The author found this one-of-a-kind tremolo/vibrato/sound-altering modulation box at Quattro Music Company in Thomas, West Virginia.
Producer and roots-guitar veteran Michael Dinallo pens his unabashed love letter to tremolo, with fond recollections of vintage Fender and Gibson amps, Dunlop’s TS-1, and a one-of-a-kind mystery modulator.
Tremolo is my favorite effect to modulate a guitar’s sound (and I love vibrato, too). I love it so much that it’s part of the moniker of the production team I had with the late Ducky Carlisle—the Tremolo Twins—as well as our Trem-Tone Records label. You might recognize Ducky from his many engineering credits, including Buddy Guy, or our work together on albums like Stax veteran Eddie Floyd’s heralded Eddie Loves You So, from 2008.
For me, the golden period of tremolo was the early 1960s. The brown-panel Fender amps of that period have astounding harmonic tremolo, as do the Gibson amps from that period. I have a 1963 Gibson GA-5T Skylark that has a tremendous tremolo circuit. I used that amp for all the guitar parts I cut on my new album, The Night’s Last Dance,as well as all the records I’ve worked on over the last four years, either as producer or player. My favorite, though, is the 1963 2x10 Fender Super—also a brown-panel amp. It can be so soupy that, if multi-tracked, it can almost induce seasickness.
But there are so many choices and classic sounds. The Magnatone and Lonnie Mack jump to mind, or the use of a Leslie cabinet for guitar, which is another sound I love as both player and producer. Two of the most distinct and famous uses of tremolo, to my ears, are Link Wray’s “Rumble” and Reggie Young’s arpeggiating opening chord on “The Dark End of the Street” by James Carr. There is a shimmery quality to big chords drenched in a slow tremolo, especially if the part is doubled. From a production standpoint, it adds depth to a track, even if it’s mixed way in the back.
Let’s talk about doubling a tremolo part. Once in a while you can get lucky and have the amp cycle the wave at just the right time as you hit the record button. But most often not. Usually this is not a big deal and adds to the depth of the bed part being recorded. Sometimes, though, it has to be a tight double. That’s when I’ve spent much time guessing at the cycling and trying to hit it just right. It’s a blast when you do.
One of my favorite experiments with tremolo was setting up two amps—a brown-panel Fender Vibroverb and a brown-panel Fender Concert—in a V-shape. The amps were set to the same volume and approximately the same tone settings. Using a stereo mic in the middle of the V, we recorded it to one track. We had to keep tweaking the individual tremolo settings in an effort to not have them cancel each other out. But what a huge, lush sound!
“There is a shimmery quality to big chords drenched in slow tremolo, especially if the part is doubled.”
There are many tremolo pedals and recording plugins these days, and they’re all good, but nothing quite captures the sound of an internal tremolo circuit. You can avoid chasing their cycles, too, if a pedal has a tap-tempo function. But what fun is that?
The one tremolo pedal, for me, that comes the closest to an in-amp circuit is the now-vintage Dunlop TS-1. Thirty years ago, I needed a tremolo pedal for my road amp—at the time, a 1994 Fender tweed Blues DeVille. I found Dunlop’s big, honking purple metal box with “tremolo” written across the front in wavy yellow letters. You can get wide, sweeping tremolo or set it to a hard, choppy setting where the volume completely disappears. I’ve used both applications effectively. The hard trem is great for the last chord of a song, especially live, hitting like a boxer sparring with a weighted, hanging bag—especially if you’re diving into a psychedelic ending. And, of course, mixing in other modulation effects, such as flanging or phasing, adds another twist.
I found the most unique tremolo/vibrato/sound-altering modulation box I have at Quattro Music Company in Thomas, West Virginia. It’s not a pedal per se; it’s circuitry housed in a cigar box with so many knobs and switches and variations that I still have not exhausted all the possibilities. It’s a one-off. I was told it was the only tremolo box the inventor made. Combining it with a front-end boost and diming an amp produces otherworldly sounds. I’ve used it on a couple of recordings: “Never, No More (A Reckoning)” by Keith Sykes and me, and “Time Machine” by the Dinallos (where we were joined by Nashville’s famed singing siblings, the McCrary Sisters). With the latter, it’s most obvious as a tremolo device, and on the former it’s as a sound-altering gizmo that enhances the guitar leads.
Of all the toys in the arsenal that guitarists have, I’ve gotta say, long live tremolo!
Kevin Gordon and his beloved ES-125, in earlier days.
Looking for new fuel for your sound and songs? Nashville’s Kevin Gordon found both in exploring traditional blues tunings and their variations.
I first heard open guitar tunings while in college, from older players who’d become friends or mentors, and from various artists playing at the Delta Blues Festival in the early mid-’80s, which was held in a fallow field in Freedom Village, Mississippi—whose topographical limits likely did not extend beyond said field.
I remember Jessie Mae Hemphill wearing a full-length leopard-print coat and black cowboy hat in the September heat, walking through the crowd selling 45s, and James “Son” Thomas singing his bawdy version of “Catfish Blues.” Also, an assembly of older gentlemen passing a pint bottle, all wearing vests with the name of their fraternal society sewn on the back: Dead Peckers Club.
I played in master minimalist Bo Ramsey’s band from 1988 to ’90. Living in Iowa City, attending grad school for poetry, weekend gigs with Bo were another equally important kind of education. He was the first guy I played in a band with who used open tunings. Nothing exotic: open G or open E, early Muddy Waters and Elmore James. Music I had loved since growing up in Louisiana. This was our bond, the music we both considered bedrock. Some of my first songs, written for that band, featured Bo on slide guitar.
I moved to Nashville in 1992, a city already populated with a few friends—some from Iowa, some from Louisiana. Buddy Flett was from Shreveport; I’d loved his playing since seeing him in the band A-Train in the early ’80s. We’d go eat catfish at Wendell Smith’s, and inevitably talk about songs. He’d achieved some success as a writer, working with fellow north Louisianan David Egan, employing his own kind of sleight-of-hand mystery in both G and D tunings.
In 1993, I found a guitar that would change my life and my songwriting: a scrappy Gibson ES-125 from 1956, standing in a corner of a friend’s apartment in Nashville, covered in dust. I asked if I could borrow it, for no particular reason other than to get it out of there so that it would be played. I wrote a song on it, in double drop-D tuning [D–A–D–G–B–D]. Not a great song, but it got me thinking about open strings and tunings again. I was looking for a way to play solo shows that reflected where I came from, and where the songs came from that I was writing.“The droning aspect of open tunings always appealed to me, and in the context of solo gigs, the big sound of octaves ringing out helped this insecure guitar player sound a little taller, wider . . . something.”
So, I put the guitar in open D [D–A–D–F#–A–D], put flatwounds on it, and started figuring out chord shapes (other than barring flat across) that I could use to play my songs, all of which at that point had been written and performed in standard tuning. I’d bought a ’64 Fender Princeton amp years before, when I was 19, but had never found a use for it until now: The 125 through the Princeton on about four was the sound. The droning aspect of open tunings always appealed to me, and in the context of solo gigs, the big sound of octaves ringing out helped this insecure guitar player sound a little taller, wider . . . something. The fingerings I came up with all seemed to mask the third of the scale—so you’d have a big sound which was neither major nor minor. And for my songs, it just felt right. By the time I recorded my second album for Shanachie, Down to the Well, in 1999, I was writing songs in open D (“Pueblo Dog”). For the next two albums, released in 2005 and 2012, the majority of the songs were written and performed live in open D, employing a capo when necessary.
As usual, the methods and habits developed while touring fed back into the writing and recording processes. For my latest release, The In Between, though, most of the songs were written and recorded in standard—“Simple Things,” “Tammy Cecile,” “Coming Up”—with some exceptions, including “Keeping My Brother Down,” “You Can’t Hurt Me No More,” and the title track, on which I play a ’50s Gibson electric tenor archtop in a peculiar tuning: C–G–C–G. Though I can’t say that open tunings make for better songs, they do help me hear chords differently, at times suggesting progressions that I wouldn’t normally think of. One song currently in-progress has these verse changes: VIm / I / VIm / I / VIm / I / II / II. In standard tuning, that VI would sound (to my ear) too bright. But because I’m writing it in open D, how I fret the VI sounds low and dark, appropriate for the lyric and melody, creating the right setting for the lines and story to unfold.
At Robert’s Western World, Chris Casello can play through his beloved Vibrolux without repercussions.
Times, tastes, and technology change, but if you’ve got a good thing going, maybe you don’t have to. And PS: Don’t touch Chris’s Vibrolux!
I’ve been playing guitar for 50 years—in Nashville and on the road—and generally feel like I’ve seen it all from the stage: the drunks, the crazies, the rowdies, and the regulars. But recently, I’ve been a little disturbed by something I haven’t seen: amps on the stages of many Lower Broadway clubs.
Recently, this happened to me.
It’s 10 a.m., and I show up for the first of my two daytime gigs. The sound engineer at the club tells me:
“Rule number one: No amps onstage.”
Me: “Can we just try it?”
Engineer: “No. And in-ear monitors only.”
Since I’m just here as a sub, I don’t argue. I don’t want to cause the bandleader grief or be a pain. I’m told “everybody does it this way now,” and since a professional needs to be adaptable, I adapt.
My next question: “Hey, can you turn off the TV by the stage?”
Engineer: “No, and take your amp off the stage.”
Me: “It’s unplugged.”
Engineer: “I don’t care. I don’t want anybody seeing an amp. I had a guy take a swing at me when I told him he couldn’t use his amp, so I can’t take chances.”
I have to admit, taking a swing at the soundman had crossed my mind, but he’s a biker-type with 75 pounds on me, and a generation younger. That doesn’t seem like a choice a professional should make. So, I take down my 1966 Fender Vibrolux Reverb and settle in for four hours of winging it through an iPad-controlled PA system and borrowed in-ear monitors, followed by another four-hour, no-break gig two blocks further down Broadway.
Really, I’m grateful, despite this embargo on amps. I’m working a lot. I get to play my Telecaster and crack jokes onstage. And I know this is a fickle town for musicians. One day you have nothing, and the next you’re playing the Opry, or in the studio, or flying to Europe.
When I got to Nashville in the early 2000s, Lower Broadway was no longer a red light district, but everybody wanted you to sound like Brent Mason. I didn’t. I played country guitar, but loved rockabilly and wore a pompadour. I also love and play blues, and Scotty Moore, James Burton, Merle Travis, and Chet Atkins are huge with me. Plus, I love Chuck Berry, T-Bone Walker, and Charlie Christian. So, initially it seemed like I didn’t fit into any of the niches bandleaders were looking for. Ultimately, I just wanted to sound like Les Paul and Link Wray. Is there anything wrong with that?
“I have to admit, taking a swing at the soundman had crossed my mind, but he’s a biker-type with 75 pounds on me, and a generation younger.”
Even though it was tough getting hired at first, I stuck to my guns. Eventually the phone started ringing, the work came in, and the phone is still ringing—or at least chiming text alerts. I’m having a good run and have played everywhere from the Opry to Lincoln Center. Plus, I love it here. When I arrived, it was already a pickers’ wonderland—humbling, terrifying, and inspiring. Legendary players would work at little clubs— and still do, although now the mass insanity of intoxicated tourists, bachelorette parties, pedal taverns, etc., is completely out of control. That said, there’s only a couple cities left in America—really, maybe just this one—where you have opportunities to work this frequently.
Ultimately, this “being myself” thing has paid off. Besides the gig I’ve had at Robert’s Western World for 20 years, I’ve backed up legends like Bo Diddley, Martha Reeves, Wanda Jackson (who also cut one of my tunes), and Jack Scott, to name a few. I’ve done sessions, plus lots of gigs with ’90s country stars. I’ve given thousands of lessons, made many European tours with my own bands and others, and I am the longtime guitarist for Carlene Carter (the daughter of June Carter Cash and June’s first husband, Carl Smith). I’m also the demo guy for my friend TV Jones. Say hi at his NAMM booth!
At Robert’s, there are no TVs—only music, beer, shots, and fried bologna sandwiches. Robert’s let me bring my love of surf guitar to the home of country music, anduse my own vintage gear. I can play a hollowbody with P-90s or a Gretsch, Telecaster, or Strat through my Vibrolux or Super Reverb and nobody complains. In fact, everybody loves it. And I get to sound like myself. Which is important, because eventually every musician comes to terms with the fact that they are only competing with themselves and not the world—and being allowed to find and use your own voice is crucial. So, you won’t get a profiler or iPad-controlled guitar app at a Chris Casello Trio show. We are always going to move air and, with it, some hearts, too.Our guest columnist’s current pedalboard spices his EXH diet with stomps from Line 6, TC Electronic, Strymon, Fulltone, Ibanez, and Boss.
Ex-B-52s member, composer, and NYC music scene veteran Pat Irwin loves pairing EHX pedals with keyboards—and recollecting good times with his late guitar virtuoso friend.
I’ve got a thing for Electro-Harmonix effects boxes. I’ve got a Crying Tone Wah that’s the coolest, a 16 Second Digital Delay, and a Deluxe Memory Man. All have made their way onto my ambient country band SUSS’s new record, Birds & Beasts. And currently a Big Muff, two Freeze Sound Retainers, and a Mel9 Tape Replay Machine are on my pedalboard. Here’s the thing: I like using them on keyboards.
I remember spending one cold winter night recording keyboards for a track called “Home” that made it onto Promise, the third SUSS album. I was playing a Roland Juno-106 through the Deluxe Memory Man while my bandmate Bob Holmes manipulated the delay and feedback on the pedal in real time. The effect was otherworldly. You can also hear the Crying Tone on SUSS’s “No Man’s Land” and “Train,” on Bandcamp. Sure, the guitars sound great, but those keyboards wouldn’t sound the same without the extra touch of the Crying Tone. I also used it on the B-52s’ “Hallucinating Pluto,” and it went out on the road with us for a while.
One of the first musicians I met when I moved to New York City in the late ’70s was the late, great Robert Quine. Quine and I would talk for hours about guitars, guitarists, and effects. I bought my first Stratocaster from Quine, because he didn’t like the way it looked. I played it on every recording I’ve made since the first Lydia Lunch record, 1980’s Queen Of Siam, and on every show with 8 Eyed Spy, the Raybeats, the B-52s, and my current bands PI Power Trio and SUSS. It was Quine who taught me the power of a good effects pedal and I’ll never forget the sessions for Queen of Siamwith the big band. Quine played everything through his Deluxe Memory Man straight into the recording console, all in one take except for a few touch ups here and there.
Quine and I used to go to Electro-Harmonix on 23rd Street and play through the boxes on display, and they let us pick out what we wanted. It’s where we first saw the 16 Second Digital Delay. That was a life-changer. You could make loops on the fly and reverse them with the flick of a switch. This thing was magical, back then.
“Quine played everything through his Deluxe Memory Man straight into the recording console, all in one take except for a few touch ups."
When I recorded a piece I composed for the choreographer Stephen Petronio and performed it at the Dance Theatre Workshop in Manhattan, I put everything through that 16 Second Digital Delay, including my clarinet. Later, when I recorded the theme for the cartoon Rocko’s Modern Life, I played all of the keyboards through the Deluxe Memory Man. Just when things would get a little too clean, I’d add a little more of the Memory Man.
I’m pretty sure that the first time I saw Devo, Mark Mothersbaugh had some Electro-Harmonix effects boxes taped to his guitar. And I can’t even think of U2 without hearing the Edge and his Deluxe Memory Man. Or seeing Nels Cline for the first time, blowing a hole in the universe with a 16 Second Digital Delay. Bill Frisell had one, too. I remember going into the old Knitting Factory on Houston Street and passing Elliott Sharp. He had just played and I was going in to play. We were both carrying our 16 Second Delays.
Who knows, maybe someone from another generation will make the next “Satisfaction” or “Third Stone from the Sun,” inspired to change the sound of a guitar, keyboard, or even a voice beyond recognition with pedals. If you check out Birds & Beasts, you’ll hear my old—and new—boxes all over it. I know that I won’t ever make a SUSS record or play a SUSS show without them.
Things change, rents go up, records are being made on computers, and who knows how you get your music anymore? But for me, one thing stays the same: the joy of taking a sound and pushing it to a new place, and hearing it go somewhere you could never have imagined without effects pedals.
Jesse Dayton uses an EP-3, from the first generation of solid-state Echoplex models, on the road and in the studio.
From Page to Eddie to Gilmour, the comparatively impractical Maestro Echoplex has nonetheless served its masters well. And for some, like our 6-stringing contributor, it still does.
Feast your eyes on the missing link. I give you the coolest contraption to ever run between a guitar and an amplifier: the Maestro Echoplex.
The cool factor for this historic piece of gear is so off the chart that I’m always a bit shocked when players, young or old, are not familiar with this marvelous old-school tape-echo device. But no, I’m not writing this to copy and paste Wikipedia stats on this crown jewel of the guitar-pedal world. (However, if your inner nerdom is anything like mine, it’s worthy of a snoop. All of the Echoplexes from 1959 to the late ’70s sound amazing!) I’m writing to profess to all my fellow guitar gear freaks my undying love for something that was used on so many historical recordings that it’s mind-blowing. And while a big box with an analog tape loop might not be your idea of a great ride-along pal on tour, or even in the studio, truth is, there is nothing else exactly like an authentic Echoplex.
Do you remember the first time you heard that huge swelling repeat sound at the end of “Eruption” by Van Halen? Echoplex. How about the heaviness of Jimmy Page’s guitar on “Moby Dick” by Led Zeppelin? That’s a cranked Echoplex preamp, mis amigos!
The Echoplex design is pretty simple, which is one reason why it’s so iconic. It has actual tape that runs on the top of the unit, records your sound, then plays it back. Remember 8-track tape players? Yeah, kind of like that—except for the recording part. You just crank the slide in the middle—at least on the solid-state EP-3 model that I own—to make the delay effect go fast or slow. It’s not rocket science. But it does also work as a preamp and will enhance the tone of the guitar coming out of your amp like no other unit. Eric Johnson, for example, travels with one in a rack, sans tape, just so he can use the preamp for his classic tone. The Echoplex preamp basically boosts and compresses your signal, fattening it up and providing some EQ trickery that will have guitar players unfamiliar with the device’s charms scratching their heads.
The original Echoplexes come in four flavors: the EP-1, EP-2, EP-3, and EP-4. The EP-1 is the O.G.—the first tape delay ever, with a moving tape head that allows the delay time to be changed. It was made from ’59 to ’62, when the next generation of ’Plex, called the EP-2, not only gave the tape head more mobility but protected the tape itself in a cartridge. The solid-state version was the EP-3, which was used by Van Halen, Page, Tommy Bolin, and Brian May, among others. The EP-4 offered an output buffer to improve impedance-matching with other gear. Today, you can find early generation Echoplexes for anywhere from $1,400 to nearly $2,000, and the EP-3 and EP-4 are in the $600 to $1,500 range, depending on condition.
“I have all kinds of analog delay pedals but none of them compare to the Echoplex.”
There are related devices out there that some vintage-tone-inclined players, like Brian Setzer, prefer. The Roland Space Echo is one, and there’s the Binson Echorec. They’re easier for traveling because the Space Echo has a more efficient tape transport system and the Binson records on a drum rather than a length of tape. David Gilmour from Pink Floyd was a fan of the Echorec. But just remember, it is the original Echoplex sound those models were built to emulate. And both of those artists also used original Echoplex units on a few of their classic recordings.
Sure, you can buy some newfangled digital pedal that tries to recreate the Echoplex, but what fun is there in that? Where’s the potential for tape snarls or the manual cleaning required? After owning several EP-3 Echoplexes and using them in recording studios on countless tracks, touring all over the world with one in cars, vans, RVs, buses, and planes, I can tell you nothing replicates or enhances your tone like an EP-3. And if you do roll out with one, don’t forget Q-tips and a bottle of rubbing alcohol to clean the tape heads when they get dirty. If that doesn’t sound like a good time, then I guess you don't wanna get the sound that fattened up the guitars in power trios like Joe Walsh’s James Gang or on Billy Gibbons’ first five ZZ Top albums.
I have all kinds of analog delay pedals but none of them compare to the Echoplex. Remember, a cool thing about owning vintage gear is not that it’s a piece of handcrafted history, but knowing that Leo Fender or Les Paul himself, or, in this case, Echoplex designer Mike Battle, is never making another one like the one that you own. Don't get overwhelmed or anxious by projecting what could go wrong with it. Get excited about having a piece of gear that can make your guitar sound like almost every classic-rock, blues, and country record ever made.
