Lost tapes, found voice
Go Jetter’s 1979 recordings are finally ready to be heard
In 1979, we were just three kids — Lloyd, Chris, and Iggy — either in or just leaving our teens, with a living room full of gear, a reel-to-reel machine, and a pile of original songs. We weren’t trying to chase trends or impress record execs. We were just making music because we had to. Because we loved it. Because that’s what bands did back then — you wrote, you jammed, you gigged, and if you were lucky, you got it on tape.
We called ourselves Go Jetter, named after Iggy's dog and our unofficial mascot, Jetter. Like a lot of bands from that era, we never got our “big break.” Life rolled on. One of us passed away far too young. The tapes went into a box. Time moved forward.
But before all that, there was a journey.
We started in Chippawa, Ontario — a small town with big dreams. From there, we moved to London, Ontario, where we shared a house and played music constantly.
Go Jetter on our front porch in London, Ontario — Iggy is up front, holding onto Jetter, our namesake and mascot.
Then, as often happens in your early twenties, the roads split: Iggy went to Ohio to pursue a new chapter, while Lloyd and I headed west to Winnipeg and started a new band called The Cheer. The tapes from those London sessions were packed up and carried along, mostly as sentimental artifacts.
Then came the hardest chapter. Iggy died by suicide at 25. It’s one of those things that never stops echoing. He wasn’t just our bandmate — he was our friend, our spark, our glue. His laugh filled the room. His voice carried melodies that still linger in our minds. There was no dramatic moment or warning that could explain it, just a sudden, silent absence that changed everything.
Iggy at the York Hotel in London, Ontario, 1979
We don’t bring this up to seek sympathy. We bring it up because it’s the truth — and because finishing this music, letting Iggy’s voice ring out again after all these years, is part of a healing we didn’t know we needed. It’s the music speaking where words never quite could. And maybe it speaks a little louder now, knowing it carries the weight of what we lost — and what we still carry with us.
Fast forward 45 years. With some help from modern tech (okay, a lot of help from AI), we pulled the old two-track tape out of storage and started digging. What we found surprised even us: a raw, emotional, surprisingly tight set of songs, filled with energy, youth, and moments that still hit. And most importantly — we found our late bandmate’s voice, guitar, bass, and keys, all preserved in that little time capsule.
“These original recordings sound really crappy,” recalls Lloyd. “But you can hear a lot of enthusiasm, energy, and excitement because it was the first time we'd ever done anything like this.”
Thanks to AI audio separation, we were able to isolate those parts and gently rebuild around them. Lloyd and I returned to the songs — older, maybe wiser, but still carrying the same love those songs held — and re-recorded what we had to. Not to change what we had. Just to honour it. To lift it up and let it breathe again.
Lloyd and Chris at Paintbox Recording Studio in 2024, going over old photos and memories.
This wasn’t about cleaning things up until they were sterile. It was about bringing something unfinished back to life.
So, what does it sound like?
Well, it sounds like 1979.
There are up-tempo rockers (In and Out, Tonight, Minor Sins) that still crackle with adrenaline. There's Tuesday Night in the Morning, a track with definite prog-rock leanings and a surprisingly catchy call-and-response chorus that still gets stuck in our heads. There are mid-tempo tunes with space to breathe, some unexpected turns (yes, we have woodwinds — blame the decade), and a whole lot of dynamic range. That’s something you don’t hear much in today’s music — loud parts, quiet parts, real tension and release. We didn’t plan it that way. It just happened. And we’re glad it did.
We didn’t “fix” everything. The flaws are part of the charm. But we did give it the kind of treatment we wished we could’ve afforded back then: clarity, warmth, and some serious attention to detail.
Why are we doing this?
Because it never sat right to leave it unfinished. Because our friend deserved to be heard again. Because there are probably a thousand stories buried in basements and closets across the country, and this just happens to be ours.
We’re not doing this to cash in. We’re not trying to tour or relive glory days we never had. We’re doing this because it matters — to us, and maybe to someone else out there who’s holding onto a dream, a memory, or a dusty old tape of their own.
This is about friendship. About honouring what we started. And about sharing it, finally, while we still can.
What’s next?
This is just the start. We’ll be posting the music, sharing stories, photos, behind-the-scenes tidbits, and whatever else bubbles up from the archives. ****
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