
In the early days of rock, high power and huge volumes pushed equipment to the limit.
Mr. Shoe came flying into our rehearsal space, shouting and waving his arms as if he were flagging down a taxi. “Your amplifiers are distorting," he shouted above our Yardbirds-style rave up. Obviously upset, he continued, “Your amps—they're making square waves."
It was 1969, and I'd only just joined up with my friend Gary's band to practice in the basement of a storefront in Deerfield, Illinois. Mr. Shoe was the landlord, and his son Al had built the basement into the fledgling recording studio where our little rock combo practiced a few times a month. As a ham-radio enthusiast and something of an audiophile, Mr. Shoe recognized the Skilsaw-esque buzz of our power chords as a problem to be solved as opposed to a desired condition. It may have been the first time I'd heard the term "square wave," but instinctively, I knew what he meant.
"That's what we want," we told him, but our explanations fell on deaf ears. Defeated, the old man left the building shaking his head muttering something about harmonic distortion, leaving us to our "bad" sound. Obviously, we were beyond help.
That day certainly wasn't the first time someone had turned up a guitar amp and thought it sounded cool as it tried to destroy itself. We were only mimicking the sounds we'd heard on recordings and in concerts. But our encounter with Mr. Shoe underlined a radical schism that had occurred in the audio universe: Instead of merely accurately reproducing the sound of the guitar, the amplifier had become part of the instrument, and there was no turning back.
Suddenly, guitar and amp builders were faced with an entirely different and louder playing environment. As music became more aggressive, the amps got bigger with "piggyback" amp/speaker setups displacing the lowly combo style. And then came the Vox AC100. Built to roar over the screams of Beatles fans, it towered above the competition and was lusted after by teenage boys around the world. Not satisfied with his Vox, however, Pete Townshend urged music-store owner Jim Marshall and engineer Ken Bran to develop the iconic "stack" topped with 100, or even 200 watts of punishment. Fender, SUNN, Acoustic, and many others followed suit, building larger and more potent gear as rock's arms race heated up.
There was resistance to the trend, of course. Many of the amp and guitar manufacturers felt betrayed by the onslaught of high-decibel levels and escalating distortion in rock music's vernacular. As legend goes, Ampeg's founder, Everett Hull, disliked distortion so much that he wrote a warning into his company's literature and demanded that his engineers design extra headroom into their amps to keep things tidy and clean. Clearly, Mr. Shoe would have liked this guy. Back in my high school days, the early '60s Ampeg B-15 bass amp was a coveted piece of gear, but it just couldn't keep up with the latest guitar amps from Fender when things got cranked. In a twist of ironic fate, Ampeg would roll out their mighty SVT less than a decade later. And in 1969, the company outfitted the Rolling Stones with a backline befitting for the kings of rock and their massive stage show. Just the same, the big blue boxes sported the warning "This amp is capable of delivering sound pressure levels that may cause permanent hearing damage." If you've ever tried one of the original SVT amps, you know this wasn't an idle threat.
In retrospect, a lot of the escalation may have been created by the lack of sound-system and monitor technology of the time. Most recordings were still made using small amplifiers—Jimmy Page's Supro, Clapton's Bluesbreaker and Joe Walsh's Fender Harvard come to mind—but concert amps were all about filling the venue, or at least the stage. Of course, there was the visual aspect. Giant walls of amplifiers became the backdrop for any well-heeled rock band. The intimidation and grandeur of six Marshall stacks was a middle finger to the older generation and their unhip music, as the sheer power of a concert became a full-body tribal ritual for both performers and audience. Rock 'n' roll was finally delivering on its dangerous promise.
High power and huge volumes pushed equipment to the limit. Pickups squealed and guitars began to feedback uncontrollably. As a defense, guitarists developed new skills like palm muting to compensate. Playing technique began to be about holding the power back until needed, as opposed to struggling to stand out—the exact opposite of an acoustic guitar, or even early electrics. On the manufacturing side, there were other considerations. The aftermarket for guitar parts and all manner of effects pedals began to bloom. Wax potting of pickups to eliminate microphonic squeal became common—any small degradation in sound being considered an acceptable tradeoff. One company marketed foam to be stuffed inside guitars to dampen the howling effect at high volume.
Over time, the sound-system industry developed usable monitoring and provided enough mic coverage so that stage levels could be reduced to allow proper mixing of a band's entire sound. A 1970s performer might barely recognize the gear used to deliver sound to a stadium show today. Computer-controlled sound arrays that can efficiently amplify vocals, drums, and small, low-watt guitar amps have reduced stage volumes to 1950s levels.
In-ear monitors changed the game even further. I recall visiting some friends on a major tour and was surprised to learn that there was zero stage volume involved. The immense wall of amps was a facade and all the guitars were amped into speaker emulators, which in turn were fed to the house and in-ear monitors. During the monitor check, the only sound on stage was drums. Even the guitar techs had to wear ears in order to do their job! When the house kicked in, that's when it actually sounded like a rock show. Today, I meet plenty of pros that have never stood onstage in front of a full stack, so seems as though we have come full circle. I wonder if Mr. Shoe would still disapprove.
[Updated 8/10/21]
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On our season two finale, the country legend details his lead-guitar tricks on one of his biggest hits.
Get out the Kleenex, hankies, or whatever you use to wipe away your tears: It’s the last episode of this season of Shred With Shifty, a media event more consequential and profound than the finales of White Lotus and Severance combined. But there’ll be some tears of joy, too, because on this season two closer, Chris Shiflett talks with one of country music’s greatest players: Vince Gill.
Gill’s illustrious solo career speaks for itself, and he’s played with everyone from Reba McEntire and Patty Loveless to Ricky Skaggs and Dolly Parton. He even replaced Glenn Frey in the Eagles after Frey’s death in 2017. His singing prowess is matched by his grace and precision on the fretboard, skills which are on display on the melodic solo for “One More Last Chance.” He used the same blackguard 1953 Fender Telecaster that you see in this interview to record the lead, although he might not play the solo the exact way he did back in 1992.
Tune in to learn how Gill dialed his clean tone with a tip from Roy Nichols, why he loves early blackguard Telecasters and doesn’t love shredders, and why you never want to be the best player during a studio session.
If you’re able to help, here are some charities aimed at assisting musicians affected by the fires in L.A:
https://guitarcenterfoundation.org
https://www.cciarts.org/relief.html
https://www.musiciansfoundation.org
https://fireaidla.org
https://www.musicares.org
https://www.sweetrelief.org
Credits
Producer: Jason Shadrick
Executive Producers: Brady Sadler and Jake Brennan for Double Elvis
Engineering Support by Matt Tahaney and Matt Beaudion
Video Editor: Addison Sauvan
Graphic Design: Megan Pralle
Special thanks to Chris Peterson, Greg Nacron, and the entire Volume.com crew.
$149
Marshall 1959 Super Lead
The very definition of classic, vintage Marshall sound in a highly affordable package.
There’s only one relevant question about Marshall’s new 1959 Super Lead overdrive/distortion pedal: Does it sound like an actual vintage Super Lead head? The answer is, simply and surprisingly, yes. The significant difference I heard within the voice of this stomp, which I ran through a Carr Vincent and a StewMac Valve Factory 18 kit amp for contrast, is that it’s a lot quieter than my 1972 Super Lead.
The Super Lead, which bore Marshall’s 1959 model number, debuted in 1965 and was the amp that defined the plexi sound. That sound is here in spades, clubs, diamonds, and hearts. Like the Super Lead, the pedal is easy to use. The original’s 3-band EQ is replaced by a single, rangeful tone control. The normal dial and the volume, which together mimic the character created by jumping the first and second channels of a plexi head, offer smooth, rich, buttery op-amp driven gain and loudness. And the high-treble dial functions much like the presence control on the original amp.
The pedal is sturdy and handsome, too. A heavy-duty metal enclosure evokes the classic black-with-gold-plate plexi look and a vintage-grille-cloth motif. Switches and knobs (the latter with rubber sides for slip-free turning) are ultra solid, and—refreshingly—there’s a 9V battery option in addition to a barrel-pin connection. Whether with single-coils or humbuckers, getting beefy, sustained, historic tones took moments. I especially delighted in approximating my favorite Super Lead head setting by flooring the high treble, normal, and tone dials, and turning back the tone pots on my Flying V, evoking Disraeli Gears-era Clapton tone. That alone, to me, makes the 1959 Super Lead stomp a bargain at $149.The Miku was introduced about 10 years ago and is based on the vocal stylings of Hatsune Miku, a virtual pop icon. But it does much more than artificial vowels and high-pitched words.
It’s tempting to think of this pedal as a joke. Don’t.
It all started a few years ago through a trade with a friend. I just wanted to help him out—he really wanted to get a fuzz pedal but didn’t have enough cash, so he offered up the Korg Miku. I had no idea then, but it turned out to be the best trade I’ve ever made.
Here’s the truth: the Korg Miku is not your typical guitar pedal. It won’t boost your mids, sculpt your gain, or serve up that warm, buttery overdrive you’ve always worshipped. Nope. This little box does something entirely different: It sings! Yes, sings in a Japanese kawaii accent that’s based on the signature voice of virtual pop icon Hatsune Miku.
At first glance, it’s tempting to dismiss this pedal as just a gimmick—a joke, a collector’s oddity, the kind of thing you buy for fun and then forget next to your Hello Kitty Strat. But here’s the twist: Some take it seriously and I’m one of those people.
I play in a punk band called Cakrux, and lately I’ve been working with a member of a Japanese idol-style girl group—yeah, it’s exactly the kind of wild mashup you’d ever imagine. Somewhere in the middle of that chaos, the Miku found its way into my setup, and weirdly enough, it stuck. It’s quirky, beautiful, occasionally maddening, and somehow … just right. After plenty of time spent in rehearsals, studio takes, and more sonic experiments than I care to admit, I’ve come to appreciate this pedal in unexpected ways. So here are a few things you probably didn’t know about this delightfully strange little box.
It’s Not Organic—and That’s OK
Most guitar pedals are chasing something real. Wah pedals mimic the human voice—or even a trumpet. Tube Screamers? They’re built to recreate the warm push of an overdriven tube amp. Cab sims aim to replicate the tone of real-world speaker setups. But the Miku? It breaks the mold. Instead of emulating reality, it channels the voice of a fictional pop icon. Hatsune Miku isn’t a person—she’s a vocaloid, a fully digital creation made of samples and synthesis. The Miku doesn’t try to sound organic, it tries to sound like her. In that sense, it might be the only pedal trying to reproduce something that never existed in the physical world. And honestly, there’s something oddly poetic about that.
A World-Class Buffer
Here’s a fun fact: I once saw a big-name Indonesian session guitarist—you know, the kind who plays in sold-out arenas—with a Miku pedal on his board. I was like, “No way this guy’s busting out vocaloid lines mid-solo.” Plot twist: He only uses it for the buffer. Yep, the man swears by it and says it’s the best-sounding buffer he’s ever plugged into. I laughed … until I tried it. And honestly? He’s not wrong. Even if you never hear Miku sing a note, this pedal still deserves a spot on your board. Just for the tone mojo alone. Wild, right?
“The Miku is one of those pedals that really shouldn’t work for your music, but somehow, it just does.”
Impossible to Tame
Most pedals are built to make your life easier. The Miku? Not so much. This thing demands patience—and maybe a little spiritual surrender. First off, the tracking can be finicky, especially if you’re using low-output pickups. Latency becomes really noticeable and your picking dynamics suddenly matter a lot more. Then there’s the golden rule I learned the hard way. Never—ever—put anything before the Miku. No fuzz, no wah, no compressor, not even a buffer! It gets confused instantly and says “What is going on here?” And don’t even think about punching in while recording. The vocal results are so unpredictable, you’ll never get the same sound twice. Mess up halfway? You’re starting from scratch. Same setup, same take, same chaotic energy. It’s like trying to recreate a fever dream. Good luck with that.
Full Range = Full Power
Sure, it’s made for guitar, but the Miku really comes to life when you run it through a keyboard amp, bass cab, or even a full-range speaker. Why? Because her voice covers way more frequency range than a regular guitar speaker can handle. Plug it into a PA system or a bass rig, and everything sounds clearer, richer, way more expressive. It’s like letting Hatsune Miku out of her cage.
The Miku is one of those pedals that really shouldn't work for your music, but somehow, it just does. Is it the best pedal out there? Nah. Is it practical? Not by a long shot. But every time I plug it in, I can’t help but smile. It’s unpredictable, a little wild, and it feels like you’re jamming in the middle of a bizarre Isekai anime scene. And honestly, that’s what makes it fun.
This thing used to go for less than $100. Now? It’s fetching many times that. Is it worth the price? That’s up to you. But for me, the Korg Miku isn’t just another pedal—it’s a strange, delightful journey I’m glad I didn’t skip. No regrets here.
Two guitars, two amps, and two people is all it takes to bring the noise.
The day before they played the coveted Blue Room at Third Man Records in Nashville, the Washington, D.C.-based garage-punk duo Teen Mortgage released their debut record, Devil Ultrasonic Dream. Not a bad couple of days for a young band.
PG’s Chris Kies caught up with guitarist and vocalist James Guile at the Blue Room to find out how he builds the band’s bombastic guitar attack.
Brought to you by D’Addario.
Devilish Dunable
Guile has been known to use Telecasters and Gretsches in the past, but this time out he’s sticking with this Dunable Cyclops DE, courtesy of Gwarsenio Hall—aka Jordan Olds of metal-themed comedy talk show Two Minutes to Late Night. Guile digs the Dunable’s lightness on his shoulders, and its balance of high and low frequencies.
Storm Warning
What does Guile like about this Squier Cyclone? Simple: its color. This one is also nice and easy on the back, and Guile picked it up from Atomic Music in Beltsville, Maryland.
Crushing It
Guile also scooped this Music Man 410-HD from Atomic, which he got just for this tour for a pretty sweet deal. It runs alongside an Orange Crush Bass 100 to rumble out the low end.
James Guile’s Pedalboard
The Electro-Harmonix Micro POG and Hiwatt Filter Fuzz MkII run to the Orange, while everything else—a DigiTech Whammy, Pro Co Lil’ RAT, and Death by Audio Echo Dream 2—runs to the Music Man. A TC Helicon Mic Mechanic is on board for vocal assistance, and a TC Electronic PolyTune 3, Morley ABY, and Voodoo Labs Pedal Power 3 Plus keep the ship afloat.