This page was created to show what can be done with a Roland Juno-106 if you have some time over. This is not intented to be a step-by-step guide on how to create your own Junior-106, but instead to briefly show how I created mine, together with some notes on caveats and cautions.
A few solid ideas here:
So: I’m looking for ideas. I’d like to have access to at least 2 keyboards and a PC, sitting, with the keyboards in a comfortable playing position. Secondly I have about 2 dozen rack spaces worth of rack gear that I’d like easy access to at the same time. I’d prefer to not have to wheel around, because my floor is carpeted. All of this combined is probably not really feasible, so I’m looking for workable compromises.
Or, in other words: How do YOU fine folks have your gear setup? Tables? Stands? Do you play standing or sitting?
Look at how we helped Harry organise his passion for more than 4500 records and make room for his family life. If you could do with some help storing your things, maybe some of the solutions we used for Harry might help you too.
The best advice I can come up with is this: Keep your living expenses LOW. The smaller you live (materially-speaking), the bigger you can live (creatively-speaking). This way the stakes aren’t so high…you aren’t demanding of your passion that it keeps you living a rich life. Then you can stretch and grow with the most possible freedom. This was my strategy in my 20’s, and it’s the reason I worked really hard to avoid all debts, and to keep my lifestyle really manageable. If I’d been saddled with a big life, I don’t think I ever could have found my way forward to the freedom I have now.
Elizabeth Gilbert’s advice for people who want to turn their passion into a career, a fine addition to our ongoing archive of sage advice.
I WOKE recently, in the unfamiliar and unfurnished silence of a new apartment, into a hyperawareness of the music around me. Without recourse to radio, tapes, CDs, or television, I suddenly found myself aware of — no, listening to — a sort of secondhand music emanating from the machines and appliances nearby. My alarm clock woke me that morning, as it does every working day, on a distinctly musical note (B natural, to be precise). I shuffled sleepily to the refrigerator, which kept up a stoic hum (B-flat) as I reached into its guts for a frozen bagel. The bagel I subjected to the resolute drone (E) of the microwave, which concluded its efforts with a ding! (the B-flat an octave above the refrigerator hum) just as my teakettle began to whistle (A). Later that morning my subway train pulled me into town with a weary whine (F), and the office elevator deposited me on my floor with a relieved bleep (C-sharp). I entered the code (C) of the security system with a staccato flourish and was at work.
I recognized three main tones in my office that morning, a triad that seemed to be a constant. At the bottom was the deep drone of the heater. Above that was the idling of my computer — a smug electronic purr. And whenever I picked up the phone, a dial tone sang insistently in my ear.