Had some discussion about last week's midi bashing with one of the eventual billions breathlessly hanging on my every word. That's right, billions. I'm pretty sure anyways. Either my hit counter is broken from the constant barrage, or it doesn't count trans temporal precognitive hits from the future. But before I jump down midi's throat I'd like to revisit some other minor issues from last week. It's like this. Last week I went through talking to the people who aren't reading this and that turned out badly, plus I wasted a lot of time talking to no one. So if you're still not reading this please continue to not read while and I'll avoid talking to you. I got stuck on this last week and it appears I've snagged myself again this week, so I'll try to explain to those of you not reading this why I keep talking to you as if you were. Inside our heads there are at least three rooms that I can think of. They're sorta like Russian nesting dolls, one inside the other. Or in this case because we're inside our heads, one outside the other. The first is our main work area for things like math, paying bills, taking the kids to baseball, doing dishes and texting. Most of our time on this plane of existence is spent in this room trying to keep things in order. My main room is a mess. Over flowing book cases where I keep things like the manual for the toaster and bike riding instructions. It's full of old beat up furniture frosted with cat and dog hair from every pet I ever had. The floor is always in desperate need of a good vacuuming and dust bunnies of thought roll across it like tumbleweeds. Junk drawers abound full of scraps of paper and post-its with the glue dried up full of notes to myself. The old yellowing scraps have things like where the light button is on the fridge door, and the name of my second grade teacher. (Thank you Mrs. Sikorski.) The waste baskets are usually overflowing with newer looking scraps of paper that have things like where I left the car in the parking lot and what time it was an hour ago. I can somewhat tidy this room by taking frequent naps but it never lasts. Outside that room is a much larger room where imagination and emotion rule. This is where we visualize the vast distances in the universe, or what in might feel like to float around in the rings of Saturn, or walk a mile in someone else's shoes, or feel the pressures of the Mariana Trench. This is where we read books. This is where hope and love reside, along with dreams of riches or revenge. The inside of this room is as big as the universe or small as a neutrino. As big as love or small as envy. Inside these two rooms of the mundane and the imagined universe we seem limitless, but there's yet another room beyond the imagination and outside of time itself. You don't really see it, you only feel it, and it's biggest of all the rooms. It has no walls and is infinite. This is where God, inspiration, intuition, ESP, fate, and life and death reside. The room has no language, except maybe music. Basically all the stuff you can't touch, or measure with science, or prove it even exists. You only see it clearly a few times in life, and it's invariably a weird moment. Those flashes while driving to change lanes because the shit will hit the fan if you don't. The crazy wash of events that had to happen in exactly that way and in exactly that order to connect you with the love of your life. Songs float in and out. You can feel God and all the beings that ever were or will be smiling at you from this final room. It has no boundary and is shared by everything and everybody. This is where we're all connected, to everybody and everything. You know it's there because it's obvious, but nobody can prove it because there's nothing to point at. It's this final room that contains all the people not reading this. So if you start reading this and the feeling that you're not reading something goes away, that's why. I'm talking to those not reading this just in case it turns out they actually are reading, they just don't know it yet. In retrospect, perhaps I should have tackled this people-not-reading thing pharmaceutically. It might have saved us all a lot of reading. Anyways. Midi and samples are fine when played live. Usually via keyboard. In 1909 William F. Ludwig invented the kick drum pedal that put half the drummers out of work. It started there and since then samples and synths have replaced almost everything. It's the way of the world. The second a machine can do the work of a human all people doing that job are unceremoniously booted to the curb. Thank you for your service now stuff your bow ties up your asses and get the hell off the stage. We no longer have any need for strings you stupid orchestral bastards. And you too drummers. We have machines now that don't steal all the chicks and drink the last beer. Well we finally hit the point where every instrument can be kicked off stage by DJ's who hit the play button. The question might be what constitutes real music. The often painful truth is: Real music is absolutely anything that people like. If you can create with a mouse and computer something people like, but can't play an instrument, it's still music. Much of the current top 40 is done with a mouse but it's still music. Granted it's horrible autotuned quantized regurgitated formulaic spew, but it's music nonetheless. And I might point out, much of the music from back in the day, although played by musicians, was also horrible formulaic spew except it didn't have the autotuning and quantizing which would have made little difference anyway. Where music and creation diverge is in the recreation. Any racket that can be excursed from a speaker can be pronounced as music. Live recreation of music is another thing entirely sort of. If you have to hit the play button to start music it's not live. You can dance around scratching records and claiming arteest status all you want, it's not live music and you're not a musician. Sorry. It may even be great stuff, but still not a musician. Now I'll grant you, looping and effects are cheatey feeling and sneerable, but if you're playing the instruments that you're looping then you're a musician. I've heard some great loopy crap, but I've heard way better stuff from non-loopy full bands. A lot of bands are running rails these days. That's where the drummer runs a click in his headphones so they can play along to recorded tracks. Usually it's minor stuff like keyboard string pads or sneaking in some harmonies. Sometimes it's obvious, like entire backing tracks for single acts, and sometimes it's criminal, like lip syncing entire songs so you can leap and twirl while you pretend to sing. I can't really fault anybody for using them, but I will anyways. The digital age has created musical snake oil. Rails are crap, but often necessary to stay competitive. Joe Public doesn't know the difference between rails and real players most of the time, and most gigs don't pay enough to put real players in. Add to that it's exceedingly hard to keep a full size band working, so many of the big bands are sloppy due to just not gigging enough. Hell most of the small bands are sloppy too. A band that works every weekend is so much more polished and tight than one that works once a month. Much of the time polish beats individual talent because music is a team sport. Bands were invented because the sum of it's musical components adds up to much more than it's individual parts. In other words, four people playing separately is just four people playing. Four people playing together is nirvanic woohoo's of cool, and more than the sum of four people playing separately. Hencely, I figure it's gonna swing the other way soon and kids will sneer at plastic music. But anyway... We've traveled this road before. Your mission this week should you decide to accept it is to decide who's driving the bus. Your weenie? Or your heart. Hint: You can hit the play button easier with your weenie.