Things you've worked on are fantastic. It's very wide reaching.
Thank you.
Your work is sonically influential, yet it's impossible to find out information about you. Why are you the invisible man?
No reason. It's probably because I'm not an extrovert. I don't tell everyone how fantastic everything [I do] is. There are people who can't live a minute without telling everyone how great everything is. I think if you can handle your tools, you should just do so and do the best you can. The tap dancing is usually a sign of insecurity to me. Either you know what you're doing or you're using a cover.
So, you think someone who's using a bit more bluster is covering up for something?
Yeah, or maybe it's just a mentality, "I'm working with cool people and everyone should know about it!" It's probably not the best way to promote oneself. [laughter]
It doesn't seem like it would hurt any!
I don't know. I've picked up most jobs at bars, at shows or on tour. Whenever I've had a manager, I haven't worked as much. If you're on a list it's very tricky unless you're in the top three.
How did you get your start in recording studios? I traced you back to MusicLand Studios in Munich. What were you doing before that?
I was in school and then the army. I didn't like that at all! I wasn't good at school — I was more of a bully then. In Germany, if you're not enrolled in college there's an automatic draft. You get your number and your rifle and off you go. Before that I was playing a bit in a band.
What instrument?
Guitar. I originally learned nine years of classical piano training. I also played clarinet and a little bit of straightforward Spanish guitar. What I really wanted to do after getting out of the army was get into a band again. My parents had a business selling musical instruments, so I'd wait until their store closed to practice. I'd go into the stock room, pick out my amps and whatnot. Because of that, I had fairly decent equipment. When I got back from the army, it turned out my mom had taken it upon herself to sell all of my stuff! I had no future income and that made it hard to start up again. I figured out probably the best way to get started wasifIwasinastudio-thenI'dbeclosebyand I could say, "Hey, I can do that." I looked in the phone book for recording studios — it took me about five months to land a job. At the very bottom [of the phone book listing] was Union Studios. A guy said I could come by the studio; he introduced me to the engineers and it became a real possibility that I could work there. What I didn't know at the time was that the studio manager had just started a couple of months before me. He paid me in advance for three months work. I became friends with the chief engineer there.
He was a classical guy. He was very impressed that I could remember and do things in the studio, because I learned by watching him. I parroted what I saw and heard him do — I charted everything down and set things up the way he would have. Then I had another extremely lucky break for me when the German Krautrock started. Amon Düül... a lot of these names I can't even remember. The engineer was working with a band and they had a huge argument. They were bringing in albums and they'd say, "I want it to sound like this. I want it to sound like that." "Why can't you do it like...?"
And that's coming from the Krautrock bands asking for a different kind of recording?
Yeah. A lot of it was really standardized. "You don't put expensive mics close to the drum kit." The usual crap. He said, "Look, I don't have to do this job. I'm a qualified brain surgeon" and left! So, there I was. The band looked at me and said, "Can you do it?" And I said, "Sure." I excused myself, called the studio manager and let him know the previous producer had run out of the session. He said, "Have a coffee break and discuss the situation. I'll come by." He put in a bunch of compressors and said, "Just run the tape. Once you're done ask for a second take. Do that a couple of times and the day will be gone in no time." The guys sort of bought it. I was really sweating it — I was shaking. When you're tape op-ing or getting tea, stuff sounds normal. It makes sense. But when you're sitting in the producer's chair, everything sounds like crap. Everything falls to bits and pieces — you realize that you're in charge. This is the end of the line and it's got to be right. For one reason or another, the band didn't mind. I had to mix it — it was on 8-track. The band quite liked it. The record company liked it. It was a small label, they had a bunch of these bands before you knew it, and I was the flavor of the month.
What was the name of that first band you did?
I think it was Ihre Kinder. From Nuremberg.
So, was there a label involved?
Yeah, Kuckuck.
I've seen that label.
It was quite famous for a while. Also the top of the line German pop culture came through: Udo Jürgens, Ivan Rebroff (doing these big Russian schmaltzy things) and Peter Alexander. They were all million sellers. There was another guy, Ralph Siegel; his dad was a founding member of GEMA, like ASCAP over here. That guy was already completely loaded because they copped a small royalty off of every royalty and they made hundreds of billions every year. That guy ended up being one of the biggest German, schmaltz-type composers. He sort of always insisted that I work for him. I did a ton of sessions, basically starting at 9 in the morning with a camera commercial. Then a cigarette commercial and then, in the afternoon, he'd do something for Muzak — elevator stuff. Those were three-hour sessions and I had to work really quick. It helped me a lot. It's practice. Eventually I actually learned what all the stuff did in the studio. I jumped in the deep end. I knew what people did, but I didn't know why they did it. I got away with stuff, never making any real mistakes. I did that for two years. Then Giorgio Moroder came in. He had a tape — the singer was Lulu [Kennedy-Cairns] — and he said, "Can you mix it for me?" I said, "No problem." Then he came back and said, "Look, I want to build a studio. Do you want to come and build a studio with me and work for me?" And I said, "Sure! I can do that!" I thought, "By now I know that an XLR has a 1, 2 and a 3. It can't be all that hard" So, he had a studio in the Arabella House in Munich — a very, very big quarter-mile long building, 25 floors high — hotel, apartments, a clinic and a pool. It was actually a pretty good location for bands coming in, staying and throwing TVs out of the 25th floor onto the parking lot, trying to hit the most expensive car. Deep Purple was very well known for that.
Oh, dear! Was Giorgio a well-known producer?
At the time he just had one or two hits. With the money he made off of that, he figured he might as well open his own studio. He had a small studio in the basement, next to the heating unit of this enormous place. It was always like 105 degrees in there, with nothing turned on. After about half a year or more, I finally said, "I'm dying down here. This is impossible." He co-wrote a track called "Son of My Father" [recorded by Chicory Tip]. It was a pretty big hit. He got a whole bunch of money and we built an addition. We got the first basement and that's where MusicLand Studios comes in. It was just concrete and a couple of old walls. One day this guy comes in, Marc Bolan, from T. Rex. He had a gig in Munich. All of the sudden he was standing in the doorway saying, "Oh, so this is going to be the studio. That looks nice. I guess you'll be done in a couple of months?" At that time the English tax law stated that whatever you do in a year's time outside of England, the proceeds were tax-free. So, people would go on road tours. People would go to the Bahamas for vacation, then tour Scandinavia, Holland or Germany, do an album for a couple of months and then go home. Conceived, written and recorded in Scandinavia meant tax-free income for the person who wrote it.
And the taxes in the U.K. were very high.
Exactly! That's why everyone would take off. Exile on Main Street - all that stuff. I actually managed to wire the studio. It was my third year. I had no proper idea of grounding, headphone amps or all the stuff that goes with it. Eventually I got some expert advice from Paul Ford at Westlake Audio. First we had this Helios console — Dick Swettenham [from Helios] helped out a lot. With this British- made board the bands were, "Oh yeah, we like that." It was Deep Purple, Uriah Heep, T. Rex, Rainbow and then ELO.
This would be early '70s?
From 1973 on.
And you're engineering all these bands?
Not in the beginning. Deep Purple was Martin Birch. But the good thing was The Rolling Stones were there with Glyn Johns. I could look, "What do these guys do?"
That's a good school! [laughter]
Exactly! Not everybody has a chance to see the inner workings. Eventually I got a pretty good grip on what people liked and how to get whatever it was. Led Zeppelin's Presence, for instance, I did engineering on that. Unfortunately I didn't get a credit on that. And then I got ELO.
That's big. You did quite a few records with Jeff Lynne and the group.
Eight.
And some of the biggest hits. How many had they done before working with you?
They did four. The previous one was called Eldorado. They sort of just came in. "You're doing this?" There was nobody else around, so, "I guess I'll do that." We did Face The Music and that did really well for them. They kept coming back. I had a really good love/hate relationship with Jeff.
He seems to know what he wants, in a certain way.
Absolutely! He was like the typical English person — in the morning he's never met you and doesn't know who you are. After fourteen pints of beer we're sitting in each other's lap, kissing each other on the cheek and singing songs. The next day we would start all over again. How can I put this? While he tried to work something out, he'd ask for a big sound or a tiny, tiny, small sound. I was fiddling around trying anything: feeding stuff backwards, throwing a chair down a concrete staircase and recording it and chopping it up. Things like that.
You hear a real progression in the sound of those records — really working and experimenting in the studio to create that.
Yeah! He really dreaded reverb. He still does. He really doesn't want reverb. He doesn't mind it too much on other people's records, but definitely not on his. So, I always had to sneak in a little. You know, small room- type things, because otherwise you couldn't do it. It was a lot of real-room sounds because of this labyrinth they had down there. This one corridor was 250 yards long. You could really run, put a speaker up there, and since we were in the basement, no one would really mind. Or put drum kit in there. Just make use of everything that was there. I think it worked really great.
With a lot of the orchestral stuff with ELO, were the orchestras created through overdubs, or were you doing small sections?
No. In the beginning it was the London Symphony Orchestra and then the Munich Symphony Orchestra.
Would you have to go do a remote recording, or could you bring some players in?
I think the first couple of albums, I think that was done in London because a fear that something bad might happen. Then the trust was established once they realized I wasn't going to screw up on big sessions.
So, did they take basic tracks and take the reels back to London and finish off the records?
No, they would overdub the strings and then come back. Then we'd do vocals and stuff. Vocals were always the very last thing. Nobody except Jeff knew what the deal was.
Because they'd never heard a guide vocal?
No, nothing. He wouldn't tell. You could probably sit in a corner humming something or occasionally shouting. It could be anything. Once we went to Bavaria Studios, a film studio for scores and stuff, and we tried 54 strings and a 38-piece choir. I realized in Munich we didn't have to pay any union fees. In this big studio I couldn't get a sound to save my life. It's like everything was gone. It wasn't this compact string sound like what we wanted. I was on pretty good terms; it always pays to be nice to people. Those string players did lots of sessions, back in Union Studios days, and I was always on the mark. I did my thing and always helped everybody. I said, "Look guys, this is not working for me and I'll be in deep shit here. It needs to work. Can you grab a chair and come over to MusicLand?" Because we had probably eight chairs to match 54 people, plus the choir. Then the choir stands up and the studio is nowhere near that size. We had people lined up against the wall and playing in the lobby. Kind of put a microphone in the middle.
How would you even get headphones or playback?
I gave headphones to the lead guy; all the good ones who I knew could actually play.
So, you're recording an orchestra at MusicLand and putting them all over the place to do this tracking?
Yeah, everywhere there was space.
So you could get a drier, controlled sound?
Yeah. And that worked really well.
Those albums are very sonic. Was Jeff asking for things and pushing you to look for new sounds?
Yeah, we had this thing going. We had a huge grand piano and I'd do something with a bunch of microphones close and far. Also compression and some EQ. So I get what I think is a really brilliant, spacey piano sound — very outside the speakers. Then Jeff says, "Okay, that sounds great. Can you screw it up?" I said, "What the fuck? I could have screwed it up in two minutes." He says, "Yeah, well sometimes it's better if you try it both ways." He'd say, "Do this" and I'd say, "For what purpose?" Probably still, to this day, he would go straight through the roof. But it gave me that thing later on, because I could never really keep my mouth shut about doing something that wasn't really me. If I liked it, I fought for it. Obviously the totally wrong approach for an engineer! But, I wanted to do something that would be a step ahead of people, certainly musicians, so they couldn't really bring in their own ideas. Mine were just better. I gradually came into production.
Right. Because on the ELO records, you're an engineer.
Ah, not really. I sort of advanced as far as the percentage.
That's a number of records. You mentioned right at the beginning that you and Jeff could be contentious with each other, but you worked together on eight albums. There must have been a respect and a really good rapport.
There was sort of complete trust. I knew he could always come up with something, or had something stashed away. What most people do is say, "Oh yeah, I just made this up" when really they've been working on it for four years. "Oh, my god! You're a real genius." [laughter] But, it didn't matter in that setup, at least from my angle. We got along great. I could do pretty much whatever I wanted. He could ask me for just about anything and I could make it happen.
How long did Out of the Blue take to record? Do you remember?
Out of the Blue was the longest. That took, I still have the time sheet, and it took 1,200 or 1,300 hours. It was from May to September [1977], or something. It got to the extent where people were trying to kill each other. There were hardly any days off. We would be in 12 to 14 hours every day. We would always end up pretty much the same... drunk. "Oh, it's 6 o'clock somewhere in the world!"
Was there strain within the band too?
No. Jeff and Bev [Bev Bevan, drums] had a fifty-fifty thing. Basically it was Jeff and I just doing what we liked doing best! My biggest claim to fame with ELO, probably, is that I instigated "Don't Bring Me Down."
The whole song?
It was like, "What do we do next?" Probably the best thing, for once, was doing away with all the violins and the choirs and just do straightforward, boogie, rock and roll.
That album, Discovery, is much more drum and rhythm heavy. There's a tailored, large, distinct drum sound going on in that. Is that something you envisioned?
No. I think it ended up that way because, on the albums before, all the drums were always double-tracked. Basically backing tracks were done, if went well, in a day or a day and a half. The fun part was the overdubs. We did drums in the studio and then overdubbed another drum kit in the live room. The double track was doing the same thing.
Did they sound very different?
It was the toilet of MusicLand. [laughter] On Discovery we figured it was much easier to do the snare instead of the cymbals and the whole kit. It got a lot more condensed and tight. I think we ended up basically just doing the bass drum and the snare drum in the big room, where the toilet was, so you could control it. That's why that became much tighter. The "Don't Bring Me Down" thing: Bev didn't really want to "experiment," as he called it. He didn't want to play for hours on end.
He's a drummer, so why would you ask him to play for hours on end? But I made a drum loop-I started that demon — and treated it a bit in tempo. I put three grand pianos playing the same thing. Just kept layering it. Jeff wasn't too either/or as to whether or not the idea was working. Bev didn't want any of that. Jeff was always, "Okay, I've got the piano. What next?" "How about a little bass, a little guitar." It ended up that "Don't Bring Me Down" was originally "Don't Bring Me Down, Bruce." The plan was originally to go to Australia and start a tour there. If we recorded it that way, we couldn't really leave it because of connotations and people. So, in Germany you say, "Grüß Gott" for "Hello." And "Don't Bring Me Down, Gruss" sounds a lot like Bruce. That's how that thing came about.
So when you built the loop, you said you had Bev play something and you cut a piece out?
Oh, I just ran the tape from a different song — from where the tape was parked. I just soloed like three or four tracks. I believe a lot in "doctor chance." Sometimes you put a tape up and whatever the board was — if it wasn't zeroed out — you play something and go, "That sounds interesting." You might have a teensy EQ'd bass drum and this huge hi-hat. A totally weird combination, but you probably could use that for something.
It might open up a door.
Right. Because you wouldn't do it — you can't really think of it. It's just obscure. Lots of things happen that way.
One thing I hear during that period with your producing, leading up to the ELO sessions and the engineering, is getting a sense of more control over the sound. We just talked about that with Discovery. I guess 24-tracks were coming out in the mid-seventies.
Yeah, in the beginning, it was 16 and then it became 24. I think I sort of became really artistic in using little bits of tape in between to record something on there. In between bass drum beats, for instance. Whenever something wasn't happening, I'd record something else on it. It made mixing hell.
It's pre-automation.
There was another really nutty thing in the middle of New World Record. Giorgio and I decided to get a Harrison console. You know, with British-style consoles you've got your masters and monitoring, you've got to patch lines in and this and that. Paul Ford was just touring through and we did the front wall of the studio — we got Westlake monitors. We had Cadac dual 18-inch speakers with a horn in the middle. The idea behind them was really good, but they weighed like 350 kilograms. They had real power and headroom. I figured we needed the decent gear to work.
So, you got the Westlake monitors in there?
Westlake monitors were built in. My question was, "Now I need a board. I want to be able to push a button to six 2-track machines, two 4-track machines, two 16-tracks and two 24. I want monitoring to be there, I don't want to do this [patching]." Harrison came up with a matrix in each channel, with diodes in order to have switching. You had faders, which were VCAs, and you had the monitor in there. You could flip the whole thing down so your path was basically from the preamp. Then you could have either EQ in or out, if you wanted. Then you had your "fix" button that went straight to tape. Then, through the tape, you went through your fader and the monitor. You had the cleanest and shortest signal path. I thought it was pretty fabulous.
Nothing before the tape.
Exactly, yeah. You could monitor two 4-track machines, things that could come up on speakers. It was a convenience thing. The solo in place and pre-fader listening was absolutely super. This is basically how I still use it today. I have the microphone, I have the preamp and I go into converter these days. A lot of times I still do backing tracks on tape — preferably on 16-track. Then I put them back into Pro Tools. So, in the middle of New World Record, this Harrison console shows up. Over the weekend I said, "I can wire that in."
You did, did you? [laughter]
Not really! But, I got the recording side to work, with Jeff constantly breathing down my neck. "Can we do something? Can we do something?" "Yeah, we can record. But we can't really hear it too well." We actually did record that night. Into the early morning, until 3 a.m., I was still soldering away with one guy to help me. But we got it done.
That's one of my most favorite ELO records. I really think it's an interesting batch of songs, and it includes some of the really grand stuff.
At the beginning of "Telephone Line," it's probably not a widely known, but it's a little sample and hold- type thing, a Minimoog. And, as these things go, each one is different. In the beginning, I had oodles of tracks. Then the band would come in and Jeff would say, "I don't know. Maybe you should give it another shot." I don't know why, but it had to be on that track and because the way stuff started there was no way to really edit it, if we wanted the flow of the whole thing. The end sound, it does this little thing before it goes into the song, it was just a bad dropout because I was panicking! [laughter] It was all going and I could see this thing coming up. I made myself a little mark on the tape. So it happened and stayed like that.
An accident.
Yep.
Vocoders start showing up on those records around then. Was there a constant quest for new sounds?
Yeah. Actually the vocoder was one of Giorgio's. His vocal performance, singing wasn't really too...
he wasn't Freddie Mercury, let's put it like that. So I was looking for ways of doing something that worked for him. You know, these days, we would be, "Auto-Tune." Jeff was always like, "Oh, what's that one do?" There were these children's records, Sparky's Magic Piano. A talking piano [using the Sonovox talk box device]. So it was, "Oh, it does Sparky! Let's try that." Everything which could be put through was put though.
To see what it could do.
Yeah, like the end of one of the sides of Out Of The Blue is "Please Turn Me Over." Things like that.
That's a whole parallel career with the studio. Giorgio was working on things and he must have bought some early synthesizers.
Giorgio bought everything that was new. The Roland Juno, Oberheim and all these things came out. Giorgio had the balls, if not necessarily the taste, to just order all of that. He'd just say, "Oh, that sounds great. Let's do something with that" and he'd just use it, just stock sounds. Which was okay. It worked for him. With synths, when you're the first, you're like the "cool" flavor. I was always into, "Can we change that sound to something else?"
You worked on some of the Donna Summer stuff. Those tracks really seemed to have come from the future, at that point in time. People are still emulating that.
I didn't do too much on that. Jürgen Koppers did a lot of the mixing and things for Giorgio. I did backing tracks and stuff like that. Giorgio called me up and said, "Look, I need the best drum sounds in the world. Can you come over?" I said, "Look, Giorgio. It's Saturday night. It's 11." "Yeah, but only 10 minutes!" "Yeah, but I can't get the best drum sound in only ten minutes!" He promised I'd be back by midnight. [laughter] "I Feel Love" was the big Moog — in four cabinets. And we got that and we had to trigger a rectangular wave from track 16. I marked the tape where we lined it up and we started; hoping the damn thing would run all the way through. The square wave would go through the compressor and the EQ, and we'd EQ it so it's all in sync. The 16th pulse going through that was triggering everything.
So that was triggering filters and sequencers?
Right. So we always went back into the Moog.
