Let's get straight to the point!

Rick Beato’s recent interview with Ryan Tedder (of OneRepublic) is well worth watching, especially if you are a songwriter/band member, interested in where the music business is today, and want to know why.

I know it’s 1.5 hours. However, Ryan Tedder seems to me to be grounded, super professional, and eloquent. He gives clear insight into his songwriting process, as well as honest insider takes on surviving and collaborating in today’s industry, and about the influence on culture of AI (and using it as a musical tool). He’s probably one of the best pop songwriters around.

Yep. Worth your time.

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Work

Kingston, 1997

In 1997, I was contacted by someone in the film department at Kingston University.

I studied music composition there.

They asked if I’d be interested in looking at a short animation by a Japanese student, and possibly submitting an idea for a soundtrack.

I said yes.

The Sketch

I watched the film (still a work in progress) and put something together.

It wasn’t finished. Just a sketch — one of a number of instrumental ideas I’d been working on at the time.

The animator, Yukihiro Tsujita, asked to meet.

He liked what I’d sent.

I explained that if I had the final animation, I could score it properly — syncing the piece to picture using Cubase and a QuickTime file, shaping it so it fitted exactly.

When the animation was finished — drawn entirely by hand — he sent it over.

I reworked the piece to fit.

Mr Smith

The film was called Mr Smith.

His department submitted it to a number of student awards.

It went on to win at least two, including a Royal Television Society Student Television Award for animation, with specific recognition for the soundtrack, and selection for the BAFTA Student Video Awards.

At the time, it didn’t feel like a defining moment.

Just one piece, among others.

Here is a video of Mr Smith I found on YouTube; the soundtrack quality on this upload is not great, so I have also included the only audio file I have of it in my archive, which is of slightly better quality.

Tokyo

About a year later, Yuki invited me to Japan.

Ten days or so in Tokyo.

I agreed.

Forty-eight hours before I was due to arrive, he called.

He’d been nominated for another award — in Canada — and had to leave immediately.

He apologised repeatedly, and told me he’d arranged for me to stay with his uncle, Mr Takeda, and his family.

I went anyway.

A real Mr Smith

I ended up spending nearly two weeks living with a Japanese family.

It didn’t take long to realise that Mr Takeda was, in many ways, a real-life version of Mr Smith.

Up early.

Breakfast at 5:30.

Out of the house by 6:30 for the commute into the city.

Long days. Six days a week. Then home — not to stop, but to continue.

Family. Responsibilities. The rhythm didn’t really break.

Seeing it up close gave the film a different weight. It wasn’t an idea. It was a pattern of life.

On the first day, I was served raw sea urchin at breakfast (at 05:30). I found it almost impossible to eat. But I did, politely, and said it was excellent. From that point on, it appeared every morning.

At one point, Mrs Takeda arranged a tea ceremony with several of her friends. They welcomed me warmly, and, at one stage, each of them apologised to me for the Second World War.

There were constant, subtle collisions between what I understood as politeness, and what it meant there.

My offering to pay my way, to contribute, to help, all normal elements of English social etiquette when a guest, well, all of it landed differently. A guest in a Japanese household doesn’t wash dishes or stock the fridge, or pay the restaurant bill, and attempting to do so could be viewed as insulting.

I had one friend in Tokyo, Satomi, a pianist with perfect pitch. I met her for lunch, maybe on the third day there. Thankfully, she briefed me on how to survive in the Takeda household. It was a way of life I hadn’t encountered before.

Around that time, Japan was going through a financial downturn.

In central Tokyo, I remember seeing men in business suits living in the railway station — quietly, almost invisibly.

I tried to take a photograph once, and was asked not to.

It was considered too much of a loss of face.

That stayed with me.

Afterwards

The instrumental album those sketches were part of was never completed.

Life moved on.

What remains are fragments.

Explorations across different approaches — including twelve-tone ideas and other compositional systems I was experimenting with at the time.

Most of it exists only as rough MIDI sketches, bounced quickly to MiniDisc.

The original sessions are long gone.

Mr Smith was one of the few pieces that stepped outside that.

The rest stayed where they were.

Until now.

The sketches are now available, as they are, on Bandcamp.

It’s all in a name

For those of you who like to delve, as a sound engineer and songwriter, I used more than one name, so for example (amongst others) Nic Briscoe, Nic Casparis, Nic Rudrum, Rudrum, U.NIK, and there were several Ting and Stuff’n’Ting remixes.

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

I’ll be posting a small collection of older work on my Bandcamp page over the next few days.

Nothing major. Just a set of remixes and production projects from around 1998 to 2002 — things I hadn’t listened to in a long time.

You’ll be able to find it here.

One of the tracks is a remix of We Come 1 by Faithless.

I came to do that remix in a way I didn’t expect.

In 2001, I met Maxi Jazz at a small community arts space in Leytonstone — the 491 Gallery.

He was already a big figure at that point, but you wouldn’t have known it from how he was there. Just present. Talking to people. Getting involved. No distance.

We spoke briefly, then properly. A few days later, he invited me and the gallery organiser to The Church Studios to meet Rollo.

They offered to donate the stems of We Come 1 to a charity compilation we were putting together for Festival of Flight.

That was the start of it.

I ended up remixing the track, and helping shape the wider album — Speak Out — which also included contributions from Nitin Sawhney and Coldcut.

Here it is.

Faithless - We Come 1 (2002 stuff’n’ting remix)

I saw Maxi a few times after that.

Different settings. Different people. Always the same presence.

Calm. Open. Generous with his time.

He came down to Brighton once for a small songwriter night. At one point there was a loose, improvised version of We Come 1 — built around my remix elements — with a live vocal.

He just stood there, watching it, quietly supportive. No ego in it at all.

We spoke at one point about doing something together — a version of Redemption Song, with him writing and adding his own lyrics.

I put together a rough backing track.

For a moment, it felt like something we might actually follow through on.

Then he had a serious car accident.

He was out of things for a while, and a number of live dates were cancelled. By the time he was back, everything had moved on — schedules, priorities, the usual reality of being part of something much bigger.

That’s how it goes sometimes.

What stayed with me, though, was that even with all of that — the scale of what he was doing, the touring, the visibility — he still made time for smaller things. Side projects. People he connected with. Not always the obvious or high-profile choices.

The We Come 1 remix is on the Bandcamp release.

No big story attached to it, really.

Just a small thread from that time.

And a reminder of someone who, in every interaction I had with him, was exactly the same: grounded, generous, and completely at ease with himself.

It’s all in a name

For those of you who like to delve, as a sound engineer and songwriter, I used more than one name, so for example (amongst others) Nic Briscoe, Nic Casparis, Nic Rudrum, Rudrum, U.NIK, and there were several Ting and Stuff’n’Ting remixes.

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

Over the years, I’ve worked across songwriting, recording, and music production — both in the studio and around the decision points where songs and artists either find their direction or lose it.

These sessions draw on that experience, but focus on one thing only: helping you decide what actually matters next.

Most experienced music-makers eventually reach a crossroads — a point where continuing without making a decision starts to cost more than stopping to think.

I offer a one-off Critical Musical Decision Session for moments like this.

I work with experienced songwriters and music creatives who are stuck at a genuine musical crossroads — where an important decision needs to be made before moving forward.

This is a one-off, 90-minute session designed to bring clarity, remove second-guessing, and help you decide what actually matters next.

It’s not coaching, mentoring, or a production workshop.

It’s a focused, one-on-one session at a decision point.

This session may be for you if:

• you’ve reached a point where continuing without clarity is slowing everything down

• you feel pulled between several musical directions and can’t see which one truly fits

• you suspect the real issue might not be the one you’re currently focusing on

• you want an experienced outside perspective without entering a long-term coaching or mentoring relationship

Before the session

You’ll be asked to submit a short brief in advance, including:

• the music or material you’re currently struggling with

• any relevant background to the project

• a short personal context: where you’ve come from musically, where you are now, and what you’re trying to move toward

I review everything beforehand so our time together is spent on the decision itself, not on explanation.

If, after reviewing your materials, I don’t believe I can add meaningful value, I’ll say so, and we won’t proceed.

You don’t need a perfectly formulated problem — a genuine crossroads is enough.

During the session (90 minutes)

Sessions are held online (Zoom or similar).

We focus on the specific decision you’re stuck on.

I listen carefully, ask targeted questions, and identify what’s actually going on — often beneath the surface of what initially appears to be the problem.

I’ll outline viable directions (sometimes more than one), explain why they would work, and help you sense which path genuinely aligns with you.

If concrete ideas emerge naturally, they’re not withheld — but the emphasis is on clarity and direction, not execution.

Any ideas that arise during the session belong to you unless we explicitly agree to collaborate further.

The session is recorded (audio).

By the end

You’ll leave knowing:

• what matters

• what doesn’t

• and which way to move forward with confidence

You decide what you do next.

What this session does not include

This session does not involve:

• detailed rewrites or iterative development

• step-by-step technical instruction

• production or execution work

• ongoing mentoring or follow-up by default

If deeper work later makes sense, that’s a separate conversation.

Fee

€200 for a 90-minute session, payable in advance.

Once a session is provisionally agreed, you’ll be asked to submit a brief in advance.

If, after reviewing that brief, I decide it’s not a good fit, €150 will be refunded, reflecting the time spent reviewing your materials.

Enquiries

For songwriters and music creators facing a critical creative decision

If this resonates, you’re welcome to email me with a short outline of what you’re working on and the decision you’re currently facing.

If it looks like a potential fit, I’ll explain the next steps, including how to book the session and submit your brief.

If you’re unsure whether this is relevant to you, you’re welcome to send a short outline of your situation — I’ll let you know honestly whether I think I can help.

If your work is more text than music,
I also offer Clarity Pass — a focused review for writers.

Nic Briscoe

nicbriscoe.substack.com

nicbriscoe@substack.com

Work

Brighton, 1989

I met Joe Cole in Brighton in 1989.

Tall, relaxed, soft-spoken, polite. From Devon, I think.

He told me he’d had some contact with Tricky, around the Massive Attack orbit. He was a hip hop DJ, could rap, but didn’t really know how to make records yet.

He was maybe nineteen or twenty. I was a bit older.

I liked him straight away.

What struck me was how easily he moved between worlds.

He’d tell me, very matter-of-factly, that his parents were solidly middle class — his mum a doctor — and then in the same breath he’d be talking about hanging out with taggers, Yardies, and DJs, everyone speaking in this mix of Rasta-rhyme and street slang.

And somehow, it all fitted.

No strain. No performance. Just natural.

The Studio

At the time, I had a small studio at home.

A mix of analogue and digital gear, including two Akai S1000s samplers, which had just come out. Proper kit for the time.

Sequencing was on an Atari 1040ST running Cubase. Samples lifted from vinyl on a Technics SL-1200. MIDI locked to 1/4” 8-track tape using SMPTE.

It was, for that moment, about as far as you could push it.

I invited Joe over.
At first, just to hang out and experiment.
Then more regularly.

Eventually, I gave him a key.

He could come and go, learn the setup, dig into the samplers, make things. No pressure, no structure. Just time and access.

We started making tracks together.

The Tracks

In total, we probably collaborated on around ten or twelve, with various vocalists.

Some were ideas for a film project. Some were sketches. A few became something more — or at least, they were treated that way by someone.

Here are three examples.

1. Guardian Angel (1990)

A song I wrote, with Joe rapping and Lisa Morris singing.

Built from record samples — and this was before the legal reality of sampling had really caught up. It was still open territory.

It was meant as a demo.

It ended up as a white label release.

I still occasionally get Shazam notifications for it — mostly from Brazil.

2. Skitzophrenic (1990)

Originally a play on our names.

An embryonic dance track.
Not intended for release.
Just Akai samples and MIDI sequencing, pushing the system a bit.

It came out anyway, named Skitzo. About 500 copies, as a DJ promo.

There are moments in it that still stand up.

3. Lazzee (1991)

Something completely different.

A song I wrote on acoustic guitar, about walking on the Surrey Hills. Recorded at SL Studios in Brighton — where Norman Cook was working at the time. I’d see him most days. We’d been at school together.

What I remember about putting this track together is that we tried to get the bass drum part to trigger a pure sine-wave sample from the Akai sampler, allocating it to notes that corresponded with the chord pattern root notes. A sub-bass baseline. On a nightclub speaker system, you wouldn’t hear it, but man, would you feel it. Anyway, that was the idea.

Lisa Morris on vocals again.

It stayed as a demo. Never finished. Never released.

Around the same time, we put together a rough, private sketch using samples from The Purple Rain album. We called it When Dubs Cry.

That got released too. Without us knowing.

A visitor to my studio, Danny G from Archive, also liked the idea and borrowed it.

The Wild West

That was how it worked, sometimes.

Tracks moved. Labels pressed things. You found out later.

Copyright, ownership, permissions — all of that was still catching up.

People like Joe just got on with it.
Learning fast.
Absorbing everything.
Making things wherever they could.

He went on to become one of the UK’s most well-known and respected Hip Hop DJs and producers, DJ Skitz.

But back then, it was simpler.
Just sessions. Samplers. Records on the turntable.
An open door.

And a few tracks that weren’t meant to go anywhere.

It’s all in a name

For those of you who like to delve, as a sound engineer and songwriter, I used more than one name, so for example (amongst others) Nic Briscoe, Nic Casparis, Nic Rudrum, Rudrum, U.NIK, and there were several Ting and Stuff’n’Ting remixes.

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

A short note

From time to time, there are specific tools or pieces of equipment that would directly support the work.

This is simply a list of those items

There’s no expectation attached to this, and no structure around it.

It’s here only for those who, for their own reasons, might prefer to contribute in this way.

Current items

• iPad Pro 13-inch, 512GB, with Apple Pencil Pro & Magic Keyboard
  For writing, sketching ideas, and lightweight video work

• MacBook Pro 14-inch, M5Pro, 18-Core CPU, 20-core GPU, 24 GB Unified Memory, 1 TB memory
  For audio recording and video editing

• Taylor t5z custom Koa
  Ultimate live and studio guitar

• SE Electronics SE 2200
  Large-diaphragm condenser microphone for vocals

• Positive Grid Spark 2, Control X foot-controller, and soft case
  Small guitar amplifier (portable/clean tone focus)
  For developing and testing material in a live setting

• Battery for PG Spark 2
  For portability

• Positive Grid Spark Link
  Wireless System for Guitar

• XSONIC ULooper
  USB looper pedal

• XSONIC Airstep Spark edition
  Wireless foot-controller for PG Spark 2

• Positive Grid Spark Live w/Battery Bundle
  4-Channel Smart Amp and PA System for Guitar, Bass, Vocals and Keyboards, for live

• XVive U4T9 In-Ear Monitor Bundle
  Digital Wireless In-Ear Monitor System Set, for live

• Novation Launchkey 49 MK4
  49-Key USB Keyboard, for recording and live

• Novation Launchpad Mini MK3
  Compact Pad Controller, for recording and live

• StarLink Mini and subscription
  Portable high-speed internet

• Riverside
  For remote podcast recording and editing

• Various AI subscriptions
  For research, audio creation, editing, experimentation

Considerations

• These are practical tools, not upgrades for their own sake.

• They are chosen for usefulness, portability, and integration into the way I already work, both for recording and live work.

• My ultimate goal is to get a medium-sized camper van, with a configuration suitable for me to create, work and interview on the road, and to make small live tours feasible again.

• If something here changes, the list will be updated quietly.

• You can directly donate towards this list here.

Donate

Final thought

If this route feels more natural than ongoing support, that’s entirely fine.

If not, equally so.

Nic Briscoe

nicbriscoe.substack.com

nicbriscoe@substack.com

Work

Preface

I’ve recently read here on Substack some very interesting first-hand accounts from music industry insiders navigating the reality of working within the industry as pro musicians.

Here are two relatable and informative examples, one from , the other , that approach this topic from different perspectives.

A Life In Space

Making a Life vs. Making a Living

Most musicians don’t quit because they stop loving music; they quit because it becomes unsustainable. After years of touring, day jobs, and doing both at once, I’ve learned that making a life as an artist often means redefining what success really looks like…

Read more

4 months ago · 104 likes · 30 comments · Kendall Jane Meade

Girl, Don't Get Sassy: Surviving the Canadian Music Industry

13 Things I Would Tell You About the Music Industry If I Wasn’t Afraid to Hurt Your Feelings

Disclaimer: This is based on my experience working in the industry for over two decades. Others will have different experiences, but this is what I wish someone had told me starting out…

Read more

3 months ago · 72 likes · 23 comments · Samantha Matusoff

And here’s one to watch… from , they seem under no illusion… and right at the beginning of something that could skyrocket their careers…

Georgie

We’re going on tour with Sting. Here’s what no one tells you about opening for a legend.

We’ve been invited to open for Sting across Europe…

Read more

2 months ago · 23 likes · 7 comments · Georgie

And here is a valuable insight (very accurate, I think) into the current state and direction of the music business, from of . His insight informs musicians on potential ways to navigate these treacherous waters.

The Artist Economy

The Death of the Record Deal

Everything I thought I understood about the music business broke at lunch last week. A friend who runs a major Canadian publisher put his fork down and said…

Read more

2 months ago · 152 likes · 62 comments · Joel Gouveia

From my point of view, probably the most fundamental point to consider when contemplating a sustainable career as a songwriter is calibrating one’s mindset, specifically in terms of clarifying what sustainable success looks like, over time.

For me personally, it came down to redefining my why, or perhaps more accurately, reestablishing it…

It’s not about making money from music.

At least, not in the way people usually mean it.

The question isn’t how to extract income from the work.

It’s whether the work can continue at all.

Because that’s the real constraint.

Not ideas.

Not ability.

Conditions.

The conditions that allow the work to happen, and to keep happening over time.

If those aren’t in place, everything else becomes irrelevant.

And if they are, the work tends to find a way.

The Work

Strip everything back, and it starts here.

The work itself.

Not the idea of it.

Not the identity around it.

The actual process of writing, recording, shaping something into a finished piece.

This is the part that doesn’t change.

Formats change.

Technologies change.

Entire industries reorganise themselves.

But the work remains what it always was.

Time.

Attention.

Decisions.

And a certain level of honesty — whether that’s acknowledged or not.

Everything else sits around this.

Supports it, interferes with it, or tries to reshape it.

But it doesn’t replace it.

Which means that if the work isn’t happening, nothing else really matters.

And if it is, the rest becomes a question of how — and whether — it can be sustained.

The Means

The work doesn’t happen in isolation.

It depends on something else.

Tools.

Not in the abstract, but in the practical sense — the things that allow the work to take shape.

Instruments.
Recording equipment.
Software.

And now, increasingly, systems that can assist, generate, or reshape material in ways that weren’t possible before.

These things matter.

Not because they define the work.

But because they determine how easily — or how often — the work can happen.

There’s always been a relationship between access and output.

Who gets to make records.
How often.
Under what conditions.

That used to be tightly controlled.

Studios were expensive.
Equipment was scarce.
Time was limited.

Now, most of that has shifted.

The barriers are lower.
The tools are more accessible.

Which changes something fundamental.

Not the nature of the work.

But the frequency of it.

And the independence of it.

You can start, stop, return to something.

Work in fragments.
Work consistently.

The means are no longer the main constraint.

But they still shape what’s possible.

And, just as importantly, what becomes normal.

Every tool carries a bias.

A way of working it encourages.

A set of decisions it makes easier — and others it quietly removes.

So the question isn’t just what tools are available.

It’s how they’re being used.

And whether they’re supporting the work —

or slowly reshaping it into something else.

The Reality

At some point, all of this meets something else.

Not the work.
Not the tools.

Reality.

Time.
Energy.
Attention.

And the practical question of whether those can continue to be given to the work.

This is where things become less abstract.

It’s not about success in the way it’s usually described.

It’s about whether the conditions exist for the work to keep going.

That might involve income.

Or time structured differently.

Or reducing dependency on systems that don’t support the work.

It looks different for different people.

But the underlying question is the same.

Can this continue?

Not for a few months.

Not for a single release cycle.

But over years.

That’s where most models begin to break down.

They prioritise visibility over continuity.

Short-term results over long-term conditions.

And eventually, something gives.

Not because the work isn’t there.

But because the structure around it doesn’t support its continuation.

Where It Breaks

For a long time, the balance between these things was shaped elsewhere.

Not by the work itself, but by the system around it.

There was an implicit model.

Never stated directly, but widely understood. A Trinity. A dream.

Music.
Technology.
Money.

Presented as something that would align — if you got far enough.

Fame and fortune. Rags to riches.

In practice, it often meant something else.

Speed.
Exposure.
Immediate impact.

The focus wasn’t on whether the work could continue.

It was whether it could break through.

And if it did, how quickly it could be scaled.

Longevity wasn’t the priority.

Replacement was built into the system.

There was always someone else coming through.

Which meant that the conditions required to sustain the work — over time — were rarely part of the conversation.

What I’ve Seen

I saw this from the inside.

And for a while, it worked.

The alignment was there.
Almost.

Like stars in the heavens closing into perfect position.
The work, the tools, the external conditions — all moving in the same direction.

Until it wasn’t.

And when that alignment disappears, what’s left becomes very clear.

The work doesn’t disappear.

But the conditions around it change.

And without those, continuing becomes something else entirely.

Over time, it becomes less about any one part of this.

Not just the work.
Not just the tools.
Not just the external conditions.

It’s the relationship between them.

And whether that relationship allows the work to continue.

Not indefinitely.

But long enough for something to build.

Long enough for the work to develop its own momentum.

Because without that, everything else becomes short-term.

And with it, the work tends to find its place.

Not all at once.

Not in the way it’s often presented.

But steadily.

On its own terms.

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

Occasionally, a piece of work needs more than a single decision.

It needs time. Focus. And a level of attention that’s difficult to create in isolation.

This is where I sometimes work more closely on the material with a small number of songwriters.

These are not open sessions.

They tend to follow on from one or more Musical Crossroads conversations, where it’s clear there’s something worth developing further — and a way of working that fits.

The focus is simple:

To work directly on the song.

Not in theory. Not in abstraction. In practice.

Structure, harmony, phrasing, arrangement, direction — whatever is required to move the piece forward.

The format is flexible, but typically:

• Four 2-hour sessions

• Spread over 4–6 weeks

Each session is €400.

Most work sits in the €1,600–€2,400 range, depending on what’s needed.

That may include an additional session, and/or a more detailed written roadmap to support the work going forward.

Between sessions, the expectation is that you continue working on the material.

This isn’t a passive process. It relies on engagement, iteration, and a willingness to explore different directions.

I don’t take on many of these each year.

Not because of time alone, but because the work requires a certain level of focus on both sides.

If this feels relevant, we can discuss it directly.

Nic Briscoe

nicbriscoe.substack.com

nicbriscoe@substack.com

Work

What this is

This is a quiet invitation.

Over the next few years, I’m focusing on a body of work across music, writing, and a small number of direct collaborations.

This page is for a small number of people who would like to support that work directly — and, in doing so, be a little closer to it.

This is not a subscription.

It’s not a membership.

And it’s not an investment.

It’s a simple patron relationship.

Why this exists

I’ve spent most of my working life in environments where time and attention are constantly fragmented — by projects, deadlines, and the need to generate income in conventional ways.

What I’m doing now is different.

The aim is simple: to create the conditions for sustained, focused work — creatively and intellectually — over time.

A small number of patrons makes that possible.

Not by funding outputs, but by protecting the time and attention required for the work to exist properly.

This isn’t about access. It’s about enabling the work to exist, properly.

The intention is not to maximise scale, but to sustain the work — properly, and over time.

The direction of the work

What I’m building is intentionally open-ended, but not undefined.

At its core, the work will move across a few consistent threads:

• writing — primarily on Substack — exploring the craft of songwriting, the realities behind creative work, and occasional reflections on contemporary culture

• music — ongoing songwriting, recording, and experimentation, including the use of emerging tools and AI-assisted processes

• documentation — sharing aspects of the process as it unfolds, including what works, what doesn’t, and how ideas are developed and realised

• conversation — informal exchanges and interviews with other musicians and creatives encountered along the way

Alongside this, I’ll continue working directly with a small number of individuals:

• helping creatives navigate key decisions and direction

• and, where there is a natural fit, collaborating more deeply on specific projects

The exact shape of this will evolve over time.

The aim is not to execute a fixed plan, but to build a coherent body of work — one that develops naturally, and reflects where the most meaningful focus lies.

That’s the direction.

The structure

I’m looking for a small group of patrons — around 20 initially, potentially up to 40 over time.

The structure is simple:

• €50 per month, for a minimum of 24 months

• plus a one-time contribution of €500 at the beginning

That’s it.

If someone prefers to contribute at a higher level, or in a different way, that’s also possible — but the above is the baseline structure.

There is no upper limit on the number of patrons in principle, but the intention is to keep this a relatively small and manageable group.

For some, a one-off contribution towards specific tools or equipment may feel more natural — if so, I can share a short, private list.

What this is not

Patrons are not investors.

There is:

• no equity

• no ownership

• no financial return

This is support of the work itself.

Nothing more, nothing less.

What you can expect

There are no “perks” in the usual sense.

What this offers is something simpler.

A closer view of the work as it develops.

That may include:

• occasional private notes or reflections

• early access to certain pieces, where appropriate

• and, at times, a more direct line of communication

There is also the option of direct contact.

However, this comes with a caveat: I won’t always be available, and I won’t be operating on a “response on demand” basis.

The priority is the work itself.

This is not about access or entitlement.

It’s about proximity to something being built — over time, and with care.

Who this is for

This will make sense to a very small number of people.

Typically, those who:

• value independent creative work

• understand the importance of time and focus

• prefer depth over noise

• and are comfortable supporting something without needing a defined return

People who don’t need recognition.

Who don’t need access.

Who simply want to know that something worthwhile is being given the chance to develop properly.

If that resonates, you’ll already know.

Duration

The initial commitment is 24 months.

After that, there is the option to continue, adjust, or step away — entirely by choice.

A final note

This isn’t something I’ll be promoting widely.

It will be shared quietly, on a one-to-one basis, where it feels appropriate.

If you’ve been sent this page directly, it’s because I thought there might be some alignment.

If this feels relevant, we can discuss it directly.

If not, no problem at all.

Either way, thank you for taking the time to read it.

Nic Briscoe

nicbriscoe.substack.com

nicbriscoe@substack.com

Work

Early 1982.

We were in Maison Rouge Studios in London, recording what would become Wham! album, Fantastic.

Things were moving quickly. Faster than anyone really expected. More or less, you could say the Wham! boys became famous, almost overnight, whilst this album was being recorded. Their success literally skyrocketed in a few short weeks.

At a certain point, in the middle of those sessions, something changed.

George wanted to write.

Not later. Not at home.

There.

In the studio.

The Usual Way

At that time, the process was clear.

You wrote songs away from the studio. Made demos. Refined them.

Then, when everything was ready, you recorded properly.

Studio time was expensive. You didn’t experiment at that level. Not unless you were already established.

What Happened Instead

George took over Studio 2.

We set it up so he could work on his own. Two-inch tape. Full multitrack. Microphones. Outboard. Console. Everything running at full quality.

Not demo level.

Not sketches.

Proper master recording.

Inside the Room

For long stretches, it was just the two of us.

I’d set everything up. Align the tape. Patch the gear. Make sure everything was getting cleanly to tape.

Then leave him to it. An hour, sometimes more.

He’d call me if he needed something.
Or I’d check in once in a while.

Otherwise, he stayed inside that room.

What Was Actually Happening

From the outside, it looked like writing.

But it wasn’t. Not in the usual sense.

There was no separation between writing and recording.

No “we’ll fix it later.” No demo stage.

The decisions were being made in real time.

And whatever was captured, stayed.

What Made This Possible

None of this happened by accident.

Steve Brown was producing the album. He could have shut it down. Kept everything controlled. Structured. Safe. That would have been the normal approach.

Especially with a new artist. Especially in an expensive studio.

Instead, he allowed it.

More than that — he made it possible. He set things up so George could work independently.

Let him use the room.
Let him use the equipment.
Let him take the time.
Let him take the risk.

Steve, too, took a big risk. This could have gone very pear-shaped.

Today, if you saw a young, new recording artist working alone this way, hands-on state-of-the-art pro-technology, making master recordings alone, you wouldn’t bat an eye. All totally normal. Back then, this was an innovation. Nobody did this. Record companies wouldn’t allow it. But Steve would, much to the label manager’s dismay.

This didn’t mean George disappeared into Studio 2. He was moving between both rooms. Still involved in overdubs, in decisions, in the record as a whole. It was all happening at once.

And it was taking its toll.
He seemed exhausted.

When you remove the demo stage, something changes.

You don’t experiment in the same way.
You don’t leave things open.

You decide. Earlier than you might want to.

And once that decision is made, the work moves forward from there.

Not as a sketch. As the thing itself.

At least one of those tracks — Nothing Looks the Same in the Light — made it onto the album.

There was no demo.

That was the record.

I wrote about the Wham! sessions (four articles) in more detail starting here.

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

I’ve been trying to understand something about AI music.

Not in theory. In practice.

Because I didn’t come to this out of curiosity. I came to it because I wanted a working system.

A way to keep writing songs without always going back into a recording studio. Without long sessions, logistics, favours, or the slow drain of energy that used to be part of the process. My hearing isn’t what it was. My tolerance for friction is lower than it used to be. But my interest in songwriting hasn’t gone away.

So the question became very simple:

• Can AI give me a low-friction way to write and realise songs?

The answer is: yes — but not in the way I expected.

The Assumption

I assumed that something already existed — or was just about to.

A system where I could say:

• here is a chord progression

• here is a lyric

• here is a melody (even roughly)

• here is a structure

…and the AI would help me develop that into a finished track.

Not replace it. Not reinterpret it beyond recognition. Not generate something “in the style of.” But work with it.

Suggest. Arrange. Orchestrate. Extend. Explore variations.

In other words:

• behave like a very capable musical collaborator.

What I’ve come to call:

constraint-based generative composition.

What Exists Instead

What actually exists right now is something different.

Tools like Udio or Suno are impressive. In some ways, astonishing.

You can give them:

• a lyric

• a mood

• a genre

• a vocal type

…and they will generate something that sounds like a finished song.

Sometimes very good.

Sometimes uncannily close to something you might have written.

But there is a catch.

You cannot reliably say:

• keep these exact chords

• follow this melody

• respect this phrasing

• preserve this structure

Even if you specify it clearly.

Even if you spell it out.

Even if you know exactly what you want.

The system doesn’t work that way.

The Mismatch

And this is where the tension comes from.

Because for most songwriters, a song does not begin as a finished production.

It begins as something much simpler and much more precise:

• a chord sequence

• a melodic idea

• a lyric fragment

• a sense of form

• a rhythm

Those elements are not optional.

They are the song.

Everything else — arrangement, instrumentation, production — can change. Often radically. But the underlying identity remains intact. You can strip a great song back to voice and guitar, or reharmonise it for a jazz ensemble, or rebuild it electronically, and it is still recognisably the same piece.

That is how composition works.

Current AI systems, by contrast, are not really operating at that level.

They are not working from composition outward.

They are working from audio inward.

Generation vs Composition

This is the distinction that clarifies everything.

What we have now is:

• style-directed generation

What I expected — and still think is coming — is:

• constraint-based composition

In the first model, you describe a musical world and the system generates something plausible within it.

In the second, you define the musical facts and the system helps you develop them.

Those are not small differences.

They are two completely different ways of thinking about music.

Why This Matters (Practically)

This isn’t just philosophical.

It affects what you can actually do.

I went into this wanting a simple workflow:

1. Sketch ideas and try different styles and voices

2. Develop a version into something usable

3. Rework older material where needed

4. Create a simple video and share it

All of that is now technically possible.

But the first step — the actual songwriting — is still more unpredictable than I expected.

You can generate.

You can explore.

You can discover.

But you cannot yet reliably say:

• “this is the song — now help me realise it without changing its identity.”

Where We Are (and Why)

This isn’t an accident.

The current generation of tools has largely been optimised for:

• speed

• accessibility

• output

• stylistic flexibility

Which makes sense.

That’s where the market is.

It’s incredibly useful for:

• trying ideas quickly

• generating variations

• creating finished artefacts with minimal effort

But it is not yet designed for:

precision at the level of composition

What’s Missing

What’s missing is a layer.

A system that understands:

• chords as constraints

• melody as structure

• lyrics as fixed text

• form as intentional design

And treats those not as suggestions, but as boundaries.

Within those boundaries, it could be incredibly powerful:

• reharmonise

• re-voice

• re-arrange

• orchestrate

• generate alternate versions

• develop lyric ideas

• develop melody ideas

But always in relation to the original idea.

Not instead of it.

What Comes Next

This is why I think constraint-based generative composition is the next meaningful step.

Not more generation.

Not faster output.

But better alignment with how music is actually written.

The pieces are already emerging in research and early tools.

But they are not yet:

• simple

• unified

• affordable

• songwriter-first

When that changes, something important shifts.

AI stops being:

• a generator of plausible songs

and becomes:

• a collaborator inside the act of composition

Where That Leaves Me (For Now)

For now, I’m using what exists.

As a way to explore.

To generate.

To test directions.

To create finished versions quickly.

And if I ever want to bring my own guitar, my own voicings, my own phrasing back into it — I can do that later. On my terms.

But the original expectation I had — that I could simply hand over a song and have AI help me realise it faithfully — isn’t quite here yet.

Final Thought

There’s a lot of noise around AI music.

A lot of talk about scale, output, disruption.

What interests me more is something quieter.

Not how many songs can be generated.

But whether we can stay with one song —
and go deeper into it.

That’s where this gets interesting.

After thought: Slop

Randomly, from time to time, AI-generated songs can be really good. However, mainly, they are formulaic slop.

Although I have NOT done deep due diligence on this particular song, I think that Always (which I featured in a recent post) is an example of an AI-generated song that works well. It rocks. It ticks most boxes (for me).

About Always being AI-generated: it is only an assumption, and I am willing to eat my hat and be proven wrong!

To illustrate the point about AI-generated formulaic slop: as a tribute to our friendship, a close friend of mine (who is actually also very proficient musician and a good songwriter) created this song, in a few seconds, on an AI-app, on his mobile, whilst in a bar, with a one or two sentence text prompt…

It’s entitled: Nic-Fucking-Briscoe

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

Getting stuck with a song is rarely about ability.

It’s usually a problem of clarity — and decision.

You’ve been working on something for a while.

It’s close. Not finished, but not far away either.

You play it through again.

Something isn’t right.

You can feel it, but you can’t quite name it.

So you try a few things.

Change a line. Adjust a chord. Move a section slightly.

It helps, maybe. But not enough.

You go round again.

And after a while, you’re no longer moving forward.

You’re circling.

Listening to the same few seconds. Making small changes. Undoing them. Trying something else.

The song hasn’t stalled.

You have.

What It Looks Like

From the outside, it still looks like work.

You’re engaged. You’re listening carefully. You’re making adjustments.

But underneath that, something has shifted.

You’re no longer building the song.

You’re trying to fix a feeling you haven’t fully identified.

And because of that, every option stays open.

Nothing is committed to.

Every change is provisional.

You’re not deciding — you’re testing.

And testing has its place.

But at this point, it keeps the song in motion without ever letting it move forward.

What You Assume

At that point, the assumption is obvious.

It must be the song.

Something isn’t working — so you look for it.

The lyric isn’t quite right. The chord needs changing. The structure could be better.

You focus on the parts, because they’re visible.

You can adjust them. Replace them. Improve them.

And sometimes that works.

But often, it doesn’t.

The changes are real, but the feeling underneath them doesn’t shift.

So you keep going.

More options. More versions.

A better line. A stronger chord. A slightly different arrangement.

And still, something isn’t settling.

Because what you’re trying to fix isn’t in the parts.

It’s in the direction.

“The best way to serve the song is to remove anything that gets in the way of it.”
Rick Rubin

What It Is

At a certain point, the work changes.

It stops being about building the song.

It becomes something else.

At that point, you’re not writing anymore.

You’re deciding.

Deciding what the song is.

What it isn’t.

What stays.

What goes.

And that’s the moment things often slow down.

Not because you don’t have the ability to continue.

But because you haven’t made the decision that allows you to.

So everything remains open.

Every option still possible.

Every version still in play.

And without that decision, the work can’t move forward.

It can only circle.

The problem isn’t the song.

It’s the absence of a clear decision about what the song is trying to be.

What’s Actually Happening

When a decision isn’t made, something else takes its place.

Not clarity — but hesitation.

You can feel two or three directions at once.

One version feels simpler. Another feels more complete.

One feels honest. Another feels more impressive.

And instead of choosing, you try to keep all of them alive.

You adjust things so nothing is lost.

You soften one idea to make room for another.

You add something, then pull it back.

The song starts to carry more than it needs to.

Not because you don’t know what you’re doing —
but because you haven’t decided what matters most.

And without that decision, everything stays slightly unresolved.

Nothing quite lands.

Nothing fully commits.

You’re still working.

But the work isn’t moving in a direction.

It’s holding multiple directions open at the same time.

“I don’t write songs to be understood. I write them to be felt.”
Joni Mitchell

What Changes

When the decision is clear, the work changes immediately.

Not because it becomes easier.

But because it becomes direct.

Things start to fall away.

Not by effort, but because they no longer belong.

A line that felt almost right is removed.

A section that was holding things together is no longer needed.

An idea you were protecting quietly disappears.

Not because it wasn’t good.

But because it wasn’t part of what the song is.

And once that’s clear, everything else aligns around it.

The next choice becomes obvious.

Then the next.

You’re not searching anymore.

You’re following something that’s already been decided.

“When you hit a wrong note, it’s the next note that makes it good or bad.”
Miles Davis

The moment the decision is clear, the work moves.

Not faster.

Just in a direction.

And until that decision is made, it doesn’t.

It stays where it is.

Not because the song isn’t working.

But because nothing has been chosen.

Most song problems aren’t songwriting problems.

Sometimes that’s difficult to see from inside it.

Once you do see it, you stop trying to fix the song.

You start deciding what it is.

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

Late 1986.

I was twenty-three.

I was in a studio with Steve Brown, who at the time was producing some of the biggest records in the UK. He’d also become a friend, and for a while, something like a mentor.

At some point during that weekend, we were talking about a record he’d recently made.

“She Sells Sanctuary” by The Cult

It had already become one of those records — the kind that feels complete from the first listen.

What interested me wasn’t the sound of it.

It was how he’d got there.

The Problem

Steve had spent time with the band before recording.

He’d seen rehearsals. Seen them live.

He knew what they were capable of.

But in the studio, something wasn’t translating.

Not technically.

The singer, Ian Astbury, wasn’t struggling with pitch or phrasing. He knew the songs. He knew what he wanted.

But the performance wasn’t landing in the same way.

The energy wasn’t there.

The Usual Approach

At that point, the standard method was obvious.

Put the vocalist in a booth.

Headphones on.

Track the vocal cleanly.

Control everything.

And that’s exactly what wasn’t working.

The more controlled the environment became, the further the performance moved away from what made it work in the first place.

What He Changed

He didn’t turn it into a conversation.

He didn’t sit Ian down and try to analyse what was wrong.

He just recognised it.

And then, quietly, he set about solving it.

Not knowing if it would work.

Not knowing if it would even hold together technically.

But committing to it anyway.

Steve changed the environment.

Not the singer.

Not the song.

The environment.

He removed the headphones.

Set up a pair of studio monitors in an open space.

Positioned them out of phase so the backing track would cancel at the microphone.

So Ian could hear the music — but the mic wouldn’t pick it up.

No booth. No cables. No isolation.

Just space.

But this wasn’t a quick adjustment.

It wasn’t something that worked first time.

It took time.

Trial and error.

Adjusting positions, phase, levels.

Listening. Resetting. Trying again.

Getting it to the point where the vocal was clean, but the performance still felt live.

And he didn’t do this with the band sitting around waiting.

He worked it out in advance.

In the room. With the equipment.

So that when the moment came, nothing got in the way of the performance.

Then he went further.

Candles. Fabrics. Gothic details.

Not decoration.

Context.

This is the part of the process people don’t see.

Today, you can achieve something similar in seconds.

Software, phase tools, even AI-assisted workflows — it’s all built in.

Back then, none of that existed.

This had to be worked out manually, from scratch.

Which is what made it possible.

What That Did

It meant Ian could move.

Sing into the space.

Hear the track the way he would on stage.

No barrier between the performance and the room.

And that changed everything.

The vocal wasn’t constructed.

It was delivered.

Why It Worked

It wasn’t just the idea.

It was the commitment to making it work.

There’s a tendency to think that better recordings come from more control.

More isolation. More precision. More refinement.

Sometimes they do.

But sometimes the opposite is true.

Sometimes the job isn’t to control the performance.

It’s to create the conditions where it can happen.

The Result

Great records don’t just come from ideas

They come from ideas executed properly

“She Sells Sanctuary” doesn’t sound laboured.

It doesn’t sound assembled.

It sounds like something that arrived intact.

Because, in a way, it did.

The performance was already there.

It just needed the right environment to come through.

What Steve changed wasn’t the vocal.

It was everything around it.

And once that changed, the performance didn’t need fixing.

It just needed capturing.

I wrote more about working with Steve Brown (producer of Wham!, The Cult, ABC, among others) here.

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

In recognition of Record Store Day 2026 (Saturday 18 April), this piece explores how the physical ritual of vinyl creates a deeper connection between artist and listener — and why that still matters.

So, is vinyl a new religion? Or the return of something we forgot how to do?

It’s easy to focus on the format. The object. The sound.

But that’s not really where the difference is.

The difference is in what happens around it.

The Ritual of Listening

You buy vinyl.
Not by accident.
Not because it appeared in a feed.
You go looking for that specific record.
Maybe you’ve been waiting for it. Weeks, sometimes longer.
You’ve heard about it somewhere. A name, a mention, a track passed around.
You go to a shop. Or you order it and wait for it to arrive.
When it does, you pay for it. Properly: an exchange, money for physical product.
Not a subscription. Not access.
You chose it.

Now you take it home.

Maybe you don’t play it straight away.
You wait until there’s time. Until things are quiet.
When you do first play it, it’s deliberate.
The record is in your hands. You feel its weight. Its size. You take in the cover.
You take the sleeve out. You look at it. Front, back. Names. Credits. Notes.
You open it carefully. Slide the record out of the inner sleeve. Hold it by the edges.
You can smell vinyl. Touch it. See its surface.

You place it on the turntable.

You lower the needle, carefully.

And then you listen.

Nothing else is happening.
No skipping. No checking anything. No half-attention.
The music has your attention — not a fraction of it, but all of it.

Sometimes you’re on your own. Sometimes there are other people there.
You don’t talk at first.
You listen.
Maybe seated. Maybe standing. Maybe moving and dancing.

And afterwards, maybe a conversation starts.
You mention something. A line. A sound. A moment.
The record is there, in your hands. The sleeve, the notes, the names.
It isn’t abstract.
It’s something you chose.
Something you waited for.
Something you made space for.
There’s a kind of exchange in that. An investment.
Direct. Unmistakable.
Between the person who made the music and the person listening.

What’s Missing

Now compare that to how most music is heard.

It’s already there.

No search. No waiting. No decision, really.

You don’t go to it. It arrives.

One track leads to another. Then another.

You skip. You return. You half-listen.

It sits alongside everything else — messages, notifications, other tabs.

The music is there, but your attention isn’t fully with it.

Nothing has been asked of you.

And because of that, not much is given back.

What This Changes

The way music is received shapes what it means.

Something changes when music has your full attention.

A ritual creates attention. Attention creates connection.

The components of ritual are: decision + anticipation + action

When someone listens like that, attentively, different things matter.

They hear more. They notice more.

Small details don’t pass by unnoticed.

The opening matters. The first sound. The first line.

The way something develops. The way it resolves.

Whether it holds up, or doesn’t.

There’s nowhere for the music to hide.

It either carries that attention, or it doesn’t.

And when it does, something else happens.

The connection is stronger.

Not because of scale, but because of focus.

It isn’t background. It isn’t incidental.

It’s chosen.

And that changes the relationship completely.

Maybe It’s Not Really About Vinyl

Maybe that’s just where it still happens.

The format (vinyl, CD, compact cassette) isn’t the point.

The ritual is.

The decision. The anticipation. The act of listening.

Choosing something and giving it your attention.

Not part of everything else. Not background.

Just this.

It’s easy to lose that.

Easier still to forget it was ever there.

But once you’ve experienced it, you recognise it immediately when it’s present —

and when it isn’t.

For everything vinyl, from one who really knows, look no further than of .

And, for a snapshot of where the music industry may be heading…

Unleashed & Unlimited

The Return of 1,000 True Fans

Read more

3 months ago · 6 likes · 8 comments · 🅝🅘🅒 🅑🅡🅘🅢🅒🅞🅔 🎙🎵🎸🖋🎥

Work

Let's get straight to the point!

I avoided watching It’s Never Over for a long time.

Partly because I thought I knew what it would be. Another rehash. The same narratives repeated, often inaccurately. The easy version of what happened.

It isn’t that.

It’s something much more grounded. More precise. Told by the people who knew him best — his mother, and the two women he was closest to. It feels close to the truth of who he was, without trying to turn it into something else.

I also expected the usual angle — unreleased material, positioned as revelation. It doesn’t lean on that either.

There’s a moment early on where Last Goodbye plays.

I hadn’t heard it for over a year.

The reaction was immediate. Exactly the same as the first time. That same feeling — the one I wrote about recently. It’s still there.

What the film reminded me of, more than anything, was the range of him.

Not just technically — although that’s obvious — but in the sense of presence. That combination of strength and vulnerability, control and abandon. You see it in different artists — Prince, Bowie, Michael Jackson — but in him it feels completely unfiltered.

The film doesn’t try to explain that.

It just lets you see it.

Worth your time.

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Work

Let's get straight to the point!

This article by grabbed my attention. Eight methods to avoid the algorithm and AI-generated musical slop, subdivided into thirty-six viable new music discovery pathways. My favourite?

“Go outside and find music!” (Method number 8.)

STVDIO+

36 ways to discover new music (without an algorithm)

STVDIO tracks the future of music. Helping 3,900+ artists, music industry professionals, founders and investors navigate music industry trends and behavioural shifts…

Read more

3 months ago · 278 likes · 32 comments · musicben

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Work

Last Goodbye

Released by Jeff Buckley in 1994, was the first time I’d heard this kind of exposure in a recording.

There’s nowhere to hide in this song.

You feel that almost immediately.

The first time I heard it, I had a strong reaction — stronger than I expected.

It felt like falling in love. Not with the person, but with the experience. The intensity, the lack of self-consciousness.

It felt almost sacred. As if something private had been opened up, and I’d been allowed to step inside.

And what’s stayed with me is that it still feels that way now.

I’ve listened to it hundreds of times. I listened again recently, after a long gap, and the reaction was the same.

It’s there from the opening bars.

The Feeling

It’s difficult to describe precisely, but “exposed” is the closest word I’ve found.

Not fragile. Not weak.

Just unguarded.

There’s no sense of anything being held back or shaped for effect. No distance between the feeling and the way it’s delivered.

You’re not being shown something.

You’re being let into it.

And that changes how you listen.

You lean in, almost without realising it. Not to analyse, but to stay with it.

Because it feels like if you look away, even for a moment, you might miss something that matters.

The Voice

For sure, part of this is his masterful lyric. The words penetrate deeply.

And, of course, it is also his voice.

Not just the extent of the range or the tone, but the way it’s used.

There’s no sense of it being managed. No attempt to smooth things out or present a more controlled version of what’s there.

It moves freely — sometimes delicate, sometimes forceful, often somewhere in between — but always directly connected to the feeling underneath it.

There’s no filter between the two.

And you hear that immediately.

"Music should be like making love. Sometimes you want it soft and tender, another time you want it hard and aggressive" — Jeff Buckley

What Isn’t There

But it isn’t just what’s there.

It’s what isn’t.

There’s space around everything.

Nothing fills it unnecessarily. Nothing is there to soften the edges or make the moment easier to take in.

The arrangement doesn’t try to protect the performance.

It leaves it exposed.

And because of that, every element carries more weight.

A small change feels significant.

A shift in intensity lands more clearly.

Silence — or near silence — becomes part of the experience.

You’re not being guided away from anything.

You’re being left with it.

Why It Lands

When everything is this open, there’s nothing to hide behind.

The song either holds your attention, or it doesn’t.

And here, it does — completely.

Not because it’s trying to impress, or overwhelm, or build gradually into something bigger.

But because it feels true from the start.

There’s a directness to it.

No distance between the intention and what you hear.

And that’s what creates the connection.

You don’t have to work to understand it.

You just recognise it.

Still There

What’s stayed with me is how little that feeling has changed.

Time hasn’t worn it down. Familiarity hasn’t reduced it.

If anything, thirty years later, it’s clearer now.

I know the song. I know what’s coming.

And still, from the opening bars, the reaction is the same.

That sense of being let into something unguarded.

That same moment of recognition.

It’s still there.

And you recognise it immediately.

If you want to go deeper into how this song was put together,
Andy Wallace’s Mixing Last Goodbye on Mix With The Masters
is worth your time.

Note on this ‘Under the Hood’ series:

These pieces aren’t intended as technical breakdowns. There are plenty of excellent resources that map out chords, structure, and production in detail.

This is something else — an attempt to stay closer to the experience of listening, and to explore why certain moments feel the way they do.

If you’re interested in the mechanics, it’s worth taking the time to find your own way into them. The process of working that out is part of the point.

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

Let's get straight to the point!

I honestly wonder what J. K. Rowling would make of these videos.
I think they are very cool...

‘Always’ is a very well-crafted song, and this great line gets to the core of the tale:

“I’ll always hate the boy because he has his mother’s eyes…”

‘ALWAYS’ (Live at Hogwarts) Severus Snape

‘FOURTEEN YEARS’ Bellatrix Lestrange

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Work

Late 1983. I was 21.
I was sitting in a publishing office near Marble Arch with Clive Black and my songwriting partner, Jaime Petrie.

The office wasn’t big. A desk, a few chairs, a cassette deck.

Clive slid a cassette into the machine and closed it.

“We’ve just signed this,” he said. “I think it should be the first single. What do you think?”

He pressed play.

The track started.

It was called Your Love Is King.

I’d never heard Sade before.

Within a few bars, I felt it. Not as a thought, but physically — a kind of certainty that arrived fully formed.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

There was no process behind it. No weighing up, no analysis. Just a clear, immediate recognition.

This is a hit.

At that point, no one knew who she was. Not really. The band had only been together a short time and had played a handful of gigs. She was essentially unknown.

What struck me wasn’t just the song, but the immediacy of it.

It felt complete.

There was no need to think about it, no need to hear it again. It didn’t build over time or reveal itself gradually. It arrived complete.

And with it, a kind of certainty that’s hard to explain but impossible to mistake.

There was nothing to discuss.

Some things are obvious.

Within a few bars, I knew.

Jaime (right) and I, circa 1983. (Photo by David Levine).
A track we wrote and recorded around this time: The River Song

Are you at a point with a song or a musical project where moving forward means making an important decision, yet one you cannot quite pinpoint?

If you’re in that position — where the issue isn’t lack of ideas, but knowing what actually matters — that’s exactly the kind of work I do in my Musical Crossroads Sessions.

Work

In late 1986, when I was twenty-three, my musical partner-in-crime, Jaime Petrie1 and I were both signed as singer-songwriters to Warner Chappell. Our original A&R guy, the one who signed us, was Clive Black, Don Black’s son.

We were based in West London — Jaime in Shepherds Bush, and I was (I think temporarily) in Maidavale.

Jaime and I were writing together and separately. We were rehearsing regularly with a pool of musicians, and recording with several producers, trying out ideas, playing occasional gigs, and working on our sound.

We were in the preliminary stages of being ‘managed’ by an up-and-coming label manager and publisher named Mark Beder. Our lawyer back then was the late great Alexis Grower.

Although at that time Jaime and I had never officially commercially released any of our own material, we had been in negotiations with several major record companies. In particular, we were in the advanced stages of signing a multi-album deal, through Mark Dean (founder and label manager of Innervision Records, Wham’s original label. At the time Mark was at Virgin Records, deeply involved with two of their subsidiary labels — Siren Records and Virgin 10 (aka 10 Records).

One very wet and dreary autumn weekend, just before we finally signed our album deal with Siren Records, Jaime and I found ourselves, very last minute, in the legendary West London Townhouse Studios, with the equally if not more legendary, and very charming British, audio engineer and record producer — Mr Steve Brown

For a fuller ‘back-in-the-day’taste perhaps also read these articles:

Steve Brown

Prolific British producer and engineer.
Born 16 January 1955 — died 31 December 2020.

Mr Brown should need no introduction. Nevertheless, here goes.

Firstly, I met Steve in 1982, when he recorded and produced the UK number-one album Fantastic for Wham! — which included three top-five singles in the UK. That in and of itself should be enough to inform you of Steve’s calibre, which is international multi-platinum award-winning.

I was Steve’s assistant engineer for the Fantastic album. I write about this experience in a four-part article starting here…

As I mention in these articles Steve became a close friend and, for a while was like a mentor to both myself and Jaime. And actually, for me at least, he felt a bit like an older brother. I was constantly doing dumb-twenty-year-old shit, and Steve — who must have been in his very late twenties at the time — on very many occasions either turned a blind eye, bailed me out, pointed me in a better direction, or told me what for. However, he always did this with his own very kind gentlemanly style — with a grin and glint in his eye, and laugh and arm round the shoulder at the end of it all.

A lot of my dumb shit from the 80s is a blur now, but I remember on one occasion, in early 1985, for all intents and purposes, I stole Steve’s car. Or at least I went AWOL for a day or so, after he had, very nervously, against his better judgement, agreed to lend it to me for just an hour or two, so that I could move something, from one place to another — I think it was from Acton, in West London, to somewhere near where I came from in the Surrey Hills area. So about a three-hour round trip maximum.

Steve had a bright-red Alfa Romeo GTV6. He lived near Clapham Common, where his car was parked, and he simply wasn’t using it at all because he would be in a recording studio close by almost 24/7.

So, the plan (or at least the one that Steve agreed to) was that I’d come to meet him at Olympic Studios in Barnes, South West London, he’d give me the car’s keys, I’d then go to Clapham Common, to his street, get the car, drive to Acton (about a twenty-five-minute drive), get my stuff, drive to the Surrey Hills (down the A3, just less than an hour), unload, and then come immediately back, park the car near his flat again, and then get the keys back to him at the studio in Barnes… Steve underlined that it didn’t really matter to him when, because he was going to be at Olympic almost all the time for perhaps the next week, and he didn’t need the car (he was getting taxis), BUT the agreed plan was: be careful, don’t drive fast, return the car and the keys ASAP.

Anyway the first stages of the plan, well, apart from the don’t drive fast bit, went to plan, perfectly.

The final part went a little pear-shaped. I was aged about twenty-two. And that Alfa GTV6 was something else, just amazing to drive — especially on the A3 (a fast straightish road, with some smooth curves), which back in those days had far less traffic. When I got home to Surrey, I dropped off the stuff I needed to move, and then, exhilarated by my fast A3 drive, went directly to meet some mates in a local pub, just for a quick catchup. Of course, I showed them Steve’s GTV6. Of course, they suggested we go for a drive, go somewhere and put it through its paces, maybe down to Brighton and back. Of course, I did the math in my head — I could probably do this and get back to London in time — one thing led to another, and late the following morning I finally headed back up to Clapham Common. I parked Steve’s GTV6. And then went straight to Olympic to give Steve the keys — which I did as nonchalantly and as indirectly as possible, at the studio’s reception area (saying I didn’t want to disturb Steve’s recording session), leaving the keys in an envelope with a message to give them to Steve ASAP, thus avoiding any direct conversation with Steve himself… and then I immediately split. Mission accomplished. Nobody was any the wiser… or so I thought…

What I hadn’t factored into my, well, not plan — because I never planned this London to Brighton Alfa GTV6 road trip — what I hadn’t included in my young-dumb thought process was that Steve knew the mileage of the car. He had it noted down, and there were now a few hundred unexplained miles, which, a few days later, he asked me to explain… So, busted, I had to ‘fess up. Steve was pretty stern with me about it, he was no push-over, however, in the end, he was joking about it, and gave me a hug as I was leaving. That’s how he was — bighearted, generous, and fun. He was a kind man.

During my road trip, Steve was at Olympic Studios, in Barnes producing what would become one of the most iconic (Gothic) Rock singles of the 80s — the anthemic “She Sells Sanctuary” by The Cult. By the way, this was almost forty years ago to the day (“She Sells Sanctuary” was recorded between 11th to 15th March 1985).

A few years before Steve had suggested to me to go and audition as the bass player (it could have been just as a stand-in bass player, for a tour or some gigs) for a Gothic Rock band he was friends with. At the time I don’t think they were called The Cult, I think they were called The Death Cult or The Southern Death Cult. Steve suggested this audition because he could sense I was torn between working in a recording studio, as an audio engineer, and wanting to be much more actively involved in playing music live and recording my own material, as an active contributing member of a band. At that time, I’d just met Jaime Petrie, and he and I had started writing and recording songs together. Besides, I wasn’t a Goth, so I passed on the bass player audition offer.

Steve had kept contact with The Cult, and during 1985 he produced and recorded their “Love” album — the album that launched them internationally — mainly in the residential Jacobs Studios in Farnham, Surrey. However, “She Sells Sanctuary” was recorded some months earlier in Olympic Studios, in Barnes, West London. In a conversation, Steve explained to me part of the reason why.

Basically, Steve had a hunch about something, and he wanted to experiment and try out an idea.

Steve had been to several of The Cult’s rehearsal sessions. He’d also seen them perform live. He’d agreed to produce their next album. Subsequently, during some try-out recording sessions with them, Steve noticed that the singer, Ian Astbury, was the one struggling with recording certain songs. To be very clear, Steve said that Ian wasn’t struggling with technical stuff, like the tuning or phrasing, or remembering the lyrics or the arrangement. No, no. Ian was struggling with delivering the performance he himself wanted. What he was delivering was good, but he knew he could do better, and was getting frustrated.

In particular, he wanted to perform the songs like he was in front of an audience, moving around, on and off the mic. Being in a claustrophobic vocal booth with cabled headphones, well, it was just destroying the vibe for him. The test recordings didn’t capture anywhere near the vocal energy the songs had when The Cult had performed them together live in rehearsals.

Steve, ever the ideas man and proactive facilitator, had a plan. It was both very technical and extremely creative.

Steve and the band felt that “She Sells Sanctuary” stood out as perhaps the strongest song out of the proposed material for their planned album.

Early in 1985, before recording the entire album (which would become The Cult’s “Love” album) Steve suggested recording that song, “She Sells Sanctuary” on its own at Olympic Studios in Barnes.

The next bit I can’t remember clearly, I’m not sure if Steve set up a vocal microphone area for Ian in the actual recording studio control room, or in the studio live area.

However, the main point is that Steve ditched the normal practice of using headphones, in a vocal isolation booth, whilst the vocalist overdubbed their lead vocal performance.

Instead, Steve set up a pair of studio reference monitors (I think he said they were Yamaha NS10Ms) in a large-ish open space (so not an enclosed booth), for Ian to be able to hear the song’s backing track (so the drum, bass and guitar parts) without needing to use headphones. He positioned the microphone and the pair of speakers, which were wired up out of phase, in such a way that the signal from one speaker cancelled out the signal from the other, meaning that Ian could hear the backing track but it did NOT get picked up by the vocal microphone, which only captured Ian’s vocal. This meant that Steve had more or less simulated what Ian would hear if he was singing live on stage to an audience. And there was no need for any cabled over-ear headphones, or screen-baffles, or vocal booth, so Ian could move around freely, just like in a live performance.

Today, in 2025, you can easily do this in seconds, automatically, with advanced algorithms and AI — just think karaoke apps. But back in 1985 don’t underestimate just how technically difficult this was to set up! And most audio engineers wouldn’t even know this was possible to achieve, let alone do it. To work, this setup has to be exact. And this kind of attention to detail, technical brilliance and thinking outside of the box is exactly what Steve Brown was known for. He knew recording equipment and techniques inside out. He was innovative. He would spend hours twiddling knobs and adjusting mic positions, experimenting and perfecting— it had to be perfect.

Although I did not personally witness this particular setup, I worked with Steve in similar situations, and I can picture him, almost constantly smoking a Marlboro Light, totally focussed on the equipment he was adjusting, constantly listening to and checking the outcome of his endeavours. Sometimes this would take several hours, Steve wouldn’t quit until he was satisfied.

For the “She Sells Sanctuary” vocal setup the final touch was to get dozens of candles, candle sticks, some Goth paraphernalia (I’m not sure exactly what, but think faux skulls, ornamental crosses and such), and various bits of material — heavy curtains and the like — and create a Gothic candlelit alter-type setting.

So, in a nutshell, Steve’s idea — which he achieved — was that Ian could perform unhindered by cumbersome headphones and annoying cables, in an almost live Goth nightclub venue atmosphere. He could move freely, and hear his own voice and the music, just like being on stage, through stage monitor wedges.

Steve recounted that it took several attempts on his end to get it technically perfect. He had to figure out the most suitable microphone (I think he said he chose a Neumann U47) and microphone pickup pattern, the best settings for some of the phase switches and settings on the console, and adjust the position of the out-of-phase pair of speakers in relation to the microphone… however, after a bit of trial and error he eventually found the optimum set up that gave him the sweet spot he needed, so the microphone picked up virtually none of the signal coming through Ian’s monitor speakers. Trust me, when I say again, this is not easy to achieve, and demonstrates Steve’s technical brilliance and dogged persistence and commitment to perfection — he wanted to capture a perfect vocal performance from Ian…

And the rest is history. “She Sells Sanctuary” was then, and still is now, a landmark in Rock history. The stunning clarity and power of the recording and production (Steve Brown’s trademark). The brilliant simplicity of the songwriting. The incredible musical performance of the entire band. And, of course, Ian Astbury’s beyond-awesome vocal delivery. Steve Brown captured it all — again, producing, recording and delivering a hit single and a hit album, again, like he did with Wham! ABC, The Manic Street Preachers, The Alarm, The Pogues, Alison Moyet and Freddie Mercury, to name but a few.

Townhouse Studios

Anyway, during 1986, Jaime Petrie and I asked Mark Dean (the A&R guy who we were in negotiations with, to sign a recording contract) to pay for us to do some recordings with Steve Brown producing, for us to see how it was for us working together.

I was totally 100% up for this idea. I’m certain Jaime was too, he and Steve got on amazingly well. In my mind’s eye, for these tryout recordings, I envisaged engineering for Steve (and this is how it worked out), with Steve producing, however with a massive amount of input from Jaime and me. So kind of the three of us co-producing together (again, this is kind of what happened, however, Steve was without doubt the one who influenced the recordings the most and had the final say).

What neither Jaime nor I had factored in, was the history between Mark Dean and Steve Brown. I don’t think Steve had a problem with Mark, however, unbeknownst to Jaime and I, Mark harboured resentment towards Steve due to the acrimonious split between Wham! and their original label, Innervision Records, of which Mark was the founder. Although he didn’t show it at the time, Mark had no intention of agreeing to have Steve Brown as the producer of our first album. As I said, at the time, before any recording contract had been signed, Mark agreed to pay for the tryout sessions with Steve and appeared to be totally open and up for the idea. However, that’s not how things turned out, but that’s totally another story…

In total, I think Jaime and I recorded five of our songs with Steve producing. As far as I know, none of the two-inch twenty-four-track master tapes survived, they’ve all been either lost, or destroyed, or remain in storage in some record company archive somewhere.

Of those five recordings only one was ever totally finished, complete with final mixes… and only metal cassette reference versions of those mixes survived. There were also two other songs that got to the mixing stage, however, there were some glaring gaps and errors in the recordings that needed re-working.

And that brings me back to what I mentioned in the introduction to this post…

One very wet and dreary autumn weekend, just before we finally signed our album deal with Siren Records, Jaime and I found ourselves, very last minute, in the legendary West London Townhouse Studios, with the equally if not more legendary, and very British, audio engineer and record producer — Mr Steve Brown…

Jaime and I seemed to be constantly busy. We were in rehearsal studios almost every day working with our band. If we were not rehearsing there always seemed to be something else we had to do. Mark Dean wanted us to do try-outs with photographers for marketing materials, or for us to record demos of new material, he wanted us to churn out more and more songs. We also had some finished recordings for which we were working on ideas for videos. We’d made a couple of videos ourselves, to show our ideas… so there was hardly any free time and Jaime and I were both almost always sleep-deprived due to one thing or another — it was great, full on, but amazing.

Then, late in the week, like Thursday afternoon or Friday morning, Steve contacted us saying that there had been a last-minute cancellation at Townhouse Studios, in Goldhawk Road, Shepherds Bush, that weekend. He could book two or three days for virtually nothing because it was so last minute, he knew the studio manager, and he could get this amazing deal. Were we in? Did we want to go in last minute and finish a couple of tracks (so do the final mixes, from twenty-four-track multitrack down on to two-track stereo masters)? I was exhausted from a week in rehearsals, but of course, I was in. Same for Jaime, beyond knackered, but totally up for this.

However, truth be known, the next morning I felt a bit differently. Stupidly, I’d stayed up late the evening before, and had quite a bit to drink and smoke. Now, early on Saturday morning, head splitting from a hangover, I headed to 140 Goldhawk Road, Shepherds Bush, to The Town House, which even back then, in 1986, was legendary. It had to be one of the most sought-after studios in London. Normally it was booked up for many months in advance, like at least half a year or more. So this last-minute opportunity was incredibly lucky, like gold dust.

Jaime lived locally, just around the corner, so I’d stayed at his flat the night before, which is where the drinking and smoking had happened. That morning Jaime was chipper and looked as fresh as a daisy. He also looked well-presented, dressed very cooly as usual. He had one of these RocknRolla constitutions that didn’t even seem to get dented by a few too many drinks or yet another spliff. Different story if he’d had too much hard liquor, like half a bottle of Whisky or more, however, as I say that’s another story, and not for here.

Anyway, there we were, Jaime, Mr Brown, and me, in one of the two control rooms at The Town House. I should’ve felt excited, but at best I felt subdued, my head really hurt. I didn’t even feel that inquisitive about The Town House, about actually being there, doing a mixing session there, on tracks I’d written (or co-written) and recorded. I should have felt exhilarated, but it had already been a long week, and this was just another dreary rainy London day, and I could have done with some Surrey Hills countryside, a walk, and some fresh air. But I was stuck inside yet again, in a studio control room, without windows, with a brutal fucking hangover, nope, I wasn’t happy…

I didn’t even do my usual snoop-around the reception area of a new (to me) studio — you can learn a lot in reception, who’s been in recently, who’s in now, who’s coming in soon…

And Jaime being so chipper and chirpy really wasn’t helping… how the fuck did he look so fresh-faced, bastard…

And then he and Steve started with some jovial very loud banter… it was way too early for this, my head was banging, and already this was getting too much for me… I was officially in a bad mood…

We had from like tenish on Saturday morning until lunchtime or so the following Monday, and Steve wanted to attempt to mix three of the tracks we had recorded with him. That’s a tall order. Usually, a mix would take at least a whole day, normally coming back in the next day with fresh ears to double-check everything and do so last-minute tweaks here and there. With an automated mixing console (which we had, an SSL, I don’t recall exactly which model or version), in theory (if the automation worked well) this was all easily doable. But still, two-and-half days for three final mixes was tight.

So, hungover and in a bloody bad mood, I got my head down into work mode. I helped align the multi-tracks, and then got our two-inch masters laced onto the machine. After this, I made sure the console was zeroed (so, all the equalisation on all the channels was set at zero etc), and then I patched up a whole bunch of outboard signal processors for Steve.

I knew for sure that at some point, soon after starting the session, Steve would start doing an approximate track balance and start adjusting equalisation. So, I knew I could probably go and get my head down on the sofa in the studio lounge for an hour or so… bliss…

Then at some point after lunchtime, I could feel a low vibration through the floor, it was someone in the other studio (there were two at The Townhouse) listening to something really loud. I could not hear it, I could feel it. Someone else was working there that weekend.

Anyway, even after a thirty-minute or so snooze in the lounge, I was still hungover and still in a very bad mood. I needed a piss, so I headed to the gents.

The men’s toilet at The Townhouse was just like a typical London pub’s gents. It was basic, painted a very dark colour, with very dim lights, and it had a typical Armitage-Shanks shared urinal — where maybe three men could stand side-by-side taking a piss.

I stood in front of it, unzipped, got my chap out, and began to piss. As I did the door opened and someone else walked in. They approached the urinal, so they were slightly behind me. As this guy unzipped he simultaneously, hawked up what sounded like a large quantity of phlegm into his mouth, and as he stepped forward on final approach to the urinal, with his chap in his hand, he spat it out with quite some force onto the floor right next to my foot (so not gently into his side of the urinal but flobbed on to my floor space).

This was too much for me. I was already in a fucking bad mood, and my head ached excruciatingly. Without thinking I turned towards this guy, dick in hand, and yelled out…

“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN!”

However, my face immediately changed from incensed anger to smiling and excited, and I found myself saying “Johnny! Unbelievable! You’re Johnny Rotten.”

To which John Lydon, dick in hand, scoffed back “I know!”

Anyway, I turned back to my business, tried to regain my composure, and basically in a very few words as I finished and zipped up, told Johnny that I was a huge fan, and had been since I was a teenager. And that it was a pleasure to meet him.

“Right on, man.” was the reply, and I decided it probably best not to offer him my hand just then…

I went back to the studio control room and told Jaime and Steve who I‘d just met and how. They both laughed and then Steve explained how he’d managed to get the studio so cheap that weekend. I have to reiterate The Townhouse was probably one of the top five sought-after studios in London (so the world) at the time.

PiL were booked in there recording something. And actually, I don’t know exactly what. I tried to research it a bit, for example on Discogs, and I couldn’t find any reference to anything recorded by PiL at TownHouse around that time.

But, here’s the thing. A very big name was also booked into The Townhouse at the same time as PiL, someone very famous, an international megastar. And they had basically said they would not set foot in the studio complex whilst Johhny Rotten and PiL were on the premises. And they put pressure on The Townhouse to cancel PiL’s booking.

The Townhouse had refused to be pressured into doing this, so this megastar had pulled their booking last minute. Hence, the last-minute free studio time, at a rock-bottom price.

Steve explained that this happened to PiL a lot. Unbelievably, there was a lot of snobbery in the music industry back then. And no, I do not recall the name of the megastar.

Anyway, we got back to work, and that weekend Steve mixed three of the tracks we’d recorded with him. The other two never got finished. And, as I said, all that I had after these Townhouse mix sessions was a metal cassette of the three mixes.

Here they are below.

Love Peace and Understanding — this track is like 90% finished. It would have needed a few easily doable overdubs and repairs

The River Song — same for this track, 90% finished, it needed a few overdubs and repairs here and there.

Walking with the King — this one, well, I think we just about nailed it. Tight. Bright. Punchy. Energetic. It’s got Steve Brown written all over it.

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