This Poly Effects Digit multi-effects processor is a good example of a "hard mode" pedal. Exploring difficult-to-master boxes equals learning, which equals discovery. Stick with it!
Plug-and-play pedals are fun, but mastering a complex effects box can open the door to brave new worlds of sound. Try it!
How long should it take to get comfortable with a new pedal?
This is something I’ve been asking myself a lot recently, as I dream up ideas and concepts. How intuitive does a pedal have to be? Can it be hard?
Effects have a really unique role in music. They go in between other things. They don’t make the sounds, nor do they amplify or record them. They are the most optional part of music and, as a consequence, they generally receive the least attention. Learning to play the guitar takes time, and that’s fine because everybody knows this and expects it. Same goes for working a mixing board. But the same patience is not usually extended to pedals, and I wonder if this is a missed opportunity?
The versatility of pedals has greatly expanded over the years, but our expectations haven’t quite caught up. Pedals aren’t just variations on a common theme, like they were in the ’60s and ’70s. Some now have entirely distinct workflows and controls. They defy classification. Look at the 856 by Montreal Assembly. It’s ostensibly a looper, sampler, and sequencer, but essentially it’s a system. It offers something entirely new, and you don’t get something entirely new without investing some time.
I think it’s okay for pedals to have a “hard mode.” It’s okay for pedals to demand time and patience and force you to learn something new. This is the path to discovery, reward through challenge.
Something special can happen when you have to struggle with a device. You form a bond, and you discover techniques and applications on the path to comfort. You make it your own. My favorite experience with this was the Octatrack by Elektron—a sampler that allows you to entirely reinvent the sound you’ve sampled. It kicked my ass for months, and then suddenly it was my favorite thing. I felt connected to it.
There’s something powerful about applying this idea to pedals. Suddenly, this passive element between your guitar and amp can become something more than just a change in texture—an active tool … a second pseudo-instrument for you to engage with and manipulate.
But I’m debating with myself even as I write this. Is it unrealistic to expect that level of commitment? Is it inaccessible? One piece of the puzzle is that the level of difficulty is seldom discussed when it comes to pedals. If you’re taking up the trumpet, you already know damn well you’re going to have a time. It will be hard, and then it will be great. You’re prepared.
The purpose of pedals is increasingly open-ended. It’s best to think of them as a format rather than any specific thing. Electro-Harmonix has been building drums, sequencers, and samplers inside pedals for years, and this is becoming more common. A pedal is just a convenient, portable home for a musical idea. And you can kick it to make it go. That’s it. Where things get hazy is how focused and self-contained that idea has to be. Does too much flexibility spoil the fun? My gut says that it does, and the key is to find that line.
The important thing is that there’s room for both, and I believe we’ll be seeing a lot more “hard mode” pedals as time goes on. Sometimes you just want a chorus that sounds like a chorus, and you don’t want to fight to get there. That’s good. But there’s also room for pedals that bewilder and challenge. Pedals can be fast, efficient, and simple, but they can also be deep, versatile, and interactive, and unfold over time. Both are extremely useful.
Consider exploring the deep end and trying your hand at hard mode. You might find something in the struggle.
A wake-up call for guitarists as we use quarantine time to develop our studio chops.
With so many of us getting more into recording since quarantine, it's recently struck me harder than ever how deeply social-media mentality has seeped into our psyches as musicians. We've all been hearing for years how Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc. can adversely affect self-esteem, perceived quality of life, and overall happiness. And we've all heard how Instagram photo filters have so warped the self-image of pre-teens, teens, young adults, and even old-ass adults the world over that there are plastic surgeons buying effing yachts off money they made mangling some formerly beautiful person's perfectly normal face to look like a half-space-jackal anime character.
Yet so many of us are blind to how this same manner of thinking affects us in other ways—including how we present our music. Even many who resist the unspoken social-media mandate to post pics that paint “everyday life" as pristine, flawless, and oh so woke, still somehow end up thinking their music shouldn't see the light of day unless it's been edited, compressed, noise-gated, and EQ'd to be the sonic equivalent of a nipped, tucked, Botoxed, and Photoshopped “influencer." We see through the bullshit of YouTube and IG's soulless shillmeisters, and yet unwittingly embrace their fake, manufactured aesthetic as the ideal. Without even realizing it, we've let ourselves be conditioned to think good music in the 21st century equates to robotically unwavering tempos, metronome-perfect timing, and either “flawless" execution or jaw-dropping virtuosity—and there sure as hell better not be any fret or amp noise!
What's so ironic is that, while expecting these things of ourselves, in the very next breath we'll turn around and kneel at the metaphorical alter of artists from yore who did none of this. We'll oooh and aaah and fawn over songs that literally changed the fucking world with their soulfulness, fire, and humanity.
We'll adulate bands, players, and singers whose studio recordings moved and breathed as unpredictably as a living organism, varying together in bpm and instrumental and emotional nuance in ways that would give modern MP3 compression algorithms a panic attack. We're either oblivious about or completely forget the fact that some of the greatest guitarists of all time laid down legendary performances precisely because they knew vibe beats mechanical precision, hands-down, every time.
Jimmy Page—perhaps the most potent riffer/composer/studio wizard in all of rock guitardom—didn't let a little flub here and there hold back mind-blowing tunes like “Heartbreaker" and “I Can't Quit You Babe" (where he stumbles a little in the solos) and ““Since I've Been Loving You" (where you can hear John Bonham's kick-pedal squeak throughout the entire song). Said Page of instances like these in a 1977 interview: “There are mistakes … but it doesn't make any difference. You've got to be reasonably honest about it." Meanwhile, Eddie Van Halen freely admitted to botching a bit of the tapping in “Eruption"—y'know, that little 1978 ditty that single-handedly obliterated the world's guitar paradigm?
In a bit of a silver lining, COVID has forced us to reckon with this outlook somewhat. Lockdown has sucked the big one for everyone, especially touring artists, but it's also found us watching more homegrown guerilla performances from bands and artists we've always loved but who've had to figure out ways to get their craft out to the world without the aid of their usual backing band, sound person, lighting crew, etc. And admit it—it's been refreshing to see artists put themselves out there for the world despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, knowing full well the usual recording-studio sheen and/or video-editing magic won't be making them come across like immortals from another galaxy. Their hair isn't perfect, they might have a zit or two, their house/apartment/garage looks as shabby as ours, their amps buzz and their guitars don't always stay in tune or even necessarily sound that great. And it's important that we realize it's been refreshing precisely because of these things, not despite them. The trick is going to be holding onto these realizations once we finally get back to some semblance of normality. But, in my opinion, allowing this humanity in our tunes is as important today as it was in rock's golden age.
I met my guitar teacher, Mike Hoover, when I was in 8th grade. Forty years later, I’m still learning from him.
“For us to live any other way was nuts." —Ray Liotta as Henry Hill in Goodfellas
Never imagined I'd be here, but currently I'm homeschooling my 4-year-old daughter. Teaching has taught me that beneath my Zen Hippie Cowboy façade lies a rigid nerd, weirdly unforgiving and bad at concealing my frustration at both myself and the student. I'm the kind of uptight teacher I would've dreaded as a kid. My incompetence makes me appreciate the good teachers I've had in my life.
For a person who doesn't seem particularly bright, I've spent a surprisingly long time in school (17 years). In all that time, not a single educator taught me a fraction of what my guitar teacher, Mike Hoover, taught me.
I met Mike in 8th grade. By then I'd been playing violin (poorly and mandatorily) in the school orchestra for four years. My mother had also signed me up for group guitar classes during the summers, where I learned my basic chords. Sitting in a circle strumming “Tom Dooley" felt about as fun as math class. Sensing this was going nowhere, mom signed me up for private lessons at Hansen Music, a local music store where electric guitars and amps lined every wall, and long-haired dudes in bell bottoms hung out and jammed, sometimes past closing time. Mike greeted us at the front desk looking like a member of the Outlaws and smelling like he'd just smoked a left-handed cigarette. I was a little surprised my mother left me in his care. Like that old Buddhist proverb: “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." Mike was my guy.
In the first lesson, Mike sat across from me with his tobacco-burst Les Paul Artisan and showed me the first position of the pentatonic scale. Mike explained how you can make your fingers dance around that box and come up with melodies. I played some chords while he ripped some blues. It was the first time I saw lead guitar up close: Truly, at the time, this was coolest thing I'd ever seen. Then he said, “Now I'll play the rhythm and you take a ride." That was when playing notes became playing music—something I'd never experienced in four years of orchestra.
My brain's reward system gave me a serious hit of dopamine and I felt positively high. I've been chasing the dragon ever since. This set me on a lifelong, often ill-fated, wildly frustrating yet immensely satisfying journey. For better or worse, this is where I belong and I'm grateful to be living my life rather than one of the other more obvious, yet ultimately wrong, options. I'm thankful to my mother for being cool and to Mike Hoover for the guidance.
Not only did Mike unlock music, he taught me you can actually make a pretty decent living playing it. To illustrate the point, he hired me to play in his band and paid me way more than I'd ever made in my many crap teen-friendly jobs. Gigging with Mike revealed the working musician's playbook. Mike taught me to appreciate guitar craftsmanship and tonewoods, and to write off gear purchases on my taxes. He taught me to wear something cool onstage so you look like you're in the band, not a member of the audience (and write-off those clothes as well). Mike taught me to tip when somebody pours you a drink, even if it's on the house. Perhaps most importantly, Mike taught me that being a musician means you're selling fun, so have as much fun as possible, and if you're not having fun, pretend you are and usually the fun will kick in. He also cautioned me about having too much fun and taught me how to overcome a hangover. My father calls Mike my music father; that's accurate.
I called Mike tonight to tell him about the 1980 Gibson L-5S I recently purchased. In 9th grade, Hansen Music had this guitar on the wall. At first I thought it was just a Les Paul. Then Mike pointed out the deep-carved, figured maple back with a matching wooden control cover, the ornate binding wrapping the thin body, and the 3-piece L-5 maple neck with abalone inlays running up the ebony fretboard to the flowerpot on the bound headstock. I've wanted one ever since and can't believe I bought the same guitar I saw 40 years ago. As an added bonus, the L-5 had been played for decades by a local guitar hero, Ron Schuster (whom I mentioned in my last column). Mike pointed out that Ron's mojo is on this guitar. Civilians think the concept is nonsense but we know that the mystical is real. When I offered to send the guitar to Mike, he laughed and said, “No man. If I don't play my two Les Pauls, they get mad at me and start acting up. They always get resentful if I leave them alone too long." Four decades later, this guy is still teaching me. Mike is the Zen Hippie Cowboy: I remain the student.