At this time, both Delia and I became tired of the pressure of deadlines and fighting to get better equipment, and I decided that if I didn’t get out I would end up as one of those grey old ‘BBC hands’, wandering around saying ‘If only I had had the sense to get out when I was younger.’
So, in 1972, I resigned, took out my pension pot, which was only about £1500, rented a corner of a derelict warehouse in pre-restoration Covent garden for £7 a week, and set up Electrophon Music. Delia was supposed to join me, but by then was becoming more and more detached and disinterested in the music scene.
We did a few albums for Polydor, horror movies like The Legend of Hell House, and several ballets for Ballet Rambert, London Contemporary Dance Company and Peter Logan’s Mechanical Ballet. Christopher Bruce had been invited to create a ballet for the Royal Opera House, and so Tony Hymas and I collaborated on his score. Commercials and documentaries were also done, as was the music for John Schlesinger’s part of the Munich Olympics film Visions of Eight and Derek Jarman’s Tempest.
By then our backers had withdrawn, and I had to take over the finance of the equipment they had leased for us, but at least I then had access to one of their brilliant electronic designers, Ken Gale. At the time, I was exploring more advanced synthesiser modules with Ken, looking to develop a polyphonic keyboard and a more complex sequencer module, with sixteen thousand events over sixteen layers, progress on which depended on income, which was fairly restricted and variable.
I also wrote an article for Studio Sound, forecasting a day when a studio would be a large white-carpeted room with a central plasma screen, on which one would draw the configuration of a studio for any particular job required, a vision which, of course, we were never to achieve, although it stimulated a lot of interest and led to me meeting Pete Townsend of The Who. Although that studio could never have been achieved with the technology available at the time, the idea of everything controlled from a central computer was not dissimilar to Peter Howell’s brilliant concept of the eighties.
In 1974, the composer John Lewis joined Electrophon, and we went on to produce the albums New Atlantis and Where are we Captain?… under the name of Wavemaker, on the Polydor label.
In early 1976, Paddy Kingsland, one of the Radiophonic composers, visited me for lunch, and asked if I would ever consider returning to the Workshop. My response was that it would depend in what capacity and then on my conditions.
Several months passed, and in early 1977, I was invited, along with Delia and several internal candidates, to apply for the job of Desmond Briscoe’s deputy, as he wished to spend more time making programmes.
Quite frankly, I was not worried whether I got the job or not, always an advantage in such a situation, and approached the appointment board by virtually asking for a free hand to continue with the exploration of new technology and to bring the studios up to date – and, if I got the job, a period of a few month before I took it up, so as to familiarise John Lewis, my partner at Electrophon, with our own studio.
To my amazement, they agreed to my demands, and in late 1977 I rejoined the BBC as Organiser Radiophonic Workshop, virtually taking over all the administration and direction of the department, so Desmond could concentrate on making programmes.
Nothing had changed since my departure. There were still three studios having to be worked in between six composers – people would work through the night so others could work during the day. The studios were all very small, and still equipped with out-of-date equipment. Only one new synthesiser had been bought, an Arp Odyssey, a good machine, but still monophonic.
And a Yamaha SY2 was being shared with Radio’s Light Music Department, as we had agreed to house it between it being used for studio sessions by the Radio Orchestra. Moreover, the room containing the Delaware synthesiser and the only eight-track recorder was virtually unavailable for general use whilst Doctor Who was in production.
However, an EMS Vocoder 5000 had been bought for £5000 as a ‘lollipop’ by Drama Department. It was of limited use, difficult to use, and had only been used in one production up to that point, Malcolm Clarke’s brilliant creation of There Shall Come Soft Rains.
Desmond pointed it out as a trophy, but was upset when I told him it was just decorative icing on a cake that had already started to go rotten.
The Radiophonic engineers still occupied two rooms in the centre of the building [what was the WWII Control Room], and their total floorspace exceeded the combined area of all the Radiophonic studios. My first weekend was taken up with an Engineering Management meeting at the BBC Engineering Training Department in Evesham, where I met all the Radio Engineering team that I was going to deal with over the next few years. Desmond had decided that I should go by myself, as, unknown to me at that point, he was at daggers drawn with the Head of Technical Services.
They were all very welcoming, and apparently interested in what I wanted to do, but curiously quiet whenever the subject of money came up. At the end of the weekend, one of the senior guys came up to me at the bar and said: ‘I think I’ve got the measure of you. You're a bloody pirate just like Desmond. And, by the way, we are all seriously underfunded at the moment. There is an enormous backlog of replacement needed for the broadcast studios, and your department, dear boy, is very low on the list of priorities.’
Back at Maida Vale, my first priority was getting to know the composers, two of whom had applied for my job, and one of whom considered it should have been his. Whilst not putting him in the ranks of the enemy, I knew that he was never going to make my life easy, and on principle would query every decision I would make. The others were wary, but welcoming and supportive, though sceptical of my plan to eventually provide a studio for each of them.
I then met the new Engineer Radiophonic Workshop, who was young and appeared to be fairly enthusiastic. However, the appearance was deceptive, as within days I realised he was a complete waste of space, and was determined to do as little work as possible, being more interested in his new wife and house. That had been the conflict between Desmond and Head of Technical Services, who had been responsible for his appointment. I made an immediate decision that by hook or by crook he would have to go.
I then met his boss, the Senior Engineer at Maida Vale, Alan Stokes, and was delighted by his enthusiasm and interest, and his appreciation of my problems. He was to become a great friend and ally over the next few years.
My next visit was to House Services, who were responsible for the maintenance of the building and all its facilities. They also knew all the nooks and crannies, where they were located and to which department they belonged. They were appreciative of my interest, as Desmond was inclined to be very conscious of his own position, and tended to be rather off-hand with them.
These people would be very important to my schemes, and I needed to know they were on my side. Desmond’s boss, the Head of Programme Operations, I already knew from my previous time at the BBC. He had been on my appointment board and promised every encouragement, whilst regretting there appeared to be no money available in the near future.
In my absence, Desmond had been producing Radio programmes very successfully, gaining several Sony Awards, and had managed to increase the number of secretaries to two. The head secretary was utterly devoted to Desmond, while the second looked after the composers and engineers. The latter position was usually filled by temps from agencies, some of whom were wonderful, but others completely useless and disinterested. One young lady brought in crayons and a colouring book, and announced that she wouldn’t be in on Thursday because it was her Gran’s birthday. She was told not to bother staying.
Val Gaffney, our senior secretary, was a very sweet person. She was utterly devoted to Desmond, but always complaining of being distracted by the composers, and worrying about how much she had to do. In fact, she worried so much that lots of things were just not being done, especially when Desmond was making a programme. That problem was one I put firmly on the back burner until I had dealt with the rest of the mess
As if I hadn’t enough problems, it was then decided to send me on an internal management course, where the first lecture was from a soon to be departing Head of Personnel. He began: ‘I would like to point out a very important piece of advice to those of you seeking to rise in this organisation. Never forget that when you are getting a pat on the back they are only looking for the place to put the knife.’
In spite of the problems, the composers were still producing the goods, and the reputation of the department was still high. Of course, Desmond claimed that it just proved his point, that if the idea was good enough the composer would find a way to do it without having fancy equipment, an attitude that was not conducive to progress and had already led to my departure and that of Delia.
Christmas was approaching. I had been back for two months. The battlefield had been assessed, and prospects looked bleak, to say the least, but as Scarlett O’Hara says in Gone with the Wind: ‘Tomorrow is another day!’
After Christmas 1977, we began to investigate ways of replacing some of the mixing desks by borrowing some Outside Broadcast mixers and remounting them in a new rack. Alan Stokes lent me a young whizz-kid called Rupert Brun. Unfortunately, the result was an overlarge unwieldy contraption that took up most of the studio, and had to be sent back to Broadcasting House, as was an old replacement desk that had just been returned to the department after a twelve month absence for refurbishment by Technical Services. It appeared that for most of the twelve months it had just stood in the workshops, until a frantic nudge for its return produced a panicked ‘bodge job’ in the last few weeks, and it arrived back in a worse state than when it had been sent away.
I had now forbidden Doctor Who the exclusive use of the Delaware synthesiser, for which Richard Yeoman-Clark had cobbled together a rudimentary mixer using spare components from engineering stores.
We were about to refurbish the Delaware with the new Ken Gale modules, which we had developed at Electrophon, consisting of new improved voltage-controlled filters, a polyphonic keyboard, a sixteen-channel digital ‘control voltage recorder’, and eventually a 26,500-event sequencer. This procedure was delayed due to Ken Gale being a one-man-band, and unable to deliver the units regularly enough. The new replacement was to be known as the Phoenix, but reluctantly it was abandoned, as the future of voltage-controlled systems seemed to be fairly limited and new technologies were rapidly emerging.
Halfway through the year, the incumbent Managing Director Radio died, and was replaced for the first time by someone from Television. Aubrey Singer was a fairly abrasive figure, who didn’t suffer fools gladly, and was not comfortable with the fairly relaxed style of gentlemanly management that pervaded Radio. He was appalled at the state of Radio, the dilapidated state of Broadcasting House and its studios.
He had just been to Japan, and had been impressed by all the new technology. He immediately set up an exhibition for BBC staff, showing all the new equipment that was available. This was not popular with a lot of senior engineers, who said the staff would expect to see this stuff in their studios. However, Aubrey found the money – soon Broadcasting House was repainted, the threadbare carpets replaced, and a complete reequipping of the Radio studios was undertaken. He also wanted a revival in Radio, and, on a visit to the Radiophonic Workshop asked for ‘blockbuster’ programme ideas.
Paddy Kingsland had been working on the idea of a musical for Radio, and managed to sell the idea to Aubrey. Desmond pointed out that we had not the facilities to mount such a production, and in 1979 another ‘lollipop’ duly appeared – in the form of large modern Neve multichannel mixing desk and a Studer two-inch 16-track tape recorder. Apparently, a new studio for Radio One had had a change of design, and they now wanted a larger mixing desk and a 24-track recorder, so their equipment, already ordered, ended up with us as a combination of ‘lollipop’ and ‘fag end’.
At the same time, as part of the general refurbishment of Radio facilities, our ageing tape machines were replaced. Fortunately, by then the Workshop’s disastrous Senior Engineer had been relocated, after a heated exchange between me and Head of Technical Services, which was broken up by his boss Simon Shute. Desmond’s originally favoured candidate applied for the job, even though, according to his boss, he did want want to return to the Workshop, a bluff very quickly called by a two-minute telephone call from Desmond, and so Ray White was appointed.
At the same time, another very talented engineer, Ray Riley, joined as his assistant and together they installed the new equipment, working with an official Radio Projects team and efficiently dealing with problems of the installation in relation to Radiophonic studio use. This led to my suggestion that in future our own engineers should deal with all Radiophonic installations themselves, which was reluctantly agreed at the next meeting of the Radiophonic Technical Subcommittee. This committee met every three months and consisted of the Head of Radio Projects, the Head of Technical Services, the Head of Programme Operations and the Head of Television Sound (an abrasive Scotsman who kept accusing me of ‘wanting to spend money like a drunken sailor.’), Desmond Briscoe, myself , our Senior Engineer, Ray White, and Alan Stokes, Senior Engineer Maida Vale. This meeting was the scene of the next skirmish.
Although appreciative, I was fairly scathing about the cost of the new studio, at about £50,000, and said that with that sort of money we could have equipped two studios by using cheaper mixing desks and multitrack machines from a new British company called Soundcraft. This provoked an indignant outburst from the then Chief Engineer Technical Services that that sort equipment would only appear in a BBC studio ‘over his dead body.’ I murmured ‘I’m sure that could be arranged.’ and received a well-deserved ‘ticking off’ from the Head of Radio Projects, who was chairing the meeting. He took it in good spirit though, and agreed that one of his senior staff would evaluate the company’s products, adding he was sure it would not come up to standard.
However, much to his disgust, his engineer said it would probably do the job very well, even though it used fairly new components that the BBC had not yet introduced themselves. His adviser was christened a ‘bloody traitor’, but objections were withdrawn and in the New Year two new studios were created by converting the old Engineer’s Workshop and a storage area, and using the new Soundcraft desks and their 8-track machine. We were warned by Engineering that we could expect all sorts of problems, but in fact they proved over the years to give fewer problems than our existing equipment.
After Paddy finished his musical, the new equipment in Studio E was kept in constant use, and in 1980 Paddy created the music and sound for the Television version of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.
In 1980, John Nathan-Turner came to see me, and enquired if the Workshop could do a remake of the Doctor Who signature tune, and perhaps take over the incidental music as well. Dudley had just taken on the Blake’s Seven music and John did not want Doctor Who to have the same style and sound. I asked Peter Howell to do the new theme tune, and the result was brilliant – indeed it was the only version that Delia Derbyshire ever approved of.
I asked Peter and Paddy to do trial episodes of the incidental music. This had to be done in secret, as Dick Mills was still working with Dudley, and John did not want Dudley to be told until he had made a final decision. On completion of the trials, John decided to ask the department to provide the incidental music for Doctor Who in future. Originally it was to be with Peter and Paddy alternating, but other Radiophonic composers became involved over the following four years, until John decided to try other freelance composers.
Although we had managed to create two new studios with the help of general Radio Refurbishment funds, the 8-track machine being redeployed as other studio were being given new 16-track recorders, we were still desperately short of synthesisers, and although each studio had at least one, they were still monophonic – and we still had no regular budget, relying on general refurbishment money and lacking development funds.
However, Yamaha was just introducing the polyphonic CS80, and, although we had no money to buy one, Peter Howell, who was composing music for Jonathan Miller’s Body in Question programme, persuaded the producer to hire one, a practice which continued for a few months. The device was immensely heavy, and it is curious that Peter was never around when it was being delivered or taken away. The device was a revelation – sounds could be created and stored for future use and accurately retrieved. Peter used this in combination with the EMS vocoder to create a piece, The Greenwich Chorus, which caused the BBC’s telephone switchboard to be jammed with calls of appreciation on the night it was broadcast.
By 1981, Aubrey Singer had brought in a new management team from Television. Several senior engineers had retired and been replaced by younger and more open-minded engineers – the management of our parent department had been reorganised, and mostly replaced by the new dynamic breed from Television. Indeed, some were so dynamic that they were described as the sort of person who follows you into a revolving door and comes out ahead of you. Desmond, never one to miss a trick, made sure they were invited to the Workshop, and that, combined with the high profile programme work we were doing, began to earn us the reputation of being a ‘jewel’ in the BBC’s ‘crown’.
The new Head of Operations, John Dutot, was particularly intrigued by the department and became crucial to the next stage of its development. Earlier in the year, I had a phone call from a young man who announced they had a new synthesiser quite unlike anything else in the world. Such calls were fairly regular, and usually proved to be a complete waste of time. However, I agreed to let him come to demonstrate his machine. He arrived, looking all of fifteen years old, although in his mid-twenties, along with the The Fairlight Computer Musical Instrument, a completely revolutionary machine developed by Kim Ryrie, an Australian who originally become interested in electronic music as a Doctor Who fan.
Even the most hardened and sceptical of my department were impressed. Indeed, we were all so impressed that when I suggested that our secretary bring us some tea, it was pointed out that she had gone home at the normal time, and it was now approaching 8pm.
For the first time we could store a sound, albeit for only one second at first, in the computer, and then manipulate it in real time. We could create sounds by adding harmonics or creating new waveforms. We could store them on floppy-disc, and even type musical notation into the computer and have it played. Peter, who was about to compose the score for The Making of Mankind, immediately asked if we could borrow it for a sequence he was doing about the rock paintings at Lascaux. Syco, the company who owned the machine, agreed to let us use it in their studio. I took the new Head of Operations to see it, and he agreed that we should purchase one and found funds to do so. The age of ‘lollypops’ was not yet past. The machine, once bought, was mounted on a trolley, and spent the next few years being trundled from studio to studio. This purchase led to further involvement with Syco, which was owned by Peter Gabriel, who proceeded to keep us informed of all similar developments.
In 1981, Elizabeth Parker was awarded the commission to provide the music for David Attenborough’s The Living Planet. It was an enormous amount of work, and would take many months, so we decided to equip a studio especially for the project. There was a very small space available. This would be the sixth studio, and although we were using the new cheaper technology, we could only afford an 8-track machine, with another Fairlight out of the question. However, Syco had discovered a German machine, the PPG Wave, at half the price, which would do most of what the Fairlight could do, but with considerably less ease.
Elizabeth said she was not interested in the intricacies of the machine, and asked simply to be shown how to do a certain number of processes she wanted to use in her compositions, mainly creating and manipulating real sounds, and proceeded to produce hours of wonderful music. No one else could cope with the machine – even its inventor seemed nonplussed occasionally, but Elizabeth was in complete control at all times.
We had achieved our goal of a studio for each composer, but they were equipped with the bare essentials, and two of them were absurdly small. The composers were producing terrific work with limited music-producing devices, but with virtually none of the sound modification modules that were coming into use in recording studios elsewhere.
Five of the studios had second-hand 8-track recorders from other studios, being reequipped with 16- and 24-track machines, and one had a 16-track machine. The technology and the music industry were starting to produce the sort of equipment we needed, but we still had no money to progress, and the workload, especially for Television, was increasing – and since 1980 we had been providing all the incidental music for Doctor Who.
We had replaced the rotting cake but had no money for the icing we would need to stay abreast of modern music production.
On my monthly meeting with Head of Programme Operations, I thanked him for all the support he had given since his arrival, but reiterated the need for an agreed budget, so that we could plan the next stages with a degree of certainty about funding – pointing out that as most of our work, about 75%, was for Television, it was stupid to expect Radio Resources to foot the bill alone. He agreed to bring Michael Checkland, the new Director of Resources, for a visit, and after spending an afternoon at the Workshop he asked me to provide a ten-year plan for the department.
Click here to see ‘The Next Ten Years’ report.
Whilst reading this memo I would remind you that attempting to plan for the future, especially in a time of rapid technological change, is fraught with dangers. The Macintosh computer was still only in the minds of its Apple designers and MIDI had not been widely released. The impact of both of those inventions meant that our plans for the future were radically affected.
I submitted the plan to his office in October 1982, requesting about £160,000 a year, and, being a canny accountant, he agreed to £60,000 if Radio would agree to a proportionate amount. This was agreed by Radio Projects, who also gave me a free hand to act independently of the Technical Subcommittee for minor purchases. Secure in the knowledge of funding, we immediately increased the number of synthesisers in all the studio with the latest polyphonic technology and began buying new echo systems and treatment devices.
In late 1983, Desmond decided to retire, and after an appointment board, I was appointed Head of Radiophonic Workshop – soon after that I appointed a new Organiser, causing a mild sensation by selecting a young composer, Jonathan Gibbs, instead of one of the Workshop’s existing composers. Jon, apart from his composing talents, had a deeper understanding and expertise in computing than I did, as well as being a great teacher. After the initial shock, the other composers settled down, and within months were appreciative of his expertise.
John Nathan-Turner then invited me to a press launch of a Doctor Who exhibition at Longleat, to which I was pleased to be invited. Whilst there, as I was just about to swallow a glass of white wine, I heard him say ‘and in this area is the Radiophonic Workshop Marquee’. Apparently, Dick had known about this for some time, but for some reason had neglected to tell me. I had arranged with the composers that they would each do a presentation, and we would repeat them throughout the day. I was assured that all the equipment needed would be provided, but just to be on the safe side, arranged to take our own professional tape machines, and a small mixer and amplifier. When we arrived, the marquee had only two thirteen-amp sockets and nothing else. We had no loudspeakers, but eventually one was borrowed from a local radio store, so we had to start in mono. However, when we began, I spotted the Head of Television Enterprises in the audience. I apologised for the sound being in mono and on inferior loudspeakers, and complained, in front of the audience, about how badly we had been let down by his team. Twenty minutes later, a pair of BBC monitor loudspeakers appeared from nowhere, and we were able to complete the presentations properly.
The event, and our part of it, was a great success — indeed many people intending to attend were turned away, as all the local roads had become blocked.
Desmond had decided to turn up, and was approached by a small boy who said ‘Didn’t you used to be Desmond Briscoe?’, to which he replied ‘As far as I know, I still am.’
When Jon became my deputy, a composer vacancy occurred, and I decided to break with the tradition of appointing from the ranks of Programme Operations and advertise the vacancy outside the BBC. Lots of people applied and sent in ‘demo tapes’ of varying quality. I had hoped for more applications from female composers to level up the ‘blokeyness’ of the department, but only a few applied, and after choosing the best six demo tapes, we interviewed six people, all male. The job required not just the ability to do a good piece, but the creativity and energy to do it on demand and day after day. Eventually, Richard Attree was appointed. He had studied at City University, and had been working in the commercial world in professional studios. His tape was superb, but he had no experience of the BBC and found it very strange. The other composers found his attitudes strange also. It was rather like introducing a bouncy Boxer puppy into a pack of well-trained labradors. Eventually everyone calmed down, and he extended our range of available styles — and his familiarity with the equipment used in outside studios proved stimulating to the other composers.
That year Yamaha released a new type of synthesiser, the DX7, which used Frequency Modulation (FM), making it capable of creating an entirely different class of sounds, as well as being controlled by MIDI, The Musical Instrument Digital Interface. This new system had been agreed on by all manufacturers and allowed remote access to all aspects of music, opening the way to digital control and storage of all the parameters of sound.
This new synthesiser was so amazing, and relatively cheap. A slight problem was that Yamaha had a peculiar control system, consisting of a tiny LCD screen, on which you had to manipulate one function at a time – a bit like trying to wallpaper the hall through the letterbox. However, the composers soon got a grip of that – we equipped every studio virtually overnight, and with Jon’s experience of the pop music world we provided them with all the ‘bells and whistles’ of a modern recording studio. Soon Yamaha released a digital sequencer called the QX1, which would allow us to record eight tracks of sound or complex control signals, and replay them without ever needing to use tape. This meant that the sounds were not fixed, and that the musical information to the synthesiser could equally be applied to a completely different sound or set of sounds.
There was an immediate problem, as we could not get the QX1 to work – I was confident that the ‘Two Rays’ would sort it out, but after a few days even they were baffled, the only time they had ever drawn a blank. It was hardly surprising, as a phone call to Yamaha revealed that the disc provided by Yamaha to set up the machine contained an earlier version of the software, which did not work with the latest model that we had bought. The new software was provided within hours.
Yamaha followed soon after with the TX816, a small box that effectively contained eight DX7 synthesisers, so each studio now had a formidable sound generating power, as well as numerous commercial treatment devices.
In 1985, we were asked to vacate our original studio in Room 13 to make way for new offices for the BBC Symphony Orchestra – in return we were given larger rooms further down the corridor, so were able to rebuild Studios E and C, using all the new synthesiser equipment, whilst updating the multitrack machines and Soundcraft mixers.
That year we were also able to host John Chowning of Stamford University, inventor of the DX7, to present a seminar about FM synthesis, and invited the Electronic Music Society and University Studios to join us. I was always being asked to do presentations for outside organisations, and in 1985 persuaded BBC Publicity to commission Robert Clamp to produce a film about the Workshop, The Electric Music Machine, featuring the composers, which was to prove very useful at these events.
Jonathan and I had discussed the Macintosh computer the previous year at the AES in Los Angeles, but it was still disappointingly slow. However, a further demo later in the year, with increased memory, greater clock speed and improved software, confirmed its potential, and after further assessment by Jon of rival systems, it was decided to purchase ten Macintosh machines, which arrived in February 1887. Six were for the studios, one for the engineers, one for myself, one for the office and one for a new arrival, Mark Wilson, who was to take over from Jonathan as Software Coordinator – Jonathan, whose managerial talents had become obvious to my superiors, had been asked to return to operations to reorganise Group 2 Studio management.
Mark was young engineer familiar with our operation. He was bright and adept at software development, and led the way with our application of the Macs to Radiophonic studios and the increasing use of MIDI to control them. Unfortunately, he too eventually would attract the attention of senior management, and soon would be enticed away to become part of the BBC’s Multimedia Department.
The office had by now been reorganised, and Desmond’s secretary had been found a less stressful job in another unit, and I had found a brilliant and experienced secretary who had been on the point of resigning when a conflict of temperament occurred with the arrival of a new boss in her former department. Although worried about using a computer, and insisting on retaining her beloved IBM typewriter, within a week she was using the computer as if it were completely natural to her. She set about reorganising all the administrative records and the Radiophonic programme library.
Demond had always kept a record of commissions in pencil in a buff open-sleeve folder, which was almost illegible, but it was soon transferred to a database on the Mac. A laser printer was installed in the office and connected to a local area network, so I informed the composers that from now on they would do all their own memos and programme lists, as indeed would I. I abolished the second secretarial post and the office began to run sweetly.
In late 1985, John Forrest, a senior producer in Religious Broadcasting approached me. He had been asked by Johnny Beerling, Controller of Radio One, to produce a ‘special’ for Christmas Day. It was to reflect upon the current conflicts of the year, but to also introduce a message of hope and love, ending with a recording of the birth of John’s own daughter. I gave the job to Richard Attree, along with oversight and help from Jon Gibbs. When it was delivered, I had a call from Johnny Beerling, saying that it was not what he had been expecting, but it was so special that he had asked Annie Nightingale to introduce it, and to give up her own ‘slot’ on Christmas Eve. It had a great impact, and produced lots of audience reaction. One prisoner, having a bad time ‘inside’ on Christmas Eve, wrote to say he had been so affected that he had decided to go ‘straight’. The following year, it was entered for the Sandford St Martin Trustees’ Award for a religious programme, and won.
By the end of 1986, technology was streaking ahead. Further developments in Mac software and processing power enabled us to develop specialist control software for our own use, and I was kept busy chasing the latest devices coming with increasing rapidity onto the market, especially those from Roland, Yamaha and Akai.
In January 1987, a new low cost digital mixer, the DMP7, was demonstrated by Yamaha. Though only having eight channels, several such mixers could be linked together and controlled together from a single control source.
Later that year, Akai demonstrated a digitally-controlled audio switching matrix, again limited in that it had only sixteen channels, but capable of being linked together with other units. Our two engineers and Mark were kept busy investigating the software and the hardware of both the Yamaha and Akai devices, adapting them for our use in our high-quality environment, ensuring that the signal-to-noise ratios would be acceptable to our operation.
Michael Checkland, who gave us our budget, had now become Director General, and I invited him to open our first fully refurbished studio. All the Radio Programme and Engineering hierarchy were there, and I had ordered a large cake, in the form of a piano keyboard, to be provided by our local catering department’s expert chef, along with a few bubbles. So, all was set for a great party.
An hour before the opening, the cake arrived, but it looked as if it had been in a car crash – apparently our young chef had had a bad ‘acid trip’ the night before, and this cake had been cobbled together that morning.
It was not the end of the world – at least it would taste OK. The studio was opened, the DG approved of the new installation and cut the cake. Someone in the kitchens that morning had obviously been chopping onions, and the knife had not been washed before it was sent up to cut the cake. Wry faces accompanied the onion-tainted cake, but were assuaged by the bubbles.
At this time I was able to persuade management to review the job description and titles of the composers, and finally they agreed to give them titles of Composer and to increase their salaries in line with the Television service.
All our studios were now partly controlled by computer, in that the music was stored in the computer, they all had powerful sound generation, sampling, and modification equipment, and we were increasing the amount of control we had over changing the sounds and selecting them from the computer. Synchronising sounds to video was still a problem, but Jonathan and the engineers had developed a brilliant system called Syncwriter, which linked the transport control of a multitrack to that of a video machine, using a BBC Micro and a prerecorded timecode track on the multitrack tape.
In 1988, Expo, based on the theme Leisure in the Age of Technology, was to be held in Brisbane. A young radio executive in Australia had decided to found a new Radio Awards system in memory of his late father, who had been a famous radio producer, also in Australia. It was to be called The Pater Awards, and the awards would take place in the Expo show-grounds, the final ceremony being held in the show-ground arena. The BBC had been asked to enter programmes, and I decided to enter The Dream, a show about Martin Luther King. Radio’s Director of Programmes, David Hatch, warned me that even if a programme was declared a winner, there was absolutely no way anyone would be allowed to go to Australia to pick up the award. The Dream, along with several other BBC programmes, won, and David reiterated his decision that there would be no trips to Australia to collect any prizes. You can imagine my surprise when, one Sunday evening, I was telephoned at home by David’s secretary, telling me he wanted me to go to Australia the following week. Apparently Aubrey Singer, Television’s Managing Director, had received an official complaint from the Australian Broadcasting Corporation that the BBC appeared to be boycotting the event by not sending any members of management, so he had decided that the departmental Heads of the winners would represent the BBC.
The opening meeting was to take place in the Expo Press Centre, where, after ‘registering in’, and finding our name badges had been credited as being ‘Manager BBC Radio Head of Television’, we were invited to a ‘Typical Australian Welcome’. This consisted of a cardboard cup of warm white wine and being told, by an obviously harassed organiser, that we could probably find something to eat in the vast show-ground.
The following morning, we were to meet for the first of the awards at the British Pavilion, preceded by a ‘Sumptuous Breakfast’ aboard a cruiser on the river. After the disastrous evening before, we all decided to fill up with a decent breakfast at the hotel, after which, dressed in formal attire, we went to the river boat to find a magnificent breakfast awaiting us, to which we were unable to do justice. We then went to the Pavilion, which was locked, and milled around until a key was found. Everyone else was in casual clothes, and we looked overdressed, so decided to wear informal dress from then on. We were told that, after the first prize had been presented, the winner would announce the winner of the next prize and present it. We were also told that most of the prizes had not been manufactured yet, and would be posted on later. That day we moved from Pavilion to Pavilion for the different categories, finishing in the stunning New Zealand Pavilion for a less than stunning supper. The next day there was to be the final ceremony in the evening, so we decided to do a spot of sightseeing. That evening we decided that we would not wear dinner jackets, in case we would look overdressed, so wore ‘smart casual’, only to find that all the rest of the delegates were in full evening dress.
The ceremony was marred somewhat by the arena being next to the helicopter pad, which continued to do trips round the bay throughout. The Dream had won the Gold Award, which was one of the few which had been manufactured, so we left clutching our various certificates and hunks of glass, and looking forward to the ‘Farewell Barbecue’ the following morning. We all assembled at 8:30 the next morning to await the fleet of coaches that were to take us to the BBQ site. Unfortunately, the coaches and drivers were all sent up from Sydney, and knew nothing about Brisbane and its environs, so two hours later we were dropped off to the charred remains of what looked to have been a wonderful barbecue, and warm beers. My heart went out to the guy who had set up the event in memory of his father, but his organisation had screwed it all up. As far as I can ascertain, the event has never been repeated.
The BBC had a system of ‘sabbatical’ leave and I had been able to grant it to most of the longest-serving composers, who used it to rest and refresh themselves. Peter Howell had been on such a sabbatical and came back with a remarkable idea. If we could record sound and music on the Mac, then we could also control the interconnection of equipment via digital matrixes, instead of plugging-in equipment each time it was required. All the synthesisers could be played from a single master keyboard. We were well on the way to completing a system based on Apple’s Hypercard to do all those things from the Mac. So, ‘Why don’t we try putting it all together in one system before we move on to refurbish the next studio?’
All the sound generation and modification could be then arranged around the composer, and the results mixed using the low-cost Yamaha mixers linked together, instead of a massive mixing desk costing many times more. In addition, as all the instructions for the performance of a piece were stored in the Mac, there would be no requirement for a large and expensive multitrack recorder. Furthermore, he was sure that by using a new Digital Audio Tape (DAT) recorder from Sony, which could read and sync with timecode, the final recording need not be on conventional tape, so the bulky tape machines could be removed.
Peter had a busy workload booked in advance, but agreed that he could fulfil that whilst we created a mock up of the proposed system in a spare area. All the efforts of our engineering team and the software developer would be needed to solve the still outstanding interconnection and control issues, and develop new software. I agreed to give them a budget of up to £60,000 to progress the idea, with a view to using most of it in the next studio, due to be refurbished in 1988. In no time, filing cabinets were arranged in a circle, sheets of MDF cut into the circular shape arrived, and the equipment from Peter’s studio began to be arranged in tiers on the top of it
The engineers produced a complex wiring system to put it all together, and the difficulty of putting the switching matrixes somewhere was solved by adding cupboards below the surface. By mid-1988, most of the problems had been resolved and the question of constructing a coherent frame for the entire system arose.
Mark, the software designer, had a friend, Jeremy Quinn, a freelance furniture designer. We called him in, and he suggested that, although the circular surface was OK, it would complicate the design of the cupboards housing the matrixes and amplifiers. He could solve that by arranging these into an octagon below the circle, with the complex wiring at the back made accessible for the engineers with a series of detachable covers. It was a superb design, and he went off to construct it.
Meanwhile, building work began on the new studio, which was designed to rescue Elizabeth Parker from the glorified ‘broom cupboard’ she had been working in for the previous six years. In November 1988, the studio was to be opened by David Hatch, the new Managing Director Radio. The design of the studio had been kept secret from the rest of Radio, so I had arranged a set of curtains to conceal it from the VIP party, which would dramatically sweep aside as David pressed a button, accompanied by a piece of music specially-composed by Peter Howell to demonstrate not only the music, but all the mixer faders moving as if by magic.
David made a little speech, pressed the button and the curtains swept aside to silence. The piece had been primed earlier, but had ‘timed out’. Fortunately, Peter had concealed a back-up control about his body, and after a three-second pause, which seemed like minutes, the music began and the studio performed. No one had seen anything like it before, and we were besieged by visitors for days afterwards. Indeed, ever since we had started the renewal of facilities, we had had constant streams of visitors from all the major equipment suppliers, noting what we were doing. It was at this point that Yamaha’s Head of Research pronounced the new studio to be the most sophisticated MIDI environment in Europe, which led to a suggestion by Yamaha that they could equip an entire studio with all their equipment, until I had to point out that the BBC was not into accepting offers of that sort.
Liz moved into the studio in January 1989, and our thoughts turned to the refurbishment for Studio B, a larger area, which was to become Peter’s new workplace.
The ‘lash up’ originally used for trying out the the circular design was put into Peter’s old studio, which remained as an experimental area for trying new software and digital recording systems, whilst the engineers began incorporating further DMP7 mixers into the other studios as sub-mixers to the main Soundcraft desks. Further work proceeded on an overall software program to integrate all the controls into a single program for all the studios. The original Hypercard system had now been rechristened Cue Card and was in use throughout the Workshop.
Our software developer Mark was now enticed away to BBC Multimedia, I having arranged an unofficial transfer fee of a very large Stilton cheese, which was shared out amongst the department. He was replaced by Tony Morson, who proceeded to redevelop Cue Card using the C++ programming language, and began further enhancements to it.
That same year, 1989, Michael Grade cancelled Doctor Who, so Dick Mills, who devoted most of his time to the production, was severely under-occupied. There was just not enough ‘special sound’ requirements to fill his time. Also, the impending arrival of an ‘internal market’ meant looking for additional ‘income streams’.
At the AES, I had seen a demonstration of the Sonic Solutions NoNoise sound processing system, which could ‘clean up’ old recordings. I visited the BBC’s Head of Gramophone Library, who had immense quantities of old records in stock, to tell him about it, and asked if we could create a facility, if it were something that would be useful for him, to clean up old valuable discs and transfer them to CD. He was enthusiastic, and I began preparing a scheme to create a new studio to be built after Peter’s had been completed, thus providing work for Dick, who had a really good pair of ears, and hopefully diversifying our possible future income.
In 1990, Peter moved into his new studio, which was now finished, an occasion only marred by the collapse of the suspended ceiling, which had been been improperly fitted and fell around the ears of the engineers, who were installing wiring at the time, thus delaying the opening by a week. In October 1991, the Sonic Solutions system was installed in an elongated version of the earlier circular desk design and Studio X, which was to be the final Radiophonic installation, was declared open.
In early 1991, it became the BBC’s turn to host the EBU’s Ars Acustica radio event. Tim Suter, Assistant Head of Drama, and I were asked to arrange it, and we were given a budget by David Hatch. The first day was devoted to presentations from all the delegates at the BBC’s Paris Cinema studio, introduced by Gillian Reynolds, radio critic at The Daily Telegraph. That day proceeded well, apart from the Italian delegate striding backwards and forward between the projector playing his film and the screen, but most people thought was part of the performance.
London’s Liverpool Street Station had recently been rebuilt, incorporating the Broadgate Centre and Arena, and an event called Cathedral of Sound was to take place the following day, featuring pieces invited from the Sonic Arts Network, with delegates playing material through the station’s public address system, as used to carry all the train service announcements.
The event was to climax with a live broadcast from the Broadgate Arena on Radio Three that evening, relayed to all the radio stations in the EBU. Technical problems started first thing that morning, as the first piece, featuring birdsong, did not have the required digital code to instruct the rest of the tape to continue playing. This was sorted in no time by the magnificent team of Outside Broadcast engineers, and so the day proceeded. The engineers also took over the vacant Golf retail store as their control room, a place to play longer items brought by delegates and as a general meeting place for all those involved. The second problem was more difficult to solve – there had been almost a fortnight of sunny weather, but on that day the heavens opened, and until noon it poured down. The concert was to open with a piece from Finland called Rain Dance, which I suppose was asking for trouble. However, the weather had cleared up by the evening, and the broadcast went ahead without a hitch. I had asked Elizabeth Parker and Peter Howell each to compose a piece especially for the concert, with Junctions and My Baby proving to be great successes.
At this time the possibility of rebuilding Maida Vale as a complete BBC music centre was under consideration. This would involve lifting the entire roof, allowing the Symphony Orchestra’s Studio to have its ceiling raised, so providing better acoustic proportions. I was assured that the Workshop would be included in the plans, with purpose-built studios on a proposed upper level.
In 1992, John Birt became the BBC’s Director General, and the ‘internal market’ was installed, with every department told it should be financially self-supporting within three years. I tried to prepare for this by having a brochure provided to all the internal departments that were our customers, explaining the services we offered as a one-stop music solution, obviating the need to book outside music studios, but to little avail. I had met John Birt, and found him very pleasant, but as time progressed, and I witnessed him responding to any questioning of his ideas by walking out of meetings, and hearing of him telling people that they were ‘tainted by experience’, I became completely disillusioned.
Armies of consultants, training teams, scores of departmental accountants and their ‘support teams’ descended upon us. I then had to devote virtually all of my time to protecting the composers from this onslaught, and trying to reconcile budgets where the square footage of our studios and offices were now charged at the current West End prices, and a proportion of all the Corporation’s services and costs, such as Corporate Management, Building Services, electricity and catering, were added to our own internal costs of salaries, pension contributions, business rates, depreciation of equipment, etc etc etc.
Ridiculous situations arose when the Gramophone Library, one of the most valuable services in the BBC, but occupying large amounts of space, found itself having to charge over £9 for the temporary loan of a record, which cost only £3 new in the HMV store on Oxford Street. The music budget, which had always been the last consideration in any project, became squeezed, and producers, faced with our costs of over £200 per minute of music, soon migrated to back-street studios and friends who had installations in their bedrooms.
We had become victims of our own success by encouraging the growth of electronic music, influencing its development and encouraging a market in cheap devices. Radio management was purged now, and no further development allowed. My boss rang me one afternoon and announced that he was leaving the BBC. When I asked ‘How soon?’, he replied ‘At four o'clock this afternoon.’ Within weeks, the entire management structure was replaced, and marketing managers were appointed alongside the enlarged teams of accountants.
I was asked to continue as Head of Department by the new management team and to introduce all the new systems of costing, whilst trying to conceal the obvious truth that there was no way the department was going to survive. There was no possibility that we would ever be allowed to open a new studio, so I was reluctantly unable to retain the engineering team.
My main task at this point was to keep the department open, and try to keep the composer’s jobs safe for as long as possible. I became more and more depressed and physically ill, and still tried to hide my fears, but it became clear to me that my secretary and I were the only non-productive elements left in the department. So, in 1995, I made us both redundant, handing over the management to Programme Operations, who were so inept that they did not even arrange the transfer of telephone numbers from Maida Vale to Broadcasting House, so calls to the department rang unanswered for weeks after our departure.
The composers struggled on until 1998, when they were all made redundant – the department had finally ‘withered on the vine.’ They continued making music to the end, many feeling that they had failed.
The failure was not theirs.
The BBC had to change, and to live within its budget. It could no longer afford such luxuries as the Radiophonic Workshop, even though it had formerly been considered as one of the ‘jewels’ in its crown.
Peter Howell was right when he suggested that it would have been better for the BBC to have said ‘Sorry guys. Thanks for everything you have done, but we can no longer afford you. Let’s have a farewell party and you can all go home.’
I feel privileged to have worked with so many brilliant and creative people, most of whom are still good friends. The reason the department lasted so long is entirely due to their creativity, hard work and expertise – composers, engineers, designers and directors, and I will never be able to thank them enough.
After I escaped from the ‘Mildewed Wedding Cake’, my health improved dramatically, and after retraining as a counsellor and hypnotherapist, working mainly for AIDS charities, we left London in 2002 and moved to Norfolk, and began restoring a 200 year-old farmhouse. We converted our boathouse into a restaurant and ran it for two years until the bank crash, when we lost it.
My partner died in 2011, so I had to sell the farmhouse, but retained our rose garden with almost an acre of land, where I commissioned a brilliant young architect to build me an eco-house, where most of my time is spent gardening, reading and walking with the dog on the beach and in the woods.
With the closure of the Radiophonic Workshop, we all thought we had finally thrown off the shackles of our past, but it looks like we haven’t. Scarcely a month passes without requests for interviews, appearances, filming or lectures, and the Radiophonic ‘band’ is in great demand for festival appearances. There seems to be a fascination with our past from the younger generation, but their future will be of more interest to me.
© Brian Hodgson 2021