into existence, does our human expression still hold value? Especially if the average listener can’t tell the difference?”
Advantage: Humans
What if we don’t want to, though? In an age where performed perfection is casually synthesized into existence, does our human expression still hold value? Especially if the average listener can’t tell the difference?
Of course, the answer is still emphatically “Yes!” But caveat emptor. I believe that the value of the tool depends entirely on the way in which it is used—and this one in particular is a very, very powerful tool. We all need to read the manual and handle with care.
AI cannot replicate the experience of creating music in the moment. It cannot capture the energy of a living room jam session with friends or the adrenaline of playing a less-than-perfect set in front of a crowd who cheers because they feel your passion. It cannot replace the personal journey you take each time you push through frustration to master a riff that once seemed impossible. So, my fellow musicians, I say this: Your music is valid. Your guitar is valid. What you create with your hands and heart will always stand apart from what an algorithm can generate.
Our audience, on the other hand, is quite a different matter. And that’s the subject for next month’s Dojo. Until then, namaste.
Our columnist’s bass, built by Anders Mattisson.
Would your instrumental preconceptions hold up if you don a blindfold and take them for a test drive?
I used to think that stereotypes and preconceived notions about what is right and wrong when it comes to bass were things that other people dealt with—not me. I was past all that. Unfazed by opinion, immune to classification. Or so I thought, tucked away in my jazz-hermit-like existence.
That belief was shattered the day Ian Martin Allison handed me a Fender Coronado while I was blindfolded in his basement. (Don’t ask—it’s a long story and an even longer YouTube video if you have time to kill.) For years, I had been a single-cut, 5-string, high-C-string player. That was my world. So, you can imagine my shock when I connected almost instantly with something that felt like it was orbiting a different solar system.
Less than 5 minutes with the instrument, and it was all over. The bass stayed in Ian’s basement. (I did not.) I returned home to Los Angeles, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I kept playing my beloved semi-chambered single-cut 5-string, but I sent its builder, Anders Mattisson, a message about my recent discovery. I asked if there was any way we could create something with the essence of a Coronado while still suiting my playing and my music.
That’s when everything I thought I knew about bass—and the personal boundaries I had set for myself—came crashing down.
When we started talking about building a bass with a fully chambered body, much like the Coronado, I was adamant about two things: It needed to have active electronics, and I would never play a headless bass.
Fast-forward three months to the winterNAMM show in California. Anders arrived for dinner at my house, along with a group of incredible bass players, includingHenrik Linder. I was literally in a chef’s apron, trying to get course after course of food on the table, when Henrik said, “Hey, let’s bring the new bass in.”
He came down the stairs carrying something that looked suspiciously like a guitar case—not a bass case. I figured there had been some kind of mistake or maybe even a prank. When I finally got a break from the chaos in the kitchen, I sat down with the new bass for the first time. And, of course, it was both headless and passive.
I should mention that even though I had made my requests clear—no headless bass, active electronics—I had also told Anders that I trusted him completely. And I’m so glad I did. He disintegrated my assumptions about what a bass “has to” or “should” be, and in doing so, changed my life as a musician in an instant. The weight reduction from the fully chambered body made it essential for the instrument to be headless to maintain perfect balance. And the passive nature of the pickups gave me the most honest representation of my sound that I’ve ever heard in over 30 years of playing bass.
I’m 46 years old. It took me this long to let go of certain fundamental beliefs about my instrument and allow them to evolve naturally, without interference. Updating my understanding of what works for me as a bass player required perspective, whereas some of my most deeply held beliefs about the instrument were based on perception. I don’t want to disregard my experiences or instincts, but I do want to make sure I’m always open to the bigger picture—to other people’s insights and expertise.
Trusting my bass builder’s vision opened musical doors that would have otherwise stayed bolted shut for years to come. The more I improve my awareness of where the line between perception and perspective falls, the more I can apply it to all aspects of my world of bass.
Maybe this month, it’s playing an instrument I never would have previously considered. Next month, it might be incorporating MIDI into my pedalboard, or transcribing bass lines from spaghetti Westerns.
No matter what challenges or evolutions I take on in my music and bass playing, I want to remain open—open to change, open to new ideas, and open to being proven wrong. Because sometimes, the instrument you never thought you’d play ends up being the one that changes everything.
Genuine, dynamic Vox sound and feel. Plenty of different tone-sweetening applications. Receives other pedals as nicely as a real amp.
Can get icy quick. Preamp tube presents risk for damage.
$299
Tubesteader Roy
tubesteader.com
The Roy is an exceedingly faithful Vox box that brings genuine tube dynamics to your pedalboard.
This is an interesting moment for amp-in-a-box pedals. It used to be novel to have a little box that approximated the tone signature of an iconic amp. Nowadays, though, modeling pedals and profilers can give you many digital emulations in one package. Nevertheless, there are still worlds of possibility in pedals that copy amp topology in discrete form—particularly when you add a real preamp tube to that mix.
That’s what Montreal builder Tubesteader did with the Roy, their entry in the Vox-Top-Boost-AC30-in-a-box race. The Roy is a 2-channel preamp and overdrive built around a 12AX7 vacuum tube—a design gambit that is relatively uncommon if not totally unique. The tube makes the Roy look much more vintage in spirit at a time when sleek, black Helixes and Fractals are overtaking stages. In some ways, it looks like an antique. It can sound like one in the best way too.
Riding the Tube
The Roy comes in a handsome brownish-red enclosure, with an unsurprising control layout. The rightmost footswitch turns the pedal on and off, and the one at left switches between the identical channels. Each channel has an output volume and gain knob; the controls on the right are assigned to the default channel, and when you tap the left footswitch, you engage the left-side control tandem. The treble and bass controls between the two volume and gain knobs are shared by the two channels, but a post-EQ master tone cut control, which rolls off additional treble frequencies, is mounted on the crown of the pedal beside the power input. The input and output jacks occupy the left and right sides, along with a 3.5 mm jack for external operation. The Roy runs at 12 volts and draws 350 mA, and the included power supply can be reconfigured easily for a range of international outlets.
Tubesteader’s literature says the pedal’s tones are generated via a high-voltage transistor in the first gain stage coupled with the 12AX7, which operates at 260 volts. That preamp tube is nested at the top of the enclosure’s face, underneath a protective metal “roll bar”. Trusty as it looks, when there is a glass element on the exterior of a pedal’s housing, there’s an element of vulnerability, and transporting and using the Roy probably requires a more conscientious approach than a standard stompbox.
Royal Tones
Compared to the Vox's own Mystic Edge, an AC30-in-a-box from Vox powered by Korg’s NuTube vacuum fluorescent display technology, the Roy feels warmer, and more dynamic, proving that the 12AX7 isn’t just there for looks. The Mystic Edge could sound positively icy compared to the Roy’s smooth, even breakup. The Roy is very happy at aggressive settings, and in my estimation, it sounds best with output volumes driving an amp hard and the pedal’s gain around 3 o’clock. That recipe sounds good with single-coil guitars, but with a P-90-loaded Les Paul Junior, it achieves roaring classic-rock greatness. I’ve always felt Voxes, rather than Marshalls, are better vehicles for dirty punk chording. The Roy did nothing to dissuade me from that belief. And the pedals' midrange punch and bark in power-chord contexts lent authority and balance that makes such chords hit extra hard.
Though the Roy creates many of its own tasty drive tones, it really comes to life when pushed by a boost or overdrive, much like a real amp. When I punched it with a Fish Circuits Model One overdrive, the Roy was smoother and less spiky than a cranked AC30, yet there was plenty of note definition, attack, and the harmonic riches you’d turn to an AC for in the first place. A JFET SuperCool Caffeine Boost also brought additional depth and color to the output and broadened the pedal’s voice.
If you’re most comfortable with a real Vox amp, the Roy is a reliable and familiar-feeling stand-in when managing a different backline amp. In at least one way, though, the Roy is, perhaps, a bit toofaithful to its influence’s design: There’s a lot of treble on tap, and it’s easy to cook up tinnitus-inducing frequencies if you get too aggressive with the treble control. Noon positions on the cut/boost tone knobs sound pretty neutral. But I found it difficult to push the treble much past 2 o’clock without wincing—even with the tone cut control set at its darkest. (This quality, of course, may make the Roy a good match for squishier Fender-style designs). The relationship between the Roy’s treble and bass controls also takes time to master. The two don’t just add or boost their respective frequencies, but also add or subtract midrange, which can result in intense and sudden gain-response changes. As a general guideline, a light touch goes a long way when fine tuning these frequencies.The Verdict
The Roy isn’t exactly a bargain at $299. Then again, this Vox-in-a-box can stand in for real-deal Top Boost tones and the 2-channel design means you can move between an AC’s chimey cleans and ripping cranked sounds in a flash. If you’re squarely in the Vox amp camp, you’d be hard-pressed to find a more authentic means of achieving that range of clean-to-crunchy sounds.