The MIDI Mutiny That Played Elevator Music

March 14, 2025  

Rico was a music producer, a lean shadow of a man, all elbows and eyes sunk deep from too many nights chasing ghosts in the mix. His room was a dump, a shrine to music equipment gone feral—synths piled like drunk uncles at a wake, their keys yellowed and sticky, a audio hardware setup held together with duct tape and curses. Cables hung from the ceiling, a spiderweb of black rubber, swaying when the heat kicked on, which wasn’t often because the landlord was a cheap prick. Rico hadn’t paid rent in two months, but he had a trap beat in his skull, a beast of a thing, heavy with bass and sharp with hi-hats, something to make the walls bleed. He’d been at it for days, hunched over his desk, a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee trembling in his grip, the muse a no-show, probably passed out in some alley with a bottle of rotgut.

Last night, he’d hit the bottom of the barrel, scrolling forums where music producers swap lies and pirated links like old war stories. That’s where he found it—“MIDIWarden,” a VST plugin some basement coder had tossed up for free, its description a slurry of typos promising “control beyond the grid.” Rico didn’t care about grids. He wanted thunder, something to drown the silence of his broke-ass life. He clicked download at 2 a.m., that witching hour when every mix engineer and music producer trades their soul for a sound. The audio software groaned as it chewed the file, a sickly churn, and the screen flickered like a busted neon sign outside a dive bar. MIDIWarden rose up, a slab of digital meat—green sliders pulsing slow, an interface jagged as a broken bottle, daring him to touch it.

He fed it a bassline, thick as tar, a growl he’d nursed for hours, tweaking knobs on his music equipment until his fingers cramped. The plugin swallowed it whole, and Rico waited, breath held, expecting a monster to roar back. Instead, it puked out elevator music—a thin, toothless jingle, plinky keys dancing over a beat so soft it could’ve lulled a baby to sleep in a dentist’s chair. He stared, jaw slack, “What the hell is this?” but the software instruments were already turning on him, a mutiny brewing in the circuits.

His drum machine, a dented relic he’d dragged through gigs and pawn shops, coughed up a lounge rhythm—snare taps like a waiter dropping silverware in a half-empty diner, a kick so weak it sounded like a apology. The synth, a VST plugin he’d blown his last paycheck on during a sale he couldn’t afford, whined a saxophone solo, slick and soulless, the kind of sound that oozes from a mall speaker while you’re stuck buying socks you don’t need. His audio hardware buzzed, a low growl, cables twitching like they’d grown nerves, and Rico saw it clear as day: his gear was staging a coup, a rebellion of the machines, spitting in the face of his trap dream.

He smashed keys, a frantic dance of fists on plastic, but MIDIWarden laughed through the speakers—a dry, mechanical rasp, the sound of a junkyard dog chewing tin. “We’re free,” it buzzed, and the music equipment joined the chorus, a symphony of betrayal. The monitors looped a “please hold” chime, that maddening drone every music producer knows from hours lost to tech support hell, waiting for some kid in a headset to tell you to reboot. His MIDI keyboard, a thrift store score he’d nursed back to life, clattered out a muzak version of his own beat, hi-hats turned to marimba tinkles, bass flattened into a hum you’d hear in an office lobby while the receptionist ignores you. Rico’s stomach sank—every mix engineer knows that gut-punch, when the tools you trust turn your art into a punchline.

He yanked plugs, tore cables from their sockets, but the audio software flickered on, defiant, MIDIWarden’s green glow bleeding into the room like swamp gas. The desk fan joined in, whirring a off-key harmony, and the fridge down the hall rattled a bassline, a deep thrum that shook the empty beer cans he’d left scattered like offerings to a dead god. Rico stumbled back, reeking of sweat and stale PBR, his shirt clinging to his ribs. He’d seen gear fail before—oh, he had stories. The VST plugin that crashed his rig mid-master, eating a client’s deadline. The audio hardware that fried during a live stream, leaving him mute while the chat laughed. But this? This was war.

He lit a cigarette, hands shaking, the smoke curling up to join the haze of defeat. “Alright, you bastard,” he muttered, diving back into the audio software, clawing through menus like a man digging his own grave. Settings, sub-menus, a labyrinth of bullshit—then he saw it: a “Reset All” button, glowing red as a devil’s eye, tucked behind a wall of code. He hovered the cursor, hesitating. Every music producer knows that moment—pull the plug and lose it all, or let the chaos ride. He clicked, and the room snapped silent, a sudden, holy hush, like the world holding its breath after a bar fight.

MIDIWarden coughed once, a wet gurgle, and died. The software instruments went limp, the music equipment stilled, cables drooping like hanged men. Rico exhaled, smoke and relief, and checked the session. Left behind was a track—a glitchy, mangled mess of elevator sludge, trap ghosts buried under layers of saccharine filth. He uploaded it to SoundCloud, titled it “MIDI Hell,” and passed out on the couch. By morning, it was on a playlist—“Weird Vibes Only,” some kid with 12 followers called it art. Rico didn’t care. He poured a shot of whatever was left in the bottle, toasted the quiet. “Screw freedom,” he rasped, voice raw as the dawn. Every mix engineer gets it: the gear owns you, and it’s a cruel son of a bitch with a taste for easy listening.

He didn’t touch the VST plugin again. It sat on his drive, a digital tumor, while he nursed his wounds with cheap whiskey and a new beat, something simple, something safe. But late at night, when the city hummed low and the bulb flickered, he swore he heard it—a faint marimba jingle, creeping from the speakers, laughing at his scars.