Postcard — August 6, 2014, 8:00 am


Inventing the instruments of the future

Roger Linn with the Linnstrument © Roger Linn Design

Roger Linn with the Linnstrument © Roger Linn Design

One of the more unlikely solos in music history was recorded live on July 16, 1986, during a performance in Tokyo by the fusion-jazz supergroup Steps Ahead. The footage is worth watching, even if fusion isn’t your thing. Saxophonist Michael Brecker stands center stage, not with a sax but with an oboe-like instrument that looks as if it had been plucked from a Cubist painting. His fingers rest on silver buttons attached to a skinny black box with no discernible wind passage, and in his mouth is a stem wrapped in a rainbow sports band. Brecker performs a series of ambient tones — from chimes to otherworldly trumpets to squalls of white noise — that to modern ears harks back to the Nintendo era. But the instrument sings, the mood building to a tension that is released only when he triggers a drum machine and starts jamming over the beat.

Brecker is wailing on a prototype of an electronic wind instrument, or EWI (pronounced EE-wee), the first virtual instrument that allowed woodwind players to transfer their technical skills to the digital world. The EWI’s inventor, Nyle Steiner, had begun tinkering with a brass-style electronic synthesizer in the 1960s, unveiling in 1975 the world’s first playable “electric valve instrument,” the Steiner Horn. The EVI garnered some buzz, but it was the EWI, officially released in 1987, that turned heads. It paired a fingering system comprised of sensors laid out like clarinet or saxophone keys with a highly sensitive mouthpiece that registered changes in wind pressure. With the EWI, a woodwind player could vastly expand his or her sonic palette without having to learn entirely new skills. Fusionists like Brecker began adopting it, and it seemed possible that many others would follow suit.

A few years before, however, a powerful new musical language for digital instruments had taken shape. MIDI allowed notes to be programmed in advance and multiple synthetic instruments to communicate simultaneously. “Before MIDI,” writes Jaron Lanier in his curmudgeonly manifesto, You Are Not a Gadget, “a musical note was a bottomless idea that transcended absolute definition . . . after MIDI, a musical note was no longer just an idea but a rigid, mandatory structure.” Synthesized arpeggios and drum-machine sequencers could now be matched up perfectly, and the technical precision this allowed immediately birthed a musical genre, New Wave — without MIDI, there would have been no a-ha, Depeche Mode, or Human League. Over time, automated syncopation came to dominate popular music, separating the physicality of a musicians from the music they played.

Brecker’s solo seems novel today because it heralded a future of expressive electronic instruments that never arrived. But with digital culture now pervasive, instrument designers have been working to create new market for “expressive controllers,” MIDI instruments capable of both dynamic and polyphonic playability. Among the most acclaimed of these creators is Roger Linn, a Grammy winner for “outstanding technical significance” who is beloved of musicians and producers, and who has been responsible for many of the most distinctive sounds in contemporary music.

You’re unlikely to have heard of Linn’s instruments, but you’ve certainly heard them. The famous drumbeat opening of “Billie Jean” comes from his LinnDrum, as do the scurrying sixteenth notes that lead both Prince’s “I Would Die 4 U” and the floor-on-the-floor thump of Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me Baby?” When New Wave bowed to the rise of glam metal and eventually to grunge (i.e., to real drummers), Linn’s company went out of business. But he was soon hired by the Japanese company Akai to develop its line of Musical Production Centers (MPCs), machines that allow users to string together samples of their own creation. It’s barely an exaggeration to say that the MPC ushered in modern hip-hop.

In 2002, Linn returned to manufacturing his own products under the banner Roger Linn Design. He is now putting the finishing touches on his latest creation, the LinnStrument, an expressive controller modeled on the chromatic grid system of a guitar. With its rectangular silicone surface and wood borders, the LinnStrument looks like a tiny ice rink. The surface is divided into touch-sensitive finger-sized squares, with multicolored LED lights underneath that indicate the location of notes within a specific scale. As with a guitar, fingering patterns and chord shapes are the same regardless of key. Players bend notes or add vibrato by moving a finger from side to side, and alter the volume by applying greater or lesser pressure. Unlike a guitar, however, the LinnStrument has no frets, allowing for seamless movement between notes in the style of a violin or cello. And unlike an acoustic device, the LinnStrument is capable of pitching any note along a full spread of two octaves, via sounds patched into it from a computer.

But although there are plenty of videos online showing demonstrations of various expressive controllers, actual live performances with them remain scarce, in large part because professional musicians have been hesitant to adopt them. “I don’t think competition from each other is our biggest enemy,” Linn told me, referring to other designers, “but rather the general resistance to new ideas in musical instruments.” To that end, he and his colleagues have been banding together to present their creations at conferences and TED Talks, positioning themselves as examples of a growing movement to bring virtuosity and individual voice back to their field.

In April, I caught Linn’s demonstration of his controller at Moogfest, a week-long electronic-music conference and festival held in Asheville, North Carolina, in honor of one of that city’s adopted sons, Robert Moog, creator of the modern synthesizer. The town hosts Moog, Inc.’s headquarters, a tiny two-floor factory where twenty-five technicians labor over handmade synthetic instruments. While the techies of the West Coast have the entire Silicon Valley, the synthesists have a small town in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Linn’s talk took place up the street from Moog, at Asheville’s Masonic Temple. Many instrument sellers had set up shop, and people were trading modular panels and wheeling and dealing vintage synths. When Linn went onstage, shushes quickly brought the room to a standstill. Now in his fifties, Linn talks and dresses like an academic, but within minutes of greeting the audience, he was strapping a glowing LinnStrument over his shoulder, looking as if he had suddenly donned an LED-lit sandwich board. The instrument connected via USB to a MacBook running Logic Pro X, Apple’s frontline music-studio program.

Linn began with a basic synth from the sound library. “All this is is a pulse waveform with a low-pass filter,” he said. “There are no envelope generators and no LFOs.” He placed a middle finger on the board, and a warm tone filled the temple. He added two fingers and massaged the notes into a chord. When he lifted his hand, the sound dwindled away, and the room cheered.   

Then he adjusted a setting on Logic and placed his hands back on the LinnStrument. He recited a few measures of baroque music with a virtual cello, vibrating each finger-square as if it were a taut string, forming a chord with his right hand, and then laying down another with his left. He changed the setting to add some effects, and the cello turned into a reverb-heavy electric guitar. I watched his hands pluck and wiggle bluesy notes as they danced across the board. Clicking a button, he made the LED lights divide into green and blue. He triggered a drum beat from the computer and placed the fingers of his left hand on a chord of green lights. The propulsive sound of syncopated eighth notes emerged, which he accompanied by placing a single finger in the blue region. The electric guitar he had demonstrated earlier was now leading a trio. “I should also mention,” he said, “that if you don’t like blue and green, you can always change the colors. My niece prefers magenta.”

Linn concluded his demonstration, but rather than exit the stage he requested that the lights be dimmed. “I wanted to show people other types of multi-touch expressive controllers,” he said, cuing up YouTube. “As you’ll see, there are some pretty amazing ones out there.” Now began a parade of futuristic instruments. The Seaboard, with a continuous surface of pillowy silicone molded over touch sensitive controls:

The Continuum, an instrument that resembles a ceremonial red carpet, with major and minor keys of equal length running across eight octaves:

Linn then asked that the lights be switched on, and he invited onstage a Belgian software engineer and musician named Geert Bevin, who would demonstrate something called the Eigenharp. This turned out to be a four-and-a-half-foot-long controller finished in ebony wood. Dubbed the “sci-fi bassoon” by the BBC, the instrument features five rows of 120 LED-lit keys — besting a modern grand piano’s eighty-eight — coupled with a drum sequencer and a curvaceous blow pipe.

Bevin greeted the audience, strapped on the instrument, and performed a New Age–tinged tune. He tapped ambient percussive sounds on the keys while blowing out ocarina notes from the pipe, briefly transforming himself into a contemporary take on the busking one-man band:

I was impressed by the performance, but it had been the clip of the arresting solo played on the Continuum by its co-developer Edmund Eagan that had made me a believer. When I closed my eyes for a second, the music he played sounded exactly like a violin. His hands moved across the board without hesitation, knowing exactly where to find and apply vibrato to each note, bending pitches here and there. When it was over, the crowd stayed hushed. “Eagan’s my favorite violin player,” said Linn, “and he doesn’t even play violin.”

Each new electronic instrument is a statement about the inventor’s musical and aesthetic philosophy — a theory of how notes should be played, or how an instrument body and layout might look when liberated from traditional physical constraints. One instrument, the Opal Gecko, looks like a beehive and uses an isomorphic key layout as its basis (think of transferring the octaves of a piano onto a grid system).

Another, the Madrona Soundplane, is made almost entirely of finely polished wood, its electronics all concealed gracefully within.

By far the most punk-rock of the bunch is the Samchillian Tip Tip Tip Cheeepeeee, a keyboard founded on the principle of  relative pitch (no key is discordant to another), thereby thumbing its nose at the absolute pitch to which most instruments are tuned. An early model used recycled computer keys, built into a paint-splattered mold.

“In fifty years’ time,” Linn told me, “I think people will still be playing piano, guitars, and violins, but I also think they will be playing electronic instruments — actually performing virtuosic work upon them. What these will look or sound like, I don’t know.”

What music can we expect to hear from these new digital instruments? If a generation of people who grew up listening to plugged-in instruments and guitar solos have moved onto the computer, what happens when a generation of musicians who have learned to sample and manipulate automated audio clips are given the tools for expressive digital instrumentation? A new musical genre, perhaps, or new variations on the familiar. It’s a chicken-and-egg question, but it may take only one virtualoso to hatch the answer.

Single Page
is an associate editor at New Directions and a drummer for the band Megafortress. He lives in Brooklyn.

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On any given day last summer, the smoke-choked skies over Missoula, Montana, swarmed with an average of twenty-eight helicopters and eighteen fixed-wing craft, a blitz waged against Lolo Peak, Rice Ridge, and ninety-six other wildfires in the Lolo National Forest. On the ground, forty or fifty twenty-person handcrews were deployed, alongside hundreds of fire engines and bulldozers. In the battle against Rice Ridge alone, the Air Force, handcrews, loggers, dozers, parachutists, flacks, forecasters, and cooks amounted to some nine hundred people.

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At this scale, the firefighting operation is run by an incident management team, a group of about thirty specialists drawn from a mix of state and federal agencies and trained in fields ranging from aviation to weather forecasting and accounting to public information. The management teams are ranked according to experience and ability, from type 3 (the least skilled) to type 1 (the most). The fiercest fires are assigned to type 1s. Teams take the name of their incident commander, the field general, and some of those names become recognizable, even illustrious, in the wildfire-fighting community. One such name is that of Greg Poncin, who is to fire commanders what Wyatt Earp was to federal marshals.

Smoke from the Lolo Peak fire (detail) © Laura Verhaeghe
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The pinhal interior, a wooded region of hills and narrow hollows in rural central Portugal, used to be farmland. Well into the latter half of the past century, the fields were worked by peasants from the old stone villages. Portugal was poor and isolated, and the pinhal interior particularly so; when they could, the peasants left. There is electricity and running water now, but most of the people have gone. The fields have been taken over by trees. Each year the forest encroaches farther, and each year the villages grow more lonely. There are remnants of the earlier life, though, and amid the trees the holdouts of the older generations still work a few small fields. The pinhal interior cannot yet be called wilderness, then, and that, in large part, is why it burns.

Thousands of fires burn in the region each summer, almost all of them started not by lightning or some other natural spark but by the remaining Portuguese. (The great majority of the blazes are started unintentionally, though not all.) The pinhal interior—the name means “interior pine forest,” though today there is at least as much eucalyptus as pine—stretches along a sort of climate border between the semiarid Iberian interior and the wet influence of the Atlantic; vegetation grows exceptionally well there, and in the summers fire conditions are ideal. Still, most of the burns are quickly contained, and although they have grown larger in recent years, residents have learned to pay them little mind. The creeping fire that began in the dry duff and twigs of an oak grove on June 17 of last year, in the district of Pe­drógão Grande, therefore occasioned no panic.

A local woman, Dora da Silva Co­sta, drove past the blaze in the midafternoon, by which time it had entered a stand of pines. Firefighters were on hand. “There were no people in the streets,” Costa told me. “It was just another fire.” She continued on her way. It was a Saturday, and she had brought her two young sons to visit their older cousin in Vila Facaia, the village of small farms in which she’d been raised.

Firefighters near Pedrógão Grande (detail) © Pablo Blazquez Dominguez/Getty Images
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On a blistering morning in July 2017, Ghazi Luaibi rose before dawn and set out in a worn black sedan from his home in Zubair, a town of concrete low-rises in southern Iraq. He drove for a while along sandy roads strewn with plastic bags. On the horizon, he could see gas flares from the oil refineries, pillars of amber flame rising into the sky. As he approached Basra, the largest city in the province, desert scrub gave way to empty apartment blocks and rows of withered palms. Though the sun had barely risen, the temperature was already nearing 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The previous year, Basra had registered one of the highest temperatures ever reliably recorded on earth: about 129 degrees, hot enough to cause birds to drop from the sky.

Ghazi, a sixty-two-year-old with stooped shoulders, an ash-gray beard, and lively brown eyes, would have preferred to stay home and wait out the heat. But he hadn’t had much of a choice. He was the president of the local council of Mandaeans, members of a gnostic religion that appeared in Mesopotamia in the early centuries ad. Today marked the beginning of their new year, and Ghazi, who was born into the Mandaean priestly class, was responsible for making sure everything went smoothly: he needed to find a tent to shield worshippers from the sun and, most importantly, a location near flowing water where they could carry out the ceremony.

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Basra General Hospital (detail) July 2017 © Alex Potter
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Serving as a US Air Force launch control officer for intercontinental missiles in the early Seventies, First Lieutenant Bruce Blair figured out how to start a nuclear war and kill a few hundred million people. His unit, stationed in the vast missile fields at Malmstrom Air Force Base, in Montana, oversaw one of four squadrons of Minuteman II ­ICBMs, each missile topped by a W56 thermonuclear warhead with an explosive force of 1.2 megatons—eighty times that of the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. In theory, the missiles could be fired only by order of the president of the United States, and required mutual cooperation by the two men on duty in each of the launch control centers, of which there were five for each squadron.

In fact, as Blair recounted to me recently, the system could be bypassed with remarkable ease. Safeguards made it difficult, though not impossible, for a two-man crew (of either captains or lieutenants, some straight out of college) in a single launch control center to fire a missile. But, said Blair, “it took only a small conspiracy”—of two people in two separate control centers—to launch the entire squadron of fifty missiles, “sixty megatons targeted at the Soviet Union, China, and North Korea.” (The scheme would first necessitate the “disabling” of the conspirators’ silo crewmates, unless, of course, they, too, were complicit in the operation.) Working in conjunction, the plotters could “jury-rig the system” to send a “vote” by turning keys in their separate launch centers. The three other launch centers might see what was happening, but they would not be able to override the two votes, and the missiles would begin their firing sequence. Even more alarmingly, Blair discovered that if one of the plotters was posted at the particular launch control center in overall command of the squadron, they could together format and transmit a “valid and authentic launch order” for general nuclear war that would immediately launch the entire US strategic nuclear missile force, including a thousand Minuteman and fifty-four Titan missiles, without the possibility of recall. As he put it, “that would get everyone’s attention, for sure.” A more pacifically inclined conspiracy, on the other hand, could effectively disarm the strategic force by formatting and transmitting messages invalidating the presidential launch codes.

When he quit the Air Force in 1974, Blair was haunted by the power that had been within his grasp, andhe resolved to do something about it. But when he started lobbying his former superiors, he was met with indifference and even active hostility. “I got in a fair scrap with the Air Force over it,” he recalled. As Blair well knew, there was supposed to be a system already in place to prevent that type of unilateral launch. The civilian leadership in the Pentagon took comfort in this, not knowing that the Strategic Air Command, which then controlled the Air Force’s nuclear weapons, had quietly neutralized it.

This reluctance to implement an obviously desirable precaution might seem extraordinary, but it is explicable in light of the dominant theme in the military’s nuclear weapons culture: the strategy known as “launch under attack.” Theoretically, the president has the option of waiting through an attack before deciding how to respond. But in practice, the system of command and control has been organized so as to leave a president facing reports of incoming missiles with little option but to launch. In the words of Lee Butler, who commanded all US nuclear forces at the end of the Cold War, the system the military designed was “structured to drive the president invariably toward a decision to launch under attack” if he or she believes there is “incontrovertible proof that warheads actually are on the way.” Ensuring that all missiles and bombers would be en route before any enemy missiles actually landed meant that most of the targets in the strategic nuclear war plan would be destroyed—thereby justifying the purchase and deployment of the massive force required to execute such a strike.

Among students of nuclear command and control, this practice of precluding all options but the desired one is known as “jamming” the president. Blair’s irksome protests threatened to slow this process. When his pleas drew rejection from inside the system, he turned to Congress. Eventually the Air Force agreed to begin using “unlock codes”—codes transmitted at the time of the launch order by higher authority without which the crews could not fire—on the weapons in 1977. (Even then, the Navy held off safeguarding its submarine-launched nuclear missiles in this way for another twenty years.)

Following this small victory, Blair continued to probe the baroque architecture of nuclear command and control, and its extreme vulnerability to lethal mishap. In the early Eighties, while working with a top-secret clearance for the Office of Technology Assessment, he prepared a detailed report on such shortcomings. The Pentagon promptly classified it as SIOP-ESI—a level higher than top secret. (SIOP stands for Single Integrated Operational Plan, the US plan for conducting a nuclear war. ESI stands for Extremely Sensitive Information.) Hidden away in the Pentagon, the report was withheld from both relevant senior civilian officials and the very congressional committees that had commissioned it in the first place.

From positions in Washington’s national security think tanks, including the Brookings Institution, Blair used his expertise and scholarly approach to gain access to knowledgeable insiders at the highest ranks, even in Moscow. On visits to the Russian capital during the halcyon years between the Cold War’s end and the renewal of tensions in the twenty-first century, he learned that the Soviet Union had actually developed a “dead hand” in ultimate control of their strategic nuclear arsenal. If sensors detected signs of an enemy nuclear attack, the USSR’s entire missile force would immediately launch with a minimum of human intervention—in effect, the doomsday weapon that ends the world in Dr. Strangelove.

Needless to say, this was a tightly held arrangement, known only to a select few in Moscow. Similarly chilling secrets, Blair continued to learn, lurked in the bowels of the US system, often unknown to the civilian leadership that supposedly directed it. In 1998, for example, on a visit to the headquarters of Strategic Command (­STRATCOM), the force controlling all US strategic nuclear weapons, at Offutt Air Force Base, near Omaha, Nebraska, he discovered that the ­­­STRATCOM targeting staff had unilaterally chosen to interpret a presidential order on nuclear targeting in such a way as to reinsert China into the ­SIOP, from which it had been removed in 1982, thereby provisionally consigning a billion Chinese to nuclear immolation. Shortly thereafter, he informed a senior White House official, whose reaction Blair recalled as “surprised” and “befuddled.”

In 2006, Blair founded Global Zero, an organization dedicated to ridding the world of nuclear weapons, with an immediate goal of ending the policy of launch under attack. By that time, the Cold War that had generated the ­SIOP and all those nuclear weapons had long since come to an end. As a result, part of the nuclear war machine had been dismantled—warhead numbers were reduced, bombers taken off alert, weapons withdrawn from Europe. But at its heart, the system continued unchanged, officially ever alert and smooth running, poised to dispatch hundreds of precisely targeted weapons, but only on receipt of an order from the commander in chief.

Bombhead, by Bruce Conner (detail) © Conner Family Trust, San Francisco, and ARS, New York City. Courtesy Kohn Gallery, Los Angeles

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Illustration by Stan Fellows

Illustration by Stan Fellows

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