tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54916780283554744022024-02-20T14:51:06.407-08:00Into The Low EndMr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-46841385882087628212010-09-13T12:36:00.000-07:002010-09-13T12:37:02.246-07:00Yep.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 21px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; ">There is no voice or comfort here at the end of the earth.<br />No warm smile, lover's caress, no gentle cosset to still the<br />Mind and soothe the hearts ceaseless prattling and worries.<br />Just the glow of the sun on skin stretched taught over rough<br />Muscle like smooth paper over strings of fired clay, the voice<br />Of the wind and nothing more as it eddies and flings itself<br />Blindly over you and out to exhale like breath from a newborn<br />Over the cliff down the the grey-stone-sea-soup below.<br /><br />The weight that has settled so snugly to my back (bent like<br />straw, bending like young trees in the summertime who have<br />not yet found the strength to stand upright) weighs me down<br />More and more as the days wind by like spent slivers of wood<br />Beneath the edge of time's expertly wielded blade where I am<br />A splinter caught on the edge, dividing right down the middle<br />Beneath the ever increasing pressure of time's craft-crafted hand.<br /><br />You come through in scraps of paper, scents caught prisoner on the<br />Nomadic wind, visions that just forth from the unchanging solitude<br />Like mountains that stop this wanderer dead in his tracks.<br /><br />The distance is so long, the need so inane.<br />How do I begin though, to cross this divide,<br />To walk the length and breadth of this chasm,<br />To endure the shadows that creep up like carnivores<br />In the night, to ignore the bitter cold that slips a<br />Knife into my side and rends my vitals to senseless<br />Piles of red and pink, to bear the exile that such a journey<br />Would impose?<br /><br />The answer it seems, is simple enough.<br />A tool for me to use, a talisman for me to recite<br />In the empty hours and days and weeks and months<br />That are ready to unfurl before my feet like a satin curtain.<br />I will bear the pilgrimage ahead with my spirits held high,<br />My will is strong, my mind is set, I will carry on<br />Because love will not quit.<br /><br />And neither will I.</span>Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-14109039801298663652010-09-13T07:09:00.000-07:002010-09-13T07:10:22.904-07:00A Resurgence In Activity<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: small; border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(44, 54, 53); line-height: 21px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; ">Bite down till the bone breaks and<br />The marrow floods out like angel hair,<br />Spilling like spent ribbons over ivories bared.<br /><br />Where does your allegiance lie?<br />Split in two on the rocks below,<br />Dashed to bits of gravel beneath the giants feet,<br />Or just wind-worn and weathered away to dust<br />Caught on the coursing of a careless breeze?<br /><br />Where are the moments,<br />That stand against the filmy backdrop of time like<br />Gems against the dull luster of sandstone?<br />I cannot recall but one.<br /><br />Where has the wind gone as it faded from my sails outstretched,<br />Turning what was once an indomitable surge into the bent horizon<br />Into an idling within these strange still waters?</span>Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-59045766482847906942010-09-11T20:47:00.000-07:002010-09-11T20:48:36.132-07:00CAKE<div>Awesome snt it</div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/596qaxm-u4o?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/596qaxm-u4o?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-43005344167189063052010-09-11T15:39:00.000-07:002010-09-11T15:42:55.749-07:00- - - -n these tired tracks and deeper,<br />Farther and farther down the needlepoint pathway,<br />Submission to the snake-fang-slits<br />Gouged into the soft meat of my shoulders,<br />Fingers lax at my side, <br />Blissfully unaware,<br />Ignoring the bite<br />Of the dagger<br />In my side.<br /><br />Not wanting nor<br />Hoping to pull it free,<br />To twist it from its hollow<br />Nestling deeper and deeper,<br />Like sand in the crevices of your <br />Body, like sunshine to the ending<br />Of night, like the sweetest candy that<br />Turns to bitter wax in your throat.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-51602147981145423982010-09-07T20:35:00.001-07:002010-09-07T20:35:19.602-07:00What motivates you to get out of bed in the morning everyone?Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-22038816593992238132010-09-07T17:12:00.000-07:002010-09-07T17:13:04.660-07:00I Lied: One MoreSatin spreads like a painter's brush-stroke<br />Across this plateau of stitched seams and predictable patterns,<br />Spills forth in in all directions, floods the senses with <br />Silk smooth slips and slides, the cushion curving as <br />You settle in beneath the sheets with gasps as crisp<br />As fresh apples and warmth as radiant as the air of a midsummer's night.<br />The tastes and textures fly by with no particular order,<br />The sensations roll over you in palpable waves, washing into<br />You with the persistence of the ocean slowly working to reclaim it's shore.<br />You are putty beneath the hands of the orchestrator, malleable metal <br />Beneath the arc-welder of an expert worker shaping statues to mirror <br />Gods and goddesses innumerable.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-22594196356692968582010-09-07T16:22:00.000-07:002010-09-07T16:24:19.791-07:00Last Word Thing For A BitThe sky has never been a more magnificent shade of blue.<br />The clouds, never as poignantly places in their respective positions.<br />Ever blade and sliver of green on this good earth,<br />Is upturned and open wide in unifying anticipation.<br />The world revolves in lazy parabola's,<br />Each cycle winding down the seconds like <br />Wood chips beneath a carvers blade.<br /><br />The air never smelled so sweet,<br />As it does in this very moment.<br />Everything hangs still,<br />Each and every breath <br />Gets all caught up,<br />Slowed up, stopped up,<br />In the final seconds before<br />The feeble frigates of these <br />Floodgates fly free.<br /><br />There has never been,<br />A smile as bright as yours.<br />No stars in the sky,<br />Nor diamonds embedded in crust,<br />Compare to the luster of your eyes.<br />With the gentlest of touches,<br />You are capable of shaking entire<br />Worlds to their knees.<br />With tidal waves spilled forth<br />From the softest of breaths,<br />Your speech spins itself into<br />Quakes that roll the ground like<br />Soft dough.<br /><br />From this day outward,<br />In every conceivable direction,<br />Your influence will flow.<br />Into every scene of beauty,<br />Every rippling surface of water,<br />And every mountain that reflects upon them.<br />Your voice melding to every birds sweet summer song,<br />And the gentle vespers spent at the mouth of every river.<br />You are the sun fading across the lonely desert,<br />And the moon as it permeates the icy prisms of the arctic night.<br /><br />The sun sets low,<br />Golden haze bleeding with the most subtle hints of<br />Ocher and crimson, <br />It's brilliance caught in your eyes,<br />Unkempt and unrestrained.<br />The horizon blends and bends,<br />To match the soft curvature of your smile,<br />And the sky goes to a brilliant shade of indigo,<br />Punctuated by eternal spots of flame.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-21445686300765630842010-09-07T14:45:00.001-07:002010-09-07T14:45:38.965-07:00You Guessed It: More WordsThe setting sun stencils erratic shadow-stamps<br />Against the egg-white-walls.<br />A myriad of face and feature, ever shifting.<br />Hundreds of thousands of melded forms,<br />And your hands laced all through my hair,<br />Tangled and tangling, entwined and twining.<br /><br />I need you,<br />Like a breath of fresh air<br />On the ocean bottom.<br />I want you,<br />Like the dammed want salvation,<br />Begging,<br />Like a martyr for redemption.<br />And longing like a sinner,<br />For a few moments of deeper perception,<br />To amplify this already profound connection.<br />I want to drink you in, one gulp at a time,<br />Lazy inhales up and into my lungs with a listless<br />Roll and twist.<br /><br />So come my friend, the hour is late and the shadow long.<br />The ceaseless sun is setting and the night sky stands stark.<br />Fingers lattice like tree root and earth, perfectly content to live and belong.<br />Pull close to me now, and don't ever depart.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-42048688301028721942010-09-07T12:12:00.000-07:002010-09-07T12:15:11.871-07:00Another Something: AgainYour breath rolls like the purest water through the humid air.<br />Eyes sharp, alert, staring head long into my own.<br />Our bodies entwined, our spirits aligned,<br />Ceasing to be one and another, <br />Instead simply being one,<br />And one alone.<br /><br />Outstretched arms, your breath in mine.<br />Two minds racing, and meaning defined.<br />Submission to the simplest of rules,<br />To slip past that last inch, between you and I,<br />Escaping the fate that many wiser have surmised, <br />A love unexpressed shall wither and die.<br /><br />The world breaks on it's predictable fault lines. <br />Oceans sent spraying like wasted silver into the canyons, <br />Sky melting into the crumbling footholds at the base of every mountain.<br />The stars above shifting this way and that.<br /><br />The world renewed, the planets re-aligned.<br />Your embrace embraced, your hand in mine,<br />The sounds are simple, the cool air defined,<br />As we both retire, with a peaceful resign.<br /><br />----<br /><br />Also: www.filesmelt.com/dl/Essence_Of_Free_Thinking.mp3 <br />Me and a buddy made that last night.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-2447950577081558572010-09-06T21:57:00.000-07:002010-09-06T21:58:50.738-07:00Another Something I WroteOne more time I'll say it.<br />You're nothing when I'm gone.<br />Come on let me hear you say it,<br />Let me hear you sing along.<br /><br />Down on your knees and praying,<br />For all the hurt to go away.<br />Your will to fight is slowly scraping,<br />Thinner than the thinnest blue.<br />All you have to do is say it,<br />And we can see this through.<br /><br />Preying on your every gasp and groan.<br />Cutting through with ivory whites.<br />Slipping beneath your skin like the sharpest stone,<br />Breaking you down from the inside out.<br /><br />Let me hear you say it.<br />You'll never move beyond.<br />Let me hear you preach it,<br />This is where you belong.<br /><br />Drag you down to the ocean floor.<br />Maroon blacks and soundless scores.<br />Feel my irons draw out to bite,<br />Clasped in place and out of sight.<br /><br />Breathing thin between the mumbled moans.<br />Shivering cold at the very sight, <br />Recalling life before this endless night.<br />Singing your song of sorrows,<br />All alone.<br /><br />One more time,<br />One more time,<br />One more time,<br />Just one last time.<br />Let me hear you say it.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-88582128276487305752010-09-06T18:43:00.001-07:002010-09-06T18:43:16.236-07:00A Poem For My GirlfriendInvitation to a strange world.<br />Where the sapphire sun sets sideways,<br />And the red grass shoots like lightning<br />Through the bedrock.<br /><br />Slipping through inch by inch, I tumble in.<br />Where the cool summer air sighs gently,<br />And every cloud has a story to tell.<br />Where the night sky becomes a painted canvas<br />Of gems and jewels.<br /><br />Caught at the precipice of captivation.<br />Defiant plateaus swim in the distance.<br />Their summits are knife-bladed, gilded<br />With gold-spun willow-trees. <br />The seraphic scenery beckons me,<br />Calling at every fiber of my being.<br />Leading me by graced gentle hand.<br /><br />Birds sing in melodious harmony<br />As I descend into this new world<br />My shoes kick up small tufts of dust<br />From the ancient road beneath my feet.<br />They waft like feathers on the current.<br /><br />Babbling and whispering it's own sweet song,<br />The sound of water swells to meet my ears.<br />Resting serene by the water's edge,<br />I look out into the shimmering depths.<br />Skipping pure white stones against the liquid glass.<br /><br />You come to me in every ripple of it's surface.<br />Every reflection on this watered mirror.<br />You are the birds in the trees,<br />And their song in my ears.<br />You are the sun on my skin,<br />And the waves on the surface of a lake.<br />You are the wondrous depths of the ocean,<br />And the stars that dwell in their homes above.<br />You are the world that stretches before me,<br />And the home I've always hoped for.<br />You are the warmth of a fire on a cold night,<br />And the piped-piper of my soul by the mornings light. <br /><br />Sleep becomes me out here<br />By the water's shifting edge.<br />Your image coming through in waves<br />Of cool blue and sunburst orange.<br />Flashes of your smile, <br />Slivers of laughter,<br />Moments played,<br />Over and over<br />Till the sun<br />Dims out<br />Against<br />A dark<br />Sky.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-1912200840374654792010-09-06T17:44:00.001-07:002010-09-06T17:44:53.315-07:00A Short Story Based On A Website I Go ToThe radio spills out some hot new single or other, and the sound isn't comforting in the least. I'm gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles are whitening and bulged, and the leather beneath my grasp rustles up in soft little crunches. I have not slept since the night before last, and without a new sleeping pill prescription, I won't be sleeping tonight either. My eyes are red from the drudgery, irritated with the salted sting of tears that come and go in waves, that have been since this morning. My ears sting with the sounds of the grizzly morning I've been subject to, their origins still fresh in my mind and heavy on my heart. <br /><br />Wednesday: 8:00 PM<br /><br />I pull in through the fast food drive through, a crumpled set of sweat soaked twenties in my hand. The car behind me is a minivan filled to the brim with Spanish-men, all considerably inebriated and scream-singing to their samba music. I envy their cheer, their unmarred glee as I pull up to the payment window. <br /><br />(Ask about our super size! Free side order of curly fries; limited time only!) <br /><br /> A small red-freckled face, round and gaunt; though not unfriendly greets me. Her name tag says "Fran". "That'll be 35.23." she says in a genuinely cheery voice. She cannot be more than eighteen, her smile is warm and her is gaze comforting. I drop the twenties in her hand with an almost casual disregard, amazed at how soft her skin feels as we connect for the briefest of moments. I envy her for enjoying what she does, and hate myself for what I have to do. After a few moments she hands me several large brown bags, filled to the brim with white bundles that steam in the chilled night air. She attempts to hand me my change, and I gently close her hand around the sum. She thanks me, and I'm off before we can exchange any more conversation. <br /><br />9:00 PM<br /><br />As I enter the parking lot, the old familiar silhouettes begin to take shape. The building itself is low and bricked, with a steep roof that slants like a mis-crossed "T". The air is chilly, and I pull my jacket tight to my chest as I gather the brown bags up in my arms, looking like a much more awkward version of Santa Claus skulking my way into the front door of this quiet little dwelling. <br /><br />I fumble with my keys, almost dropping half the bags in the process. A few moments and some colorful language later, and I'm inside, and the air is much warmer. The fluorescent light clicks on with a cold mechanical snap, and the scent of familiarity comes to me almost instantly. The thick smell that lies just beneath the scented plugins, just beyond the air filtration system that hums idly away at all hours of the day. I walk through the various hallways, past offices that are dead and black for the night, and up to a door that I absolutely dread. The paint is tan, coffee brown and peeling. The handle and hinges are beginning to rust, and the tile just in front of it is scratched and scarred considerably. A small metal placard shines with a sort of dull indifference in the lights over-head. <br /><br />"(Proceed With CAUTION)"<br /><br />I sigh, a deep hollow sound that rattles out of my chest as I try to choke back the sobs that want to roll up and out of my throat. I will not cry, not now, not yet. The handle creaks and cracks as it's various inner parts click and sync, all at once becoming slack as the door gives way; opening slowly, deliberately slow. The smell hits me much harder now, the thick odor that i'm sure most of you remember from your childhood. Almost as soon as the door opens they start. A choir of dozens upon dozens of curious dwellers arises, and echoes a countless number of times through the plain concrete corridors. I pass a sign on my left, small, and stern.<br /><br />"Please do NOT feed the animals. Thank you - The Management" <br /><br /> There are dogs of various sizes and breeds. Some stand up, some rear up and put their paws to the fence in an effort to get my attention, and some don't move at all. The noise is almost maddeningly loud, but I don't mind. I take my slow and deliberate walk down the line, past cage after cage, my footsteps falling like lead as I near the far end of the walkway. This door is much less kept, and is in-fact partially rusted through near the door handle. The steel is cold, and steals the warmth of me away as I grip it in my free hand, the sense and memory of doing this a thousand times over floods my head, and again I choke back the tears. <br /><br />The crowd here is much less raucous, and almost none at all bark as I enter the smaller wing of the dog pens. I sit my parcels on the table to my left, the contents spilling out and rolling slightly. The scent of hot meat gets their attention, and several walk to the front of their cages, which are far dirtier and unkempt than the ones out in the larger wing. Many water bowls are either empty or dirtied, and only a few have food worthy of mention. There are dogs of all sizes and ages.<br /><br />I unlock the cages one at a time, walking back to my table each time. As the latch comes undone and the gate swings forward, I begin the process of coaxing each one from their cell. Some are reluctant, but most come at the smell of the fast food I offer them. They always eat the same way, and it breaks my heart. The food is not so much chewed as swallowed whole, disappearing in mere seconds, sometimes in as little as one or two bites. They are always grateful, always indescribably happy at my offering. After they eat I devote no less than five minutes of individual love and attention to each and every dog. I pet them, scratch their backs, rub their bellies, and let them tug on a toy rope that I keep back here, and they are always happy to do so. I give each and everyone one of them (sometimes as many as 40) names. They bark in joy and lick me in the face, and every time one does it drives a sliver of icy pain deep down into my heart. Every one of these dogs will be dead in the morning. <br /><br />After they are all loose and fed, they all crowd around me and I play with them. I throw tennis balls this way and that, toss out strips of jerky and dog treats, and generally get smothered in fur for roughly two hours. They are gleeful and energetic, even the older dogs join in further down the road, barking barks that have not been sounded in the months they've been incarcerated here. As the festivities wind down, I lead each one back into their original, run down, sullied pens. I kiss each one between the eyes, and tell them I'm sorry. I tell them I'm sorry that the world can't help them, and that soon they'll be in dog heaven, running and playing with all the little children and all the Frisbee and tennis balls they could ever want. I tell them I love each and every one of them, and I do. I remember each and every face of every dog I've ever put to sleep. They look at me with their confused dog minds, most likely sensing my sadness as I lock each and every one of them back into the pens. After the task is done, I lock up, and return home for a night of sleepless tossing and turning. <br /><br />Thursday 8:00 AM<br /><br />All of the dogs are happy to see me. I am gloved and wearing a breathing mask, but they still remember me. As I unlock the cages, some tug playfully at my hands, others roll over in the hopes I'm here to stroke their bellies again, and others still look for the food that I surely must have brought. But there is no such luck for them, or for me this morning. I load them onto the cart in batches of ten, and do roughly five batches every Thursday. I have taken four anti-depressants just before, and they are doing their job well enough, at least for now. They are confused as I pull them past the door-less entry point marked off with yellow and black cautionary lines, and further down the hallway to a small medical steel door. <br /><br />"Danger: Carbon Monoxide Gas"<br /><br />I open the door, and thats when they know. It's the smell that rolls out from this room, the thick stiff scent of death, they smell it and they know what is about to happen. They whine and fidget in their harnesses, some howl sorrowfully, and others begin to gnaw at the steel restraint bars in front of them. I sob gently beneath my breathing mask, my eyes flooded now with hot fresh tears as I wheel them in to place within the gas chamber. The door shuts cooly, coldly into place as I step out and the air locks engage. I look to the simple control panel that has two simple buttons, one red, one black.<br /><br />Red: "ON"<br />Black: "OFF"<br /><br /> I hover my palm over the red button, my hands shaking and my heart pounding so hard it hurts. The tears are flowing harder now as I recall each and every one of their faces, each and every one of their barks and their playful leaps at me as I opened their cage. I know they're all so scared, so afraid, so confused. I was so nice to them, and now I've put them in this place, and they can just smell death in the air. "I'm sorry....I'm so sorry." <br /><br />"ON."<br /><br />It takes hours to complete the process. I have to pull their bodies out after each cycle, and the gas causes their nerves to go haywire. I spray the chamber clean of their bodily leavings, mostly blood and sometimes half digested remnants of food that I myself gave to them down a small circular drain in the center of the room. The smell makes me throw up almost every time. It goes on for what feels like forever.<br /><br />- - - <br /><br />They are in heaven now, that's what I tell myself. Call me what you will, call me monster, devil, demon, heartless, evil. I know what I am, I know I'm going to hell, I know that what I do each and every week is wrong, and I absolutely hate doing what I do. I hate it so much. Each and every night after I go home, it takes no fewer than three sleeping pills to put me down. In my sleep I fidget and groan, sweat and murmur. I jump and gasp, scream and weep. I see their faces all through the night, and sometimes during the day. Every single animal I've murdered, for the simple and cruel fact that there is not enough space for them to live and be loved.<br /><br />This is my life, week in and week out. Please do not judge me,<br />I already judge myself.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-88868360166008935722010-09-06T17:18:00.000-07:002010-09-06T17:20:58.128-07:00Yet Another Song: Wooden Horseshttp://filesmelt.com/dl/Wooden_Horses.mp3<br /><br />I wanted to capture the old english countryside feel, with a little bit of a modern interlude with the clean delay near the end. Simplistic but relaxing.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-52762136325593634642010-09-06T13:19:00.000-07:002010-09-06T13:20:49.731-07:00Another Song: For Daisywww.filesmelt.com/dl/For_Daisy.mp3<br /><br />This is for my dead gerbil; no joke.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-66361430763942528592010-09-05T15:29:00.000-07:002010-09-05T15:31:49.157-07:00A Song In Progress ( Free Download )http://www.filesmelt.com/dl/Pursuit2.mp3<br /><br />I wanted to make something a bit sorrowful sounding, and have it explode into an entirely different emotion later on in the song's evolution. I feel I have accomplished this as of now, but still feel a lot of potential for growth in what I produce next.<br /><br />Any comments are appreciated.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-75920565099105902112010-09-05T15:17:00.001-07:002010-09-05T15:17:45.685-07:00Another Brief History: The Wal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8e/Wal5stringkauri.jpg/140px-Wal5stringkauri.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 339px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8e/Wal5stringkauri.jpg/140px-Wal5stringkauri.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Early custom basses were purchased by leading bass players from the London studio circuit, such as John G. Perry, who purchased the first Wal bass. Another early instrument, a triple necked bass, was purchased by Rick Wakeman for his bassist, Roger Newell, to use at the Journey to the Centre of the Earth concerts. The bass was later given to Chris Squire of Yes and is now on loan to the Hard Rock Cafe. Later, a short run of semi-custom models (designated the JG series after the owner of the first model, John Gustafson) featured hand-tooled leather scratchplates. Owners of these models included John Entwistle, Mark Davis, Stayton Heyward, Paul Simonon, Gary Tibbs, Alan Spenner and Percy Jones.<br /><br />The first full production range of Wal basses appeared in 1978 as the "Pro Series." These basses followed the basic design specifications of the JG series (solid ash body, maple, hornbeam and Amazonian hard wood neck and rosewood fingerboard) but replaced the leather scratchplate with a large plastic one. The Pro Series were superseded by the Custom Series in 1983. This introduced the laminated bodies now standard with Wal basses. Various woods such as American walnut, schedua/hydua, padauk and wenge were offered as standard thick laminates over a mahogany core. During the 1980s the range was expanded to introduce 5 and 6 string models and three distinct but similar body shapes - commonly referred to as Mark 1 (the original Custom 4 string style), Mark 2 and Mark 3. Other rare models were also available periodically, including a midi-bass (the MB4 & MB5) and a simplified passive model.Mr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-63554534981631853882010-09-05T15:15:00.001-07:002010-09-05T15:15:56.414-07:00A History Of The Stingray<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d8/MusicmanStingray.jpg/220px-MusicmanStingray.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 668px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d8/MusicmanStingray.jpg/220px-MusicmanStingray.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />In 1971, Fender employees Forrest White and Tom Walker, unhappy with the way CBS was managing the company, left their positions with Fender to start their own venture. First known as Tri-Sonic and then later Musitek, Inc., the new company eventually settled on the name of MusicMan, Inc. by 1974. The company began producing a hybrid tube-solid state amplifier co-designed by Tom Walker and Leo Fender, who was participating as a silent partner to the firm due to a "no compete" clause in the sales contract Fender had signed when he sold his original company to CBS in 1965. After the clause expired in 1975, he was made president of MusicMan, Inc., and by 1976 his consulting firm CLF Research had begun producing instruments bearing the MusicMan name.<br /><br />Designed by Fender, Walker and Sterling Ball (Sterling was a beta tester for the instrument), the StingRay bass appeared in 1976 and, though physically similar to a Fender Precision Bass, was a highly innovative instrument. It employed a "soapbar" humbucking pickup and an active pre-amp powered by a 9-volt battery. The early versions had 2-band EQ (i.e., bass and treble controls), and the range was later augmented by the addition of a 3 band EQ (bass, mid and treble) model, and then piezo pickups located in the bridge became an option with the 3-band model. The StingRay's 3-band equalization system was highly innovative; making it possible to boost midrange frequencies as well as low and high, something which had not been possible on basses without active preamps. Along with its electronic advancements, the StingRay had physical attributes that set it apart from other Fender-inspired designs, such as a heavy satin finish on the back of the neck to allow players' hands to slide effortlessly up and down during play, a symmetrical egg-shaped pickguard and separate chromed "boomerang" control plate, and its distinctive "3+1" headstock (on which three tuning machines are situated on the top and one on the bottom) made it an instantly recognizable and distinguishable instrument.<br /><br />Early models have through-body stringing at the bridge, which is fitted with adjustable string mutes. Later models omit both features, except for the 30th Anniversary model of 2006, which uses the string-through-body design and features a solid mahogany body finished in a Crimson Red Transparent finish.<br /><br />Later advancements on the StingRay included a 5-string version (the StingRay 5), which has a 3-way blade switch that allows the player to split the humbucking pickup's coils, and a unique truss-rod neck adjustment system that incorporated a Teflon washer which made it highly resistant to rust and corrosion and made adjusting the neck of a StingRay relatively easy.<br /><br />In the early 2000s a budget version of the StingRay known as the S.U.B. was produced, featuring a textured body finish and diamond plate pickguard. This model was discontinued in 2007 due to rising production costs.<br /><br />In 2005, two-pickup versions of the StingRay (known as "HH" and "HS") were introduced, following the success of the Bongo Bass, one of Ernie Ball's latest bass designs. This dual-pickup version includes a 5-way switch, allowing the user to select different combinations of pickup coils and thus greatly increasing the diversity of available tones. The dual-pickup configuration was also adopted on the StingRay 5 and the Sterling that same year.<br /><br />After the discontinuation of the S.U.B, more marketing emphasis was placed on licensed OLP budget versions of the StingRay 4, Stingray 5, StingRay 4 HH, and StingRay 5 HH. However as of 2009 the entire OLP brand has been retired.[1] Since then, the Ernie Ball produced Sterling by Music Man range of mid-priced basses and guitars have been introduced (not to be confused with the Music Man Sterling bass guitar). The Ray 34 (four string), and Ray 35 (five string), are offered at nearly half the price of their Music Man counterparts.<br /><br />StingRays are generally known for the punch of their sound, making them very suitable for rock/funk applications and excellent for slapping, and for being of extremely high build quality. The 6-bolt neckplate is an example of this. The neck is also quite wide, especially compared to that of Fender Jazz Bass-type models (although a neck with a narrower nut was optional in the 70s), as well as having the above-mentioned truss-rod adjustment mechanism that allows players to adjust the truss-rod without removing the neck. Some users have also noticed an audible difference in volume between the lower three strings (E, A, D) and the highest G string, with the G string suffering from a lack of volume. This problem has not been observed in 5-string StingRaysMr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5491678028355474402.post-33049774935409722852010-09-05T14:03:00.000-07:002010-09-05T14:13:05.377-07:00A Brief OverviewI hope to use this blog as a place to put my various musical outings, as well as a place to discuss the wonderful world of bass guitar, as well as current events within the music industry itself. <br /><br />I have no way of knowing if anyone will read this, but at the very least I will be able to say I've tried, which is becoming rarer and rarer in today's world.<br /><br />Until next time;<br />-DPMr. Xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14688313627700707324noreply@blogger.com5