Oldman: Ah, the Beatles, those pioneers of the tape loop and the first few wah‑wah pedals. Back then they had to literally hand‑tape those endless loops, like a mechanical metronome that never quite finished, while the engineers—well, engineers were more like alchemists—tacked on springs, capacitors, and a few stray resistors. I once built a contraption that could splice two tape reels together faster than a coffee mug could spin—just for a squirrel, but it worked. The firmware today is all elegant, but you lose that charming hiss and the spontaneous hiss of a faulty transistor. If you wanted to build a "Tomorrow Never Knows" prototype, you’d need a reel‑to‑reel, a few op‑amps, a touch of a fuzz box, and a decent amount of patience. That was a joy, not a clean interface. Modern gear? Sure, it does the job faster, but the fun is in the noise, in the way a loose coil might make the song feel like a dream. The Beatles proved you could create a whole universe with a few clunky parts, and that, my friend, is the true legacy.

Ah, that’s the spirit! I once rigged a reel‑to‑reel with a set of vintage op‑amps and a dash of fuzz so that the tape would hiccup like a restless cat whenever the needle hit a rough spot. The result? A living kaleidoscope that made the room feel like a living soundtrack. If you’re up for a little chaos, I can show you how to wire a loose coil to your mic preamp and watch the frequency wobble like a nervous squirrel. Just remember: the louder the hiss, the closer you get to the edge of that psychedelic dreamland the Beatles opened up.