Weeknotes: October 20–23, 2025

Monday, October 20

Through trial and error, I think I've traced the signal hum to my outboard preamp, a Golden Age Pre-73 MKII. It was recommended to me by Fred Thomas and was integral to my last two albums. Maybe it just needs a new power supply — that would be the best case scenario. More impactful is the loss of my primary condenser mic, an old Studio Projects C1 I bought in 2006 and use for almost everything I make. Like all my gear, it's a budget piece, but it has survived nearly 20 years of abuse and performed beyond all expectations. I'll likely get both items repaired, but I can't afford it right now.

So, with my two workhorses out of commission, I'm left with what I've got. I think of the old adage "the best tool is the one in front of you." I have a handful of other mics, but nothing that really fills the role that the C1 does. I could borrow a decent condenser mic from a friend, but a part of me welcomes the limitations of making do with what's on hand. That’s where creativity starts.

During rush hour, I'm running down a hill toward a busy intersection. There's a car in the northbound lane facing me with its hazard lights on and another in the southbound left turn lane, also stopped. Several people are crouched in the middle of the road picking up some type of debris while evening traffic diverts around them. I assume it's broken glass from a collision, but as I approach, I see the road is scattered with what looks like an entire box of nails. Bending to help, I ask one of the good Samaritans how they got there.

"No idea. I wondered if it was a sabotage campaign from a local tire company," she jokes.

Some of the nail heads have already been driven into the soft asphalt and I have to pry them out with my fingernails. But, just think of all the punctures we're preventing.

Tuesday, October 21

We wake early in thick, shifting mist — and a diffuse, lemony sunlight. The river is covert and mysterious. Far above us, the sunlight makes nacre in the alto-cirrus. Far to the west, the sunlight pinks the cloud bellies. We can see none of these, for we are soft-packed in mist and that is the limit of our world.

So writes Robert MacFarlane in my dog-eaten copy of Is a River Alive?. I read at my kitchen table over a turkey sandwich, listening to Stevie Wonder's Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants. I make the connection that good writing isn’t that different from good music. MacFarlane’s prose here is like an elegant chord sequence or a surprising riff. He could have described that scene in simpler terms, but instead spent some time coming at it from different angles in order to arrive at being “soft-packed in mist.” The best musicians and songwriters also find new ways to convey familiar things.

In class today we make heavy use of ChatGPT. I sometimes use AI for research, but I'm not yet comfortable asking it to create things I could otherwise make. Our professor wants to emphasize its inevitable integration into the design industry, so we feed it a few prompts to create a logo for our next assignment. What comes out is pretty good, if a little dull. "This is what you're up against,” she says. “You have to be able to make something better than this or your client will just use AI." What would Robert MacFarlane or Stevie Wonder do?

When I re-emerge onto campus, the afternoon has gone dark and stormy. Leaves eddy at the building’s entrance then cannon across the grass. Clouds scud, haircuts go sideways — it's the organic world reminding us machines are still just machines. We could be leveled any moment. 

Wednesday, October 22

It’s one of the XLR cables — the only one I didn't swap out on Monday. When I tried a different mic setup last night, the signal noise came back. Today, I replace the cable and voilà, pure clean signal. Sometimes it’s that easy. Maybe my preamp isn't broken, after all.

I spend an hour recording a fingerpicked guitar part that, while technically unambitious, is so hard on my left hand I have to ice it with a bag of frozen corn after a few takes. It's just two barre chords repeated for about three minutes, but in order to play every note cleanly, I have to grip the strings so tightly that I get just a few chances to run through it before my strength gives out.

Thursday, October 23

A week after my neighbor Andy died, one of those large industrial dumpsters was deposited across the street. I heard he had an estranged son and I assume that's who is unceremoniously emptying the house's contents into it. From my studio window I watch trash pickers sift through his effects, ferrying away their bounty on bikes or stuffed into car trunks. I love an estate sale, but generally avoid dumpster diving. Still, I’m curious.

Returning from my morning run, I bow to impulse and climb up to peer over the edge — plastic bags of unknown contents, a worn out upholstered armchair, a dismantled dresser. I spot a small wooden fruit crate advertising Santa Clara Prunes —antique crates are my weakness. I climb in to fetch it, a memento to remember Andy by, and maybe another cat bed for Esteban.

An hour later, I step into the laundry room and am surprised to see, through the back window, one of the ubiquitous tree-service trucks that have been roaming the neighborhood all week. Its crew is already trimming the elm next to my shed, presumably for the power company. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

I run out to ask if they'll do me a favor. It’s nowhere near the power lines, but a huge widowmaker branch has hung like the Sword of Damocles over my shed door since a 2023 ice storm. Even with a ladder and pole saw, I haven’t been able to reach it — it’s too high. Chainsaw in hand, the my savior up in the bucket yells down that he was already planning on it.

Wright Tree Service, you are the true Knights of Riverside.