Audiobus: Use your music apps together.
What is Audiobus? — Audiobus is an award-winning music app for iPhone and iPad which lets you use your other music apps together. Chain effects on your favourite synth, run the output of apps or Audio Units into an app like GarageBand or Loopy, or select a different audio interface output for each app. Route MIDI between apps — drive a synth from a MIDI sequencer, or add an arpeggiator to your MIDI keyboard — or sync with your external MIDI gear. And control your entire setup from a MIDI controller.Download on the App Store
Audiobus is the app that makes the rest of your setup better.
I’m a believer in Fate, so, a Speakers-enhanced slice of raw fact: Nothing Happened
“…when you’re 17 in a dead town.”
When I’m not making my noises, I write stories. Some go somewhere, some don’t. This doesn’t. But it came to me fully formed yesterday, a vivid memory of something which I actually experienced, back some time in the 80s, driving through rust belt towns way off the tourist trail in the South and Midwest, USA, until the discomfort and sense of threat of being two obviously Gay men who were ‘not from around here, are you Bud?’ got too much for us, and we retreated from the ‘flyover’ states back to our metrosexual coastal comfort zones again. It was bad enough in Reagan and Bush #1’s America. I can’t imagine going back there now. A beautiful country. A difficult place, for people like me. For one thing, I’d be risking arrest every time I needed a restroom. And at my age, that’s often…
I felt compelled to write it out, and do some kind of setting to get it out there, some fragment shored against my ruin. This is the full text of it, if anyone is interested:
_We arrived in the town mid morning, in the rain. A forgotten sort of place. Post industrial. Lots of empty warehousing down by the lake. Exposed red brick. Blank holes of broken windows.
I think it had been a logging town once. Mist hung over the lake and the town, making everything grey and cold.
We parked the rental in an abandoned lot, and tried to find a diner or coffeeshop to get a late breakfast in. No luck. The only places we found had shuttered years ago. The streets were empty, to an almost eerie degree.
We thought about getting back in the car, and driving on to the next speck on our tourist map of the state, but then we saw the sign pointing up to the hills above the town. Civil War fort, it said.
Well, this was supposed to be a Civil War tour of the region, wasn't it?
So we left the car in the lot, and climbed the steep hill out of town, passing decaying Victorian clapboard shapes which went from rowhouse to mansion as we ascended.
It didn't take long, it wasn't that big of a place.
As the last crumbling mansion fell away behind us, we crested the hill, and exited the town limits.
Above, a series of gently tumbling bluffs were crowned by the stark, angular, strangely futuristic glacis of a concrete fortification, which glowered over the little town and its once important harbour.
As we got closer, we saw the blank grey walls of the place, scratched and graffitied by generations of bored local youths. A litter of old Budweiser beer cans and roach stubs and soda bottles, the burned patches in the grass left by discarded barbeque trays, and from the gaping blackness of the doorless entrances, the smell of urine, mould and faeces. How to have a party, when you are seventeen in a dead town.
We'd brought torches, so we spent an hour clambering around, on, in, the vast concrete blockhouses, the spooky echoing tunnels, peering out the frowning gunslits over the mist bound bay. It was scary in a silly kids-playing-grown up kind of way, reminding us of our own teen years.
We both froze in sudden shock when a distant iron door somewhere in the dark complex clanged once. Someone else in here with us? An unexpectedly powerful gust of wind? A coincidence of gravity?
We both laughed nervously at our own fears, pretended it was nothing. But still.
The spooky/fun equation seemed now tipped more to 'spooky' than 'fun'. Suddenly acutely aware of our status as gay men in a state whose farmers sometimes were angry enough to paint 'God Hates Fags' in blood red letters on one hundred foot high grain silos , topped with fluttering flags; of our own impermanence in this relic of another time. Silly, frivolous foreigners passing through a place that no one knew we were at in the first place. The rental a mile or so away behind us. No firm booking for the night to come, and a couple of trackless days on the road, also, already behind us. We knew we could just - ‘disappear’ - in this forgotten country, of fag haters, and serial killers, and gun owners, and disinterested, incompetent local cops.
It wasn't a place to have an imagination in.
So we got back out of the concrete fort, a little more quickly than we had ventured in, and if either of us was walking faster as we headed back down the hill the other didn't mention it.
Getting back into the suitcase-crammed cheap little compact, the doors shutting with tinny clunks, felt like some kind of relief.
The sense of foreboding that had come upon us when the distant door clanged in that fort stayed with us, until we got back on the interstate.
A few miles later and: "Look!" we both said at once, pointing, then laughed at our own unacknowledged sense of relief at leaving the grim, grey little town behind. "There's a Denny's in two miles!"
And so nothing happened that day, except a late breakfast. Nothing at all.
Not ‘that’ day._