Implode Begins
ImplodeImplode
What an appropriate fckn name for what I’m going through now. Ex-wife looks like she’s sprouted a demon’s head on her shoulders (hey, that’s a cool name for a song… Demonhead). And for the first time, the mission has a name: Implode. My first EP. Five songs. One wrecked man trying to shape the sound of collapse into something listenable.
The music is darker than I’ve ever written. Depressive. Heavy in mood, not just distortion. But what else could it be? The walls are closing in, and it feels like everyone I know — everyone I love — is turning their back because I dared to pursue my dreams.
Fck’em.
“Implode feels less like a choice and more like a diagnosis. Lol.“
By this point, I’m knee-deep in the first song. On paper, progress. In reality, a kindergarten classroom littered with tiny monsters. Guitars sound thin, weak, and mono. I reduce gain to carve clarity, but lose body — they shrink into paper. I push EQ, and they hiss. I stack more tracks, and they fight each other like alley cats.
The mixes don’t breathe. Everything folds inward. Kick disappears under guitars. Bass muddies the low end. Vocals sit awkwardly on top, like they were duct-taped there. Fix one problem, three crawl out from under the desk.
Stereo? Forget it. The track sounds like it’s coming out of a clock radio buried under a pillow. I want width, but the soundstage collapses the moment I touch a fader. Reverbs smear instead of opening space. Delays clutter, eating clarity alive. The room shrinks, not expands.
Shit. What did I get myself into this time?
I guess this is what “learning the craft” really means. Tutorials make it look like knobs are magic. Reality makes it sound like a dying fridge.
Still, every night I sit here, chasing it. Shaping noise into form. Implode may be crooked, broken, fragile — but it’s being born, note by note.
And one thing’s already certain: even if it kills me, this EP will live.