This is your space, Studio Zona?
Yeah. This is the place where I feel the happiest. I feel like whatever is happening outside, I can get some relief being here. I've got my studio, and outside of that door there are other studios. We have a common area, which we share. During the pandemic, I was coming here, locking myself in my own studio. I missed the social and creative interaction I was used to before the world went upside down, but I can't complain as other people had it so much harder. I could come here on my bike and work, and that kept me going. Before, I had a studio on the other side of London – that meant an hour and a half commuting on the Underground. This would not have been possible if I still had that place. When lockdown truly happened here, it was in March 2020. I was on a session at Strongroom Studios, recording with this artist, Jealous of the Birds [Naomi Hamilton], from Northern Ireland. We were watching the news unfolding. She looked at me and said, "I need to take a flight back right now, or I'll be stranded here." We finished the vocals for that song and then she had to go. The day after, they closed the studios down. We were the last ones there for a while.
I've done far more mixing than tracking since the pandemic started. Has tracking work been coming back for you now?
It has, yeah. Everything went back to the same rate as before, if not more, because artists during the lockdown have been writing, writing, writing. Like you, I switched to mixing in the depth of the pandemic. Some projects had to happen remotely. I was meant to help out with the production of Circuit des Yeux [Haley Fohr]'s -io, for example. I was looking forward to that, because I love her music. I ended up having to mix instead, without being involved in the production. It was a bummer for me. I would have loved to have been there from the start, but it's a pandemic. Same thing with another artist, Desire Marea. I was meant to be more involved from the start, and I was meant to attend a session for mixing; but being in South Africa meant that they couldn't travel to me. It happened to everyone. People had their tours canceled, and that was thousands of pounds for them. I can't complain. I could still mix here and use the studio.
Is there a common tracking space?
I mostly do mixing and tracking here, when it's not a full band at the same time. When I record live, I like to be in the same room comfortably without being crammed into a small space. Both for the sound and for the actual feeling of it. Next door, on the same floor, there is a big tracking room with a separate control room. I carry my tape machines, and whatever I need, from here into there. It's convenient. I got it in 2019 when I moved from Hammersmith; I was working out of the studio at Mute Records. I was working for them, doing my own music, as well as for artists on other record labels. I had the occasion to come and see this space, which wasn't a studio before. It was a completely empty warehouse. I met the guys who were building it, and I said, "Okay, I would love this section because it has the most windows. I want to see outside." They built the walls, did all the insulation, and I was one of the first ones here. Slowly they started to fill in all the other rooms. It's a nice hub.
Is there a name for the whole complex there?
It's called Pony Studios. The guys are in a band [Tempesst], and instead of spending their advance on renting out a studio they decided to build their own, which is the big studio next door. They happen to be very good builders, and good brains with all the acoustics. They're resourceful, because now they have an income.
That's a common studio concept we're seeing now. The idea of having resident engineers working in private suites, and then a shared area they can rent or request.
In cities like London, space costs a lot of money. So, it's not common for many producers and engineers to have a huge studio [of their own], unless it's a bit out of the city or totally in the countryside. At some point, I think I might get a second and bigger studio in Italy, where I can have a live room and separate control room. Hopefully somewhere by Lake Iseo, where I was born, and where I can host artists and bands I work with.
One of the reasons you moved from Italy was a lack of studio infrastructure and work to be had, right?
That's the main reason, totally. Why else would I leave everything; my family and my friends? I didn't know anyone in London. Zero. I moved here because I had already exhausted the resources I had there. I started there in live sound when I was around 15. My first mentor, Carlo Dall'Asta, and I were working at this centro sociale – social center. It's a place that was liberated in the '90s. That means that it was occupied back then by a group of activists.
Like squatters?
Yeah, but not for the purpose of living in it. Rather it was for the purpose of creating a place for the community. A place of counterculture, for the farmers to come and sell their products directly, or a place for concerts, debates, and meetings to organize demonstrations. A place that could provide support for levels of the community that often are marginalized by society. Places like this in Italy are still very strongly connected to the type of culture that young people, like me at that age, want to be a part of. When I went to high school – from my small town into a bigger city – I started frequenting this place, which had a venue at the back to raise money. Mainly experimental and punk bands would come by and play for a reduced fee, because centri sociali are non-profits. That was how the place would sustain itself, and also by having other initiatives such as exhibitions and art events. I was 15 and an activist, organizing demonstrations with students from the same high school, and others. It was a place that felt very inspiring. One day, I wandered into the venue and saw a mixing desk. I thought, "Wow, what's this?" I wanted to learn it because I was fascinated by it, as well as by the idea that a piece of equipment could control the sound coming from the stage and therefore the experience of the listeners. A tangible thing controlling the intangible. I saw it as a performance, but without being at the center of the attention and away from the spotlights. I was introduced to Carlo, who was the in-house engineer there. He had a huge patience. I was a teenager and didn't know anything about audio. He would tell me, "This is a microphone," and would take it apart in front of me to show me how it worked. He explained to me what sound was, in theory and in practice, and he taught me everything I knew. Because I lived 20 miles away, and I was so young and didn't have a car, I could never stay for the concert properly, only for the soundcheck. For many years, I only did the setting up and the soundcheck, and never actually saw the concert! When I got my license, I was 18 and finishing high school. I had already gone and done all the festivals around the province of Brescia, which is where I am from. I was already working in some theaters. Carlo was giving me jobs to do on my own. I remember telling him, "I'm going to get my diploma soon, and I'm going to have to choose what to do. Either go to uni, or follow this path." I wanted to work in recording studios, to be in an environment that would allow me to experiment with sound and explore it further, without the time constraints of the live world. He told me, "Look. If you stay here, you're going to keep on doing what you're already doing. If I was you, I would go to London or Berlin." So, I chose London. When I gave my last exam in school, I didn't care about grades. I just said, "Can I book my flight?"
"I'm out of here."
My friends and family were like, "Okay, you sound pretty convinced. This is the plan that you have." They never had an example of anyone else who "made it" like that. I'm from a working class family; my mom is a teacher and my dad worked in a factory. I was initially going to go to uni in Bologna, maybe study politics, and I would probably be a professor by now. That's what they thought I was going to do. They were a bit confused, but they supported me. It was quite scary to send their daughter away to another country at 19 years old.
I tell people all the time: To get anywhere in doing this, we have to sacrifice financial stability, eating well, sleep, significant relationships, and whatever else it might be at the beginning.
Oh, truly. That's so true. I'd wake up every morning and go to this school, Alchemea [Music Production College]. It was a great place; the school had lectures every day, but it was open 24 hours. We were encouraged to go and use the studio to prepare ourselves for the real world. I was always there. I thought, "If I am taking this course, I'm going to try and make the most of it." I used every single bit of equipment, and then I had to find a job, because London is expensive. I got a job in post-production, which was pretty brutal, because runners are so disposable. We were treated quite badly. Post-production was good, in so far as learning to be very quick at Pro Tools. They were getting me to do track laying, audio editing, and to be very on point with all the assisting jobs. I was calling up studios on the phone whenever I had a break. I thought, "No one is going to answer emails." So, I was writing letters, posting them, and then calling up the studios. One of the first opportunities I had was for a studio in South London, which I had seen in an advertisement in Tape Op. It was State of the Ark. It looked incredible, with an old EMI console. I called up, and Dan Britten, who is the son of [owner, songwriter/producer] Terry Britten, told me, "Look, I've got no job for you." I said, "I don't care. I just want to come and present myself." I went down, met him, I saw the studios, and straightaway I offered to tidy up. "Can I clean up your studio right now?" He remembered me. He called me back and said, "Look. I've got a session. Would you want to come in and assist, and be around to make teas and coffees?" I said, "Yeah!" I told the post-production people that I couldn't come in, and went straight to State of the Ark. It was way more hours and less pay than the job I'd left. But the job I got was being an assistant in a studio; that's what I wanted. One thing always leads to another. From that session, I met a producer who needed an assistant. I started working with them, and I began working in different studios from there.
When you meet more people, folks see that you're competent.
Yeah! There are so many skills that go into this job. Obviously, you need to have such a solid knowledge of everything involving engineering, but it's also about having a good attitude, having the passion and the drive to do it, and a 100 percent commitment. In Tape Op, the interview with Leslie Ann Jones [#74], in 2009, was amazing. It was written by Marsha?
Marsha Vdovin. She's also one of our advertising representatives.
Oh, my god, Leslie Ann looked so cool! I saw a picture of her in the studio, and she looked so confident running the session. That picture became – in the back of my head – "I want to be like her." She was wearing a wristwatch, and that is the reason that every time I record, I wear a wristwatch in homage to Leslie Ann Jones. I really liked that interview. She came across so brilliantly. To be able to experience that level of confidence and skill is such a joy for me. It's inspiring. She was totally a role model for me, from that point onwards.
You were working with producers and in various studios?
My breakthrough, at Strongroom and RAK Studios, was when I truly started engineering and being booked on sessions where I was freelancing for different producers. Before then I was at Dean St. Studios, that used to be Tony Visconti's [Good Earth Studios, Tape Op #29]. I had to know all of the studios very well, so if I got called by a studio manager and suddenly needed to go on a session, I had to know how to work not only with the different studios and producers, but with many genres of music and bands. I loved that, because I always learned something new. I learned to adapt, and to be able to always take something home for myself in terms of, "What did I learn today?" It has been a very incredible learning experience, because now I can work across all genres. With contemporary music, now genres don't matter anymore. There are so many cross genres. I like that. I never like to be pigeonholed. Back then, I had the opportunity to use the studios when there were no sessions happening.
That really helps.
I made the most of that. I would say to the studio manager, "If no one comes in, can I use it?" I'd be making sure everything was cleaner than it was before, and perfectly spotless. I would log any fault and fix problems. It would be a gain for them, and a gain for me. Bands that I would see at concerts, I'd say, "I loved your set. Would you like to come and record? I get the credit, you get a track, an EP, or an album." I was also having to assist, engineer, produce, mix, and sometimes having to master by myself, because there simply was no money.
Yeah, right?
I loved that, because it was scary to suddenly be running the whole ship. That's how I learned to listen and truly gain the confidence that I could do it on my own. I was doing that alongside my freelancing for others. That's how I'd work, with a bands' word of mouth, or a producer who would talk to other producers and engineers and record labels. During a session, I met David Wrench, who became my mentor. I respected the sound that he could sculpt. The first day, we were working on a record for LA Priest [Sam Eastgate]. I was inspired by how he mixed and made everything sound so beautifully clear, but also so punchy. The bass was very potent, but not overpowering. He's an incredible person to speak to, as his thoughts, taste, and ethics completely lined up with mine. It was like a eureka moment for me. He was getting busier and busier, and he needed someone to help him as an assistant engineer, so I started working with him a lot. He championed me and put me forward for jobs that he couldn't take. The first mix I did on my own he put me forward for was Bombino, a Tuareg guitarist on Partisan Records. I was so honored to be working on my first mix. David always told me, "If you need to borrow my ears and show me a mix, feel free."
That's very nice!
I grew a lot with that confidence and security. We were working on cool music. There are so many jobs, obviously, that as engineers we'll do that maybe don't line up with our taste. But when you finally feel like you're doing what you want, and working on the music you like, that's it.
It's hard to explain that to people, isn't it? I'm not going to do a lesser job if I'm not a fan. But when we get to work on sessions where we admire the music, it brings out a little more in us.
Oh, yeah. The care and the time that I put into it suddenly is worth more. At that time, I worked 24 hours and 7 days a week, but it didn't matter. I was doing everything I wanted to be doing. I remember being so happy. I felt so lucky.
This wasn't luck. This is the result of your hard work!
I'm from a place where working in music still equals to not a full-time job. I feel blessed and absolutely honored to be doing what I do. I did work very hard for it. But, yes; there's that part of me that comes from a small, working class town, where people work hard and there's an engrained humility in everyone's ethic. Entitlement is something that only the upper class can afford. I started from the bottom and I'm never going to take any success for granted. I always feel genuinely happy when people I respect know my work and when artists I love ask me to collaborate. It's fulfilling. It's so important to feel like we're on the right track. That's how I felt when I was reading the interview with Leslie Ann Jones many years ago. I thought, "Oh, you're feeling the same feelings. Okay, so I'm not alone in this!" That meant a lot.
That is awesome. Working with David Wrench, was a lot of that recalling mixes and setting up his favorite signal paths for mixes?
Yeah, he would commute from Wales to London, so I was in charge of making sure that the setup would always be the same. At some point, he got his own speakers, so I would always set his speakers up, plus the sub[woofer]. Whenever we needed to record something, I would make sure that I had the mic already set up. He'd use his own computer, so I would have to rewire the rig. I wanted him to show up and for everything to be seamless. Then I was sitting in, looking over his shoulder, and making sure that I was taking in as much as I could. When there was a break, I would ask him questions. He produced a record [I'm All Ears] for Let's Eat Grandma. We went to Rockfield [Studios, Wales]. I was engineering, and he was producing. I knew him so well that I knew what he wanted and what he needed, so I would make that happen. He gave me the freedom to experiment. I wanted my work to be good, I wanted him to be happy, and I wanted the band to be happy. I knew everything about engineering, but I needed to learn that fine line where it's about refining my own taste. "What sounds good?" That is a very subjective idea. I remember I was struck with how good records that he worked on sounded. It was an incredible guidance for me, and an inspiration.
How many years did you two work together? Do you still work together occasionally?
It was four or five years. We don't work together as much now, but we're friends. When we see each other, we go out for a drink or for dinner. He was the person – like Carlo back in the day – where he told me, "You should leave."
"Get out of the nest!"
"You're getting your own jobs now." Basically, it happened when we were working with Goldfrapp. Joff [Gladwell], A&R at Mute Records, came to our session at Strongroom. Joff said, "We have a studio at Mute that we don't really use. We're looking for someone to take it on and do some jobs for us. We need someone who is self-sufficient. We won't keep you busy seven days a week, so you need to have your own work going on too." I thought, "This is the opportunity that I've been waiting for." When you freelance, you never have a headquarters of your own to call your studio. I didn't have the amount of cash that I'd need to open a studio back then. I went to meet Daniel Miller [Tape Op #110], head of Mute, and Joff. They showed me the studio. It was a small room, but it had speakers and a small SSL console. It had a lot of synths from Daniel. That was my first studio. It was amazing. Suddenly, when people would ask me, "Could you mix this for us?" I didn't have to go rent a studio. I had one!
You could work on your own projects, as long as you were available for their projects?
Yeah. Daniel might walk in and say, "We need a radio edit right now." They became a family. They had publishing on the first floor, and on the second floor was the record label. I got to meet the artists that they signed, and I got to know Daniel. He's an amazing person. We still work together. That was a great opportunity.
