Studio places and ‘magic’

The literature has often pointed to the intangible ‘magic’ that has drawn musicians into certain studios or contributed to the greatness of an album (Bates Reference Bates2012; Bennett Reference Bennett2016; Gibson Reference Gibson2005). Although a variety of musicians, engineers and producers shared their experiences, the presentation has been one-sided, only reporting on the positive sides of famous studios. This article shows a lesser-known side. While studios indeed seem to have an atmosphere, it often is more detrimental than beneficial or ‘magical’. The interviewed producers showed a pragmatic view, as they emphasised the musicians’ high level of stress and anxiety in the studio and the further increased pressure that weighs on them when working in renowned studios. ‘Magical moments’ of collaborative creativity were rare. Instead of recording inspired group performances, many rock productions are tedious, requiring substantial overdub recording and laborious editing.

Bauerfeind experienced many studios around the world and had a clear idea of the environment that worked for him and his clients. He emphasised that he does not like to work in renowned studios because of the pressure it creates.

In his experience, working in renowned studios improves neither the performance nor the creativity of the artists. Musicians, sensitive by nature, reacted to very subtle ‘vibes’ that needed to be controlled to avoid negative impact on the artistic expression. Bauerfeind remembered beautiful and well-equipped studios, where productions had to be interrupted because ‘something didn't feel right’. An investigation into the history of these places revealed that the buildings had previously been, for example, an animal experiment institute or an orphanage for children with behavioural problems. Continuing the work in another studio solved the problem. The studio's house rules would also affect the creative process since banalities like having to clean up after a meal or following no-smoking rules, which are common in high-profile studios, could seriously hamper creativity. For him, low rental costs that ensured sufficient time to work and the feeling of safety were the two most important qualities of a studio.

Bemm agreed with Bauerfeind on most points. In his experience, it was crucial for musicians not to feel like they were in a studio. The studio atmosphere did not help musicians to perform at all, so Bemm tried to distract from it.

Although Johns did not explicitly address the studio atmosphere, his accounts of renowned productions suggest that ‘magical moments’ were rare. During his entire time as a producer, he only recorded one album live; all others were done with an overdub approach because the musicians often struggled to perform their parts. While there were creative moments in the studio, most of the time was spent on recording multiple takes and tedious editing.

Altogether, the producers agreed that there was hardly any ‘magic’ to studios because of the atmosphere of pressure they create. Specific spaces could well be inspiring, yet the producers’ main objective was to make the musicians feel comfortable, as this helped them make the most of their abilities. In real-world practice, the studio choice was more about the atmosphere, which should not fuel any insecurities. The producers’ experiences thus paint a picture that differs from the literature, one without the romanticising notion of studios as ‘magical places’ full of inspiration and creative ensemble performances (Bates Reference Bates2012; Bennett Reference Bennett2016; Gibson Reference Gibson2005).

Characteristics, value and problems of studio museums

Transforming a studio into a museum poses several challenges. The acoustics are one of the main assets of recording studios (Leyshon Reference Leyshon2009; Théberge Reference Théberge2004). While some museums, such as Sun Studio, have been set up in the original premises, others were relocated. Can Studio, for example, moved from a former cinema to a generic museum space. Such a decision may seem insignificant, but it does have a substantial impact on the authenticity of the heritage object since it influences the relationship to space and place (Connell and Gibson Reference Connell and Gibson2002; Gibson Reference Gibson2005; Gibson and Connell Reference Gibson and Connell2005). This problem is aggravated by the fact that studios move from time to time and that the premises can differ fundamentally. Therefore, one of the defining qualities of a studio, the rooms (Bates Reference Bates2012; Gibson Reference Gibson2005; Leyshon Reference Leyshon2009), is rarely consistent.

Of the interviewed producers, Johns and Bemm each had their studios at four different locations. Johns's Music Lab began in a small former stationery shop in Berlin; the next two ‘versions’ were in factory buildings. The latter was his most renowned and largest studio with about 330 square metres. His last studio was in the countryside in a former tavern. He named it ‘Spiderhouse’ because it felt inappropriate to keep the old name in a new place, although the equipment in every studio was similar. At the beginning of his career, Bemm converted the woodshed in his parents’ garden (Figure 1) in Hagen into a studio, hence the name Woodhouse. When he became more professional, he had to move to an industrial area. In Dortmund, he found a disused barn for his second studio. After the property was sold, the studio moved back to Hagen into a former gym. This was his largest studio with 700 square metres. Eventually, the Woodhouse relocated back to Bemm's birthplace, where he set up the studio in his basement while keeping the equipment. These two examples demonstrate how studios transform drastically, making it nearly impossible to convert or reconstruct them in a museum.

Figure 1. Original Woodhouse studio in 1977.

On the question of whether recording studios should be preserved as museums, the producers had different opinions, which revealed varying notions about the nature of such museums. Johns was surprised by the very idea of studios as museums. As a former studio operator of almost 40 years, his main concern was whether a potential Music Lab museum would generate income – a question not unfounded (Baker et al. Reference Baker, Istvandity and Nowak2018, p. 7). Johns was also concerned about the possibility of reconstructing the rooms and their acoustics. Furthermore, the studio's equipment had been continuously changing apart from his analogue Soundcraft console, which he eventually sold when he adopted digital music production in the early 2000s. For these economical, technical and physical reasons, he did not regard studio museums as feasible. Rock journalists regularly interview him about his work and collaboration with the record label Noise (Gehlke Reference Gehlke2017). Yet the city of Berlin had never shown any interest in preserving anything related to his Music Lab. In the unlikely event that he should ever decide to set up a heritage site for his former studio, Johns could probably not hope to obtain official authorisation and support from the city (Roberts and Cohen Reference Roberts and Cohen2014). Self-authorising this venture would make it highly authentic. However, he would still need the sponsorship of professional companies, former clients, fans or charities, less so for authorisation than for funding.

Bauerfeind was similarly sceptical about studio museums, especially since the large number of technical and artistic steps leading to a final record was too complex to be limited purely to equipment and rooms. He also doubted that the technical equipment would be as interesting for a wider public as the stage costumes exhibited in regular popular music museums.

Not believing in the magic of studios, Bauerfeind did not see anything special in the equipment used either. Only on request from his clients did he sometimes rent gear from famous bands like the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac or ABBA. These devices were just tools for him, which he did not consider worth exhibiting.

Bemm regularly receives public attention for his studio and gladly gives interviews for special features in music (Mineur Reference Mineur2002) and recording (Fey Reference Fey2015; Mischkoswki Reference Mischkowski2014) magazines. He is the only producer who thought that studio museums could make sense. His Woodhouse has already been included in city books of Hagen (Ebbert Reference Ebbert2016) and temporary city exhibitions (Wahnbaeck Reference Wahnbaeck2018), displaying newspaper and magazine articles, the studio history, technical equipment and photos of artists who came to the city because of the studio. For such events, he has lent some of his gear. Bemm stressed he hoped that his equipment would be preserved in a museum when his studio closed, although he had not yet received any such requests. If he decided to be actively involved in preserving his studio, the interest from his hometown Hagen suggests that he might receive official authorisation because of the cultural value it has brought and could still bring to the community. Bemm explained that although he had a successful studio in neighbouring Dortmund between 1982 and 1992, the city showed no interest in his work. It seems one must have their roots in a town, and so it was his status as a ‘child of Hagen’ that made him and his studio valuable there. Although he mainly produced rock and metal bands, his studio was interesting for Hagen in its self-proclaimed image as a pop music hotspot, despite the city's musical heyday being the Neue Deutsche Welle in the late 1970s and early 1980s, which is still nostalgically celebrated today (Wahnbaeck Reference Wahnbaeck2018). This backwards-looking and mainstream-oriented musical legacy is ideally suited for officially authorised heritage (Roberts and Cohen Reference Roberts and Cohen2014, p. 256). However, even if the attempts to preserve his studio's heritage were not officially authorised, Bemm could self-authorise it and hope to find sponsors in the local community or wider music scene. His professional network and numerous industry awards would probably help since the power of the music and media industries should never be underestimated (Roberts and Cohen Reference Roberts and Cohen2014, p. 248).

When asked about what to exhibit, Bemm considered the technical recording and production equipment because this was the essence of the studio. His most treasured item is the custom-built Raindirk Symphony mixing console, not only because of its rarity but also because of the art created on it: ‘What music has flowed through there is quite incredible. There's a lot of history going on; the console is the heart of the studio’. This inseparable connection to the recorded art extended to the tape machine as the other important component of the analogue production process.

The value of the tape machine derives from the celebrity status of the musicians who ‘contaminated’ it positively (Belk Reference Belk1988). When Bemm stopped recording analogue, he advertised the tape machine at an online auction but then changed his mind and kept it for posterity: ‘I thought to myself, there's so much history written on it, I cannot sell it’. Bemm believes in what he calls the ‘status of the equipment’, the historical and cultural value of production gear, regardless of who has used it: ‘This is not without history, even if it is only a technical object. It is history, and I have a lot of history here in the house, especially when it comes to technology. The equipment I have goes back … For example, I have microphones that are much older than me’. He emphasised the value of vintage microphones like the Telefunken 250 series and technologically significant samplers and synthesisers from manufacturers including Akai, Oberheim and Yamaha. Such instruments are exhibited, for example, in the Swiss Museum and Center for Electronic Music Instruments, in Fribourg, a museum dedicated exclusively to such equipment. This indicates that the heritage value of a studio can be defined not only by the artists who recorded there but also by the historical and cultural value of the equipment, similar to the Swiss instruments museum that is authorised by the city, manufacturers and academic institutions.

Apart from these material objects, Bemm thought about other memorabilia for a potential Woodhouse museum. One of those items was a wooden sign with the name ‘Woodhouse’ as the trademark of the studio. Another crucial element of his studio was his kitchen. The small wooden table, part of the studio since 1982 and today his kitchen table, represented the ‘soul’ of the studio, and many musicians left their names on it. Bemm stressed that everybody, whether unknown artist or star, drank coffee at this table. Only in this kitchen can visitors find artefacts of Bemm's production success: ‘I have a lot of gold and platinum awards; you won't see them anywhere around here. There's only one; it's on top of the cupboard. This is the first album I did with [Peter] Maffay, the X album, his first metal album. And it's hidden here; it's the only one visible here in the house’ (Figure 2). Bemm gives the impression not to be comfortable with exhibiting his awards in a museum context. For him, awards are meaningless because the music is all that counts. However, he is aware of his fame and told of others who have taken advantage of it. For example, another studio on the premises of Bemm's third studio offered commercial tours around his legendary ‘Woodhouse Studio’, which was a fraud he had to stop.

Figure 2. Platinum award hidden in the kitchen of Bemm's Woodhouse Studio.

The two producers most sceptical of studio museums, Johns and Bauerfeind, found writing a book about their production work a more appropriate way to preserve their musical legacy. Johns drew his motivation from the scene's wish to get insights into the production processes of the more renowned bands he had worked with. Likewise, what happened in the studio was much more interesting to Bauerfeind than the studio itself. However, he admitted one could not reconstruct the processes accurately and therefore criticised historiographical reconstructions of renowned productions. Not even those involved in the production could remember exactly what happened. His book's motto hence would be ‘based on a true story; everything is fictional’. Such critical reflection from a practitioner's perspective resembles the ideology of the ‘new museology’ (Atton Reference Atton2014; Vergo Reference Vergo1989), whereby creators have agency over the curational content, including its narrative discourses.

Documenting and preserving production work

For studios to serve as heritage sites or be part of exhibitions, there must be a material anchor (Fairchild Reference Fairchild2017; Leonard and Knifton Reference Leonard, Knifton, Cohen, Knifton and Leonard2015). The previous reflections on recording studios as museums have suggested that the building, rooms and equipment can be exhibited, similar to the clothing of musicians displayed in popular music museums (Leonard Reference Leonard2007). While old music equipment may have heritage value in itself, its use on certain albums and by esteemed artists contributes much to its symbolic value (Belk Reference Belk1988). Just like stage dresses, devices gain heritage value when there is evidence of their connection to performances, productions and artists through photos, videos or other means. These help the observer to make connections between the object and what it represents. In the case of a studio, such references can take the form of signs or markings. For example, Sun Studio's live room is not remarkable architecturally. Yet the marked position where Elvis Presley stood during the recordings fosters imagination of what renowned recording sessions might have been like (Keightley and Pickering Reference Keightley and Pickering2012; Leonard and Knifton Reference Leonard, Knifton, Cohen, Knifton and Leonard2015). Photos are important for the documentation of heritage as evidenced, for example, by the fact that the American National Register of Historic Places accompanies the text-based nomination documents with photo galleries, as in the case of Sun Studio (NRHP 2003b). While this particular gallery contains only photos of the building and rooms, photos with bands working in the studio would generally enhance the heritage value even more. Other facts collected for officially authorised heritage studios include the wider neighbourhood, the shape and size of the building and its rooms, the arrangement of windows, the materials used for floors, walls and ceilings, and other factors related to acoustic treatment (see e.g. NRHP 2003a).

Recording studios can be of interest to various audiences. A more general audience may be satisfied with the rooms, equipment, photos and videos, but those interested in music production may wish to know more about how the recording sessions took place. In The Great British Recording Studios Howard Massey (Reference Massey2015) examines seminal British studios in great depth, while David Simons (Reference Simons2004) focuses on important studios in New York in his Studio Stories. Photos from recording sessions, analyses of the acoustic qualities of the studios, discussions about equipment and influential engineers and producers, as well as all kinds of ‘stories’ and mythologies are the focus of such documentaries. Anthony Meynell (Reference Meynell2017) examines the technological, performative and creative production practices by re-enacting the differences in staging techniques in British and American recordings made in the late 1960s at Columbia Studios in Los Angeles and EMI Studios in London. He observes differences in the creative approaches of The Byrds and The Beatles, but many details of how technology was used could not be reconstructed. This problem is inherent in the field of the ‘art of record production’, where the investigation into renowned recordings is of great interest but limited by outsiders’ perspectives or by temporal distance and faded memories.

As Bemm's experience with temporary exhibitions has demonstrated, newspaper and magazine articles, the studio history, technical equipment and photos are suitable exhibits. Some of these items, such as articles, can be gathered in retrospect since they were published publicly. Many other forms of documentation like photos, videos, guest books and factual knowledge about the studio and recording sessions rely on either the producer or clients having collected them; otherwise, it is nearly impossible to reconstruct them later.

The interviewed producers value the collaborative process highly when working in the studio. Documenting the collaborative process, however, is not entirely possible and disturbs the creative flow. Bauerfeind recognised this and therefore tried to document at least the technical processes. The other two producers admitted not to have documented their work at all. When asked whether the artist's name played a role in such considerations, Bemm and Johns stressed this was not the case.

It was not only the producers’ indifference towards celebrities but also the fact that the production schedule did not allow for documentation owing to the rock boom in the 1980s and 1990s, which they regret in retrospect. This was a common problem in the scene. The only documentation common in German studios was guest books but mostly in smaller independent studios, less so in well-known houses like Hansa. These guest books were not curated by the studio owners but filled with content by their clients, as Bemm explained.

Bemm started with his guest book when he had enough photos after several years of operating his Woodhouse. However, not giving it much thought, he did not continue the book. This book from the period between 1980 and 1988 is, apart from newspaper and magazine articles, the only documentation of the Woodhouse Studio but it has never been digitised.

The guest books of Johns's Music Lab emerged similarly, at first mainly as photo albums. They were lying around in the studio, and the artists started writing, drawing or glueing objects like broken guitar picks to them (Figure 3).

Figure 3. Page of Tankard's entry in Music Lab‘s guest book.

According to Johns, the common overdub recording approach meant long waiting times for the musicians, who bridged it by occupying themselves with the guest books. In so doing, they not only designed their page but also started commenting on the pages of other bands, as Johns explained.

Even Bauerfeind, who was generally not interested in the nostalgia surrounding record productions, agreed that guest books were worth preserving. Johns digitised some pages of his eight guest books and occasionally posts them on social media. Yet he did not want to give too much away because his planned book about the Music Lab would largely be based on the guest books.

Johns's reluctance to give access to his guest books is hardly surprising, considering what remains of the Music Lab. All equipment was sold and the studio archive emptied. Whenever possible, he sent the master tapes and session reels to the record labels or else he destroyed the objects. Bauerfeind and Bemm keep their audiotapes and digital production data as part of their business for as long as they work, but neither would preserve these historical documents indefinitely. Despite being the original musical artefact from which all reproductions are made, the producers are not emotionally attached to it. For them, the most important object of their work is the released record, seeing all material resources used in the production mainly as tools. Because of this indifference, all that remains of their work is records and guest books.

Websites and social media

Traditional museums and other physical exhibitions are costly and require funding, which usually involves some formal authorisation and support from official government bodies, companies or charities (Roberts and Cohen Reference Roberts and Cohen2014). As the interviews demonstrate, the producers have not received any such offers that would allow them to preserve their studios’ heritage in a permanent exhibition. An alternative would be ‘DIY preservation’, which Bennett (Reference Bennett2009) has observed in more recent popular music heritage ventures, especially when it comes to non-canonical, subcultural forms of popular music that falls beneath the radar of official heritage. Unlike officially authorised heritage in the form of monuments or objects preserved in museums, DIY preservation is often carried out online. As Baker (Reference Baker2017, p. 488) notes, such preservation through social media or more traditional websites can serve as virtual heritage sites for popular music's past and ‘have great meaning for their followers and the potential to be a significant resource for scholars exploring diverse historical practices, processes and networks of popular music culture’. Likewise, Bennett and Strong (Reference Bennett and Strong2018, p. 371) argue that online heritage can act as ‘an important vessel for memory and remembering’, fulfilling individual and collective nostalgic longings. Social media are especially valuable in their interactive functionality because they enable

While online practices as informal heritage can be more limited in terms of funding and visibility than officially authorised heritage, they allow for more diverse preservation of subcultural heritage, thus undermining or bypassing the dominant and hegemonic ideologies, narratives and intentions of traditional stakeholders and intermediaries of popular music heritage (Roberts and Cohen Reference Roberts and Cohen2014). The preservation moves from physical buildings and objects to digital representations in the form of photos, videos or textual accounts and facilitates discourse between the curators and other members of the community. Furthermore, these platforms can be curated either by dedicated fans (Bennett and Strong Reference Bennett and Strong2018; Flinn Reference Flinn2007) or by anybody involved in music creation as self-authorised heritage projects, making them more inclusive and democratic than physical heritage institutions (Roberts and Cohen Reference Roberts and Cohen2014). Online heritage sites are empowering, affordable, allow wide dissemination across borders and social groups and enable fans and the original ‘actors’ to share memories and meanings with the community. Moreover, they enable curation without the interference and strategic interest of external parties, as is the case with officially authorised heritage sites (Roberts and Cohen Reference Roberts and Cohen2014).

The interviewed producers saw different value in traditional websites and social media. All cared relatively little for websites. Bauerfeind discontinued his professional web appearances, hardly interested in the heritage value of his work. Likewise, Bemm was emotionally unattached, maintaining his studio websiteFootnote ¹ primarily as a means for new clients to contact him but not to document the Woodhouse studio. Johns's Music Lab websiteFootnote ² is a relic from the early 1990s, which he keeps for remembrance. Instead of websites, BemmFootnote ³ and JohnsFootnote ⁴ curate their studios on Facebook in a self-authorised DIY fashion. Yet despite the potential of social media for utilising personal memories (Bennett and Strong Reference Bennett and Strong2018, p. 372), Bemm's primary motivation for using Facebook is to stay in touch with colleagues and musicians. Sometimes he posts pictures of current work in the studio but very rarely so artefacts from older productions: ‘Why would I? It's finished, the people can buy the records’. Although he is proud of his studio, Bemm hardly ever posts photos of it, as it is ultimately only a tool for making records. Exceptions are photos of the control room of the first Woodhouse (Figure 4) and the console of the second studio (Figure 5). The comments from the community suggest that some visitors are musicians who indulge in reminiscences, while others wish to know whether personally meaningful records were made with the depicted equipment.

Figure 4. Control room of the first Woodhouse studio in Hagen in 1978.

Figure 5. Control room of the second Woodhouse studio in Dortmund in 1982.

Johns's motivation for social media is different because he is eager to keep the memory of his Music Lab alive. He regularly posts photos of his records that influenced the scene (Figure 6), their anniversaries (Figure 7), media coverage of bands he had produced (Figure 8) and excerpts of his guest books. These artefacts are less focused on the studio itself but on the result of the production work that took place in the Music Lab.

Figure 6. Helloween's (1985) Walls of Jericho album that became inspirational for European heavy metal.

Figure 7. The first Music Lab production entering the charts, Sodom's (1989) Agent Orange.

Figure 8. Journalistic writing on the success of Kreator's (1986) Pleasure to Kill produced by Johns.

The posts are mainly for ‘fans and bands, for the people who were in the studio. And to preserve history’, Johns explained. Most of the comments and shares are from band members who recorded in the Music Lab, suggesting that there is a desire to relive cherished moments spent in the studio and to remember the time when heavy metal boomed in the 1980s and 1990s. Johns and his former clients thus use the Facebook page to revel in memories. Boym (Reference Boym2001, p. 49f) defines such behaviour as ‘reflective nostalgia’, perfect snapshots of memorable experiences. At the same time, the page allows them to indulge in ‘restorative nostalgia’ (Boym Reference Boym2001, p. 42ff) to keep alive the memory of past times full of excitement and the forgone glory of the early German metal scene. This nostalgic function not only includes the musical objects created and what they stand for, but it is also an opportunity to re-establish connections between people, as Johns explained: ‘When I post something from a band, it often happens that people reappear with whom I haven't had contact for a long time. I like that’. Given the nature of social media, the form of connection is not unidirectional (Bennett and Strong Reference Bennett and Strong2018, p. 372). The page enables community members to post photographic memories of meaningful artefacts like covers of albums and music magazines featuring bands produced in the Music Lab (Figure 9). In this way, they all contribute to ‘creating myths of community’ (Garde-Hansen Reference Garde-Hansen, Garde-Hansen, Hoskins and Reading2009, p. 146), which serves the primary memorial purpose of the page.

Figure 9. Reunion of Canadian Voivod and their former producer Harris Johns.

An analysis of the Music Lab's Facebook page confirms Johns's assessment that the community consists mainly of bands and fans from the 1980s and 1990s who are now in their fifties or older, male and white. Younger people, so thinks Johns, would probably not be interested in his studio unless they were inspired by the bands he produced. Overall, the community is only of modest size, and most posts are by Johns himself, which accords with research on media memories on Facebook showing that, on average, user posts account for about 2 per cent of the engagement (Kaun and Stiernstedt Reference Kaun and Stiernstedt2014). However, such rare contribution from the visitors does not demotivate him.

Despite Johns's intention to provide some history about his Music Lab, he does not present a chronological history. Instead, he occasionally uses Facebook in response to current events, such as celebrating anniversaries of released records or posting photos of recently deceased artists who recorded at his studio. As Garde-Hansen (Reference Garde-Hansen, Garde-Hansen, Hoskins and Reading2009) notes, social media elude a narrative form; their purpose is to ‘perform memory’ in scattered locations or artificial collections such as photo albums. This can be seen on the Music Lab page, which organises photographic memories in albums categorised by the specific versions of the studio, by decades, by individual bands and photos in an uncategorised timeline.

In their study on a youth radio station in the former German Democratic Republic, Kaun and Stiernstedt (Reference Kaun and Stiernstedt2014, p. 1161) come to a positive conclusion about social media despite their shortcomings:

Johns's efforts similarly preserve the memory of his studio for the time being, at least for the interested community. Sceptical of studio museums and believing that it is the bands and not the studio that matter, social media are a more appropriate form for him to preserve his legacy than traditional heritage exhibitions that display physical objects such as studio equipment and rooms.