Tape Spaghetti

When you think of the first great concept albums, what comes to mind? Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band? Pet Sounds? The Dark Side of the Moon? Well, what if we told you the origins of this exceptionally innovative format actually trace back to a super bummed out Frank Sinatra, a bottle of whiskey, and 16 songs about being miserable?

In this episode of Tape Spaghetti, Scott and Blake tackle In the Wee Small Hours, Ol' Blue Eyes' remarkably cohesive collection of songs about heartbreak, loneliness, and late-night regret.

Recorded in 1955 during a period of extreme personal and professional turbulence, Wee Small Hours traded radio-ready hits for an immersive experience.

Its songs, arrangements, artwork, and atmosphere all served one unified vision, helping establish the album itself as a legitimate artistic medium.

Pour something strong and dig into this tale of love, loss, artistic reinvention, and a man who could make beautiful music... while being an absolute nightmare to everyone around him.

Beethoven died in 1827. Chopin died in 1849. Liszt died in 1886. But, apparently, that didn’t stop any of 'em from writing new music.

In the 1960s, an unassuming British widow named Rosemary Brown alleged Liszt appeared beside her piano and began guiding her hands through compositions she’d never heard before.

Soon it became a party. Beethoven. Chopin. Bach. Brahms. The afterlife’s greatest supergroup had found itself a living transcriber.

On this episode of Tape Spaghetti, we kick off spooky season with the strange story of the woman who claimed she could communicate with history’s greatest, extremely dead, composers, and backed it up with reams of sheet music.

It's easy enough to dismiss as a hoax, but serious musicologists could not make sense of how Brown, who was not an accomplished pianist or composer, could write music with eerily impressive similarities to that of the classical legends she claimed to communicate with.

Was Rosemary Brown secretly way more talented than anyone realized? Was something phantasmagorical happening?

And did Franz Liszt ever eat a banana? We don't know... but we're here to talk about it.

What happens when the biggest band in the world starts asking engineers to do things recording equipment was never designed to do? Things get weird. But, did the Beatles really revolutionize the gear and recording techniques that changed the game?

On this episode of Tape Spaghetti, Scott & Blake peek into the studio during the Beatles' most experimental years to explore the tricks, hacks, accidents, and genuine innovations that helped reshape recorded music.

We’re talking artificial double tracking, tape loops, backwards guitars, Varispeed, Leslie speakers, overloaded consoles, synchronized tape machines, direct bass recording, and even a giant loudspeaker rewired to work as a microphone, all with a singular pursuit in mind: to record sounds that didn’t quite exist yet.

Along the way, the guys bust some persistent Beatles myths and discover that plenty of their supposed “inventions” had actually been tried before. But that hardly makes the real story less impressive.

Because the Beatles’ greatest studio innovation may not have been inventing new technology. It was persistently asking some very smart engineers “okay... but can you make it do this?”

By 1970, Elvis Presley had fame, money, guns, wicked karate skills, a collection of police badges, and the ability to get almost anything else he wanted. Then he decided he needed federal credentials. What followed was an absolutely bonkers few days.

On this episode of Tape Spaghetti, Elvis storms out after a family argument, writes Richard Nixon a six-page letter, crisscrosses the country on commercial flights, and shows up unannounced at the White House dressed like…well, full-fledged 1970 Elvis. He offers his services to become a “federal agent at large" in order to fight against drugs, communism, hippies, and, for some reason, the Beatles.

The resulting Oval Office photo became iconic, but the story behind it is so much stranger than most people know. Here's what happens when the federal government has trouble telling the King "no."

In the early '90s, bands like My Bloody Valentine, Ride, Slowdive, and Lush transformed walls of distortion, oceans of reverb, and enough guitar pedals to bankrupt a small nation into Britain’s hottest new sound. Shoegaze had arrived, and seemed to be ushering in a new era of music out of England.

Then the press turned on them, Britpop arrived, and suddenly being called a “shoegazer” was practically an insult.

On this episode of Tape Spaghetti, Scott & Blake trace shoegaze from its unlikely origins and Loveless-era peak through its brutal fall from favor and its even more unlikely resurrection.

How did a genre once mocked as boring and self-indulgent become a massive influence on generations of musicians to follow? For a style built around musicians staring at the floor, shoegaze has had one seriously wild ride.