Consider the tape recorder—not merely as a vessel, but as a participant, a kind of faded landlord that shapes what it hosts. The Revox B77, for instance, remains one of the more durable tenants among ambient musicians: its tape tension calibrated at precisely 65 grams ensures a measured, stable transit of sound particles. Such small mechanical details have far-reaching consequences. They define the subtle sway or stasis of a drone, the precision or blurring of an echo; they decide if a transient will be pressed into memory or left at the door.

Machines like these are not neutral. Each resistor, every inch of oxide, imparts character. The B77's three-head configuration allows for simultaneous monitoring and overdubbing—a feature embraced by Basinski, for instance, in his decaying loops. In modular synthesisers, too, the quirks pile up: the high-pass filter in the Korg MS-20 carves away the undergrowth at a steep 12 dB per octave, shaping space with a particular sense of absence more than presence. These devices grant permission for music to linger, or else, nudge it to vacate.

With such tools, the ambient composer negotiates with the physical as much as the musical. Settings become forms of hospitality or exile—one room resonant, another dry as felt. Each take is slightly evicted by wear and time, the machine gently dictating who may stay, for how long, and in what condition. In this way, the studio itself becomes an address—less a fixed abode, more an ongoing series of departures and rearrangements, silently reconfiguring the lineage of sound.