Yngwie Malmsteen has had a long career, so if you don't have time for the whole discography, there’s one record that every guitar player owes it to themselves to rock out to at full blast. Whether or not you decide to commit yourself to some arpeggio exercises straight from hell, you’ll no doubt get the gist of the Swedish-born guitarist’s mission statement. In this episode, we’re talking about all things Yngwie and scalloped frets and wondering why we don’t see any young indie rockers reppin’ his signature model Strat.
Analog reverbs built around bucket-brigade device (BBD) chips have been done before, but not often, and with good reason. BBD chips are noisy. The more chips you use, the noisier things get, and a proper reverb requires more BBDs than a delay does. They’re not an ideal way to simulate the complex reflections that make up reverberation, either. This is why Fairfield Circuitry’s Placeholder has made such a splash. The new effect pedal from the Hull, Québec-based builders uses a series of BBDs to create a truly one-of-a-kind reverb machine. And while most effects creators are trying to replicate analog sounds in the digital realm, Fairfield pulled a u-turn: They’re trying to recreate a digital reverb effect with analog technology.
Mapping the Mystery
It’s evident that the braintrust at Fairfield is making more than an effect pedal. They’re also making a point about analog’s enduring appeal with its challenging, algorithm-free topology. “There’s no denying the power of algorithmic representation of our daily activities,” the company’s website copy offers. “But let’s not forget that the complex system underlying our lived experience, the background noise and uncertainty, is intrinsic.”
The Placeholder design borrows from principles established by spatial-audio-tech guru Jean-Marc Jot and based on the Householder-reflection feedback matrix. The Placeholder essentially recreates Jot's digital algorithm in the analog sphere with BBDs. In more accessible terms, that means the pedal uses three independent analogue delay-lines and a feedback delay-network where every delay line feeds back only to every other delay line. That might not clarify much for the layperson, but you should read the fascinating literature Fairfield have produced for this pedal if you’re interested in the deeper concepts behind it. It’s marvellous.
The controls are easier to grasp than the principles that guide their function. The three principal keys to controlling Placeholder are the size, ratio, and decay knobs. As Fairfield describes it, size sets the initial delay line time, determining the size of the imaginary room in which the reverberation exists. Ratio sets how the following two delay lines relate to the initial one. Decay controls how many times the delayed signal is reflected in our imaginary room. What does this mean in practice? Well, when the decay knob is turned counter clockwise, it generates a tight, metallic slap. Dimed in the other direction, it self-oscillates in some truly bizarre ways. Two 3-way switches control the level of modulation present in the signal, and whether that modulation is cyclical, random, or both. A third switch selects between three low-pass filter presets.
The mix and volume controls on Placeholder are welcome additions. Mix can go from 100 percent dry to 100 percent wet. Volume hits unity around noon then boosts from there with a broad-spectrum level bump capable of pushing an amp to breakup. Combined with the tone control, this added utility means Placeholder can be an always-on weirding module or a blast of loud spaciousness of whatever size you prefer.
Space Molder
One of Placeholder’s many pleasant surprises is how intuitive it is to use despite the relatively murky control descriptions. It couldn’t be easier to dial in a reverb sound that’s either tight and zingy or broad and haunting. The essential tone is spring-like, complete with a classic reverb tank’s metallic, skittering response. Placeholder also feels like a genuine reverb effect in that it sounds more like a signal bouncing around and interacting with a space, rather than an indistinct wash.
Players like to say that a certain pedal “has a mind of its own.” That’s a nice figure of speech, but it’s not really true in most cases. In the instance of the Placeholder, the description seems more apt. Fairfield made a splash with the unpredictable modulations in their Shallow Water K-field modulator and their Meet Maude delay, but Placeholder takes the offkilter vibe generation in those pedals to a new level. Keep the modulations set to random and give your size, ratio, and decay knobs some leash, and you’ll find yourself in the hull of a rusting, decommissioned cargo ship. Tighten them up, and you’ve got a wickedly usable, gently demented spring ’verb. There are so many surprising spaces to explore here. There is some analog noise—there are three BBDs in the circuit after all—but it can be charming.
With the decay control maxed out, Placeholder didn’t require my input at all to create deeply inspiring sounds—it interacted with the pedals I situated around it to build a calming but scarred, post-industrial utopia. Put a versatile delay or other weirding device after it, and you can create an entire film score simply by tweaking knobs—no guitar playing necessary. There is a piece of this process, as a self-conscious user, that feels a bit lazy. It feels like cheating to be able to conjure such incredible, atmospheric sounds so easily. I suppose that’s why Fairfield are asking $450 for the privilege. But compared to flashy, feature-laden digital reverb units with similar or steeper prices, Placeholder simply felt more moving and real. It’s as much a thing I felt in my body as something I heard.
The Verdict
Placeholder is capable of producing alternate dimensions of organic, earthy sounds and modulation that will swallow your run-of-the-mill hall, plate, and spring reverb modules whole. I’ve never played through a pedal quite like it. Players often suggest that a pedal is a keeper if it encourages you to play more, but the Placeholder twists that argument: It’s a keeper because, in some applications, it encourages me to play more by playing less. That’s because it feels like its own instrument, a living, mutating analog alien that can communicate with its environment, and shape it
I recently saw an interview with Rodney Crowell that led me to rewatch Season 1, Episode 28 of The Twilight Zone. Crowell didn’t reference T-Zone specifically, that’s just where this rabbit hole led me. Not to spoil the plot, but the episode, titled “A Nice Place to Visit,” is about a gambler who dies and then wakes up in what seems like the afterlife, greeted by a genial guide named Pip (Sebastian Cabot) who grants his every wish instantly. Immediately, the gambler, Rocky, is in a casino, swimming in booze and beautiful women. He’s winning every bet, from poker to slots to roulette. He’s thinking, “I’m in heaven.” But after a month or so, the winning becomes unbearable. There’s no thrill, no risk, no challenge. Then Rocky gets the twist: He’s in hell.
For a real gambler, the greatest thing in the world is to gamble and win. The second greatest thing is to gamble and lose. Being a professional musician is being a professional gambler, and like any gambler, you are one hand away from wealth or being busted. You never really know how the cards will fall.
I’ve gigged in Vegas for decades, but slots and tables hold no appeal. Dropping a few hundred bucks there pales next to the lifelong gamble of music. Every live show is a roll of the dice: Will your fingers cooperate? Will your voice hold out? Will anyone show up to pay at the door? Gear fails—amps blow, strings snap, PAs die. Even the journey to and from the gig carries real peril; just ask Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, Patsy Cline, Otis Redding, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Ricky Nelson, and Stevie Ray Vaughan, who all went down in planes going to or from a gig. Many more, like Eddie Cochran, Metallica’s Cliff Burton, Dottie West, Harry Chapin, and Duane Allman, died on or in motorcycles, cars, and buses. If you’re in this business, risk isn’t optional—you have to embrace it.
A Rodney Crowell story crystallized this risk/reward dynamic for me. In early 1973, Crowell was scraping by in Nashville, playing for tips, washing dishes at T.G.I. Friday’s, and gigging happy hours. One regular spot was the Jolly Ox, a Green Hills steakhouse with a strict rule: no original songs, or you’re fired. Crowell’s then-girlfriend had left him for the more successful Townes Van Zandt, and he was heartbroken and fed up. In disgust and heartbreak, Crowell wrote his song, “You Can’t Keep Me Here in Tennessee.” Feeling he had nothing to lose, he broke the club rule and said, “Here’s a song I just wrote…”
As soon as he finished, the manager stormed the stage and fired him. But right behind came Jerry Reed’s manager, Harry Warner, who told Crowell that Reed had been in the audience and wanted to record the song immediately. Within 24 hours, Crowell was at RCA Studio A, teaching his song to Reed and his band. That break led to a staff writer deal with Reed’s publishing company—$100 a week in 1973 money—enough to quit dishwashing and write full-time.
Music is manifested in real time. It’s a gamble, it’s luck, it’s fate, it’s magic, it’s god’s mercy, it’s a trapeze act—live without a net. Terrifying and exhilarating.
That’s why I love Nashville. I'm surrounded by fellow gamblers, all-in on the dream. We all know brilliant players who never get the break, who toil in obscurity despite world-class talent. But we all know it goes the other way, too.
If my own career suddenly aligned perfectly—great venues, big paydays, smooth sailing—I doubt I’d ever get tired of winning. But if every note landed flawlessly, every solo was perfectly in tune and timed, every performance error-free and quantized? That would grow dull, fast. I’d crave the return to my “slop”—the messy, unpredictable moments that sometimes make me want to hide behind the amp after a particularly ugly clam. Those unexpected deviations from the intent can be the best part.
Fortune favors the bold. Playing and losing is way better than not playing at all. The thrill isn’t in guaranteed wins—it’s in the wager, the unknown, the possibility that tonight might be the one where everything clicks ... or crashes spectacularly. So pay your money, take your chances, and let the chips fall where they may.
Spoiler alert: the new RK2000 Funk Siren from Keeley Electronics ain’t your ordinary delay pedal – and that’s a massive understatement.
Designed in collaboration with Trey Anastasio and his guitar tech Justin Stabler, the RK2000 is based on the iconic Ibanez DM2000 rackmount delay, a classic from the 1980s and an integral part of Anastasio’s sound in Phish and other projects.
The RK2000 delivers the exact “Funk Siren” ambient loops made famous by Anastasio, with rock solid reliability, a ton of modern updates and expanded functionality, including adding modulation to your delay, tap tempo, full MIDI integration, five presets, expression pedal control and more.And did we mention that it also happens to be a great sounding delay pedal? But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
Keeley
RK2000 Funk Siren Delay
DM-style Stereo Digital Delay Guitar Pedal, Signature, with Blend, Feedback, Filter, Depth, Input, Time, Rate, Sub, Mod, Tap, and Hold Controls
The Cry Baby BB535 Wah Reissue is an authentic restoration of the expressive, throaty growl that became the collective voice of a new generation of wah. Designed with extensive input from the top early ’90s rock acts, it gave players the power to shape their own sound with a frequency selector, built-in boost, and custom inductor tuned for a uniquely warm, vocal tone. We dusted off the best-sounding model in our collection and recreated it part by part, original inductor included. For modern convenience, we added on/off LEDs for both the wah effect and boost circuit. Find your voice, and put some attitude into it, with the Cry Baby BB535 Wah Reissue.
Dunlop
Cry Baby BB535 Multi-Wah Reissue
Wah Guitar Pedal with Boost, Range Selector, and High-Impedance Buffer