Benn Jordan reframes the eternal question of "what software did they use?" not as a search for a secret weapon, but as a revelation of how extreme technical constraints can forge artistic genius. This piece matters because it dismantles the myth of the plug-in shortcut, arguing instead that the chaotic, revolutionary sound of the 1990s was born from command-line interfaces, DOS environments, and a willingness to endure hours of trial and error that modern producers would simply not tolerate.
The Myth of the Secret Tool
Jordan opens by addressing a pervasive insecurity in the music production community: the belief that a specific piece of software holds the key to greatness. He writes, "Sometimes [the question of what software is used] carries the unintentional suggestion that there's some secret tool out there that made all of my music rather than the countless hours of experimenting and editing and learning until my eyes and ears bled." This is a crucial distinction. The author argues that the tools themselves were often archaic or difficult, and the magic lay entirely in the user's "focus and determination and Imagination."
The commentary here is effective because it shifts the reader's focus from gear acquisition to skill acquisition. Jordan notes that Richard James, known as Aphex Twin, possesses "more focus and determination and Imagination in his pinky than all of my body does." This hyperbolic praise serves to elevate the human element over the technological one. Critics might argue that better tools do lower the barrier to entry and allow for more complex ideas, but Jordan's point is that the specific, jagged textures of that era were a direct result of the friction between the artist and the machine.
Richard James has more focus and determination and Imagination in his pinky than all of my body does.
Painting with Sound: The Medicin Era
The piece then dives into the specific tools used during the Windowlicker era, specifically software called Medicin. Jordan explains that this tool allowed James to "use sound as your medium and then color represents panning," effectively turning audio production into a visual, spatial exercise. The author describes the process of drawing a French horn and manipulating it to create a "good sneeze sad beat," highlighting the intuitive yet bizarre nature of the interface.
Jordan's analysis of the software's capabilities reveals a stark contrast with modern standards. He notes that while Medicin now includes a powerful synthesizer, "in 1999 this was not a thing." The author demonstrates that even with a modern, feature-rich version of the software, he would likely fail to replicate the structured chaos of the original tracks. This suggests that the "aura" of the music is inextricably linked to the limitations and quirks of the original environment. The argument holds up well: the constraints of the tool forced a unique creative path that a more polished, modern interface might have smoothed over into mediocrity.
Command Lines and the Art of Suffering
Perhaps the most striking section of the commentary concerns the creation of the track "Buis Bouncing Ball." Jordan details how the sound was constructed using Composers Desktop Project (CDP), a command-line driven suite that ran on DOS. He describes the grueling process: "you would just type Reverb ball. wve as your infile... then you would have a bunch of parameters... and then you press enter." This was not a drag-and-drop experience; it was a rigorous, mathematical approach to sound design.
The author emphasizes the sheer effort required, noting that James likely subjected himself to "hours days maybe even weeks weeks of trial and error" to achieve the final result. Jordan writes, "probably the most difficult way that you could put Reverb on anything in 2024." This framing is powerful because it recontextualizes the listener's experience of the track. The "crazy sounds" are not just artistic choices; they are the scars of a difficult technical battle. A counterargument might be that modern tools allow for similar results with less friction, but Jordan's point is that the process of suffering through the command line shaped the outcome in a way that efficiency cannot replicate.
The Masterpiece beilis bouncing ball was created... without this GUI typed in a bunch of commands into Doss and subjecting himself to hours days maybe even weeks weeks of trial and error.
Linear Thinking and Tracker Logic
The commentary also explores the concept of "linear drumming," a term Jordan credits to drummer Chris Penney. It refers to a technique where only one sound plays at a time, a constraint that James embraced through the use of trackers like Player Pro. Jordan explains that trackers sequence music in "top down lines that can only play one voice at a time per line," forcing a monophonic approach to percussion that became a signature of the sound.
Jordan speculates that for the album Richard D James Album, the artist was likely using a tracker to trigger a SCSI sampler. He notes that while trackers were efficient, they had limitations, yet James "breezes right through" them. The author's admiration for this technical mastery is palpable. He points out that even a simple melody on a tracker requires splitting notes into separate lanes, a tedious process that James mastered. This section reinforces the central thesis: the complexity of the music is a testament to the artist's ability to work within and against the software's limitations.
The Hidden Code
Finally, Jordan touches on the more obscure, custom-built software James likely utilized, including SuperCollider and a custom system created by his roommate, Chris Jeffs. The author mentions a "tb303 style vocal sequencer with text to speech functionality" that Jeffs built, describing it as "Next Level stuff that definitely did not exist outside of his own computer." This reinforces the idea that James's sound was not just about using existing tools, but about hacking, modifying, and creating entirely new sonic environments.
The piece concludes by encouraging readers to explore these "off the beaten path" tools, even if they are difficult to run on modern computers. Jordan writes, "the whole reason I'm making this video in the first place is an attempt to expand my viewers pallet of tools." This call to action is not about nostalgia, but about expanding the creative palette by understanding the history of the medium.
Bottom Line
Benn Jordan's commentary succeeds by stripping away the glamour of modern production to reveal the gritty, mathematical, and often painful reality of the past. The strongest part of the argument is the demonstration that the "batsh*t" quality of the music was a direct result of the friction between the artist and the command-line interface. The biggest vulnerability is that it romanticizes inefficiency, potentially ignoring how modern tools could have amplified these ideas further if the technology had existed. However, the verdict remains clear: true innovation often comes not from the tool, but from the relentless will to master it.
The thing is in 1997 there really wasn't a graphical destructive wave editor that could do this cool edit... what we're hearing... is composers desktop project which I believe did not have a GUI or front end at the time.