Every patch here is written from scratch for the actual hardware it runs on — granular, drifting, a little unstable on purpose. Name your price on all of it.
The original patch that started this whole project. Eight voices, four knobs, one AUX button that remembers.
The original — before it became a Eurorack module, this is where it started. Make everything old and dusty.
Built around drift, not control. Notes bloom in slowly, detune gently against themselves, and wander under a soft filter that never quite settles.
Less an instrument than a way to ruin one. Run anything through it and it comes out worse — in the good way.
Four-voice FM with a sub underneath, and a latching button that plays it all back off a ruined tape — heads wandering, dropouts, hiss, none of it resolving clean.
Four voices that hold as long as you do, then take their time leaving. Three tails in parallel — a room, a churn, and a ghost that takes a minute to go.
Twelve voices and not one is an oscillator — each is filtered noise, resonant enough to hold a pitch but never settling. Chords thicken like weather instead of stacking.
Live granular for whatever you plug in. Four grain heads read a rolling buffer at staggered offsets, with real tape flutter on the master so even the dry signal drifts.
A glitch that sounds like a mechanism catching. Two reverbs, one either side of the damage — smear then break, or break then bloom. Entirely different effects.
Twenty-four oscillators in slow motion, arranged to drift past each other rather than lock. No attack — notes arrive the way a tide does.
Three LFOs moving too slowly to follow, and a hall that takes four minutes to let go. No keyboard. Set it going and adjust it while it runs.
A signal starver. A gate that bites harder as things get quieter, so tails get eaten and the reverb keeps going — what is left is the room, not the source.
A gate and a hum killer. Notches at 60, 120 and 180 Hz plus four you can place. Not an instrument — the thing you put in front of one.
A chug ruiner. Compressor into distortion into two octaves up, with a latching smear that reads from after the wall — so it blurs what you just made rather than echoing your guitar.
Four voices that never quite sit still, into a stack of reverbs. Hold AUX and the whole thing blooms into itself, then takes fifteen seconds to recede. Play something slow — it gets bigger than you meant it to.
Six slow voices, submerged. Play one note and it’s a drone; play a chord and it crushes itself, then a compressor rides the level back up in the gaps. That pumping is the point.
Four voices heard from somewhere else. A siren wanders underneath the whole time, and a sine layer arrives the instant you press a key while the atmosphere takes its time catching up.
A saturator with teeth. Soft clipping into wavefolding into an atan drive, with a tone control to keep it from getting shrill.
Four notes that lose their grip. Hold one and the pitch sags, dropouts creep in, and it gasps rather than sustains. Each voice drifts on its own.
Eight voices in quarter tones — 24 notes to the octave. Slow swells into a very long reverb, with a feedback knob that will self-oscillate if you let it.
A granular time stretch where pitch and speed come apart. Slow something to a crawl without it dropping an octave, or hold a moment still and let it bloom.
Eight voices woven through a wide, asymmetric reverb tail — dense clusters that interlace rather than step on each other.
Eight little brass tubes you blow through, and they don’t always do what you ask. They sputter, honk and settle like something alive — horse brays, donkey calls. Every key is a different creature.
Four voices for the aircraft actually above you — altitude becomes pitch, distance becomes level, heading becomes pan. Thin at 3am, thick mid-morning. Needs wifi.
A playable drone that the International Space Station moves. Its voice comes clearer as it gets closer — hold AUX and the whole 92-minute orbit races past in 25 seconds. Needs wifi.
A drone the planet plays. Pressure, wind, tide and daylight shape the bed; every earthquake and weather alert lands on top. It goes darker and slower after sunset. Needs wifi.
The harmonic series under your fingers. Fade the harmonics in one at a time, then slide them off true — a thick unison, a chord in no key, or a slow pulse you tune with a knob.
Your sound, and a ghost of it. It’s always recording the last six seconds, so the ghost is already there when you let it loose — looping, jumping back, dropping octaves, running backwards.
Fog, heard from far away. The air eats the highs and the haze takes over — and the further out you go, the slower each note arrives.
Every note you play joins a cloud that keeps murmuring after you let go, up to twelve. Turn it up and the cloud becomes a flock — it turns, it swirls, and now and then a bird breaks away.
An instrument that listens to the room. Press AUX and the keys go silent and pick a chord; every sound it hears — a sung note, a pick, a clap — rings the nearest string, so the room plays in your key.
Plucked strings through a low pass gate. They don’t always hold together — the sound drops out now and then, and latching Fray wears the strings until it sounds like something coming apart.
A singing bowl on every key — strike it, rub it, let it ring for half a minute. Four more bowls on a shelf hum along, and through the wall two people are talking.
One button, and a whole idea arrives — a key, a scale, a tempo and four tracks, rolled fresh every press and gone forever on the next. Tempo runs from a step every 4 seconds up into audio rate.
A poor man’s Mellotron. Put a sound in the folder and every key plays its own worn copy of the tape — its own tuning, a lazy rewind, dropouts. AUX moves it into the other room.
Vigil's evolution onto Eurorack — freeze, granular exploration, a bloom that leans reverb over delay. Still being tuned.
Coming soon →