Chapter 10: How Long Is Wrong?

The record of the recording of this record plays like a broken record.  Again, there I was, just minding my own business (shepherding plug-ins).  We wuz just fooling around, y’know?  One thing led to another; and here I find myself fettered with the responsibility of raising yet another brainchild. …another mouth-ed idea to feed yaz.

Earlier this year, I had added another UAD-2 card to Lake Gennesaret [<Luke5><] Studio PS—our SCM/Entejé home-lab.  For my purchase, I received a coupon for $500 to add any UAD plug-in.  There among the only offerings available not already in my possession were the Moog™ filter and their SSL™ emulations.  I run a dual platform DAW system in my studio; and while I had the Moog™ and SSL™ in forms of the Arturia™ Minimoog V® and Waves™’ SSL® Collection on my Intel Extreme PC respectively, it was nice to add these functions to the Mac UAD-ively.

Chapter 9: Can I Fly Away with You?

This song starts with a smooth soft-touch Jazz guitar line that [you guessed it…probably] was one of those plug-in test patterns—to which faithful readers of the "…Mμne-Pi" blog must be well-accustomed by now.  What distinguishes this particular plug-in is that it was a freebie [I say was because, though the guitar pattern began with freeware, I bolstered it with a Vir2® "Guitar Legends"® acoustic guitar and I believe it was an NI Kontackt® 3 guitar sound along with it]…IK's Sampletank®-I demo.  I now own the “real” non-demo plug-in.

Chapter 8b: (When Love Has) Gotcha

Among memories of living times with my father, etched indelibly on my mind is one of my father commenting favorably on my college band [Ebony Specktrum]'s style. He told me that he could envision our sound someday being known as the Delta Sound. It's doubtless that he meant that highly complimentary; but to my shame, back then there was nothing about the Mississippi Delta with which I wished to be associated.


I grew up on a culturally cosmopolitan island known to its inhabitants as Valley State—literally in the middle of a cotton patch. Outside our collegiate borders—wherein seemingly every Mr. or Mrs. I addressed owned a graduate degree (many of those doctorates, who would be addressed as "Dr.")—most of the basic aboriginal element with whom I had my dealings were imaginatively restricted within the generational bounds of their limited expectations. Other than athletics—where successes blooms sufficient enough in occurrence to be a legitimate hope, anyone spouting any other so-lofty expectations was certifiably SIDney.


Fast-forward eight years…