An important part of my music education started when I began sneaking into clubs when I was 16. I was a tall kid, and usually had no trouble walking in. It’s not surprising these venues were lax about checking IDs, since back then more than a few tolerated weed-smoking and other shenanigans. But I was there for the music, where it was raw and unproven and just a few feet away, and I quickly learned you didn’t have to be on TV or play arenas to be great. Connecticut-area outfits from the Scratch Band (featuring a pre-fame G.E. Smith) to the Simms Brothers Band to Saucers became my new heroes.
In college, New York City was a short train ride away, and the first time I stumbled into the dark, beer-stinking cavern of CBGB, I felt that I had gone to both another planet and home. I also discovered it was more than a club. It was a community where originality was uncaged and embraced, where bands and bonds were formed, and where, clearly, some pretty wild stuff went down.
As I got older and started to play there and other indie venues, my appreciation for all of them grew. Sure, if you turned the corner behind the stage, to the stairs leading down to CB’s restrooms, you might see somebody sitting on the doorless men’s room’s toilet, or you might have to step over a dude on the way to the urinal. One night, onstage there, one of my newish $100 custom earplugs plopped out and fell into a grayish puddle. I immediately chose not to retrieve it. But every moment I was there, I knew I was somewhere important and that just being present, where so much great music ignited and was allowed to flourish, was a privilege.
“The first time I stumbled into the dark, beer-stinking cavern of CBGB, I felt that I had gone to both another planet and home.”
We are losing that privilege at an alarming rate. Urban upscaling, insurance costs, fallout from Covid, and scores of other reasons are costing us independent venues across the country. I recently read about the closing of Dobbs, formerly J.C. Dobbs, on Philly’s South Street, where Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, and more played while they were getting their wings. One night, when my band Vision Thing gigged there in the ’90s, we shared the dressing room with a “family” of self-proclaimed vampires—an experience both priceless and uncomfortable.
But my point is, independent music venues are the bloodstream of live rock, jazz, pop, improv, and many other styles. And if we do not support them, these unruly citadels of incubation and joy are going to go away. I have nothing against chain venues and larger corporate enterprises. Honestly, that’s not true. I dislike that big companies block rising-star artists from playing the indie venues that nourished them and control the concert business in ways that result in $1,000-and-up ticket prices. They don’t give a damn about the soul of music.
Photo courtesy of Adicarlo/English Wikipedia
But many indie venue owners do. They have to. They understand that emerging artists are their viscera, and that by nurturing these artists and their fans, they are also sustaining themselves. And many of the indie-room owners I’ve known were also willing to take the risks inherent in providing a proving ground for unproven talent because they actually believe in supporting the art and evolution of music-making. But unlike corporate-owned venues, they do so at more risk, handling all the costs and complexities of running their rooms on their own.
Here in Nashville, we’ve lost great indie venues in recent years, including Douglas Corner, after 33 years of shows, and, in 2022, the 20-year-old Mercy Lounge/High Watt/Cannery Ballroom complex, but we are lucky to still have wonderful examples. Among the prominent are the 5 Spot, the Bluebird Cafe, the Station Inn, Dee’s Country Cocktail Lounge, Eastside Bowl, the Basement and Basement East, DRKMTTR, the Underdog, Rudy’s Jazz Room, 3rd & Lindsley, and Springwater. And each is the nucleus of a creative community.
We need to begin looking at indie venues as the sacred places they are—where magic can be made, and, on the flip side, even a terrible band can get the occasional gig, because they’re part of the community, too. And we need to sustain them. Because if these places disappear, we lose all of the good things they provide.
So, even if you’re not the biggest fan of what’s on the musical menu, I’m asking you as a friend and fellow music lover to support your local indie venue. It’s worth stopping by for the occasional beer to help keep these businesses alive. Netflix and your couch will be there—at least for a while. Indie venues might not, and every time a place like CBGB, J.C. Dobbs, or the Mercy Lounge closes, another door shuts on both musical opportunities and history. And we need to keep those doors open.
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Naturally, every recording Eddie Van Halen ever played on has been pored over by legions of guitar players of all styles. It might seem funny, then, to consider EVH solos that might require more attention. But your 100 Guitarists hosts have their picks of solos that they feel merit a little discussion. Some of these are deep cuts—get ready for some instrumental bonus tracks and Van Halen III mentions—and some are among the biggest radio hits of their time. Just because their hits, though, doesn’t mean we don’t have more to add to the conversation.
We can’t cover everything EVH—Jason has already tried while producing the Runnin’ With the Dweezil podcast. But we cover as much as we can in our longest episode yet. And in the second installment of our current listening segment, we’re talking about new-ish music from Oz Noy and Bill Orcutt.
Tinkering with theSDE-3 Dual Digital Delay suggested a similar, possibly enduring appeal. As an evolution of the Roland SDE-3000rack unit from the 1980s, it’s a texture machine, bubbling with subtle-to-odd triangle LFO modulations and enhanced dual-delay patterns that make tone mazes from dopey-simple melodies. And with the capacity to use it with two amps in stereo or in panning capacity, it can be much more dimensional. But while the SDE-3 will become indispensable to some for its most complex echo textures, its basic voice possesses warmth that lends personality in pedestrian applications too.
Tapping Into the Source
Some interest in the original SDE-3000 is in its association with Eddie Van Halen, who ran two of them in a wet-dry-wet configuration, using different delay rates and modulation to thicken and lend dimension to solos. But while EVH’s de facto endorsement prompted reissues of the effect as far back as the ’90s, part of the appeal was down to the 3000’s intrinsic elegance and simplicity.
In fact, the original rack unit’s features don’t differ much from what you would find on modern, inexpensive stompbox echoes. But the SDE-3000’s simplicity and reliable predictability made it conducive to fast workflow in the studio. Critically, it also avoided the lo-fi and sterility shortcomings that plagued some lesser rivals—an attribute designer Yoshi Ikegami chalks up to analog components elsewhere in the circuit and a fortuitous clock imprecision that lends organic essence to the repeats.
Evolved Echo Animal
Though the SDE-3 traces a line back to the SDE-3000 in sound and function, it is a very evolved riff on a theme. I don’t have an original SDE-3000 on hand for comparison, but it’s easy to hear how the SDE-3 bridges a gap between analog haze and more clinical, surgical digital sounds in the way that made the original famous. Thanks to the hi-cut control, the SDE-3’s voice can be shaped to enhance the angular aspect of the echoes, or blunt sharp edges. There’s also a lot of leeway to toy with varied EQ settings without sacrificing the ample definition in the repeats. That also means you can take advantage of the polyrhythmic effects that are arguably its greatest asset.
“There’s a lot of leeway to toy with varied EQ settings without sacrificing the ample definition in the repeats.”
The SDE-3’s offset control, which generates these polyrhythmic echoes, is its heart. The most practical and familiar echos, like quarter, eighth, and dotted-eighth patterns, are easy to access in the second half of the offset knobs range. In the first half of the knob’s throw, however, the offset delays often clang about at less-regular intervals, producing complex polyrhythms that are also cool multipliers of the modulation and EQ effects. For example, when emphasizing top end in repeats, using aggressive effects mixes and pitch-wobble modulation generates eerie ghost notes that swim through and around patterns, adding rhythmic interest and texture without derailing the drive behind a groove. Even at modest settings, these are great alternatives to more staid, regular subdivision patterns. Many of the coolest sounds tend toward the foggy reverb spectrum. Removing high end, piling on feedback, and adding the woozy, drunken drift from modulation creates fascinating backdrops for slow, sparse chord melodies. Faster modulations throb and swirl like old BBC Radiophonic Workshop sci-fi sound designs.
By themselves, the modulations have their own broad appeal. Chorus tones are rarely the archetypal Roland Jazz Chorus or CE type—tending to be a bit darker and mistier. But they do a nice job suggesting that texture without lapsing into caricature. There are also really cool rotary-speaker-like textures and vibrato sounds that offer alternatives to go-to industry standards.
The Verdict
The SDE-3’s many available sounds and textures would be appealing at $219—even without the stereo and panning connectivity options, a useful hold function, and expression pedal control that opens up additional options. The panning capabilities, in particular, sparked all kinds of thoughts about studio applications. Mastering the SDE-3 takes just a little study—certain polyrhythms can be dramatically reshaped by the interactivity of other controls and you need to take care to achieve identical results twice. But this is a pedal that, by virtue of its relative simplicity and richness and breadth of sounds, exceeds the utility of some similarly priced rivals, all while opening up possibilities well outside the simple echo realm
Reader: T. Moody
Hometown: Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
Guitar: The Green Snake
Reader T. Moody turned this Yamaha Pacifica body into a reptilian rocker.
I have always loved the reverse headstock, simply because nothing says 1987 (the best year in the history of the world) like a reverse headstock. The pickups are both Seymour Duncan—an SH-1N in the neck position and TB-4 in the bridge, both in a very cool lime green color. Right when these pickups got listed, the Buy It Now button once again lit up like the Fourth of July. I am a loyal disciple of Sperzel locking tuners and think Bob Sperzel was a pure genius, so I knew those were going on this project even before I started on it. I also knew that I wanted a Vega-Trem; those units are absolutely amazing.
When the body arrived, I thought it would be cool to do some kind of burst around the yellow so I went with a neon green. It turned out better than I imagined. Next up was the shaping and cutting of the pickguard. I had this crocodile-type, faux-leather material that I glued on the pickguard and then shaped to my liking. I wanted just a single volume control and no tone knob, because, like King Edward (Van Halen) once said, “Your volume is your tone.”
T. Moody
I then shaped and glued the faux-leather material in the cavity. The tuning knobs, volume knob, pickguard, screws, and selector switch were also painted in the lemon-lime paint scheme. I put everything together, installed the pickups, strung it up, set it up, plugged it in, and I was blown away. I think this is the best-playing and -sounding guitar I have ever tried.
The only thing missing was the center piece and strap. The latter was easy because DiMarzio makes their ClipLock in neon green. The center piece was more difficult because originally, I was thinking that some kind of gator-style decoration would be cool. In the end, I went with a green snake, because crocodiles ain’t too flexible—and they’re way too big to fit in a pickup cavity!
The Green Snake’s back is just as striking as the front.
