In April, I set out for an adventure—a day of sound, exploration, and analog bliss. I hopped on the Bart train, the city slipping by as I left San Francisco, bound for Concord. The rhythm of the train felt like a prelude, like the hum of a synth before it bursts into life. Stevie Synth was waiting for me there. He picked me up in the parking lot, and when I shut the car door, we were grinning like two kids who just ditched school for the day, a mischievous spark in our eyes.
The ride to his studio felt like a slow build, the anticipation of what's to come humming beneath the surface. We didn’t waste any time once we got there—an afternoon stretched ahead of us, packed with potential and plugged into the grid of our gear. The sound of the Metron clicked like the heartbeat of a city; WMD, Strymon, and Noise Engineering modules layered textures and tones that twisted through the air like a living thing. We chased grooves and sculpted waves, our hands moving with instinct and intention.
We were creating something more than music—a pulse, a conversation in sound. Stevie and I shared a language, though no words were spoken, only the hum and grind of the modulars, the way the frequencies danced between us.
As the machines sing, the mind drifts.
A train track hum becomes the low drone of the Metron,
snapping into sync with the pulse of the earth.
Electricity whispers through cables,
and the afternoon melts into sound.
We are not just musicians,
but translators of the intangible,
capturing echoes of places unseen,
where rhythm rules and melody is a memory.
We jammed all afternoon, letting the machines guide us through this techno-soaked journey, each twist of a knob pulling us deeper into a world of pure sound. It felt like stepping outside of time, leaving behind the ordinary for something entirely new.
This is that session, a conversation between two friends and their machines, set loose into the wild.
