Until We're at All of Each Other's Necks

Punching down illuminating buttons on my SP-404, I saved another sample. It's going to take quite the effort though, because I'm only layering one effect at a time. I sit over my sampler, thinking There's got to be a way to do this, or a better sampler that's out there. And then I realize there would be, and I go straight to a Youtube search.



At 1:50, it all looks good, because he's talking about buses and so on and jumble jumble jumble - but then! (play)
Then there's that noise at 2:00. It takes a second for me to register it, because the man's talking his talk and waving his magicman hands, his Winston Smith hands, but sure enough I lean closer on my ratty old loveseat, squint. Then, because all of his waving about, all nilly-willy, I know he hadn't touched any new buttons. With his thumbs and forefingers he had already turned down that tidal wave he was curling the pipe of. What could--.

It's louder. The man speaks up, and his lessons to project his voice that he got at that one conference in Minneapolis and sat in that fuschia convention hall with the queer drama actor drop-out who corporate had hired to teach lessons, those lessons were paying off. That, he thinks, was a good investment.

But the noise persists.

"Sound on Sound? You're a bunch of recording nerds!" The MPC salesman had yelled, waving about his hands wildly. "You're no HC, doin' their voodoo, showin' guitar-wielding prodigy-of-Nirvana kids which effect pedals to sleaze.
You won't bring in the hip kids,
the rich kids,
you'll get the lame skids
waiting and waiting
'til they got the
cash for deeehhhhhhhhhhh-bit.
No,
no,
it's either the sales spiel or you go away no video,
no no,
no video,
no no."

And so our unfortunate hero stands there, at our side, off-camera. His microphone is dangling in his loosely clasped palm. He is absently-minded eyeing the couple behind the Akai salesman. Will he want me to go over there? he thinks. They're just enjoying themselves, playing the ivories, snagging new sounds, that's what they're here for, that's what this is, a music convention after all. No, look at him, he's booming his voice louder now. We can't record this over again, we're already two minutes in.

Oh god, he's stalled. He tapped twice on his little thingamajig, looked down, and now, Our nervous hero thinks, he is going to crack that demographic over my back again. Those kids, those kids, those absent minded, easy-to-please rock-'n'-rollers who just need a little more oomph. They're the ones killing Sound on Sound. Those damn lazy--

And then that polo'd man shoots his eyes and our hero herky-jerks himself into mid-step. Every second on screen is a beating from those viewers' eyes, those 2,013+ viewers in those five seconds. 10,065 seconds of eyes, pelting down on the poor man. This is just as bad when we set up the intro, our hero thinks. He nearly had my ass on a broomstick. He swatted me away and off he went with his tirade of features. The couple waddles semi-ashamedly away, staring as far into the glass lens as they can.

But despite it all, I can't help my brain from computing how many paychecks and how many weeks before I can plausibly buy a better sampler.