Salo 3310 — Full-Rate GSM Codec
The everyday voice of 90s GSM: the watery, half-swallowed, faintly robotic sound of a mobile call, and the workhorse of the whole Salo line.
Orrery — Copenhagen
Every restoration receives an Orrery catalogue number — OR-0001 onward — assigned in the order Orrery restored it, regardless of which original brand it came from. The catalogue is a single chronological record of the archive's work. OR-0001 is the Halvyn reverb that started everything.
The everyday voice of 90s GSM: the watery, half-swallowed, faintly robotic sound of a mobile call, and the workhorse of the whole Salo line.
The flagship, and the most recognizable artifact of the era: the "da-da-da—dun-dun-dun" interference a GSM handset induced into nearby speakers and guitar pickups.
The dying call: the robotic freeze, the underwater warble, then silence, as the network loses frames.
One knob labelled in signal bars.
The eerie one.
The landline anchor and the oldest voice in the house — narrowband, companded, with dial tone in its bones.
The pre-polyphonic ringtone: a single tinny voice picking out a melody through a piezo buzzer — the sound of a phone in 1994.
The next generation — a handful of cheap FM voices playing a MIDI-style ringtone through a slightly-better-but-still-tiny speaker.
The sound of getting online: the dial, the carrier tones, and the scrambled training screech of a 56k handshake.
The classic robot voice, from the house that owned the codecs.
The half-duplex speakerphone: the pumping echo-canceller and the voice-switching that clips whoever's quieter when both people talk at once.
"You have one new message." Microcassette or early-digital voicemail grunge — narrowband, companded, and worn.
The bench standard for characterizing bit-depth error, reborn as the archive's cleanest destruction tool.
The sample-rate side of destruction, with the honesty an instrument demands: it lets you choose clean band-limited decimation or the aliased kind, deliberately.
An instrument for injecting clock jitter in measured amounts — as an effect, a subtle, frequency-dependent smear and shimmer that most tools can't make.
The lab's generic perceptual coder, with the masking model exposed on the panel — a measurement framing of the "lossy compression" sound, tunable from transparent to obviously crushed.
A converter's output stage on its own: choose how the samples become sound.
The clinical companion to Yumeo's consumer DAT: 16-bit that is almost, but not quite, clean.
The real-time spectrum bench, turned into a spectral processor.
The goniometer and phase meter, plus the stereo tools that measurement implies.
A THD reference that adds exactly the harmonics you dial — measured distortion as a precise, clean harmonic generator.
The lab's calibrated source: white, pink, and band-limited noise at exact levels, plus test tones and correct dither.
The swept-sine rig that measures a system's impulse response — and then lets you play through it.
The flagship, and the sound of a generation's first "perfect" digital recorder: the gentle transient-softening and stereo-narrowing of ATRAC.
The consumer DAT deck — pro-adjacent 16-bit, but voiced for the living room, and distinct from Tekura's laboratory reference.
A failing compact disc: the interpolation, the brief digital silences, and above all the stutter as the disc gives up.
The specific sound of a low-bitrate MP3 from the file-sharing era: swirling cymbals, joint-stereo collapse, and pre-echo.
The reverb baked into a consumer deck's DSP chip: short, metallic, sparse — the unglamorous "grit era" of digital reverb, and a lovely lo-fi space.
The onboard filter character of a consumer digital instrument — either smooth analog warmth or the zippering of an early digital IIR, your choice.
The living-room karaoke deck: pull the lead vocal out of a record, drench a microphone in splashy reverb, and shift the key to fit your range.
The DOS-game sound card: OPL FM synthesis and a gritty 8-bit sample DAC.
The 16-bit console chip: FM-plus-sample voices with the specific bit-depth, rate, and built-in echo of the era's game hardware.
The demoscene machine: 8-bit sample playback resampled hard off its root, four voices, and the buzzy click of a mismatched loop point.
The unit that started Orrery — the reverb Iver Sandholm rebuilt board by board.
The iconic truncated-tail sound — the dense burst that stops dead — plus its reverse.
Clean-ish repeats that degrade in steps — the digital counterpart to tape, where each pass loses resolution in quantized increments rather than a smooth rolloff.
Warbly, formant-broken hardware pitch shifting — great for detune, thick doubles, and deliberate breakage; not a clean modern shifter, on purpose.
Early time-stretching pushed past its limits — the smeared, underwater, spectral-glass texture, and a freeze that becomes a drone engine.
The late-90s robotic pitch-snap — the "Cher effect" — as an effect rather than a corrector, with retune time all the way down to zero.
The top of the range — the reverb that made Halvyn's name, denser and deeper than the R-8000, with the parameter set engineers guarded like recipes.
The lush multi-voice widener of the era — the shimmering ensemble on countless 90s mixes.
The studio's digital equalizer, coefficient artifacts and all — the slightly brittle, slightly glassy sound of early digital filtering that engineers either loved or fought.
The presence-and-air box — the psychoacoustic enhancer that made things sit forward.
Intelligent, diatonic pitch harmony — the multi-voice harmonizer that built chords from a single line and defined a certain 90s lead sound.