Lavender twilight eyeshadow
Strings of headlight pearls
Pinstriped macadam dress
Saturday night date with I-95
Saturday, September 21, 2019
Friday, September 20, 2019
As Darkness Comes Once Again
The sun setting
on the autumnal equinox
is the eye of a wild mare
buoyantly galloping over horizonless verdant plains
under endless lapis skies
as she steps in a gopher hole
and feels the snap of her metacarpal
and goes down
chin first
onto the earth
into which her soon to be
scavenger cleansed and broken frame
will lingeringly
disintegrate
to dust.
on the autumnal equinox
is the eye of a wild mare
buoyantly galloping over horizonless verdant plains
under endless lapis skies
as she steps in a gopher hole
and feels the snap of her metacarpal
and goes down
chin first
onto the earth
into which her soon to be
scavenger cleansed and broken frame
will lingeringly
disintegrate
to dust.
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
All Sounds Come from Heaven
Lately I've been noticing that I have a strong judgmental response to sounds in my environment: while some sounds are genuinely neutral to me, for many, I tend quickly to decide I enjoy or abhor them. For example, on my commute to my office this morning, I decided to seek the solace of a quiet country road that was out of the way, but very pleasant and rejuvenating. Just as I turned off the noisy urban street and onto a tranquil residential path, a huge diesel tow truck pulled in behind me: I was immediately angry and put upon. The engine was loud enough and the driver stayed close enough (this took some doing on his part, as I drive a zippy, nimble sports car) that it actually hurt my ears. I felt violated, entitled to my peace, and angry that I had to tolerate this horror behind me. We played cat-and-mouse for a while, me trying to get away from him and him catching me up; it turned out we had the same destination. Once I realized that, I dejectedly gave up on my rural-soundscape-seeking and just drove to work.
This episode really brought forward awareness of my automatic judgment of what I hear. Apart from the appropriate rejection of physically harmful sound, it seems important to explore the fullness of our aural experience. As I get older and make more music of my own, I’m increasingly aware of my taste in what I want to hear. This seems appropriate, in the sense that any artist identifies a comparatively narrow band of all possible expression within which to work. That said, as I often guide my patients to do on the path to self-understanding, it seems a worthy effort to expose oneself to as wide a variety of experiences as possible in order to determine which of them one wishes to have more of and which one does not. The more I experience the universe of sound, the more I may understand of the music I wish to make.
There are many sound artists and musicians who incorporate into their art sounds I dislike. Cage famously built his career in part on the assertion that there is no sound which cannot be music. I get this premise and do not refute it; it does not contradict that I can still explore and choose which sounds are meaningful and expressive to me and which are not, independent of their meaning and expressivity for others. However, I am discovering in new ways my biases against what I think of as "noise": I feel entitled to live only with sounds I enjoy and not with sounds I don't.
That's a problem. (I am confident, dear reader, that you grasped that already.) I am, of course, aware that I do not have any say in other people's or in the world's sounding, let alone control over it. So, how did this entitlement come about? Marc Weidenbaum* recently suggested that it comes from the auditory control our technology affords us: pop in our earbuds and our aural universe is (nearly) at our command. I think this is true in part for me -- or at least generalizable: in my home growing up (long before earbuds), my parents played music almost constantly and I enjoyed most all of what they selected, even during my teen years. I think my first experience of feeling affronted at being forced to listen to something other than what I wanted came when my younger brother hit adolescence and began developing his own, different, taste (which, to be honest, I have come in recent decades to appreciate as brilliant). "Somebody else's favorite songs" has been a bane for me since about that time.
But there are other sonic affronts I suffer: sirens and jackhammers while walking, television in the next room, the hiss of nearby traffic, the distant hum of the city -- none of these are especially unusual to be annoyed by. What I'm appreciating, however, is that the word doing the most work at the beginning of this paragraph is "suffer." It's my own subjectivity, not anything inherent in the sound, that makes a thing an affront. Indeed, it's not even necessarily anything innate to me that causes that; yes, there are evolutionary predispositions, like toward hissing or growling or loudness, but my responses even to those can be malleable. (This, in turn, arises from the fact that sound cannot exist without a listener -- vibrations, yes, but sound is by definition a perceptual phenomenon.)
Which raises the question, how might my experience of the world, of others' art, of my own music, change by practicing greater acceptance of all parts of my soundscape? An interesting inquiry; I'll let you know.
*I couldn't find the link to the blog post in which he touched on this, but here's a short post in keeping with the spirit of it, so you can see his work.
This episode really brought forward awareness of my automatic judgment of what I hear. Apart from the appropriate rejection of physically harmful sound, it seems important to explore the fullness of our aural experience. As I get older and make more music of my own, I’m increasingly aware of my taste in what I want to hear. This seems appropriate, in the sense that any artist identifies a comparatively narrow band of all possible expression within which to work. That said, as I often guide my patients to do on the path to self-understanding, it seems a worthy effort to expose oneself to as wide a variety of experiences as possible in order to determine which of them one wishes to have more of and which one does not. The more I experience the universe of sound, the more I may understand of the music I wish to make.
There are many sound artists and musicians who incorporate into their art sounds I dislike. Cage famously built his career in part on the assertion that there is no sound which cannot be music. I get this premise and do not refute it; it does not contradict that I can still explore and choose which sounds are meaningful and expressive to me and which are not, independent of their meaning and expressivity for others. However, I am discovering in new ways my biases against what I think of as "noise": I feel entitled to live only with sounds I enjoy and not with sounds I don't.
That's a problem. (I am confident, dear reader, that you grasped that already.) I am, of course, aware that I do not have any say in other people's or in the world's sounding, let alone control over it. So, how did this entitlement come about? Marc Weidenbaum* recently suggested that it comes from the auditory control our technology affords us: pop in our earbuds and our aural universe is (nearly) at our command. I think this is true in part for me -- or at least generalizable: in my home growing up (long before earbuds), my parents played music almost constantly and I enjoyed most all of what they selected, even during my teen years. I think my first experience of feeling affronted at being forced to listen to something other than what I wanted came when my younger brother hit adolescence and began developing his own, different, taste (which, to be honest, I have come in recent decades to appreciate as brilliant). "Somebody else's favorite songs" has been a bane for me since about that time.
But there are other sonic affronts I suffer: sirens and jackhammers while walking, television in the next room, the hiss of nearby traffic, the distant hum of the city -- none of these are especially unusual to be annoyed by. What I'm appreciating, however, is that the word doing the most work at the beginning of this paragraph is "suffer." It's my own subjectivity, not anything inherent in the sound, that makes a thing an affront. Indeed, it's not even necessarily anything innate to me that causes that; yes, there are evolutionary predispositions, like toward hissing or growling or loudness, but my responses even to those can be malleable. (This, in turn, arises from the fact that sound cannot exist without a listener -- vibrations, yes, but sound is by definition a perceptual phenomenon.)
Which raises the question, how might my experience of the world, of others' art, of my own music, change by practicing greater acceptance of all parts of my soundscape? An interesting inquiry; I'll let you know.
*I couldn't find the link to the blog post in which he touched on this, but here's a short post in keeping with the spirit of it, so you can see his work.
Monday, September 2, 2019
Nailing It
"Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose..." -- James Taylor
British Racing Green was actually the thing I most had in mind when it sunk in that I was serious about painting my nails. A paean to the dreams of my late childhood and early adolescence, it is the color of the cars that my father -- and therefore, I -- loved the most: those legendary (and legendarily finicky, pain-in-the-ass, labour-of-love) tiny British two seater convertible coupes, MGs, Austin-Healeys, and, of course, Triumphs. At this point in my life, I'll never own one (at least short of becoming Jay Leno-rich), but to this day these cars and their streaks of countryside copse verde growl dustily through the backroads of my dreams. Five little crescents of BRG on my left hand seem to honor some small but critical voice in myself in ways I never expected when my daughter asked me if she could do my nails.
It was her idea, but something in me perked up when she asked, the Saturday night of the local Pride Weekend last June. "Why not?" I said and suggested an abbreviated rainbow on my left hand (five fingers couldn't hold the whole of ROY G BIV). When she asked, looking quizzical, why just my left, I wasn't yet sure, but it felt important. In any case, I figured, come Monday night, I'd acetone it all off in anticipation of returning to work.
But I quickly realized that I liked it. And others seemed to share that opinion, which felt good. I ended up wearing the rainbow for nearly two weeks, during which time I had begun to collect a baseline of nailcare paraphernalia such that I could do my own. And BRG was the first thing I wanted -- but I couldn't find it, so my first on-my-own manicure was bright red with sparkles. I felt like I was channeling my inner grade school girl. Eventually, an old friend sent me a green that I found nearly impossible to distinguish from BRG and, even though it was not named that, that is what I called it when anyone commented on my nails. Other colors -- mostly, like JT says, greens and blues -- attract me, too, and I'm excited to explore.
My last manicure looked better than my previous ones and I've learned a lot about nailcare in the last two months -- enough to know that I and nearly every other identifying male doesn't know shit. My wife pointed out that I'm about the equivalent of a six or seven year old girl, since that's when a lot of folks start; that seems fair. Hopefully, my adult motor coordination will save me from several years of preadolescent brushwork, but I'm fine even if it does. Somehow, this just seems right.
In the last month or so, I have gotten a sense of why just my left hand: it's the hand I attend to most when I play viola. It seems meaningful to give it a little pride. I'm right handed, so I engage with it all the time; my left, though, has a role that my right could never take -- making music in that one special way since I was 12.
And I like that it leaves people wondering; it's a little queer flag, it marks me as a violist (in my mind, anyway), and, even when I'm not actually wearing BRG, it keeps a little MG Midget alive in my heart.
British Racing Green was actually the thing I most had in mind when it sunk in that I was serious about painting my nails. A paean to the dreams of my late childhood and early adolescence, it is the color of the cars that my father -- and therefore, I -- loved the most: those legendary (and legendarily finicky, pain-in-the-ass, labour-of-love) tiny British two seater convertible coupes, MGs, Austin-Healeys, and, of course, Triumphs. At this point in my life, I'll never own one (at least short of becoming Jay Leno-rich), but to this day these cars and their streaks of countryside copse verde growl dustily through the backroads of my dreams. Five little crescents of BRG on my left hand seem to honor some small but critical voice in myself in ways I never expected when my daughter asked me if she could do my nails.
It was her idea, but something in me perked up when she asked, the Saturday night of the local Pride Weekend last June. "Why not?" I said and suggested an abbreviated rainbow on my left hand (five fingers couldn't hold the whole of ROY G BIV). When she asked, looking quizzical, why just my left, I wasn't yet sure, but it felt important. In any case, I figured, come Monday night, I'd acetone it all off in anticipation of returning to work.
But I quickly realized that I liked it. And others seemed to share that opinion, which felt good. I ended up wearing the rainbow for nearly two weeks, during which time I had begun to collect a baseline of nailcare paraphernalia such that I could do my own. And BRG was the first thing I wanted -- but I couldn't find it, so my first on-my-own manicure was bright red with sparkles. I felt like I was channeling my inner grade school girl. Eventually, an old friend sent me a green that I found nearly impossible to distinguish from BRG and, even though it was not named that, that is what I called it when anyone commented on my nails. Other colors -- mostly, like JT says, greens and blues -- attract me, too, and I'm excited to explore.
My last manicure looked better than my previous ones and I've learned a lot about nailcare in the last two months -- enough to know that I and nearly every other identifying male doesn't know shit. My wife pointed out that I'm about the equivalent of a six or seven year old girl, since that's when a lot of folks start; that seems fair. Hopefully, my adult motor coordination will save me from several years of preadolescent brushwork, but I'm fine even if it does. Somehow, this just seems right.
In the last month or so, I have gotten a sense of why just my left hand: it's the hand I attend to most when I play viola. It seems meaningful to give it a little pride. I'm right handed, so I engage with it all the time; my left, though, has a role that my right could never take -- making music in that one special way since I was 12.
And I like that it leaves people wondering; it's a little queer flag, it marks me as a violist (in my mind, anyway), and, even when I'm not actually wearing BRG, it keeps a little MG Midget alive in my heart.
Update
And on Labor Day, autumn falls like a wet blanket over the joyous bonfire of summer.
It is delightful to have the windows open to cool breezes and to listen to the outside noises, ironically evocative of summer: busy birds, neighbors' A/C units, windchimes, cicadas, and distant traffic. But it's difficult for me to get enough of summer. A country drive south of the Mason Dixon Line, I'm safely in the blue territory of the BoNYWash megalopolis, but I think I'll always miss the token winters of Florida.
Marc Weidenbaum, whose creative output I follow at disquiet.com and through his newsletters, has recently been advocating for blogging (indeed, he claims to have been doing so uninterruptedly since before the word was born) and posted a link to a fellow blogger's shared argument that I found especially compelling: that blogging did and does a better job of what social media has usurped, namely, sharing your life with friends and family. That point clicked into my thoughts about social media like a critical missing tetromino. Too, while I've understood for a long time the value of writing as a means for organizing one's thoughts, both Weidenbaum and Donaldson praise regular blogging as an ideal arena for that process. These ideas and others have led me recently to determine that I need to spend more time writing here (and for my professional blog).
I briefly had a few blogs back in the late 90s and early 00's, including the original version of circlingcrows, but my motivation for posting was unsorted, so my use of it (and, consequently, my output, to the degree that that was a goal) was even more inconsistent than that of my current sites. Of course, in the context suggested by Weidenbaum and Donaldson, consistency isn't a goal in and of itself, but an ancillary outcome, one way of scoring the time and effort I put into thinking. And consistency arises out of my willingness to say yes, in any given moment, to sitting and writing when I have a thought that seems worth investigating. One of the things I appreciate about Weidenbaum particularly is that he seems not to have a minimum length for his posts; sometimes they are a few sentences, but sentences worth engaging in (at least for him, but more often than not for the reader, too). Take this in the context of social media's practical microblogging format and, to my mind, you've got no reason not to blog.
So, my plans are to take the occasional thoughts that I have specifically not posted on Facebook and explore them here. In its most recent iteration (since 2011), my intention was that this blog be primarily about music, but, while I intend that it continues to be a place for my musical efforts, I'll be expanding the rubric to include pretty much anything that isn't better placed at DNLPS.
And now, time for breakfast.
It is delightful to have the windows open to cool breezes and to listen to the outside noises, ironically evocative of summer: busy birds, neighbors' A/C units, windchimes, cicadas, and distant traffic. But it's difficult for me to get enough of summer. A country drive south of the Mason Dixon Line, I'm safely in the blue territory of the BoNYWash megalopolis, but I think I'll always miss the token winters of Florida.
Marc Weidenbaum, whose creative output I follow at disquiet.com and through his newsletters, has recently been advocating for blogging (indeed, he claims to have been doing so uninterruptedly since before the word was born) and posted a link to a fellow blogger's shared argument that I found especially compelling: that blogging did and does a better job of what social media has usurped, namely, sharing your life with friends and family. That point clicked into my thoughts about social media like a critical missing tetromino. Too, while I've understood for a long time the value of writing as a means for organizing one's thoughts, both Weidenbaum and Donaldson praise regular blogging as an ideal arena for that process. These ideas and others have led me recently to determine that I need to spend more time writing here (and for my professional blog).
I briefly had a few blogs back in the late 90s and early 00's, including the original version of circlingcrows, but my motivation for posting was unsorted, so my use of it (and, consequently, my output, to the degree that that was a goal) was even more inconsistent than that of my current sites. Of course, in the context suggested by Weidenbaum and Donaldson, consistency isn't a goal in and of itself, but an ancillary outcome, one way of scoring the time and effort I put into thinking. And consistency arises out of my willingness to say yes, in any given moment, to sitting and writing when I have a thought that seems worth investigating. One of the things I appreciate about Weidenbaum particularly is that he seems not to have a minimum length for his posts; sometimes they are a few sentences, but sentences worth engaging in (at least for him, but more often than not for the reader, too). Take this in the context of social media's practical microblogging format and, to my mind, you've got no reason not to blog.
So, my plans are to take the occasional thoughts that I have specifically not posted on Facebook and explore them here. In its most recent iteration (since 2011), my intention was that this blog be primarily about music, but, while I intend that it continues to be a place for my musical efforts, I'll be expanding the rubric to include pretty much anything that isn't better placed at DNLPS.
And now, time for breakfast.
Monday, February 11, 2019
Music for Days
Okay, a day and a half, but really, this is a breathtaking project:
I'm very proud to have participated in a new collection through the Lines community. The parameters were pretty loose: compose a long-form (30-90 minutes) ambient piece. As you can see on the album page, there were over 50 submissions, totaling about 34 hours of music; it's simply monumental. (It takes me back to Music on a Long Thin Wire, a piece that was part of my first introduction to contemporary art music in my late teens. It was arguably one of the first long-form ambient works, literally lasting for days.) Put it on in the background and let it color your day (and a half!); mine is the fifth track, about 2 1/2 hours in.
Some notes on my contribution: Back in October of last year, there was a discussion on Lines about ambient music theory and whether there was such a thing or not. In the course of the conversation, several things happened: a number of people made the points that a) music theory is retrospective, not prospective (Debussy's comment that theory does not make art was referenced a few times) and b) that the best resource for understanding how to make the music you want is to listen to and deconstruct that made by those who inspire you, and, lastly, Debussy's La Cathédrale Engloutie was mentioned (referring to it as a progenitor of ambient music), reminding me of a specific example of b) for me. Additionally, this discussion happened at a time when I was already exploring (more than usual) how to guide myself compositionally, especially in terms of vertical and horizontal structure.
As a result of this, I was in the middle of taking apart La Cathédral Engloutie when the long-form ambient compilation suggestion arose and decided to run with it: I selected some of my favorite chord progressions, leaving a few as is and reverting/inverting and reordering others, voiced them in various ways, and chopped them up into clips. I don't normally use Ableton Live's clip-launching performance function (despite having and regularly using a Push 2), but decided that this would be a good opportunity to experiment with it -- building up a 30-minute-plus composition clip-by-clip seemed likely to produce something really boring.
I spent a lot of time playing with the clips, listening to how they interacted and experimenting with different overall structures; at a certain point it seemed like it needed a human voice, specifically men's choir, and even better would be chant (in keeping with Debussy's ecclesiastical reference). I'm far from religious (nor even Christian), but I have always loved Kyries. Simple, sweet, direct, the Greek is beautiful and the spiritual message of the text maps onto metta meditations and other mantras and prayers of compassion. I found a recording of one that I especially liked and, realizing I would likely be violating copyrights if I simply dropped it into my piece, I transcribed it and built up a choir of my own voice. I think this was the first time I have ever sung on a recording; it is, of course, a very long way from the heavenly tones of the Monks of Notre Dame, but I am ultimately satisfied with the effect.
Further inspiration came from Debussy's title, variously translated as the "sunken," "engulfed," or "drowned" cathedral; the phrase evokes in me a sadness, a lostness, a wonder of discovery of a great but forgotten past, but also an exploration, an inward-turning, a deep and surprising spiritual experience. The piece is structured making the spirit of this into the following fantastic metaphor: a bathyscaphe carefully wends its way through a deep oceanic canyon when its passengers detect distant echoes of music; following this, they come upon a grand and ancient cathedral and, entering, discover a prayerful choir. The sonar "ping" is intended to evoke both a sense of depth and of exploration, a literal "sounding" of the numinous world into which the listener is invited.
I'm very proud to have participated in a new collection through the Lines community. The parameters were pretty loose: compose a long-form (30-90 minutes) ambient piece. As you can see on the album page, there were over 50 submissions, totaling about 34 hours of music; it's simply monumental. (It takes me back to Music on a Long Thin Wire, a piece that was part of my first introduction to contemporary art music in my late teens. It was arguably one of the first long-form ambient works, literally lasting for days.) Put it on in the background and let it color your day (and a half!); mine is the fifth track, about 2 1/2 hours in.
Some notes on my contribution: Back in October of last year, there was a discussion on Lines about ambient music theory and whether there was such a thing or not. In the course of the conversation, several things happened: a number of people made the points that a) music theory is retrospective, not prospective (Debussy's comment that theory does not make art was referenced a few times) and b) that the best resource for understanding how to make the music you want is to listen to and deconstruct that made by those who inspire you, and, lastly, Debussy's La Cathédrale Engloutie was mentioned (referring to it as a progenitor of ambient music), reminding me of a specific example of b) for me. Additionally, this discussion happened at a time when I was already exploring (more than usual) how to guide myself compositionally, especially in terms of vertical and horizontal structure.
As a result of this, I was in the middle of taking apart La Cathédral Engloutie when the long-form ambient compilation suggestion arose and decided to run with it: I selected some of my favorite chord progressions, leaving a few as is and reverting/inverting and reordering others, voiced them in various ways, and chopped them up into clips. I don't normally use Ableton Live's clip-launching performance function (despite having and regularly using a Push 2), but decided that this would be a good opportunity to experiment with it -- building up a 30-minute-plus composition clip-by-clip seemed likely to produce something really boring.
I spent a lot of time playing with the clips, listening to how they interacted and experimenting with different overall structures; at a certain point it seemed like it needed a human voice, specifically men's choir, and even better would be chant (in keeping with Debussy's ecclesiastical reference). I'm far from religious (nor even Christian), but I have always loved Kyries. Simple, sweet, direct, the Greek is beautiful and the spiritual message of the text maps onto metta meditations and other mantras and prayers of compassion. I found a recording of one that I especially liked and, realizing I would likely be violating copyrights if I simply dropped it into my piece, I transcribed it and built up a choir of my own voice. I think this was the first time I have ever sung on a recording; it is, of course, a very long way from the heavenly tones of the Monks of Notre Dame, but I am ultimately satisfied with the effect.
Further inspiration came from Debussy's title, variously translated as the "sunken," "engulfed," or "drowned" cathedral; the phrase evokes in me a sadness, a lostness, a wonder of discovery of a great but forgotten past, but also an exploration, an inward-turning, a deep and surprising spiritual experience. The piece is structured making the spirit of this into the following fantastic metaphor: a bathyscaphe carefully wends its way through a deep oceanic canyon when its passengers detect distant echoes of music; following this, they come upon a grand and ancient cathedral and, entering, discover a prayerful choir. The sonar "ping" is intended to evoke both a sense of depth and of exploration, a literal "sounding" of the numinous world into which the listener is invited.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
Unquiet Ice
Marc Weidenbaum runs a weekly composition project I've wanted to participate in for some time called the disquiet junto. I've made several attempts to submit projects before the deadline, but have consistently failed -- until today. I'm pleased finally to join the ranks of the musicians whose workflow is such that they can get a piece put together and posted in less than four days. This week's project involved sampling ice cubes in a glass; here's my entry:
Adding some detail to my brief post on the Lines forum, I used the same piezo mics I used at Ringing Rocks -- in two cases the exact same -- except two of them I dipped in Plastidip to make simple hydrophones. They were experiments and work well enough: they are less sensitive generally and lose pretty much all response below about 100Hz, but for these purposes they were fine. The un-dipped piezo's I taped to the outside of the glass, which worked better than I thought -- in fact, I discovered later that the mics and the glass together were sensitive enough to pick up ambient voices in the kitchen, where I was working, and adjacent dining room!
I poured soda into the glass at one point. I didn't like the harshness of the dry cubes in the glass and wanted the squeak and thrum of the air leaking out of the cubes as they melted in the water, as well as the bubbles of CO2 condensing out and popping (have you ever listened to your soda?). The final piece has a through-track that is a couple layered recordings of that sound.
This is the first use of a [buffer~]-based sample scrambler that took me essentially all of 2018 to design and build (it sat for a few months between mid-October and late December). My intention was to use it for a viola piece, which I still plan on doing, but it also turned out to be perfect for what I wanted at the end of this. That bit that sounds sort of like a delay is actually the scrambler: listen closely and you can hear that the sound is played back both forward and backward at different pitches.
Adding some detail to my brief post on the Lines forum, I used the same piezo mics I used at Ringing Rocks -- in two cases the exact same -- except two of them I dipped in Plastidip to make simple hydrophones. They were experiments and work well enough: they are less sensitive generally and lose pretty much all response below about 100Hz, but for these purposes they were fine. The un-dipped piezo's I taped to the outside of the glass, which worked better than I thought -- in fact, I discovered later that the mics and the glass together were sensitive enough to pick up ambient voices in the kitchen, where I was working, and adjacent dining room!
I poured soda into the glass at one point. I didn't like the harshness of the dry cubes in the glass and wanted the squeak and thrum of the air leaking out of the cubes as they melted in the water, as well as the bubbles of CO2 condensing out and popping (have you ever listened to your soda?). The final piece has a through-track that is a couple layered recordings of that sound.
This is the first use of a [buffer~]-based sample scrambler that took me essentially all of 2018 to design and build (it sat for a few months between mid-October and late December). My intention was to use it for a viola piece, which I still plan on doing, but it also turned out to be perfect for what I wanted at the end of this. That bit that sounds sort of like a delay is actually the scrambler: listen closely and you can hear that the sound is played back both forward and backward at different pitches.
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