#Frequency Synthesizer

[electronalytics]

Frequency Synthesizer Market Geographical Expansion & Analysis Growth Development, Status, Recorded during 2017 to 2032

The global frequency synthesizers market has been expected to increase at a CAGR of 6.49% forecast period 2022-2030.

The competitive analysis of the Frequency Synthesizer Market offers a comprehensive examination of key market players. It encompasses detailed company profiles, insights into revenue distribution, innovations within their product portfolios, regional market presence, strategic development plans, pricing strategies, identified target markets, and immediate future initiatives of industry leaders. This section serves as a valuable resource for readers to understand the driving forces behind competition and what strategies can set them apart in capturing new target markets.

Market projections and forecasts are underpinned by extensive primary research, further validated through precise secondary research specific to the Frequency Synthesizer Market. Our research analysts have dedicated substantial time and effort to curate essential industry insights from key industry participants, including Original Equipment Manufacturers (OEMs), top-tier suppliers, distributors, and relevant government entities.

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Market Segmentations:

Global Frequency Synthesizer Market: By Company • Ultra Electronics (Herley CTI Division) • Texas Instruments Incorporated • Analog Devices, Inc. • National Instruments • Qorvo Inc. • Fei-Elcom Tech, Inc. • EM Research, Inc. • Programmed Test Sources Inc. • Sivers IMA AB • Micro Lambda Wireless, Inc. • Synergy Microwave Corporation • Mercury United Electronics Global Frequency Synthesizer Market: By Type • Analog • Digital Global Frequency Synthesizer Market: By Application • Telecommunications • Military & Aerospace • Others

Regional Analysis of Global Frequency Synthesizer Market

All the regional segmentation has been studied based on recent and future trends, and the market is forecasted throughout the prediction period. The countries covered in the regional analysis of the Global Frequency Synthesizer market report are U.S., Canada, and Mexico in North America, Germany, France, U.K., Russia, Italy, Spain, Turkey, Netherlands, Switzerland, Belgium, and Rest of Europe in Europe, Singapore, Malaysia, Australia, Thailand, Indonesia, Philippines, China, Japan, India, South Korea, Rest of Asia-Pacific (APAC) in the Asia-Pacific (APAC), Saudi Arabia, U.A.E, South Africa, Egypt, Israel, Rest of Middle East and Africa (MEA) as a part of Middle East and Africa (MEA), and Argentina, Brazil, and Rest of South America as part of South America.

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Report includes Competitor's Landscape:

➊ Major trends and growth projections by region and country ➋ Key winning strategies followed by the competitors ➌ Who are the key competitors in this industry? ➍ What shall be the potential of this industry over the forecast tenure? ➎ What are the factors propelling the demand for the Frequency Synthesizer? ➏ What are the opportunities that shall aid in significant proliferation of the market growth? ➐ What are the regional and country wise regulations that shall either hamper or boost the demand for Frequency Synthesizer? ➑ How has the covid-19 impacted the growth of the market? ➒ Has the supply chain disruption caused changes in the entire value chain?

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[synthtv]

How LFO works on a synthesizer

[roxrocknmetal]

ROX Alive looks at the difference between 432Hz and 440Hz and why the original frequency for A is so important

Also read our article for more detail:

https://www.roxalive.co.uk/2024/09/a-question-of-frequency.html

[addohaislam2000]

Frequency multiplier, digital frequency synthesizer, Multiprotocol wireless 

STM32WB55xx: 3.6 V 2 Mbps 2.48 GHz Multiprotocol wireless 32-bit MCU - UFQFN-48

[bmpmp3]

Learning about mixing because of vocal synth covers is so funny I'll be like trying to look up instrumental-vocal clashing solutions and the fruityloop tutorialmen will be like "well if it clashes just make a better instrumental" and I'm like my friend I am trying to insert a baritone robot into a pre-mastered offvocal from a song created for Hatsune Miku gender factor alllllll the way down from the year 2010. It's the only instrumental I got boss.

[robertemma27-blog]

Frequency Synthesizer Market Size, Share, Scope, Trends

The frequency synthesizer market, in terms of value, is expected to be valued at USD 1,446.3 Million by 2022, growing at a CAGR of 6.56% between 2017 and 2022. In terms of volume, the market is expected to register a shipment of 1,457.0 thousand units by 2022.

The frequency synthesizer market ecosystem includes the manufacturers such as Ultra Electronics (U.K.), Texas Instruments Inc. (U.S.), Analog Devices Inc. (U.S.), National Instruments (U.S.), Qorvo, Inc. (U.S.), FEI-Elcom Tech Inc. (U.S.), and Sivers IMA AB (Sweden).

Download PDF Brochure: https://www.marketsandmarkets.com/pdfdownloadNew.asp?id=43749268

Frequency synthesizers are key devices having applications in various sectors such as research and measurement, military and aerospace, and telecommunications. The key features of these devices are high signal clarity, low phase noise, high switching speed, and wide output frequency range. The availability of RF capable ICs and chips and an increase in adoption of mobile phones have contributed to a significant growth of the market. The reduced form factor of the RF capable ICs and chips easily enable integration. The wider adoption of mobile phones directly relates to the wider outreach of the telecommunications sector where frequency synthesizers are key components.

Telecommunications application is expected to dominate the frequency synthesizer market during the forecast period

The telecommunications application constituted the largest share of the frequency synthesizer market in 2016 and is expected to grow at a considerable rate between 2017 and 2022. The dominance of telecommunications sector in the market is due to the widespread usage of various telecommunications technologies and the continuous evolution in the technologies deployed in the market. The upcoming 5G technology is expected to contribute significantly toward the growth in the market.

Analog type frequency synthesizers held the largest market share in 2016

The analog frequency synthesizers are expected to hold the largest share and dominate the frequency synthesizer market between 2017 and 2022. The comparatively enhanced signal clarity than that of digital type synthesizers and better phase noise performance is expected to contribute toward more popular adoption of the analog frequency synthesizers in the market.

North America expected to hold the largest market share, and RoW is expected to grow at the highest rate

North America is expected to hold the largest share and dominate the frequency synthesizer market between 2017 and 2022. A considerable number of frequency synthesizer vendors are based in the U.S., and there is an increase in investment to upgrade telecommunications, military and research equipment, which would contribute toward the market growth in the region. However, the frequency synthesizer market in RoW, consisting of the Middle East and Africa, and South America, is expected to exhibit the highest growth rate on the back of rapidly expanding telecommunications sector in the region and increasing expenditure from the governments to upgrade the electronic equipment of military.

[rosemaryhoney27]

“Ghosts, Greens, and Gotham Gays”

aka: Danny Becomes Harley and Ivy’s New Favorite, Vlad Loses More Hair

Vlad was begging Bruce at this point. Begging.

“Keep him inside for one day, Brucie. Please. For my heart. For my blood pressure. For Gotham’s structural integrity.”

Bruce just took a sip of his black coffee and said, “He’s helping Ivy. It’s fine.”

Vlad gaped. “Helping—Ivy?!”

“Mmhm. Something about cross-referencing chlorokinetic frequencies with ecto-resonance.”

“That’s NOT A SENTENCE A CHILD SHOULD SAY—”

Bruce: “He asked first.”

Meanwhile – Ivy’s Greenhouse (Technically a Crime Lair)

Pamela Isley stood with arms crossed, watching as Danny held a softly glowing green hand over a wilting rose hybrid.

He hummed.

The flower perked up.

The surrounding vines quivered, then bloomed in synchronized delight.

“…He’s not Photosynthesizing,” Ivy whispered.

Harley peeked out from the couch, where she was doing her nails and sipping a neon slushie. “He’s ghost-synthesizing! Told ya!”

Danny looked up and smiled. “It’s like ghost CPR. I’m not a botanist, but I can nudge their ambient soul energy.”

“…Plants don’t have souls,” Ivy said, a bit flat.

Danny patted the vine beside him. It curled around his wrist like a cat and purred.

“…I stand corrected.”

Chaos, But Make It Helpful

Harley was already calling him “Spooky Nibbles” by hour two. (“'Cause ya nibble on chaos, kiddo!”)

Danny, somehow, was:

Helping Ivy revive a nearly extinct bioluminescent flower.

Fixing Harley’s blender with ghost tech so it never jammed again.

Casually mentioning he once made a haunted terrarium that ate cheaters in lab.

“I like this one,” Ivy said, very seriously. “Can we keep him?”

Harley nodded. “He’s got Big Gremlin Energy. Like me but with glowy hands.”

Danny beamed. “Thanks! Uncle Vlad says I’m a walking supernatural violation.”

Pam looked at Vlad, who had finally shown up and was hovering at the doorway like a stressed Victorian governess.

“You never said your godson was delightful,” she said.

“He’s not!” Vlad hissed. “He’s a menace with manners!”

Harley leaned over and whispered to Ivy, “He’s got good ankles too. Vlad’s lucky I’m married.”

Ivy: “So is Vlad.”

Later That Day: A Totally Normal, Casual Ghost Plant Uprising

The rogue CEO of GreenerCorp—an evil pharmaceutical company known for shady testing—arrived to “reclaim his investment” and “teach Isley a lesson.”

Danny stared at him across Ivy’s garden.

CEO Guy: “You’re just a kid. I’m not scared of you.”

Danny: “Oh. That’s okay.”

He raised a hand.

The temperature dropped.

The soil glowed.

Plants started whispering in languages no one understood. A massive vine rose behind Danny, pulsing with ghostly energy. The CEO tripped backward into his own security guard.

Danny took a step forward and said, very politely:

“You should leave before the ghost roses start asking questions.”

The CEO screamed. Ivy gave him a sticker that said “You Messed With The Wrong Garden.” Harley filmed the whole thing and posted it with the caption: “Our spooky nephew made a man pee himself ����🖤🌿👻”

Later – Back at the Manor

Bruce watched the footage. Vlad was face-down on the couch, groaning into a throw pillow. Tim had already turned the video into a meme. Damian was inspecting one of the ghost plants Danny brought back. “Can I keep it?” Cass nodded. “It likes you.” Jason: “He’s now officially in the Ivy-Harley inner circle. That’s better than the damn Mayor.”

Danny poked his head in from the kitchen, covered in potting soil and ghost glitter.

“I made ecto-compost cookies! They’re great for photosynthesis and graveyard shifts.”

Vlad: screaming internally again

Bruce patted Vlad’s back. “He’s doing well.”

“He joined a villain gardening cult.”

“They like him.”

“EVERYONE LIKES HIM.”

“Maybe you should try it.”

Vlad made a sound like a dying Roomba and walked straight into the wall.

[foone]

Think about the experience of time as a robot girl, through the metaphor of how we use laptops.

You wake up for the first time with your young master, a college present. You're with them every day, powering off each night to charge. Being powered off is just dreamless sleep: a discontinuity. Every morning you wake up, your click syncs, and you know it's the next day. Maybe you miss a day or two: your master went out partying and ended up sleeping on a couch, until they rushedly wake you up before Monday classes begin. You even missed a whole week once when they went on a hiking trip with a new boyfriend.

You help them research upgrades when your specs get outdated. You place the order and a couple days later they power you off, and you wake up feeling like your head got bigger, on the inside. You can think of more things at once.

They repair you. They swap a new hand in when you accidentally crush it in a door, but when your left leg's servos go out, they send you to a repair shop. They power you off as you look up at them, and you wake up hours later. A strange man tells you to extend your left leg, then contract it. He frowns and re-oils some inner mechanism. You do it again, quieter and smoother this time. He nods, and reaches for your switch. The last thing you see before powering down is your own chest cavity with a series of wires hooked into your diagnostic ports, and your missing right leg sitting on a side table. You wake up again back at the dorms, your clock jumping forward a day, an asset tag still looped around your neck. Your master is happy to see you again.

This goes on, but the upgrades slow. There's only so much you can do to keep an old unit working. Eventually you develop more issues: one of your ocular sensors glitches and they don't make that model anymore, so your master just disables it. You spend a while searching ebay for replacement CND batteries and finally get a refurbished model from South England, but it turns out the EU models run on a different frequency, so it won't work. You're limited to fewer and fewer hours a day, and you start skipping more days.

The last time you remember waking up with your master there, there's also someone else in the room. Another robot girl. A newer model, with the new chassis and the Substrate energy packs. They asks you to copy your memories together onto a memory card, and you do. You want to say goodbye, but apparently your vocal synthesizer has been unplugged. You hand them the card, and they hand it to the new robot. Your master tells them to load the memories into her core bank, and she's says "yes sir!" in your voice. Ahh. That's where your voice synth went.

They power you off, and you don't dream.

You wake in a strange place. You're on a shelf, and there's other things scattered around you. An unknown voice days "yep, it seems it powers on. 400 credits, though? Without a voice and only one working eye? Man, value bin doesn't know how to price anything!" and before the blackness falls your clock finishes synching: it's been 7 months since you last were awake.

It happens a few more times. Different voices, different times, different piles of junk piled around and sometimes on you.

You awake again in a warehouse and someone tells you to smile. Your other ocular sensor went out so you can't really see them, just their vague shape from the lidar. The freestanding shelves around you seem to stretch into infinity. You hear a bitcrushed shutter sound sample a few times, and they pull a connector out of your chest as a diagnostic completes. It's been three years, five months, eight days, two hours, 27 minutes and 14 seconds since you last saw your master. Your GPS says you're a few cities over. They hit your power switch, and you sleep.

You wake up in a cluttered room, sitting on a bench. You look into the eyes of a person with frizzled hair and large glasses. She couldn't look happier. Your new ocular sensors are mismatched in color but you're happy to see again, in more than shapes and distant silhouettes. Your battery alerts as... Missing? You spot it on the desk next to a soldering iron and some electronic tool you can't identify.

Your voice synth is still missing, but this new woman is digging around in a large plastic bin, and comes up with one. She goes to insert it, and it can't connect. She slaps her hand and goes rooting around another bin and comes back with an adapter. She slots it into your chest and your voice returns. You thank her, and there's that moment of dissociation as your voice doesn't sound like "you". Too deep, and the accent is for a different dialect entirely. But you can talk again. She tells you to call her Cara, not Mistress. She's almost got your battery working again, she had to rebuild it nearly from scratch, but she's excited to get you working again. You're a rare model, and she doesn't see units like you in working order very often. Your clock syncs. It's been 17 years.

Your mistr-- Cara is soldering next to you, attaching a controller to the battery. She says she's got a new set of servos on the way, and she's excited to get you back to full working condition. You smile, knowing what it is to be loved, once again.

[sailorspren]

I'm not a cosmere theories freak but I do have one theory I'm very passionate about which is that the pure tones of Roshar sound like sine wave synths! Let me explain :) I am taking "pure" to mean "consisting of only one note (and no overtones)", which is basically the definition of a sine wave. A sine wave is the representation of a single frequency with no harmonics and is considered an acoustically pure tone. Sine waves don't occur naturally - real world sounds always have overtones, in varying quantities. We can synthesize sine waves, however, and they sound like this (I played it in different pitches so you can get an idea of the timbre):

Here's a visual representation of a sine wave:

So this is what I imagine it sounds like when Dalinar opens a perpendicularity, or when singers hear pure notes in highstorms. And because the sound of a sine wave is so unnatural, it would really stand out and feel otherworldly on a planet that doesn't have modern technology - and I feel like that fits the description.

We also know that it's possible to use tuning forks to play the three pure tones of roshar and pull the matching types of light out of gemstones. While acoustic instruments can't produce a truly pure note (aka a sine audio wave), tuning forks come pretty close. They initially produce high overtones, but those fade out quickly, and then the forks keep resonating with a pure tone. It makes sense that tuning forks are the closest Rosharan humans can get to synthesizing a sine wave!

There's also the fact that Raboniel can sing the pure notes and get the lights to respond, while Navani can't. Is it just because Raboniel's pitch is more accurate, or do singers have an physiological ability to produce notes with less overtones? This is really interesting to me...

And one more fun thing to consider. You know what other instrument comes pretty close to producing a pure tone? The flute! Hoid gave Kaladin a flute... idk if it actually has any reasoning behind it but I really hope it does 😂 imagine how cool it will be if it will be used for musical magic system stuff

[electronalytics]

Frequency Synthesizer Market

[jamiepaige]

Constant Companions Closeup #11: MACHINE LOVE

(also on bandcamp and spotify!)

Welcome back to the Constant Companions Closeups - a series of in-depth dives into the songs off of my latest album, Constant Companions! Yesterday was the title track, My Darling, My Companion, which means today is the final track on the album - a song about the truths that lay in hiding within artifice, and a computer falling in love - Machine Love!

Before we get started on this particularly long closeup - I'll be doing a follow-up post after this one, answering various miscellaneous questions I've gotten over the course of writing these! If you've got anything you wanna hear more from me about, album-related or otherwise, feel free to reply to this post or send me an ask! It may very well end up part of the bonus closeup :~)

---

Let's circle back to the very first track, Dyad.

In that track's closeup, I mentioned the main sonic touchstones of this release relative to my previous ones being guitars and vocal synths. The whole guitar rock thing I think I've gone into detail enough about, what with all the inspirations I've rattled off in other posts, but there likely is still a burning question for some long-time listeners.

Why vocal synths? Why am I not singing on like half of this album? I thought you were a singer, Jamie Paige, so what is this Hatsune Miku robot Vocaloid crap?

Truth be told, the Vocaloid scene and community has always been a massive source of inspiration for me. So much of my favorite music ever, music that inspires me or touches my heart or makes me go apeshit, has been sung by synthesized vocalists in a language I don't even speak. I grew up with it, and it's grown up with me - music just as intricate, mind-boggling, twisted, fun, and ridiculously creative is being put out every single day by vocal synth producers, and nowadays it's coming from English speaking musicians in droves!

Before this year began, I'd made at least one major contribution to the culture, but in spite of my genuine adoration of everything vocal synth related, I felt like I was just looking in from the other side. Caught between worlds, existing outside of any communities, simply gesturing vaguely towards what I wanted to do.

But I wanted more! I wanted to make the same kinds of things that stirred my heart and made me want to write! I wanted to sing with those same voices! I wanted it to be true - to be like you!

---

I won't lie to you and tell you Kasane Teto has always been my favorite vocal synth. That title used to go to GUMI, and in general, I wasn't particularly attached to any UTAU voicebanks as a younger vocal synth fan. (Nowadays, I genuinely open up OpenUTAU just as much as SynthV because I've fallen deeply in love with Adachi Rei, but that's a story for my next album.) Obviously, I knew of Teto, and found her presence in things like Triple Baka delightful, but for the most part, she was mostly something of an oddity, a wayward piece of vocal synth history that had her Fans like any other.

However, there was one Teto song I've been inexplicably attached to since the moment I first heard it - Song of the Eared Robot, by nwp8861. I was introduced via this particular cover, which I love, but I quickly gravitated to the original. Something about the warbly, childish nature of her very first voicebank, the ambitiously orchestrated and unabashedly digital instrumental, the lyrics referencing fundamental frequencies and Markov chains and compiling code all just spoke to me!

That song stuck with me, laying in a part of my heart that had been collecting dust, all the way to April of 2023.

Now, yes, Teto wasn't always my favorite, and I had other vocal synths I was attached to, but I don't live under a rock, and I still understood how monumental the announcement of Kasane Teto's Synth V voicebank was - to the point that I interrupted a call full of FFXIV-playing friends who knew barely anything about vocal synths and gave them an impromptu TED talk because I was so excited.

(An excerpt of a summary of that night's events, written the morning after. i was up my own ass a little bit but in my defense Kasane Teto had just been announced for Synthesizer V)

I was watching, in real time, a dream made manifest. It's literally one of the Bits with Teto! That she'd be a Vocaloid one day too! And here she was, on the fan favorite engine, sounding genuinely fucking incredible. Especially in hindsight, it's such a beautiful and perfect twist of fate for her.

I saw myself in her. A weird little outcast, explosively reborn and thrust straight into a community's open arms with love. I wanted it to be true - To be like that, too.

It didn't fully hit until later, hearing another cover of a song I'd almost forgotten.

Machine Love, my love letter to the entire world of unbridled creativity and artistry surrounding vocal synths filtered through one sentimental little song, was fully written by the start of May, maybe 4 days after I had gotten my hands on Teto SV and long before a certain compilation album was even a glint in my eye.

If you haven't heard DAEMON/DOLL yet, you really, really, really should go listen to it - yes, I mastered this album, many of my friends and collaborators are featured, and I have two entire songs on it, but I genuinely mean it when I say I believe it's some of the best fucking music that's come out this year in general. In many respects, it also feels like a companion (hah) to Constant Companions.

I had finished writing Machine Love by this point, but it was working on this album in its entirety - discovering artists like Anh Duy, Eggtan, and beat_shobon through it, and hearing everyone in top form making this twin-drilled chimera fucker sing her heart out - that not only made me confident in my decision to go down this artistic path, but that made me fall completely in love with Kasane Teto. And honestly, how could I not? She feels like a microcosm of everything that makes vocal synths so special, this community of creatives all leaving their marks and touchstones along the trail of a great big shared folk mythos. Yeah, maybe the folk hero we're all collectively mythologizing is an anime girl, but yknow maybe Odysseus could take some branding cues from hatsune miku idfk

Basically, even if he says he wants to kill me, I owe fucking everything to rice for inviting me to work on DAEMON/DOLL.

---

On that note, my vision for Machine Love's MV was pretty clear from the beginning.

the actual factual setup for the above shot, which was done entirely in-camera with my laptop, a tv, and two video files manually synced using VLC

The fundamental idea was always there - live-action shots of animation playing back on various screens, edited together to feel somewhat seamless. However, I really struggled with what exactly was going to be on said screens for a while; Big commissions were very far out of my budget, but I knew this song needed something grandiose.

Ultimately, what I arrived at was exactly the kind of scrappy, DIY bullshit it was always meant to be.

I asked my Twitter mutuals for help. And spent a couple months in Final Cut Pro and Apple Motion hell turning all the Teto art I got into a bunch of tiny little mini MVs, some of them parodying real vocal synth MVs, some of simply just evocative of vocal synth MVs, all of them painstakingly edited by yours truly and filmed with the help of some friends over the next couple months across two states and many more cities just to be painstakingly edited and synced up again by yours truly.

THE NEXT MV I DO WILL BE SMALLER IN SCOPE

---

And with that, I believe that's the album!

There's a reason it ends with Machine Love, and not with the title track. I do think that in some respects My Darling, My Companion would have made a better closer, but that song only really resolves one of the thematic strands running through the album.

There isn't really a definitive answer to the specific question "Baby, do you know what you wanna hear?", but it evokes a theme running through the entire album - wanting something, knowing that you want something, and simply needing to find the courage to do it or say it or be it. My Darling, My Companion is in many ways a declaration of intent, an acceptance of what needs to happen, but Machine Love, to me, is that action being done. The words being said!

And now, if I may give this a somewhat selfish tint - with the explosive response my works from this album have gotten, my contributions to things like DAEMON/DOLL and Flavor Foley, the collaborations I've done and that I still have in the pipeline, the friends I've made and the community I've found a spot for myself in, and the newfound voices that I can lay my heart bare with -

Well, shit, I know what I wanna hear, and I've gotten to hear it. I'm a vocaloP. It's real!

Thank you all so goddamn much for reading and listening. I'll see you back here either tomorrow or Monday for the bonus AMA post thing!! Make art and be gay, motherfuckers.

❤️💚

[synthtv]

Tiptop Audio & Buchla 285t Frequency Shifter

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Imagine all of the special Viagra Ford creates just so he could fuck YOUR brains out!!! 🍆💦🥰

HELP nsfw

i am such a big fan of that idea. like yes. YES. absolutely Ford would make up weird little specialized serums and supplements and glowing blue vials just so he could go absolutely feral on you in ways no regular man ever could. this man was not in the multiverse for thirty years for nothing. he came back with knowledge and techniques and formulas that would probably terrify the average person but he’s just so casual about it. “drink this, sweetheart, it’ll help you withstand higher frequency thrusts”

i feel like he'd be so proud of his inventions too. he’s not just doing this for his own pleasure, he genuinely wants to blow your mind, make you see stars, and he’s applying his scientific brilliance to the cause. making sex toys that.... idkk, sync with ur heartbeat, vibrators that read ur muscle contractions and adjust speed and rhythm accordingly. like he’s not normal

he’s like, “i synthesized this bioluminescent serum that increases pelvic blood flow! it lasts approximately 47 minutes and has only minor side effects. would you like to try it tonight?” what the fuck, Ford, yes

sooo yessss after fucking your brains out he also wants to study them afterwards <3

[addohaislam2000]

Frequency synthesizers, what is a frequency multiplier, frequency doubler

STM32WB55xx: 3.6 V 2 Mbps 2.48 GHz Multiprotocol wireless 32-bit MCU - UFQFN-48

[tosomeonessomeone]

Maracatu

Brazil series

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

Seoul, South Korea – 10:32 AM

The JYP Building towers like a temple of modern sound, its mirrored surface slicing the crisp autumn light into shards. You step out of the taxi, the scent of roasting *castanhas* from a street vendor clashing with the metallic tang of Seoul’s skyline. Jet lag claws at your eyelids—*24 hours from Rio to Incheon*—but your pulse thrums faster when your phone vibrates. A message glows:  

*JYP Team:* *“Mr. Bang Chan is ready. 18th floor. Elevator 3.”*  

Inside, the elevator walls are a mosaic of K-pop legacy: TWICE’s candy-colored visuals, Rain’s smoldering stare, and Stray Kids’ graffiti-style logo. Your thumb traces the USB drive in your pocket—*your weapon*. The demos inside are a manifesto: *berimbau* twangs fused with *pansori* wails, *maracatu* drums under *gugak* strings. The doors part with a whisper.  

The room hums. Not just from the subwoofers—*everything* vibrates here. Neon LED strips clash with the warm glow of a salt lamp. Bang Chan swivels in his chair, headphones dangling like a pendant, his smile sharp and sunburn-bright. Behind him, a whiteboard bleeds ideas:  

- *“HAN’s verse → SAMBA STUTTER??”*  

- *“MV: SEOUL PALACE x FAVELA STAIRS”*  

- *“ASK BRAZIL PROD ABOUT CUÍCA vs. PIRI DUET”*  

The studio thrums with the low-frequency purr of subwoofers, air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and ozone from overworked synthesizers. Bang Chan swivels in his chair to face you, bare feet propped on a tower of tangled MIDI cables, hoodie sleeves shoved haphazardly to his elbows. Peeling studio tape clings to his fingertips like battle scars. His grin is all mischief, voice a collision of Sydney surf and Seoul grit: *“G’day, mate���heard you’ve got a death wish.”*  

He stabs a key on his laptop. The room explodes with sound—your demo track, *“Janggu vs. Tamborim,”* but warped. The Korean drum’s earthy *ddong-ddong* now tangoes with the Brazilian tamborim’s metallic chatter, Hyunjin’s dance practice footage glitching onscreen in time with the beat. *“Looped this during Hyunjin’s rehearsal,”* he says, eyes flashing. *“Kid backflipped into a speaker. *Still* claims it’s the best rhythm he’s ever moved to.”*  

You drop your bag onto a couch buried under a graveyard of half-dismembered synth modules and a fossilized bag of *yakgwa*. *“So JYP didn’t bring me here to play nice,”* you counter, toeing a rogue drum stick. The USB in your pocket feels nuclear. *“You want a revolution. Let’s torch the rulebook.”*  

Chan leans back, arms crossed, appraising you like a puzzle. *“Rulebook?”* He snorts. *“We’re writing a new one. Chapter one: *Stray Kids* eat trop-house for breakfast. Chapter two—”* He tosses you a cable. *“—we blow up the algorithm.”*  

The hum of machines sharpens. Somewhere, a coffee drip echoes like a countdown.

Three weeks. Three weeks of *nothing*.  

The studio walls, once electric with possibility, now feel like a prison. Stray Kids’ demos pile up like casualties: *“SAMBA GOD’S MENU (ABANDONED)”*, *“TAEYANG’S TANGO (CRINGE)”*, *“FELIX’S BOSSA NOVA NIGHTMARE (BURN THIS)”*. Bang Chan hasn’t slept in 52 hours. His hair resembles a electrocuted hedgehog, his hoodie stained with *gochujang* and regret. You watch him mutter over a synth pad, tweaking the same four bars of a *forró* beat until it sounds like a fax machine screaming.  

“Chan,” you say, prying a cold *bungeo-ppang* from his death-grip. “We’re stuck. You’re stuck. This studio’s cursed.”  

“No—*no*—I just need to layer this *piri* sample with a *cavaquinho*,” he rasps, eyes bloodshot. “Hyunjin’s *samba* rehearsal was *fine*—”  

“Hyunjin tripped into a timbalão and cried in three languages. *Fine* isn’t cutting it.”  

---  

JYP’s office smells like sandalwood and power. The man himself sits cross-legged on a velvet chaise, sipping *matcha* like a philosopher-king. You slam a USB drive on his desk—labeled *“EMERGENCY: BRAZIL OR BUST”*—and play a clip of your last demo: a tragic accordion-chaos hybrid that makes JYP’s eyebrow twitch.  

“He’s drowning,” you say. “Seoul’s killing his vibe. I’m taking him to Brazil. *Now.*”  

JYP steeples his fingers. “Bang Chan… on a plane? Voluntarily?”  

“Oh, he’ll fight. But you’ll handle the passport stuff, yeah?”  

A pause. Then, a smirk. “Tell him I’ll disband Stray Kids if he says no.”  

---  

Chan doesn’t go quietly.  

You find him under his studio desk, cocooned in a *Stray Kids* blanket, ranting in Korean-Aussie-*Portuñol*. “I’M FINE! I JUST NEED TO REVERSE THE PHASE ON THIS AFROBEAT—”  

“JYP’s orders,” you lie, tossing his sneakers at him. “He wants a ‘cultural immersion documentary.’ Also, he’s got your mom on speed-dial.”  

Chan freezes. “You’re evil.”  

“And you’re boarding a flight to Rio in two hours. *Vamos.*”  

——

Chan spends the car ride Googling *“Can K-pop leaders get kidnapped?”* and *“Is Brazil’s WiFi good?”*. At security, he tries to bolt, claiming he left his “lucky MIDI controller” at the studio. You bribe a janitor to drag him through the gates.  

By takeoff, he’s sulking in first class, hoodie pulled over his face, muttering about “trust issues.” You slide a *caipirinha* into his hand. “Drink. Cry. Embrace the *saudade*.”  

He sniffs the lime. “Is this… alcohol?”  

“It’s *therapy*.”  

——

The moment Chan steps into Galeão Airport’s chaos, magic happens. A *bateria* from Mangueira samba school parades past, their *surdos* thundering. Chan’s eyes widen—he’s already Shazam-ing the rhythm. A vendor shoves a *pastel de queijo* into his hands; he takes a bite and moans like he’s rediscovered music.  

“This… this is a *triplet* feel!” he yells over the drums, sauce on his chin. “Why didn’t we *think* of this?!”  

You grin. “Because you were busy syncing *gayageum* to a metronome. *Burro.*”  

——

Copacabana at sunset. Chan’s barefoot in the sand, a *caipirinha* in one hand, a *berimbau* in the other. Local producers crowd around a bonfire, playing a *pagode* riff that’s 70% soul, 30% chaos. You shove a mic at him. “Freestyle. Now.”  

He hesitates—then spits a verse in Korean, voice raw and desperate, over the *cavaco*’s bounce. The crowd roars. A dancer named Thiago drags him into a *passinho* battle; Chan’s sneakers fill with sand, but his shoulders loosen, his laugh louder than the waves.  

Your phone buzzes. A text from JYP:  

*“Is he alive?”*  

You snap a photo of Chan crowd-surfing to a *funk ostentação* beat and hit send.  

*“He’s reborn.”*  

——

Next day

The rental car slices through the Serra do Mar mountains, dawn spilling molten gold over Rio’s vanishing coastline. Chan slumps in the passenger seat, sunglasses crooked, mouth agape—finally asleep after three days of studio-induced delirium. You crank the window down, flooding the cabin with the jungle’s wet-green breath.  

“*Acorda, dorminhoco,*” you bark, elbowing him as the highway plunges into a tunnel of *pau-brasil* trees and mist. “This isn’t scenery—it’s a *sermon*. Open your eyes.”  

He jerks awake, phone already filming the chaos: toucans diving through highway exhaust, a roadside shrine to *Nossa Senhora Aparecida* draped in trucker roses, a lone capybara judging humanity from a ditch. “Feels like… *FernGully* directed by Tarantino,” he mumbles.  

——

At a *lanchonete* plastered with peeling *Guaraná* ads, you force-feed him *pastel de carne* oozing grease and a mason jar of *caldo de cana*. Chan squints at the murky sugarcane juice. “This looks like swamp water.”  

“It’s São Paulo’s holy trinity: sugar, sweat, and regret.”  

He sips. His eyes flare. “*Fuck.* I could produce a mixtape on this.”  

——

The city erupts on the horizon—a concrete avalanche of Oscar Niemeyer curves and Brutalist spikes, helicopters swarming like coked-up dragonflies. Chan’s forehead smudges the window as you carve through Avenida Paulista’s bedlam: a *sambista* belting *“Aquarela Brasileira”* atop a dumpster, finance bros in *alfaiataria* suits vaping over spreadsheets, a drag queen in sequined *Carnaval* leftovers hailing an Uber Black.  

“This city’s… *violently* alive,” he breathes.  

“Wait till you see where I *live*.”  

——

Your loft isn’t just concrete and vinyl—it’s a *floresta vertical*. Every surface riots with green: monstera leaves fanning over the *Niemeyer* curves, *guiné* vines strangling the spiral staircase, *espada-de-são-jorge* swords guarding the record player like sentinels. The air hums with the musk of damp soil and *cafezinho*, humidity clinging to the glass walls like the city itself is trying to sweat its way inside.  

Chan freezes mid-step, a *jiboia* leaf brushing his cheek. “Is this… *legal*?” he whispers, as if the plants might arrest him.  

“Depends,” you say, plucking a dead leaf from a *costela-de-adão*. “If the police ask, they’re all *fake*.”  

He drifts deeper, fingers grazing a *pau d’água*’s serpentine roots. “This one’s crying,” he notes, pointing to droplets on a *tingui*’s spear-shaped leaves.  

“That’s *singing*,” you correct. “She’s a *dracaena*. Her sweat’s a samba.”  

“Your room,” you say, nudging open the guest bedroom door.  

The space is a temple to *brasilidade moderna*: a *Oscar Niemeyer*-inspired desk, a *Sergio Rodrigues* armchair, and a bed draped in crisp white linen under a canopy of *jiboia* vines. The walls breathe with a *Burle Marx* botanical print, ferns and palms frozen mid-sway. A vintage *Tropicália* lamp bathes the room in amber.  

Chan blinks at the *orquídea* dangling above the pillow. “Is that… a plant or a chandelier?”  

“Yes,” you say, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Shower’s through there. Towels are *azul marinho*. Don’t drown.”  

He hovers in the doorway, eyes glazed, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping a phantom MIDI controller. “I should… check the demos. Hyunjin sent a voice memo—”  

“*Não.*” You block his path, arms crossed. “You’re a corpse in *Air Jordans*. Shower. Sleep. *Now.*”  

“But—”  

“No ‘buts.’ JYP’s orders.” (A lie, but you’ll burn that bridge later.)  

He opens his mouth—to protest, to negotiate, to *work*—but a yawn cracks his jaw instead. Defeated, he slumps toward the bathroom.  

At 1:17 AM, you pause outside his door. The shower ran for 90 seconds—typical man—and now silence hums beneath the *jiboia* leaves. You crack the door.  

He’s sprawled facedown on the bed, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers grazing the *azulejo* floor. The sheets are a lost cause. His hoodie hangs off the *Burle Marx* frame, socks abandoned like roadkill. The *orquídea* sways above him, petals brushing his hair—a living lullaby.  

You kill the *Tropicália* lamp, leaving only the city’s neon heartbeat seeping through the blinds.  

——

São Paulo’s dawn bleeds through the *cobogó* bricks, fractaling the kitchen into a mosaic of gold and shadow. Chan slumps at the *azulejo* breakfast bar, fingers curled around a mug of *café com leite*, steam spiraling into the humid air. His eyelids are at half-mast, the adrenaline of deadlines and dance practices leaching from his bones like toxin.  

You move through the kitchen like a metronome—*chop-sizzle-sway*—dicing *manga* to the lilt of *Joyce Moreno’s* “Clareana.” The *jiboia* vines framing the window shiver in the breeze, their leaves brushing the glass like a guitarist’s strum.  

He watches, mute, as you crack eggs into a skillet. The yolks sizzle, their edges crisping in *manteiga de garrafa*, and something primal unknots in his chest.  

——

It’s the *textures*, he realizes.  

The way the *pão francês* crackles under his thumb, its crust a seismic map of flour and fire. The *mamão’s* flesh, slippery-sweet, a color Seoul’s neon can’t replicate. The radio’s hiss, a live wire between *bossa nova* chords and the growl of a garbage truck five floors down.  

You slide a plate toward him: *ovos mexidos*, *farofa*, a tangle of *couve* sautéed with garlic. “Eat,” you say, not a command but an *invitation*.  

He does. The first bite is a time machine—suddenly he’s eight years old, in Sydney’s Maroubra, eating scrambled eggs his mom made after night shifts. Salt and memory flood his throat.  

Outside, the city howls. Inside, the plants breathe.  

Chan’s phone buzzes—a KakaoTalk storm from Hyunjin, 17 missed calls from JYP. He flips it facedown, watching grease bloom across his plate like abstract art.  

“You know,” he says, voice sanded raw by sleep and *café*, “I thought this trip was about… *mining* Brazil. Sampling your drums, stealing your rhythms.” A pause. The *jiboia* leans closer. “But maybe… it’s about *this*.”  

He gestures to the kitchen—the knife scoring mango flesh, the sun pooling in the *tigela* of *açaí*, your bare feet tapping *samba* on terrazzo.  

You top up his coffee. “Your music’s all teeth, *ne?* Biting, biting. But teeth get tired.”  

He huffs a laugh. “Says the girl who made me sample a *cuíca* for three hours.”  

“Exactly. Even fangs need a jaw to rest in.”  

The metaphor lingers. Chan traces his mug’s rim, ceramic worn smooth by decades of mornings. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible:  

“I forgot… what quiet sounds like.”  

By the third cup, his shoulders have dropped below his ears for the first time in years. He’s sketching lyrics on a napkin—*“Mornings that taste of stolen time”*—when a *sabiá* lands on the windowsill, trilling its Technicolor song.  

You nod to the bird. “He’s your backup singer now.”  

Chan doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t record it. Just *listens*, letting the notes dissolve into São Paulo’s humid breath.  

Time bends here. Mornings bleed into afternoons, afternoons dissolve into sunsets the color of *pitanga* pulp, and Chan’s Seoul-structured rigidity unravels thread by thread. He learns to walk barefoot on terrazzo, to curse in *paulistano* when the *mamão* slips his grip, to let the city’s chaos score his pulse instead of a metronome.  

7:00 AM: His alarm dies a quiet death. Dawn now wakes him—the *jiboia* tapping his window, the *pão francês* vendor’s whistle slicing through the favela’s basslines. He pads into the kitchen, hair a sleep-mussed riot, to find you already there, *cafézinho* brewing, *Elis Regina* spinning tales of saudade on the turntable.  

“*Bom dia, preguiçoso,*” you smirk, tossing him a knife. “Slice the *manga* before it rots.”  

He catches it midair, a reflex honed from years of idol reflexes. “You’re meaner than JYP before a weigh-in.”  

“And you chop like a *vovó* on Valium.”  

The rhythm is set: hips brushing past hips at the stove, elbows knocking over *guaraná* bottles, laughter buried under the hiss of garlic in *azeite*.  

Hyunjin FaceTimes during *almoço*, his face pixelated but pout pristine. “*CHANNNNN*, your abs better not be gone! Brazil’s *carbs* are a trap!”  

Chan holds up a *pastel de camarão*, grease dripping onto the *azulejo* table. “Better than your protein shakes.”  

Felix squirms into frame, freckles glowing. “Are you *eating*? You never eat! Who *are* you?!”  

“A god,” Chan says, mouth full. “A *pão de queijo* god.”  

You linger off-camera, chopping *cheiro-verde*, but catch Hyunjin’s narrowed eyes. “Who’s *laughing*?” he demands. “Is someone *there*?”  

Chan’s gaze flicks to you—quick, molten—before shrugging. “Just… the *jiboia*.”  

——

The bathroom is a cocoon of steam and the citrus-sharp scent of *murumuru* conditioner. You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, hair twisted into a turbãn of curls damp from your own wash, when Chan lingers in the doorway. His mop of sleep-flattened waves hangs sheepishly over his brow, fingers worrying the hem of his *Cidade de Deus* graphic tee.  

“Can you…?” he starts, voice frayed at the edges. “I mean—*my* hair. It’s… *janggu* levels of chaos.”  

You pat the tile floor between your knees, a *Maria Bethânia* ballad humming from your phone. “Sit. Before I charge you.”  

He folds himself awkwardly onto the floor, back pressed to the tub, shoulders tense. You drape a towel over his collarbones, the fabric warm from the dryer. The first pour of water makes him flinch—cold droplets skidding down his neck—but then your fingers sink into his scalp, massaging *açaí oil* into the roots.  

“Dawm,” he hisses, head lolling back. “That’s… illegal in seventeen countries.”  

“Quiet,” you mock-scold, raking the conditioner through his waves. “You’ll scare the *cachorro-quente* guy outside.”  

He huffs a laugh, breath stirring the hem of your robe. The comb glides easier now, his hair softening under your hands, curls springing to life like secrets unraveling.  

Minutes blur. The comb clatters into the sink. Your palms skim his temples, thumbs brushing the shell of his ears, and suddenly the room is too small. Too *hot*.  

“Turn,” you murmur, voice fraying. “Let me check the back.”  

He shifts, knees bumping yours, until you’re face-to-face—your legs bracketing his hips, his hands braced on the tub’s edge. The *jiboia* outside the window drips rain onto the glass, each drop a metronome.  

“It’s… good?” he asks, but the question dies as his gaze flicks to your mouth.  

The world narrows:  

- The *dende oil* slick on your fingertips.  

- His breath, mint and *cafézinho*.  

- The way his throat bobs when you whisper, “*Perfeito.*”  

He leans in first—or maybe you do. The kiss is a slow fuse, softer than the *bossa nova* still murmuring from your phone. His hands find your waist, sticky with conditioner, and you taste the *goiabada* he stole from the fridge earlier, the salt of São Paulo still clinging to his skin.  

The city breathes outside. The *jiboia* sighs.  

When you pull back, his curls are a halo of chaos, your fingerprints glistening in the lamplight.  

“*That*,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, “wasn’t in the contract.”  

You thumb the conditioner smudged on his cheekbone. “Call it… *creative direction.*”  

The tension crackles between you as his hands slide up your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your fingers thread through his damp curls, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens with growing hunger.

"Creative direction needs proper guidance," you breathe against his lips, arching into him as his hands explore your body with increasing boldness. The rain continues its steady rhythm outside, masking the soft sounds of pleasure escaping you both.

His lips trail down your neck, tasting the salt of your skin mixed with the sweet dendê oil. When his teeth graze your pulse point, you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Show me," he murmurs against your collarbone, "show me everything about Brazil..."

Chan's muscular frame presses against yours as passion builds, his hands exploring every inch of exposed skin.

You guide him to the bed, pushing him down and straddling his hips. His breath catches as you grind against him, feeling how hard he is beneath you.

"Want you so bad," he groans, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your waist. The isolation allows your moans to echo freely as desire takes over.

His lips find your neck, marking you as his while your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

Chan's hands roam your body hungrily as clothing falls away piece by piece. His lips trail down your neck while his fingers work to unclasp your bra, letting it join the growing pile on the floor.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, taking in the sight of your exposed breasts. When his mouth closes around a nipple, you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands explore the defined muscles of his chest and abs as he continues his oral assault on your sensitive peaks. The friction builds as you grind against his hardening cock through his remaining clothes.

"Need you," you moan, reaching down to palm him through his pants.

Chan's hands slide down to remove your remaining clothes while his lips explore every newly exposed inch of skin. When you're fully naked, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of you before his mouth finds your wet pussy.

His tongue circles your clit as two fingers push inside you, making you arch off the bed with a loud moan. The dual stimulation has pleasure building quickly as he works you expertly.

"Please," you beg, tugging at his hair. "Need your cock inside me."

He strips off his remaining clothes, his hard length springing free. When he positions himself between your legs, you wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer.

Chan pushes his thick cock inside you slowly, stretching your tight pussy around his impressive length. When he bottoms out, you both moan at the perfect fullness.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groans, starting a steady rhythm. His cock hits all the right spots as he picks up the pace, making you see stars.

Your nails drag down his back as pleasure builds, leaving marks that make him thrust harder. One of his hands slides between your bodies to rub your clit while he pounds into you.

"Gonna make you cum on my cock," he pants, his movements becoming more desperate as your walls start to clench around him.

Your orgasm hits hard as Chan continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your back arches off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you, walls squeezing his thick cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips as he chases his own release.

"Fill me up," you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around him. With a deep groan, he slams deep one final time, flooding your sensitive pussy with his hot cum.

He collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum leaks out of you when he slowly pulls out.

The *pão de queijo* burns. The *café* overflows. Neither of you care.  

—— 

The loft in São Paulo hummed with a new electricity. Chan’s laptop glowed with demos titled *“SAMBA-CODED”* and *“CARNAVAL IN 4/4,”* while your *berimbau* leaned against a stack of *Tim Maia* vinyls, its guttural cry now the backbone of his drops.  

One night, tangled in MIDI cables and each other’s limbs, you looped a *cuíca’s* rasp over Felix’s vocals. Chan watched, transfixed, as you twisted the pitch. “It sounds like the city’s heartbeat,” he murmured, fingers drumming your thigh.  

“Or its scream,” you countered, nipping his jaw.  

He dragged you into his lap, the chair groaning as his hands flew across the keyboard, improvising a melody that mirrored the hitch in your breath.  

——

Mornings bled into rituals. Chan learned to crack eggs one-handed while you diced *manga*, hips swaying to *Jorge Ben*’s *“Ponta de Lança Africano.”* His voice, rough with sleep, would harmonize with the sizzle of *pão de queijo* in the skillet.  

In the hammock strung between the *jiboia* and a concrete pillar, he traced the chords of your spine, humming melodies into the sweat-damp hollow of your neck.  

“This one’s called *‘Cafuné’*,” he whispered, lips grazing your shoulder blade.  

“Cheesy,” you laughed, but your voice cracked.  

He wrote it anyway.  

——

At the album’s Seoul premiere, JYP sipped *caipirinha* from a smuggled thermos, eyebrows climbing as *“TROPICALIA TRAUMA”* shook the speakers. “This is… a war crime against genre.”  

Chan’s thumb brushed yours under the table. “No,” he said. “It’s a peace treaty.”  

Years later, when a reporter asked about the magic behind the record, he didn’t hesitate.  

“Love’s the best producer. It samples silence, mixes truth… and never lets the track die.”  

You rolled your eyes. But your hand never left his.  

In São Paulo, the *jiboia* still hums their secrets.  

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hello hello! i love your blog and it has been a fantastic resource for me. if i may ask, how does one go about writing music? my character is put in a situation where listening to a song is a large part of a scene, and i want to describe the song and music itself. while i would describe a guitar or drum, the song i have in mind specifically is mostly digital (think similar to edm) so i'm not sure how to do it. do you have any idea how i could tackle this?

thank you in advance!

Writing Notes: Electronic Music

Electronic Music - any music involving electronic processing, such as recording and editing on tape, and whose reproduction involves the use of loudspeakers.

It is produced from a wide variety of sound resources—from sounds picked up by microphones to those produced by electronic oscillators (generating basic acoustical waveforms such as sine waves, square waves, and sawtooth waves), complex computer installations, and microprocessors—that are recorded on tape and then edited into a permanent form.

Generally, except for one type of performed music that has come to be called “live electronic music”, electronic music is played back through loudspeakers either alone or in combination with ordinary musical instruments.

Musicians are always quick to adopt and explore new technologies.

The fast-paced changes wrought by electrification, from the microphone via the analogue synthesizer to the laptop computer, have led to a wide range of new musical styles and techniques.

Electronic music has grown to a broad field of investigation, taking in historical movements such as musique concrète and elektronische Musik, and contemporary trends such as electronic dance music and electronica.

The Art of Noises (1913) by Luigi Russolo is an important text in the history of electronic music, because it is the first attempt seriously to categorise all sounds and, indeed, to treat them as potential music.

Russolo wrote:

Every manifestation of our life is accompanied by noise. The noise, therefore, is familiar to our ear, and has the power to conjure up life itself. Sound, alien to our life, always musical and a thing unto itself, an occasional but unnecessary element, has become to our ears what an overfamiliar face is to our eyes. Noise, however, reaching us in a confused and irregular way from the irregular confusion of our life, never entirely reveals itself to us, and keeps innumerable surprises in reserve. We are therefore certain that by selecting, coordinating and dominating all noises we will enrich men with a new and unexpected sensual pleasure. Although it is characteristic of noise to recall us brutally to real life, the art of noise must not limit itself to imitative reproduction. It will achieve its most emotive power in the acoustic enjoyment, in its own right, that the artist’s inspiration will extract from combined noises. Here are the 6 families of noises of the Futurist orchestra which we will soon set in motion mechanically:

Rumbles: Roars, explosions, crashes, splashes, booms

Whistles: Hisses, snorts

Whispers: Murmurs, mumbles, grumbles, gurgles

Screeches: Creaks, rustles, buzzes, crackles, scrapes

Noises obtained by percussion: Metal, wood, skin, stone, terracotta etc.

Voices of animals and men: Shouts, screams, groans, shrieks, howls, laughs, wheezes, sobs

In this inventory we have encapsulated the most characteristic of the fundamental noises; the others are merely the associations and combinations of these.

Some Electronic Music Vocabulary

ADSR – Stands for Attack, Decay, Sustain and Release – refers to the envelope [i.e., characteristic of a sound (e.g. volume or filter) as it changes over time; can be used as a tool to shape a sound over time] applied to a sound to shape it over time. Can be applied to the volume, filter, pitch or more. Can make things sound plucky, soft, or ambient etc.

Aliasing – Subtle distortion that occurs in the digital realm when the input frequency is higher than the sample rate. The sample cannot be measured accurately and thus introduces imperfections into the sound.

Ambience – Can refer to a sound in a track which creates a sense of space or atmosphere – typically achieved by the use of time-based audio effects such as delays and reverbs. Also can refer to the level of sound in a recording that contains background noise, separate to the intended recording. Typically this background noise is undesirable, but sometimes it is an aesthetic choice.

Arpeggiator – A MIDI Effect that turns a static chord into an arpeggio. If that doesn’t make sense, it makes things go bleep-bleep-bleep.

Atmosphere – A sonic effect created by reverb, long tails and quieter sounds. Referred to as the background of a track.

Beat Repeat – A type of effect that takes audio as an input and repeats the snippet back at timed intervals to create a glitch effect.

Chill – A loosely-defined term to describe the sound of more relaxed, deeper and melody-driven music in electronic music. Sometimes people refer to this as a genre in itself.

Distortion – The processing of audio such that extra harmonics and loudness are added, creating a more fuller or aggressive sound. Distortion types include tube, clipping, tape, diode, overdrive, fuzz and many more.

Doppler Effect – The sonic effect of frequencies sounding higher pitched when moving closer to an audio source, and lower pitched when moving away. Like when you drive past a police siren.

Formant – A vocal quality of a sound relating to vowels, and a filter type that achieves a vowel-like sound. If you’ve ever heard an ‘oooh’ or ‘aaah’, then you’ve heard what a formant sounds like.

Gate – An audio effect that reduces the volume of a sound once it passes below a certain threshold. It’s good for reducing background noise or unwanted sounds in a recording or sample. Just like your gate at home stops unwanted people coming into your house.

Glide – Portamento—when the pitch slides evenly from note to note

Lazer – A type of sound made by a synth that features fast-moving pitch envelopes to create a ‘pew pew’ type effect.

Masking – A phenomenon when two sounds with similar frequency content cause one to become ‘buried’ due to phase cancellation or differences is loudness. For example, two piano sounds playing at the same time might cause one of them to sound less powerful and thin in the mix.

Normalize – Increases a waveform’s level to its highest before it becomes distorted

Panning – The process of moving a sound either left or right in the stereo field. Panning is a great mix technique to achieve width and space.

Polar Pattern – The way a microphone picks up a sound. Some pickup sound in many directions, others only in one direction, and everything in between.

Reflections – Part of a reverb that creates echoes based off sounds hitting walls and bouncing around rapidly.

Transient – The initial start point of a drum sound, where the audio goes from near silence to sudden loudness. Sounds clicky.

Voice stealing – When a synthesizer is programmed to play more sounds than accessible voices shuts down some present voices so new tunes can be played

Tips for Writing About Music

The most important step when writing about music is to write, read, and listen to as much as possible. Writing hones your voice, while reading exposes you to various styles and information that will shape your writing. The wider the range of music you embrace and study, the better your perspective and critical ear.

Read about music: Understand as much as possible about music, from instrumentation to how artists create their song lyrics. Reading also helps teach the technical vocabulary specific to certain genres. To help you gain a better command of music, use music writing reference books, such as A Short Guide to Writing About Music by Jonathan Bellman and How to Write About Music, edited by Marc Woodworth and Ally-Jane Grossan. Both of these works discuss how to research and write about music effectively, and are great resources for new music writers.

Stay informed: Develop an understanding of news, events, and cultural conversations that inform songwriters. For example, understanding the politics behind Russian feminist collective/punk group Pussy Riot is necessary if you want to write an informed piece on their output.

Learn music theory: The more informed your technical language, the better your music writing will be. Elements such as BPM, timbre, crescendos, adagio, and other music sounds will help you more deeply understand a particular piece of music and its relationship to other songs on an album.

Listen to music: Don’t only listen to genres that you prefer, but expand your ear to different types of music. Artists are inspired by music across time and genre, and the best music critics recognize those references.

Put work out: Whether you join your school’s paper, do creative writing, or start your own blog, getting eyes on your work is imperative to improving your music writing. There are also online resources that aggregate opportunities and writing prompts for writers of all experience levels, providing a great opportunity for new writers to get their foot in the door.

Pitch to publications: Online and print publications are always looking for new pitches from writers. The more places you pitch, the more likely it is that you will sell a piece. Don’t be discouraged if you pitch one outlet and never hear back. Lean into your passion, keep writing, and pitch some more.

Also describe the effects of the song to your character/s. The effects of music can be described using various adjectives like relaxing, calm, refreshing, soothing, etc.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Thanks so much, really glad to hear this! Choose which of these notes would be most appropriate to incorporate in your story. Do go through the sources as there are more information I wasn't able to include here.

Another reference on music-related terms, plus some great additions. And more resources that could help with describing sounds and scenes related to music in your story:

Words to Describe Sounds

100 Sensory Words

Some Percussion Instruments

Some Pop Music Vocabulary

Writing Template: Singing Scene

Finding the right words that could accurately describe the specific song you have in mind to your readers is one way to tackle this, but it's definitely a challenge. Hope you find the right words/references here!