Acoustic Band Quotes

Dave and Serge...played the Fiddler's Elbow as if it were Giants Stadium, and even though it was acoustic, they just about blew the place up. They were standing on chairs adn lying on the floor, they were funny, they charmed everyone in the pub apart from an old drunk ditting next to the drum kit...who put his fingers firmly in his ears during Serge's extended harmonica solo. It was utterly bizarre and very moving: most musicians wouldn't have bothered turning up, let alone almost killing themselves. And I was reminded...how rarely one feels included in a live show. Usually you watch, and listen, and drift off, and the band plays well or doesn't and it doesn't matter much either way. It can actually be a very lonely experience. But I felt a part of the music, and a part of the people I'd gone with, and, to cut this short before the encores, I didn't want to read for about a fortnight afterward. I wanted to write, but I didn't want to read no book. I was too itchy, too energized, and if young people feel like that every night of the week, then, yes, literature 's dead as a dodo. (Nick's thoughts after seeing Marah at a little pub called Fiddler's Elbow.)

The Stereophonics were nice guys and we got along fine, though the differences between us were marked. Before they played they would practise their harmonies by playing the Extreme song ‘More Than Words’, with the whole band singing along with Kelly, the singer, and his acoustic guitar. For our pre-gig ritual we would sniff as many poppers as we could and listen to ‘Raw Power’ by The Stooges at ear-splitting volume.

You always have to keep pushing to innovate. Dylan could have sung protest songs forever and probably made a lot of money, but he didn’t. He had to move on, and when he did, by going electric in 1965, he alienated a lot of people. His 1966 Europe tour was his greatest. He would come on and do a set of acoustic guitar, and the audiences loved him. Then he brought out what became The Band, and they would all do an electric set, and the audience sometimes booed. There was one point where he was about to sing “Like a Rolling Stone” and someone from the audience yells “Judas!” And Dylan then says, “Play it fucking loud!” And they did. The Beatles were the same way. They kept evolving, moving, refining their art. That’s what I’ve always tried to do—keep moving. Otherwise, as Dylan says, if you’re not busy being born, you’re busy dying.

Me, I hated Suits. Loathed them. Because when you’re a rock star and make a crap ton of money, everyone wants a piece of the pie. A pie you baked. With ingredients you bought. None of the Suits had given a shit about me when I sat, day in and day out, outside King’s Cross tube station with Tania, my acoustic Tatay, and played, and begged, and shoved demos into people’s hands just to watch them slam-dunking them to the nearest bin. None of the Suits were there when I knocked on doors in the pouring rain, and pleaded in the bitter snow, and bargained, and argued, to get myself heard. They also weren’t there when I got booed in Glastonbury three years in a row opening for bigger bands, or when mostly-empty beer cans were thrown my way for a good laugh, or when a drunk girl puked on my only pair of shoes trying to tell me I sounded like a Morrissey knockoff.

In many acoustical applications, sound is considered as falling in eight octave bands, with center frequencies of 63; 125; 250; 500; 1,000; 2,000; 4,000; and 8,000 Hz. In some cases, sound is considered in terms of 1/3-octave bands, with center frequencies falling at 31.5; 50; 63; 80; 100; 125; 160; 200; 250; 315; 400; 500; 630; 800; 1,000; 1,250; 1,600; 2,000; 2,500; 3,150; 4,000; 5,000; 6,300; 8,000; and 10,000 Hz.

Born to Bleed - Red Hearse I Just Don’t Care That Much - Matt Maeson Damned if I Do Ya (Damned If I Don’t) - All Time Low Bad Kind of Butterflies  - Camila Cabello Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting - Elton John Peer Pressure - James Bay (ft. Julia Michaels) My Oh My - Camila Cabello Heaven - Julia Michaels Graveyard (acoustic) - Halsey Good Things Fall Apart - Illenium & Jon Bellion Break Me - The Band Camino

could never get anything going in Toronto, never even got one gig with a band. So I moved instead towards acoustic music and immediately became very introspective and musically inward. That’s the beginning of that whole side of my music.

One memorable offstage incident was reported in detail by Tork to writer Dave Zimmer: “We were in this hotel room. Jimi and Stephen (Stills) were sitting on these beds facing each other, just flailing away on acoustic guitars. In between ’em was Micky Dolenz, slapping his guitar like, ‘slap, whacka, slap, whacka, slap.’ And all of a sudden Micky quit. Then Stephen and Jimi stopped and Stephen said to Micky, ‘Why’d you stop playing? Micky said, ‘I didn’t know you were listening.’ So there’s one for ya—Hendrix, Stills, and Dolenz.

For People Starting Out—Say “Yes” When Derek was 18, he was living in Boston, attending the Berklee College of Music. “I’m in this band where the bass player, one day in rehearsal, says, ‘Hey man, my agent just offered me this gig—it’s like $ 75 to play at a pig show in Vermont.’ He rolls his eyes, and he says, ‘I’m not gonna do it, do you want the gig?’ I’m like, ‘Fuck yeah, a paying gig?! Oh, my God! Yes!’ So, I took the gig to go up to Burlington, Vermont. “And, I think it was a $ 58 round-trip bus ticket. I get to this pig show, I strap my acoustic guitar on, and I walked around a pig show playing music. I did that for about 3 hours, and took the bus home, and the next day, the booking agent called me up, and said, ‘Hey, yeah, so you did a really good job at the pig show. . . .’ “So many opportunities, and 10 years of stage experience, came from that one piddly little pig show. . . . When you’re earlier in your career, I think the best strategy is to just say ‘yes’ to everything. Every little gig. You just never know what are the lottery tickets.

favorite country song—no, her favorite song, period—was “Bless the Broken Road.” And not the poppy, Disney-fied cover by Rascal Flatts. The original, soulful acoustic version by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.

But the experience was also fulfilling: Paul’s new album had the variety that was his hallmark, with ballads and rockers, acoustic tracks, and high-energy electric cuts. But most importantly, where each of his post-Beatles releases had tracks that Paul knew were throwaways—throwaways that he liked, or that struck him as having a personality that earned them a place on an album, but throwaways all the same—Band on the Run had an energizing consistency, track for track.

Plunkett gave Pitt a dry look. "Even death would be a treat if I didn't have to hear that blasted tune again." "You don't care for 'Minnie the Mermaid'?" Pitt asked in mock surprise. "After hearing the chorus for the twentieth time, no." "With the telephone housing smashed, our only contact with the surface is the acoustic radio transmitter. Not nearly enough range for conversation, but it's all we've got. I can offer you Strauss waltzes or the big band sounds of the forties, but they wouldn't be appropriate." "I don't think much of your musical inventory," Plunkett grunted. Then he looked at Pitt. "What's wrong with Strauss?" "Instrumental," Pitt answered. "Distorted violin music can sound like whales or several other aquatic mammals through water. Minnie is a vocal. If anyone on the surface is listening, they'll know someone down here is still sucking air. No matter how garbled, there's no mistaking good old human babble." "For all the good that will do," said Plunkett. "If a rescue mission is launched, there's no way we can transfer from this vehicle to a submersible without a pressure lock. A commodity totally lacking on your otherwise remarkable tractor. If I may speak realistically, I fail to see anything in the near future but our inevitable demise." "I wish you wouldn't use the word 'demise.

That was an enormous leap—to go from the safety onstage or in the studio of singing with a band behind you to just facing an audience with your own guitar,” Rubin says. “Once we decided that we were going to make it a solo acoustic album, I noticed a change in him when he was just singing in my living room. Before, he had been relaxed and singing in a very personal, intimate way. But suddenly he changed. He began performing the songs, and it wasn’t the same.

The Blasters proved to be the most prominent and popular of these acts by far. Originally a quartet, the band was bred in Downey, just down the freeway from East L.A. In their teens, brothers Phil and Dave Alvin were bitten by the blues bug; they became habitués of the L.A. club the Ash Grove, where many of the best-known folk and electric blues performers played, and they sought out the local musicians who could teach them their craft, learning firsthand from such icons as Big Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker, and Little Richard’s saxophonist Lee Allen (who would ultimately join the band in the ’80s). But the Blasters’ style was multidimensional: they could play R&B, they loved country music, and they were also dyed-in-the-wool rockabilly fans who were initially embraced by the music’s fervent L.A. cultists. Their debut album, 1980’s American Music, was recorded in a Van Nuys garage by the Milan, Italy–born rockabilly fanatic Rockin’ Ronnie Weiser, and released on his indie label Rollin’ Rock Records, which also issued LPs by such first-generation rockabilly elders as Gene Vincent, Mac Curtis, Jackie Waukeen Cochran, and Ray Campi. By virtue of Phil Alvin’s powerful, unmannered singing and Dave Alvin’s adept guitar playing and original songwriting, the Blasters swiftly rose to the top of a pack of greasy local bands that also included Levi and the Rockats (a unit fronted by English singer Levi Dexter) and the Rockabilly Rebels (who frequently backed Ray Campi). Los Lobos were early Blasters fans, and often listened to American Music in their van on the way to their own (still acoustic) gigs. Rosas says, “We loved their first record, man. We used to play the shit out of that record. Dave [Hidalgo] was the one who got a copy of it, and he put it on cassette.

The band could not have known that the Alvin brothers were already well aware of Los Lobos, and had been for more than five years, for they had seen the band’s TV debut on La Cultura in 1975. “The first time we had ever heard of them,” says Dave Alvin, “Phil and I were at home, and we watched a thing on the local PBS station, channel 28. It was a half-hour documentary on this band from East L.A. that played traditional acoustic Mexican music from all of the various states.” Phil Alvin adds that the Lobos’ example in fact had an impact on the genre-defying way in which the Blasters conceived of their own music: “I remember watching it and really being just impressed, particularly about the way they talked about Mexican music and the variety of it. When we went down to Rockin’ Ronnie’s and he kept pressuring us to say we played rockabilly and stuff like that, I remember thinking of those guys when I [told him]

WhatsApp: +1 (443) 859 - 2886 Email @ digitaltechguard.com Telegram: digitaltechguard.com Website link: digitaltechguard.com The scent of freshly brewed espresso and vintage Led Zeppelin records should have been my retirement anthem. But I was hunched over a computer in my still-under-construction vinyl record cafe, screaming at a blockchain explorer as if it just ridiculed my acoustic session. My life savings, $430,000 worth of Bitcoin, carefully earned over a decade of writing alt-rock ballads for car commercials, vanished into thin air. The culprit? Some smooth "investment manager" who'd promised me "Taylor Swift-level returns" on crypto staking, then bailed faster than my band's 2008 reunion tour.  The scam was a cringe symphony.Guy had a LinkedIn profile dotted with adjectives such as "Web3 maestro" and "DeFi virtuoso," an autotuned elevator jazz playing website, and a contractual loophole big enough to drive a tour bus through. I signed over access like a groupie handing over backstage passes. Poof. Gone. Money. My café's espresso machine sat in its box, accusatorially. My spouse said I needed to "get a real job again." Even my dog gave me the side eye. Enter my drummer, Chad, a guy who had escaped a festival pyro tragedy by jumping into a kiddie pool. He texted me: "Bro, look at Digital Tech Guard Recovery. They're crypto Roadies." I pictured a group of pierced hackers in black hoodies, blowing gum and cracking firewalls. Good enough. Digitals crew followed the scambot's trail with the ferocity of a producer hunting for the perfect bassline. The crook had routed my Bitcoin through privacy coins, obscured wallets, and exchanges located in countries that I couldn't spell. Their engineers stalked his path like a creep watching a pop star's concert tour schedule, in cooperation with Interpol and a Cypriot bank used also as a hub for meme stocks. As it turns out, my "maestro" had become careless, stashing money in a wallet associated with a failed NFT venture named "Aping for Jesus." Typical. Sixteen days later, my wallet beeped. Balance returned. No taunting, only a curt email: "Scammer's assets frozen. Your money's back. Buy better speakers." I blasted "Eye of the Tiger" through the café sound system, shocking a hipster with oat milk. The espresso machine finally came online. Digital Tech Guard Recovery didn't just restore my cryptocurrency; they wrote the encore for my midlife crisis. My café exists today, littered with grail-worthy records on the walls and a tip cup emblazoned "ETH accepted." Chad's no longer on the espresso machine, but he's got free coffee for life. If your cryptocurrency is ever swindled by a cyber rockstar, don't go into existential tailspin. Call the Digitals. They'll turn your faceplant into a victory lap. Just maybe screen your "maestros" harder than your band's setlist.

(five). The Esher demos are a real treasure trove; they mined it for years. Songs that got worried to death on the album are played with a fresh one-take campfire feel, just acoustic guitars and handclaps

Despite all the solo vocals, each using the others as a back-up group, the White Album still sounds haunted by memories of friendship—that “dreamlike state” they could still zoom into hearing each other sing. They translated Rishikesh into their own style of English pagan pastoral—so many talking animals, so many changes in the weather. One of my favorite British songwriters, Luke Haines from the Auteurs and Black Box Recorder, once told me in an interview that his band was making “our Wicker Man album.” He was miffed I had no idea what he meant. “You can’t understand British bands without seeing The Wicker Man. Every British band makes its Wicker Man album.” So I rented the classic 1973 Hammer horror film, and had creepy dreams about rabbits for months, but he’s right, and the White Album is the Beatles’ Wicker Man album five years before The Wicker Man, a rustic retreat where nature seems dark and depraved in a primal English sing-cuckoo way. They also spruced up their acoustic guitar chops in India, learning folkie fingerpicking techniques from fellow pilgrim Donovan, giving the songs some kind of ancient mystic chill.

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