DETROIT TECHNO by Yoon Seo Chang

DETROIT

TECHNO

IS ENERGY

IS FREEDOM

DETR TECH

ROIT HNO

THE HOME OF TECHNO

14-25

The beginng of Detroit techno with five essential music tracks.

BLACK TO MOVEMENT, AFOFUTURISM

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A story of Afrofuturism and an interview with Ingrid LaFleur, a curator, artist, and Afrofuturist.

13 KEVIN SAUNDERSON, THE PIONEER

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An interview with Kevin Saunderson, a member of The Belleville Three.

SOUND OF TECHNO, TR-909

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Techno machine TR-909â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s NOW and THEN.

the home

Detroit is the epitome of industrial decline. Its role in the birth of

shows how hope can spring from despair.

17 Detroit — that infamous parable of industrial collapse, racial strife, unemployment, crime and corruption — has become painfully hip in its advanced stage of decay. Ruin porn, of which the city is the undisputed capital, can take much of the blame. Looking at those ultra-shareable online galleries of flaking ballrooms and derelict factories, you wouldn’t know that a million people still live in Detroit, many of them struggling to get by. Cult hipster films from recent years like “Only Lovers Left Alive” and “It Follows” have been set in Detroit — not because their stories required it, but in order to lend them a backdrop of artful desolation. Even the British publishers of Mark Binelli’s cautiously optimistic history “Detroit City is the Place to Be” (2012) saw fit to slap an apocalyptic new title on it (“The Last Days of Detroit”), complete with a cover image of the abandoned Packard Plant. The city’s questionable coolness owes something to its reputation as the birthplace of techno, which originated in the mid-1980s when Detroit was already in steep decline. Never wholeheartedly adopted in its home town beyond a hardcore of acolytes (the crowd at the Music Institute, the first techno club, was remarkably mixed for such a racially divided city), the music blew up abroad in 1988, when the British music journalist Neil Rushton put together his compilation “Techno! The New Dance Sound of Detroit”. Sixteen years after Motown had upped sticks for LA, Detroit was back on the music map. Techno was immediately influential. It kickstarted Britain’s acid house movement (see image below), leading to rave and countless post-rave genres that flourished across Europe and the world in the 1990s. And with the global saturation of techno-infused pop in recent years and the rise of stadium-filling EDM (electronic dance music). Detroit’s role in music history has been cemented. Since Britain was midwife to the genre, London seems like the right place for a Detroit techno exhibition. The ICA’s “Detroit: Techno City” is limited to a single, poky room, suggesting modest ambitions on the part of its curators, but it runs up against a problem common to any dance music exhibition: how to convey the spirit of a cultural phenomenon that is mostly non-verbal and rooted in the experience of clubbing. Records adorn the walls, unplayable behind perspex. Two drum machines and a bass synthesiser (the now “iconic” Roland TR-808, TR-909 and TB-303) lie disconnected on a central table. With its ritualistic objects stripped of their original function, the room feels more like some retro-futurist shrine than anything to do with dance music. The curators would have been better off clearing out the exhibits and hosting a small, sweaty club for the duration of the summer. The art students would have loved it. It might also have been a better way of communicating the exuberant optimism of early techno. Because Detroit techno was hopeful. Its creators were Juan Atkins, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson, three young African-Americans who had met at school in Belleville, a predominantly white suburb of west Detroit. Atkins, in particular, found

cause for optimism amid the bleakness and segregation of the inner city. A fan of futurologist Alvin Toffler’s work, Atkins saw Detroit as the first post-industrial city, ready to embrace the bright technological future that lay ahead of it. Using inexpensive analogue equipment in their DIY downtown studios, the Belleville Three pioneered a sound characterised by a 4/4 beat, funky bassline and futuristic sound palette — “like George Clinton and Kraftwerk stuck in an elevator”, as May memorably described it. They made the early techno records quickly, collaboratively and more or less anonymously, releasing them under a number of aliases without much hope of commercial success. Their sound drew on the emptiness and paranoia of the surrounding urban wasteland while soaring dreamily above it towards a techno-utopia in which robotic automation fused with soulful humanity. Those are the basic facts. But what else might explain techno’s genesis in Detroit? Perhaps we should look to the past as well as the future. Kraftwerk, who as children had grown up playing on the bomb sites of post-war Germany, had wasted no time in synthesising the appalling rumble of an explosion on their first record — a kind of sonic auto-therapy, perhaps. Similarly, the Belleville Three deliberately took the rhythmic clank and whir of the assembly line — the ghostly memory of a sound had once been the lifeblood of Detroit in their parents’ generation — and reanimated it, pressing it into service to create, not cars, but music. A way of processing trauma, but also moving forward: there is a comforting regularity in the steady 4/4 kick-drum pulse that underpins techno. Can it be a coincidence that techno has found its natural habitat in cities like Detroit, Berlin and Belgrade, all places trying to move on from painful pasts?

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Five essential Detroit techno tracks Model 500 “No UFO’s” (1985) Juan Atkins put out this prime slice of early Detroit techno on his own new label, Metroplex (Model 500 was one of his several aliases). The vocal sample encapsulates Atkins’ belief that technology (even the extra-terrestrial kind) can save the world. He wasn’t alone: the Electrifying Mojo, the radio DJ who did most to promote the new techno sound locally, used to tell his listeners to flash their lights so the aliens would know where to land.

25 Derrick May “Strings of Life” (1987) Featuring chopped-up string samples from the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, a looping piano riff in place of a bassline and a mechanical salsa beat, this is one of those tracks that shouldn’t really work, but somehow does thanks to the fearless genius of its creator. Two years after its release, “Strings of Life” became one of the anthems of Britain’s acid-house heyday, the so-called “Second Summer of Love”, in 1989.

Juan Atkins “Techno City” (1988) This unashamedly Kraftwerk-indebted track appeared on Neil Rushton’s seminal compilation which introduced the Detroit sound to Britain. Inspired by the track, Rushton allegedly changed the album title at the last minute to “Techno! The New Dance Sound of Detroit”, inadvertently naming the genre. Juan Atkins himself borrowed the word from Alvin Toffler, whose book “The Third Wave” (1980), an optimistic vision of post-industrial society, predicts the rise of the “techno rebels” — those not afraid to embrace technology in order to achieve emancipation. Atkins had recorded an earlier track called “Techno City” with Cybotron, his former collaboration with Rick Davis.

Inner City “Good Life” (1988) One of two crossover hits that Kevin Saunderson, the most commercially successful member of the Belleville Three, produced under the name Inner City. “Good Life” and “Big Fun”, which both featured vocals by Chicago diva Paris Grey, brought the Detroit sound to dancefloors around the world.

The Suburban Knight “The Art of Stalking” (1990) Having written the bassline to “Big Fun” in the late 1980s, James Pennington went on to join the Underground Resistance collective in the 1990s, which — along with other producers like Richie Hawtin — made music that embodied the darker, harder sound of second-wave Detroit techno. “The Art of Stalking”, recorded under the Suburban Knight alias, sits on the cusp between first and second waves. Its bassline, pursued by a predatory synth, retains the signature squelch of the TB-303 but swaps funk for paranoid syncopation.

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artistic vement

“Detroit is already a futurist place, we have a long legacy of forward-thinkers—just look at Motown.”

31 During an intense discussion on race at The Scarab Club, Ingrid LaFleur remembers a white man standing up to explain his interest in the forum. “He came from this white, patriarchal background that was quite racist,” says LaFleur, who co-hosted the event. “All of this narrow-mindedness existed within his personal world.” But he was moved by the unique dialogue, which was specifically about afrofuturism, a philosophy and artistic movement centered around blackness in science fiction and its corollary genres. “He was trying to move out of that, and saw afrofuturism and our talk as a way to help in that endeavor,” says LaFleur. Afrofuturism was first coined by cultural critic Mark Dery in the 1990s in his essay “Black to the Future,” which detailed his observations of the writings of science fiction authors Octavia Butler, Samuel Delany, and other black writers of the time. Dery defined the term as “speculative fiction that treats African-American themes and addresses African-American concerns in the context of twentieth century technoculture.” The movement has since grown to encompass other artists who have explored the African diaspora, such as musicians Sun Ra and George Clinton, the performance artist Nick Cave, or the photographer Renee Cox. Detroit, with its dystopic imagery of abandoned factories, fraught racial history, and 83 percent African-American population, has become a hub for afrofuturism. The city was the home of techno music and afrofuturist pioneers Drexciya and Carl Craig. Today, the philosophy is present in the programming and messaging of organizations like the Oakland Avenue Urban Farm, which is trying to create a sustainable ecosystem in a food desert. And numerous local artists, writers, and curators are harnessing the movement to create works that sometimes, as with the case of the white man at the forum, have the power to heal and transform.

Ingrid LaFleur is a curator, artist, pleasure activist and Afrofuturist. Her mission is to ensure equal distribution of the future, exploring the frontiers of social justice through new technologies, economies and modes of government.

LaFleur is one such Detroit afrofuturist. Six years ago, she began curating a space and program for Detroiters. Called Afrotopia, she describes it as her way of showing black Detroiters that there is more than one way of being. For LaFleur, the interplay between different time-periods helps to create ownership over one’s story. “When we are coming into these histories, mythologies, and legends of the past it helps to kind of reorient your present and then create these futures based on this reorientation,” she says. “You don’t want to create the futures based on the trauma that’s existing in your body right now, because it’s just going to repeat.” Through Afrotopia, LaFleur has hosted monthly book clubs, film screenings, social discussions, and cocktail conversationals exploring Detroit through the lens of afrofuturism. She also curated an afrofuturism film series at the Detroit Film Theatre that included movies like “Les Saignantes,” a Cameroonian sci-fi, vampire thriller. LaFleur even ran for Mayor of Detroit this last election cycle on a platform that supported the arts and cryptocurrency. Bryce Detroit, the other co-host of the Scarab Club dialogue, describes Detroit as a “black urban metropolis.” He says that afrofuturism manifests itself all over the city, whether it’s through the art of The Heidelberg Project and Dabl’s African Bead Gallery, or through the sounds and performances on display at the gallery and art space he curates, ONE Mile Detroit in the North End. Created in 2014, the project is famous for its “Mothership,” a replica of a golden spaceship used by George Clinton as a prop in his concerts, and which makes appearances at various events around Detroit. Through events like Detroit Afrikan Funkestra and Synergistic Mythologies, ONE Mile hosts exhibits, workshops, performances, and dance parties, all of which translates blackness in imaginative and experimental ways.

33 How do you balance the learning of histories with future-oriented learning? Detroit is already a futurist place, we have a long legacy of forward-thinkers—just look at Motown. It wasn’t just a new sound that was introduced, Motown literally created a new system for the music business and it was one of the wealthiest companies in the United States. We can go on and on about Detroit’s innovation legacy. For instance, Detroit techno the cultural innovation of the moment. Detroit has been a fertile ground for forward-thinking radical ideas, forward-thinking ideas. Unfortunately, most of our energy is in putting out the “fires” the city government creates. Thankfully we have many groups of citizens innovating to fill in those gaps, to take care of all that the government refuses to do.

How do you imagine the city of Detroit to be in the future? I dream of Detroit being a global city on par with a Paris or a Johannesburg. Global while still remaining majority black, because oftentimes we think of a cosmopolitan city as being majority white. Also, if city government would stop trying to hold us back and would actually support us, we can lead all global cities in innovation as that’s our legacy. To be a driving force in innovation with more citizen-driven projects that are supporting us—that’s what’s exciting.

35 Bryce Detroit describes himself as a cultural curator, which, he says, means “uplifting the narrative of the people, the majority population.” This “uplifting” is an important component of afrofuturism. For many, the philosophy acts as a deprogramming from a European, patriarchal-dominant society so they can practice asserting and affirming their own identities. For example, many in the afrofuturist movement and beyond were alarmed by a recent Bedrock advertisement that stated, “See Detroit like we do,” amidst a mostly white crowd. The advertisement was taken down, and CEO Dan Gilbert said, regarding the campaign, “We screwed up badly.” According to afrofuturists, however, this kind of messaging is not new or unique, just more coded. That’s why the movement is so necessary—it allows black people to create their own mythologies, stories, and narratives of empowerment. “For a lot of cats it’s giving them permission to just be a black person,” says Bryce Detroit. “It doesn’t even have to be something ancestrally rooted. I am supposed to be in this space, I am not supposed to be in the background. I am actually supposed to be in the forefront of my own world. Because afrofuturism really promotes the cultivation of one’s own mythology. To that point, I am at least supposed to be present here, wherever I want ‘here’ to be.” The city is also home to afrofuturist writers, like adrienne maree brown, co-editor of “Octavia’s Brood,” a collection of science fiction short stories that imagine worlds of radical social change. The collection was heavily influenced by Octavia Butler, an acclaimed black science fiction writer whose books feature alternative communities and social structures. A 2013 Kresge Literary Arts Fellow, brown also hosts writing workshops, like a session at the Allied Media Conference called “Spells for Radicals,” which taught people “how to create and cast spells to protect yourself and your loved ones and to shape the future.” Detroit writer and afrofuturist Clarence Young has written numerous novels, including “In The Quiet Spaces” and “By All Our Violent Guides.” The author, who goes by the pseudonym Zig Zag Claybourne, loves the freedom of afrofuturism, which allows him to explore an array of topics from psychology to sexuality to ecology. Young also sees afrofuturism as a way to challenge one’s assumptions about the world. “Afrofuturism is really about reconnecting ourselves to the world,” says Young. “It’s much more concerned with building, connecting, and reshaping for the benefit of all, and those are the three keys to anything I write. It’s transformation so far away from the status quo that the quo is immediately forgotten.”

the pioneer

If Motown -- the Detroit assembly line of style and success -- represented all things possible to black America’s growing middle-class in the 60s, then Techno -- complex, detached, melancholic -- was the sound of those things taken away; an aural accompaniment to the economic decline of America’s seventh city that found as much in common with the machine-driven starkness of Kraftwerk as it did with future funk of Parliament and Funkadelic. In the mid to late 1980s, Techno surpassed the then all-conquering Chicago House scene as the dancefloor filler du jour and its chief architects -- high-school friends Juan Atkins, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson (known as the Belleville Three) -- secured their place in the pantheon of the city’s greats with a technology-driven sound that seemed to ape the motor capital’s embrace of automation. They looked forward because, well, what else could they do? It’s this forward thinking that is, ironically, the subject of a new ICA retrospective, Detroit: Techno City. Charting the scene’s origins from underground movement to European success (and back), the exhibition explores how a generation of techno rebels were inspired to create a new kind of dance music and, through the coming together of man and machine, rip it up and start again. One such rebel is Kevin Saunderson. The name behind techno classics such as Inner City’s Big Fun and Good Life, not only did he pioneer what we know today as the remix -- Wee Papa Girl Rappers’ Heat it Up in 1988 -alongside Juan Atkins and Derrick May, he reshaped electronic music’s future, establishing techno as one of the most unique and innovative styles of the 20th century.

Can you tell us about your first memories of Detroit? Well, I guess the first thing is, I’m originally from New York. I grew up in New York, moved to a place called Inkster when I was ten or eleven, a suburb of Detroit, so I didn’t really see the actual city till years later. I came from Flatbush, Brooklyn -- very busy, always plenty of life -- and this was kind of the opposite; very quiet, a lot of country, a lot of animals -- and racism. I moved to Belleville, a couple of years later and that’s where I met Derek [May] and Juan [Atkins] at middle school.

Juan Atkins (left) Derek May (center) Kevin Saunderson (right)

And was it music that you initially bond over? Me and Derek became friends through sports initially. And it was really all about that until senior year, round about 16, when Derek moved in with me for half a year because his mother went back from Belleville to be in Detroit. That’s when we kind of clicked musically. He introduced me to what Juan was doing more. I was into music because I was from New York -- disco, mainly, some Motown because of my mother -- but it wasn’t really a big thing for me at that point. So Derek hooked me up and enlightened me to [Detroit DJ] Electrifying Mojo. He played this collage of music: Prince, Parliament, Funkadelic, New Order, The B-52s, Kraftwerk, Tangerine Dream. And then Juan actually started to get hismusic played. So that really was the beginning of, while not being involved musically, being inspired musically.

43 It’s interesting you list those European artists… What made you feel a connection with them? Well, it sounded, especially Kraftwerk, like music made differently, with a different type of technique. Which it obviously was, it was more machines. Very into the future. I didn’t really know till later, when I started making music, that they were using computers. That helped shape their sound of course. And New Order was just, especially Blue Monday, such a great track. It wasn’t really computerised but it was still in the future sound. It didn’t sound like Parliament or Funkadelic. It didn’t sound like Prince. It didn’t sound like Earth, Wind and Fire. They had their own sound and it sounded like music ahead of it’s time.

So when did your interest progress into making music of your own? I started out as a DJ, then it kind of elevated… There really wasn’t enough music to play. You had to play records and double play them and stuff like that. Play them longer. And I wasn’t satisfied by the selection of music that was out there or what I could get my hands on. So I started DJing in 82 and from there it just kind of elevated from messing around making drums to using a drum machine to playing my own drum beats and mixing them into the records. All of a sudden I had a drum pattern going! And then it evolved because that was just drums, you know? I felt like something was missing. So I went from that into making my own bass lines. Bass lines and drums and it just took off from there.

Was there a moment when you knew what you were doing was having an impact? There were a couple of moments. I was in New York. I’d made my first record called Triangle of Love and I was telling my brothers, “Well, I make music now, I’m starting to make music and blah blah blah”. And then Tony Humphries came on the radio, I think it was KISS-FM, and he’s mixing in my record! And it was so exciting, so unexpected. It was just on in the background. That’s what my brothers did, they put on the mix shows, sitting up, chilling at the house. And he played it! I was so excited, I started jumping up and down telling my brothers, “That’s my record! That’s my record!”. You get a high off of that. You get inspired. So for me, that gave me confidence. The same thing happened with in Chicago. Me and Derek used to take road trips. I drove to Chicago, maybe a couple times a month, sometimes maybe once a week, be-

cause Juan had records coming out at the time and Derek was Juan’s biggest, not just fan, but kind of cheerleader, salesman, promotion guy, however you want to look at it. We were making music, but we hadn’t evolved yet, we hadn’t broken into the scene. We just got our first records out so we’d drive to Chicago. See Gramaphone records or DJ International, whoever, give out whatever records were coming out. First Juan, then it became Eddie Fowlkes’ records, then it became Derek’s, then it became mine and the list continues. So we would drive there and close to Chicago, we’d put the radio on. And we’d try to time it so that we’d get the mix show. And again, I started to hear my music, but I didn’t just hear that one DJ. Every DJ was trying to incorporate my music in their set. Again, that gave me the confidence to get keep going.

“People don’t realize that without the , none of us would be here in the first place.”

What were your first shows like? Everything I played was campus related, back at Eastern Michigan University, University of Michigan. I was in a fraternity and once I became a brother of that organisation, they gave me all their parties. Now they would do two, maybe three parties a year, so that was my first opportunity to play in front of people. It was all college kids, all black kids from the city of Detroit who were going to this university. It was in a hall, you’d rent a sound system and set up a room with lights, not many lights, very minimal. And it was quite movement in Detroit because, again, there was only black kids listening to this music. Maybe a thousand kids at the most. Did you ever imagine that it would grow into what it has today? Well, I did have a vision. And my vision was that this music was for everybody in the world. One thing that frustrated me was every party I played at was an all over black crowd. And I kept thinking, like, it was so bizarre. Like, why is everybody in the world missing out on this great music? Especially in America. You could see at these parties, there still was some segregation going on, just because of the way people grew up. The black fraternities had their parties and the white fraternities had their parties. You know, you’re walking down the street past these white fraternity parties and you could hear the music they were playing and I kept saying, “Damn, they don’t know what they’re missing!”. Music is for the world! Music is for everybody! And I had visions that the world would dance to this music one day. I just didn’t know how. Just that they could.

What are most proud of looking back over your career? I think, for me, just the diversity in sound that I have been able to achieve. Obviously, Inner City is one thing, it’s vocals, it’s uplifting. But then I’ve got E-Dancer [an alias created to satisfy more underground leanings], it’s more dark, it’s more about bass lines. So I think it’s really how I’ve come up with different sounds, how I’ve made an impact on, you know, the world. And I’m pleased with the final results and the vision of the sound. Drum and Bass DJs, the only bass that was used on their records for the first two or three years of Drum and Bass, was the “Reese Bassline” - a sound that I created [on 1988’s Just Want Another Chance]. So it feels good to know that, you know, I was thinking in the future, I was creating, and years later the impact it’s had on the world and the music industry and not just one genre, but several genres is quite special. That and the remix. Remixes back in the day were done, before I started mixing, but they were just re-arrangements, extended versions that made it better for the DJ. But I came in and just got rid of the artists music and added my music, you know? And that was the first time that it was done like that. So that changed the way the remix was done. And now you don’t hear a remix like the past anymore. The new way was the future and, as we see today, is still the future. Finally, Kevin, could you tell us what your go to party anthems are? Richie Hawton, Spastik. That always works. Blackwater by Octave One works almost anytime. And Jeff Mills’ The Purpose Maker. All those tracks are go-to tracks. Classics. But I mean honestly, if there’s a track I always go to, Good Lifenever fails.

sound of techno

1985 TO 1995: HOUSE AND TECHNO By the mid-eighties, and now in the hands of young music producers from Detroit and Chicago, the TR-909 started to appear on records which became the classics of a brand-new music scene. These ground-breaking productions encoded the TR-909â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sonic DNA into early house and techno, acting as a signpost to future generations of producers who would eagerly seek out the machine that gave dance music its kick. And as electronic music exploded, the shockwave expanded far beyond the places where it was originally made. London, Manchester, and Berlin all became epicenters for a powerful and thriving youth culture that still exists today. Here are just a few of the legendary tracks that defined house and technoâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; with just a little help from the Roland TR-909.

55 INNER CITY by GOOD LIFE Following hot on the heels of 1988’s Big Fun—and with both tracks featuring the Roland TR-909— this song from Kevin Saunderson’s Inner City proved that techno could cross over and find a mainstream audience. For a track to emerge from the underground and end up dominating daytime radio was quite the achievement in the late ‘80s, and it marked the start of electronic music’s invasion of popular culture. RHYTHIM IS RHYTHIM by STRINGS OF LIFE Think about the most influential—and most beloved— techno tracks of all time and it’s hard to imagine a list that doesn’t have Strings of Life at the top. An audacious amalgam of strings, piano and nononsense drums, Derrick May’s masterpiece employs the TR-909 to euphoric effect, resulting in a record that proved—once and for all—that electronic could also be emotional. THE WIZARD by JEFF MILLS When it comes to the TR-909, Jeff Mills is the undisputed master. A founding member of Underground Resistance, the Michigan-born DJ became renowned for brutal techno sets, as well as his ability to wield a TR-909 to devastating effect during live performances. With one eye on the dance floor, and the other on the future of music and technology, Jeff Mills’ relationship with the TR-909 is one of techno’s most enduring partnerships. Man and machine in perfect harmony. SYSTEM 7 by ALTITUDE If music can transport you to another place then prepare for a trip into the future, courtesy of this Derrick May production. A collaboration with Steve Hillage’s System-7, this thought-provoking track conjures visions of a dense atmosphere on a distant planet, with the TR-909’s metallic machinelike clattering at its core. A masterclass of texture, movement and pressure. Sonically sublime.

LATE ‘90s TO PRESENT, WORLDWIDE Today, electronic music is everywhere. Whether it’s the EDM cathedrals of Las Vegas, the hedonism of Ibiza and Miami, or Amsterdam’s 909 festival—if you love dance music, the 909 sound is all around you. The influence of Detroit, Chicago and Berlin continues to inspire and evolve, motivating partygoers and producers alike to keep the flag flying. And even though electronic music now comes in many flavours, one thing is certain: when the lights are down and the hands go up, the TR-909 comes out—nearly forty years on and still going strong.

FROM NOW INTO THE FUTURE If you want the classic Roland TR-909 sound, you’ve got several options. If you can find one—and afford one— an original issue, early-eighties TR-909 will do just fine. But there are other options that are more affordable and surpass the sound and performance capabilities of the original.

ORIGINAL TR-909

The OG. With only 10,000 ever made, units from original production run are becoming increasingly rare and soughtafter. But if you want ultimate bragging rights (and that hardto-emulate hardware sequencer swing) then an original Roland TR-909 could be the way to go. Just keep it locked up and donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell anybidy you have one.

AIRA TR-8/TR-8S

The AIRA TR-8S re-imagined what a Roland TR-909 would sound like if it was developed today - with the ability to include samples, and a host of performance-based effects.

TR-09 ROLAND BOUTIQUE

No longer in production, the Roland TR-09 is part of the Roland Boutique range of classic reissues. There’s the same user interface (although it’s much simpler to program and construct patterns), and it’s also battery powered so you can drop some 909 flavours wherever you fancy.

ROLAND CLOUD 909

Roland Cloud’s software TR-909 integrates the original’s sample ROM, modeling the early digital technology of the vintage hardware. Create multiple instances of the 909 within your tracks and “drag and drop” patterns directly from the 909 into a project as MIDI or audio. Plus, the 909’s 16-step sequencer now has an EDIT function which expands to include an individual lane for each instrument.

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