Our collective timing was, well, timeless. Our goal was to squeeze as many notes as possible into every bar. Until I bought my recorder, I’d played in a lot of bands where we raced to the finish, picking up steam on every chorus. Live, a crap guitar player can fool themselves and others into thinking they play well, but recordings don’t lie. Maybe your mix is off, maybe you’re in a bad mood or too buzzed, or not paying attention, or can’t hear how your part works with what others are playing. Even if you’re focusing intently on every note, it’s impossible to get an accurate read on the quality of a performance when you’re in it.
Ideally, when we’re jamming alone or with people, we stay in the moment, enjoying the process, not critically evaluating every note. Music is supposed to be fun, and focusing on my deficiencies is not my idea of a good time. The chief problem was that I wasn’t good enough to recognize what was wrong: You can’t fix a problem you don’t know you have.
It’s the equivalent of building a house on sand. Okay, maybe not terrible, but I had problems with fundamentals that would have forever undermined my work. Until I began recording and looking at my music under a microscope, I had no idea that I was a terrible musician. And yet, in spite of the brutal depreciation, this dinosaur-turd of a recorder remains one of the best investments I’ve made. Today, the VS-880 can be found on eBay for under $100. When I signed my first songwriting deal with a publisher, I recklessly spent $2,250 (most of my advance) on a Roland VS-880 home recording rig.
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