"Nowadays, I really like playing in studios"
About this Quote
There’s something delightfully sideways about Derek Bailey, patron saint of unrepeatable guitar noise, sounding almost cozy: “Nowadays, I really like playing in studios.” For a musician who built a career on the friction of live, unscripted improvisation, the line reads like a quiet provocation. It’s not the rock-star fantasy of the studio as a hit factory; it’s the improviser’s late-career recalibration of where risk and discovery can happen.
“Nowadays” does heavy lifting. It frames the statement as evolution, not conversion: Bailey isn’t renouncing the stage so much as admitting that the conditions of creativity shift with age, with technology, with scene economics. By the late 20th century, the studio had become less a sterile lab and more an instrument in itself. Multitracking, close miking, editing, and post-production aren’t merely ways to polish; they’re ways to hear. For someone obsessed with texture, attack, and the microscopic drama of a string’s decay, the studio offers a different kind of intensity: not louder, but closer.
The subtext is also political in the small-c “culture” sense. Improvised music lives at the margins; studios can be cheaper than touring, less at the mercy of inattentive rooms, bad PAs, and the social theater of performance. Bailey’s “really like” is almost stubbornly plain, as if refusing the romantic myth that authenticity only happens live. He’s insisting that experimentation can thrive under fluorescent lights, with headphones on, where the audience is the tape itself.
“Nowadays” does heavy lifting. It frames the statement as evolution, not conversion: Bailey isn’t renouncing the stage so much as admitting that the conditions of creativity shift with age, with technology, with scene economics. By the late 20th century, the studio had become less a sterile lab and more an instrument in itself. Multitracking, close miking, editing, and post-production aren’t merely ways to polish; they’re ways to hear. For someone obsessed with texture, attack, and the microscopic drama of a string’s decay, the studio offers a different kind of intensity: not louder, but closer.
The subtext is also political in the small-c “culture” sense. Improvised music lives at the margins; studios can be cheaper than touring, less at the mercy of inattentive rooms, bad PAs, and the social theater of performance. Bailey’s “really like” is almost stubbornly plain, as if refusing the romantic myth that authenticity only happens live. He’s insisting that experimentation can thrive under fluorescent lights, with headphones on, where the audience is the tape itself.
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| Topic | Music |
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