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The is one such ghost. And after spending six months restoring a rusted, battery-leaked unit I found in an abandoned radio station in Leipzig, I am here to tell you: This machine is not just a synth. It is a religion. What is a Stasyq 605? For the uninitiated, Stasyq (pronounced Sta-zeek ) was a short-lived West German manufacturer that operated out of a converted sawmill near the Black Forest from 1979 to 1984. They produced exactly three products. The 601 (a failed drum machine), the 603 (a vocoder with a 40-foot cable), and the holy grail: The 605.
If you ever see one at a flea market in Berlin or Osaka covered in dust, buy it. Do not haggle. Just pay the man and run. Because in a world of sterile, digital perfection, the Stasyq 605 reminds us that music is supposed to be dangerous, unpredictable, and gloriously broken.
Because of . Modern synthesizers are perfect. They stay in tune. They have USB ports. They have presets. The Stasyq 605 has none of these things. To save a patch, you have to take a Polaroid picture of the knob positions.