Making Hammers With Art: The Producer of House and Techno

By Edward Wright

A Thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree Doctor of Philosophy

In Musicology Graduate Department of the Faculty of Music

University of Toronto

© Copyright by Edward Wright 2017

ii

Making Hammers With Art: The Producer of House and Techno

Edward Wright

Doctor of Philosophy in Musicology

Faculty of Music University of Toronto

2017

Abstract

My dissertation examines how producers of house and techno —two electronic dance music

(EDM) genres— negotiate notions of artistry, professionalism, and authorship through their

production practice. Producers of house and techno occupy a distinctive position where the

success and recognition that their productions receive is dependent on their ability to create

tracks (individual recordings) that facilitate DJ performances. As a result, producers

simultaneously create tracks and tools, standalone pieces for dedicated listening that double

as the functional materials for other musicians. In order to assert their professionalism and

artistry producers adopt an experimental production practice centred on sound design. This

experimental process requires a mastery of sound technologies and reflects the aesthetic

legacies that define what it means to be a producer. A close study of creative practice

provides a window into how individuals navigate complicated and, at times, conflicting

notions of what it means to be a professional artist.

iii The first half of my dissertation is concerned with the context that informs production

practice. Beginning with a discussion of the musical characteristics of house and techno, I

provide a primer for those uninitiated in the intertwined histories and styles of these two

important genres. This is followed by a discussion of German modernism, disco, and

Afrofuturism, which are identified as the chief aesthetics legacies that shape house and

techno production. I then consider the material conditions and challenges producers face as

working musicians. Drawing from in-studio fieldwork conducted in Berlin and Toronto, the

latter half of my dissertation explores production practice through an examination of sound

design that includes a discussion of synthesis, sampling, sequencing, mixing, and

automation. I conclude that the producer’s experimental production practice, which relies on

the utility of experimentation to yield artistic and functional tracks, is what allows them to

assert their nuanced professional identity.

iv

Acknowledgements I am grateful for the support I received from Social Sciences and Humanities Research

Council of Canada, the Ontario Graduate Scholarship, and the University of Toronto’s

Graduate Scholarship, for which my research would not be possible.

The University of Toronto’s Faculty of Music provided a nurturing and welcoming

atmosphere. I am thankful for the support of my advisor and supervisor Dr. Ken McLeod.

His seminars first introduced me to the study of popular music and his encouragement gave

me the confidence to complete this project. His mentorship has been instrumental and his

feedback played a vital role in my growth as a writer and as a researcher. I am grateful to my

Supervisory Committee members Dr. Jeff Packman and Dr. Sherry Lee. Over the past four

years they each provided a wealth of resources with regards to my research and our

discussions were always constructive and insightful. I am thankful for my external appraiser

Dr. Jay Hodgson, whose writings and presentations on recording practice further motivated

my initial interests in studying production. I am also appreciative of Dr. Josh Pilzer, my

internal appraiser. His musitopias seminar was an incubator for many of my ideas regarding

house and techno production. Additionally, I want to thank Dr. Mary Ann Parker for greatly

contributing to my enjoyable time at the University of Toronto.

I am thankful for my great friends and colleagues at the University of Toronto. Scott

Hanenberg, Gabby Jiménez, Rebekah Lobosco, Caitlin Martinkus, Patrick Nickleson, and

Emily Wang were always helpful, patient, and constructive. Through hours of group editing

v they gave me the confidence to pursue my ideas. I am grateful for their friendship. My

friends Max Risen, Ari Cheskes, and Sam Grant were also of great assistance. They pushed

me to be a better communicator and continually asked the most challenging questions.

My dissertation relies heavily on the support of the numerous producers, promoters,

and DJs. These individuals, listed at the end of my dissertation, were all extremely generous

with their time and so very patient with my requests. In particular, Nathan Micay (Bwana)

and Brian Wong (Gingy) were invaluable resources. I have spoken to them countless times

over the past four years, and they have always been thoughtful and encouraging. This

project would be impossible without their assistance. I greatly appreciate their contributions

and am happy to call them friends.

I am thankful for the support of my brothers Matthew and Henry, my cousin Andrew,

and my mother and father, Gail and Bruce. They provided endless encouragement and

always pushed me towards clarity. My mother, in particular, was my closest editor. She has

read more words of mine than any person I will ever imagine, and for that I am appreciative

and sorry.

Finally, I am eternally indebted to my partner Natalya. As an editor, friend, and

partner she lived through the process of this dissertation as much as anyone. She provided

care and love and allowed my life to make sense. Building a life with her has made this

dissertation possible and without her I would lack the confidence and focus needed to

complete such an endeavour.

vi

Table of Contents

Abstract ................................................................................................................................... ii Acknowledgements ................................................................................................................. iv Table of Contents ................................................................................................................... vi List of Figures, Audio Examples and Tables .................................................................... viii Introduction ............................................................................................................................. 1

Production as Process ...................................................................................................................... 1 Chapter Outline ................................................................................................................................ 7 Surveying the literature ................................................................................................................. 10 Where’s The Groove? .................................................................................................................... 22

Chapter 1 ................................................................................................................................ 25 House and Techno ................................................................................................................. 25

Genre ............................................................................................................................................... 28 Defining House and Techno: Style and Affect ............................................................................. 33 History and Historiography .......................................................................................................... 52 Conclusion ....................................................................................................................................... 77

Chapter 2 ................................................................................................................................ 79 German Modernism, Disco, Afrofuturism: House and Techno’s Aesthetic Heritage .... 79

German Modernism ....................................................................................................................... 80 Disco ................................................................................................................................................. 89 Afrofuturism ................................................................................................................................... 98 Conclusion ..................................................................................................................................... 122

Chapter 3 .............................................................................................................................. 125 The Working Producer ....................................................................................................... 125

Defining the Working Producer .................................................................................................. 126 Context .......................................................................................................................................... 130

Toronto ....................................................................................................................................... 135 Berlin .......................................................................................................................................... 144

Working as a Producer ................................................................................................................ 150 Step 1. Production ...................................................................................................................... 153 Step 2. Distribution and Organization ........................................................................................ 154 Step 3. Local to International ..................................................................................................... 159 Step 4. The Circuit ..................................................................................................................... 161 Step 5. Maintain and Diversify .................................................................................................. 163

Challenges ..................................................................................................................................... 165 Gender ........................................................................................................................................ 169

vii

Conclusion ..................................................................................................................................... 172 Chapter 4 .............................................................................................................................. 175 Production Practice ............................................................................................................. 175

Method ........................................................................................................................................... 175 Defining Sound Design ................................................................................................................. 180 The Importance of Sound Design ................................................................................................ 185

Commercial Viability ................................................................................................................. 186 Professionalism .......................................................................................................................... 195 History ........................................................................................................................................ 198

Studio Set Up ................................................................................................................................. 201 Workflow ....................................................................................................................................... 213 Performing Experiments ............................................................................................................. 220

Chapter 5 .............................................................................................................................. 226 Experimentation and Sound Design in Practice ............................................................... 226

Synthesis ........................................................................................................................................ 227 Sampling ........................................................................................................................................ 245 Step Sequencing and Programming ............................................................................................ 262 Mixing, Processing, Space, Automation ..................................................................................... 273

Compression and Amplification ................................................................................................ 274 Equalizing and Filtering ............................................................................................................. 278 Delay .......................................................................................................................................... 281 Stereo field Management, Panning, and Reverb ........................................................................ 288 Automation ................................................................................................................................. 297

Conclusion ..................................................................................................................................... 302 Conclusion ............................................................................................................................ 304

Practice, Text, Scene ..................................................................................................................... 310 Becoming Techno Rebels ............................................................................................................. 313 Moving Forward ........................................................................................................................... 316

Bibliography ........................................................................................................................ 319 Discography ......................................................................................................................... 330 Cited Interviews ................................................................................................................... 331 Cited Participants ................................................................................................................ 332

viii

List of Figures, Audio Examples and Tables

Figures 1.1 Generic house groove ............... ................................................................................ 38 1.2 Generic techno groove ............................................................................................... 38 2.1. Jeff Mills ................................................................................................................ 117 2.2 Jeff Mills with his drum machine ............................................................................ 117 2.3 Transcription of “Ride” by Robert Hood ................................................................ 119 2.4 Ableton Live transcription of automation in “Ride” ............................................... 120 4.1 DJ Tech Tools on digital sequencers ....................................................................... 178 4.2Attack Magazine on thumping techno ..................................................................... 179 4.3 Bass presets in Ableton Live ................................................................................... 183 4.4 Korg’s Minilogue synthesizer ................................................................................. 185 4.5 Ableton Live in arrangement view .......................................................................... 204 4.6 Ableton Live in session view .................................................................................. 205 4.7 Ableton’s Push controller ........................................................................................ 206 4.8 Ableton’s Push controller in studio ......................................................................... 207 4.9 Bwana’s home studio in Toronto ............................................................................ 208 4.10 A selection of Handwerk Audio’s synthesizers .................................................... 210 4.11 A very messy modular synthesizer ........................................................................ 212 4.12 A digital mapping of modules from Modulargrid.net ........................................... 213 5.1 Piano roll interface in Ableton Live ........................................................................ 227 5.2 Bazille Soft-Synth ................................................................................................... 228 5.3. 1955 Mixtur- Trautonium ....................................................................................... 229 5.4 The Roland TB-303 bass synthesizer ...................................................................... 234 5.5 A comparison of the TR808 and the TR8 drum machines ...................................... 236 5.6 Mike Shannon’s modular synthesizer ..................................................................... 244 5.7 Ratcliffe’s typology of sampled material within EDM ........................................... 247 5.8 Ableton Live’s “Simpler” ........................................................................................ 249 5.9 The Akai 2000 digital sampler ................................................................................ 251 5.10 The E-Mu System SP1200 .................................................................................... 251 5.11 The Roland 808 Drum machine ............................................................................ 266 5.12 The Impulse Tracker by Jeffrey Lin ...................................................................... 269 5.13 The Black Lion Audio AGB Compressor ............................................................. 274 5.14 A compressor in Ableton Live .............................................................................. 275 5.15 Apollo twin interface ............................................................................................. 277 5.16 Ableton Live’s 8 Band Equalizer .......................................................................... 279 5.17 Ableton digital delay ............................................................................................. 283 5.18 Digital delay pedal ................................................................................................ 283 5.19 Roland Re-201 Space Echo ................................................................................... 284 5.20 Piano roll inputted rhythm ..................................................................................... 284

ix 5.21.1 Rhythm for audio example 5.11.1 ...................................................................... 285 5.21.2 Transcription of rhythm from example 5.11.1 ................................................... 285 5.21.3 Interlocking delay rhythm .................................................................................. 286 5.22 The chopper autopan preset in Ableton Live ........................................................ 289 5.23 The utility function in Ableton Live ..................................................................... 291 5.24 Reverb presets in Ableton live .............................................................................. 293 5.25 Reverb module in Ableton Live ............................................................................ 294 5.26 Automation in Ableton Live ................................................................................. 299

Audio Examples1 4.1 Percussion Example before Amplification 4.2 Percussion Example after Amplification 5.1 LPF Opening and Closing 5.2.1 EQ8 Bell Filter 5.3 808 Kick-Drum 5.4 808 Cowbell 5.5 Kick Drum Layering 5,6 Kick Drum and Bass 5.7 Kick Drum and Bass with side chaining 5.8 EQ separating bass and kick drum 5.9 Filter use in “Cosmonaut” by Benjamin Damage 5.10 Delay creating 16th notes 5.11.1 Hi-hat delay creates interlocked rhythm 5.11.2 Hi-hat pattern without delay 5.11.3 Delay theme in “Erotic Discourse” by Paul Woolford 5.12.1 Delay as a fade out in “Beats Me” by Boddika 5.12.2 Delay as a build in “Bad Ass” by Pirupa. 5.13 Widening sound with the Ableton Live’s utility effect 5.14 Expanding reverb applied to a snare hit 5.15 Delay and reverb in “Black on Black” by Scuba 5.16 Reverb in “Suffering Ones” (Gingy and Bordello remix) by Deepchild

Tables

1.1 Stylistic characteristics of house and techno music………………………………....42

1 Audio examples are available at https://soundcloud.com/user-131686918/sets.

1

Introduction “Closer to an architect or draughtsman, the house auteur is absent from his own creation; house tracks are less like artworks, in the expressive sense, than vehicles or rhythmic engines that take the dancer on a ride.”1 Simon Reynolds “I’m not a DJ. I am a producer. I DJ for money, ‘cos I get paid for it.”2 Todd Terry

Production as Process

My dissertation examines how producers of house and techno —two electronic dance music

(EDM) genres— negotiate notions of artistry, professionalism, and authorship through their

production practice. The context in which production occurs is informed by numerous

histories, aesthetic legacies, and material conditions. This context complicates the producer’s

status as an artist and situates their production practice as the primary site for asserting

artistic and professional identity. As a result, producers adopt an experimental production

practice that demonstrates a mastery of numerous recording and production technologies. In

studying production practice I explore how creative professionals navigate challenging, and,

at times, conflicting notions of what it means to be a professional artist through their

practice.

In creating their tracks, producers of house and techno rely on experimental practices

in sound design. These practices are informed by the legacies of German modernism, disco,

and Afrofuturism. Production practice is also shaped by the scene-specific economies which

position production as subservient to DJ performance. For all but a few, the sales of

1 Simon Reynolds, Energy Flash, (London: Picador, 1998), 22. 2 Bill Brewster and Frank Broughton, Last Night a DJ Saved My Life, (London: Headline Press, 2014), 530.

2 productions are not sufficient to generate a living wage. Instead, producers depend on their

own DJ performances to earn income. The ability to secure bookings is predicated on their

popularity among the general population, scene-members, and other producers and DJs.

However, as so much of house and techno music consumption occurs at clubs or festivals,

the producer’s ability to cultivate interest among these individuals is based on the popularity

of their tracks with other DJs. As such, producers are always in the position of making tracks

and tools, works of art and functional building blocks for other musicians. This position is

compounded by house and techno’s shared history, which through its connections to afro-

diasporic and European musical practices conflates notions of what it means to be an artist,

and what types of musical activities constitute as artistic endeavours.

Scholars have long sought to understand how artists and the individuals that consume

their creations negotiate notions of artistry, authorship and professionalism.3 These studies,

such as those by Michel Foucault, Pierre Bourdieu, Peterson and White, and Janet Wolff,

demonstrate how an understanding of artists, their labour, and their creations can extend

beyond the close study of works and biographical research.4 In different ways, they each

argue for a more discursive and sociological approach that contextualizes artists inside

networks that determine the artists’ social standing and the value of their creations. Broadly

following in this trajectory, my dissertation continues to question how producers of house

and techno, artists in all but name, negotiate notions of artistry, authorship, and

3 Richard A. Peterson and Howard G. White, “The Simplex Located in Art Worlds,” Urban Life 7, no. 4,

(1979): 411–439; Janet Wolff, The Social Production of Art, (London: Macmillan, 1981); Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production, edited by R. Johnson, (New York: Columbia Press, 1993); Michel Foucault, “What is an Author?,” Aesthetics, Method, and Epistemology ed. James D. Faubion, trans. Robert Hurlet, (New York: New York Press 1998): 205–222.

4 Ibid.

3 professionalism. Although I integrate some of these aforementioned approaches into my

research, my dissertation questions how these notions are negotiated by a relatively small

group of individuals. As such, while I understand how my dissertation fits into the

overarching study of the artist in society, my impetuous for undertaking this course of

research is centred more directly on musicological questions regarding how professional

creators of music inside the genres of house and techno assert their professional identity

through production practice.

I initially became familiar with EDM in 2007 when I began listening to podcasts by

well-known EDM DJs. At the time I was still relatively uninitiated with EDM and had not

pursued any engagement beyond the occasional listening. This changed in 2009 when I

began attending large EDM events in Toronto. These events were over-the-top

extravaganzas, performances taking place at large “super” clubs that featured all the pomp

and excess often satirized by EDM’s most stereotypical critics.5 Like many listeners, my

initial interest in EDM eventually led me towards house and techno, two genres associated

less with Top 40 North American popular music, and more closely linked to underground

and European subcultures. In the years that followed I increasingly became more invested in

5 Ranging from Saturday Night Live skits, to numerous online videos lampooning DJ performance, individuals and media members have long questioned the authenticity and musicianship of EDM creators. Frequent criticisms of EDM attack it for lacking musicality and authenticity. These attacks often focus on the excesses of EDM events. Indeed, many EDM events rely on extra-musical stimulation. This includes: elaborate lighting rigs; smoke machines; confetti canons; and even the throwing of props (ranging from inflatable beach balls to birthday cakes) into the crowd. Such criticism is often combined with the suggestions that DJs “just press play” and that audience members are too intoxicated or uninterested to even care about the music. A summation of many of these criticisms can be found in Simon Reynolds, “Hanging at Hard Summer,” Resident Advisor, July 5 2013, accessed June 2017, https://www.residentadvisor.net/features/1879. Another attack on EDM’s lack of musicianship is found in the celebrity DJ and Producer Deadmau5’s famous Tumblr [sic] post in which he addressed the lack of musicianship in DJ performance. Although the post has since been deleted, a reproduction of the post along with a discussion of its most contentious ideas is found on the website DJ Tech Tools. Ean Golden, “Is Deadmau5 Right? The ‘We All Hit Play’ Debate, DJ Tech Tools, July 2 2012, accessed June 2017, http://djtechtools.com/2012/07/02/is-deadmau5-right-the-we-all-hit-play-debate/.

4 house and techno. Trying to catch up on the thirty-plus years of recordings I was unfamiliar

with, I began listening to a steady stream of recorded DJ mixes, compilations, and tracks.

During this period I began making friends involved with this music, commenced learning

how to DJ and produce and, most importantly, I started regularly attending house and techno

events.

At these events I was persistently struck by the fact that the tracks I had listened to at

home, tracks I thought I was familiar with, sounded radically different during performance. It

was not simply a difference of the room’s acoustics, nor the atmosphere of countless bodies

bumping into one another. In retrospect it was not even the DJ, who in mixing between

tracks had the potential to completely transform the sonic characteristics of what was being

heard. Rather, it was the sheer dynamic volume of the speakers, a volume that was mixed in

a way that heavily amplified the bass frequencies, washing out the melodic and harmonic

details that I found so important during my initial home listening. Essentially, the music —as

heard through a DJ’s performance on large speakers— was reduced to its most constituent

parts: percussion and bass.6 The experience of hearing tracks I recognized being transformed

into seemingly different pieces of music triggered the first of many questions informed by

my initial scholarly interests: how did these individuals produce music that sounded so

drastically different in performance? This question was further problematized by the fact that

house and techno consumption was so attached to DJ performance, a performance practice in

which the authorship of recordings were continually displaced from producers to

6 The way in which tracks are transformed by large sound systems is addressed with greater detail in Chapter 4.

5 performers.7 This begged the question as to how producers assert their voice as a creator of

the music when their tracks were destined to be only a small portion of another’s

performance.

The overt stylistic features and performance practice of house and techno further

complicate my questions regarding authorship. On the surface, much of house and techno

music sounds quite similar. Even amongst stylistically competent listeners, asking a group of

scene members about their favourite tracks invariably prompts them to produce a cacophony

of guttural and unrecognizable sounds, as they try to vocally replicate a particular percussion

rhythm or bass line. Indeed, many genres of EDM are quite derivative, especially when

considering the traditional criteria used to describe music (melody, rhythm, harmony, etc.).8

My initial thought was to consider that maybe notions of artistry and professionalism

inside house and techno music did not matter in the same way I thought they did; that the

producers who made this music had come to terms with their erasure from performance and

were at peace knowing that their productions functioned in subservience to DJ performance.

However, as I pressed further I realized that this was not the case. The producers I spoke to

are concerned with being artists, and expressing artistry plays a significant role in shaping

their professional identity and production practice. In learning what production practice

entails, I became increasingly aware of the producer’s obsessive concern with sound design

and technological experimentation. The producers I met spent countless hours fine-tuning the

smallest details of their productions—a fine-tuning of and close concern for sound that ran in

7 A more detailed discussion of the manner in which DJs appropriate authorship is found at the end of the

introduction. 8 Mark J. Butler, Unlocking The Groove: Rhythm, Meter, and Musical Design in Electronic Dance Music,

(Indiana: Bloomington, 2006): 113.

6 contrast to the relative disposability and utilitarian role these recordings were destined to

have. By observing producers, I came to understand production practice as an experimental

endeavour, a process in which producers painstakingly experiment with numerous techniques

and technologies in order to generate tracks that articulate their artistic identity. Yet, these

processes rely inherently on recording technologies that have historically been used to

destabilize and even erase concepts of authorship.9 Not only does the socio-cultural role of

these tracks as tools for other performers (DJs) seem to weaken the basis of the producer’s

claim to be an artist, but also the very nature of production relied on practices that have long

been attacked for lacking musicianship.10

Such apparent contradictions only increased my interest in what it meant to produce

house and techno music. I wanted to know what guided production. Was it the desire to be

recognized as a unique artistic voice? Was it simply to create tools performed by DJs? Was it

to create “bangers,” a colloquial term used by fans to describe tracks that rile up a dance

floor? In asking producers how they compose and how they approach production, I sought to

answer these questions, questions that invariably led to a broader discussion of genre,

history, and aesthetic legacy.

Examining process over products requires a great deal of contextualization. In

researching production practice I came to realize how production practice is contingent on

history, ideology and the scene-economies that producers rely upon to make a living.

9 This argument is expanded upon throughout my dissertation. However it is also considered in: Reynolds,

Energy Flash; Jeremy Gilbert and Ewan Pearson, Discographies: Dance Music, Culture and the Politics of Sound, (London: Routledge, 1999).

10 As mentioned, DJs and producers are often labeled “button pushers,” and criticized for “not even playing instruments.” These attacks are typical of those that have long been placed on individuals who utilize technologies of automation to facilitate creation.

7 Therefore, in order to convey the importance of particular techniques, practices, and

technologies, I felt obliged to first discuss these genres more broadly, and consider the

industries and scenes that shape the day-to-day practices of producers. It is for this reason

that my dissertation moves from the general to the specific, from history and ideology,

through to the material conditions that shape production, and eventually arriving at the close

study of production practice.

Chapter Outline In Chapter 1 I address my decision to limit my study to the genres of house and techno. I

address the important stylistic and affective features of house and techno through a

comparative analysis. I supplement my musical analysis with a comparison of the utopian

and dystopian affect that characterizes house and techno respectively. Beyond functioning as

a primer for those uninitiated in these genres, the goal of this chapter is to consider the

interwoven history and historiography of house and techno music, providing a lens to further

understand the histories contemporary producers negotiate through their practice.

In Chapter 2 I explore what I believe to be the most important aesthetic legacies that

inform house and techno: German modernism, disco, and Afrofuturism. I submit an

ideological hypothesis for the way house and techno artists perceive their productions in

relation to the past, and provide context for the aesthetics that direct the specific production

practices explored in later chapters. Building upon the history and historiography of Chapter

1, Chapter 2 argues that notions of artistry and professionalism in house and techno are

informed by a combination of modernist and afro-diasporic aesthetics.

8

Chapter 3 pivots away from the past, moving towards a contemporary understanding

of the working producer. In this chapter I address the different ways producers navigate the

socio-economic conditions that engender their existence. My understanding of the working

producer is based on multi-sited fieldwork conducted in Toronto and Berlin.11 The

interconnectedness of these scenes reveals the limited options producers have and the

increasingly standardized and corporatized nature of what was once an entirely DIY

endeavour. Building from the research of sociologist Jan-Michael Kühn, I argue that

producers must navigate “scene economies” that operate in-between the worlds of multi-

national recording industry and the local DIY scenes.12 The discussion of these scenes

reveals that producers are afforded limited opportunities to earn a living and must conform to

surprisingly rigid economic models, despite the history and ethos of house and techno as

underground music. In doing so, this chapter provides one of the first scholarly accounts of

the working lives of house and techno producers and further contextualizes their practices in

relation to local and global music industries.

In Chapter 4 I examine production practice. This includes a discussion of workflow,

the use of studio technology, and compositional processes. I argue that the fundamental

aspect of production practice is not, as others have argued, the manipulation of rhythm or

groove, but sound design.13 I conclude that sound design is the primary aesthetic concern for

producers and the most crucial site for negotiating understandings of history, 11 My fieldwork is discussed with greater detail in both Chapter 3 and 4. For a complete list of my participants

please see pages 333—335. 12 Jan-Michel Kühn, “The Subcultural Scene Economy of the Berlin Techno Scene,” in Keep it Simple, Make it

Fast! An Approach to Underground Music Scenes, eds. Paula Guerra and Tânia Moreira, (Porto: University do Porto, 2015), 281–286.

13 For discussions that prioritize rhythm and groove as the fundamental aspect of EDM productions Butler, Unlocking The Groove.

9 professionalism, and commercial viability. The integration of experimentation into house and

techno production is essential to understanding the multifaceted and, at times, conflicting

understandings of aesthetics outlined in earlier chapters. I demonstrate these claims through

an account of the day-to-day production practices of producers. This includes a discussion of

how producers use digital and analog technology, and an examination of the different

techniques they use to generate musical material. Producers use experimentation to discover

new sounds, and engage the initial experiments and sonic palettes generated by electronic

music’s earliest and foremost progenitors.

Chapter 5 examines the specific processes and techniques producers employed.

Building upon the discussion of sound design established in Chapter 4, I turn to the

numerous sound technologies producers rely upon, discussing synthesis, sampling,

sequencing, signal processing, mixing, and automation. I articulate how these processes

relate to the notions of history and professional identity established in earlier chapters. I also

return to my earlier claim regarding rhythm as a by-product of sound design, giving specific

examples of how the distinct rhythmic units are facilitated through experiments in sound

design.14 I return more explicitly to this notion in my conclusion which, along with

summarizing my arguments, questions what a study of production practice may mean for the

future study of productions and creative professionals.

Following in the footsteps of scholars such as Joseph Schloss and Mark Butler, the

information in these chapters relies on extensive fieldwork conducted in-studio with

14 Audio examples for Chapter 4 and 5 are located https://soundcloud.com/user-131686918/sets.

10 producers.15 As discussed in detail in Chapters 4 and 5, my fieldwork consisted of

participant-observation and extended interviews. The majority of these interviews took place

in Berlin during the summer of 2015, where I met with ten producers and corresponded with

three others by email.16 These interviews usually lasted upwards of an hour (in some cases

entire afternoons) and were often conducted in home studios. As discussed in detail in

Chapter 3, my studio study was enriched through sharing an apartment with the producer

Bwana during the summer of 2015. In doing so I was able to observe the day-to-day actions

of a producer.

Surveying the literature My focus on producers is inspired by earlier research on EDM and popular music producers.

Academic research on EDM has increased steadily since the initial work of British scholars

during the early 1990s, and currently includes contributions from a diverse range of

academic disciplines.17 While EDM research has touched on a wide array of topics, its chief

interests have been DJ performance,18 rave and club-culture studies,19 the politics of sound,20

15 Joseph G. Schloss, Making Beats: The Art of Sample Based Hip-Hop Music, (Middletown: Wesleyan

University Press, 2004); Butler, Unlocking The Groove. 16 See Cited Interviews on page 333. 17 Tony Langlois, “’Can You Feel it?’ DJs and House Music Culture in the UK,” Popular Music 11, no. 2

(1992): 229–238. 18Chris Kempster, History of House Music, (London: Sanctuary Publishing, 1996); Reynolds, Energy Flash;

Bill Brewster and Frank Broughton, Last Night a DJ Saved My Life, (London: Headline Press, 2014). 19 Sarah Thornton, Club Cultures: Music, Media, and Subcultural Capital, (Cambridge Polity Press, 1995); Kai

Fikentscher, ‘You Better Work!’: Underground Dance Music in New York City, (Hanover: University Press of New England, 2000); Andy Bennett, Dance Music, Local Identity and Urban Space, in Popular Music and Youth Culture: Music, Identity and Place, edited by A. Bennett, (London: Macmillan Press, 2000): 73–102; Stephen Amico, “‘I Want Muscles’: House Music, Homosexuality and Masculine Signification,” Popular Music 31, no. 3 (2001): 357–361; Gilbert and Pearson, Discographies.

20 Paul Miller, Rhythm Science, (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2004); Steve Goodman, Sonic Warfare: Sound Affect and the Ecology of Fear, (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2012).

11 and expressions of gender and sexuality during EDM events.21 While these studies

demonstrate the richness of EDM scholarship, their collective zeal in addressing the sub-

cultural phenomenon of the dance club, and/or their desire to move beyond traditional

musicological studies of composers and their works, has left a void in scholarly accounts of

production and composition. As a result, the field is lacking research that positions EDM

producers and their compositional processes as the main subject of inquiry.

On a broader level, the social and cultural role of the producer has long been a subject

of interest in popular music studies.22 These studies have repositioned acts of production as

valuable forms of musical practice that must be understood to further our engagement with

different forms of popular music.23 Scholarship on producers of popular music has also been

valuably informed by studies that address African-American cultural production.24 These

texts effectively demonstrate how different understandings of authorship and artistry are

21 Barbara Bradby, “Sampling Sexuality: Gender, Technology and the Body in Dance Music,” Popular Music

12, no. 2 (1993): 155–176; Susana Loza, “Sampling (Hetero)sexuality: Diva-ness and Discipline in Electronic Dance Music,” Popular Music 20, no. 2 (2001): 349–357; Tim Lawrence, “‘I Want to See All My Friends All At Once:’ Arthur Russell and the Queering of Gay Disco.” Popular Music 18, no. 2 (2006): 144–166.

22 John Tobler and Stuart Grundy, The Record Producers, (London: British Broadcasting Corporation, 1982); Antoine Hennion, “An Intermediary Between Production and Consumption: The Producer of Popular Music,” Science, Technology and Human Values 14, no. 4 (1989): 400–442; Thomas Porcello, “Tails Out: Social Phenomenology and the Ethnographic Representation of Technology in Music-Making,” Ethnomusicology 42, no. 3 (1998): 485–510; David H Howard, Sonic Alchemy: Visionary Music Producers and Their Maverick Recordings, (Milwaukee: Hal Leonard, 2004); Virgil Moorefield, The Producer as Composer: Shaping the Sounds of Popular Music, (Cambridge: MIT Press 2005); Mike Alleyne, “Nile Rodgers: Navigating Production Space,” Journal on the Art of Record Production 2, (2007); Simon Zagorski-Thomas, The Musicology of Record Production, London” Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014; Phillip McIntyre, “Tradition and Innovation in Creative Studio Practice: The Use of Older Gear, Processes and Ideas in Conjunction with Digital Technologies,” Journal on the Art of Record Production 9, (2015).

23 David Bracket, Interpreting Popular Music, (New York: Cambridge University Press 1995); Albin Zak, The Poetics of Rock: Cutting Tacks, Making Records, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011); Jay Hodgson, Understanding Records: A Field Guide to Recording Practice, (New York: Continuum, 2010).

24 Tricia Rose, Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. (Middletown: Wesleyan Press, 1994); Andrew Barlett, “Airshafts, Loudspeakers, and the Hip-Hop Sample: Contexts and African-American Musical Aesthetics,” African American Review 28, no. 4 (1994): 639–652; Athena Elafros, Locating the DJ: Black Popular Music, Location and Fields of Cultural Production, Cultural Sociology 7, no. 4 (2013): 463–478; Schloss, Making Beats.

12 borrowed from afro-diasporic practices, and are central to the reading of artistic production

in contemporary popular culture.

A producer-centric approach —one that writes out authorship as much as it asserts its

own— is found in the work of Paul Théberge.25 In his article “The Sound of Music:

Technological Rationalization and the Production of Popular Music,” Théberge argues that

the dominant understanding of the producer as auteur was both the result of a re-articulation

of the singular authorial voice, and, more cynically, an effective means of cost reduction and

economies of scale. While Théberge demonstrates that this generation (the article was

originally published in the late 1980s) of producer-auteurs does in fact possess a type of

authorship and agency once reserved for composers, the convenience this system offers for

the global recording industry casts this potential autonomy as only a cost-cutting measure,

one which in its “shift from capturing to simulating reveals the general character of the

production and distribution inside multinational capitalism.”26 As such, the producer’s

autonomy and auteur status is as much the result of individual genius as it is a capitalist tactic

to achieve greater output at a lower cost. Théberge’s conclusions direct the study of

producers towards a close examination of the material conditions that shape production.

Although his work is more concerned with the broader multi-national recording companies

that shape global demand, his methodology nonetheless has directed me to further

understand the different industries and businesses that inform practice.

25 Paul Théberge, “The ‘Sound’ of Music: Technological Rationalization and the Production of Popular Music,

In Popular Music Vol. 2: Technology and Copyright, edited by Chris Rojek, 33–46 (Thousand Oaks: Sage Publishing 2011).

26 Théberge, “The ‘Sound’ of Music:” 45.

13

Along with Théberge’s article, studies of record producers and studio practice have

increased over the last decade. Jay Hodgson’s Understanding Records goes into great detail

examining particular techniques that constitute contemporary recording practice.27 His text

touches on many of the practices relied upon by house and techno producers, and I draw

from it frequently in Chapter 5. In addition, the Journal on the Art of Record Production

(founded in 2006) has sought to illuminate the types of behaviours and techniques record

producers across popular music undertake, exploring issues of space, sampling, mediation,

gender, and copyright law. The journal (which at the time of writing consists of eleven

issues) demonstrates the rising interest in record production and studio practice. While many

of its articles are predominantly concerned with the production of particular records,28

recording technologies,29 and the early history of record production,30 they nonetheless target

the contemporary recording studio as a locus for negotiating aesthetics and professional

identity.

Many of the topics considered in the Journal on The Art of Record Production are

also addressed in Simon Zagorski-Thomas’s 2014 book, The Musicology of Record

Production.31 One of the founders of the aforementioned journal, Zagorski-Thomas tackles a

27 Hodgson, Understanding Records. 28 Aaron Liu-Rosenbaum, “The Meaning in the Mix: Tracing A Sonic Narrative in ‘Where the Levee Breaks,’”

Journal on the Art of Record Production 7, (2012); Michael Holland and Oli Wilson, “Technostalgia in New Recording Projects by the 1980s ‘Dunedin Sound’ band The Chills, Journal on the Art of Record Production 9, (2015).

29 Rob Toulson, “Can We Fix It? – The Consequences of ‘Fixing It In The Mix”with Common Equalisation Techniques Are Scientifically Evaluated,” Journal on the Art of Record Production 2, (2008); Jay Hodgson, “Lateral Dynamics Processing In Experimental Hip Hop: Flying Lotus, Madlib, Oh No, J-Dilla and Prefuse 73,” The Journal on the Art of Record Production 5 (2011).

30 Paul D. Fisher, “The Sooy Dynasty of Camden, New Jersey: Victor’s First Family of Recording,” Journal on the Art of Record Production 7, (2012).

31 Zagorski-Thomas, The Musicology of Record Production. Zagorski-Thomas also co-edited a collection of essays designed to introduce readers to the emerging field of record production. Simon Frith, and Simon

14 range of topics from the relationship between producers and audiences to more philosophical

questions concerning the very need to study record production. Although his work covers a

vast array of related topics, the most useful sections for my own research are his later

chapters on the development of audio technology and its use in studios. 32 Integrating the

work of Bruno Latour’s Actor Network Theory, Bourdieu’s theory of cultural production,

and approaches from the social construction of technology (SCOT), Zagorski-Thomas

considers the way technology enables different ontologies of music, the way in which

individuals negotiate a machine’s intended function, and how producers assert cultural

capital through their acquisition and engagement with particular recording technology.33

Although I do not return to his arguments until Chapter 4, Zagorski-Thomas’s work broadly

informs my methodology, as it is one that directs the researcher to consider how technology

and its users negotiate the meaning, value, and function of certain production practices

In addition to Théberge and Zagorski-Thomas, my own line of questioning is

informed by the work of Joseph G. Schloss, who in his text Making Beats investigates the

poetics of procedure that producers undertake.34 What is significant about Schloss’ approach

is the way in which he identifies the larger political and ideological expressions attributed to

individual works inside the smaller procedures of everyday production. This is notable at the

very least because it differs so radically from other approaches which address the work of

producers through the close listening or analytic study of tracks or works. By examining

process over product, Schloss provides a model to help unpack the interrelationship between

Zagorksi-Thomas, eds, The Art of Record Production, (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012).

32 Zagorski-Thomas, The Musicology of Record Production. 33 Ibid., 92–93. 34 Schloss, Making Beats.

15 production practice, market forces, ideology and a host of other subjects that are often only

singularly addressed when approached from a work-based model.35

Although a vast majority of approaches to the music producer have operated, like

scholarship on popular music at-large, under an agenda of re-framing the popular musician as

a great artist, scholarship on EDM differs in its general focus on the producer as a tool maker

or artisan, and has yet to make significant strides in recasting the producer as auteur or

composer.36 I believe this overarching approach has occurred for two reasons: the coinciding

of a new generation of cultural theorist with the explosion of rave culture, and the genre’s

historic privileging of performance over production.37

The explosion of rave culture and electronic dance music in Britain, Europe and

North America that took place during the late 1980s and early 1990s attracted scholars and

critics who were interested in approaching musical communities as sites of investigation into

the phenomenon of sub-cultural identity.38 Influenced by the generation of cultural theorists

(such as Stuart Hall and The Birmingham School) that preceded them, these scholars found

in EDM sub-cultures a field in which they could effectively examine the formation of

identity with regard to gender, class, race, and nationality. Their focus, which examined

EDM and club-cultures as a larger socio-cultural phenomenon independent of any single

figure, dictated an approach that focused principally on scenes and events as sites for inquiry.

35 Butler’s text, which I discuss more thoroughly in the following section and throughout my dissertation,

followed such a model. 36 Consider the passage by Simon Reynolds that was referred to at the beginning of the introduction. 37 In a sense this could be read as a correction from the historic perspective of musicology that favoured works

over performances. Indeed, the growing interest in performance history and the shift away from work-centric musicology does correspond with the years associated with the explosion of rave culture in the UK.

38 Langlois, “‘Can You Feel It?’ DJs and House Music Culture in the UK;” Bradby, “Sampling Sexuality;” Thornton Club Cultures; Reynolds Energy Flash.

16 The first wave of EDM scholars uniformly considered producers as the undisputed authors of

works. However, their focus on positioning EDM, as existing beyond the creation of works,

directly robbed the producer of the cultural import traditionally assigned to the creators of

musical works, and recognition was alternatively redistributed to individuals and groups

(DJs, dancers, and promoters) who were perceived to be more significant in the formation of

these scenes and sub-cultures.

The proclivity to examine consumers over producers is found in some of the initial

texts on EDM cultures, namely Tony Langlois’s 1992 article, “‘Can You Feel It?’ DJs and

House Music Culture in the UK.”39 This article influentially established the DJ-audience

relationship as the primary experience found in dance music cultures. By identifying the

“ethos of the event” and the ability of the DJ to be “performer, marketer, and composer” of

music, Langlois directed the study of EDM towards considering production as a pre-musical

endeavour, one which existed only to facilitate a larger communal experience. 40

The desire to approach EDM production as part of a larger communal phenomenon

has also led to excluding the producer in approaches informed by sound studies. While texts

by Butler, Luis-Manuel Garcia and Jeremy Gilbert and Ewan Pearson have been revelatory

in their approach to considering the relationship between sound and dancers, between dance-

floors and DJs, they have in effect relegated the producer to a single node in a larger circuit

39 Langlois, “‘Can You Feel It?’ DJs and House Music Culture in the UK.” 40 Other examples in include Fiktenscher, ‘You Better Work:’ Underground Dance Music in New York;”

Bennett, “Dance Music, Local Identity and Urban Space; Lawrence, “‘I Want to See All My Friends All At Once’: Arthur Russell and the Queering of Gay Disco ;” Luis Manuel Garcia, “‘Can You Feel It Too?’ Intimacy and Affect in Electronic Dance Music Events,” (PhD diss, University of Chicago, 2011).

17 of sonic experience.41 Surprisingly, even Steve Goodman —who is both a scholar and a

widely respected DJ and label owner under the moniker Kode9— published an entire

monograph that, in its zeal to engage sound studies and cultural theory, effectively displaced

authorship from the producer to the listener and performer.42

The aforementioned scholarship should not be faulted for its lack of consideration for

music producers and their methods. In considering specific socio-cultural aspects of EDM

scenes at large, these approaches have demonstrated how particular genres must be informed

by factors that exist outside of the creator-listener relationship. Furthermore, earlier

scholarship has ensured that future approaches to the music producer will be appropriately

aware of the challenges found in discussing the production of works outside of this unique

and problematic cultural context. That being said, the field’s continual interest in the cultural

phenomenon of dance music and rave scenes has resulted in dearth of research on producers,

which in a unique way has prevented EDM research in general from entering a period of

reclamation and canonization.

The lack of research on producers of EDM also results from broader EDM cultures

having historically valued the DJ and DJ performance over the producer and their

production. This hierarchy is described in the work of Simon Reynolds who, in his

comprehensive tome on dance music and rave culture, Energy Flash, describes how both

producers and their productions only existed to facilitate DJ and club performance.43

Drawing on the work of Jacques Attali, Reynolds argues that while EDM production

41 Gilbert and Pearson, Last Night a DJ Saved My Life; Butler, Unlocking The Groove; Garcia, “‘Can You Feel

it, Too?’” 42 Goodman, Sonic Warfare. 43 Reynolds, Energy Flash.

18 resonates closely with the French economist’s prediction as to what contemporary

composition shall entail, namely in the use of home-studios, small independent labels, and

specialized distribution networks, it nonetheless depends on DJ culture to become fully

realized as such.44

Most dance producers are constrained by the functionalist criteria of their specific genre. Tracks are designed as material for the DJ to work into a set, and so must conform in tempo and mood. Creativity in dance music involves a balancing act between making your tracks both ‘music and mixable’ …it is precisely this unfinished aspect—the sockets, as it were—that enable the DJ to plug tracks into their mix-scape.45

Reynolds spends many pages of his text describing producers, their practices, and their

productions. And yet, his reading consistently contextualizes these tracks as the raw

materials for future authors (DJs) to transform into consumable art. For Reynolds, this is

partially the result of a music that is primarily based on “artificial” instrumental sounds.

Lacking a bodily presence to articulate the author’s existence inside a piece of music, the

purely instrumental nature of many sub-genres of EDM, and its collective dependence on the

similar recording technologies and practices, hides authorship from all but the most

dedicated listeners. For this reason, Reynolds considers the type of authorship held by EDM

producers as one closer to the plastic arts such as architecture and less related to arts such as

literature.46

44 Ibid., 370. 45 Ibid., 372. 46 This division that resonates with the initial binaries of art and craft addressed by Larry Shiner is his text The

Invention of Art. Larry Shiner, The Invention of Art: A Cultural History, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001).

19 Reynolds’ reading of the producer, and EDM’s general disregard for the producers of

fixed recordings is mirrored in numerous studies on DJ performance practice.47 In their effort

to draw scholarly attention to the DJ these scholars have reaffirmed a general sentiment

shared across EDM scenes that has historically positioned production as secondary to

performance. Like the scholarship that considered the producer as only a fragment of a

larger, more intricate club culture, it is difficult to fault an approach that captures so

adequately the disposition of scene members. Yet, such a focus leaves little room to discuss

the composition of music and practices undertaken by individual producers who seek a

livelihood and identity that may be crafted outside performance.

Amidst the widespread proclivity of dance music scholarship to diminish the

authorship of producers as valuable cultural creators there remain a few recent exceptions to

this trend that are worth noting. For instance, Dancecult: Journal of Electronic Dance Music

Culture published a producer-centric issue in 2014 entitled “Production Technologies and

Studio Practice in Electronic Dance Music Culture.”48 Ranging from articles on the specific

production practices of individual artists to larger topics on mastering, this issue showcased

some of the more recent interests of contemporary dance music scholars. In the words of its

47 Kempster, History of House; Miller, Rhythm Science; Brewster and Broughton, Last Night a DJ Saved My

Life; Sean Nye, “Headphone-Headset-Jetset: DJ Culture, Mobility and Science Fictions of Listening,” Dancecult: Journal of Electronic Dance Music Culture 3, no. 1 (2011): 64–96; Tobias van Veen and Bernado Alexander, “Off the Record: Turntabalism and Controllerism in the 21st Century (part 1),” Dancecult: Journal of Electronic Dance Music Culture 3, no. 1 (2011): https://dj.dancecult.net/index.php/dancecult/article/view/332/328; Douglas MacCutecheon, Alinka E Greasley and Mark T Elliot, “Investigating the Value of DJ performance for Contemporary Music Education and Sensorimotor Synchronisation,” Dancecult: Journal of Electronic Dance Music Culture 8 no.1 (2016): 46–72.

48 Ed Montano and Simon Zagorski-Thomas (eds.), “Production Technologies and Studio Practice in Electronic Dance Music Culture,” Dancecult: Journal of Electronic Dance Music Culture 6, no. 1 (2014).

20 editors, Zagorski-Thomas and Ed Montato, the issue was designed to focus on “the behind-

the-scenes endeavours that generate the music that drives the dance floor.”49

An important publication from Dancecult’s producer-focused issue is Robert

Ratcliffe’s “A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material Within Electronic Dance Music.”50

This is an article I draw from frequently in Chapter 5, and marks one of the more recent

attempts to further analyze the different types of sampling used throughout EDM. What

separates these texts from previous approaches is that they position producers as the primary

site for inquiry and validate their procedures as the assertion of unique and legitimate

authorial voice. By combining ethnography with close readings of tracks, they direct readers

to appreciate the way particular production practices lead to larger aesthetic expressions.

In addition to publications found in Dancecult, numerous scholars from music theory

are now examining producers and their productions through a combination of ethnography

and analytical close readings. The most significant proponent of this method is Mark J.

Butler whose pioneering study Unlocking The Groove introduced analytic approaches to the

EDM productions.51 Butler’s work is illuminating in its ability to address the rhythmic

complexity found in EDM production; however, his focus prevents the exploration of

production practices that do not map so easily onto Western high-art aesthetics. Like those

who focused on multi-track recording and collage before him, Butler’s work, while

admirable, still represents the larger trend of scholars gravitating to technical/musical

49 Ibid., 1. 50Robert Ratcliffe, “A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material Within Electronic Dance Music,” Journal of

Electronic Dance Music Culture 6, no. 1 (2014): 97–122. 51 Butler, Unlocking the Groove.

21 procedures that correspond to methods found in the work of great composers and artists.52 By

examining the rhythmic complexities and ambiguity found in dance tracks, Butler recasts the

producer as thoughtful composer, an individual responsible not for tools but for works.

Online publications geared towards a non-academic audience have taken an

increasing interest in production. Aimed at aspiring amateur producers, digital magazines

like Resident Advisor, Fact Mag, and XLR8R publish a series of columns dedicated to

illuminating particular production practices and technological applications. Indeed, over the

course of this dissertation I increasingly came across more online resources designed to

improve an understanding of production. From online videos that provide tutorials, to

downloadable project files designed to enhance digital workstations, production practice is

being explained over a host of new mediums. Not only have these resources helped me to

further understand aspects of production practice, they have also provided a window into

what particular groups of critics, fans and publications believe to be the important

information required for producers—in essence letting us see what techniques and

technologies are considered the most popular and significant.

While this summary is in no way exhaustive, as each chapter begins with more

focused literature reviews, it nonetheless demonstrates how I arrived at my initial research

questions. The literature on popular music production and EDM presented an opening that

corresponded well to my initial research area. In light of musicological research being

increasingly interested in production and recording practice, my own concern with how

52Nicolas Bougaïeff, An Approach to Composition Based on a Minimal Techno Case-Study, (Ph.D. diss.),

University of Huddersfield, England, 2013.

22 authorship, professionalism, and artistry are negotiated inside house and techno production

becomes ever pertinent.

Where’s The Groove? Before proceeding to my initial discussion of history and genre, I feel obliged to first address

a principal point, or rather, the lack of a principal point. Unlike much of the scholarship on

EDM my dissertation does not directly discuss groove with the formal intensity that one has

come to expect. While I outline a definition of groove, what it constitutes, and its importance

to earlier research, it remains outside of my main focus. This did not come about by design.

In fact, my initial conception of this dissertation had an entire chapter on groove and loop

formation. Rather, this is the result of my fieldwork, where I observed how groove was not

the central concern of the producers I worked with.

In the conversations I had with producers I never heard them discuss the construction

of groove (the way in which interlocking idioms work to create repetitive and infectious

rhythms) with the descriptive and detailed language they used for other aspects of

production. While discussions of other aspects of sound such as timbre led to exceptionally

detailed answers, most conversations surrounding groove were vague and transitioned

quickly to discussions about sound design and mixing. Rarely did a producer articulate how

they constructed groove, even when asked directly. Consider these respective statements by

the producers Palm Tracks and Felix K who I corresponded with by email in 2015.53 In our

correspondence I asked them each what their process was for creating grooves.

53 For more information on the producers I interviewed during my fieldwork please see the Interview and Citied

Participants sections (334—336).

23

PT: I’ll start by setting up a channel in mono for the kick, laying down a pattern with that for 8 bars then building from there. So put some hats down, some snares and claps, then begin working on the percussion. I like to have them grouped to a bus, to tighten them together a little then I’ll start adding tape delays and reverb. The loops invariably change once I have more melodies down though to avoid clashes.54

FK: I start a groove box / drum machine and choose sounds. One of the most important decisions is the kick drum. The choice of the kick-drum’s [signal processing is] the main characteristics. Some elements get an own channel and go straight to filters. Tempo adjustments can be made when I connect the loop with a project.55

These responses are representative of many of the conversations I had; conversations

printed in later chapters that demonstrate the consistent interest in processes of sound design

over groove or rhythm construction. There is a case to be made that the construction of

groove is a type of embodied knowledge. Producers do not explicitly theorize it in the way

that they do sound design. This could be the result of the facilitations of their software and

hardware, as these devices are mainly concerned with altering aspects of timbre and not

rhythm. Or, it may be because they simply know when a groove works or does not —an

understanding that results from countless hours spent listening to similar music. Or, it could

be the result, which I articulate more clearly in Chapters 4 and 5, of a production practice

that sees groove not as a goal but as the outcome of experimental sound design. In this

theory, groove is constructed not directly, but as an offshoot of other experiments in sound

design. As these experiments map more easily onto descriptive language they can be more

clearly expressed during an interview through concrete language and terminology. Maybe, it

is easier to describe a wave shape or the use of a filter than it is to describe how particular

54 Palm Trax, Email correspondence with producer, September 7 2015. 55 Felix K, Email correspondence with producer, August 5 2015.

24 rhythmic idioms interlock. Indeed, it is this last theory that my research has directed me

towards, one that avoids falling lazily onto stereotypes regarding groove which can be traced

to racial assumptions that de-intellectualize rhythm. Thus, I am not suggesting that groove is

not important; only that, for the purposes of this dissertation, I have sought to discuss groove

as a by-product of other practices, practices that I have come to see as dominating the

creative lives of producers, and practices that in my estimation are responsible for the

creation of these oft-discussed grooves.

This returns to the earlier disjuncture I experienced when I initially encountered this

music. That the most important characteristic of a genre, the functional spine that puts the

“dance” in EDM (as described by scholars, dancers, listeners and scene members) is not the

immediate goal of the people making this music is indeed peculiar. That a topic of inquiry so

important to scholars is often not the primary concern of producers demonstrates a

disconnect between practice and consumption that has ramifications for how we understand

the producer as professional musicians, and for how we understand their tracks as art. Thus,

while groove is not tackled directly in my dissertation, there are other threads that I wish to

draw attention to: how are competing understandings of what it means to be a professional

creator of music negotiated? How do producers navigate a world in which they are expected

to be toolmakers and artists, both writing music for art installations and selling collections of

their bespoke sounds to online databases and software companies? As I zoom in from the

macro notions of history to specific practices I answer these questions, consistently arguing

that the different practices and technologies used by producers are all related to broader

expressions of their artistry and professional identity.

25

Chapter 1

House and Techno

This chapter outlines the stylistic characteristics and history of house and techno music. In

detailing the nuanced differences between these two genres, I explore their intertwined

histories, and provide a backdrop for understanding notions of artistry, and negotiations of

professional identity through production practice. In addition, this chapter functions as a

primer for those uninitiated in electronic dance music (EDM) cultures. House and techno are

two of the foundational genres of EDM. This primer is necessary because the many genres

and sub-genres studied in EDM research complicate and confuse popular and scholarly

understandings of these terms. The inherent ambiguity of terms like EDM, dance music, and

electronic music (among others) has muddied the waters for many scholars, and merits

further clarification.

Over the past decade EDM has taken on a new, and different, meaning from its initial

use by early scholars of this music. Once an umbrella term for numerous sub-genres and

genres relating more broadly to both electronic music and dance music, the term EDM has

been adopted by mainstream North American music industries to categorize a specific type

of radio-friendly dance music that is more closely related to genres like trance and

26 progressive house.1 This change is evident in recent scholarship, which has notably shifted

away from the overarching use of the term.2 The term EDM in North America often

references a very specific form of dance music that has become widely popular and

integrated throughout popular culture.3 The popularity of EDM in North America is not

entirely welcome among producers who once operated under this moniker. Many critics,

scene members, and stakeholders have antagonistic relationships with the term and the

particular youth culture it evokes. As Phillip Sherburne notes, while the success of EDM in

mainstream popular music may be coming to an end, it has nonetheless cemented a new term

that, for some, mischaracterizes the aesthetic of many electronic dance musics.4 House and

techno are the terms most commonly used by the individuals that I interviewed over the

course of my research. In fact, no producer I spoke to ever referred to the music they

produced as EDM. While more general terms like electronic music and dance music were

also used, house and techno are the terms most frequently used to describe the type of music

these producers made, listened to and performed. In referring to house and techno together, I

situate these two as a form of sister genres that are uniquely connected inside a larger

framework of electronic music and dance music culture. Although I am hesitant to

1 Trance and progressive house (often known as “progressive) are dance music genres characterized by their

sweeping melodies, tonal chord progressions, bombastic orchestration, use of vocalists, and sentimentalism. These musical characteristics make these genres more likely to be mined for Top 40 radio hits.

2 A good example is Mark Butler (ed.), Electronica, Dance and Club Music, (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012). 3 American EDM is associated with crossover stars like Zedd, The Chainsmokers, and David Guetta. Popular

festivals for this music include Ultra Music Festival in Miami and Electric Daisy Carnival in Las Vegas. Large multi-national media companies like Live Nation, William Morris, CAA, and Clear Chanel support these stars and festivals.

4 Phillip Sherburne, “Popping the Drop: A timeline of How EDM’s Bubble Burst,” Pitchfork, April 5 2016, http://pitchfork.com/thepitch/1086-popping-the-drop-a-timeline-of-how-edms-bubble-burst/ (accessed January 2017).

27 aggressively argue for their status as unique genres, using these terms as opposed to more

general terms provides clarity and precision. 5

Often grouped with trance, dubstep, and electro, house and techno are both routinely

labeled among the many sub-genres, genres, and styles present in global electronic dance

music scenes. Like other dance musics, house and techno are consumed through recordings

and, more commonly, through DJ performances at nightclubs or raves. Recordings are often

acquired online (either downloaded or streamed) or at specialty record stores that cater to

consumers of dance music genres. House and techno producers primarily make their living

through DJ performance; however, their ability to acquire bookings depends on the success

of their own productions as viable works for other DJs. The production of this music, like

other dance music, is therefore heavily informed by DJ performance practice.6 As a result,

producers are simultaneously making both tracks and tools: musical works designed to stand

on their own merit (tracks) also serve as the raw materials designed to facilitate DJ

performance (tools). In DJ performance practice, the fundamental act of mixing two records

together often results in the fusion, juxtaposition, and the (re)combination of genres and

styles. House and techno are occasionally mixed with other related dance music genres and 5 I initially came to understand house and techno as a form of underground music. However, during the course

of my research I found this term increasingly problematic and its use by the producers and scene members to whom I spoke was inconsistent. Notwithstanding contemporary collaborations with major corporations (such as multinational beverage and telecommunication companies) and institutions of high art (such as national art galleries and symphonies), house and techno scenes still rely on practices often associated with forms of illicit and unsanctioned behaviour. Over the past decade in North America this has become especially true, for recent gentrification projects and urban transformations have made it difficult to properly maintain event spaces. Conversely, in Europe house and techno are often not coded as underground. In European countries house and techno are performed at popular venues, celebrated by members of local and national governments, and performance venues have been recognized cultural heritage centres. A vibrant and lucrative house and techno industry has emerged in Europe that employs countless people in wide ranging roles from mangers to promoters to booking agents—positions commonly associated with mainstream culture.

6 Either the producer’s own DJ performance practice, as almost all producers earn a living through DJing, or through listening to the DJ performances of others (at a club or via recorded mixes).

28 individual producers and DJs rarely limit their output to a single genre—although some have

a reputation for performing within one or another. As such, fans and critics of house and

techno are often similarly active in engaging other dance music genres, since the shared

cultural sites for consumption (nightclubs, online message boards, and record stores) double

as places where genres like electro, dub-step, and disco are also performed and consumed.

Genre In approaching this study the notion of genre became difficult to ignore. In my efforts to

discuss the house and techno producer, I continually returned to the need to contextualize

their practices more broadly, which in turn directed me towards notions of genre. Genres

function as signposts for listeners and practitioners to gravitate towards. These posts are used

to locate individual tracks and producers within a broader stylistic and historical context.

Although it is easy to group house and techno together as a single genre, the two have

stylistic differences worth considering. House and techno’s different, but shared, history

provide a nuanced aesthetic legacy from which contemporary producers draw upon. It is in

their differences that we see their connections to overarching or shared stylistic

characteristics found in numerous types of popular music.

While scholars like Kembrew McLeod, Sarah Thornton, and Reynolds have

recognized the importance of the sub-genre in EDM,7 in the majority of scholarship on EDM

the importance of genre differentiation is diminished: genre is often addressed as just one of

7 Kembrew McLeod, “Genres, Subgenres, Sub-Subgenres and More: Musical and Social Difference Within

Electronic Dance Music Communities,” Popular Music 1, no. 1 (2001), 59–75; Thornton, Club Cultures; Reynolds Energy Flash.

29 the many factors in a more complicated network of styles, sub-cultures, and scenes.8 The

failure to consider or engage the important aesthetic differences between (within) different

genres that combine to form EDM or electronica has occurred for a handful of reasons.

Firstly, we cannot forget the relative youth of electronic dance music, which has existed even

in the most generous reading for only forty-five years.9 Secondly, the cultural importance of

raves as a site for studying youth culture should is significant. Not only did the explosion of

youth dance cultures during the late 1980s resonate widely across popular culture, but it also

provided fertile sites for a new generation of Cultural Studies scholars. As Luis-Manuel

Garcia notes, initial scholarship on EDM did not come from musicology but rather from a

generation of critical theorists who, through their association with the Birmingham School,

saw dance music cultures as a fruitful site to test their overarching analytic framework of

“resistance through rituals.”10 Thirdly, the musicologists who sought initially to integrate

EDM into the larger canon of popular music studies generally focused less on genre

delineation, addressing instead the shared stylistic elements found across electronic based

dance music.11 This can be read as the result of the pressing need to develop a new analytic

vocabulary, escaping the trappings of conventional popular music studies, for these analyses

rely heavily on lyric, harmonic, and melodic content. Such efforts led the field of popular

8 An important exception here is found in: Graham St. John, Global Tribe: Technology, Spirituality, and

Psytrance, (Sheffield: Equinox Publishing, 2012). 9 While house and techno are each often identified as the earliest forms of EDM it is more appropriate to

identify disco as the earliest form of electronic dance music. Brewster and Broughton note that dance music club-cultures can be traced to a much earlier date; however, disco remains the first popular music to utilize electronic instruments like synthesizers as means to facilitate dance.

10 Garcia, “Intimacy and Affect,” 9. 11 Langlois, “Can You Feel It? DJs and House Music Culture in the UK;” Loza, “Sampling (Hetero)Sexuality:

Diva-ness and Discipline in Electronic Dance Music;” Fikentscher, “You Better Work!” Underground Dance Music in New York City; Tara Rodgers, “On The Process and Aesthetics of Sampling in Electronic Music Production,” Organised Sound 8, no. 3 (2003): 313–320; Butler; Unlocking The Groove.

30 music studies to largely ignore genre distinctions within EDM; however, it must be said that

these initial efforts were made in earnest, and were significant in developing a broader

understanding of the musical cultures they theorized. The fourth reason why previous studies

have possibly avoided genre delineation was that participants in house and techno often

displayed ambivalence and indecision towards genre. The very fact that house and techno, by

some of its most famous practitioners, are considered to be part of a larger overarching

electronic and/or dance music practice has undoubtedly contributed to the avoidance of genre

delineation among scholars.12 While this opinion may hold true, it has nonetheless left a

lacuna with regard to the definition and differentiation of house and techno aesthetics.

The usefulness in discussing house and techno through the lens of genre is magnified

when considering how genre in popular music has been historically defined. While the initial

framing of genre in popular music by Franco Fabbri loosely categorized the term as “a set of

musical events (real or possible) whose course is governed by a definite set of socially

accepted rules,”13 the last decade witnessed the growing prevalence of Keith Negus’s

approach to genre. The foundation of Negus’s work is a concern for how major industries

come to shape genre.

Musical genres are formally codified into specific organization departments, narrow assumptions about markets and ‘targeted’ promotional practices, and this is strategically managed by record entertainment companies. In the process, resources are allocated to some types of music and not others; certain types of deals are done with some acts and not others. Greater investment is accorded to certain types of familiarity and newness and not others. It is part of my argument that we cannot fully explore the details of the conventions, codes or rules of genres through textual

12 A popular refrain from producers was “I just make music,” or, “I make electronic music.” This was despite

the fact they often discussed the work of other producers entirely through the lens of genre. 13 Franco Fabbri, “A Theory of Musical Genres: Two Applications,” Popular Music Perspectives, ed. D. Horn

and P. Tagg, (Göteborg and Exeter: IASPM, 1982), 52.

31

analysis, nor can we begin to explain how some (and not other) genre transformations might occur without fully understanding how corporate organization actively intervenes in the production, reproduction, circulation, and interpretation of genres.14

Negus’s argument speaks to a dual-pronged approach: any textual analysis of genre must

also be supplemented by an analysis of market forces. Negus’s analytical paradigm—that

argues against conducting purely textual analyses of popular music removed from corporate

or economic contexts—is convincing. His work is significant in his push towards considering

how corporate organizations actively intervene in the production of genre. This approach

opens up a window for future researchers to consider the way genre is negotiated on a local

level—a level in which the “corporate” organizations and the musicians are often one in the

same. Although primarily concerned with large-scale corporations, Negus allows future

researchers to consider how an industry can consist of one or two individuals entirely

responsible for marketing, touring, publishing, and production. This approach plays a crucial

role in Chapter 3, in which I explore the commercial and material conditions that shape the

lives and working practices of house and techno producers.

Fabian Holt’s Genre in Popular Music contains a more open-ended discussion of

genre.15 Less interested in the corporate structures or political economies that govern genre

formation, Holt is concerned with the ways in which musicians and fans utilize genre in

order to institute codes and structures that work towards establishing particular types of

musical and cultural meanings.

Genre is a fundamental structuring force in musical life. It has implications for how, where, and with whom people make and experience music. Without paying attention to genre, we would be poorly prepared to discuss a number of important questions:

14 Keith Negus, Musical Genres and Corporate Cultures, (London: Routledge Press, 1999), 28. 15 Fabian Holt, Genre in Popular Music, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007).

32

How is rhythmic and melodic variation regulated? What do we listen for in music? […]How can we think comparatively about music?16

He goes on to define genre as a nuanced network of styles dependent on musical

practitioners, and not simply shaped by major marketing categories.

[Genre is] a constellation of styles connected by a sense of tradition. These aspects distinguish genres from marketing categories and labels because it has a more stable existence in cultures of musical specializations among musicians, listeners, critics, pedagogues, and others.17

Holt’s definition and explanation offers a convincing argument for the usefulness of

delineating house and techno as entwined genres from the outset. Specifically, to consider

house and techno as two linked genres is to seek precision, accuracy and focus that would be

lost if we considered the music more broadly as simply a part of EDM or popular music. In

discussing them together I do not lose site of the fact that many producers operate

simultaneously within both, and rarely restrict or define their productions as attached to

either. Indeed, many of the producers I interviewed suggested they did not consciously write

in any genre; rather, they simply used house and techno to loosely situate their work inside a

larger history and musical culture. Thus, to discuss house and techno as genre is to

demonstrate how inside larger meta-categories of popular music such as EDM (what Holt

would categorize as the space in-between genres) lies specific and dedicated aesthetic

practices that dictate the professional, social, creative and economic livelihood of

participants.18 To discuss house and techno on their own terms is to make the case that they

16 Ibid., 2. 17 Ibid., 18. 18 Ibid., 156.

33 share a discrete form of technologically mediated experience (both as a listener and

producer) that differs from the other types of music they are so often grouped with (namely,

EDM). If we are to strive towards a greater understanding of the loose meta-category of

EDM, it is important to first understand how genres inside this larger category are defined in

terms of sound, style, and ideology. Any type of future hermeneutic analysis of EDM writ

large depends on the specific analysis of the discrete genres relied upon by its participants to

situate and contextualize their own productions in relation to their peers and their past. In

short, it is important to consider the shared similarities and differences between house and

techno as intertwined genres as a means of accessing the history and aesthetic legacies that

inform production practice.

Defining House and Techno: Style and Affect

As established in the exceptionally limited entry on techno in Oxford Music Online, techno is

often considered stylistically in relation to house music, as “a mix of Chicago house music,

funk early hip hop and electro[…]It was more relentlessly percussive and artificial than the

contemporary house music, without which techno, however, would not exist.”19 Similarly,

Grove Music Online describes house as an “[e]lectronic dance music that originated in

Chicago in the mid-1980s following the birth of techno in Detroit.”20 Despite the confusion

in their origin stories (each is credited for inspiring the other), these entries nonetheless

demonstrate their dependence on one another, and their intertwined histories. This definition

19 Will Fulford-Jones, “Techno,” Oxford Music Online, (Oxford University Press), accessed October 2016,

http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.myaccess.library.utoronto.ca/subscriber/article/grove/music/47221. 20 Geeta Daya, “House,” Grove Music Online, (Oxford University Press), accessed October 2016,

http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.myaccess.library.utoronto.ca/subscriber/article/grove/music/A2249796.

34 also reflects stylistic similarities between their sound, production, and performance practice;

my discussion further explores the traits of house and techno through a comparative analysis

of their stylistic traits and their overarching affective statements.

The most important stylistic similarity between house and techno music, and what

allows the music to be mixed by DJs across dance music genres, is their reliance on rhythmic

loops to create grooves. As the name suggests, a loop is a repeated musical section. While

some loops may only be sounded briefly (for example, just for a few bars) in a given track,

others may be repeated throughout an entire track. Informed by the initial hardware used to

produce techno and house (drum machines, synthesizers, and sequencers) and its shared roots

in afro-diasporic musical practice, the layering, delayering, mutation, recombination and

altering of loops is the defining feature of house and techno.21 These loops, which range from

half bar (two beats) to four bar units, are the building blocks of both house and techno, and

are often combined with other loops to enhance texture, dynamic intensity, and to demarcate

the arrival of (or departure from) a formal section.

Grooves and loops are designed to be repetitive but not static. They are designed to

feel as if they are growing and ever-changing despite their dependence on limited and

repeated musical material. While this constant state of change can manifest in slight changes

in rhythm, creating situations termed “ambiguous” by Mark Butler; these changes are often

heard with respect to alterations in timbre, texture, and pitch.22 The generative function of

grooves creates an experience in which the listener and dancer are given time to experience

21 This is true within all of EDM. As detailed in Chapter 2 the use of loops is heavily influenced by afro-

diasporic musical practice. 22 Butler, Unlocking The Groove.

35 both the individual interlocking lines combining to form a groove and the holistic experience

of all the parts sounded at once. The micro-changes found in repetitive grooves suggest a

type of listening that embraces what Robert Fink calls a “recombinant teleology.”23 This is a

teleology in which the “ultimate aim is simply to reproduce itself as drive, to return to its

circular path, to continue its path to and from the goal.”24 Instead of a goal-oriented listening

concerned with dialectic development, one in which ideas are resolved, overcome, or

drastically altered, the listener is drawn to the endless drive; the repetition that never ends

allows them “liberation through pure desire, not dialectical struggle.” As Fink and Butler

respectively note, this is a result of house and techno’s relationship to afro-diasporic musical

practice, one in which localized change through repetition is favoured over notions of large-

scale teleological development.25

Of course, the appeal of a recombinant teleology and loop-based music is not just that

it enables a different type of listening experience: perhaps more importantly, it facilitates

dance. As dance music, both house and techno rely heavily on grooves that provide dancers a

dependable metre and rhythm to improvise steps and choreograph a range of movements.

While the four-to-the-floor kick set against a backbeat is the foundation of a two-step dance

(a basic dance step observed prevalently throughout my research), other percussive, melodic,

and bass instruments are integrated into the groove to create moments of repeated

syncopation—moments often reacted to in the dancer’s upper body (arms, shoulders, hips). 23 Robert Fink, Repeating Ourselves: American Minimal Music as Cultural Practice, (Berkeley: University of

California Press, 2005), 37. 24 Ibid. 25 A more detailed discussion of afro-diasporic aesthetics occurs in Chapter 2 where I reference the work of

Tricia Rose. Tricia Rose, Black Noises: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America, (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press, 1994).

36 There are countless ways to navigate this music as a dancer, but the 4/4 metre facilitated by

syncopating bass and percussive instruments provides both a foundation for more expansive

choreography and the requisite variation necessary to keep dancers engaged.26

Loops and grooves are supplemented, combined and manipulated to form gestures.

House and techno productions, similar to other dance music, rely on particular gestures that

reference both production practice techniques and DJ performance practices. In using the

term gesture, I am referring broadly to short musical expressions, often no longer than a

single bar or two, that are heard by stylistically competent listeners and practitioners as

discrete musical moments. I return to this term in later chapters to discuss moments in which

a listener can discern a collection of musical events as a single expression. Often, gestures

reference DJ performance practice. For instance, the gradual introduction of higher end

frequencies that lead to a crescendo and a broadening of harmonic profile is heard as a

gesture that refers to a DJs application of a low-pass filter. The gradual intensification of

rhythm and timbre at the end and beginning of formal sections are gestures that reference this

application of a delay effect by a DJ in the anticipation of a large change in dynamics and

texture.27

Metrically, house and techno music are often conceived of in 4/4, and even when they

are not, they are made in such away that can easily accommodate such a hearing.28 As Butler

notes, while it is widely assumed that house and techno are always in 4/4, these constructions 26 Again this is true of many genres of Anglo-American popular music so influenced by afro-disaporic

practices. 27 I expand upon the application and description of these techniques in Chapters 4 and 5; my discussion of

gesture here is to note how both house and techno, like so many other electronic dance music, rely on integrating gestures found in DJ performance practice into their productions.

28 For instance a track could be written in 6/8 but this would be sequenced and heard in 4/4 with four groupings of triplets.

37 often contain some level of metrical ambiguity that allows listeners and producers to

interpret the music in other, often subdivided metres.29 There are exceptions of course, but in

order to facilitate DJ performance, house and techno are always interpretable in 4/4, and

more often than not follow a four-beat metrical pattern of strongest-weak-strong-weak.30

Rhythmically, house and techno usually feature a pounding bass drum that routinely

sounds on each beat of the bar (popularly called four-to-the-floor). This is often accompanied

by a high-hat pattern, which can sound on each eighth note, every-other eighth note, or each

sixteenth note of the bar. Unlike house music where a clap or snare sounds regularly on beats

2 and 4, techno often limits this sound to once per four-beat measure, and the snare,

enhanced by reverb, is often displaced, occurring on an off beat. While house music

characteristically features its own adaptation of the “disco rhythm,” in techno the presence of

a backbeat is often reserved for particular moments of musical intensification or climax.31

Figures 1.1—1.2 notate a typical house groove, followed by a generic techno groove. Note

how the techno groove’s bass line allows it to be heard as both a 4 beat loop and a 2 beat

loop. Despite the possibility for different hearings of techno and house’s metre, I provide all

examples going forward in 4/4. I do this for three reasons. First, during my fieldwork the

producers I spoke to almost always discussed this music in 4/4. Second, previous scholarship

on this music has predominantly theorized this music in 4/4, and my own analyses of tracks

29 Butler, Unlocking The Groove, 113. 30 Ibid. Combined with the backbeat on 2 and 4 this combination forms the basis of the groove. 31 The disco rhythm is a kick drum on each beat of the bar, a snare or clap backbeat on 2 and 4, and hi-hat or

cymbal hits on every second eighth-note (the off-beat). Many house percussion grooves are variations of this formulation. The percussion parts in Figure 1.1 are based on the disco beat, the only difference being the hi-hat features two sixteenth notes on the offbeat instead of a single eighth-note hit.

38 supports this reading. Third, as discussed in later chapters, the technologies used for both

production and DJing supports an understanding of this music in 4/4.32

Figure 1.1 House Groove

Figure 1.2 Generic Techno Groove

32 As Butler notes, some producers do conceptualize their loops in 2/4 and even1/4. However, they often call

these “half bars” or “single beats” implying that they were always in reference to the four beat bar. The individuals I interviewed with always described their music in terms of 4/4 bars and technologies they used (as discussed in Chapter 4) direct them towards such metrical understandings. Butler, Unlocking The Groove.

39

House music often features an ensemble of instruments that sound across a wide

range (pitched drums, bass instruments, mid-instruments, and treble instruments). In contrast,

techno primarily consists of percussion, bass, synth pads, and abrasive timbres that sound in

the low to middle registers. These abrasive timbres, which often sound as sirens, alarms, air-

horns, and other machine-based sounds, are frequently accompanied by synth-pads—

background chords or tones produced by a synthesizer that are held over multiple bars and/or

sections. Instrumentation in techno is often coded as inorganic, associated with sounds that

are not created directly by the body or through (electro) acoustic instruments. However,

house is coded as organic, associated with particularly corporeal expressions of acoustic and

electro-acoustic instrumentation. While the instrumentation in house music, despite being

produced by similar machines, often sounds or mimics acoustic or electric instruments that

exist in bands or orchestras, techno music draws on a collection of sounds and timbres that

lack parallels to acoustic instruments found in the physical world. In that sense, techno is

often said to be artificial sounding.

In terms of melodic content, house music’s close relation to disco led to it being

significantly more melodic than techno. While house is less melody-focused than most

popular music and Western art music, it frequently features melodic idioms and/or vocal

samples that resemble hooks found in contemporary Top 40 popular music. In contrast,

techno rarely contains a recognizable melody, and the treble range in which one may come to

expect a melodic line is often replaced by an ostinato, be it a single repeated note, or

repetition of an arpeggiated minor or diminished chord.

40

While house music occasionally contains some form of harmonic movement (in the

sense that house bass-lines, especially in the sub-genre of progressive house, often outline a

basic four-unit harmonic progression), the prevalence of repetition in techno and the reliance

on relatively sparse loops often make techno music sound harmonically static. Techno’s

harmonic content is often only a repeating tonic-like pitch in the bass, which is then

accompanied by minor or diminished arpeggiated chords in the upper register and synth pads

which hover loosely around a series of pitches that often relate to a tonal (but not necessarily

diatonic) centre.

In both house and techno music the bass line is used to contribute to texture and to

the rhythmic syncopation that establishes the groove. In terms of texture, by sounding often

in a given loop, its resonance fills out the low frequencies and adds weight and strength to

the kick-drum. In other instances, the bass line sounds off the beat, syncopated against the

kick drum to provide rhythmic interest and contribute to the overall groove when heard in

concert with the rest of the percussion ensemble.

As loop-based music, both house and techno often resist verse-chorus song structure;

however, house music’s occasional use of lyrics and/or vocal samples can direct it towards a

large-scale form more closely aligned with Anglo-American verse-chorus song structure. In

contrast, techno productions avoid verse-chorus constructions entirely, and are often only

developed through the layering/delayering of texture and the slight variation, intensification,

and diminution of rhythmic patterns. EDM tracks often feature a tripartite formal structure of

build-drop-breakdown. This model is less prevalent in techno, and the transition between

formal sections is less pronounced than it is in house music.

41

Techno tracks have a tempo of 110-140 beats per minute.33 While there is some

overlap with house (which is routinely played at around 115-130 beats per minute), techno is

usually perceived as faster due to its reliance on shorter loops. Table 1.1 outlines the stylistic

differences addressed thus far.

33 There are examples of techno at 100 BPM and at 150+ BPM. However, in my experience a majority of

techno performed in clubs is played between 127—135 BPM.

42

Table 1.1 Stylistic Differences Between Techno and House

Techno House

Timbre Inorganic/artificial Organic/acoustic Rhythm Often displaced or implied

backbeat.34 Clap or snare only sounds on 2 and 4

during particularly intensified moments).

Strong backbeat

Use of Samples As raw materials. Often referential or inter-textual.

Use of Vocals Rarely used. If used, heavily processed.

Used frequently. Often in the tradition of disco.

Form Formal sections fluidly transition into one another.

The transition between formal sections is often

explicitly signified. Melodic Content Sparse. Often only a single

note or short idiom. More extensive.

Bass Content Used for texture and syncopation. Rarely more

than a single pitch.

Used for texture and syncopation. More closely resembles the bass-lines found in disco, funk, and

R&B. Harmony Static. Often centres around a

single pedal tone or minor sonority

Integrates short harmonic progressions. Often no more

than four bars in length. Orchestration Sparse. Often only 4-5

identifiable instruments.35 More extensive. Often includes a more varied

percussion ensemble and numerous orchestral

instruments.

34 There is some debate over if the backbeat is always just there but not articulated. 35 It is important to differentiate that the amount of identifiable instruments does not refer to the number of

discrete instruments used in a given mix. While a techno track may only sound as if it has four separate identifiable instruments (kick drum, snare, bass, and hi-hats) the amount of individual parts mixed together in order to make up a single “instrument” can reach upwards of twenty. This will be considered in more detail in Chapter 4.

43

Within both house and techno lay countless sub-genres. From deep house to tech

house, differentiating between various forms of house and techno proves difficult.36 Beyond

a stylistic comparison, one possible way to distinguish house from techno is examining the

most prevalent affective statements found in their tracks. Building on the work scholars and

critics of house and techno, I suggest the two can be distinguished through their respective

utopian and dystopian affect. While such a comparison is not all encompassing, it provides a

framework to help differentiate house and techno while providing a window into the way

affective characteristics have been shaped by their history.

In adopting the term affect I am exploiting the word’s relation to affect-theory and the

more traditional, commonplace, use of the term: specifically, I am considering the term as

both an unqualified intensity that differs from qualified or descriptive emotion37 as well as a

singular “rationalized emotional states or passion.”38 This dual definition, one that looks at

both the pyscho-physiological experience of sound and the conscious creation of a singular

affective statement, allows me to discuss the ways in which house and techno music are

constructed to induce particular emotional experiences that move beyond notions of narrative

or explicit meaning. In my reading, affect is both a singular emotion, preconceived by a

producer, and the particular physical and emotional experience that may result when an

individual encounters such music. Considering affect from both perspectives addresses the

difference between the ways house and techno are experienced and conceived. As a dance

music the genre is often consumed through massive speaker systems found in clubs. These

36 An inside joke for DJs, producers, and scene members is creating both fictional hyper specialized sub-genres. 37 Brian Massumi, “The Autonomy of Affect,” Cultural Critique 31, no, 2 (1995): 83—109. 38 George J. Buelow, “Affects, theory of,” Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, (Oxford University

Press), accessed January 2015.

44 systems are designed to let the user feel the music, as the sound waves that flow from the

speakers physically interact with the listener’s body. In this sense house and techno,

respectively, have a specific type of “intensity” that precedes an analysis of signifiers or

style. On the other hand, these musics are often produced in home studios through an

interaction with a variety of technological devices. In this sense the music’s affect is

imagined, designed, and conceived before it is physically experienced by dancers.

What Richard Pope describes as the dystopian affect of techno is a defining feature

of the genre.39 While Pope initially conceived of the dystopian affect in order to differentiate

early Detroit techno from its European offshoots, this affect—coded in the initial recordings

that remain ever relevant—plays an important role in shaping contemporary techno. In

recognizing the dystopian affect as a unifying organizing principle of so much of techno, all

of the evocative descriptions of the music (dark, deep, brooding,) that are prevalent in

scholarly and popular criticisms are encompassed.40

The argument that techno is bound by a dystopian affect builds from the work of

scholars who have recently reconsidered the historical importance of Detroit during the

1980s. As Sean Albeiz writes in his discussion of Cybotron, one of techno’s seminal groups,

the genre’s participants rejected the affective and thematic statements found in its

predecessors (i.e. R&B, disco and house) and instead sought a type of futurism that did not

39 Richard Pope, “Hooked on an Affect: Detroit Techno and Dystopian Digital Culture,” Dancecult: Journal of

Electronic Dance Music Culture 2, no. 1 (2011): 24–44. 40 Both Reynolds, Energy Flash and Sicko Techno Rebels use these terms. The producers and scene-members I

spoke to often described techno as “dark” and “deep,” and these terms are similarly found throughout record reviews by publications like Resident Advisor and Pitchfork.

45 present hope, looking to the dystopian conditions begotten by post-industrialization: Albeiz

writes that the music of

Cybotron, unlike much early electro, did not want to ‘escape’ through a utopian black space programme [sic], but instead looked to the earth-bound urban future and the utopian/dystopian dichotomy of ‘Techno City’ —a mythical Detroit based on the extreme class segregation of [Fritz] Lang’s Metropolis. 41

As Albeiz notes, techno’s affect is one that evokes an alternative relationship to machines,

but differs from discourses of futurism and Afrofuturism. This relationship forges its own

particular brand of Afrofuturism, one that turns its attention not to the cosmos but to the

material conditions of everyday life.

Similarly, Pope advances an even more spirited argument regarding dystopian affect,

Detroit, and techno. Pope’s argument establishes that unlike other popular electronic music

of the era (electro, house, disco, progressive rock), techno forged a more complicated

relationship with technology and its economic attachment to modernism and urban

geography. “Whereas the Baudelairean flâneur went walking in search of modernity,” he

asserts, “Detroit’s “urban explorers” and residents search for, or are rather confronted by,

modernity’s demise.”42 The importance of these initial techno pioneers, and the particular

strain of Afrofuturism that directed such an approach, remains central to the music’s

41 Sean Albeiz, “Post Soul Futurama: African American Cultural Politics and Early Detroit Techno,” European

Journal of American Culture 24, no. 2 (2005): 136. 42 Pope, “Hooked on Affect,” 26.

46 aesthetic legacy and further complicates notions of what it means to be a professional

producer of this music.43

This all begs the question: what does a dystopian affect sound like? As Pope and

others have noted, this affect is most explicitly created through the sounding of a siren or

alarm—a searing, abrasive, and sweeping timbre that evokes the air-raid warnings of war, the

emergency sirens of an ambulance or a police vehicles, or a piercing alarm. In all other

contexts this noise signifies unlawful intrusion, fear, warning, or danger. And yet, the

prevalence of this sound in techno demonstrates how the genre works to repurpose

mechanical sounds. In integrating the sounds of intrusive noise into texture or timbre, the

music is able to evoke dystopia, a future in which the world is devoid of euphony and

immersed in the sounds of mechanical disruption. And yet, the sounds of sirens and alarms

are integrated into the groove of a track, and work with the other aspects of a given loop

(percussion, synth-pads, and samples) to form a cohesive musical statement. As a result, the

dystopian future is not one of chaos but (re)order—as alarms and sirens are sounded in the

same place, over and over, all the while organized within the structure of a percussive

groove.

From Derrick May’s Strings of Life to the second-wave techno standard The Bells by

Jeff Mills to Marcel Fengler’s track Sphinx, the presence of dissonant sonorities, either in the

form of arpeggiated diminished chords or chromatic or atonal melodic idioms, function as

another hallmark of a machine based future. This signifier interacts with a more stereotypical

depiction of technological otherness and dystopian futures most notably found in the science

43 This is addressed more thoroughly in Chapter 2.

47 fiction cinema of the 1970s and 1980s. This returns to the displaced or co-opted referential

sound. These sounds have a connection to the past, a connection to a machine or a device.

But their use in and integration into techno tracks transforms them, fracturing their referential

power and situating them inside another network of musical meaning. As noted by Phillip

Hayward in Off the Planet, science-fiction films have long evoked “futurist/alien themes

through the use of dissonance and or electronic sounds.”44 Schmidt, building on the work of

Hayward, contextualizes the use of chromaticism, atonal composition and dissonance as a

type of musical language that relates to the earliest portrayals of both the other and the non-

human.45 Although science-fiction films use these types of atonal and chromatic idioms to

evoke a host of others, from aliens to space ships to post-singularity machines, their

integration throughout techno music contributes to its dystopian futurism, in which the

typical signifiers of bodies are all replaced with the technologically enhanced sound of the

cybernetic self.

In contrast, house is often characterized as utopian, a music that offers liberation,

salvation and euphoria through its pure libidinal expressions. As discussed in the following

chapter, this is a result of the music’s attachment to disco, which as Dyer and Fink each note,

is one that offers both release and jouissance through the embrace of pure desire. House’s

potential to become euphoric is touched on by a host of other scholars. Tim Lawrence

articulates the type of communal homo-masculinity engendered by the music, and Brewster

44 Phillip Hayward, “Sci Fidelity—Music, Sound and Genre History,” in Off the Planet: Music, Sound and

Science, edited by Phillip Hayward, (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004): 24. 45 Lisa M. Schmidt, “A Popular Avant-Garde: The Paradoxical Tradition of Electronic and Atonal Sounds in

Sci-Fi Music Scoring,” in Sounds of the Future: Essays on Music in Science Fiction Film, edited by Matthew J. Bartkowiak, (Jefferson: McFarland and Company, 2010): 28—31.

48 and Broughton, and Reynolds, respectively, address how the experience of dancing to this

music once fought against homophobia, violence, and hooliganism in the UK.46 Sonically,

house’s utopian affect is best heard in the early Chicago house records of the mid 1980s.47

Just as referring to techno as dystopian helps us understand less precise descriptions of the

music, understanding house as utopian helps us understand the terminology (warm, uplifting,

euphoric, sunny) often used to describe this music.

Consider, the often-cited 1986 track “Can You Feel It” by Larry Heard (under his Mr.

Fingers moniker), in which its title speaks to the collectivism and sense of acceptance found

throughout this music. Sonically, this more utopian affect is heard most obviously through

orchestration and use of diatonic tonality, which combines lush orchestration, and

synthesizers to create a sense of warmth and comfort. Borrowing from disco, house music

evokes a utopian affect through its orchestration, use of tonality, lyrics and structure. In

doing so it presents a union between human, machine, and music, as the power of automation

is used to facilitate an endless sense of intimacy, pleasure, and community.

Like techno’s affect being grounded in Detroit’s post-industrial landscape, house’s

utopian affect is associated with the social and cultural world of Chicago (for house music

grew out of Chicago’s gay black and Latin disco scene). As Brewster and Broughton detail,

house was long associated with a group of people who were highly marginalized, both from

mainstream American society and their own ethnic communities.48 The notion that the clubs

that played house music doubled as places that were both safe spaces for people to be in as

46 Reynolds, Energy Flash; Brewster and Broughton, Last Night a DJ Saved My Life; 47 Examples include: “Sensation” by Ron Hardy (1985); “Promised Land” by Joe Smooth (1986); “Move Your

Body” by Marshal Jefferson (1986). 48 Brewster and Broughton, “Last Night a DJ Saved My Life,” 317.

49 well as sites for social and sexual encounters is worth noting. The initial clubs that played

house, like the Warehouse and the Power Plant, fuelled by the use of stimulants and

hallucinogens, were locales that embraced decadence, hedonism and bodily expressions not

permitted in other public, or even private, spaces.49 Therefore, while techno’s affect was

designed to make sense of the post-industrial world around them, house’s affect was shaped

by its role as the soundtrack to communal and libidinal excesses, types of collective

experience that were not permitted in public spaces.

The timbres frequently featured in house music’s percussion ensembles also reinforce

this sense of humanness. An obvious example found throughout early house tracks is the use

of open hi-hats and tambourines, which are often sampled from disco recordings.50 Other

electro-acoustic instruments that are featured heavily in house include the piano and electric

guitar. These instruments position the music in question as having a closer association to a

human body (as they are typically performed by humans physically plucking or pressing on

them), which in turn fights against the alienation enabled by the artificial and abrasive

timbres heard throughout techno.51 The most obvious expression of this utopian affect,

however, is in the use of the human voice. Many early house tracks rely heavily on looped

vocal samples that only sing out a few words or even syllables. These words encourage both

dancing and the type of communion that house music has long been associated with. Lyrics

like “we don’t stop,” “I need you,” “this is our house,” and countless others in the same vein,

49 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 17. 50 The Roland 909’s hi-hat sound is also popularly used, and it sounds significantly closer to rock and roll

drum-kit’s hi-hat than that of the Roland 808. 51 This is a relative distinction. The piano and electric guitar are both machines. Yet their presence and

familiarity to listeners of popular music during the 1970s and onwards make them more likely to be associated with human instrumentalists than computerized machines.

50 reflect the inclusive and optimistic message found throughout this music. 52 Beyond the

lyrics, the presence of the voice and the way it is deployed engenders a visceral response.

Vocal samples, like stringing arrangements, often accompany a diatonic progression and/or

function as pedal tones for which the progression moves against. The euphony created by the

voice and accompanied orchestral tonal progressions creates both a sense of euphoria and

endless pleasure, as tension of the progression is constantly resolved, the cadence constantly

concluded, and the moment of harmonic climax repeated over and over again.

The presence of the human voice not only leads to a sense of corporeality, but also

contributes to the expressions of eroticism so often referenced in discourse of disco.53 A term

often associated with house music, eroticism is attached to this utopian affect in its push

towards bodily (and human) pleasure. Consider the foundational house track, “Your Love”

by Jamie Principle and Frankie Knuckles.54 Featuring an arpeggiated ostinato bass line

centred on a minor tonal centre, the track features both a male and female voice that are

constantly returning to the phrase, “I need your love.” At first this love, as articulated by the

female voice, is one that refers to a shared love between dancers, listeners, and community

members. However, midway through the track a male voice enters, only to moan, “ooh I

need your touch.” It is not the lyrics here that creates the sense of eroticism though, but the

manner in which these words are stated. They are sung with a whispered moan, a type of

52 These are lyrics found in the aforementioned Mr. Fingers track “Can You Feel It?” 53 Tim Lawrence, Love Saves the Day: A History of American Dance Music Culture, 1970–1979, (Durham:

Duke University Press, 2004); Fink, Repeating Ourselves; Richard Dyer, “In Defense of Disco,” On Record: Rock, Pop and the Written Word, eds. by S. Frith and A Goodwin, New York: Pantheon, 1990): 410–418.

54 “Your Love” was originally released Jamie Principle in 1984. It was popularized by Knuckles during his performances at the storied club the Warehouse. In 1987 Knuckles released a re-produced version of “Your Love” . Although Knuckles kept Principle’s vocals, the DJ was credited as the producer and the track has since been widely associated with Knuckles.

51 erotic expression that in many ways mirrors Donna Summers’s famous sighing moan on her

1977 song “I Feel Love.”55 This example demonstrates how the human voice is used to create

a sense of eroticism amongst pleasured bodies, a break from the contemporary world that

makes the present seem like an exercise in suspended and endless pleasure.

House music looks to overcome subjectivity through a utopian union between the

machine and human. Technology is seen as utopian, for it facilitates the constant state of

euphoria that leads to a sense of acceptance, collectivism and communal care. This differs

radically from the notion of technology in relation to techno, in which the machine is a

means of sublimating the self. In both cases the use of repetition is designed to let the listener

give up their subjectivity. In the case of techno the desire is to feel liberation through the

destruction of subjectivity. Differently, in house, one does not destroy subjectivity, but gives

it up to join a collective, a type of communion with others (both real and imagined) who have

embraced their potential as erotic bodies.56

My consideration of technical and affective aspects of house and techno works

towards an understanding of the genres that articulates particular differences in affect and

style. However, while one can describe an affect or style, it remains ever important to situate

the sound within the cultural practice defining it. As such, the remainder of this chapter is

concerned with the history and historiography of house and techno. Although not

comprehensive, I seek to provide a greater understanding of the historic events, people,

55 Fink in Repeating Ourselves discusses “I Feel Love” extensively. 56This maps again onto a division between white and black and of the mind and of the body. This is explored in

the next chapter but as the reader will notice these mappings continue and will relate to how house and techno originated as both an afro-diasporic and European music.

52 places, and recordings that continue to shape the way producers understand their role as

artists and professionals.

History and Historiography The history of techno is told in Dan Sicko’s 1999 monograph Techno Rebels.57 Drawing on

interviews, secondary documents, the close reading of recordings, and his own experiences

and reflections as a resident of the Detroit Metro Area, Sicko’s text details techno’s

emergence as both a musical genre and cultural movement. Despite the appearance of new

documents in scholarship and popular media making reference to techno in the last two

decades,58 Sicko’s monograph remains the most comprehensive account of the genre and has

been heavily relied on by scholars as a quick introduction to the genre for academic

audiences.59

Sicko argues that while “techno” as a marketable term and genre came into being in

1988, with Neil Rushton’s compilation Techno! The New Sounds of Detroit, techno as an

aesthetic and cultural practice emerged in the early 1980s. For Sicko, techno as a marketable

term, came only after techno as a musical genre was already quite developed, and while the

name may have arisen as a result of marketing, the type of music it attempted to define was

already well established. While individuals play an important role in Sicko’s account, it is the

city of Detroit that remains the central protagonist in his telling. He writes,

57 Dan Sicko, Techno Rebels: The Renegades of Electronic Funk, (Detroit: Painted Turtle Book, 1999). 58 Albeiz, “Post Soul Futurama;” Butler, Unlocking The Groove; Pope, “Hooked on Affect;” Reynolds Energy

Flash. 59 Butler Unlocking The Groove, Garcia, Can You Feel It, Too?;” Gilbert and Pearson, Discographies.

53

Techno is also in some ways a contrary reaction to Detroit, rather than merely a sum of its influences. Within the city’s African American community was a generation of young adults looking to escape the legacies of Berry Gordy and George Clinton, or maybe already detecting conservative and formulaic tendencies in black radio. […] When the time came for these kids’ inevitable teenage rebellion, [they] turned away from R&B and looked instead to Kraftwerk and other European artists. The young techno rebels thought they had found R&B’s polar opposite, when in fact they were just hearing American soul music through unfamiliar filters. 60

The rebels that Sicko references here are the pioneers of techno, The Belleville Three and

their associates who, in his Oedipal narrative, looked to the sounds of Europe to resist the

music that preceded them.61 Techno’s originators, having grown tired of the music being

played at the middle-class Detroit clubs they frequented, sought a futuristic sound that

differentiated them from the black music that was ever-present in their lives. Thus, inside

techno’s origin story there is an initial negotiation of what it means to be an artist. Looking

past the music of their parents and their peers, early techno producers were attracted to an

expression of artistry in line with the European tradition, one that articulated artistry through

the mastery and manipulation of recording technology.

A central figure in this account of techno is the Afrofuturist Charles Johnson, the

Detroit radio DJ who, under the moniker of the Electrifying Mojo, played an eclectic mix of

new and experimental popular music on WJLB. Asking audiences to flash their headlights

and bedroom lights before each show in order to signal where the mother-ship should land,

Johnson’s program featured music from a wide range of genres, nationalities, and styles.62

Playing everything from Kraftwerk and the Italian Disco of Giorgio Moroder, to New York

60 Sicko Techno Rebels, 27-28. 61 As Sicko and Reynolds both note, looking to the high modernism of Europe as a means to rebel is somewhat

unexpected, as one does not always associate youthful rebellion with engagements with the esoteric. 62 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 6.

54 electro and Chicago house, Johnson is identified as having played a critical role in shaping

the tastes and style of techno’s eventual pioneers.63 Of these initial pioneers, the most well

regarded and well documented are The Belleville Three: Juan Atkins, Derrick May, and

Kevin Saunderson. Having all attended the same high school in the Detroit suburb of

Belleville, Atkins, May, and Saunderson are considered the initial inventors of techno, and

their story, from participating actively in Detroit’s African-American club scene to

experimenting with analog hardware and exporting their music to Europe in the early 1990s

(eventually finding a home in Berlin’s club culture), is techno’s central origin story.

Atkins, the oldest of the three, is identified by both Sicko and Reynolds as the

individual responsible for fusing the dance club sensibilities of New York electro and

Chicago house with the synthesizer-based music of Europe. Reynolds argues that it was

“through Atkins, [that] May and Saunderson were exposed to all manner of post-Kraftwerk

European electro-pop [sic].64 Similarly, Sicko refers to Atkins as “techno’s spiritual leader,”

an individual who would come to shape both the music’s production practice and its

particular relationship with Afrofuturism, technology, and the speculative post-Fordist

futurist theories of Alvin Toffer.65

It is in the early electro-informed works of Atkins and Rick Davis’s band Cybortron

that EDM historians such as Reynolds first identify the aforementioned dystopian affect.66

Works like “Alleys of Your Mind,” and “Techno City” are seen as the first of many

63 Butler, Unlocking The Groove; Ken McLeod, “Space Oddities: Aliens, Futurism and Meaning in Popular

Music,” Popular Music 22 no. 3 (2003): 337—355; Reynolds, Energy Flash; Sicko, Techno Rebels. 64 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 4. 65 Sicko, Techno Rebels, 49. 66 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 9.

55 recordings to reference a more pessimistic perspective on the post-industrial future. With

reference to Cybotron’s lyrics, Reynolds writes, “Lyrics like ‘enter the program/technofy

your mind’ and don’t you let them robotize your behind—from the gloom-funk epic ‘Enter’

—testify to an ambivalent investment in technology.”67

Although Atkins (as part of Cybotron) achieved relative success in 1981 through the

electro single “Alleys of Your Mind,” which led to a record deal with California-based

Fantasy records, he eventually left the band in order to concentrate more closely on his Deep

Space collective with former schoolmates May and Saunderson. This collective was essential

in helping the three build a positive reputation in the Greater Detroit club scene, and helped

to promote their recordings. Although they all worked together as part of the collective, they

each formed their own record labels during this period (Atkins with Metroplex, May with

Transmat, and Saunderson with KMS Records).68 On their respective labels Atkins, May, and

Saunderson each defined the diverse stylistic turns techno could take. Specifically, Sicko

positions each member as representing a different characteristic of, and/or influence upon,

techno: Atkins was closer to electro, Saunderson closer to disco, and May closer to Chicago

house music.

Having gained popularity in Detroit both through their productions and through the

parties they played as DJs, the Belleville Three, joined by other emerging Detroit based

techno producers like Blake Baxter, Anthony Shakir, and Eddie Folwkes, began selling their

music in New York and Chicago. (Especially in Chicago, the sounds of Detroit became quite

67 Ibid. 68 The entrepreneurial or artistic desires to start ones own label is a significant characteristic of techno. Today,

most well known producers have their own label, and many of the most significant label bosses began as DJs and producers.

56 popular: Atkins recalled that they “we [were] selling more records in Chicago than even

Chicago artists.”)69 The success of techno in New York and Chicago provided a strong

consumer base for a music that was moving further and further away from its Detroit roots

(specifically the funk music that Reynolds argues is essential to Detroit’s sonic identity), and

allowed these Detroit producers to enter a wider market at a critical moment in dance

music’s cross-Atlantic history.

The history of early house music has been documented in numerous texts,

predominantly covered by British and American journalists writing in the wake of house

music’s worldwide popularity in the late 1990s.70 Differently than the pioneers of techno, the

initial creators of house music were not trying to reject their past—they wanted to preserve it.

Like DJs in New York and Detroit, DJs in Chicago disco clubs were increasingly playing

with the malleability of disco recordings.71 Utilizing mixers, turntables, tape recorders and

guitar effect pedals, DJs mixed records into new records, crafting longer and more intricate

sets utilizing advanced turntablism techniques and other recording technology.72

No name is as recognizable in the early history of house music than Frankie

Knuckles. Originally from New York, Knuckles famously “invented” house music during his

residency at the Warehouse, a club in the west side of Chicago popular with young gay black

and Latino men. Playing a host of different genres from disco to funk, Knuckles curated a

69 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 3. 70 Reynolds, Energy Flash; Brewster and Broughton, Last Night a DJ Saved My Life; Gilbert and Pearson,

Discographies; Kempster, History of House. 71 As Time Lawrence notes, New York played an important role in shaping many of the disco aesthetic

practices that would later find a home in Chicago. For instance, he credits Walter Gibbons for popularizing the disco edit, a type of performance practice, that as discussed in the following chapter, was significant in informing both disco and house practice. New York, along with other

72 Brewster and Broughton, Last Night a DJ Saved My Life, 293.

57 unique sound that resulted in a seemingly never-ending mix of recordings. As Broughton and

Brewster note the term “house” initially referred not to a type of music but a place and

attitude.

For a long time the word ‘house’ referred not to a particular style of music so much as to an attitude. If a song was [considered] ‘house’ it was music from a cool club. In Chicago, the right club would be [the Warehouse]. Eventually the name came to refer to something more specific, music that was not just from the Warehouse but music that [had a specific sound].73 While many clubs in Chicago had played disco since the mid 70s, the early 80s

required DJs to adapt. Disco was falling out of fashion among big labels, and in 1981 when

commercial disco was declared dead, Chicago DJs and their counterparts in New York were

required to find creative ways to find the new and exciting recordings their DJ performances

demanded.74 As Knuckles recounted, house music emerged as a matter of necessity.

By 1981 they had declared that disco is dead, all the record labels were getting rid of their dance departments, or their disco departments, so there was no more up-tempo dance records, everything was down tempo. That’s when I realized I had to start changing certain things in order to keep feeding my dance floor. Or else we would have to end up closing the club. 75

Using reel-to-reel tape players and other technology, Knuckles went about creating new track

based on fragments and sections he valued in earlier disco recordings. This mirrored what

was happening in New York some year earlier, when DJs Walter Gibbons and David

Mancuso respectively popularized the disco edit.76 A native New Yorker, Knuckles was

73 Ibid, 314. 74 Ibid, 316. Reynolds, Energy Flash, 15. 75 Brewster and Broughton. Last Night a DJ Saved My Life, 316. 76 Chapter 2 expands on this idea.

58 introduced to DJing by his friend (and now legendary DJ), Larry Levan.77 Visiting New York

clubs like the Gallery, both Knuckles and Levan closely watched pioneering Italian-

American DJs like Mancuso and Nicky Siano who were instrumental in providing the

soundtrack to New York’s gay dance music scene.78 During this period Knuckles was

exposed to the DJing techniques and practices that would characterize disco performances,

and eventually house music. Such was the foundation of a music that centred so closely on

performance, and where recorded tracks were the individual building blocks for long-lasting

DJ sets. Here we locate the roots of what has come to be the fundamental hierarchy in house

and techno: the prioritization of DJ performance above recording and production practice.

In the 1977, Knuckles moved to Chicago to become the resident DJ at his close friend

Robert Williams’ new club, the Warehouse. At the Warehouse, Knuckles began

experimenting with tempo, texture, and sequencing, altering and re-combining aspects of the

music he felt worked best on the dance floor. Curtailing his tracks to fit his needs as a DJ,

Knuckles had great success at the Warehouse, building a large following that eventually led

to the club owners increasing the price of admission. This created a strong reaction against

the Warehouse, resulting in Knuckles leaving and moving to the newly formed club the

Power Plant. Seeing the backlash against both their increased prices and the loss of their star

DJ, the owners of The Warehouse moved in a new direction, rebranding the club as the

77 As Lawrence notes, Levan is an important figure in American dance music history. Although he died in 1992,

Levan is most closely associated with the Paradise Garage in Soho, a club credited with developing the New York “garage” sound that would eventually find success both in Chicago and the United Kingdom. Lawrence, Love Saves the Day.

78 Ibid.,130.

59 Music Box and hiring DJ Ron Hardy. Another important pioneer of house music, Hardy is

often credited with pushing the sound of house music away from disco.79

Like the Electrifyin’ Mojo in Detroit, Chicago house music was enhanced by local

radio, especially the Hot Mix 5, a program which appeared on WBMX from 1981 to 1986.

Featuring Kenny Jason, Mickey Oliver, Farley Williams, amongst others, they played

European pop-electronic music from the likes of Depeche Mode and Human League.80 The

Hot Mix 5, along with a few other radio stations, is often attributed with introducing young

Chicagoans to more diverse music, especially Italian-disco, a strain of heavily synthesized

disco from Italy which relied almost exclusively on new synthesizers.81

The popularity of Knuckles, Hardy, and The Hot Mix 5 during this period led to a

rising interest in not only DJing, but also production. The initial house productions, those not

created by Knuckles and Hardy on the dance floor, are attributed to the respective work of

Jamie Principle and Jesse Saunders. Principle’s hit record “Your Love” (later re-released and

popularized by Frankie Knuckles) and Saunders tracks like “Fantasy” and “On and On”

curated a sound that was quite different from disco (despite the aforementioned similarities),

most easily identified with their reliance on extended percussion and bass-only grooves.82

Another significant figure in the early years of house was Marshall Jefferson, whose 1986

track “Move Your Body” was the first house track to feature a piano melody, marking a shift

in house music production away from the initial orchestration of disco towards other

79 Ibid. 80 Brewster and Broughton, Last Night a DJ Saved My Life, 324. 81 Ibid. 82 Ibid., 328.

60 influences like Jazz.83 As Brewster and Broughton note, around this period “a system of

patronage had evolved whereby a producer would construct tracks for a particular DJ, with

the big guns, Knuckles and Hardy, getting the cream of the crop.”84 During this period house

became better known nationally; Saunders signed a major label deal with David Geffen and

moved to Los Angeles. The popularity of house led to a mass increase in record production,

as many young producers and DJs were trying to capitalize on the growing national interest

in the music. Despite the unorganized nature of the early house music industry, much of the

industry’s distribution networks and pressing plants were quickly consolidated by two people

and their respective labels: Rocky Jones of DJ International and Larry Sherman of Trax.

Sherman in particular was very successful because he owned the distribution plant in

Chicago, and was therefore able to fully control the means of production. This allowed

Sherman opportunities for nefarious actions, such as switching records from one label to his

own without the original producer’s knowledge.85

Early producers of house music were not celebrated as artists, and the authorship they

possessed with respect to their tracks was tenuous. Not only did record labels frequently re-

release their music without their knowledge, but also DJs routinely released their own mixes

of records they popularized. While they would still credit the initial producer on their re-

release, the DJ releasing the “new” record would become associated with the track, and they

would become publically recognized as the author of the track. This is most overtly evident

in Frankie Knuckle’s 1987 re-release of “Your Love,” a track initially produced by Jamie

83 Ibid. 84 Ibid., 331. 85 Ibid., 334.

61 Principle in 1984. Although certain house music aficionados are aware that it was originally

produced by Principle, the track is ubiquitously credited to Knuckles, and its de facto status

as house music’s initial recording further cements Knuckle’s position as “the godfather of

house.”

While Chicago house was popular locally, its breakthrough moment came with the

rise of acid house. Often associated with the tracks of DJ Pierre (Nathaniel Pierre Jones),

acid house is characterized by its innovative use of the Roland TB303 bass synthesizer.

Designed for studio musicians, the TB303 was a massive failure amongst its targeted

audience; however, DJ Pierre and his associates quickly popularized its strange and

squelching sound. With its reliance on such an abrasive sounding synthesizer, acid house

sounded much closer to Detroit techno. As Atkins noted, “Chicago came out with its own

version of techno a couple years down the road, but they didn’t call it techno because we

already had the term, so they called it acid house.”86 Acid house was much less about

preserving disco; rather, it explored more untraditional sounds that were more likely to be

heard in techno.87 In comparison to disco it was radical and aggressive in its temperament,

tempo, and texture. It lacked much of the organic and utopian aspects of early house records

and relied instead on the twisted and inorganic sounds of the TB303. Although acid house

was reasonably popular amongst DJs across the American Midwest, it was not until its

exportation to the UK that it became a widely known and lauded sub-genre. This would

come some five years later with the advent of rave culture.

86 Ibid, 337. 87 Many techno producers like Robert Hood, Richie Hawtin and Jeff Mills also rely heavily on the TB303.

62

As documented by Reynolds, in the late 1980s rave culture exploded in the UK as a

result of a young entrepreneurial generation that, in traveling to Ibiza, discovered the fruitful

and lucrative combination of the drug ecstasy with electronic dance music.88 The explosion

of raves, warehouse parties, and club culture in the UK resulted in a growing demand for

new music. This, in turn, led to British A&R executives, DJs, and producers, venturing to

Chicago, Detroit and New York in an effort to unearth new performers, recordings, and

practices.

The rise of house music in the UK corresponded with a new approach to clubbing.89

As many UK clubs could only legally stay open until 2 AM, the desire for longer-lasting

events led to the creation of raves: unregulated events in fields or warehouses that would last

for extended hours, fuelled by a host of drugs and illegal substances. The popularity of UK

raving is often associated with the growing prevalency of the drug ecstasy during this period.

Frequently credited to Paul Oakenfold and his associates, the founding myth of the

emergence of raves (as told by Reynolds and others in the UK) begins with the now famous

DJ returning with his friends from an ecstasy filled week of partying in the island of Ibiza.

Attempting to bring this experience back to the UK, they began throwing their own parties.

Combined with the growing interest in North American house music during this period,

especially the aggressive and relentless acid house, this resulted in an expansion of clubs and

raves throughout the UK and a growing market for American house and techno DJs and

producers. In the UK the term acid house in particular became a catch-all word for the

aggressive, driving house music celebrated in UK warehouse parties and raves. 88 Reynolds, Energy Flash. 89 Butler, Unlocking The Groove, 44.

63 Although techno never reached the level of popularity of house music in the UK, the

growing interest in African-American electronic music from English record executives

eventually led Birmingham native Neil Rushton to pitch a Detroit-based compilation to

Virgin Records. Rushton, who originally labeled this compilation The House Sound of

Detroit, changed the title after hearing the track Techno Music by Atkins.90 With the new title

Techno! The New Dance Sound of Detroit, this compilation not only became the first

marketable, public declaration of techno as a genre, but lead to techno’s first important chart

hit in the UK when Saundersons’s (under the moniker Inner-City) track Big-Fun entered the

Top 10 in 1988. While techno music was finding its way into clubs and DJ sets, the

promotion and sale of the Techno! compilation failed to meet the expectations of Virgin

records. Furthermore, many Detroit artists had an antagonistic relationship with UK rave

culture. As Derrick May said to Reynolds, “Techno was a musical thing. There wasn’t no

culture—no whistles, no E’s or throwing parties at old warehouses.”91 May’s point—that

techno was “a musical thing”—speaks to a common thread in techno history and

historiography, which positions the genre as a more cerebral and focused music that is less

dependent on commercial interests and popular tastes. Inverting a racial binary, May argues

that the house music of the British was entirely about club cultures, DJs, and the spectacle of

performance. This differed radically from the type of artistic identity offered by techno.

Much like a more conventional western artist, May was concerned with the music, and

creation of music, not its commercialization. This dilemma between house and techno, both

as a “musical” thing and as a cultural event or “party,” lies at the heart of many of the 90 Sicko, Techno Rebels, 68. 91 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 56.

64 nuanced relationships contemporary producers of house and techno have to notions of

artistry and professional identity.

In the UK, offshoot variations of techno and house emerged. Styles like hardcore,

IDM (intelligent dance music) and UK Garage all took hold, in some cases supplanting

house music as the dominant genres performed at clubs and raves.92 Labels like Warp

Records became widely recognized through its release of important tracks by artists like

Aphex Twin, LFO and Autechre. Not only did these styles and labels come to inform future

and contemporary techno and house production, but also, in their own right, established

networks of listeners, performers, and scene-economies. The popularity of these subsequent

styles, as well as the continued interest in North American house and techno, was enhanced

through pirate radio stations that allowed rank amateurs and enthusiasts the opportunity to

engage with a great deal of music that had yet to become fully commercialized and

integrated into larger networks of music distribution. Stations like Rinse FM became well

known for their performances of DJ sets by local celebrated DJs.

The UK’s relationship with house music was transformed in 1994 when the Criminal

Justice and Public Order Act cracked down on raves. Reynolds identifies this bill as playing

a major role in transforming British dance music culture.

Defining a rave as a mere one hundred people playing amplified music ‘characterized by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats,’ the Bill gave local police forces the discretionary power to harass gatherings as small as ten. If an officer ‘reasonably believes’ the ten are setting up a rave, or merely waiting for one to start, he can order them to disperse; failure to comply is a crime punishable by a three-month prison sentence or a £2, 500 fine.93

92 This is discussed throughout Reynolds, Energy Flash. 93 Ibid., 147–148.

65 The Criminal Justice and Public Order Act transformed UK culture, making raves ever more

difficult to stage and discouraging young and ambitious promoters from throwing the large-

scale events that so characterized the early 1990s. In addition, the cultural vacuum left as a

result of this bill enabled the creation of super clubs, large legally run nightclubs.94 While

these clubs ushered in an era of higher booking fees, the initial investment required to open

one, combined with the overhead, salaried positions, and proper licensing, transformed clubs

into highly commercial spaces. Looking to maximize profits, clubs sought to import popular

DJs and producers; individuals who had received widespread mainstream recognition.

Throughout the 1990s the importance and fame attributed to DJs increasingly grew.

Initially, clubs and promoters earned their reputations through curating unique local talent,

however, as clubbing became more mainstream promoters began to import performers with

greater followings, both nationally and internationally. This led to the rise of the superstar

DJ, a term used to describe the international jetsetters commanding large booking fees as a

result of their drawing power. Popular DJs from the USA were earning 7 to 10 thousand

pounds to play two to three hour sets.95 Todd Terry, a now widely respected American DJ

captured the sentiment with respect to DJing and production when he said to Brewster and

Broughton, “I’m not a DJ. I am a producer. I DJ for money, ‘cos I get paid for it.”96 The

popularity of superstar DJs, which throughout the 90s began to increasingly refer to British-

born DJs instead of the Chicago pioneers, was enhanced by the rising popularity of mix CDs.

These recordings attempted to simulate the experience of seeing a DJ perform. They

94 Brewster and Broughton, Last Night A DJ Saved My Life. 95 Ibid. 96 Ibid., 530.

66 leveraged the popularity of a particular DJ and, through intense marketing campaigns and

distribution networks, worked also to enhance the DJs image by reaching audiences

worldwide. In so doing they continued to demonstrate the routine displacement of authorship

from producer to DJ. These mixes contained tracks entirely created by other musicians, yet

the marketing, popular recognition, and the lion’s share of artist fees were directed towards

the DJ.97 During this period DJs like Carl Cox and Pete Tong gained international fame, as

their respective mix CDs were marketed to mainstream commercial consumers. For

Reynolds and others, the period of the British superstar DJ culminated with the fame of

Sasha and John Digweed, who famously toured the United Sates in 2002. Mirroring the way

a successful UK rock group would undertake a North American tour, they traveled across the

continent demonstrating the lucrative market for DJ performance. Combined with their

residency at super clubs across the world (at both Cream in Liverpool and Twilo in New

York) Sasha and Digweed achieved widespread fame. Indeed, Sasha’s DJ abilities were so

well known that a popular phrase began to take hold amongst house music fans: “God is a DJ

—But he only warms up for Sasha.”98

The rising popularity of house and techno abroad also led to a period of immense

diversification. Throughout the 1990s and 2000s countless sub-genres were coined and

smaller networks of clubs, promoters and musicians dedicated to single niche genres

continued. The propensity for genre formation continues to this day, and has been popularly

97 Producers still got paid for the licensing of their tracks, but it was the DJs and record companies who released

and marketed these mix-CDs that received the lions share of the profits. 98 This would later be the title of a biography on Sasha. Brendan Blood, God is a DJ —But He Only Warms Up

for Sasha, (Lancashire: Dawber Publishing 2010).

67 documented online and in scholarship with the aforementioned work of Kembrew McLeod.99

As Kenneth Taylor’s popular website dedicated to EDM genre formation details, there are

now over a hundred genres of dance music, at least half of which can be traced directly to

Chicago house and Detroit techno.100

During the mid 1990s dance music of North America, as performed and celebrated by

English audiences, began to spread globally. Fuelled by the success of UK garage and

hardcore tracks on British radio, two subgenres that were created and popularized inside the

UK, Anglo-American music began to spread internationally. The popularity of house music

in the UK charts led to its global exportation from Mexico City to Singapore to

Johannesburgh. This was initially designed to appease ex-patriots and British tourists but

resulted in the formation of individual clubs that, in turn, developed their own local

electronic music cultures. The expansion of house music world-wide during the late 1990s,

resulted in the formation of an international network of house and techno scenes that allowed

for producers and DJs to gain notoriety and perform across the globe.101

Back in Detroit, the relative success of techno in England during the late 1980s, along

with the mentoring nature of Detroit’s first wave of techno producers, led to the emergence

of Detroit’s second wave. These producers, covered in both Sicko and Reynolds’s history

with less interest than those of the first wave, have proved more important in shaping

techno’s contemporary sound, and their commitment to experimentalism and interacting with

European artists has come to define contemporary techno practice. The second wave of

99 Kembrew McLeod, “Genres, Subgenres, and Sub-subgenres.” 100 Kenneth Taylor, “Ishkur’s Guide to Electornic Music,” http://techno.org/electronic-music-guide, (accessed

January 2017). 101 This is addressed thoroughly in Chapter 3.

68 techno artists includes: Carl Craig, who had essentially apprenticed for Derrick May during

the late 80s; Richie Hawtin, who was from Windsor but commuted to perform and produce

in Detroit with fellow Canadian John Acquaviva, and the group Underground Resistance.

Underground Resistance is of historical significance for a variety of reasons, none

more relevant than its two most respected members, Mike Banks and Jeff Mills. The de facto

mouthpiece of UR, Mike Banks was one of the most vocal and actively political techno

artists of his generation. While other techno pioneers like Atkins and May were political in

the type of futurism they encouraged and considered, it was the public comments, themes,

and tracks of Mike Banks and UR that pushed Detroit techno towards a more militant

position. Concerned with the appropriation of techno by European audiences, major record

labels, and even white American/Canadian musicians (specifically Richie Hawtin), Banks

and UR began their own project of re-articulating techno as a predominantly black and mid-

west art.102 Releasing their “white labels” (unreleased tracks shared amongst local DJs and

producers) in black record sleeves, performing in camouflage, and avoiding the type of press

and promotion expected from a burgeoning music collective, UR actively sought to distance

themselves from the growing commercialization of dance music, a move which Sicko argues

only helped to increase their own sales and popularity.103

Another of UR’s significant members was Jeff Mills. Through his violently fast and

aggressive DJ sets, Mills came to define what it meant to be the virtuoso techno DJ.104

102 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 205. 103 Sicko, Techno Rebels,135. 104 Both Sicko and Reynolds print conversations with numerous DJs, from Ritchie Hawtin to Robert Hood, who

still brag about seeing Mills play live or on the radio in Detroit A popular anecdote repeated throughout techno history is of a young Richie Hawtin volunteering to pick up and re-sleeve the countless records

69 Although Mills is widely regarded by DJs, producers and critics as one of techno’s finest

performers, his legacy lies in his productions, released under a variety of pseudonyms. In

particular, through his releases and interviews from 1989 to 1999, Mills came to replace

Atkins as the spiritual leader of techno. His performances, from working with the

Montpellier Philharmonic, to making live recordings in Japan, have continued techno’s

ongoing relationship with futurism, dystopia, and technology.

While the first wave of Detroit techno found an audience in the UK, it was with the

second wave that the genre made its migration to Germany in the early 1990s. While

Germany had long been a home to both electronic and experimental dance music—for

instance, the music of Kraftwerk, Neu! and Tangerine Dream—it was not until the fall of the

Berlin Wall that Detroit techno began its migration to Berlin. In particular, the material

conditions of East Berlin after the Wall fell engendered the formation of ad-hoc dance clubs.

The opportunity presented by the fall of the Berlin Wall is most notably stressed in the work

of Luis Manuel Garcia, who discusses electronic music’s growing popularity in the German

capital.

The wasteland created near the Wall left many of the buildings around Leipziger Platz uninhabited, in disrepair, and more or less abandoned. From the beginning of the 1990s, members of the acid-house scene took advantage of the urban void created by the fall of the Wall in the center of the city to relocate and expand the acid-house scene that had been struggling under municipal and police pressure elsewhere. These venues included … Tresor located in the vaults of a former department store, Wertheim; WMF… taking its name from the Württembergische Metalwarenfabrik metal factory it occupied; and E-Werk … in a former electrical substation. During the highpoint of this period, illegal parties also went on in many other buildings that are now in the heart of Berlin’s political and economic center.105

discarded by Mills during his performances in Detroit. 105 Garcia, “Intimacy and Affect,” 31.

70 Although this migration is discussed in the Detroit-centric sources, few documents are as

dedicated to detailing the emergence of techno in Berlin as Der Klang Der Familie (2014):

this oral history, put together by Felix Denk and Sven von Thülen, functions as the German

counterpart to Sicko’s Techno Rebels.106

Through discussions with the respective founders of the club and record label Tresor,

the celebrated record store Hard Wax, and the dub-techno duo Basic Channel, Der Klang

Der Familie addressed the importation of Detroit techno, its quick adoption by Berlin

musicians and producers, and the fertile cultural atmosphere that was engendered by the

opening up of East-Berlin. As the authors of the collection argue, while techno originated in

Detroit, it was only in Berlin that this music found a true home. As stated in the introduction,

Put simply, techno originated in Detroit in the mid ‘80s. But the new electronic sounds didn’t find a home in the crisis-ridden Motor City. No club scene developed around the music, which became an export by necessity. Detroit musicians found their largest following in Berlin of all places, and a symbiotic relationship developed between the two desolate cities[… ]Techno became the soundtrack for reunification-era Berlin for three main reasons: the pure kinetic energy of the new sounds, the magic of the places it was played and the promise of freedom it contained. 107

Such a reading of this history demonstrates the importance that Berlin played in adopting

techno, and the role techno played in shaping post-wall East Berlin. It stresses how Detroit

was forced to export techno and that it was only in Berlin that the music was able to find a

suitable and nurturing home. The theme of Berlin adopting techno is central in this oral

history, and the way in which the authors organize the material stresses that it was Berlin,

and only Berlin, that was able to fully appreciate what individuals like Atkins, and May had 106 Felix Denk and Sven von Thülen, Der Klang Der Familie: Berlin, Techno, and the Fall of the Wall,

(Norderstedt: BoD, 2014). 107 Ibid., 9.

71 created in Detroit. According to Thomas Ernestus, a founding member of Basic Channel and

the record store Hard Wax,

There was this feeling in Detroit at the time that New York was exploiting its position as “gateway to the world” to feature and export only its own labels. Some Detroit labels, producers, and DJs felt not only neglected but deliberately shut out. Against that backdrop, they were especially happy to have a direct line to Europe.108

Ernestus’ assertion is corroborated by Detroit the Robert Hood, a producer and DJ who is

widely celebrated for popularizing a more minimal style of techno.

Jeff [Mills] had already told Mike [Mike Banks] and me about Berlin, how exciting the music and club scenes were and what was going on there. That really inspired my imagination of course.109

Der Klang Der Familie tells the story of what has become the dominant reading of the

Detroit-Berlin axis and, in turn, the hybridization of techno. Techno, a music that was

fostered and created in Detroit, lacked a home audience and thus moved to a city in which it

was celebrated. This move resulted in a sense of mutual respect, as Berliners took an interest

in Detroit natives and lauded them as musically enlightened.

Beyond Sicko there are few Detroit-centric sources that traced techno’s rise from

high-school parties to European raves. Sicko’s account runs through 1999, and Reynolds’s

work, even with the additional chapters released in 2012, barely touches on techno after

2000. While articles in musicology and popular music studies have been released in the last

decade, these have been less concerned with techno post-1999, and have frequently sought to

(re)consider the music’s origins, development, and relationship to 1980s Detroit.110 As a

108 Ibid., 89. 109 Ibid., 47. 110 Pope, “Hooked on Affect;” Albeiz, “Post Soul Futarama.”

72 result, the scholarship and writing that has historicized techno since 1999 has been

Germanic-centric. In ethnomusicology and musicology this is seen in the work of Luis

Manuel Garcia and Sean Nye.111 In popular criticism, this shift is mirrored in the work of

Phillip Sherburne, an American critic who moved to Europe during the 2000s and, through

his writings for Pitchfork, Resident Advisor, and Wire, became techno’s most well-respected

and important historian and critic. As a result, the telling of techno’s history post- 2000 is

primarily based on these accounts.

By the late 1990s more commercially accessible genres of dance music began to take

hold. The most notable is trance. During the mid 1990s trance was a term used to describe a

harder and more driving off-shoot of techno, heard most famously in the tracks and

performances of Paul Oakenfold and Sven Väth. However, during the 1990s trance was

transformed by a host of bombastic Dutch and German DJs and producers, most notably

Tiesto, Paul van Dyk, and Armin Van Buuren. While critics saw this type of trance music in

a negative light—especially Reynolds, who categorized the large choruses, crescendos, and

heart-tugging refrains as the “enchanted flutter of a lobotomized Phillip Glass, or a the

cuddly- and-cosmic feeling you’d get if you tripped with the Teletubbies”—trance quickly

became quite popular in European nightclubs.112

By 2003 the most famous DJs in the world, and those commanding the highest

booking fees, were playing the more radio-friendly and commercially viable genre. However,

this also coincided with a new generation of techno producers who emerged. Either as a

111 Garcia, “Intimacy and Affect;” Sean Nye, “Minimal Understandings: The Berlin Decade, The Minimal

Continuum, and the Debates on the Legacy of German Techno,” Popular Music 25, no. 2 (2013): 154–184. 112 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 439.

73 direct musical response to trance (and to European electronic music’s overall trend towards

an aesthetic of “fast-harder-louder”), as a strategic endeavour to carve out a new aesthetic

space, or, as simply a matter of coincidence, producers began creating tracks that were more

stripped back and percussion-focused. While producers like Surgeon and Luke Slater sought

to continue the British tradition of aggressive unrelenting techno, others began to reject the

maximalist nature of this music, and instead sought to do more with less. Building on the

earlier work of Detroit artists like Robert Hood and Daniel Bell, producers began to make

what was labeled minimal techno, or simply, minimal.113

For historians of minimal techno (most notably Sherburne and Nye) the music is

primarily concerned with a return to techno’s initial aesthetic goals. As Sherburne writes

At its heart, this [minimal techno] is trance music —trance-inducing in its purest sense. The strategies I'm talking about create a kind of endless, infinitely shifting constellation of repetitions, a motion at once horizontal, following the timeline, and vertical-- plunging straight down through the overlapping layers of every bar, every beat, like an oil rig sinking its drill and pumping out hidden riches. Trance, as it has come to be known, is a collection of effects or, worse, affect-- bright, overbearing arpeggios set to a thumping, static beat. But that's not trance; that music is dead on arrival, a corpse left on the listener's doorstep with the disdain of a kidnapper who's lost interest in the payoff.114

Similarly, Nye writes about minimal techno and its connection to a Detroit sound as an effort

to (re)engage a genre that had more cultural capital than the radio-friendly trance that was

being promoted throughout Europe and abroad. Nye argues that

Minimal had already become important by the late 1990s as a claim to cultural capital and as a balancing act between art and pop through a variety of EDM styles, whereby minimal was especially linked to Detroit techno and Chicago house—genres with

113 Sean Nye, “Minimal Understandings,” 155. 114 Phillip Sherburne, “This Month in Techno,” Pitchfork Music, October 4 2006,

http://pitchfork.com/features/techno/6260-the-month-in-techno/.

74

greater cultural and aesthetic credibility according to many wings of the European club culture scene.115

Drawing upon the work of journalist Tobias Rapp, whose Lost and Sound: Berlin, Techno,

und der Easyjetset considers how the eased travel restrictions of the European Union and the

affordable price of both flight and accommodations in Berlin resulted in an influx of techno

tourism during the 2000s, Nye argues the combination of social, aesthetic, cultural, and

historic factors helped define the aughts as “The Berlin Decade,” a period in which a

reengagement with the initial aesthetics of Detroit techno combined with other socio-

economic reasons to help define Berlin as the “techno city.”116 Although less minimal strands

of techno existed throughout “the Berlin decade” (and the timeline is really much closer to

2003-2007), the historicization and documentation of the minimal techno movement may be

seen as an important moment in post-Detroit techno historiography—one in which the initial

American practitioners, despite their influence on European producers, were all but replaced

by a new generation of German practitioners.

Through the first seventeen years of the 2000s, Berlin became the most significant

city in house and techno. As Butler notes in his recent monograph, Berlin is an attractive

location for EDM producers and enthusiasts.

[Berlin is] the most active location in the world for both club culture and EDM record production. Finding an ideal combination of low rents, enthusiastic and knowledgeable audiences, and creative vibrancy, many electronic dance musicians have immigrated to Berlin.117

115 Nye, “Minimal Understandings,” 155. 116 Ibid.,156. 117 Mark J. Butler, Playing With Something That Runs: Technology, Improvisation, and Composition in DJ and

Laptop Performance, (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014): 8.

75 Although minimal techno remains a popular style, it has been pushed aside by a loose

collective of Berlin DJs and producers best known for their residency at the infamous

nightclub Berghain. Although the club has gained both scholarly and popular attention in the

last few years, an analysis of its importance in shaping Berlin techno identity and the

imagination of producers worldwide will undoubtedly be expanded upon in future years.118

Berghain, along with the producers and DJs that hold residencies there, is known for a more

aggressive and harsher sounding techno, one that relates more closely to the music of Jeff

Mills than of Robert Hood. This approach is widely celebrated in house and techno discourse

(specifically on the website Resident Advisor) and the tracks and DJ sets of Berghain

residents are exported both digitally and on vinyl by the club’s in-house record label Ostgut-

Ton. As a result of their success at the club, these DJs have secured a seemingly endless

stream of international bookings. It is not unusual when scanning international club dates to

see five to ten Berghain residents playing in five to ten different cities in a given night. Aside

from Ostgut-Ton, other European labels have began to embrace this more direct and

industrial sound, such as the Belgium-based Token Records and the aptly named Berlin

based label, Dystopian Records.

As Berlin emerged as the centre of global techno during the 2000s, it also occupied

an important place in the production and performance of house music. In particular, the rise

of “minimal” was not restricted to techno, but also crossed over into house music. Producers

like Ricardo Villalobos and Luciano gained notoriety during this period and their respective

118 Berghain is specifically discussed in Garcia, “Intimacy and Affect” and more recently in Nick Paumgarten,

“Berlin Nights,” The New Yorker (March 24, 2014): http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/03/24/berlin-nights.

76 labels and residencies at Berlin clubs enhanced the cities position as the home of both house

and techno.119 Along with these minimal styles, the clubbing infrastructure and real estate

prices that made the city so popular for initial techno producers has also made it equally

appealing to those who gravitate towards house. House music labels like Wagon Repair, Get

Physical, and Hotflush reside in Berlin, and thousands of producers who seek to earn a living

as working techno and house musicians have made the city home over the past decade. A

survey of artist accounts on the website Resident Advisor, which allows users to create

dedicated landing pages detailing their touring schedules, releases, and other information,

places the number of DJs and producers living in Berlin in the thousands. 120 On a given

weekend there are upwards of two-dozen house and techno events in the city. These events

are attended in part by the countless stream of techno tourists arriving from the UK and

abroad.

Berlin’s dominance in contemporary house and techno discourses extends beyond the

actual recording and performing of music. In terms of distribution, one of the most respected

record stores is Hard Wax, a shop owned by one of the members of Basic Channel. The

store’s pithy two-line descriptions of tracks found on their website (and stuck to record

sleeves) can propel a track to worldwide acclaim (especially if given their celebrated “TIP!”

designation). Operating through mail order and digital download, Hard Wax is recognized as

an authority in declaring which variety of techno, or which artists, are “in” and its employees

119 According to Nye, minimal was not limited to Berlin. And the minimal house music of the 2000s was greatly

informed by the releasing on the Cologne label Kompakt. Owned by Michael Mayer, Jürgen Paape, and the widely celebrated producer Wolfgang Voigt, Kompakt is credited as defining the minimal-pop sound that so characterized so much of German popular music during the 2000s. Nye, “Minimal Understandings.”

120 “Guide to Berlin,” Resident Advisor, accessed June 2017, https://www.residentadvisor.net/guide/de/berlin.

77 are romanticized in the house and techno media. Berlin’s is also the home for many music

technology companies. Native Instruments (who designs the popular digital to analog DJ

software Traktor, as well as numerous pieces of hardware), Ableton (whose digital audio

workstation Live is ubiquitous in production and performance) and Soundcloud (which

although not a specifically house and techno based service, is used universally by producers

and DJs as a platform to exchange recordings) are all based in Berlin.121

Conclusion As this dissertation progresses towards an understanding of contemporary notions of

professional identity amongst house and techno producers, an understanding of these historic

and stylistic narratives will be important. These migrations, from Detroit and Chicago to

Berlin and the UK, to their eventual dissemination across the globe, are the dominant

narrative throughout these intertwined histories. It is framed by the initial Detroit-centric

texts and the origin stories of house music. Such narratives, by their very nature as

narratives, inevitably ignore the countless micro-histories—the stories, events, people, and

tracks that have played an important role in developing techno and house in a host of other

local scenes. Yet this history, which speaks to the interplay between Detroit, Chicago, the

UK and Berlin, remains ever present in contemporary techno and house discourse, and the

current practitioners of this music are undoubtedly required to negotiate this multi-sited, and

multi-cultural history: it shapes how producers conceive of their identity as artists and as

professional musicians.

121 London also continues to play an important role in house and techno. As a large metropolis, the city is also

home to many record labels and celebrated clubs. However, London’s high cost-of-living makes it less appealing for producers who have not already achieved a certain level of fame and recognition.

78

Contemporary producers of house and techno navigate histories that are informed by

numerous places, spaces, and migrations. The disco clubs of Chicago, the post-industrial

landscapes of Detroit, the warehouses of the UK and the retrofitted industrial venues of

Berlin define histories that continue to shape contemporary production practice and notions

of what it means to be a professional producer. These histories are important because they

highlight how the producer’s subservience to the DJ is grounded in a historical tradition, one

that situates the creation of tracks as a means to facilitate DJ performance. While techno’s

early history provided an alternative understanding of the producer —an individual who

perceived their tracks as being more closely linked to works than tools— house’s early

history, and the popularity of its offshoots in the UK and abroad, undoubtedly cemented the

DJ as the epicentre of this music. As a result, contemporary producers of house and techno

are faced with the historical reality that their production practice is only a small part of a

larger network of music making and consumption. This raises the stakes for production

practice, as it is the only location in which producers are able to articulate their distinctive

form of authorship and professionalism through the creation of music.

79

Chapter 2

German Modernism, Disco, Afrofuturism: House and Techno’s Aesthetic Heritage

In Chapter 1 I outlined the stylistic differences and interwoven histories of house and techno.

In doing so I not only provided a primer for these two important and linked genres, but also

set the stage for understanding how different concepts of professional identity, artistry and

authorship have been conceived and negotiated. This was most clearly seen in the manner in

which DJ performances became the most significant site for the consumption of music. Yet,

Chapter 1 only scratched the surface in terms of discussing the way in which producers assert

their artistry and professionalism through production. Inside this narrative there exists a more

extensive history, what I call an aesthetic legacy, which shapes the way contemporary

producers of house and techno approach the creation of music. Aesthetic legacies inform

how producers approach technology and the way in which they navigate their position as

track makers and toolmakers, producers and performers, artists and artisans.

In this chapter I discuss the three aesthetic legacies that inform what it means to be a

producer of house and techno: German modernism, disco, and Afrofuturism. In

understanding how these three legacies merge to form a complicated, and at times

conflicting, notion of what it means to be a producer of tracks, I provide a window into the

types of nuanced negotiations producers navigate in their production practice.

80

German Modernism The German modernist music of West Germany during the 1960s and 70s plays a significant

role in shaping contemporary house and techno. This period is important for a host of

reasons, none more so than its ability to bridge the gap between popular and experimental

music through creative and forward-thinking engagements with technology, mass media, and

recording practice. While the influence of German modernism was limited (but present) in

early English-language studies of house and techno, the increasing importance of Germany

as the de facto home of these genres has led to greater interest in how the nation’s cultural

history has shaped aesthetics.1 Although there are undoubtedly hundreds, if not thousands, of

musicians, radio engineers, programmers, publishers, professors, and scene members who

drove the experimental music of post-war Europe towards collaborations with popular music,

two key players feature prominently in any discussion of post-war German modernism and

popular culture: the composer Karlheinz Stockhausen, and the band Kraftwerk.

As discussed in Michael Kurtz’s text Stockhausen: A Biography, Karlheinz

Stockhausen’s musical works and ideology constantly engaged with notions of futurism and

the exploration of new sonic frontiers.2 Kurtz discusses two related motivating forces at work

in Stockhausen’s creative output during the 1950s and 1960s. First, was Stockhausen’s

desire, shared by many of his contemporaries, to move towards a new German musical

identity, one that sought to (re)engage the musical developments once attacked by the Nazis:

1 Early accounts that only touched on this include Reynolds, Energy Flash, (London: Picador, 1998); Dan

Sicko, Techno Rebels: The Renegades of Electronic Funk, (Detroit: Painted Turtle Book, 1999). Recent interest is best seen in Sean Nye, “Minimal Understandings: The Berlin Decade, The Minimal Continuum, and the Debates on the Legacy of German Techno,” Popular Music 25, no. 2 (2013): 154–184.

2 Michael Kurtz, Stockhausen: A Biography, trans. Richard Toop, (London: Faber & Faber, 1994).

81 specifically, serialism. Second, Stockhausen was fascinated by the ever-developing

technology related to recording practice and synthesis. According to Kurtz, the potential to

create new sounds with new materials previously untapped by other composers was

particularly enticing for Stockhausen.

It seems as though, in the euphoria of his work, Stockhausen was convinced at that time [the early 1960s] that the future of music lay in electronic sounds. He once said to [Heinz] Schütz, ‘in twenty years no one will talk about Bach and the classics any more.’3

Similarly, Sean Nye writes that Stockhausen’s commitment to forming new sounds,

his desire to not only sample or construct sonic collages (musique concrete) but also to form

completely new sounds through synthesis that would sound unlike “any prior instrument,”

was essential in creating an aesthetic revolution.4 Nye, like Kurtz, argues that this desire for

new sounds corresponded to the composer’s desire to move beyond the immediate past and

forge a new future of German music through a commitment to abstraction and formalism.5

As Nye writes, “the search for new sounds to express a different age thus implicitly critiqued

the nationalism of the German musical tradition.”6 Advancements in music technology

offered a means to explore a new type of German musical identity.

Yet it is not just Stockhausen’s commitment to electro-acoustic techniques that

ingratiated him to a generation of pop-avant-garde musicians. Rather, it was his involvement

with mass-media and his relationship with West German radio that turned his work into an 3 Ibid., 63. 4 Sean Nye, “Teutonic Time-Slip: Travels in Electronic Music, Technology and German Identity 1968-2009,”

(PhD diss, University of Minnesota, 2013): 65. 5 As discussed later on, there is a common thread both in this form of German modernism and Detroit

Afrofuturism that looked to move away from the immediate past and challenge essentializing notions what it meant to make both black and German music.

6 Nye, “Teutonic Time-Slip,” 65.

82 extension of national consciousness. Like Detroit’s Electrifyin’ Mojo and Chicago’s Hot Mix

Five, which supplied young listeners with new genres of music differing from what was

commonly played on the radio, Stockhausen also used his position to showcase

contemporary avant-garde music to the masses. Writing on the importance of national radio

in leading younger German listeners towards electronic music, Gesa Kordes asserts that

public institutions played a critical role in directing composers towards electronic music.

The official acceptance of modern experimental trends in composition helped shape Germany’s postwar musical identity principally by increasing state support for the serialist avant-garde, channelled through a public institution—radio. […] Radio stations further provided the support in the early 1950s for the avant-garde’s next stage of abstraction: electronic music. With synthesizers the quest to define series of musical parameters as precisely as possible took on the intensity of scientific research. Had it not been for the installation of electronic studios at major radio stations (for example, Cologne in 1953), this next step in musical abstraction would have been impossible. 7

The use of radio as a means of exposing young artists to experimental electro-acoustic music

was not just limited to Stockhausen. As Jason James Hanley notes in his dissertation on

industrial music and modernism, German radio during the 1960s frequently featured new

pieces by Stockhausen, Cage and Boulez, and a large percentage of the German public would

have been exposed to this music at a young age.8 Drawing from a frequently cited interview

with Holgar Czukay of the Krautrock band Can, Hanley suggests that the “heavy-weight” art

music composers were more of an influence on German popular music than that of other

Western nations during this time:

7 Gesa Kordes, “Darmstadt, Postwar Experimentation, and the West German Search for a New Musical

Identity,” in Music and National Identity, ed. Celia Applegate and Pamela Potter, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002): 212–213.

8 Jason James Hanley, “Metal Machine Music: Technology, Noise and Modernism in Industrial Music 1975-1996,” (PhD diss, Stony Brook University, 2011).

83

The main direction was defined by heavy weight composers like Stockhausen, Pierre Boulez or John Cage. When I was a pupil at school I switched on the radio every Tuesday and Thursday night at 11 p.m. to hear what was behind this far out and often intellectually overloaded music. Somehow Stockhausen had managed to stick out among all others. There was obviously more to find out than just some or other bizarre sounding effects. . . . For me, it sounded strange and exciting at the same time. But how could I ‘manufacture’ these strange sounds myself? That was for me the most important question, which I had to solve sooner or later. This experience was not unique. Many young musicians in Germany heard avant-garde music on a regular basis and attempted on some level to recreate the sound of the music–albeit without the millions of dollars of equipment. Many of these musicians began studying music at universities, which eventually led to an entire generation of musicians learning composition and musicianship as students of Stockhausen and/or his contemporaries.9

Czukay’s statement that this experience “was not unique” speaks to the influence radio

played in shaping a generation of German musicians. In particular, this influence played an

important role in directing young people towards avant-garde music, and Stockhausen’s

celebration of new recording technology inspired many (like Czukay) to begin experimenting

with it themselves.

The significance of Stockhausen with regards to both early and contemporary house

and techno music is not the result of a direct relationship between his recordings and house

and techno’s initial practitioners. Rather, it was filtered through the lens of another group: in

the music of Kraftwerk we find the most significant and influential expression of German

musical identity during this period—an identity that was both experimental and traditionalist,

both futuristic and historical, and one that attempted, like Stockhausen, to continue in the

tradition of German modernism.10

Formed in 1970 by Ralf Hütter and Florian Schneider, Kraftwerk is a Düsseldorf-

9 Hanley, “Metal Machine Music,”149–150. 10 David Cunningham, “Kraftwerk and the Image of the Modern,” in Kraftwerk: Music Non Stop, eds. Sean

Albiez and David Pattie, (New York: Continuum Press, 2011): 46.

84 based popular music group that joined the growing experimental West German rock scene of

the 1970s. Throughout the 1970s and 80s the group achieved high record sales and global

popularity through tracks like Autobahn (1974) and Computer Love (1978), and would

become widely appreciated for its integration of experimental recording technology into their

performances and albums. Their performances, where each member stands in front of semi-

closed synthesizer or drum machines, obfuscated the relationship between physical action

and produced sound. These performances were significant in ushering in, and popularizing,

new ways of understanding performance that differed from the folk-rock model which

focused on highlighting the liveness of a singer-songwriter’s performance.11 In a sense,

Kraftwerk’s performances contained the seeds of a type of post-human music—one that

sought to explore new ideas of authenticity and musicianship as mediated by recording

technology. This provided a model in which authorship and musical genius were articulated

through an expression of technical mastery. As demonstrated by the music of Stockhausen,

artistic ability was becoming more closely aligned with precise manipulation of machines.

Alongside Kraftwerk’s open celebration of technology, the band’s performances were

important in establishing a type of post-rock masculinity that embraced technology over

other conventional markers of authenticity associated with the folk-rock tradition.12 While

Kraftwerk is credited by its biographer Tim Barr as being on par with The Beatles in terms of

their contribution to both music and popular culture, their significance regarding house and 11 Phillip Auslander, Liveness: Performance in a Mediatized Culture, New York: Routledge, 1988; Mark

Duffett, “Average White Band: Kraftwerk and the Politics of Race,” Kraftwerk: Music Non Stop, eds. Sean Albiez and David Pattie, (New York: Continuum Press, 2011). A detail that further complicates these relationships is that rock music’s earliest practitioners were African American. However, the folk-rock notions of authenticity that bands like Kraftwerk were challenging were models more closely associated with white Anglo-American singer-songwriters.

12 Duffett, “Average White Band,” 210.

85 techno is the manner in which they integrated the aesthetics of German modernism into their

recordings and performances.13 In doing so, they provided a model for which musical genius

and artistry could be enacted through a mastery of automation and recording technology.

In the many interviews conducted throughout their thirty-year career, the members of

Kraftwerk frequently mentioned the influence of Stockhausen’s radio broadcasts and how the

composer shaped their sonic imaginations. Unsurprisingly, scholarship over the past two

decades has sought to further explore this connection. For Albiez and Lindvig this

connection is most easily identified in the 1973 album Autobahn.

When listening to Autobahn there are clearly echoes of the avant-garde and electronic music experiments of Karlheinz Stockhausen broadcast from the Westdeutscher Rundfunk (WDR) studios in Cologne in the 1950s and 1960s. This was music sponsored by the West German state and occupying powers to enable the FRG to develop a new de-nazified German musical identity, and stood in direct Cold War opposition to the populist and anti-formalist state music policy of the GRD. Conny Plan, who worked as a sound engineer at the studios in the 1960s, and was co-producer of Autobahn as well as Kraftwerk’s earlier work, provides a creative link to this music. Hütter has also indicated that he listened to the WDR broadcasts when growing up, stating, ‘ We were boys listening to the late night radio of electronic music from WDR in Koln…They played a lot of late night programmes with strange sounds and noise.’14

Similarly, in the aforementioned biography, Tim Barr writes:

This, after all, was a group born out of an intellectual, sophisticated background in one of Germany’s most cosmopolitan cities. They had been exposed to many of the contemporary artistic climate’s most radical theories and would have had more than a nodding acquaintance with the burgeoning counter-culture movement which in Europe had adopted a much more revolutionary tendency than its American counterpart. Hütter, Schneider and percussionist Karl Batos were all heavily influenced by Karlheinz Stockhausen.15

13 Tim Barr, Kraftwerk: From Düsseldorf to the Future (with Love), (London: Random House, 1998): 3. 14 Sean Albeiz and Tromm Lindvig, “Autobahn and Heimatklänge: soundtracking the FRG,” Kraftwerk: Music

Non Stop, edited by Sean Albiez and David Pattie, (New York: Continuum Press, 2011): 35. 15 Barr, “Kraftwerk,” 7.

86 Finally, Hanley surmises that Kraftwerk sought to link their music with Stockhausen and

post-war modernism.

The only influences Kraftwerk were willing to claim in the early days were those of contemporary avant-garde composers and a general sense of post –war modernism. This strategy allowed Kraftwerk to place themselves in the present looking forward to the future, not tied to any moment in the past…Hütter suggested that their true education came from hearing electronic music pioneers such as Stockhausen and Boulez played on the radio, or even in going to see the music in concert.16

Throughout much of the scholarship on Kraftwerk there is a commitment to casting the

group as the popular children of Stockhausen—the logical outcome of a new generation of

German popular musicians who grew up and experienced Anglo-American (and, in turn,

African-American popular music) through the prism of the experimental music broadcast

from the WDR studios. In exporting a new German modernism Kraftwerk introduced young

Americans (and the eventual pioneers of techno) to a world of experimentation through

popular music—fusing some of the most approachable aspects of popular music (for

example, the use of verse-chorus song structure, 4/4 metre, and a steady backbeat) with a

commitment to experimental sound design. In essence, the post-war abstraction advocated by

Stockhausen was made more approachable and accessible through Kraftwerk, and their

worldwide success helped disseminate the aesthetics of German modernism into

communities and cultures with little access to West German radio and/or avant-garde

recordings.

For scholars of popular culture and German identity, Kraftwerk marks an important

step in asserting post-war German modernism through their engagement with Stockhausen

and new recording technologies. A central aspect of this modernism is the desire to move 16 Hanley, “Metal Machine Music,”165.

87 beyond the immediate past. Indeed, David Cunningham argues that the cultural context of

the zero year—the notion that in the wake of World War II German culture would have to

start anew—pushed post-war artists to reclaim aesthetics and practices that were interrupted

and persecuted during the Nazi regime: policies that were both anti-modernist and racist.

Writing on this subject with regards to Kraftwerk, Cunningham states:

If Kraftwerk seek to recover the avant-garde ambition to dissolve artistic forms into the forms of the everyday, they do so in terms of the desire for an art newly ‘adapted to our world of machines, radio and fast cars’, to cite Gropius, the first director [of] the Bauhaus (Curtis, 1982, p.309). Most profoundly, this looks to reconnect artistic technique to Technik at the level of the immanent logics of musical production, in a manner which may be indebted to the ideas of productivism [of] Benjamin and Brecht, but which is instantiated in a fundamentally new form.17

Cunningham argues that in Kraftwerk we see an expression of German modernism that looks

to move forward by looking back. Committed to taking up the halted projects of modernists

like Walter Gropius, Kraftwerk employed cutting edge technology and mass media (tools

used in their immediate past for destruction) to access a new frontier of artistic creation—one

that, as Cunningham notes, would allow them to reconnect with the very idea of art as craft

(or technics) and, in turn, to push towards a union between formalism (music designed to

explore the frontiers of sound technology) and functionalism (music designed to serve a

specific social role beyond advancing recording practices).

Sean Nye’s dissertation, “Teutonic Time-Slip: Travels in Electronic Music,

Technology and German Identity 1968-2009,” offers another reading of Kraftwerk and their

relationship to German musical culture and electronic music.18 Nye aptly explores how the

music of the twentieth and twenty-first century attempts to negotiate the numerous artistic 17 Cunningham, “Kraftwerk and the Image of the Modern,” 53. 18 Nye, “Teutonic Time-Slip,” 2013.

88 and political legacies of nineteenth-century romanticism, Nazism, and post-war

reconstruction through re-unification. Nye credits Kraftwerk, amongst other bands, for

pushing electronic music forward as both a genre for aspiring popular music artists and an

expression of high German art:

In Germany, electronic music, beyond aesthetic questions of future and past, found itself in a unique quandary regarding the histories of popular, classical, and modern art music that involved a careful use of cultural capital for local success and international export. Admittedly, technopop achieved market success in the 1980s and 1990s with popular calls such as Kraftwerk’s elektronische Volksmusik and Westbam’s Raving Society. However, this strategy has been complemented in the larger history of electronic music with claims not to popular art, but high art – a blurring of past and future through a blurring of high and low culture. Particularly in Germany, access to the popular could be achieved precisely through a calculated appropriation of the rhetoric of high art. This practice simultaneously anchored electronic music in tradition and claimed it as new. Invocation of the German past of bourgeois culture and classical music legitimized the music as a uniquely German export commodity, securing distinctions from Anglo-American popular music through cultural capital.19

The blurred lines outlined by Nye are an important legacy of German modernism, and one

found in the current aesthetic practices of techno. Nye infers that techno, which emerged

from the high minded (at times Europhilic) rebels of Detroit, as a uniquely German art in its

capacity to be both high art and of the people. The notion that techno is a serious music and a

popular music; that techno recordings are both musical pieces and tools; and the notion of the

DJ as both artist and labourer, can be found throughout this modernist aesthetic.

Undoubtedly the legacy of German modernism still shapes contemporary house and

techno production. This is not only the result of the importance of Berlin and Germany at-

large to global house and techno scenes, but also because so many of the initial recordings

that remain important in informing practice were created with respect to this influence. Yet 19 Ibid., 137.

89 to examine German modernism and the European influence is to only consider one part of a

much larger confluence of aesthetic legacies. Indeed, the contemporary house and techno

producer is not regarded as a modernist composer, or even an experimental popular

musician. Their productions are not typically performed at traditional concert venues, nor are

their productions regularly consumed through the focused listening associated with

modernist endeavours. In fact, even the language used to identify their creations,

“productions,” reveals an attachment to another aesthetic legacy—one that marks a different

notion of what constitutes originality, creation, and authorship. I am referring to the legacy of

disco. This legacy remains paramount in shaping both notions of authorship and aesthetics in

contemporary house and techno music.

Disco

While scholarship exclusively on house music does not shy away from addressing the

genre’s roots in disco, readings of techno have long positioned disco as a foil—a genre that

uses similar machines, sounds, and production practices but remains aesthetically antithetical

to techno’s dystopian outlook and self-seriousness.20 Yet disco remains important to both

house and techno in its aesthetic and socio-cultural legacy. In the most material sense, the

genre can be credited with establishing and developing the clubbing and recording

infrastructure that house and techno have long relied upon. From the physical construction

and retrofitting of dance clubs and event spaces, to the development of direct-drive turntables

and the 12-inch single, the technological advancements begot by disco are foundational to

both the performance and production of house and techno. Disco provided cultural 20 Cosgrove Techno!; Sicko, Techno Rebels; Reynolds, Energy Flash.

90 conditions from which house and techno could emerge as a viable art form, and pioneered

many of production practices that producers now rely upon.21

A significant legacy of disco vis a vis authorship is the prominence of the “disco-edit”

and the remix. The popularity of disco in New York and Chicago dance clubs was fuelled by

the disco edit. These were mixes in which the DJ manipulated extant copies of commercial

recordings. As Margie Borschke argues, the edit is an artefact “that owes its existence to both

the studio and the dancefloor.”22 The edit is influential in shaping disco and its offspring’s

approach (house music being one of them) to the track being conceived of as a tool.

Borschke states that edits implied a “sentiment of functionality” which made disco records

(produced for larger markets) more accessible for DJs:

An edit is made to serve a functional purpose in the practice of playing and mixing between recorded music; an edit might make a song easier to mix into other tracks by extending the song’s beginning (or ‘intro’) and end (or ‘outro’); one might extend and repeat the parts of a song that are thought likely to elicit a dancer’s response (often by extending the drum break); or one might create an exclusive version of a well-known song, working with the dancer/listener’s paradoxical longing for the familiarity and novelty and the DJ’s desire to create a style or sound all their own, to attract and interact with an audience, to secure a gig, etc.23

Essential to the creation of edits is the process of re-recording, in which a new version of a

track is sealed in vinyl. This is a process of re-appropriation that suggests authorship is

malleable. As Borschke writes, “edits are often seen as a subversion of a work’s fixed

nature,” and thus constitute a type of recording and performance practice that re-articulated

21 Sicko, Techno Rebels; Reynolds, Energy Flash. Some examples of this include the programming of drum-

machines, and the manner in which bass and lead synthesizers are used. 22 Margie Borschke, “Disco edits and their discontents: The persistence of analog in a digital era,” New Media

and Society 13, no. 6 (2010): 931. 23 Ibid., 932.

91 authorship.24 This subversion and interaction with the malleability of authorship was used to

supplant the initial author, and to enter a larger multi-textual dialogue between the performer,

producer, and a broader history of recording practice. In that sense there is a connection to

the type of authorship that demonstrates how technology can mediate a more complex and

nuanced interaction with concepts of authorial texts, and professional identity. This

conception of authorship resists notions of canonizing a single track as a work, and pushes

listeners and practitioners towards more deconstructive engagements that destabilize a

track’s autonomy as a sealed work.

The popularity of edits amongst disco DJs was passed down to the post-disco DJs

who originated house music. The need for more disco records led to more intense editing,

breeding a process of simultaneous deconstruction and reconstruction. The prevalence of the

edit also led in time to the concept of the remix, a type of in-studio edit that maintains the

tradition of constructing new musical material from the other tracks. In a remix, the remixing

party is not typically responsible for deconstructing the initial track to its constituent parts.

Rather, when a remix is commissioned, the producer of the original track will disassemble

his or her own work, sending a set of independent instrumental parts to the commissioned

producer. This labour can be read as a gesture of active deconstruction of one's own work,

reinforcing the importance of deconstruction in the creative practices of disco, house, and

techno.

In both the edit and the remix producers are directed towards more tentative and

fluid ontologies of their tracks, an ontology that sees a track as both a work and a tool, a

24 Ibid. Recall Frankie Knuckles’ appropriation of Jamie Principle’s track “Your Love.”

92 piece of music and the functional materials for a future edit, remix, or DJ set. This relates to

afro-diasporic understandings of music and artistry, which as Tricia Rose notes, relies on

processes of “repetition and recontexutlaization.”25 Thus, a significant legacy of disco is the

way it came to situate tracks as both works and tools. Tracks are indeed works, but they are

also destined to be apart of a larger network of edits, remixes, DJ sets, and samples. In short,

tracks have a functional and social utility beyond their status as musical works.

The legacy of disco is also felt in the formal structure of contemporary dance music.

In particular, disco’s legacy informs notions of time and teleology that resist Hegelian

concepts of becoming and development. While disco is affectively antithetical to the

dystopian aesthetic of techno, it shares with techno a commitment to using repetition and

subverting dialectical teleology (the normative understanding of time and development found

throughout nineteenth-century classical music) in an effort to employ a more Dionysian

concept of music as pleasure. Disco’s commitment to affective experience goes beyond

referential popular song meanings. In disco, meaning is not expressed only through lyrics but

through repetition and alternative expressions of teleology or development—two stylistic

features that have come to define house and techno’s large-scale form, structure, and reliance

on repetition and groove.

A celebrated account of aesthetics in disco, which has come to shape future readings

on the genre, is found in Richard Dyer’s 1979 article “In Defense of Disco.”26 Writing in the

magazine Gay Left, Dyer accurately explores how disco differs from other genres of popular

25 Tricia Rose, Black Noise, (Middletown, Wesleyan Press, 1994), 93. 26 Richard Dyer, “In Defense of Disco,” in On Record: Rock, Pop and the Written Word, edited by S. Frith and

A Goodwin, 351—358, (New York: Pantheon, 1990).

93 music (specifically the folk and rock song), and how any study of disco (like a study of

techno) must examine the music through a different lens. Specifically, Dyer argues that the

crux of disco’s aesthetic is a commitment to affective experience that transcends textual

meaning and instead engages notions of eroticism. Dyer identifies these traits directly in the

musical structure, use of lyrics, and song structure.

Compare the typical disco tune, which is often little more than an endlessly repeated phrase that drives beyond itself, is not ‘closed off.’ Even when disco music uses a popular song standard, it often turns it into a simple phrase. Gloria Gaynor’s version of Porter’s ‘I’ve got you under my skin’, for instance, is in large part a chanted repetition of 'I've got you.’ […] Rock's eroticism is thrusting, grinding - it is not whole body, but phallic. Hence it takes from black music the insistent beat and makes it even more driving; rock's repeated phrases trap you in their relentless push, rather than releasing you in an open-ended succession of repetitions as disco does.27

This reading is not without its problems and it may be more apt to suggest that rock is more

heteronormative than it is phallic. As numerous scholars have noted, both disco and house

are sites for intense expressions of masculinity, however these expressions are removed from

the hetero dialectic and teleology associated with other genres of music such as rock and

even western classical music.28 Despite his mischaracterization, or possibly, misuse of

terminology, Dyer’s argument nonetheless highlights one of disco’s significant contributions

to future popular music. In particular, Dyer credits disco with offering an alternative to the

notion of musical meaning, not dependent on dialectical teleology. Instead, he suggests,

disco’s use of repetition is especially important in allowing for an experience of “open-ended

succession,” one that is better suited to a continuous affective experience of eroticism.

Robert Fink explores this concept more comprehensively. In his book Repeating Ourselves: 27 Ibid., 354. 28 Lawrence, “Love Saves the Day;” Amico, “‘I Want Muscles:’ House Music, Homosexuality and Masculine

Signification.”

94 American Minimal Music as Cultural Practice, Fink notes that disco offers liberation

through “pure desire, not dialectical struggle.”29 To return to an earlier quotation from Fink,

disco provides alternative approaches to musical development.

Anti-teleological music, the music of jouissance, is the music of the drive, whose ultimate aim is simply to reproduce itself as drive, to return to its circular path, to continue its path to and from the goal. The real source of enjoyment is the repetitive movement of this closed circuit.30

Fink’s argument, which draws heavily from both Dyer and the psychoanalytic theory of

Jacques Lacan, suggests that the closed circuit found in disco provides an alternative

teleology to dialectical music. This in turn allows sound to be entirely concerned not with

development, but with its own immediate affective ramifications. Fink’s reading is often

connected to disco’s history as a music created and experienced by queer audiences. Indeed

the concern with recombinant teleology, or a non-hetero desire, is entrenched in disco’s

history as a genre performed, produced, and consumed by gay individuals.31

Dyer’s and Fink’s readings of disco each address larger aesthetic practices found in

afro-diasporic music. In particular, their ideas echo Tricia Rose’s characterization of afro-

diasporic musical practice as one that employs repetition as a means to subvert Western

aesthetics, and appropriated post-industrial processes of mass production.32 Noting that

repetition is easily and, at times, rightfully vilified by critics of late capitalism, Rose argues

that the use of repetition in black music is also “part of a rich history of New World black

29 Fink, Repeating Ourselves: American Minimal Music as Cultural Practice, 37. 30 Ibid., 38. 31 Alice Echols, Hot Stuff: Disco and the Remaking of American Culture, (New York; WW Norton and Company, 2010): 39–41. 32 Ibid., 91.

95 tradition and practices.”33 Rather than being an expression of capitalist repression, repetition

provides new frontiers for expression.

Rhythmic complexity, repetition with subtle variations, the significance of the drum, melodic interest in the bass frequencies, and breaks in pitch and time (e.g., suspensions of the beat for a bar or two) are also consistently recognized features of African-American musical practices.34

The manipulation of rhythm and timbre through the layering and alteration of loops is found

throughout disco. As detailed throughout Chapters 4 and 5, loops provide an opportunity to

manipulate technology in real time. Loops are sites to express artistry and authorship that

differ from Western aesthetics that prioritize Hegelian teleology. The desire to create

localized change through loop-based production is a crucial afro-diasporic practice that

informs all aspects of house and techno production. Thus, the aesthetic legacy of disco

extends beyond the material culture it enabled, as well as the way it positioned the DJ as the

primary musical author. More importantly, disco’s legacy is significant for shaping how

producers understand what musical expressions constitute art. That the loop can be

simultaneously a site for asserting artistry as well as the raw materials for another (either a

producer or DJ) lies at the heart of what it means to be a producer of house and techno, a

creator of tracks and tools.

Despite this legacy, disco is not widely embraced by many techno producers, and

instead plays an important role as a foil or stylistic antagonist to techno. As discussed in

Chapter 1, notwithstanding The Belleville Three’s adoption of loop-based production

practice, disco was still perceived as part of a larger tradition of African-American popular 33 Ibid., 84. 34 Ibid., 87.

96 music that early techno artists wished to break from. This antagonism towards disco is

clearly found in the 1988 liner notes to Techno!.35 This important compilation (the first

recording labeled as “techno”) immediately positioned techno as a genre founded on a

rebellious, if not contemptuous, attitude towards disco. As Derrick May said in the album’s

liner notes:

It's a question of respect, house still has its heart in 70's disco, we don't have any of that respect for the past, it's strictly future music. We have a much greater aptitude for experimentation.36

It is in disco that we see some important legacies, namely with regard to aesthetic and

cultural practice (the use of clubs, DJs, similar technology and tools) and the legacy of a

genre committed to eroticism and an endless drive. And yet techno differs starkly in its use

of these tools and themes. Specifically, the type of libidinal embrace of late capitalism is

rejected in techno only to be replaced by a destruction of the self: the welcoming of the post-

human dystopian future. In techno utopian ideals, or sense of transcendence, is not achieved

not through euphoria but through a sense of self-destruction—a Manichean manoeuvre that

inverts the celebration of eroticism found throughout disco.37

To return to Derrick May, the Belleville Three member has, in recent years, reiterated

techno’s hesitancy towards being grouped with disco and other commercial club music.

Employing a mind-over-body hierarchy, one that situates techno as an intellectual music in

relation to house as a corporeal music, May argues that techno was always designed to move

35 Cosgrove, Techno! 36 Ibid. 37 Ironically, disco also relies on the auditory de-construction of earlier recordings. But this differs from the

affect disco advances, which is more concerned with communion and sharing pleasure.

97 beyond the pure bodily pleasure found in disco. Recalling his earlier years he said in 2002,

“we always wanted to tap into an intellectual level of the black mind. We wanted to show

that black people could do something that was high-tech, but intellectual at the same time.”38

In May’s statement we see the veiled allusion that disco (along with other genres) failed to

provide a space to “tap into the mind.” While disco did offer a place to be high-tech, its

commitment to notions of bodily pleasure prevented it from being able to explore

“intellectual” ideas. May’s criticism does not dismiss disco as non-musical, but rather just

affirms the initial desires of techno’s pioneers to be linked to a musical tradition that existed

beyond the dance club and its cultural history—and as such demonstrates (in part) disco’s

position in techno discourse as an antithetical model.

Disco’s aesthetic legacy is thus manifold. As a stylistic foil it continually brings to

the fore house and techno’s roots outside of German modernism, informing the performance

and production practices that challenge and re-characterize notions that tracks are

autonomous, fixed, works of art. Disco evokes a history of afro-diasporic music and all the

racialized binaries that have long been associated with African American music-making.

Indeed, May’s positive valuation of “tapp[ing] into the mind” demonstrates how deeply

embedded these binaries are. Yet this legacy is also a musical one. It is a legacy that informs

concepts of repetition and recombinant teleology that lie at the core of this music. These are

foundational aesthetic practices that can be traced through to disco to the afro-diasporic

music that preceded it. On its own, disco’s legacy is towards these more deconstructive and

fluid notions of artistry and professional identity, in which the producer is celebrated, in a

38 Duffett, “Average White Band,” 210.

98 similar manner to signifying, through their ability to build from the work of others. Moreover

it set the stage for a notion of artistry that looked to how an individual could manipulate

technology through repetition, as the loop-based structure of disco (and afro-diasporic music)

celebrated the localized changes and variation above a large-scale dialectic form.

Afrofuturism The influence of both German modernism and disco situate the contemporary producers of

house and techno inside potentially conflicting concepts of what it means to be a professional

artist. Disco’s notion of authorship and artistry, one manifest in the edit, displaced notions of

the autonomous artist and destabilized western perspectives on the track as a work and closed

text. In this tradition, tracks are equally pieces of music to appreciate, as they are the future

raw materials for new creations. Authorship is not assigned to singular expressions

originality. Rather, originality is articulated through the manipulating and re-assemblage pre-

existing musical materials. This differs from the German modernist legacy. While bands like

Kraftwerk were not utilizing technology for elitist ends —in the Bauhaus tradition their

music was seeking to combine the experimental with the popular— they nonetheless

propagated the idea that they were a singular autonomous group creating original music.

Even if it was facilitated by recording technologies that were once considered a threat to both

authorship and authenticity, this notion of artistry and authorship was still very much

articulated in the tradition of the German modernist composer. Following in the footsteps of

Stockhausen, authorship and artistry became an expression of one’s ability to use

experimental technology to create new timbres and sonic experiences. Implicit in their desire

to fuse the experimental sounds of electro-acoustic music with contemporary popular music

99 was, as Nye argues, a very German endeavour that celebrated the creator of music as a great

artist.39

The confluence of these two influences presents the contemporary producers of house

and techno with different notions of what it means to be a professional producer of tracks.

Producers operate inside an industry that is built on the monetization of DJ performance that,

following disco, displaces authorship from the producer to the performer. Moreover, the

track is not an autonomous work of art, as it is just a single contribution to a larger network

of musical construction and deconstruction. Yet, the influence of what it means to be an

experiential popular musician still holds. Producers do not simply identify as toolmakers

concerned with designing functional materials. Thus, their sense of what it means to be a

producer is torn between a desire to make both musical works and functional tracks.

The tension between the artistic and the pragmatic demands of their occupation is not

a new problem for producers of house and techno. This confluence of legacies is rooted in

the initial experiences of Detroit’s techno pioneers. The Afrofuturist aesthetic utilized in first

and second waves of Detroit techno provides a model for how the earliest producers of house

and techno were required to navigate differing perspectives on what it meant to create music.

Through a uniquely Afrofuturist perspective, these initial practitioners were able to locate a

medium between the worlds of disco and German modernism—one that sought to negotiate a

settlement in which they could rely on the most useful aspects of both legacies.

Before the term Afrofuturism gained traction in academic discourse the type of

engagement with race and technology found in techno was identified as a manifestation of

39 Nye, “Teutonic Time-Slip,” 137.

100 post-industrial futurism. For writers like Sicko, Reynolds, and Kevin Cosgrove, the specific

use of technology by The Belleville Three was the result of their post-industrial geography,

exposure to experimental European music, and most importantly for biographical purposes,

the explicit connection and engagement with the writings of noted futurist Alvin Toffler.40

Born in New York City in 1928, Toffler made a name for himself early in his life as a

journalist and labour columnist for the business magazine Fortune. In the 1960s, after several

years of covering business and management, Toffler left the magazine, entering a period of

employment with numerous American technology and telecommunications companies. Upon

leaving these companies, Toffler refashioned himself as an independent scholar and futurist.

Toffler’s work is generally concerned with the shift towards post-industrial economies in the

developed world during the 1960s and 1970s, and how this change radically disrupted a wide

array of lived experience. Toffler was not only interested in post-industrialization and its

affects on consumer products, the transmission of information, and migration patterns (topics

he explores in great detail), but also the psychological, emotional, and philosophical changes

this momentous shift would have on individuals. This interest is evident in one of his earliest

and most renowned texts, Future Shock.41 As its title implies, Future Shock is concerned with

how the post-industrial revolution would affect the daily lives of middle- and working-class

citizens. Toffler considers how the accelerated rate of technological change would inevitably

cause existential shock and psychological disorientation for both individuals and society at

large. Considering more than the economic or political affects of post-industrialization,

40 Stuart Cosgrove, “Seventh City Techno,” The Face, vol. 7, (May 1998); Sicko, Techno Rebels; Reynolds,

Energy Flash. 41 Alvin Toffler, Future Shock, (New York: Random House, 1970).

101 Toffler’s work laid the groundwork for an oeuvre actively concerned with the psychological

changes, and even trauma, begot by the large-scale shift away from industrial economies.

Toffler followed Future Shock ten years later with the release of The Third Wave.42

Building upon the principles established in his earlier texts, The Third Wave sought to

contextualize and historicize post-industrialization. Referring to this new era as “The Third

Wave,” Toffler argued that post-industrialization would marginalize industrialization (the

Second wave), just as industrialization had replaced agrarian society (the first wave). The

Third Wave stands as an important text not only for introducing new terms into the popular

lexicon (e.g. information age and prosumer), but also for its ability to predict how future

changes could lead to both an optimism and pessimism with regard to machines and

technological progress. Toffler, in contrast to many business-oriented futurists of the present

day, was hesitant in celebrating the changes begot by the Third Wave as a messianic

disruption; he was equally concerned with how radical technological advancement would

come to negatively disrupt the day-to-day existence of many seemingly comfortable people.

Toffler introduces the term techno rebels to refer to the “army of people—by no means poor

or unlettered—who are not necessarily anti-technological, or opposed to economic growth,

but who see in the uncontrolled technological thrust a threat to themselves and to global

survival.”43 Differentiating these rebels from the luddites that emerged from the Second

Wave’s shift towards mechanized industrialization, he notes that they are often scientifically

inclined and a “vital part of the emerging Third Wave.”44 For Toffler, techno rebels are

42 Alvin Toffler, The Third Wave, (New York: Bantam Books, 1980). 43 Ibid: 150. 44 Ibid, 151.

102 important because they provide the necessary resistance to the overwhelming tidal wave of

change caused by post-industrial technologies. Furthermore, Toffler’s techno rebels seek to

tweak, alter, or hack (although that is not a term Toffler employs) technological progress;

they are the individuals primarily responsible for “humanizing the technological thrust.”45

Ubiquitously cited in publications on both house and techno music, Toffler’s Third

Wave deeply influenced Juan Atkins. According to Sicko, Atkins encountered the text in a

high-school Future Studies class, the same class where he met the other two members of the

Belleville Three.46 Toffler’s theories on post-industrial futurism were an important influence

on techno’s early ideology and an essential part of The Belleville Three’s public identity and

branding. Atkins often referred to Toffler’s writing and terminology in early interviews and

the titles of many of his tracks were specifically taken from Toffler’s works.47 As Atkins

noted in 2010, Toffler’s texts were a common topic of discussion during the techno

producer’s formative years:

We talked lots about Alvin Toffler's idea of the 'third wave' and developed what you might call a techno-speak dictionary. In this dictionary were a lot of words like metroplex and cybotron. That's where these names came from. Metroplex is short for 'metrocomplex', which was a future word that Toffler mentioned. It referred to his scenarios in Future Shock and Third Wave where cities over the world would grow so big that they would all become one. This was a metrocomplex.48

The Belleville Three’s engagement with Toffler’s futurist theories in their recordings

and through their branding and public discourse at-large, remains significant in defining

45 Ibid.,153. 46 Sicko, Techno Rebels, 42. 47 See: Cosgrove “Seventh City;” Reynolds Energy Flash; Sick, Techno Rebels; Jon Savage, “Machine Soul: A

History of Techno,” The Village Voice, (Summer 1993). 48 Ben Ferguson, “Label of Love: Metroplex,” The Guardian, (June 10 2010),

http://www.theguardian.com/music/2010/jun/15/label-love-metroplex.

103 techno as a music concerned both with technological progress and the psychological and

social disturbances formed in its wake. However, the futurism of techno did not stem only

from the close reading of one futurist author, nor did such a reading occur in isolation

(removed from other artistic engagements with technology and mass media). Instead, as

scholars and critics of both popular music and African-American culture long have noted (as

early as Mark Dery in 1993), the Belleville Three’s engagement with music, technology, and

post-industrialization belongs to a larger category of Afrofuturist expression.

Defined by Dery in his oft-cited chapter “Black to the Future,” Afrofuturism

describes a large body of literature, writing, art, and culture that engages themes of science-

fiction, futurism, speculative fiction, and historical fantasy through the lens of afro-diasporic

experience.49

[Afrofuturism is] speculative fiction that treats African-American themes and addresses African-American concerns in the context of twentieth-century technoculture—and, more generally, African American signification that appropriates images of technology and a prophetically enhanced future.50

For Dery and his collaborators (Samuel R Delaney, Greg Tate, and Tricia Rose)

Afrofuturism is an expression, style, technique and way of being that, through technology

and futurism, re-creates and re-writes the histories, and subsequent conditions, of black

experience. In one instance, Dery maps the science fiction trope of flying saucers, aliens, and

abduction to the literal abduction of black people by slave dealers.51 In another comparison,

drawing on a discussion with Tricia Rose, he discusses how the adoption of robot-like 49Mark Dery, “Black to the Future: Interviews with Samuel R. Delany, Greg Tate, and Tricia Rose,” in Flame

Wars: The Discourse of Cyberculture, ed. Mark Dery (Durham: Duke University Press, 1993). 50 Ibid., 180. 51 Ibid., 211–212.

104 personas are utilized to exaggerate and eventually (re)appropriate the black body as simply

another tool employed to facilitate capitalism.52 In all cases, Dery is concerned with how

African-Americans engage with science fiction and futurism in a different manner from the

white authors who have historically dominated these genres.

While Dery references Afrofuturism in music in his discussion (with Tricia Rose) of

hip-hop and the electro musician Afrika Bambaataa, Ken McLeod’s article offers a more

comprehensive account of Afrofuturism in 20th century popular music.53 Drawing from the

work of Dery, McLeod explores performances of Afrofuturism in popular music, citing

examples found in hip-hop, funk, and techno. McLeod asserts, like Dery, Afrofuturism is

fundamentally about alienation, diaspora, and (eventual) return: “black diasporic

consciousness seeks to return to an inaccessible homeland—in some sense, an imaginary

utopian homeland that outer space metaphorically represents.”54 For McLeod technology, as

both a theme and a means to enhance stylistic expression, is utilized to facilitate the

transmission of the body and the spirit to an imagined homeland, a place beyond earth, in

which black bodies and minds are released from the literal and metaphoric shackles of white

supremacy and capitalism.

Although McLeod’s text is more generally concerned with the relationship between

futurism and popular music, his discussion of Afrofuturism touches on techno. Writing on

the topic, he argues against the Frankfurt School’s skepticism of machines, automation, and

mechanization:

52 Ibid., 213. 53 Ken McLeod, “Space oddities: aliens, futurism and meaning in popular music,” Popular Music, vol. 22, no. 3

(2003): 337–355. 54 Ibid., 342.

105

[T]he use of technology and its attendant hypnotically repetitive beats allows a type of technological spirituality—a literal transference of spirit from the machine to the body. In this manner, techno dance music defeats what Adorno saw as the alienating effect of mechanization on the modern consciousness.55

Thus, for McLeod, techno is linked to other Afrofuturist endeavours in its particular

commitment to a techno-spirituality. Afrofuturism in techno relies on the transference of the

body to the machine, and results in a type of post or trans-human; this post-human body

emancipated from its role as a mechanism of labour. McLeod assesses the relationship

between the machine and “its attendant” as one of techno-spirituality, one that looks to

technology to provide the body with a meaningful spirit, or transcendence.

The overarching interest in Afrofuturism as an expression of afro-diasporic identity,

musical thought and meaning is also found throughout the work of Kodwo Eshun. His

seminal text, More Brilliant Then A Sun, a winding meditation on the digital age, technology,

recording, and black Atlantic identity, works as both a post- Deleuzian treatise on body

politics and a repository for his own biographical and poetically descriptive record reviews.56

Unlike McLeod and Dery (who are concerned with a specific type of electronic music),

Eshun examines the use of technology in music, and how it allows for a new engagement

with Gilroy’s notion of Black-Atlantic identity and body politics.57 Examining everything

from Public Enemy to Juan Atkins, Eshun explores how notions of post-humanism and post-

modernity square with contemporary readings of Black Atlantic identity, and, how issues of

55 Ibid., 345. 56 Kodwo Eshun, More Brilliant Than the Sun, (London: Quartet Books, 1998). 57 Eshun’s disposition towards breakbeat and jungle/drum and bass can most likely be attributed to the

popularity of these genres in the United Kingdom during the period of writing.

106 double consciousness and non-essential-essentialism are negotiated through recording

practices. Eshun’s reading of Afrofuturism, in response to notions of essentialism, celebrates

technology as a means of distancing oneself from claims of primitivism and generalized

perceptions about African American relationships to rhythm and the body.

Although Eshun does address techno in More Brilliant than The Sun, for example,

how the use of robot-like voices in the music of Atkins marks a desire to interact with

European techno-culture, in his article “Further Considerations of Afrofuturism” he provides

a more precise reading of this music.58 Written five years after More Brilliant than The Sun,

“Further Considerations” is similar in its commitment to deploying neologisms, slippery

turns of phrase, and sweeping arguments that encompass wide swathes of cultural practice.

In “Further Considerations” Eshun makes a more direct argument for an understanding of

Afrofuturism in techno.

If racial identification became intermittent and obscure to the listener, for the musician, a dimension of heteronomy became available. The human-machine interface became both the condition and the subject of Afro-futurism. The cyborg fantasies in the Detroit techno producers, such as Juan Atkins and Derrick May, were used both to alienate themselves from sonic identity and to feel at home in alienation.59

Eshun is referring to the way Afrofuturism provides a means to dislocate oneself from a

sonic identity. Producers of Afrofuturist techno perform a double move that frees them from

an essentialized history and creates a coping mechanism for how to address the experience of

alienation emboldened by the urban geography and post-industrial conditions of Detroit.

Eshun’s argument states that a key aspect of techno Afrofuturism is a type of enhanced 58 Kodwo Eshun, “Further Considerations on Afro-Futurism,” The New Centennial Review 3, no. 2, (2003):

287–302. 59 Ibid., 296.

107 alienation that in some way transforms the state of cultural/economic alienation into one of

comfort or at-home-ness. This reading, more convincing than Eshun’s earlier writing on the

subject, situates Detroit techno and its practitioners as capturing an aesthetic experience that

solves the problems of their current situation through neither escape, nor fantasy. That is,

Afrofuturism in techno is not designed to provide speculative fiction, or the utopian fantasy

of a life removed from diaspora or enslavement. Rather, Afrofuturism in techno is a means of

overcoming and mastering the every-day conditions of post-industrial alienation. Eshun’s

emphasis of feeling “at home” in alienation resists earlier readings (even his own) that

located techno’s Afrofuturism as one that strove to escape earth and find a home some place

else. Instead, as I will argue throughout this chapter, Afrofuturism in techno is about

mastering and transcending contemporary racial and class oppression through a disruptive

and rebellious engagement with the very technologies designed to enable and enhance them.

Much like the techno rebels discussed by Toffler, techno artists tweak and hack the

technologies of automation—technologies that in many ways robbed Detroit of its industrial

strength—in order to resist the exploitation that can often be engendered by “technological

progress.”

Eshun’s polyphonic discussion of Afrofuturism—one that addresses the term as

holding a host of different, at times contradictory positions—can in many ways be attributed

to his reading of W.E.B. Dubois and the historic concept of double consciousness.60 For

Eshun, Afrofuturism, as a uniquely afro-diasporic expression, is one that can incorporate a

variety of engagements with technology, place, capital and creation. It is an expression that

60 Ibid., 298.

108 can hold a multitude of meanings simultaneously, and one that can account for the ways in

which experimental Afrofuturists juggle different understandings of what it means to be an

artist, and what it means to engage with technology that has the potential to alienate,

transmigrate, and transcend. Eshun’s reading may also provide the foundation for how a

contemporary producer of house and techno looks to previous manifestations of

Afrofuturism as means to articulate the nuanced artistic identity so required by a producer

informed by the legacies of both modernism and disco.

While Eshun’s reading of Afrofuturism is often concerned with music on a more

general or holistic level, (the exceptions being record reviews found throughout More

Brilliant Than the Sun), he does address techno with his reading of the group Drexciya.

Consisting of Gerald Donald and James Stinson, the Detroit based Drexciya gained relative

fame and notoriety with their 1997 album The Quest. In the liner notes for The Quest,

Drexciya outlined their founding mythology, an exercise in science-fiction and fantasy that

retrospectively made Atkins’s reference to the Third Wave look like all but a passing

engagement. Writing that Drexciya “was an underwater country populated by the unborn

children of pregnant African women who were thrown off of slave ships; the babies had

adapted to breathe underwater in their mother's wombs,”61 the group actively engaged with

common tropes of science fiction and Afrofuturism: the re-writing of the abduction and

middle passage, and the exploration of a revisionist future in which black individuals were

not alien to America but rather the founders of a new and technologically advanced society.

While Eshun, Dery and McLeod all address some of the fundamental traits of

61 Gerald Donald, Liner Notes, The Quest, Submerge-SVE3, 1997, vinyl.

109 Afrofuturism, the scope of their arguments prevent them from further considering the

specific form of Afrofuturism expressed in techno, which differs quite substantially from the

dominant understanding of the term and its most familiar themes. In order to understand

these differences I return to the respective work of Sean Albeiz and Richard Pope, who have

provided more precise readings of techno’s engagement with Afrofuturism in the past

decade.62 Albeiz and Pope each (re)cast Detroit techno and its aesthetic legacy apart from the

cultural baggage and utopianism of rave and house music, and have been instrumental in

pushing an Afrofuturist reading that goes beyond tropes of alienation, abduction, and

salvation via space travel. Instead, they suggest a more focused reading of techno that

resonates with my research. Through the lenses of dystopia and of post-industrial Detroit, we

see that the Afrofuturism of techno engaged less with space-related science fiction and

instead sought a greater connection to the terrestrial science fiction found in cyberpunk

literature and dystopian cinema.63 Indeed, Albeiz, whose work counters initial readings of

Detroit techno, argues that the central futurist themes in techno differ from dominant

Afrofuturist tropes, specifically in their commitment to the earth and the desire to transform

or transcend, rather than escape, material conditions. Writing on Cybotron, Albeiz explains

his reading of an alternative Afrofuturism.

Cybotron, unlike much early electro, did not want to ‘escape’ through a utopian black space programme, but instead looked to the earth-bound urban future and the utopian/dystopian dichotomy of ‘Techno City’ - a mythical Detroit based on the extreme class segregation of Lang’s Metropolis. ‘Techno City’ was an accurate rather than speculative portrayal of class and racial segregation in Detroit, and as Atkins asserts ‘[y]ou gotta remember, we were brought up on this racial conflict thing,

62 Albeiz, “Post Soul Futurama;” Pope, “Hooked on an Affect.” 63 Sicko, Techno Rebels argues for the importance of Ridley Scott’s 1982 film Blade Runner in early techno

discourse.

110

instilled in us since we were babies ... If you’re a kid in Detroit, [you might] never even have to see a white person, unless they’re on TV. The closest association I had with people outside my race was when I started traveling to Europe’64.

This statement from Juan Atkins reveals central biographical information that furthers a

reading of Detroit techno—and, in turn, its European offshoots. Atkins’ Afrofuturism

demonstrates that the African-American individuals who were crucial in shaping and

defining techno aesthetics had a fundamentally different black experience from their

Afrofuturist contemporaries, and in the words of Albeiz, rejected many of the central musical

and stylistic tenets (primarily related to R&B and the music of Motown) found in African-

American music at the time. Albeiz argues that techno, as an African-American music,

differs from the music it has been historically grouped with, and that to understand techno’s

Afrofuturism is to understand musical practices that are resisting and rebelling against the

music that preceded it. Reflecting on how the desire to move away from typical (or

stereotypical) African-American music, Albeiz argues that techno took on expressions of

both whiteness and alien-ness.

[I]f techno is African American music that cast its eyes and ears elsewhere than the urban ghetto, the church and the street for creative inspiration, favouring ‘alien’, ‘white’ European sonic futurism, then this music is arguably ‘post-soul’, and apparently occupies a cultural sphere removed from previous gospel- and blues-informed black popular ‘musics’. 65

For Albeiz the notion that techno’s Afrofuturism, and its engagement with the African-

American musical tradition at-large, is a “post-soul” expression hinges on the cultural

conditions of its formation. Specifically, it is the material conditions, urban geography, and

64 Albeiz, “Post Soul Futurama,” 136. 65 Ibid, 132.

111 socio-cultural conditions found in post-industrialized Detroit that encouraged the initial

generation of techno artists to break from the immediate past. Conversely, it is also possible

to consider this form of appropriation as its own type of Signifyin’, —an expression in which

these producers are negotiating and teasing out tropes of whiteness, blackness, and alien-

ness.66 In doing so, they found a middle ground between the modernism of Europe and the

conflicting notions of authorship articulated by their immediate predecessors—the Midwest

American R&B musicians who, while popular, were not granted the same type of authorial

recognition or canonization as the white modernist European experimental composer.

The Belleville Three and their associates rebelled and sought an Afrofuturist

engagement that differed from their immediate musical heritage. Following Pope, it seems

dangerous to assume the Afrofuturism of techno was in lock step with other afro-diasporic

understandings of technology, futurism, and politics. And while Pope’s discussion of

Afrofuturism is limited to a brief excerpt taken from Dery’s interview with Tricia Rose, his

argument to consider Detroit techno apart from the dominant narratives of style and culture

remains convincing. He warns that grouping techno with all other forms of afro-diasporic

expression may devalue techno’s distinctiveness.

[H]istoricization risks forcing identity across divergent phenomena, reducing different languages and events to the same currency (exchange-value). Indeed, it seems more important to delineate, in our histories, those points at which a gap is introduced into the smooth flow of history, and in which, as consequence, the accumulation of subcultural capital is interrupted, the currency no longer recognized, or, at the very least, devalued.67

66 This is in reference to Henry Louis Gates’ notion of Signifyin( g)which Albeiz and Pope both integrate into

their readings of techno as an afro-diasporic musical practice. Henry Louis Gates Jr., The Signifying Monkey, (London: Oxford Universyt Press, 1988).

67 Pope, “Hooked on Affect,” 34.

112 Pope’s argument is quite relevant to previous readings of Afrofuturism in techno and

highlights the potential challenges that arise when trying to fit a host of expressions into a

single and wide reaching categorical aesthetic. Indeed, a closer examination of techno reveals

an alternative engagement with some of the central themes and narratives often found in

Afrofuturist art as identified by Dery. In my estimation, this alternative approach is one that

seeks to be more inclusive to the concepts of authorship and artistry located in German

modernism, a tradition that the early techno practitioners were seeking to engage. While the

general attachment to science-fiction and its numerous tropes and topics remains, the lack of

a concern with re-appropriating the diasporic experience through explorations of space travel

suggests a greater concern with transcending the human condition at-large than re-defining or

re-creating a past experience. In that sense, Afrofuturism in techno is about creating a future

(either through utopia or dystopia) in which one can have the best of both worlds—a future

in which notions of race, diaspora, and identity are not in conflict and the traditions of afro-

diasporic authorship blend with those of modernism. It is in this model that the racist and

restrictive prerogative of both essentialism and the Enlightenment, perspectives that further

institutionalized aspects of racism and oppression, are overridden and producers are given

access to myriad notions of what it means to be an artist and a professional.

An example of this desire to move beyond essentialism, and a uniform rejection of

afro-diasporic practice, manifests in the work of Jeff Mills. Mills is techno’s quintessential

futurist. For close to three decades Mills has cultivated an identity of musician, machinist,

and futurist—an individual who does not just make music but attempts to reach new frontiers

113 of technological engagement. Writing in 1994 on the sleeve of his record, Waveform

Transmissions Vol. 3, Mills stated,

As barriers fall around the world, the need to understand others and the way they live, think and dream is a task that is nearly impossible to imagine without theory and explanation. And as we approach the next century with hope and prosperity, this need soon becomes a necessity rather than a recreational urge.68

Mills began his career as part of the heavily politicized Black Nationalist collective,

Underground Resistance. Often wearing camouflage and printing elaborate calls to arms on

their record sleeves, the collective (and label) made a name for itself during the early 1990s

through its militant discourse. As Reynolds writes, “presenting themselves as a sort of techno

Public Enemy, Underground Resistance were dedicated to ‘fighting the power’ not just

through rhetoric but through fostering their own autonomy.”69 While Mills would later claim

that his music did not seek such political ends, the public voice of the group, Mike Banks,

had differing opinions. Discussing the beginnings of Underground Resistance, Banks said

that the collective was formed in opposition to the African-American stereotypes found

throughout the media during the 1970s and 1980s.

The spirit of resistance survived in us African Americans throughout the ages and manifested itself in me and Jeff Mills as kids, as it did in many of our friends. Our parents were educated and had survived the turbulent ‘60s and supported the “resistant” Dr. Martin Luther King’s Civil Rights Movement and anti-war campaigns…So we lived and grew up in an environment that was being bombarded by audio and visual stereotypes that are essentially a guide for failure.70

68 Jeff Mills, Liner Notes, Waveform Transmissions Vol. 1, Tressor 11, 1992, vinyl. 69 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 225. 70 Felix Denk and Sven von Thülen, Der Klang Der Familie: Berlin, Techno, and the Fall of the Wall,

(Norderstedt: BoD, 2014):141–142.

114

Banks and Mills had quite different understandings of what techno was designed to

achieve with regard to racial politics. This is evident when comparing their contrasting

responses when interviewed about their 1992 album X-102 Discovers The Rings of Saturn.

For Banks, the record represented an engagement with conventional Afrofuturism, an

expression of his desire to leave the on-going legacy of racism and slavery in America and

find a planet of his own. Responding to a question from Jockey Slut magazine he echoed

artists like Sun Ra saying, “where does my fascination with space come from? From wanting

to escape from here.”71 In contrast, when Mills was asked about the album he would say,

“[Saturn is] a planet in the solar system, but it became non-mankind, it exceeded all those

barriers and territories.”72 The distance between these two answers provides a small snapshot

of the divisions found between post-Afrofuturism of Mills and that of Banks. And while

Banks’s position may have more historical similarities, as well as a more concrete connection

to Afro-diasporic expression, it is Mills’s position that echoed through the success of second

wave Detroit artists like Carl Craig and Robert Hood. This expression sought to forge an

artistic identity, via recording technology, that blended afro-diasporic musical practices with

the futurism and modernism of West European experimental music (in contrast to an identity

predicated on overt black nationalism). This is evident in a long interview Mills did with

Simon Reynolds in 1999 for his book Energy Flash

‘Let me be very very clear,’ he says, with the barest hint of annoyance. ‘Underground Resistance wasn’t militant, nor was it angry…I’m not angry now…The music that I make now has absolutely nothing to do with colour. It has nothing to do with man/woman, East/West, up/down, but more [to do with] “the mind.” The mind has no colour…There’s this perception that if you’re black and you make music, then you

71 Reynolds, Energy Flash, 211. 72 Ibid.

115

must be angry. Or you must be “deep.” Or you must be out to get money and women. Or you must be high when you made the record. It’s one of the four. And the media does a really good job of staying within those four categories. But in these cases, it’s neither of those. 73

And yet despite this public persona, one that seems more in line with the stereotypical

German modernist composer, Mills’ music is predicated on a host of practices associated

with afro-diasporic music. From his reliance on generative growth through the development

of localized grooves, to his use of repetition and his reliance on found sound and creative

sampling, he is heavily dependent on fundamental aspects of afro-diasporic musical

practices. Mills thus provides a model for those seeking to engage afro-diasporic musical

practices in a manner that still allows him to be engaged with the legacy of German

modernism.

Over Mills’ career he has often returned to these themes and rearticulated numerous

times his commitment to form and abstraction. As he said to Todd L. Burns in an interview

with the web magazine Resident Adviser, Mills’ music is designed for curious and thoughtful

listeners.

I always consider presenting in abstractions because I do not really want a listener to fully understand its meaning at first encounter. I always imagine that if I put out a few interesting points of the concept, only the listeners that are curious enough will pursue the idea behind the concept more. In doing so, that listener would have the ability to see how the dots connect to a wider and deeper meaning—which would then explain and make sense of why the music sounds the way it does. 74

73 Ibid, 221. 74 Todd L. Burns, “Purpose Maker,” Resident Advisor, (November 5 2012),

http://www.residentadvisor.net/feature.aspx?1668.

116 Similarly, in an interview from 2011 with Wired Magazine, Mills hinted at his desire to leave

club culture and engage with music on a level that transcended human experience, pushing

the boundaries of comprehension.

J: Making the music for [a listener who is] highly intellectual, who has heard every pop song, every experimental, every John Cage, every Phillip Glass, every classical, has heard everything, so I must make the music in a way that will speak to that person and will say something new. D: An ideal listener? J: Yeah, it would be the perfect listener, and it started there, and then it moved on to making music for not even the person, but for…. Something that is not even human. And so I thought that the only way to be able to speak, notes and chords are not enough, so the idea of using frequencies as notes and chords, they maybe travel further…. If you listen to the most recent, they’re very bleepy kind of, almost like data, like signals, so the idea of trying to dance to it had become not so important. So this is kind of where I’m headed now. If you listen to a lot of the music last night, it was that kind of computer in running mode type of situation, where it’s either computing or sending out information, and those are the kind of tracks that I’m kind of attracted to.75

In the life and work of Mills we see the most explicit manifestation of post-soul Afrofuturism

—an expression that moves past direct Afro-diasporic allusions and towards a more global

and cosmopolitan understanding of futurism. In an effort to transcend his humanity, Mills

attempts to leave his body and, in turn, the problematic understandings of race that it once

contained. He becomes not an activist but a disruptor. He is not as concerned with bodies as

he is with mediums. This discourse is further enhanced in his DJ performances, where his

75 Derek Walmsley, “Jeff Mills Interview,” The Wire, (November 2011), http://www.thewire.co.uk/in-

writing/interviews/jeff-mills-interview-by-derek-walmsley.

117 wiry body, fitted black monochrome suit, clean-shaven face and perfectly manicured hair

present the image of a futuristic technician, or engineer from a science fiction film (see

figures 2.1 and 2.2).

Figure 2-1 Jeff Mills

Figure 2- 2 Jeff Mills and his Roland 909 Drum Machine 76

76 Both photographs are taken from a recent press package released to promote his 2015 album and film The

Exhibitionist 2. Jeff Mills, The Exhibitionist 2, Axis Records AXDV004, September 2015, compact disc.

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The productions of Robert Hood also model a particular strand of Afrofuturism that

combines aspects of both German modernism and afro-diasporic practice. As a younger

member of Underground Resistance in the 1990s, numerous Detroit techno pioneers

mentored Hood. While Hood wanted to explore the subterranean and post-industrial

wasteland of Detroit through his music, the desire to use his fame and identity to carry on in

the tradition of politically active African-American musicians was seemingly absent. Devoid

of any recognizable samples, Hood’s techno, self-described as minimal (a forerunner to the

similarly-labeled style that would take hold of Europe during the mid-2000s), pushed up

against more expansive and referential electronic music seeking to strip the genre down to its

most essential constituent parts.

Consider the track “Ride” from Hood’s 1994 album Minimal Nation. “Ride” opens

with a four-to-the-floor kick drum sounding on each beat for eight bars.77 This kick drum

continues relatively uninterrupted for the duration of the track, only fading out for twelve

measures two-thirds of the way through (3:12-3:35).78 Having established this beat, Hood

introduces what can be best understood as the track’s single motive—a one bar loop

featuring two interlocking Roland 303 bass synthesizers sounding an octave apart. Although

each synthesizer employs the same set of pitch-classes, the rhythmic displacement caused by

the addition of two extra notes in the lower synthesizer creates a hocket: a single interlocking

rhythm sounded by two different instruments in two different registers. This is essentially the

entire tack. Outside of a one bar high-hat loop that is introduced at 2:15, a one bar whistle

77 Robert Hood, Minimal Nation, Axis Records, AX007, 1994, Vinyl. 78The removal of the kick drum is a common technique used by techno producers. It is designed to reduce the

texture and volume of the track in preparation for an eventual intensification of these two parameters when it returns.

119 loop introduced at 2:30, and a one bar snare drum loop that accompanies the whistle, the

track can be summarized by a transcription of only one measure (see Figure 2.3 for the one

bar loop and Figure 2.4 for the formal layout of the track).

Figure 2.3 Robert Hood’s “Ride.” This is the primary groove, transcribed from 3:12—3:45.

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Figure 2.4 Robert Hood’s “Ride” in Session View

This sketch, drawn out in Ableton Live’s session view, represents the six individual parts in “Ride.” The coloured blocks that move horizontally across the timeline represent when an instrument is being sounded. The two synthesizer parts include an estimated transcription of the filter use, whereas the height of the red line marks how open the filter is. The openness of the filter (in this case) determines the range of the frequencies that are permitted to sound—the more open the filter, the more high frequencies are sounded. By controlling which frequencies are heard, the use of the filter alters the instrument’s timbre and volume

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Although “Ride” features limited discrete musical material, Hood creates a sense of

propulsion by gradually altering the timbre of the two synthesizers. This is achieved through

slowly opening and closing a frequency band filter (also known as a cut-off filter) found on

the Roland 303. Returning to Rose’s assessment of loops in afro-diasporic music, Hood’s

music utilizes repetition with subtle variations as a scaffold to explore the technological

possibilities of his synthesizer. Manipulating the filter on each line throughout the piece,

Hood is able to steadily alter the instrument’s timbre and, in turn, the volume: the opening of

a filter allows for higher frequencies to be heard, leading to an increase in the overall

volume. The use of a single one-bar motive that is constantly mutating creates a sense of

momentum through repetition. While the musical material remains the same, slight changes

in timbre drive the track forward. “Ride” is a meditation on the machine, a demonstration of

how the manipulation of a single parameter, a one-bar loop, can create an entire track.

Indeed, the track’s title “Ride” could refer to the producer riding the filter or taking the

Roland’s 303 filter for a ride. In the case of “Ride,” it is sufficient to say that the entire work

resembles a formalist experiment designed to answer the question: how much sonic variation

can be achieved with one bar and one filter?

Hood’s desire to generate an entire track from a single bar of musical material marks

an important distinction between techno and other Afrofuturist endeavours. For example,

Hood uses music and technology to both (re)appropriate historical black experience and as a

means to master technologies of automation—technologies that on a larger scale helped

usher in the period of post-industrialization that altered Detroit’s urban geography and

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economy.85 Hood’s focus remains on the immediate future and the post-industrial conditions

left in the wake of the Third Wave. “Ride” features no allusion to space-travel, time-travel,

or UFOs. In fact, it features no thematic allusions or references at all. Instead, “Ride,” like

much of Hood’s oeuvre, is about a mastery of the machine, one that pushes the producer

towards a future in which they are the machines. Unfolding an entire track from just one bar

of input, “Ride” highlights Hood’s desire to embrace the logic of a machine. “Thinking” in a

similar manner to a machine or computer—that is, embracing the desire to accomplish a task

through minimal means—Hood achieves his aesthetic goals with great efficiency,

showcasing the elegance of utility. As I describe in chapters 4 and 5, the desire to create the

experience with minimal means, limited input for flourishing output, remains important to

techno and house producers and their ability to do more with less an expression of artistry. It

is a type of expression that serves both the German modernist notion of utility (think of the

protean nature of some of Stockhausen’s works) and the afro-diasporic concept of variations

through repetition.

Conclusion The three aesthetic legacies I have discussed present seemingly different ideas of what it

means to be a professional creator of art. To recap, through their interaction with

Stockhausen, and more broadly, German modernism, and post-war experimental music,

bands like Kraftwerk demonstrated a way of integrating technology as both a means of

asserting technical prowess and creating a form of high art popular music. This form of

modernism utilized experimental methods as a means of creating populist works. This legacy

85 This is not to say industrialization was a period that was particularly inclusive to black people. Only that

Hood’s interaction with post-industrialization, the decline of factory jobs in the Mid-west United States certainly altered the way he experienced the urban geography.

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also contains discourses of autonomous art and authorship, which directs producers towards

traditional notions of “great men” making “great works.” Yet these notions of authorship and

artistry are complicated by the legacy of disco, which remains significant in both shaping

production and performance practice. In its ontology of tracks and edits, and in its approach

to repetition and teleology, disco offers alternative understandings of artistry and authorship

that do not necessarily align with the modernist prerogative. Producers who create by

building on the work of others can be seen to challenge modernist assumptions about the

nature of creative work as an individual endeavour.

The Afrofuturism of Mills and Hood demonstrate a model for how afro-diasporic

practices can be wed with European modernism, seeking to avoid becoming essentialized.

While contemporary producers, especially those removed from afro-diasporic communities,

may not look directly or explicitly to the Afrofuturism of Mills and his associates as a direct

model, the strain of Afrofuturism discussed here nonetheless demonstrates how these

convoluted aesthetic legacies have long complicated issues of authorship and artistry in

house and techno production, and will continue to do so over the coming years. In creating

the seminal recordings of techno, recordings that influenced many EDM genres more broadly

throughout the 1990s and 2000s, techno’s Afrofuturists demonstrate that modernist aesthetics

and afro-diasporic practice can easily be linked. As Robert Hood’s “Ride” exhibits, the

repetition begot by loop-based music (and so valued in afro-diasporic music making) works

as an exceptionally conducive site for modernists experimentation with music technology.

The combined legacies discussed in this chapter create a multitude of possibilities for

how producers can assert authorship. In the case of German modernism, it is through a

connection to pre-World War II notions of artistry, in which machines are not seen as

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defeating authenticity but rather a means to combine the esoteric with the popular. In the case

of disco, it is a connection to afro-diasporic notions of authorship and professional identity

that are less tied to conventional understandings of musical autonomy, embracing the

possibility that works have a functional utility beyond individual close listening. In terms of

professional identity, these legacies present numerous models for how a producer may not

only approach technology, but also how concepts of authorship and artistry are malleable. As

authorship and artistry are continually negotiated, and as recording technology permits the

fragmentation and repatriation of authorial control, producers are required to navigate an

ever-changing world in which their status as professional artists is routinely destabilized.

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Chapter 3

The Working Producer

This chapter pivots away from the past and moves towards a contemporary understanding of

house and techno producers, providing further context for understanding the way a

producer’s sense of professional identity and social role are articulated. To understand the

practice of a producer is to consider the practitioners that came before them. However, it is

also to comprehend the material and social conditions that dictate and inform their lives as

working producers —a concept I define directly in the following sections.

Throughout my research and fieldwork I often returned to a single but complicated

question: How do producers of house and techno make money? In this chapter I provide a

nuanced response to these questions, addressing the different ways producers navigate the

socio-economic conditions that define the value of their labour and artistic creations. As my

methodology reveals, my understanding of the working producer is based on multi-sited

fieldwork conducted in Toronto and Berlin. I believe that an explanation or overview of

these scenes will provide representative examples of the ways in which a producer can earn a

living.1 Building from the research of sociologist Jan-Michael Kühn, I argue that producers

must navigate “scene economies” that operate in-between the worlds of multi-national

1 In using the term scenes I argue that there is not a single house and techno scene but rather a network of

overlapping local and translocal scenes. My understanding of scenes is informed by the work of Bennett and Peterson, which I discuss later in this chapter. Andy Bennett and Richard Peterson, Music Scenes: Local, Translocal and Virtual, (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2004).

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recording industry and the local DIY scenes.2 Exploring these scenes reveals that house and

techno producers are afforded limited opportunities to earn a living and must conform to

surprisingly rigid economic models.

Defining the Working Producer Throughout this chapter, and the dissertation moving forward, I reference “working

producers.” Although such a term is well defined among many of the producers I

interviewed, its specificity becomes challenged when we ask: are there non-working

producers? What differentiates a working producer from an amateur producer, or from a

producer who no longer works? I use the term working to differentiate the producers I

interviewed from two respective groups. The first group I differentiate from are amateurs,

individuals who do not depend on production for income and/or are not currently dedicating

their time to fostering a career in record production. The second group I differentiate

working producer from are celebrity producers, for whom fame and success have placed

them outside the economic models that working producers utilize, and for whom the

releasing of records plays a substantially different role in securing economic opportunities.

The following definitions are not rigidly fixed. All working producers began as

amateurs, and most celebrity producers began as working producers, or at least, amateurs.

Furthermore, there are times in which pinning down an individual to a single category proves

challenging, especially when we investigate what it means to make a living and what it

means to be a celebrity. Yet, distinctions between these groups remain relevant. The working

2 Jan-Michel Kühn, “The Subcultural Scene Economy of the Berlin Techno Scene,” in Keep it Simple, Make it

Fast! An Approach to Underground Music Scenes, eds. Paula Guerra and Tânia Moreira, (Porto: University do Porto, 2015), 281—286.

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producer’s career is still fundamentally reliant on their day-to-day production of music,

whereas the other two groups, either as a result of no recognition or great success, are less

likely to have built their social and economic relationships solely on their ability to produce

music. In the case of the latter, this is likely the result of their widespread popularity as a DJ

and not as a producer.

The following points of differentiation amongst amateurs and working producers boil

down to the fact that working producers have decided that their musical practices (either

through creation or performance) are their primary source of their income. While amateurs

may aspire to reach this goal, they have yet to face the responsibilities and realities that come

from such a commitment. These responsibilities, like those faced by other creative

professionals, require working producers to constantly invest (and risk losing) their time,

money and relationships. Whether moving to a new city, or buying expensive equipment, or

sending out tracks to be mastered, there are many investments made along the way that are

not only designed to increase the quality of their art, but as part of an economic process that

will (hopefully) result in financial return.

Working producers are dependent on income derived from the release and production

of their recordings. Although these recordings will not make up a significant portion of their

income, their ability to earn a living as a touring DJ within national and international scenes

is highly dependent on the success of their recordings. Conversely, the amateur is not

dependent on producing to remain part of any monetized scene or industry. While some of

their relationships may be informed by the popularity or reputation of their productions

amongst their peers, they do not depend on the success of their tracks to facilitate financial

opportunities in the same manner in which working producers do. Working producers

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construct a network of other working individuals at different locations inside scenes. They

are concerned and involved with the back-end machinations that play a significant role in the

distribution of capital and labour. The important distinction here is that they are one step

removed from the socio-economic world of producers despite participating in the cultural

realm. Instead, their economic role is that of a consumer (not a producer, labourer, or

manager). However, their position as an amateur producer makes them one of the primary

consumers of recordings and performances. The amateur producer is a significant member of

local and translocal house and techno scenes and their financial and social commitment to

supporting such scenes are substantial.

Working producers differ from celebrity producers because the latter group’s

popularity and success indicates that their income is no longer rooted in the smaller scene-

based economies that working producers depend on. Rather, celebrity producers leverage

economic opportunities that come from industries that are often rarely available to everyday

working producers.3 The financial success celebrity producers achieve permits them the type

of economic freedom to remove themselves from the quotidian tasks working producers must

undertake. While a working producer is often required to perform their own administrative

duties (sending emails, corresponding with labels, working with individual promoters),

celebrity producers routinely have a large support staff employed to handle such day-to-day

tasks. Like the differences between amateur and working producers, the line between these

two worlds often blurs, and any discussion of celebrity or fame is an exercise in relativism.

Yet differentiating these two groups remains important to both fans and DJs, especially as

3 This can include valuable sponsorship deals with major multi-national beer, telecom, and soft drink

corporations. For one example of this see: Christina Hernandez, “These Three Brands Are Pouring Millions into EDM,” Dancing Astronaut, June 15 2015, accessed March 2016, http://www.dancingastronaut.com/2015/06/edm-sponsored-millions/.

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house and techno producers increasingly become affiliated with the global popular music

industry.4 As working producers become celebrities, they often lose the scene-specific

support they once held. This is the result of a change (either real or assumed) in style and

substance, or more directly, the pricing out of their own fans, as celebrity producers charge

significantly higher rates for performances. The more famous and well known a producer

becomes, the more they become recognized solely as DJs.5 This is the result of their ever-

growing demand, in which they have little time to produce, and the aforementioned fact that

their success as a touring DJ does not require them to produce at the same rate as a working

producer.6

The most overt difference between a celebrity and a working producer is the

enormous gap in performance fees. Although numerous figures are often reported, the

difference in pay can be upwards of 500:1. Whereas a veteran working producer may earn

$1200-$2000 a performance, a celebrity performer could be making upwards of $50,000, and

in some cases closer to $250,000.7 As a result, while celebrity producers still rely on

releasing music to keep their reputations relevant, the financial freedom offered by even a

month of such well paying performances removes them from many of the economic models I

will detail later in this chapter.

4 The rising popularity of Electronic Dance Music in North America has led to major record labels (Sony,

Warner, and Universal) as well as management and touring companies (Live Nation, SFX) to invest in producers. In these cases the producer leaves the network of house and techno scenes they once worked in and begins to operate in a similar manner to a global pop star.

5 Mainstream media often refer to very successful and widely known DJs and producers as “superstar DJs.” The fact that they are more often labeled “DJs” and not “Superstar Producers” reveals the importance of performance inside (and outside) of EDM cultures.

6 They do on some level have to produce, however like a band who only plays a few albums there remains a lucrative market for celebrity DJs who long since stopped releasing critically acclaimed music.

7 For a list of top yearly earnings inside the world of commercial EDM (which get upwards of fifty million) see: Zach O’Malley Greenberg, “The World’s Highest-Paid DJs: Electronic Cash Kings 2015,” Forbes Magazine, August 24 2015, accessed March 2015, http://www.forbes.com/electronic-cash-kings/#151f861210b0.

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Despite these differences, the celebrity and working producer share one common

trait; their primary source of income comes from DJ performance. Regardless of the popular

success or critical recognition of their tracks, their ability to monetize such accomplishment

is entirely predicated on their performances—not as producers, but as DJs. The importance

of the DJ set in shaping and defining production practice is meaningful, and it plays a

significant role in determining the way professional identity and aesthetics are articulated.

Context

My understanding of the working life of producers is the result of extensive fieldwork in the

Berlin and Toronto techno scenes. Through a combination of participant observation, formal

interviews, informal conversations and in-studio study, I have gained a nuanced

understanding of how producers earn a living and how these socio-economic conditions

affect production practice. My fieldwork was conducted in both Berlin and Toronto, the

latter being my city of residence and home to the largest techno scene in Canada, while the

former was chosen for its significance to contemporary techno production.

My fieldwork began organically in 2009 in Toronto. Through attending house and

techno events I forged relationships with individuals involved in the various EDM scenes

found across the city. Through these connections I then gained access to many online user

groups and private Facebook groups that functioned as a digital repository for sharing music

and scene-related discussion. Upon sharing the goals of my research project with whom I

determined to be influential scene members I obtained further access into different scenes

and collectives. This included receiving email introductions to potential interview subjects,

free or reduced entry to related events, and access to unreleased musical material and project

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files. As a result, I built a strong network of relationships with a host of different individuals

who operate in different sectors of Toronto’s house and techno scenes.

Berlin was chosen as the second site for fieldwork for its importance to the history of

house and techno and its current role as the epicentre of these genres. Such an observation

was not only learned second hand from the numerous publications that romanticize and

canonize the city, but also from my own preliminary fieldwork in Toronto. Local producers

in Toronto often refer to Berlin’s scene(s) with deep admiration. This stemmed from their

understanding of house and techno’s history, the celebration of German producers and DJs in

popular media, and the (assumed) knowledge that Berlin’s nightlife industry was superior

and able to foster a much more sophisticated and extensive scene. As both Tobias Rapp and

Luis-Manuel Garcia have noted, Berlin’s reputation as a haven for underappreciated (and

under employed) house and techno producers is known across Europe and North America.8

This perspective was confirmed throughout my fieldwork, as many of my informants

regularly traveled to the German capital on vacation, and in some cases actually relocated

there.

Throughout my research the concept of scenes was essential to understanding the

working life of techno producers. As Bennett and Peterson write,

[. . . ] the concept of “music scenes” originally used primarily in journalistic and everyday contexts is increasingly used by academic researchers to designate the contexts in which clusters of producers, musicians, and fans collectively share their common musical tastes and collectively distinguish themselves from others.9

8 Tobias Rapp, Lost and Sound: Berlin, Techno und der Easyjetset (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2009); Luis-Manuel

Garcia, “‘Can You Feel It, Too?’ Intimacy and Affect at Electronic Dance Music Events,” Ph.D. dissertation, University of Chicago, 2011.

9 Bennett and Peterson, Music Scenes, 1.

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Scenes are a useful way of thinking about the different networks producers construct and

depend on. Additionally, the term was ubiquitous in conversations with producers, and they

often reflected on the numerous and intersecting scenes they were required to navigate. As

Bennett and Peterson also note, one of the appealing criteria of a scene, one that

differentiates it from a subculture, is the malleability of the term. Whereas a subculture

presumes that participant actions are governed by defined subcultural standards, a scene-

informed perspective does not make such fixed presumptions.”10 In my experience, the

looseness and multiplicity of scenes that overlap and coexist throughout the world of house

and techno make it difficult to pin down a single subcultural definition. Moreover, the

relative fluidity of the practitioners to move between different scenes made it challenging to

develop a strong definition of what constituted subcultural capital. That said, the scenes

occupied by the producers I worked with often did involve the cultivation of some form of

subcultural capital, albeit one that was quite fluid and constantly (re)negotiated. Producers

belong to multiple scenes simultaneously, all of which were in some way related to the

production of house and techno. Ranging from local scenes, to the translocal scenes that

Bennett and Peterson define as “widely scattered local scenes drawn into regular

communication around distinctive forms of music and lifestyle,” to the virtual scenes present

on Facebook, the producers I familiarized myself with navigate a host of different scenes and

accompanying expectations.11

A significant theoretical lens that has inspired my approach to understanding scenes

is the work of Jan-Michel Kühn, who in his numerous writings has argued for an

10 Ibid. 11 Bennett and Peterson, Music Scenes, 5.

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understanding of “scene economies.”12 Using the Berlin “underground EDM” scene as his

model (an investigation I will return to later), he argues that scene economies develop their

own organizational logic.

The scene economy of 'underground' electronic dance music scenes represent their own differentiated economic fields with specific structures that have developed their own organizational logic. The consequences and the basis of this logic are particular conditions for action and relations of production within the scenes’ own infrastructure and value-creation chain that result from the specific cultures and market relations of electronic dance music. To understand the specific structure, the following features need to be considered: Scene-based cultural production instead of industry-based cultural production, the emphatic role of the music culture, the internal subcultural hierarchy and the role of distinctions in maintaining and re-shaping the scene economy, music culture and attractiveness.13

Kühn’s notion of a scene economy stakes out an analytic framework that locates itself in-

between the looseness of Bennett and Peterson “scene” definition and the rigidity of both

Bourdieu’s notion of the field or Negus’s initial work on music industries.14 In trying to

understand a scene economy the researcher must understand the different market relations

and infrastructures that are both developed by scene members and adapted from larger

overarching structures. In developing a scene economy, and providing a case study, Kühn

pushes scholars of local and translocal scenes to unpack the specific financial and cultural

capital exchange that shape their networks and scene member’s motivations.15

Kühn’s work is interested in providing nuance to Bourdieu’s theory of cultural fields,

a theory that usefully considers what roles artists play in society but cannot fully account for

the numerous sub-cultural structures producers are required to negotiate. For Bourdieu a

12 Kühn, “The Subcultural Scene Economy,” 282. 13 Ibid. 14 Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production, edited by R. Johnson (New York: Columbia Press, 1993);

Negus, Music Genres and Corporate Cultures. 15 Kühn, “The Subcultural Scene Economy,” 282–283.

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cultural field is a field of positions and position takings.16 It is an understanding of a work of

art and artistic endeavours that can account for the specific economy shaped by the field’s

participants and corresponding relationships. Therefore, the field is an understanding of

cultural production that must be all encompassing.

[It must] take into account everything which helps to constitute the work as such, not least the discourses of direct or disguised celebration which are among the social conditions of production of the work of art qua object of belief.17

Bourdieu argues that to understand a work of art, or the making of the work, is to understand

the critic, to understand the patron, and to understand the numerous players who shape the

field. Thus, the way in which the producer, and the fruits of their labour (tracks) are valued,

is equally determined not only in relation to other producers, to scene-specific consumers,

but also to a larger network of scene actors (promoters, booking agents, DJs) who distribute,

assign and negotiate value.18 Kühn’s approach is one that seeks to utilize Bourdieu’s concept

of the field not to situate techno and house amongst larger, institutional valuations of art, but

amongst a scene-specific context that attempts to determine value through an understanding

of scene-members, their motivations, and their corresponding behaviour. While this approach

may appear to limit the scope to an isolated phenomenon, the fact that the techno and house

scene in Berlin, is so influential on shaping other localized forms of consumption and

practice make it a valuable model to build upon.

Kühn’s method is useful because the producers I worked with operate in scenes that

are both quite small and larger, both local and global. The scenes are small enough to

seemingly know every major actor twice removed, but large enough that one is constantly

16 Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production, 30. 17 Ibid., 35. 18 Ibid., 36.

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learning of a new name, a new promoter, a new DJ. This scope reveals the general low

barrier of entry for becoming a scene participant, the preponderance of amateurism, and the

relative accessibility to enter the scene as a minor player. The result is the existence of

numerous overlapping scenes that exist at different levels of maturation. Whereas one

particular scene is relatively youthful and informally based around monthly events, other

scenes are more mature, in the second decade of their existence and have constructed the

financial and social infrastructure to support and fund their members. Additionally,

producers, despite an allegiance to a given scene(s) are often welcoming to financial and

creative opportunities that may exist outside the scene, often bouncing in-between

underground and mainstream economic worlds in an effort to balance financial and social

demands. The result of these balancing acts is a series of conflicts between different scenes

and circuits, conflicts that reveal the challenging hierarchies techno producers are required to

negotiate. In an effort to illuminate some of these challenges, and armed with Kühn’s notion

of the scene economy, I will briefly outline my understanding of the Toronto and Berlin

house and techno scenes.

Toronto Toronto’s house and techno scene can be defined by fragmentation and overlap. Consisting

of numerous scenes and circuits, and made up of a diverse group of members (often at times

with allegiances to multiple groups), the city has an active and engaged culture of electronic

music makers, fans, events, and communities. That being said, the political and financial

limitations enacted by municipal legislation and zoning laws have made physical space a

scarcity, creating a wide gulf between the commercial nightclub scene and the more nomadic

grassroots organizations.

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Toronto’s scene functions locally, translocally, and interacts with overlapping virtual

scenes. Locally, there are many collectives —such as Box of Kittens and It’s Not You It’s

Me—that throw monthly or bi-weekly events, exclusively featuring local performers.

Translocally, the city is associated with global house and techno circuits, and is a popular

destination for touring artists. As a result, scene members in the city move between the

smaller techno parties held at ad-hoc event spaces, and the larger events taking place at

commercial nightclubs. The Toronto house and techno scene is informed by a variety of

media that covers popular DJs and producers. They review records, events, and performances

online. These websites historicize producers and performers and work within other media

structures to supplement techno events. The most popular site for virtual discussion is

through Facebook groups. These groups offer a space for scene members to share music,

promote events (usually their own), and enter into larger discussions about the vitality of the

city’s electronic music culture. As both an expression of exclusivity and in an effort to

protect their privacy, these groups are often private, and require an invitation from a current

member.

While there are many ways in which the scenes interact, the most substantial

connections are forged through the creation and attending of house and techno events.

Taking place at various spaces across the city, events function as a nexus for the local scene,

and they are often the only times in which likeminded participants connect in-person. For a

producer, the scene-economy is quite tenuous and only a handful of producers make a living

inside of it. Instead, all but a few producers I met in Toronto depend on other activities to

supplement their income. Subsequently, many of the producers in Toronto are in transition,

as they are struggling in their attempt to become fully employed working producers. In the

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case of Bwana, before he moved to Berlin he saved money by living with his parents, taking

commissions for sample packs, and working extra hours at a local fitness centre.19 In

contrast, Gingy, a producer who remains in Toronto, is one of the few individuals I have met

that is working towards generating all his income from house and techno related activities,

and is dedicated to creating a sustainable and fruitful local economy that can support like-

minded producers and performers. He is the founder of It’s Not U It’s Me, a collective

focused on bringing together the often fragmented Toronto scene, and providing new

opportunities for local producers and DJs.

House and techno events are known as parties (or raves) and take place at a variety of

spaces across the city. Despite the vast differences in audiences, parties almost universally

operate with a single financial and structural model: promoters pay DJs to perform through

the revenue they generate from admission tickets and the sale of alcoholic beverages and

other refreshments.20 While the majority of patrons at an event may be committed scene

members, a significant source of income is generated from attracting groups of individuals

less interested in the particular music being performed and those who are more concerned

with the holistic experience of going to a nightclub. The dependence on non-scene members

to fund scene-specific events is a crucial aspect of how promoters negotiate which DJ they

book and the price of admission. Although the financial model is relatively consistent, there

are significant differences between the different subsections, both in terms of the type of

19 Sample packs are collections of samples, drum hits, synth parts, and other loops that producers group together

and sell. In some cases they are sold directly to other producers. In other cases they are given away for free by magazines and other media groups. In the case of Bwana, he had sold a collection of samples and loops to a magazine for around $2000.

20 The financial model changes for each event. In some cases the promoter does not make any money from the bar sales, only earning revenue from the cover (admission fee). In other cases the venue and promoter agree to split portions of the bar sales.

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financial return they are designed to generate, and the type of scene members they attract.

The different types of events that define the Toronto electronic music scene can be divided

into three categories: commercial nightclubs, smaller clubs, and ad-hoc collectives.

Commercial nightclub, such as The Hoxton [now defunct], Maison Mercer, and

Uniun [sic], are located in the city’s clubbing district and primarily traffic in middle to upper

class patrons. They charge high admission fees (up to $50 depending on the DJ) and often

have dress codes in place to further establish the exclusivity of the venue. A major revenue

stream for these venues is bottle service, which entails the charging of fees to reserve private

booths and requiring the purchase of multiple bottles of spirits (at mark-ups ranging from

100% to 500%). Modelled after many of the clubs in Las Vegas, these venues often heavily

restrict the admittance of male patrons while offering reduced or free entrance to females.

The result is an increased premium for the exclusivity and access, which is then sold through

bottle service, and in turn, seeks to justify the exorbitant mark-up placed on alcohol sales.21

As these events seek to cater to the broader nightlife and leisure economy, they often book

performers with some international following and rarely book local talent to headline events.

Additionally, the performers featured at these events are frequently seen as part of a larger

multi-national commercial EDM scene. At these clubs local DJs are usually given opening

and closing slots (that is, one hour sets that precede and follow the international headliner)

and paid a substantially lower fee than the headliner. Like all promoters, exclusivity

agreements are often forged with local DJs, and they are booked as residents, a term that

implies consistent, and at times, exclusive employment with a given club. In many cases the

club owners and promotional companies are one and the same.

21 This model in particularly offensive and discouraging to the female scene members I spoke with.

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Many of the active scene members I spoke to have an antagonistic relationship with

these nightclubs. Not only do they resent the bottle service model, which prohibits many of

them from attending events, but also they further disregard the promotional companies’

concern for commercial/cross-over artists. A significant majority of the scene members I

worked with mostly avoided many of these clubs despite, in some cases, occasionally relying

on them for employment. As a result of the limited opportunities for local producers, less

established scene-members feel obliged to perform in locations they would rather avoid as a

patron. In these cases producers may not promote their own performance great intensity, as

such a performance risks sacrificing their own scene-specific credibility.22

The second layer of the Toronto house and techno scene is found in smaller clubs and

promotional companies. While they are smaller in scale than the larger nightclubs, they are

often still registered businesses, staffed by fulltime employees. In many cases these

promotional companies have partnerships with smaller venues, often located in the west side

of downtown Toronto. Like commercial nightclubs, they earn revenue through charging

admission and the sales of alcoholic drinks, but in most cases avoid the bottle service model.

Their bookings are a combination of international and local house and techno producers. As

Nancy Chen, the former head booking agent for the now defunct promotional company

Mansion told me, these businesses rely on building long lasting and dependable relationships

with specific booking agencies, routinely booking DJs they may not want in an effort to

enhance their business relationships with agencies. The scale of these operations and the

overhead expenses they may incur are incentives for booking DJs each weekend, and

22Most producers I spoke to understood that being flexible early on in a producer’s career is necessary.

However, as detailed in the following section, there are examples where bookings are avoided in order to appease tastemakers and important scene members.

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occasionally on weekdays. When I asked Nancy about the frequency and consistency of

bookings in Toronto she said,

NC: Ultimately it’s business and agents will work with promoters than can book their entire roster versus one that does it occasionally. Big promoters will lose money [2 out of 3] shows to maintain relationships, but bank on [one out of three] because those artists pack venues EW: It seems many of the big promoters or festivals book more or less the same DJs continually. NC: Those are business relationships between big booking agencies and big promoters...its just automation and high velocity booking to maintain market share. It’s not about creating a special experience for the artists, it’s about doing as many as you can simplification of the process and higher profits.23

As Nancy noted, many of the bookings that take place at this level are regulated not only by

taste, but also by working relationships —this returns again to how the different scene actors

beyond the producers, DJs and consumers shape the field of cultural production. While the

local scene may have a demand for a particular artist, the ability to secure such a booking

might require the promoter to invest in unprofitable and poorly attended performances. Such

an example demonstrates how relationships between a select few scene-members can dictate

the scene’s economy—and that the actual aesthetic value of a producer’s tracks is only one

dimension in determining who gets paid to perform. Although most scene members are

unaware of these relationships and the role they play in shaping the scene, many of the

working producers I spoke with are quite aware of these machinations, and thus constantly

work to form connections with these key individuals.24

23 Nancy Chen, Facebook Messenger correspondence, March 28 2016. 24 This connects to the concept of working to work, which as Jeff Packman states is related to the way

professional musicians “create conditions of possibility to support themselves as musicians in a market.” Drawing from Michel de Certeau’s notion of tactics, Packman explores how less powerful professionals rely on working to work in order to assert their professional musical identities. Jeff Packman, “‘Musicians’ Performances and Performances of “Musicians” in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil,” Ethnomusicology 55, no. 3

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The final tier of promoters in Toronto is the grassroots collective and ad-hoc

organizations. These range from groups that throw monthly or bi-monthly parties to loosely

organized collectives that occasionally organize smaller events. This includes pop-up events

that are one off parties thrown by a collection of local promoters.25 Grassroots collectives

often make little profit, and routinely take losses in an effort to achieve their artistic and/or

scene-specific goals. The promoters who put on these events do not rely on the house and

techno industry for the majority of their income, and they often work day jobs that are

unrelated to the music industry. In the words of the promoter and DJ Cindy Li, “we basically

break even, having some really successful events, followed by some pretty shitty ones.”

There are countless groups in Toronto that put on techno events, often forming partnerships

with bar owners or smaller art spaces. These events are known for their DIY attitude, and

often involve the quick conversion of a bar or event space into a club-like venue. This

requires the rental of sound equipment and lighting, as well other related expenses such as,

security or permits. Often these events have purchased temporary event liquor licenses,

however, in many cases these parties are thrown “illegally” and are not licensed to sell

liquor. As many of these events are not publically advertised, there is less risk in running into

difficulties with the authorities, although such a risk does exist.26 This also applies to after-

hours events, which are parties thrown illegally that may still serve alcohol past Toronto’s

2:00 A.M. last call. Knowledge of these parties is usually only obtained through word of

mouth and they remain exclusive to those who have gained connections to informed scene

(2011): 415–416.

25 The last two years has seen a steady rise in this style of promotion. The lack of venues in Toronto has made promotion an instable business.

26 According to one promoter the fine for throwing such a party is around five hundred dollars, however, such a fine adversely affects one’s ability to legally acquire liquor licenses moving forward.

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members. While these events primarily feature local artists, occasionally touring artists will

attend and DJ here upon the completion of an earlier (and legitimate) event.

It must be stressed that many of the grassroots events discussed above only exist as a

result of producers and DJs wanting to perform. In my experience in the Toronto house and

techno scenes, the most consistent way to get booked is to become a promoter and take

ownership of the business side. In a sense, this amounts to becoming a manager or financier

in order to hire oneself as the labourer. This is a route many take if they wish to stay in

Toronto, as it ensures work and income beyond the meagre fees local producers receive for

performances. Almost every producer I met in Toronto has thrown their own events, and the

entrepreneurial cleverness required to throw profitable parties has become more important to

the success of the local producer. Like all capitalist endeavours, such a model benefits those

who already have the necessary capital to afford such performances, and as such there

remains an opportunity for those with significant means (and the requisite talent) to expedite

their journey towards eventual full time employment as a working producer and DJ.27

Throughout these different layers of the Toronto scene the common thread is

contested access to space. Zoning laws instituted by the city over the past decade have

heavily regulated the access to nightclub licensing. While there are still many small spaces to

throw one-off events, there are many challenges facing those wishing to create a permanent,

and legal, event space. As of 2004, Toronto had placed a moratorium on granting nightclub

27 Throughout my fieldwork I was rarely made aware of producers buying their way into house and techno

scenes. Differently, such a practice is widely discussed in commercial EDM industries, and there are many frequent tales of younger DJs, either through their own wealth or that of a financier, paying immense amounts of money for performance opportunities at popular festivals. Another maligned tactic, which is becoming the norm for celebrities, businesses, and politicians, is the purchasing of Facebook and Instagram likes, Soundcloud followers, and other digital markers of popularity. The purpose of this is to fool the algorithms and metrics that determine what content online is brought to the forefront of one’s feed/landing page.

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licenses, and all clubs opened in the now vibrant west-end of the city are technically

operating illegally as they are zoned as restaurants.28 Although there are some ad-hoc art

spaces that have been used recently, the inability to scale them appropriately and earn

supplemental income from the sale of alcohol has made them difficult ventures for all but the

most committed scene members.

To summarize, scene based cultural production generates financial capital almost

exclusively through individual parties. Although other forms of capital are exchanged in

order to access these parties, the lack of infrastructure in the scene limits potential earnings

for DJs and producers, and the scene-economy as a whole has very few opportunities to

support working producers. Therefore, while Toronto has an active scene, it lacks the

necessary infrastructure and supportive population to forge a true scene-economy, one in

which producers can make a living operating in the city. Additionally, the city’s proximity to

only a few other prominent (and profitable) house and techno markets (Montreal and New

York being the closest) restricts touring opportunities for artists, especially when compared

to European cities. The working life of a producer in Toronto is representative of many North

American cities; one that despite having a thriving nightlife scene does not provide enough

local opportunities for working producers. It is for this reason that many producers leave

Toronto upon gaining the ability to tour widely, often moving to a European city that offers a

closer proximity to other cities with strong techno scenes, and greater local opportunities.

Following in the footsteps of the initial techno pioneers who left Detroit for greener pastures

(and the thousands of techno tourists who flock there each year), the European city most

attractive for émigré producers of house and techno is Berlin. 28 Kuitenbrouwer, Peter, “Scenes from the War on Clubland,” The National Post (Toronto, Ontario), June 20

2014.

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Berlin For producers in Toronto and many other cities around the world, Berlin represents

emancipation from the type of non-music related activities producers are required to

undertake. Interviewing individuals in Toronto, I learned that the German capital exists as a

fairy-tale like place where every resident is a house and techno expert and every producer is

booked in the most interesting clubs with the most well informed crowds. Many of these

fantasies are partially true. The clubbing scene in Berlin is significantly more developed than

most, if not all, metropolises. Events in Berlin last longer, there are significantly more of

them, and the hindrances that Toronto and North American producers, promoters and DJs

routinely encounter are seemingly absent. Specifically, liquor licensing in Berlin is less

heavily regulated, and nightclubs are not required to close nor stop selling alcohol at a given

hour. The ability to stay open (and continue to serve alcohol) for extended periods of time (in

some cases for entire weekends) is one of the most appealing aspects of the Berlin scene to

visiting Torontonians. Other factors that contribute to the scene’s health are the relatively

cheaper costs of living, the extensive public transit system, and the proximity to other cities

with vibrant house and techno scenes.

Based on discussions with producers in Berlin, I learned that many of the challenges

facing individuals in Toronto apply to Berlin as well. This is best observed through my

interviews with expatriate producers from Canada, the United States and Australia, who

moved to Berlin for greener pastures but found, in some cases, it equally difficult to navigate.

One problem that remains is the type of exclusivity agreements producers informally agree to

with venues, as well as the way interpersonal relationships and networks remain paramount

in informing who gets booked. In many ways, these relationships mirror what Peterson and

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White have described as “the simplex,” a term used to address the smaller networks of

professional musicians and booking agents who determine and negotiate who receives

contract employment.29 As they explore through their example of the sessional musicians in

Nashville, the interposal relationships between working musicians, industry members and

other types of local powerbrokers are instrumental in determining how labour is allocated,

protected, and leveraged. Like the sessional musicians of Nashville, producers in Berlin both

rely on each other to facilitate work, and deploy nuanced tactics to frame their own ability as

uniquely qualified to fulfill such opportunities.30 An interesting example of this is Bwana, a

Toronto producer who moved to Berlin on the back of a few strong single releases for a well-

respected British label. Although Bwana was initially disappointed with his inability to gain

European bookings, he was thrilled when he found out he had secured a gig at Panorama Bar.

Attached to Berghain, which as discussed in Chapter 2 is one of the most critically celebrated

techno clubs in Europe, Panorama Bar is the premier place for a young producer like Bwana

to gain exposure and the word of mouth buzz that could lead to a greater demand in

bookings. According to Bwana, and through my own observations of the crowd, he delivered

a strong performance in which the crowd remained energetic and engaged.31 Most

importantly, he received positive feedback from the venue’s booking agent. As a result, he

expected his reputation to increase and his touring schedule to fill up. Yet, for whatever

reason this experience did not lead to any immediate bookings. He spent the months that

followed wondering why, and more pressingly, running low on money. At the time I asked

29 Richard Peterson and Howard White. “The Simplex Located in Art Worlds.” Urban Life 7, no. 4 (1979): 411-

–439. 30 Ibid., 422. 31 One criterion used by scene-members to assess the success or strength of a DJ’s performance is their ability

to sustain a large crowd. Whereas lesser DJs are known for “clearing the floor,” a strong DJ will keep the crowd dancing for the entirety of their set.

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him what was preventing him from soliciting more work in Berlin, and why he did not try to

get booked in smaller clubs. He explained that he worried that this could ostracize him from

the important venues, and that taking a booking at a smaller place would hamper his ability

to secure more lucrative bookings moving forward.32 In this case, it was better to for him to

get a second job, than it was to be known for playing other venues. Although this initial

conversation took place casually in the summer of 2015 I asked Bwana over Facebook chat

to go over his decision making again for me.

EW: Would playing more local gigs in Berlin [hinder] your ability to get the good (more prestigious/better paying) gigs? B: Well I'm not certain but I can give the example of [a colleague] when he first moved here he played pretty much any gig thrown his way in Berlin and he has never played at Panorama Bar even though he is more than qualified where as [my other friend] and I only play at Panorama Bar and so far they keep having us back I think it just sets a precedent that you're willing to do whatever it takes. EW: Do you think [Panorama Bar] would be hesitant to book you if you took smaller gigs in Berlin? B: If I took a random gig? I doubt it but if I started gigging around the city on a more regular basis absolutely EW: Because they expect exclusivity or expect that your reputation is a guy who should only plays quality gigs? B: I think both. For example, [another producer] plays very regularly at [Panorama Bar] I've spoken to him and asked if he's pretty much a resident at this point and he said no but they have him exclusively at their disposal EW: So even though, big picture, it probably costs potential earnings, it's better to have the Berlin exclusive with them because of the reputation of being associated with them?

32 In Peterson and White’s terms he trying to perform a host of tasks that member of the simplex historically

rely upon. He was trying to rely on Panorama Bar’s promoters “accounts” to allow for greater opportunity in other markets/clubs. Or in another sense, he believed playing somewhere else would affect his “ranking” and diminish his standing within the promoters of Berlin. Or, in Bourdieu’s terms, in Bwana’s assessment of the field of cultural production he was able to identify which actors were the most significant in assigning his productions and performances value. Peterson and White, “The Simplex.”

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B: Definitely. I mean [my other friend] exploded after her first two [Panorama Bar] bookings onto the EU circuit and she isn't sure why I didn't as well but her agent has told her explicitly that those first two [Panorama Bar] gigs had a huge impact on bookings in the EU. EW: That's pretty crazy considering that it boils down to just word of mouth. They didn’t record her set. Basically just having the gig on your CV can generate a reputation. B: Yea, it [becomes] ammo for the agent.33

As Bwana notes, it is important not only to work to work, but also to not work to

work.34 Bwana’s predicament demonstrates how scene-economies regulate entry, requiring

producers to take on financial strain in order to maintain their standing. However, the result

of this is that a producer is expected to choose the potential of future earnings and prestige

over improving their immediate situation. Like so many of the choices that may face a

younger working producer, this is a choice that benefits those who are already wealthy, as

they can afford to go longer without bookings. In this case Bwana was fortunate that he had

saved up money from Toronto and therefore could afford to go three months without a

booking, but if he not had that money on hand he would be obliged to take lesser gigs in

Berlin, which in turn could harm his reputation. Fortunately, his hunch was correct, as he

was booked again at Panorama Bar, some five months later. He was convinced that this

would also lead to more bookings. Or would it? The subject came up again when I inquired

about rates over another Facebook conversation; I asked him how his booking fee was

determined. Although I knew generally from the promotional side how rates were negotiated,

I wanted to understand how rates were determined when the booking was equally about the 33 Bwana, Facebook Messenger correspondence, March 21 2016. 34 Here I am playing on Jeff Packman’s notion of working to work, which is the manner in which professional

musicians use tactics to navigate their precarious professional identities. Professional musicians are required to form particular social relationships in order to be booked. However, in some cases bookings may prevent them from securing more lucrative work. In that sense in “not working” they are working to (eventually receive better) work. Packman, “Musicians’ Performances,” 415–416.

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money as it was about gaining some form of scene-specific recognition.

EW: How does your agent set your rate? Is it comparative? B: They just push it as far as they can and it varies from gig to gig. EW And do you think there are producers that offer artificially lower rates to get more gigs? B: Yes 100% I know [one group] does that that's how they toured across the US with [another more famous artist] in 2013 because they did it for $500 US per show and I know that all the big names do Glastonbury [a large British music festival] for free pretty much and play Robert Johnson [a famous club in Frankfurt] for free and significantly decrease their fee for gigs at Berghain. EW Does it squeeze out the lower to middle class producer? B: Yes. So at [the club] Robert Johnson very few people get to play there. EW Amateurs want to play for free because they want publicity and the top guys take discounts to get a better reputation? B: Exactly. Why pay someone their fee when you can get Dixon [one of the most widely regarded house DJs] for free? EW: But then it helps his reputation so he can get big money in Ibiza or London right? B: Yeah, that's a way to look at it. It just creates more 'exclusivity' which is really the bread and butter of dance music as much as bullshitters [sic] like [one outspoken DJ] like to preach otherwise about it being an 'inclusive' thing. But it’s not. Dance music is very very exclusive.35

Bwana is constantly negotiating the exclusiveness of different scenes, learning over time,

which connections pay off, and which relationships must be cultivated. Like other industries,

his comments reveal that individual scene-members often undercut one another in an effort

to gain greater access. This problem, in which the supply of labour greatly out paces the

demand, is magnified in house and techno scenes, which like other creative industries often

35 Bwana, Facebook Messenger correspondence, March 21 2016.

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suffer from race-to-the-bottom like conflicts that further diminish the value of their work.

Because so many individuals around the world want to perform house and techno, and

because so many have already decided that performing will not be their primary occupation,

booking rates are constantly undercut. This harkens back to the role of the producer in

Toronto, who often requires becoming a promoter, if only to book one’s self.

Simply put, the never-ending supply of producers and DJs in most major-markets makes

securing employment frustrating and difficult. While most producers I spoke to want to

believe their specific scene economy is at least in part governed by a meritocracy, the sheer

amount of music being released and the endless stream of DJs available to book puts

producers under increasing pressure to gain and leverage both connections and access. In that

sense, a reputation and an association to a venue or a label remains necessary, as the scene-

economies remain heavily regulated by taste makers; the label bosses, promoters and

booking agents. Musical ability and talent remain a prerequisite. However, the amount of

competition producers face is so deep, and they are constantly the under threat of being

replaced.36 Additionally, as the scene’s economic players increase the scale of their

organizations, they increasingly become less reliant on house and techno scene members and

their tastes, and instead, like larger recording industries, depend entirely on appealing to non-

scene members. Like the commercial Toronto nightclubs, the business model moves away

from appeasing or satisfying a smaller scene and instead relies on attracting non-scene

members, individuals who in turn are less interested in the scene-specific evaluation of the

booking. As a house and techno scene economy grows, the amount of power given to those

36 In my experience there are very few producers who are considered irreplaceable. Indeed, throughout my

fieldwork many individuals mentioned numerous well-known DJs on the circuit that had comparatively little talent and were receiving bookings because of their appeal to non-scene members and/or industry connections.

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in a position of establishment increases. Thus, working as a producer in a scene-economy

depends one’s ability to gain access to already established networks and markets, and

establishing working relationships with individuals operating in different scenes, on varying

scales.

Working as a Producer The main sources of income for working producers come from performances, which almost

entirely take place in nightclubs and club-related event spaces historically take the form of

DJ sets.37 DJ sets consist of an individual (or at times two to three individuals) continuously

mixing records (known as tracks) together, in order to create a single, uninterrupted flow of

music. Often ranging from one to four hours (two hours is the de facto standard), DJ sets are

designed to facilitate dancing as a means of enhancing an individual’s experience with the

music, other individuals, and the holistic ambience of the nightclub setting.38 Historically,

well renowned DJs have been celebrated for their ability “to read the crowd,” that is, to play

particular tracks that get a positive reaction from the crowd, sustaining the crowd’s attention

and energy for long periods of time.39 While DJ sets primarily consist of playing a range of

sub-genres and styles of music, they are also considered to be a direct expression of the

performers taste and artistic identity. During DJ performances authorship is often displaced

from the individual who composed the original track, and is then attributed to the individual

(the DJ) who has mixed in and out of each track. As several scholars have noted, DJ

37Other performance spaces include festival grounds and converted industrial spaces. In recent years there has

been a trend to turn unexpected spaces into temporary nightclubs. This ranges from using a civic science centre to retrofitting an abandoned castle. The conversion of spaces into novel, temporary clubs is a branding technique for smaller promoters hoping to differentiate their parties from the competition.

38This often includes disorienting lights, smoke machines, installation art pieces, and other visual and physical media designed to enhance an individual’s experience.

39 For a larger discussion of DJ aesthetics see: Jeremy Gilbert and Ewan Pearson, Discographies.

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performances are essential aspects of electronic dance music events.40 In turn, the most

significant investments by promoters and clubs are allocated (beyond initial overhead) to

booking performers. As such, the popularity and scene-specific recognition of a DJ has a

direct relationship on the admission fees charged by promoters and venues.41

The nature of DJ performances, which regularly entail playing upwards of fifty

different tracks in a given performance, creates a constant demand for new recordings that

can easily be inserted into a performance, or what DJs would refer to as “the mix.” This has

resulted in a dedicated market for which producers are writing tracks that other DJs can play.

As many house and techno enthusiasts only listen to the genre through full mixes (acquired

either online or through attending a club performance), the producers’ primary market for

reaching listeners is not online marketplaces, nor streaming music sites, but other producers

and their DJ performances. While tracks are sold physically on vinyl and digitally in online

market places, producers make a very small portion of their income through track sales.

According to the producers I have worked with, sales and licensing generated from record

releases only account for roughly 5-10% of a producer’s income, whereas booking gigs

consists of 80-95%. Or, as Kühn writes in his estimation of the European house and techno

scene, the market for the sale of individual tracks is quite limited.

Music sales are directed primarily at DJs (a significant share of their music distribution occurs via direct, free promotion by the labels or agencies or in the form of “illegal” downloads) and not at club-goers […] As a result, the actual consumers rarely pay for the music alone but for the general club experience as a whole. [DJs] earn a considerable part of their income from their mixing fees. Consequently, a typical track release will just achieve 300 to 2,000 sales, and only exceptions (hits) sell 10,000 units and more. At the same time, a typical “familiar” club will draw between 150 and 2,000 people at admission prices ranging from € 5 to € 20. This allows the DJ fees to be negotiated within the corresponding framework – minus many other costs and margins.

40 Reynolds, Energy Flash; Gilbert and Pearson, Discographies. 41Kühn, “The Subcultural Scene Economy,” 2015.

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The essential factor driving up the amount of DJ fees here is the scene specific popularity capital that producers and DJs accumulate through successful tracks and DJ set [...] Expressed in the language of the scene: How many people does the DJ draw to the club?42

While DJ performances are the primary mode for earning income for producers, the temporal

nature of DJ performance, which is more often than not experienced in the moment and not

often recorded and re-experienced, means that very few DJs are able to build reputations

strictly as performers.43 As a result, the primary way to continually secure bookings (income)

is not only through building a reputation as a strong performer (which may take a very long

time), but through productions that remain popular enough with other producers that they

continually are integrated into their own DJ sets.44 This informs production because it puts

the onus on the producer to stand out as an original voice and conform to particular scene-

specific performance practices. Tracks must serve a double purpose. First, they must work to

accommodate the listening public, individuals who interact with their music at clubs or

through pre-recorded mixes (usually a podcast or radio broadcast). Second, and more

importantly, tracks must have a functional utility for other performers, as they will become

the raw materials DJs rely upon to construct their own sets. As such, the professional identity

42 Jan-Michael Kühn, “Working in the Berlin Techno Scene: A Sketch of the Electronic Music ‘Scene

Economy,’” Music Business Research, May 2012, accessed February 2016, https://musicbusinessresearch.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/4-kc3bchn-jan-michael-the-scene-economy-of-electronic-dance-music.pdf.

43 There are examples of live recordings. Like mix CDs, recordings of DJ sets are used like productions as promotional tools for producers. There are a few examples in which recorded DJ performances are used as a means to achieve greater popularity. One instance is the recording of the “No Way Back” after party held in Detroit during the Movement Music Festival. Recordings of DJ sets from this event gained significant recognition online, leading to the DJs who performed there to achieve greater notoriety and in turn, bookings.

44 The DJs ability to respond to a live crowd is difficult to assess through audio recordings. As a result, the skill of a DJ is often only shared through word of mouth, social media, and written event reviews or features found throughout dance music media.

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of producers is deeply linked to their own ability to secure DJ bookings and to the artistry

bestowed on their tracks through the performances of other producers.

In order to clarify the manner in which producers leverage the popular success and

critical recognition of their tracks to garner bookings and further cement relationships with

stakeholders in the related industries they rely upon, I provide a brief step-by-step outline of

the (potential) trajectory of a producer’s career.

Step 1. Production The first (and most obvious step) in working as a producer is production. For most, this takes

place in home studios, often using a combination of professional and free music

technology.45 In Chapter 4 I address in detail what production entails, but for now, it is

relevant to note that producers I interviewed suggested that when they produce, they do so

with a complete understanding that their creations will eventually be played by DJs in a

nightclub setting. That being said, many of these stylistic codes required to facilitate DJ

performance are implicitly understood. The rigid aesthetics that shape house and techno are

folded into the producer’s understanding and enjoyment of these genres, and thus they rarely

feel they are conforming as a result of commercial necessity.

In many cases, producers work from their home studios. The convenience of home

studios allows producers to work on their music daily. Some producers, such as Bwana,

make it a rule to not begin another track until the one they have started is complete. Others,

like Mike Shannon, often bounce between tracks, experimenting with techniques on different

45 There is a vast range of audio equipment producers can invest in. At the bare minimum a producer only needs

a laptop and a digital audio workstation. The latter can range from a free trial accessed online to $1000. On the higher end, producers can invest tens of thousands of dollars into studio equipment, acquiring vintage pieces only sold on auctions, and constructing never-ending modular synthesizer rigs.

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arrangements. For producers that do not have home studios, they often rent a studio with

other producers, devising a schedule to share studio time. For the purposes of this section, I

only wish to articulate the first step in a producer’s potential work cycle, one that almost

entirely involves the isolated production of music. However, in the following chapters I

examine production practice with great detail, considering both the recording technologies

relied upon and the manner in which they are used

Step 2. Distribution and Organization When producers finish theirs tracks they begin their efforts to distribute them.46 This is

achieved through sending their tracks to DJs and label owners, individuals that dictate the

reach and exposure of a given release. The most direct way this is accomplished is through

emailing the music by way of media hosting sites like Soundcloud and Dropbox. While this

method is the most direct, it is also the most challenging (similar to cold-calling) and many

DJs and labels receive hundreds of tracks each week. As such, producers have designed more

refined tactics, which includes reaching out to local DJs and leveraging previous connections

and collaborations, to broach introductions with sought after labels. Some producers will

even hire promotional-agencies (known as promo companies) that offer greater access to

well-known DJs and labels for a fee.47 Examples of promotional companies include Tailored

Communications and Hype Ltd; the latter being a subsidiary of the British electronic music

record label Hypercolour.

46 How producers determine when a track is complete is subjective. In some cases tracks may go through a type

of peer review revision processes, in which they are shared with a small group of like-minded producers. In other cases tracks are sent out directly to labels, or even immediately posted on an artist’s Soundcloud page. In other situations, artists may sit on tracks for years, slowly tweaking and editing them only to release them many years later.

47 Promotional agencies are also used by labels, which send out digital copies of their releases in an effort to get more substantial DJs to champion their works.

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While guerrilla-like techniques such as spamming DJs with free recordings is one

method of gaining notoriety, the most successful way, in my observation, to distribute a track

is through a label release. EDM scenes are rife with labels, sub-labels, and imprints, and they

play a significant role in determining which music gets played, purchased, and reviewed. I

speculate that this is the result of the number of tracks produced in a given period of time so

outweighing the amount of time a DJ can listen to music. Thus DJs and scene members look

to labels as curators, gatekeepers who determine what music is worth listening to and/or

purchasing. Not only do record stores often categorize their holdings by label, but also fans

and DJs frequently describe the music they consume through its association or similarities to

particularly well-known labels.48 More so than other popular music genres, labels remain

ever-important in house and techno, and their owners can be significant gatekeepers to local

and international opportunities. To return to Peterson and White’s concept of the simplex,

label owners, like hiring agents, look to successful producers and DJs for advice on which

producers to sign. As such, producers are given opportunities to exchange favours, in which

they recommend an associate’s track with the implicit knowledge that this gesture has the

potential to reap benefits, especially if the debtor goes on to achieve greater success.49

House and techno labels range from track factories known for releasing hundreds of

records a year to small operations that often consist of a few people who release five to ten

records a year.50 In terms of the producers I worked with, almost all of them preferred

48 Important labels include: Kompakt, R&S, Osgut Ton, Delsin, and the now defunct Sandwell District.

Throughout my fieldwork I often heard producers and scene members describe tracks through their relationship or similarities to tracks on these labels. In one instance, Gingy, a producer from Toronto, described a track as “having that Kompakt feel.” Another example, (and a popular refrain found on discussion boards) is the term “Osgut-kick,” which references the loud and reverb-heavy kick drum featured on Ostgut Ton releases.

49 Peterson and White, “The Simplex,” 425. 50 To clarify, tracks refer to individual productions, records (plural) refers to EPs. EPs are often printed on

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releasing a few records a year on selected labels. They argued that releases on strong well-

respected labels would lead to greater coverage and attention from scene-specific press.

Labels also provide many of the supplementary services often required by producers, often

including mastering of the track and commissioning of remixes that often accompany major

releases. In exchange, artists are usually paid small amounts for their tracks ($500-1500 per

track was one figure I was given) and granted a small percentage of total record sales.51

During the course of my research the business models for labels significantly changed and

they are increasingly looking to streaming services like Spotify and Apple Music to further

monetize their recordings.

Labels in electronic dance music are also responsible for many of the distribution and

marketing tasks in a similar manner to popular music labels. This regularly includes the

releasing and distribution of the work on a physical medium (in many cases vinyl, but in

recent years tape cassettes have become popular) to major scene-specific record stores across

Europe and North America, the placing of said work in digital music stores (the most popular

in techno scenes being Beatport and Juno Download), and marketing the release through

advertisements on relevant websites. They will also solicit reviews from related publications

(mostly digital) and utilize their social media accounts to generate interest. While the

marketing budget for smaller labels is modest (so modest that most individual producers I

spoke to end up marketing their works on their own) for larger labels this can include an

extensive campaign across multiple platforms.

single vinyl records and /or sold online. They usually consist of two to four tracks.

51 One exception to this is external licensing, usually in the form of a television commercial or film soundtrack. In these cases labels stand to make significant (and recurring) revenue, which is then shared with an artist—the percentage of which is negotiated in the initial recording contract. For more information on this see: Tony Naylor, “From Studio to Screen: Electronic Music in Film and TV,” Resident Advisor, January 13 2016, accessed January 2016, https://www.residentadvisor.net/feature.aspx?2488.

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It is my understanding that many labels in electronic music often struggle to break

even. Yet most labels are not interested in earning profits in so far as they are concerned with

establishing their own world of patronage and community. Many labels even refuse to take

submissions from new artists, and instead are strictly designed to release the music of a

handful of collaborators (often friends) working together. The distribution of a track is

entirely dependent on evaluations, rankings, favours, and social activities among other

working producers and not predicated entirely on those who control the means of

production.52 When reading stories of how these labels form (often detailed on Resident

Advisor or other publications) one finds romanticized tales of a few individuals getting

together for a singular appreciation of style.53 This romanticism and entrepreneurial spirit is

essential to the branding of labels, as they are often known (and marketed) for a single

unifying style, one that is integrated in their album art, website, and releases. In a way these

labels resemble collectives, like independent rock bands, which through a DIY attitude

attempt to take ownership of their production and distribution.

In many cases, however, the success of individual labels can lead to vertical

integration, and like many small businesses, they shift from DIY collectives into marketing

and promotion companies. In house and techno this often means the creation of a physical or

digital record store and partnerships with major distributors. An even more lucrative

opportunity occurs when labels become booking agents and/or promoters. In taking over this

role the label ensures that their artists get more bookings in exchange for a fee. At this stage,

the label transforms from a small collective, looking to release a very specific style of music,

52 Packman, “‘Musicians’ Performances,” 425-426. 53 An example of the canonizing of individual labels in the electronic music media is the “Label of the Month”

series by Resident Advisor. Accessed at: https://www.residentadvisor.net/features.aspx?series=label

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into a larger business organization that seeks to take on many of the managerial tasks that

producers conventionally rely upon. It is at this stage that labels may become profitable,

exchanging the scene-specific notoriety they have earned through their releases, for the

financial capital generated through bookings, promotions, and events. One example of this

vertical integration is Richie Hawtin who has leveraged his success as solo artists to form his

own record label named Minus. His label is not only a vehicle to release his own music but is

then partially involved in booking, managing, and promoting, numerous artists throughout

Europe and North America.

As a result, label ownership (for many producers) functions as an end game, a way of

moving from labour towards management. While it is important for producers to earn a

living through performing, the idealized progression to move beyond this model is starting a

stand-alone label, and in turn, decreasing the producer’s dependence on their own

performances for income. This model seeks to empower the producer and further remove

them from being a contract labourer. In becoming a label owner, booking agent, and

manager, they not only begin to take control of their own means of production, but they can

profit from the production of others, in the same way others once profited from their own

endeavours.

Throughout house and techno, there are many examples of an individual moving

from labour to management, and it most famously occurs when a highly regarded producer

stops releasing music, and instead, focuses entirely on label management and performing.

For instance, the German techno artist Sven Väth spent the 1990s touring worldwide,

building a strong following in Europe and North America. In 2000 he formed Cocoon

Recordings, a label designed to release his own music and that of a select group of peers.

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Over time and as the label expanded, it became a division of Cocoon Music Events, a larger

company responsible for managing signees, releasing and distributing music, as well as

promoting techno events. The success of Cocoon Music Events resulted in the creation of

Flash Artist Bookings, another separate division designed to help manage artists beyond

Cocoon signees. Väth’s expansion of what was once a label designed strictly to release his

own music into a large corporation seeking to generate revenue from all aspects of house and

techno events (from organization, to management, to performance) is representative of a

larger trend in house and techno (and possibly electronic dance music at-large) in which

artists attempt to take control of the means of production and profit from all aspects of the

supply chain.

Step 3. Local to International Throughout producers’ lives they will routinely search for local bookings. Local bookings, in

most cases pay relatively poorly, in Toronto ranging from $50-250; in Berlin, this figure is

often less. Furthermore, local bookings (as discussed earlier) often have less to do with an

individual’s releases and more to do with their ability to navigate both the scene-economy

and on a more local basis, the simplex of working producers and booking agents. Local

scenes are challenging to break into as a performer, and in all but a few cities not lucrative

enough to support a career as a producer. As such, the primary goal of many working

producers is to secure bookings internationally and if possible, to also schedule tours.

Touring, similar to other music industries, forms the backbone of a producer’s livelihood. In

all but a few cases booking agencies are required to facilitate tours. Booking agencies are

companies that manage the international bookings for numerous artists. Often featuring a

stable of artists, these agencies forge long-term relationships with promotional companies

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across the world, leveraging their heavily demanded clients to secure stronger bookings and

rates for their lesser-known clients. The ability of booking agents to facilitate the growth of a

producer’s career further puts pressure on producers to associate themselves with strong

agencies, companies with solid reputations and enough staff to push for frequent bookings.

For up and coming producers, getting signed by a booking agent and manager is an

accomplishment in its own right. It often requires the leveraging of contacts that are above

one’s current station, contacts that for a host of reasons may be inclined to reach out on

behalf of a less recognized producer.54

The majority of a producer’s bookings at this stage in their career take place on

Friday and Saturday with the occasional midweek opportunity. These bookings occur in

nightclubs and may range from 50-1500 people in attendance. The nightclub or promoter is

usually responsible paying the fee and travel expenses (flight, hotel, and any other

expenses).55 For this reason, relocating to Europe often occurs (if the producer is not already

located there), as the cheaper travel costs make touring more appealing to booking agents. As

Nancy Chen told me, “flight and travel expenses play a huge factor in who you decide to

book.” Although producers rarely wish to discuss their fees, my conversations with

numerous promoters in Toronto have instructed me that bookings at this stage in a producer’s

54 In Peterson and White’s terms, these function as favours. These favours are granted for a host of reasons.

While they are all predicated on the capability of the producer in question, the ability to get in the door so to speak is quite arbitrary. A famous example of this is the techno producer Recondite, who got his big break and connections by way of the fact that he happened to be the personal trainer for the head of a well-respected label (Hotflush). In other cases these favours and assistances are given as the result of other affiliations and the implication like many favours that the debt will eventually be repaid in some form of patronage and fidelity to the label.

55 There are tactics discovered throughout a producer’s career that they deploy to generate more funds. Popular amongst a few producers I spoke to was a hotel buyout. The producer requests the money the promoters would have spent on a hotel (often ranging from $100-$200) and goes about finding their own (cheaper) lodgings.

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career range from $250-$2500 per appearance, although in many cases they are negotiable.56

These fees are usually just enough to cover a producer’s rent, bills, food, as well as other

basic expenses.57 Producers are also likely to spend a significant portion of their extra

earnings on studio technology. “Gear,” as it is popularly referred to, is a major expense for

younger artists, and in many cases can quickly turn into a money pit.58 Lastly, in many cases,

producers may still be supplementing their income through working at non-music related

jobs.

Step 4. The Circuit If a producer achieves widespread popularity, builds a strong reputation as an excellent

performer and/or establishes lasting relationships with booking agencies and promoters, they

can gain access to what amounts to an international circuit. The international circuit is not an

official title but rather an idea that refers to how major clubs around the world book the most

popular twenty to fifty DJs year round. Becoming known as a performer who can secure such

bookings increases one’s fee substantially (moving into tens of thousands), and more

importantly, guaranteeing more than a hundred gigs per year.

It is difficult to assess what allows a producer and DJ to move into this top tier of

work. In many cases it is the result of scene-specific popularity combined with critical

56 Rates are influenced by a variety of factors ranging from the reputation of the venue/booking agency, to the

ease of travel. For instance, if a producer is on a longer North American tour they may take a cheaper rate to play a small gig in between cities, as to not waste a day. In other cases they may demand an exceptionally higher rate if a club or event has garnered a poor reputation amongst other producers and media members.

57 Other scene-related expenses references: attending events, spending time socially with other producers, and/or purchasing vinyl records and technology from local businesses.

58 Throughout my time spent with producers I have heard many stories of individuals spending large portions of their earnings on gear. For this reason, artists jokingly tease those who have taken up modular synthesis, a technology notorious for its continual costs.

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acclaim from highly respected online publications.59 A contributing factor is the ability to

release a track that transcends house and techno scenes at-large and reaches mainstream

audiences; however, all producers I interviewed said such a “cross-over” hit is not something

they can plan for, nor do they ever go into the studio attempting to write one.60 Producers

with crossover hits and more notoriety beyond house and techno critics have the potential to

bring a crowd to a given performance and in turn, can charge a higher booking fee. Beyond

gaining notoriety through the popularity of a given track, producers can achieve this level of

success through critical acclaim. One indicator of this is the numerous annual polls that

online magazines like Resident Advisor and DJ Mag release, the former being particularly

important to techno promoters and fans. Securing a place in the top-100 of the Resident

Advisor poll, let alone somewhere in the top twenty, can propel a DJ to widespread success

and result in a windfall of bookings.

As producers become more recognized for their ability as DJs they begin to have

greater discretion in what bookings they take. No longer in need of securing all possible

bookings, they can be more selective in choosing bookings that may work to enhance their

reputations. While referring to producers as brands seems particularly cynical, once they

have found international recognition and continual success in their career such a term is often

used. This is especially true for well-known producers like Marco Corola, Richie Hawtin,

and Luciano, for whom their respective names are attached not only to their recordings and

booking agencies, but also consumer products loosely related to house and techno

production.61 Additionally, the expansion of a managerial team often occurs during this

59 Respected online publications include Resident Advisor, Fact Magazine, XLR8R, and Pitchfork. 60 How producers approach production will be addressed more thoroughly in the following chapter. 61 Hawtin in particular has been heavily invested in expanding his personal brand, with sponsorships from

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period, as the popularity of an artist inside a particular scene may allow for lucrative

opportunities beyond bookings, such as sponsorship deals with audio technology companies,

clothing lines, and other businesses.

Step 5. Maintain and Diversify Throughout a producer’s career there is always a return to steps one (production) and two

(distribution). Although releasing highly regarded music becomes less important as

producers gain notoriety strictly as performers, it remains important for them (and their

booking fees) to occasionally achieve public and critical recognition for their productions. As

a result, most producers are constantly writing and distributing music.

Diversification is also an important step for producers who have achieved a high level

of success. Knowing that their style of music, or their popularity, may have a short shelf life,

they seek to maximize the potential earnings of their brand through diversification. This

often entails forming their own record labels, booking agencies, and partnering with major

promotional companies. Similar to the case of label owners, these steps are taken in order for

the producer to start earning money “off the back end,” a manoeuvre that exchanges their fee

as a labourer for a return on a larger investment —like a seasoned capitalist. In other cases,

diversification can mean the involvement with, or investment in related businesses such as

record stores (online and physical), audio technology companies, and even nightclub

ownership.62

music technology companies as well as his own fashion line.

62 The most lucrative example here comes in the form of partnerships or residencies with large clubs in the tourist destinations. Usually in these agreements artists are given significantly higher booking fees, as well as the creative license to book whomever they see fit. Since many producers in this position are also running a

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With that being said, many of the producers I spoke to are not chasing such

extravagant wealth but rather, they are primarily seeking to just earn a living through the

production of music.63 This observation was confirmed in Kühn’s research on the Berlin

techno scene.

They see economic activity as being able to get by instead of profit-maximisation. This means that they associate the generation of sufficient income and social protection with their main desire for economic self-determination, artistic freedom and passion in life. For them, money exists to make their lives possible, in which they will be able to ideally pursue their personal goals in artistic freedom—but not in order to secure as much wealth as possible, following a logic of accumulation. The small-business structure of many lone entrepreneurs promotes this logic, since it imposes fewer practical constraints on the individual than a large organisation with numerous employees.64

As Kühn states, producers in most cases are not looking to be moguls or global brand

ambassadors. A producers desire to form a label, booking agency, and promotional company

seems to be less about acquiring wealth and more about taking control of the means of

production—an endeavour that looks to grant them creative sovereignty and scene-specific

clout. And yet, despite their initial hesitancies to become brands, producers have nonetheless

continually been drawn to these very traditional capitalist desires. While they may start off as

simply looking to cultivate a scene-specific recognition, their manoeuvres to own labels,

management companies, and booking agencies, demonstrates how they consciously or

unconsciously leverage their own capital and personal brands to beget more power,

influence, and wealth. This is, of course, not true for many of the practitioners that I came

label, booking agency, or management companies, they often direct this additional revenue towards their own clients, and in turn, their own pockets.

63What constitutes “earning a living” is quite subjective and relative to where one lives. In the case of producers, the term implies earning enough money to afford a lower to middle-class life in a major European or North American city, having enough income to pay rent, and also support leisure activities and hobbies like collecting vinyl, attending cultural events, and eating frequently at restaurants.

64 Kühn, “Working in the Berlin Techno Scene,” 4.

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across. However, it is difficult to ascertain if such a rejection of this capitalistic model is the

result of a choice or a lack of opportunity. That is, despite Kühn’s assessment of the scene-

economy and its producer’s desires, they remain part of a larger global house and techno

economy that still deeply benefits those with capital and incentivizes the successful to further

expand their operations as a means of securing their position as a professional producer, and

in turn, maintaining their status as a working artist.

Challenges For many producers securing regular bookings is extremely difficult. Few are able to reach a

stage in which they can comfortably tour, let alone earn the large fees found on the

international circuit. As a result, many producers take on supplementary employment, in the

form of contract work. Through my fieldwork I found that many producers take on creative

contract work outside of music making (or music at all), jobs that do not require steady

attendance but rather the completion of specific tasks. These include contracts for creative

labour in fields like software engineering, graphic design, copy writing, publishing, editing

and other task specific work. This work is often acquired through relationships with other

house and techno producers and there is an informal quid pro quo for assisting colleagues in

securing these opportunities.

Inside house and techno scenes there are numerous other ways to earn supplemental

income. Similarly, this also takes the form of contract work, most often in a remix

commission. Facilitated through label connections and earlier collaborations, remixing

involves writing a variation on an already composed track, often to be released with the

original. In most cases, remixing fees can be quite low, however as a producer becomes

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better known they are able to charge higher fees, especially if the artist they are remixing is

at an earlier stage in their career.65

Other production-related contract work includes writing sample packs. Sample packs

are large files consisting of hundreds of samples designed to facilitate other productions. If

selling tracks to DJs is like selling bricks to builders, then selling sample packs is like selling

sand to the brick maker. Sample packs consist of single drum hits, synthesizer sounds (that

are later to be used as virtual studio instruments), entire drum loops, and other auxiliary

samples that artists may use to enhance their own music.66 Sample packs are usually

commissioned by magazines or websites hoping to increase page views and subscription

sales through the offering of free samples. In other cases, they are sold in online market

places, or sold to major recording technology companies to integrate into their software.

Designing and forming a sample pack can be tedious work, yet it utilizes many of the basic

sound design techniques producers rely on in their own production. Like other contract work,

producers forfeit ownership of their samples in exchange for payment. In my experience,

sample pack work is often not solicited but offered through a booking agency or management

firm. This mode of production ensures that the producer is recognized as a technical master

but can also diminish their standing as an artist. To only create sample packs would remove

the producer entirely from the creation of tracks, isolating them as toolmakers. While

producers do recognize the skill that is required to create such valuable tools, their packaging

65 The rate negotiated for a remix often depends on the relationship between the two artists. Much like a

nightclub negotiating with a producer, the more prestigious or famous individual will require a higher fee to work with someone less respected. Conversely, the individual with more to gain from the collaboration will take a smaller fee in order to be associated with a more prominent artist. According to all the producers I have spoken with, remix fees are paid by the labels responsible for distributing a track and not the individual producer.

66 Debates surrounding the authenticity of using sample-packs will be discussed in the following chapter.

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as individual parts removed from the production of holistic tracks, disconnects them from the

notions of artistry informed by the aesthetic legacies discussed in Chapter 2. In a similar

vein, producers make supplemental income through mastering and mixing tracks. This

differs from remixing and usually involves optimizing volume, stereo field distribution, and

equalizing frequency levels for pre-released tracks.67 Because contemporary production

practice has a close connection to what was once considered post-production practice

(mixing and mastering) many producers collaborate with each another to perform these tasks,

often for small fees.

My understanding of the working life of a producer is that it hinges on who you

know, how well you know them, and how much they are willing to risk to assist you. As

Kühn notes, social and sub-cultural capital play a pivotal role in dance music cultures.68

Building off of the work of Pierre Bourdieu and Sarah Thornton, Kühn argues that techno

scenes have their own value chain determined by actors who are more interested in

preserving their distinct musical culture than making a profit.69 These scenes in my

estimation function as a series of intertwined simplexes, networks that ensure that a select

group of individuals are able to maintain their position and stature. Articulated more clearly

by the Berlin-based American producer Avalon Emerson, “no one makes any money so why

not work with friends?” Or, as Bwana told me, “everyone says dance music is supposed to be

inclusive, but it’s entirely exclusive.” In that sense, the economic structure that allows for

producers to make a living based on their products and performances is heavily regulated by

67 For more on mastering see: Hodgson, Understanding Records, 189–224. 68 Kühn, “The Subcultural Scene Economy of the Berlin Techno Scene,” 282—283. 69 Ibid., 282—284.

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social structures, and networks of individuals that negotiate who is paid, where they are paid,

and how much they are paid.

Thus “working with friends” is cherished because being a producer is a precarious

occupation that is difficult to navigate without the support of a social network. Like other

creative industries, there is an overwhelming amount of supply with limited demand.

Furthermore many of the historic barriers of entry, in terms of becoming a producer, are

seemingly lower than they have ever been, as the growing access to production technology

allows individuals to enter the market with relative ease. While producers in the past were

required to make significant financial investments in studio technology, now one only needs

a laptop and an Internet connection to (possibly illegally) download the latest digital audio

workstation.70 Competition is also increased by the mobility afforded to many house and

techno scene members. The speed and affordability of transportation in between major sites

of house and techno consumption (especially in continental Europe) has worked to erode

entire local scenes, resulting in fewer opportunities for working producers and a race-to-the-

bottom for those desperate to gain employment and experience.

As a result, the institutions that are firmly established inside house and techno scenes

have become increasingly determined to limit access. Labels are less likely to accept new

music and bookings agencies create arrangements in which performers and venues have

exclusivity deals—agreements that work to protect their business from new competition. As

mentioned in the earlier sections, the individuals who control the means of production are

increasingly looking towards already recognized figures for direction, relying almost entirely

on known commodities and in the words of Peterson and White, using numerous “tactics of 70 There are urban legends throughout house and techno scenes that discuss particular artists writing (what

eventually became popular) tracks on software they pirated.

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discouraging aspirants” to protect their own positions.71 This has led to a trend of restricting

access throughout the different layers of house and techno scenes. From clubs that only let in

“regulars,” to labels that only work with their friends, to booking agencies that only book

established artists with established associates, the sheer amount of competition in electronic

music production has resulted in variety of artificial barriers of entry.72

Gender A significant challenge for working producers also comes in the form of gender

discrimination. Specifically, house and techno clubs, and EDM culture at-large is not only

rife with gender discrimination, but the very workplaces producers must perform in can be

sites of violence and abuse. These challenges have become covered more closely by online

publications, which have given opportunities to DJs like The Black Madonna to address the

sexism found in many scenes.

People love the illusion that clubs are safe spaces where everyone is free and equal. That's a delicious illusion that we return to over and over again in dance music. But an illusion is exactly what it is. Clubs are dangerous for women. The rate of sexual assaults which involve substances and bars are pretty terrifying. And let’s not forget about the way that these issues specifically impact trans women in public spaces. Let’s not forget about the way that these issues can impact sex workers in clubs. We can keep going, on and on. These are all aspects of club life.73

Although house music has long been associated with inclusivity to both LGBTQ

communities and women, the heteronormative nightlife industries house and techno so often

71 In Peterson and White’s terminology the most popular technique used by labels and producers is isolation, in

which they do not respond to aspiring members. There are also cases where recommending is utilized to direct up and coming members away from certain labels and promoters in an effort to avoid competition.

72 For more on exclusivity in club culture see Luis Garcia, “Intimacy and Affect.” 73 Chloë Arkenbout, “The Black Madonna: ‘Clubs are Dangerous for Women,’” Thump, September 3 2015,

accessed December 2015, https://thump.vice.com/en_ca/article/the-black-madonna-clubs-are-dangerous-for-women.

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relies upon undoubtedly re-creates, if not intensifies the type of discrimination facing these

marginalized groups in everyday life.74 As Cindy Li, a Toronto-based DJ told me, “the major

clubs in the city often rely on misogynist marketing gimmicks like Ladies Nights, events

designed to get girls drunk and taken advantage of.”75 For her, events like these create an

atmosphere that is unsafe for women, which in turn makes them less likely to form

connections with the important scene members that called these clubs home.76

In discussions with female producers, they often shared anecdotes regarding the

discrimination they faced from club owners, promoters, and patrons, including mixing

engineers and club employees routinely questioning their technical prowess. In other cases,

they have been interrupted mid performance by audience members who thought they were

“helping them out.” These types of paternalistic gestures, which occur with great frequency,

can discourage women from seeking future employment with particular venues and agencies,

which in turn hinders their opportunities to generate income. In addition, Cindy also

informed me that even when they do become successful, they are often type-casted as

“female DJs,” and their bookings feel like larger expressions of tokenism.77 Over the course

of my dissertation I noticed a greater awareness by scene-members of gender discrimination

74 Many of the issues discussed here have been addressed with greater detail in: Rebekah Farrugia, Beyond the

Dance Floor: Female DJs, Technology, and Electronic Dance Music Culture, (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2012).

75 Cindy Li, Interview with promoter, March 30 2016. 76 It is difficult to estimate what percentage of working producers and promoters are female. One number that

may be useful is that in the aforementioned (and influential) annual “Top 100” poll by Resident Advisor only seven women are listed, the highest ranking being Nina Kravitz at number 20. That said, there is a growing body of female promoters in Toronto. When I began my dissertation I was only aware of two female promoters, but over the past three years I have met at least 10.

77 This is especially true at the time of writing, as numerous voices in electronic music media has criticized the lack of gender diversity in clubs. The result, according to one producer, was a significant increase in bookings. And yet, according to her, these bookings did not address the underlying issues that make nightclubs difficult places for women to operate in. See: Phillip Sherburne, “EDM has a Problem with Women and It’s Getting Worse,” Pitchfork, March 23 2015, accessed December 2016, http://pitchfork.com/thepitch/706-edm-has-a-problem-with-women-and-its-getting-worse/.

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and sexism. This led to individuals suggesting that male DJs should only take gigs that also

include female DJs. While the producers I spoke to agree that sexism was a serious problem

in house and techno scenes, their unstable position as professionals competing for finite

opportunities made them feel that they were unable to demand meaningful change. As one

producer told me, “I’m not in a position to make any demands.”78

Women are also discouraged from entering into the ancillary industries that

invariably generate bookings. Specifically, the discrimination and harassment found

throughout commercial nightclubs in North America discourages women from becoming

promoters, which in turn prevents women from booking more women. Like many DIY

industries, access is regulated by scene members and gatekeepers, many of whom are not

interested in taking an active stand against systemic misogyny. While some promoters and

venues have taken steps to protect against these issues, in terms of hiring appropriate security

and or promoting awareness amongst their attendees, the overarching desire to preserve

status quo by those already in positions of power restricts opportunities for women and any

other individual marginalized in these spaces. As Cindy told me, “bro-motors [her

combination of the word bro and promoter] always like to [book events] the same way.” And

yet, even if promoters were more open to changing their bookings it would not alter the fact

that many nightclubs still remain dangerous places for women. If some form of scene-

specific interaction is essential to gaining access to the people who can facilitate bookings,

then the fact that so many of these interactions take place at unsafe locations must be seen as

the major factor in hindering access to women.

78 This is a conversation I had in March 2017 with a producer who did not wish to be cited for fear that they

would be considered complicit in the sexist booking policies. While they were very sympathetic to the sexism female DJs face, as a young producer they did not feel secure enough in their own position to make any types of demands, as they were already struggling to maximize their own bookings.

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Conclusion

So what does this mean for producers, and how can an understanding of their economic

opportunities and challenges inform how they produce music and how they understand their

roles as professional artists? How does a model for the working producers combined with a

greater understanding of a scene inform an approach to understanding the day-to-day work of

a producer? First, producers are constantly struggling to interact with different networks of

patronage. This requires learning how different scenes overlap, and more importantly, what

they can get away with. From exclusivity agreements with promoters to relationships with

record labels, producers are constantly rubbing up against the frontiers of scenes, and must

be cognizant of which boundaries can adversely affect their ability to secure bookings. This

influences not only how they interact with other producers but also as I discuss in the

following chapter, how they go about producing music. Such a position, in which multiple

masters must be served, is the result of working in a field that is purportedly not guided by

strictly financial principals, and a potentially inherent condition of any creative industry and

scene-economy.79 Second, the scene economies producers navigate depend on their

willingness to travel in an effort to gain access to numerous translocal scenes. As a result,

becoming a producer can be greatly facilitated by non-scene related advantages. From having

the right type of passport to having a large savings account to having a side-job that allows

such flexibility, the mobility of a producer greatly enhances their opportunities. Inversely,

the more established a producer becomes and the more institutions they become associated

79 Kühn, “The Subcultural Scene Economy of the Berlin Techno Scene,” 2015.

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with, the less mobile they can afford to be.80 Third, working producers rely on constructing

networks with other musicians (simplexes) in order to best protect their position and cultivate

future opportunities. Personal relationships, in addition to the creation and distribution of

tracks, play a central role in the ability to gain access to labels and bookings. As producers

move in between different economic roles (from performer to promoter) they are able to hire

likeminded individuals. As a result, many initial bookings will come from other producers,

colleagues that often expect a quid pro quo with respect to bookings going forward. Fourth,

working as a producer is a constant exercise in negotiating and leveraging access. Seeking

access early on in a producer’s career is difficult, and often leads to behaviour (like playing

for free) that undermines the overall scene’s value of artistic labour. However, as they mature

they begin to take steps to protect their position and scene-related exclusivity. As producers

gain traction within scene-economies they must increasingly avoid disruptive behaviour

(both economic and social) that could undermine the scene’s institutions. Thus, in their fight

for access they must also strategize to regulate against it, securing their position through

limiting the opportunities provided to others. Fifth, and finally, producers moving across

scene economies increasingly benefit from playing different economic roles that are

nonetheless interconnected. The ability to be promoter, producer, performer and marketer

increases a producer’s access and mitigates their sole dependence on the production and

distribution of musical works. In moving between the roles of labourer, manager, and

financier, producers can begin to exploit and profit from the very conditions that once made

80 There are a few examples of producers who rarely tour and only play in a few cities. They have very selective

schedules and will only play certain clubs (or certain cities) for exorbitant amounts of money—amounts designed to discourage certain types of promoters to even reach out to them. In all but a few cases these individuals can afford this choice because they have taken on another role in the scene-economy, often as label owner, promoter, or booking agent.

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their career and livelihood so challenging. A shared characteristic amongst these conclusions

is the value of fluidity: an ability to move between different scenes, economic systems, and

scene-related roles.81 This should not be a surprise when set against the history and aesthetic

legacies of house and techno.

In this chapter I have attempted to outline how notions of artistry, authorship, and

professionalism can be so precarious. While there are many ways to earn a living inside these

scene-economies the price of admission for musicians is almost always the production of

functional tracks, tools to facilitate DJ performance. Furthermore, the competitive nature of

house and techno scene-economies requires producers to rely on non-production activities to

gain access, and in turn, a pathway towards being recognized as professionals. They become

financiers, managers, label owners, and tour managers. Yet, these roles highlight how

important labour unrelated to the actual production of tracks is to determining a producer’s

status as an artist and professional. The reliance on taking control of the means of production

and vertical integration reminds producers that their creations are not appreciated solely as

artistic works, but as only a small part of larger scene-economies that regulate who gets to

make a living as a professional producer. That is why production practice remains so

important to producers.82 It is the only site for articulating their social position entirely

through the creation and manipulation of sound. It is for this reason that the experimental

production practice discussed in the following chapter remains so important to the producer’s

identity as a professional artist.

81 Fluidity has been discussed as a topic in dance music but more in terms of the participation of scene members

at events. See Garcia, “Intimacy and Affect,” 170–174. 82 In the case of female producers the stakes may be even higher, as gender discrimination and sexism make

non-production based activities they are required to navigate (such as promoting or booking) even more challenging.

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Chapter 4

Production Practice In this chapter I examine the production practices of house and techno producers. This

includes a discussion of workflow, the use of studio technology, and composition processes.

I argue that the primary aspect of production practice in house and techno is not, as others

have suggested, the manipulation of rhythm or groove, but sound design.1 I conclude that the

sound design undertaken by producers is not only the primary aesthetic concern of these

musicians, but also the most crucial site for negotiating history, professionalism, and

commercial viability. I demonstrate these claims through an account of how producers spend

their time in their studios. This includes a discussion of how producers use analog and digital

technology as well as the different techniques they use to generate original musical material.

As discussed in the previous chapters, there are many factors removed from the act of

making music that shape the producer’s role as a professional artist. It is for this reason that

the stakes for production practice are so high, as it is the site for which actual music making

articulates the producer’s artistry, and professional identity.

Method The observations and quotations that inform this chapter are the result of four years of

fieldwork in Toronto and Berlin. The majority of my interviews were conducted in Berlin

during the summer of 2015, where I met with ten producers and corresponded with three 1 For discussions that prioritize rhythm as the fundamental aspect of techno productions see Butler, Unlocking

The Groove, 2006.

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others through email. In addition, my studio study was enriched through living with the

producer Bwana during the summer of 2015. In doing so I was able to observe the day-to-

day actions producers undertake, the type of workflow they rely upon and other related

activities that inform their practice.

By the end of my fieldwork, I recognized that the majority of producers undertook a

relatively consistent type of workflow and production practice. While there were

innumerable permutations in how producers ordered these activities, the types of

technologies deployed were relatively consistent; so consistent that by my final interviews I

could infer quite quickly what producers were doing, allowing my questions to become much

more focused and direct.

This fluency was enhanced by my own hands-on experiments as a producer. Over the

past five years I have undertaken a self-study of production, acquiring the hardware and

software relied upon by the producers I worked with. Constructing my own tracks, I

attempted to emulate the techniques I observed producers utilizing. I sent these tracks to

producers, requesting their feedback, which in turn gave me greater insight into how these

technologies work. This exercise also gave me insight into the language or thought processes

producers use when criticizing and discussing tracks. Since production is often a solitary act,

there are networks of peer review. Throughout this chapter I draw on some of these

conversations as they highlight the type of aesthetic criteria with which producers are

concerned. Most importantly, these conversations reinforced the observed primacy of sound

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design in production practice, and discussions of rhythm, melody, and harmony were all but

entirely absent.2

Online resources also enhanced my understanding of production. Like many popular

music genres, there is a rich digital community consisting of instructional videos, tutorial

files, and message boards. In particular, the Ableton forums —Ableton is the company

responsible for Live, the predominant digital audio workstation used in production— was a

rich resource for learning how specific sonic effects can be created, and how to fully harness

the potential of the workstation. In terms of tutorials, websites like DJtechtools, Beatlab and

Attack Magazine publish step by step tutorials and videos on how to write particular types of

techno and how to master different production practices (see figures 4.1 and 4.2).3 These

sites provide general solutions for artists seeking to both recreate well-known aesthetics and

provide the foundational skills to allow future experimentation.

2 As I define in the following section, sound design informs the construction of rhythm, melody and harmony.

They differ, however, from sound designers of film or other media in so far as they perceive sound design entirely as a musical exercise. For producers, sound design is musical composition.

3 Figure 1: Alexander Castiglione, “What’s the Best Way to Make Beats?” DJ Tech Tools, last modified: June 22, 2014, djtechtools.com/2014/06/22/whats-the-best-way-to-make-beats-a-look-at-digital-drum-sequencers/

Figure 2: “Beat Dissected: Thumping Techno,” Attack Magazine, last modified: July 23 2015, https://www.attackmagazine.com/technique/beat-dissected/thumping-techno/.

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.

Figure 4.1: An article from the online resource DJ Tech Tools

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Figure 4.2: A screenshot of an article on creating “Thumping Techno” by the online publication Attack Magazine

My understanding of experimentation and production practice is also informed by

more formal studies of electro-acoustic and recording technology. In particular, textbook and

field guides on sound design, recording practice, and synthesis have been quite useful. Jay

Hodgson’s guide to recording practice, Understanding Records: A Field Guide to Recording

and Peter Elsea’s reference text entitled The Art and Technique of Electro Acoustic Music

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were exceptionally informative.4 Producers often acquire a theoretical or scientific

understanding of sound through production practice. It is in practice that they are led to a

more specific understanding of the phenomena of sound, as practical study engenders

scientific inquiry into psychoacoustics, physics, and computer programming. I postulate that

throughout a producer’s career the role of technician, of understanding the tools and

technologies of experimenting, becomes more significant. Their desire to master technology

relates back to the issues of artistry, authorship and professionalism established in earlier

chapters.

Defining Sound Design This chapter explores sound design: a catchall term I use, and which I have found used by the

individuals I interviewed, to describe the creation and editing of musical material. The term

sound design intentionally references professions often not associated with music making.

Namely, it connects to the world of professional sound designers and sound technicians who

are employed by film and television studios, art galleries, and other industries not directly

tied to the composition of music. In being labeled sound designers, they categorized

themselves not just as artists, but as technicians, engineers, and craftspeople. While these

individuals are required to negotiate a variety of aesthetic criteria and expectations in

performing their tasks, the term sound design distinguishes them from conventional

understandings of composers and musicians.5 Using the term sound, and not music, suggests

4 Jay Hodgson, Understanding Records: A Field Guide to Recording Practice, (New York: Continuum, 2010);

Peter Elsea, The Art and Technique of Electroacoustic Music, (Middleton: A-R Editions: 2013). 5 Jonathan Sterne, The Audible Past, (Durham: Duke University Press 2003); Virgil Moorefield, The Producer

as Composer: Shaping the Sounds of Popular Music (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2005).

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an act that differs from what western society has traditionally labeled as music making,

removed from the writing of melody, harmony, or rhythm. Similarly, the term design, as

opposed to composition, suggests an attachment to a more commercial and material world.

These allusions are important because they highlight how their primary modes of

composition lay outside of normative descriptions of music making. They know that when

they discuss sound design, they are referencing a type of creative process (that for them and

for most of their critics) significantly differs from the type of artistic labour typically

associated with popular music.6 In referring to their practice as sound design they (and I)

ensure that their work will be evaluated in the proper context.

In terms of traditional studies of western music, sound design may be described as a

combination of timbre and orchestration.7 It is both the creation and alteration of timbre and

the way in which that timbre is sounded. On the smallest level, sound design allows

producers to regulate, shape, and determine all parameters that define both the sound quality

(timbre) and the manner in which it is sounded. Put differently, it is the creation of an

instrument and its performer. On a macro level, sound design entails regulating the way in

which these sounds (and their performers) interact. On this scale, sound design is as much

about creating instruments, as it is about understanding how these instruments may affect one

another. Just like any drummer knows that a wrong frequency can set their snare buzzing, so

too must a producer manage how different instruments (that is, sounds) influence one

another. Yet, unlike the snare-drum example, the ability for sounds to influence one another

is a phenomena producers value and rely upon. The ability to design individual sounds

6 Here I am referencing specifically to the prevalence of the words composing, writing, creating and

songwriting. 7 In the following chapter I examine how sound design processes generate rhythm and groove.

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(instruments) and the holistic sound at large (the entire arrangement) is an important marker

of professionalism.

The way producers describe sound and the process of sound design, ranges from

precisely quantitative to impressionistically qualitative. The latter is expressed through a

variety of adjectives and metaphors that rely on oppositional terms like warm/harsh or

dark/bright. These terms often map easily onto shared understandings of affect and tone

colour, and are echoed in the electronic music media. More importantly they are integrated

into recording and production technology. This is most notable in the software and hardware

used by producers in which preset sounds, samples, and virtual instruments are labeled with

particular terms. As figure 4.3 demonstrates, names range from the metaphoric (like “demon

bass” or “chainsaw”) to the genre specific (like “acid bass,” which references the sub-genre

of acid house and the Roland 303 bass synthesizer it so overtly featured), to the purely

qualitative labels (such as “Filter Up” or “Big Saw”) which refer more specifically to the

way the sound is generated through synthesis.8

8 “Filter up” refers to the bass synthesizer having an automated low-pass filter that opens up as the instrument

sounds. “Big Saw” refers to the fact that this patch features a saw-tooth wave, one of the four wave shapes often used in synthesis.

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Figure 4.3: Bass preset patches found in Ableton Live9

While metaphoric and genre-specific descriptions are useful for naming presets and

quick reference, their relative vagueness leads producers to supplement their descriptions

with more concrete terms. Along with these genre-specific references, the producers I

worked with use more precise terms to refer to sounds they create, terms that are generated

from the technology they use. Following in the footsteps of early synthesizer designers they

9 Ableton Live contains hundreds of preset patches, each containing dozens of changeable parameters.

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often describe sounds by referencing the numerous parameters and criteria that they can

manipulate. This usually refers to defining the timbre and the way in which timbre is created

via synthesis technology, leading to discussions of the waveform (is the sound using a

square, sine, or saw-tooth wave), the attack (is the attack immediate or delayed), the reverb

(is the reverb wet or dry, that is, pronounced or subtle), and the sustain (how long does the

sound last after the attack), as well as a description of the way other manipulated parameters

can be utilized (is a filter being automated to open and close over time) . These terms are the

result of, and are understood through, production technology—hardware and software that

have assigned particular buttons, knobs and levers to control all aspects of a given sound. As

figure 4.4 indicates, a synthesizer often has a series of knobs that facilitate various aspects of

sound manipulation. These knobs direct the way producers think about and discuss sound.

Echoing Timothy Taylor, my understanding of these technologies, and the terms deployed to

describe them, is constructed through a study of practice, approaching production through the

lens of those who are currently relying on these machines to obtain their aesthetic goals.10

10 Timothy Taylor, Strange Sounds: Music, Technology and Culture, (New York: Routledge, 2001): 38.

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Fig 4.4. The “Minilogue” Synthesizer by Korg. This image captures the synthesizer’s envelop generator and cutoff filter11

The Importance of Sound Design As Jonathan Sterne notes in The Audible Past, aestheticized signal processing has existed

since the dawn of recorded music.12 For as long as we have been recording sound we have

been manipulating its signal to satisfy particular aesthetic criteria. Sterne writes that for much

of early popular music history the process of sound design has been relegated to recording

and post-production practice, a series of endeavours enacted by technicians and craftspeople

that are separate from the musicians and composers who have been traditionally ascribed

authorship.13 While musicians in other genres undoubtedly play an active role in informing

recording practice—for instance, setting up their own amps, choosing what type of

11 Press photo taken from greatsynthesizers.com (this photo is a place holder for my own photos of the

instrument). 12 Jonathan Sterne, The Audible Past, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003). 13 Ibid.

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microphone to use or constructing pedal boards—the majority of production practice is

performed by professionals who are considered apart from musical composition.14 Yet as

Virgil Moorefield writes in The Producer as Composer, the tasks once undertaken by

technicians and labelled as post-production practice are now an essential, if not the dominant

part, of contemporary music production.15 To draw from the work of Hodgson, whose text on

recording practice aligns with Moorefield’s conclusions, “Recording Practice is a complete,

self-sufficient musical language,” one that “is now the dominant musical language of popular

music communications.”16 This fits into the larger and more recent history of studying

recording practice, a discipline that is becoming increasingly interested in production

techniques and practices in shaping the aesthetic of a given artist or genre.17 In house and

techno, sound design is the primary means of achieving aesthetic and commercial goals. It is,

on the most basic level, the way in which commercial viability is regulated, and more

generally how the issues of professionalism and history outlined in earlier chapters are

negotiated.

Commercial Viability

As discussed throughout my dissertation, the production of house and techno is undertaken

with the explicit knowledge that this music will be performed and consumed in a nightclub

through DJ performance. This leads to particular genre distinctions that are rigid and adhered

14 Sterne, The Audible Past; Moorefield The Producer as Composer. Although there are instances of producers

being celebrated as de facto members of the band (the most famous being George Martin), it is quite common, even to this day, for the producers and recordists to be unknown by the public and only recognized on liner notes and legal documents.

15 Moorefield, The Producer as Composer; Joanna Demers, Listening Through the Noise: The Aesthetics of Experimental Electronic Music, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Hodgson, Understanding Records.

16 Hodgson, Understanding Records, viii-ix. 17 Simon Zagoski-Thomas, The Musicology of Record Production, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

2014).

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to by even some of the most widely known renegades of the genre.18 Despite the wide range

of control techno producers have in shaping their productions, there are specific industry

standards that must be adhered to in order to ensure a track can be played by DJs. Some of

these standards regarding rhythm and form are quite loose, and producers have a certain

degree of agency in pushing against these norms and expected practices; however, there are

others, especially with regard to sound design, which are exceptionally rigid.

The most basic requirement all producers must adhere to is that productions are

mixed-down in such a way that they can be sounded at a loud volume without significantly

losing fidelity or damaging speaker systems. House and techno, like many popular music

genres, is rife with audiophiles and sound system fetishists. As such, the ability to produce

tracks that can be sound out at high amplitudes without sacrificing quality is a significant

aspect of production. Popular nightclubs are renowned for their sound systems, and online

magazines like Resident Adviser and Thump celebrate the different speaker companies and

system tuners who fit these clubs with such powerful speakers and subwoofers.19 Similarly,

world-renowned clubs like Berghain in Berlin and Fabric in London are celebrated for their

stereo systems, expertly calibrated rigs that cost upwards of a hundred thousand dollars.20

These high-end sound systems are designed to output exceptionally loud volumes without

sacrificing fidelity and clarity. As a result, DJs will exclusively play higher quality formats

18 As discussed in the following chapter (and discussed in chapter 1), what constitutes a divergence from genre

is highly relative. The rigid genre constraints primarily relate to sound design and metrical consistency. 19 For example: Kentaro Takoka, “Sound Engineering for Dance Floors,” Resident Advisor, last modified:

February 4 2015, https://www.residentadvisor.net/features/2399. Thump Staff, “Techie Has Been Tripping Clubbers Out for Two Decades,” Thump Magazine, last accessed: October 22 2014, https://thump.vice.com/en_ca/article/dave-parry-fabric-matter-ministry-of-sound-camden-palace-sound-lighting-engineer-designer.

20 Tony Naylor, “Berlin Clubland,” The Guardian (online), last modified: August 17 2011, https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2011/aug/17/berlin-club-scene-best.

See also the extended comment section in: Saatchi, “Club with the best sound system?” Resident Advisor, last modified September 4 2016.

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(vinyl and WAV files are preferred) and avoid tracks that are poorly mixed and sound

compromised when played at increased volumes.21

Many producers reflected on the influence that these speaker systems played in

shaping their productions. For instance, the American producer Avalon Emerson was quick

to inform me of both the anxiety and excitement she had regarding how her tracks would

sound on these systems.

When you’re playing on a $100,000 sound system you hear everything. And you can hear what’s been worked on for a long time by pros and it’s beautiful. And then you hear stuff that sounds like shit, which can be charming, but for me I’m looking for the more professional side. Since [my tracks] are played on these sound systems I’m aiming for that. Gone are the days when people had crazy HiFi systems in their home. The DJ in the club is the last hi-fi haven that we have and arguably [the sound is] better than ever. Some of the sound systems that I’ve heard and played on are just magical. The magic of sound as sensory input is amazing and the club space influences what I do.22

The concern for how their sounds work when played during DJ performance is an

important factor and one that shapes production practice. The ability to design particular

sounds for clubs and the DJ’s who perform at them is initially challenging. The first thing

one realizes when encountering any type of EDM is how different tracks sound on a large

sound system. Depending on the system, particular frequencies can be more resonant while

others become muddled. Most notably, the large subwoofers found in most nightclubs

significantly amplify bass frequencies. For many producers this poses a problem, as lower

frequencies, due to their longer wave shape, are the more susceptible to becoming muddled.

21 Lower format audio files (mp3s for instance) loose fidelity as they are compressed. Larger file formats, like

WAV or FLAC are the industry standard. While vinyl culture remains important to electronic music cultures for a host of other reasons, the consistent sound quality of the format is often referenced. The Soundcloud page associated with this dissertation has two examples of the same track played at different compression rates. When played at high volumes the differences become audible.

22 Avalon Emerson, Interview with producer, June 25 2015.

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As a result, many hours are dedicated to tuning the kick drum (one of the lowest frequency

instruments in a track) with other bass instruments, sculpting bass sounds and filtering out

particular frequencies in order to reduce interference.

The importance of clarity and effective sound design in mixing tracks was conveyed

to me throughout my research. In particular, the Australian producer Deepchild saw sound

design as a necessary condition for distributing commercially viable tracks.

EW: How does DJing affect your production practice?

DC: For the mix-downs and mechanics of a given track it is a huge influence. And give me a sense of economy because when music is geared for the dance floor you want certain elements (kick snare hats) to have their own space in their frequency spectrum so you’re more likely cut around these frequency bands.23

The frequency spectrum Deepchild is referring to the way in which sound design is utilized

to add a degree of clarity between the individual instruments or discrete sounds that are

found in an individual track. DJs and nightclub patrons have become accustomed to a type of

clarity between percussion instruments, one that allows them to delineate between snare hits,

hi-hats, tom-toms, and kick drums. These instruments, along with a melodic (pitched) bass

instrument, are important in defining a track’s rhythmic profile and groove, and play a

significant role in foregrounding the continuous dancing that nightclub patrons desire. While

the bleeding or overlap of percussion parts may seem negligible on a lower quality sound

system (such as a laptop’s internal speaker), on a larger system such deficiencies are easily

identifiable and definitive markers of a poorly mixed track. Deepchild’s discussion of “mix-

downs” refers to the holistic sound design producers undertake near the end of their practice.

23 Deepchild, Interview with producer, June 18 2015.

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As addressed in Chapter 5, these actions correspond more directly to what musicology has

previously understood as mixing and mastering, tasks often ascribed to post-production.

While mastering as a profession, recording practice, and a collaborative endeavour is

not within the purview of my dissertation, it must be stated that producers often rely on

mastering (in at least some manner) to facilitate their sound design in order to ensure their

tracks are viable for DJ performance and playback on large sound systems. As scholars of

recording practice have detailed, mastering engineers play a vital role in transforming tracks

and altering sonic material to best suit the commercial and artistic needs of the musicians

who commission their services.24 At the very least, mastering engineers are able to assist in

improving the most basic deficiencies in a producer’s sound design with respect to spectral

and dynamic balances.25 Indeed, producers occasionally solicit mastering before sending

their tracks to labels, in part as an effort to convey their own status as professionals. The role

of the mastering engineer in house and techno production raises a host of questions with

respect to the way professionalism is negotiated when the sound design required to make a

track commercially viable is dependent on the professional services of another. If mastering

can so shape the professional viability of a track, then it indeed has the ability to disrupt the

manner in which authorship and professionalism is negotiated by the producer. Moreover,

since mastering often utilizes similar studio practices to production (for example,

equalization, filtering, and panning) it can potentially destabilize the authorship and

professionalism of the producer.

24 Carlo Nardi, “Gateway of Sound: Reassessing the Role of Audio Mastering in the Art of Record Production,”

Dancecult, vol. 6 (1), 2014; Andy Devine and Jay Hodgson, “Mixing In/And Electronic Music Production,” in Mixing Music: Perspectives on Music Production, edited by Russ Hepworth-Sawyer and Jay Hodgson, 153–170, New York: Routledge, 2017;

25 These criteria are discussed with more detail in this chapter and again in Chapter 5.

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Despite the role mastering can play in making a track professionally viable, the

producers I interviewed were disinclined to stress their own dependence on mastering. This

is not to say they did not rely on mastering, only that in our discussions —framed around

their own production practice— producers rarely discussed mastering, and maintained the

position that their tracks (while benefitting from mastering) did not depend on the services of

another to ensure professional viability. This sentiment is further echoed in the

aforementioned house and techno media, for which mastering engineers remain relatively

anonymous despite their names being historically printed and credited on vinyl records.

Along with the respective work of Hodgson and Nardi, future research will inevitably delve

deeper into the role mastering plays in shaping house and techno production practice,

examining the way authorship and professionalism is mediated through collaborative

endeavours.26 This will add yet another node to the larger network of house and techno

production, and further complicate our understanding of how authorship, artistry, and

professionalism are negotiated by producers.

On a technical level, from the perspective of both mastering engineers and producers

sound design often boils down to tracks having a certain degree of amplitude and signal

strength while also providing adequate head room. Amplitude refers to the fluctuation or

displacement of a wave from its mean, basically the amount of air particles displaced.27 From

a listener’s perspective, amplitude is the experience of loudness. Headroom refers to the

amount of space between the peak volume of the track and the amount that a sound system

can output. When there is no headroom the sound system will likely clip the track, a

technique that cuts frequencies above certain amplitudes in order to prevent damage to the 26 Ibid. 27 Hodgson, Understanding Records, 4-5.

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speaker system.28 While many contemporary systems have a means to alleviate and round off

the abrupt sounds of clipping, many club goers and DJs certainly notice when a track is being

clipped and either consider it the result of a poorly produced track, or a DJ who is pushing

the sound system beyond its means.29 Most large systems have their own amplifiers to

increase the signal strength. However the track itself must be recorded in such a way that it

maintains its integrity as it is amplified. Over-amplifying a track (that is increasing the signal

strength by too much force) muddles results and therefore alters the track. Thus if a track

lacks signal strength it puts too much pressure on the system to amplify, leading to

overlapping and overdriven frequencies. Adversely, if a track has too much signal strength it

will lead the speaker system to clip the sound, a result that is often audible to both the DJ and

the dancers.30

An example of this can be heard when we consider what happens to a seemingly

effectively mixed track (Recording 4.1) if one brutishly attempts to increase the signal

strength (Recording 4.2).31 Using Live I amplified the sound of a percussion loop to simulate

28 Producers often avoid clipping by mixing their tracks at a minimum of -3 decibels—a practice that allows

enough head room for an audio engineer or mastering engineer to increase the signal strength without significant clipping.

29 It is difficult to point to individual tracks that fail on larger systems because the requirement for proper sound design is so rigid that such tracks are not regularly released and/or widely circulated. A few examples might be taken from recent producers like DJ Seinfeld who have popularized the sub-genre of “lo-fi house.” However, tracks from this sub-genre are not often played on large systems due to their low fidelity. I have observed DJs boosting a poorly designed track to a point that it was noticeable and distracting, however in these instances I was unable to acquire the track’s title. I suspect that in these cases it is often the result of a DJ playing a poorly designed “promo,” a term given to an unreleased track that is only circulated among a limited number of DJs.

30 In discussing this issue with producers they occasionally mentioned that proper mastering could alleviate some of these deficiencies in sound design. Yet as discussed in Chapter 3, the professional grade mastering that can transform a track from unplayable to playable is quite expensive and producers (and labels) avoid paying for such a service until they ready to release a track commercially. Furthermore, a majority of producers I spoke to send their music to labels unmastered, and thus it remains important that producers have effective and professional sound design from the start. In order to convince oneself or a label to pay for mastering you first have to believe your track is mixed well enough to make the process worthwhile.

31 For recordings see: www.soundcloud.com/user-131686918/sets/diss-examples-chapter-4.

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the effects of running a poorly mixed track through a large sound system. Recording 4.1 has

been effectively sculpted and carefully mixed so each percussion part can be heard clearly.

While Recording 4.1 sounds clear at its current amplitude, when overly amplified—when its

signal is inelegantly boosted—it becomes muddled and overly abrasive. The change between

Recording 4.1 and Recording 4.2 simulates what might happen if a poorly mixed track’s

signal is excessively boosted to account for the initial poor signal strength. As you can hear,

this over-amplification does not just alter the fidelity but drastically transforms the track’s

timbre, and in turn its affect. While such a muddling may be aesthetically appreciated in a

different context, the fact that Recording 4.1 lost much of its initial sonic (particularly

timbral) characteristics when amplified demonstrates how producers must always strive for

effective sound design—as poorly designed tracks will be unexpectedly transformed and

reveal their inadequacies when played out on large speaker systems.32

Commercial viability is inherently tied to DJ aesthetics. Producers avoid making

tracks that could disturb the flow of a DJ set. This is because over the course of a DJ set the

performer appropriates authorship.33 This authorship is displaced from the producer of the

initial track to the DJ who is physically present at the performance and considered

responsible for the sounding of the track. If the track is performed and identified as

unprofessional—if the lower frequencies sound poorly, or if it is sloppily mixed-down, or if

the track proves difficult to mix with other tracks due to issues of fidelity—it is the

performing DJ who will receive the blame. Therefore, the proper sound design required to

32 And yet, it is very possible that a particular techno listener may have heard Recording 2 and thought this was

a fairly interesting sound. Or, that through the processes of excessively increasing the signal strength I accidentally created a new and exciting timbre. Yet for this sound to become commercially viable it would require yet another round of sound design, as I would need to ensure it kept this quality when sounded again on a louder system. That is, proper sound design ensures consistency in performance and playback.

33 See Chapter 1.

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ensure that tracks can be played at a high volume is essential to a track’s commercial

viability, as the absence of such quality could lead to a DJ garnering a reputation for playing

lower quality music. Numerous producers stressed the importance of designing music that

“works” for DJs. For instance, Benjamin Damage, a British techno producer living in Berlin

specifically referenced DJ centric rules that shape his production.

EW: How does DJing influence your production practice? BD: When you make a track that you want to play out you have to follow certain rules, just in terms of what you expect to happen, because if your timing is really off it will throw people [off]. DJs play tracks to make themselves look good and to make the party a good party. So if a track does something unexpected and makes them look stupid and make everyone at the party be like what was that, then they won’t want to play it. So there are certain things, 16 bars [loops] and those [formal] structures that are a very natural part of the processes. Other than that, that’s the only real thing you have to focus in terms of sounds. As long as you have a good rhythm with a good bass you can do quite a bit of experimental things. If you just follow a few simple rules. EW: What rules?

BD: The only rule is [that] you can mix it into one another. That’s the only rule. I will test a track I make in a club and there have been times and the track gets into my set and I have to mix it up quickly and then I come back and change it, that can be...you can learn more from playing a track for one minute in a club than listening to it on a loop in the studio for 5 hours. In terms of strict rules that’s the only one that really matters. If you have a club track you have to mix it in. It needs to work. And not so much just in time but it has to feel right. And there are many ways to do this. It doesn’t need a straight 4/4 kick drum. There are some tracks without kicks. [Just] get it within a certain tempo range, if it’s 150 [BPM] it becomes something else. [These are] quite vague rules, I suppose.34

Benjamin Damage was not the only producer to express certain “rules” that directed his

practice. Similarly, Gingy told me that there were certain rules that guided his production,

but that these were mostly scene-specific and not all too rigid.

34 Benjamin Damage, Interview with producer, June 17 2015.

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There are rules that you play by, to fit within current taste. It’s like fashion design; you’re not going to make a three-sleeve shirt. And that changes from scene to scene. Like four to the floor or 130 BPM, there are certain things that you need to [have a DJ] play your music. But are these hard guidelines? Probably not, there are more places to jump off from.35

Rules are shaped by both the style and aesthetics of DJs and the stereo sound system

technology (speakers, amps, mixing boards) that clubs rely upon. The rules are self-imposed

to achieve genre and commercial viability amongst the institutions and entities that fund and

support their field. While the rule “it only needs to be able to mix into another track” may

seem general, it implicitly contains a great deal of restriction, which becomes evident when

we consider the context of performance.

Without proper sound design, tracks are unable to provide a level of audio fidelity

and playback consistency that DJs rely upon. While post-production practices like mastering

and mixing performed by another individual may work to alleviate these problems, it is in the

initial mix-down and crafting of sounds where many of these problems are manifested.36

Moreover, access to professional mastering engineers is prohibitively expensive for an

independent and amateur artist. As a result, to become a producer one must understand how

to design sounds that have the requisite quality to be played on large systems. In my

experience this requirement is considered the most basic hurdle in the path towards

professionalization, and the inability to overcome this barrier is a non-starter.

Professionalism

As detailed in Chapter 3, barriers of entry into producing and distributing electronic music

are at first glance quite low, which in turn leads contemporary producers to construct 35 Gingy, Interview with producer, August 24 2014. 36 As one producer told me, “there’s no use in polishing a sonic turd.”

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professional and aesthetic hurdles.37 The way in which a mastery of sound design is required

to make commercially viable tracks is one barrier, and becomes a way in which professional

identity is articulated and embodied. As numerous producers have told me, sound design is

where they see the largest gap between themselves and the amateurs or yet-to-be-recognized

competitors. The German techno producer Felix K articulated this importance when I asked

him about the subject.

For me it is very important to create a personal sound design. The music is nothing without a well-designed sound. That’s why I try to put time and effort into the development of it. It can’t replace the grooves and the musicality of a track but it is the first thing people can identify with or not. They get the design (and maybe the groove) before the musicality, because they usually don’t need complex information processing of the brain. Understanding the musicality does.38

Similarly Mike Shannon addressed this in this extended question and answer,

EW: How do you understand genre? Who is your music being made for?

MS: There is a major division between people who, like dance music labels, their goal is to cater to the DJ market—someone who is playing out. And [there are] people who are doing experimental music, not that it is even more experimental, but free from the constraints of commercial viability and accessibility—that’s a division right there. These guys playing the game by the rules, it’s meat and potatoes, nothing spicy, just salt and pepper. And there is another crew of people who are trying to push as far and as hard as they can.

EW: Is there a middle ground?

MS: I like to say, [it is] the way I do dance records. [You] got the meat and potatoes, an accessible groove, rhythm wise, and then throw in some challenging sound design, not a preset piano sound that has another dimension to it, some other layers to it. That’s how I do it. You have something complex in there but the groove is simple enough that people can digest that. But in the background there is something really challenging you. There are a lot of people who are doing that, doing dance music that

37 In that sense it seems that the barriers of entry are actually quite high. They simply appear low, as the

production of electronic music from an outside perspective seems far more accessible than it truly is. 38 Felix K, Email correspondence with producer, August 5 2015.

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has that element. That’s the name of the game for me. The taste of that scene has become very refined and people don’t want to hear preset sounds, [they want] something different and something that pushes them.

EW: So sound design is important?

MS: That is what separates the kindergarten kids from the professors. That’s what it is.

EW: So sound design is where mastery of technology makes you a professional?

MS: Yeah. It’s crazy how kids run into this game and you can sound like [a professional]. It’s hard to know the difference between a new track [and a preset] and know how [the producer] did that. For me, I can tell. But the average listener... And big tracks come out and [they’re] just presets! But that’s nothing new, because technology came out and no one said that was a preset. But now it’s become more refined. Over time more people know and people are using Ableton and Reactor [another DAW] so we have a way broader scope of how things are being done.

EW: How does this affect process? MS: I can never say I know exactly where I’m going[...] The fun and the art of this, the magic of this, it is discovering it happen–a happy accident, something crazy happens that turns the direction you’re working in. The real art in sound design is having an idea in your mind and being able to translate it. BANG! To nail it. And it takes a lot of experience to do that from scratch. And I think the majority of people who are doing this are going to presets. It doesn’t make a difference as long as it is working but there is something personally gratifying about saying you made something from scratch and you can hear that. And I was just working with these guys in Toronto and everything we did from scratch and the result was this is awesome. And somehow I don’t think anyone will notice the difference, but we will. 39

For Mike Shannon, like others who were less explicit with their answers, sound

design is a marker of professional identity. It is an expression of craftsmanship and an

articulation of the producer’s bona fides in a larger network of both working professional

artists and amateurs. The notion that only he may notice the difference suggests the deeply

personal role sound design plays; production is performed both for his sense of self and for

39 Mike Shannon, Interview with producer, June 12 2015.

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others (critics, media members, contemporaries) to recognize. Thus, while quality sound

design is necessary to achieve notoriety, to adhere to the most basic material conditions of

distribution, it is also important as an expression of identity; an articulation of technical

mastery. In crafting sounds and in excelling in sound design, producers re-inscribe notions of

authorship onto their work, a manoeuvre that is necessary to combat the deconstructive

context in which these tracks will eventually resonate.

History Sound design, as understood by producers of techno and house, is a means to interact with

history. There are particular sounds and timbres that are iconic in techno and electronic

music history. Interacting with these sounds, either through reconstructing or re-modeling

them, is an essential part of how these producers negotiate their historic role as artists. As the

producer Palm Trax told me, the functional restraints of rhythm in house and techno pushed

him toward sound design as a frontier of expression.40

If you take away the rhythmic elements from a lot of records that have been released under the banner of techno recently, what you’re left with is a lot of experimental soundscapes and sound design.41

For Palm Trax, sound design is a means of interacting with house and techno’s history as an

experimental music. Sound design is about more than just functional or professional

requirements, but also about creating something that exists on a historical continuum that

40This is not to say rhythm is entirely limited. Butler (2006, 2010) addresses the complex techniques producers

employ to create diverse metrical and rhythmic experiences. Yet, the requirement for EDM to be (at least, understood) in 4/4 and the tempo constraints on the genre must be still understood generally as a limiting and constraining factor. Despite the fact that producers have significant room to diverge inside these structures, there remains “rules” attached to metre, rhythm, tempo, and sound design. This is covered more substantially in the following chapter.

41 Palm Trax, Email correspondence with producer, September 7 2015.

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perceives house and techno as closely related to a host of earlier experimental music. This

notion was echoed consistently through my discussions with Deepchild, who in this extended

introspective discussion wove together a host of issues that helped shape his identity as a

producer.

EW: What makes a great sound?

DC: For me a great sound exists in the context of other sounds. Personally, I like sounds that have a sense of gravity or power, but which somehow have had the edges knocked or shaved off, a way into the story, the incompleteness. [For instance] a big kick drum with a strange white noise, or a suddenly weird attack, or a hi hat that sounds a bit too low fi, or a beautiful vocal sample that’s slammed a bit too hard. Because it reminds you, as a counterpoint, this protestant notion of sound and harmony, it’s a reminder that there is no such thing as perfection and often, unless you’re really remarkable, perfect sound design is alienating. I like sounds confident in presence but booby trapped […] If you have a lot of the sounds with extraneous elements when they’re layered these elements tell their own story, their own layer of un-commonality. […]I like tracks where there is a dissonance between parts, a conversation. Where super hi fi the elements sit too perfectly and don’t talk to one another, quietly nodding at each other politely saying good to meet you.

EW: How does this relate to techno history?

DC: Basic things like slight de-tuning anomalies make me feel happy. Badly clipped breaking points, it’s okay, the machines are only human too.

EW: So it’s like humanizing machines?

DC: I think so. I don’t know how other people hear these things. I’ve had experience with people who grow up with technology that find these anomalies uncurious or alienating. Again, I grew up in the Cold War when machinery was viewed as new technology that was something to be anxious about. I guess, I didn’t grow up with the Internet so I wanted to know if there was some crack in the machine, that it could rebel against its owner, so it wasn’t Cold War oppression.

Electronic music is overly concerned with tone colour which I found a massive relief when I discovered this because the classical tradition was more concerned with virtuosity and performance and I remember going to these weekly meetings of a collective and we’d spend hours to talk about white noise and high hats, and we were

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obsessed with something that seemed stupid but became precious as we talked about it.42

Deepchild’s answer reveals a deep level of introspection. More so than any producer I

spoke to, Deepchild routinely pivoted away from conversations about production practice to

reflect more broadly on his identity as a producer. His response, which references both the

Cold War and a form of Protestant sound design, is typical of our conversations. Indeed, it

seems as though his production practice is a substantial part of his identity; his development

as a producer (his technique, workflow, and taste) maps deeply onto his growth as an

individual. As his answer details, inside the acts of production there are places where one can

negotiate larger questions of identity and history, especially with regards to the role of

technology in everyday life.

For Deepchild, and other producers I spoke to, particular aspects of production

practice place them in a dialogue with house and techno’s aesthetic legacies. Their interest in

technology was one that extended past functional aesthetics or commercial viability, one that

placed them inside a larger continuum of electronic music experimentation. For these

producers, the fine-tuning and close mastery of sound, the study of how sound can be

manipulated through practice, was an engagement with history. In a sense it is them creating

and enacting the same techniques and practices that their predecessors performed, from

Stockhausen to Kraftwerk, to Mills to Aphex Twin. Moreover, in experimenting with both

historic and new recording technology, they are able to not only re-create past techniques,

but also perform new experiments that continue in the larger tradition of the modernist artists

42 Deepchild, Interview with producer, June 18 2015.

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as a master of contemporary technology. Sound design, in its technical mastery is equally

about history as it is about professionalism or commercial viability.43

Therefore sound design is important on three related fronts: it is important for

commercial reasons; it is important for expressing professional identity; and it is important

for historical engagement and contextualization. All three of these reasons centre around the

same question that I have argued throughout this dissertation: how do producers negotiate

converging histories, aesthetic legacies, and the multifaceted notions of what constitutes art?

I do not wish to lose sight of this overarching question, as I contend that all of the practices

that I discuss going forward must be understood in relation to the dichotomies or dilemmas

established in the first three chapters.

Studio Set Up The majority of producers I interviewed work from home. Their home studios are made up of

devices that generate sonic content, facilitate processing and sequencing, and enhance

listening. Whereas in the past there was a clear division between these tasks, contemporary

producers often rely on devices that can facilitate each aspect of production simultaneously.

Sonic content is generated from synthesizers, drum machines, and samplers that use analog

and digital technology to create and alter musical material.44 This content is then edited and

ordered, or tracked as it would be called in other genres, by sequencers: multichannel

hardware interfaces or software that allow the processing and arrangement of an entire track.

These sounds are played back through a sequencer that is connected to studio monitors or

43Aphex Twin is British electronic music producer who plays an important role in bridging the gap between

Detroit techno and more overtly experimental genres of electronic music. 44 Many drum machines are synthesizers; however, producers treat them as their own separate class of

hardware.

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high quality headphones, devices professionally designed to allow the producer to hear a vast

range of frequencies at relatively high volume. For almost all of the twentieth century many

of these tasks were assigned to different machines, and a producer usually had a separate

rack of synthesizers connected to a sequencer that was then connected to another bay of

devices (for example F/X pedals). However, over the past decade much of this production

has moved entirely towards the personal computer.

The most basic (and popular) set up for producers involves a laptop and two studio

monitors.45 While some producers have larger desktop set-ups in their studios, the ubiquity of

the laptop both in performance and production is worth noting. Laptops are important

because they offer immense processing power in addition to mobility, allowing producers to

write tracks while touring and in between performances.46 As producers are increasingly

required to be mobile (as a result of touring or other obligations) the laptop and their

headphones allow them to work in-between work. That said, because of the requirement of

high quality speakers and other additional integrated hardware, most mobile work requires

review and revision from home studios.

The most important piece of software is the digital audio workstation (DAW), which

is a software suite that works as sequencer, synthesizer, emulator and editor. DAWs are

designed to generate and manipulate musical material and integrate third party plug-ins,

devices made by other companies that build upon the infrastructure of the software by

45 Studio monitors are high quality speakers that allow the producer to hear the nuanced changes they make

throughout their production process. However, their design, in an effort to sound clearly across all frequency ranges, makes them quite different from the types of speaker rigs often found in clubs. As a result, producers possess a high level of competence with respect to estimating and imagining how their tracks will invariably sound when performed on different speakers.

46 Sean Nye, “Headphone—Headset—Jetset: DJ Culture, Mobility and Science Fictions of Listening,” Dancecult 3, no. 1 (2011): 64–96.

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enhancing particular functions and or adding new possibilities. Plug-ins are designed to

improve upon the base functions provided in the initial workstation. They range from devices

that provide supplemental effects processing (equivalent to a guitar player integrating a

distortion pedal) to simulating analog instruments. These virtual, or “soft” (short for

software) synthesizers work to re-create the sounds and functions of vintage analog

instruments.

Most DAWs contain preset sounds subdivided into categories. These categories build

on the previous classification of sounds by earlier analog synthesizer pioneers, including sub-

categories for “leads” (often monophonic sounds designed to carry a melody), “pads”

(polyphonic synthesizers designed to create atmospheric washes of background sound) and a

host of other categories.47 While presets are important, and often the starting point for

production, DAWs are designed for editing and integrating new sounds. They contain

samplers, devices for processing imported sound from other recordings, and Virtual Studio

Technology (VST) interfaces. An extension of sampling, VST allows producers to alter the

pitch, duration, and envelop of a sample—parameters that play a large role in defining the

character of a sound.

The primary DAWs used by producers are Logic (distributed by Apple), Cubase

(distributed by Steinberg), and Live (distributed by Ableton). In my experience Live is (by

far) the most popular DAW used by producers of house and techno. As its name suggests,

Live is celebrated for allowing users to quickly toggle between recording, jamming,

sequencing and editing. This multifunctional interface is enabled by the software’s

47 While all DAWs have a different collection of presets, they are relatively consistent with regards to the

categories they group them. These range from the functional grouping like: leads, pads, and chords etc. to instrumental groupings like: keys, guitars, drums, etc.

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alternating dual view, one that allows producers and performers to move quickly between

tracking sounds and editing them (figures 4.5 and 4.6). Instead of dividing recording

(tracking) and processing (editing) into two separate steps, these tasks occur simultaneously

in Live, as artists are able to easily toggle between different workstation interfaces.

Live’s popularity amongst producers is often credited to one of its creators and

designers, Monolake. A German dub techno producer, Robert Henke (aka Monolake), sought

to create software that accommodates the type of improvised (or live) production practice

that is essential to making loop based techno.48 Live is constructed to assist loop-based

production and to allow a streamlined workflow between integrating and altering musical

content.49 The ease with which Live allows producers to move between editing sound and

generating sound (editing and writing) contributes to the blurring of lines between these two

tasks; this blurring is a unique characteristic of house and techno production practice.

48 Derek Walmsley, “Monolake in Full,” The Wire, January 2010, last modified: October 2016,

http://www.thewire.co.uk/in-writing/interviews/monolake-in-full. 49 Live is also used by a host of different musicians and its integration of 3rd party software (like Max MSP) and

plug-ins has made it popular for electro-acoustic composers, film composers, and other types of music producers.

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Figure 4.5 Live in Arrangement View. Each row represents an instrument. The horizontal line running left to right marks the time and the bar numbers. The pink lines represent the automation of audio F/X and other parameters.

Figure 4.6 Live in Session View. Each column represents an instrument. Each row inside each column is a loop or section of music. The lower third of the screen is where F/X units or other devices and plug-ins are manipulated and calibrate

Many producers also utilize MIDI controllers to provide a more hands on approach to

computer composition. These devices, such as the Push (figures 4.7 and 4.8), have grids of

buttons and knobs that map onto software functions. In all cases these buttons can be mapped

onto whatever software functions the producer assigns (from triggering a sample to entering

drum hits), in other cases, the controllers arrive pre-mapped, designed to streamline writing

and editing. For instance, the Push is colour coded through a backlight and mapped in such a

way that it recreates the software’s session view interface. These controllers, like so much of

electronic music software, are put together in such a way that they can be hacked, altered,

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and modified by the user. A particular interesting case is from the producer Hrdvision [sic]

who turned the Push into a Guitar-Hero like video game in which the player can trigger the

individual drum hits of a track as they fall down the screen. This modification was such a

success that it resulted in a sponsorship with Ableton.

Figure 4.7. Ableton’s Push Controller: The 8X8 grid can trigger clips in Live as well as function as a MIDI keyboard. The knobs and buttons that surround the grid are also mapped onto different Live functions.

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Figure 4.8. Ableton’s Push controller, as part of Mike Shannon’s home studio. Also pictured: a stand-alone sequencer, keyboard synthesizer, and desktop computer.

Another essential aspect of home studios is a set of studio monitors. Monitors are

high quality speakers designed to project sound with high fidelity and range. While high

quality studio-grade headphones can approximate this experience, and indeed, many

producers when traveling produce with headphones, the studio monitors are unmatched in

their ubiquity and performance. Monitors range from $250 (each) to upwards of five-figures

depending on the size and model.50 The monitor is designed not for its ability to produce loud

volumes, but fidelity and clarity. They are finely tuned devices that are often linked through

expensive digital interfaces, pre-amps, and wiring. Producers can be very particular about

which set of studio monitors they use and where they place them. For instance, the placement

of the devices in relation to the computer and the producer is a frequent point of discussion.

50 As with most audio technology, it is difficult to put an upper price on studio monitors, as there are bespoke

speaker makers who customize particular units for individual producers. Like owning a vintage synthesizer, acquiring customized monitors is a marker of commercial success, professionalism, and connoisseurship.

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Websites that provide house and techno tutorials and gear reviews have numerous articles on

monitor placement, and how the particular angle in which they distribute sound will have a

noticeable affect on how the producer engages in sound design.51

Beyond the computer, DAW, and studio monitors, most producers also use other

forms of hardware. Hardware consists of a range of devices including, but is not limited to:

controllers, pedals, drum machines, and synthesizers. Hardware is either digital or analog and

is connected through different interfaces to work with one another and the computer. While

many of these devices once proved difficult to work with in concert, they can now be

interconnected through MIDI technology. 52

Figure 4. 9 Bwana’s Home Studio in Toronto. This photograph was taken before he relocated to Berlin. It includes a laptop with two Rokit 4 monitors and two digital interfaces/external soundcards.53

51 YouTube in particular is rife with videos on how to properly calibrate the position of monitors in home

studios. 52 The use of MIDI programming is discussed in the following chapter. MIDI, on the most basic level, allows

instruments to synchronize tempo through an internal clock. 53 External sound cards are devices that supplement a computer’s ability to process sound. Soundcards help

transform external audio signal into digital information. In some cases they are required to perform particular acts of sound design that cannot be processed effectively on a standard computer.

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The celebration of the studio and recording technology is found throughout electronic

music discourse. Not only do producers valourize particular pieces of hardware, but also the

critics who cover the scene write frequently about the different studios and devices artists

utilize.54 The market for expensive hardware is so strong that artists now rent out their

studios and gear to aspiring producers who will pay hundreds of dollars to gain even twenty-

four hours with a studio’s hardware. In particular, these studios specialize in collecting

vintage hardware, devices that are no longer manufactured yet frequently desired, as they

played a significant role in shaping the early sounds of electronic dance music.55 Examples of

this fascination with gear are seen in media outlets like Resident Advisor, where a monthly

series called “Machine Love” runs. For instance in the “Machine Love” profile of Handwerk

Audio —a studio managed by Peter Van Hoessen, a highly regarded techno producer and

DJ— Mark Smith began with an extended preface on the popularity of analog hardware that

captured the current level of gear obsession occurring in electronic dance music scenes.

In dire financial times, you could do worse than invest in vintage synthesisers. With each passing year, another old beast goes silent. The original components used to build them are long out of production, making what's left rarer and more valuable. This is no secret either. Thieves in Berlin go to drastic lengths to rob studios, taking boats on the river Spree and using ladders to climb into buildings where tens of thousands of dollars' worth of analogue gold lies waiting. Whether you're a criminal or a collector, these machines have never been so desirable, and there's no sign of a downswing. A new generation of producers have grown up reading countless articles about the elusive analogue fairy dust that'll give their music an edge. Behind all the hype and speculation are a group of obsessives who see the interactivity of hardware as vital to building a physical relationship with sound. Peter

54 Resident Advisor’s “Machine Love” is a popular monthly series that documents a producer’s studio, detailing

what machines they use, and how they use them. Similarly, Fact Magazine runs a feature entitled “ Against the Clock” in which they film producers creating a track at their home studio. Both present voyeuristic opportunities to peek into the studios (and in many cases, homes) of producers.

55 Popular examples of celebrated vintage devices include: the Jupiter 6 and Prophet 12 synthesizer, the Roland 808 and 909 drum machines, the Roland 303 bass synthesizer, and Moog’s Minimoog and Voyager. In the following chapter I discuss with more detail the particular synthesizers, drum machines, samplers, and F/X units that shape contemporary production practice.

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Van Hoesen is one such machine freak, and together with Marco Freivogel and Ricardo De Azcuenaga he's built Handwerk Audio, a studio tucked in a courtyard by Berlin's bustling Hermannplatz that aims to make that physical relationship accessible to more producers. For a fee, clients can visit the studio with just a laptop and a half-finished track and begin working with a staggering collection of rare and quirky machines that most people will never have the opportunity to use, let alone purchase. 56

Figure 4.10. Press photos of some of the analog drum machines and synthesizers found at Handwerk Studio.

Smith’s description of Handwerk Audio addresses the growing interest in vintage

hardware and its appeal to younger producers who have read “countless articles” glorifying

analogue synthesizers. Indeed, companies like Handwerk Audio demonstrate how these

devices are not simply valuable because they are rare, but also because they can still play an

important role in facilitating production. In allowing producers to come and sample (in both

senses of the word) these instruments, Handwerk Audio reveals how important it can be for 56 Mark Smith, “Machine Love: Handwerk Audio,” Resident Advisor, last modified: April 4 2016,

https://www.residentadvisor.net/features/2638.

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producers to physically interact, even if just for a few hours, with the seminal technology of

the past.

In my experience, many producers seek commercial success in order to gain the

financial affluence required to create more elaborate studios. These are studios that cement

the producer’s professionalism and commitment to their artistry. In that sense, studio

construction is also an expression of maturation, as the older producers I worked with were

consistently more likely to have celebrated (and expensive) hardware. This type of

connoisseurship and mastery has in many ways connected them to the initial Detroit techno

pioneers, individuals like Jeff Mills and Richie Hawtin, who were celebrated for using and

mastering analog recording technologies.

The desire to master the technology of sound design was most clearly evident in the

affinity for modular synthesis. As the name suggests, modular synthesis is a method of

synthesis in which synthesizer racks are constructed through the addition and placement of

individual units (modules) that often only perform a single task. Modular racks are

instruments that are built slowly over time as producers painstakingly research and acquire

rare and specialized units. Modular synthesis requires not only a mastery of each module but

also the knowledge of hardware makers and like-minded enthusiasts. This often leads to

networks of technicians, producers, tinkerers and inventors. Modular synthesis is the ultimate

expression of the producer becoming an expert experimentalist, as it clinically reduces each

function and each act of sound design into discrete tasks. In doing so, operating and

constructing a modular rig demonstrates a producer’s attachment and interaction with a

larger history of experimentalism and technical craftsmanship.

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Figure 4.11: A very messy modular synthesizer rig. Each smaller module performs a separate task. The wires connecting the modules are used to send the audio signal in and out of each device.

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Figure 4.12. A modular rig taken from the website modulargrid.net. This website allows individuals to virtually map out their own rigs before buying the requisite pieces. Each rectangular module performs a different function from voltage control to filtering to sequencing. The small 1/8th inch jacks are for modular wires that connect these pieces, daisy chaining the sound from one unit to another.

Workflow A great deal of time throughout a producer’s career is spent establishing an efficient and

creatively fruitful workflow. During my fieldwork, how producers went about taking a track

from beginning to end was a frequent topic of discussion. While each producer has their own

unique permutation that makes up their workflow, there were overarching similarities.

Namely, the majority of producers try to build their tracks from the inside out. Either through

jamming or working on a single melody or timbre, they build what they hope will be the

fundamental loop or groove of the track. Ranging from eight to thirty-two bars, these ideas

are designed as if it is the emotional peak of the track, the moment of the most significant

dynamic, and textural intensity.

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Arriving at this important moment, the development of a defining hook, main idea, or

characteristic timbre, is always the result of experimentation.57 These experiments either

occur through jamming or deliberately and clinically manipulating devices (either hardware

or software) to generate musical ideas. Unlike other genres in which the term musical idea

refers to a particular melody or harmonic passage, a musical idea in house and techno can

refer to a single timbre; a particular sound quality that is generated through highly focused

tinkering and listening. Like mystery writers who start with the final chapter, once producers

have their main idea they work backwards and use numerous techniques to build drama and

interest towards this initial main theme. While some pieces may have many musical ideas, it

is common for a track to consist of a single musical idea, one section of sonic material

combined with others to form a single looped theme that sounds throughout the entire track.

As these individual ideas make up so much of the track—indeed, they may contain the only

melodic and harmonic material in the track—it is paramount that they are aesthetically

interesting. As such, producers spend a great deal of time searching for these particular sonic

ideas, both through more formal experimentation and informal improvisation.

Informal improvisation or jamming in production slightly differs from how it has

been understood more generally in popular music, most significantly because it often

involves only a single person.58 For instance, Felix K in an email interview said jamming was

an essential part of his workflow.

57 The specifics of this production practice will be examined more closely in the following chapter. 58 For instance the Oxford Music Online entry on jamming or “Jam Sessions” writes that it “has come to mean

any meeting of musicians, in private or public.” Gunther Schuller, "Jam session," Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, Oxford University Press, accessed November 2, 2016, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/14117.

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EW: How do you start your productions? Do you come with a general idea? Do you jam with hardware? Do you have a fixed schedule or is it more organic?

FK: I like to jam and usually I don't do the same process twice. Every track is based on a different idea. When it’s out, it’s out. I have certain starting points, i.e. to set the tempo and choose the hardware you want to integrate. These are basic decisions because every device works differently (and changes production process) and oscillators by different companies have a different sound. They resonate in different ways. A Moog has another sound than a PC plug in. Everything can be utilized in a different way and it can be fruitful in very individual ways.

EW: Do you have a consistent work-flow/process or does it change each time?

FK: I like to try things and I follow the options my studio offers. I have many moods that [help] me [make] music. I sense there are at least two different stages in my production process. 1) Research: Of course I have strategies which have been proven more or less successful but I tend to try new ideas every time. I have no motivation in just doing a formula over and over. I have no composing or arranging method. Sometimes I just play with gear to find new combinations of sounds. If you ask me to nail some kind of a method, it would be trial and error. 2) The workflow is divided into recording and mixing. At the moment I tend to record my mixes straight without single tracking.59

The desire to go into a production session with a fairly open-ended process was echoed in my

conversation with Benjamin Damage, who avoided creating an overly structured workflow in

an effort to engender inspiration.

EW: Describe your workflow:

BD: There is not really a fixed workflow. I suppose the most common is to come up with a little riff or a little pattern for the tune, and to drive it. This is [a] common place where I would start: different chords and different stabs. The sound design is where it would start. Do some experiments. Experiments with different rhythms. Then you know its really good and you put a kick drum under it and if it really works than that’s the idea.

EW: So experimenting is important?

BD: Yes. It is experimenting with different things. I will have the keyboard and I will think of a weird chord to play and then play around with the synth. I try some tuning

59 Felix K, Email correspondence with producer, August 5 2015.

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and scales, and you know you can play around and sometimes things come quickly and others you keep moving things, you get bored and do something different I think if you have inspiration. Having a new way to start something is part of the process, ideally thinking like, “I wrote this in a certain way and start with this noise things and turn it into something new.” If you start with a general idea of changing the process you have the inspiration to carry one. If you started with the same process every time you would get boring material.60

While jamming was useful for some producers, the majority of individuals I worked with felt

it was poor use of time. These producers believed that musical ideas were not as easily

generated through jamming as they were through more focussed experimentation.

Furthermore, jamming was seen as delaying the eventual fine-tuning that producers associate

with making their tracks suitable for DJ performance.61 Producers Avalon Emerson and

Bwana both expressed a general distaste for jamming, finding it unproductive. The general

open-ended nature of the jam distracted from the technical experiments they believed

required to best create their tracks.62 Instead, writing was a process of working out “new

ideas” and altering them, often over a period that can range from days to months. As a result,

most producers care deeply about their workflow because it provides the structure that is

necessary to facilitate experimentation. Like a scientist establishing the controls of an

experiment, producers feel that fixed variables are necessary to conduct effective sound

experimentation. While blue-sky style experimentation is practiced by producers like

Benjamin Damage and Felix K, for all others producers a streamlined workflow was required

60 Benjamin Damage, Interview with producer, June 17 2015. 61 It is interesting to note how so much of the production practice is far removed from the sites of their

performance. As such, producers are required to imagine what their tracks may sound like during performance. Such a process of imagination though, is not entirely abstract, as their own experience as a DJ (who likely plays their own tracks) has given them first hand experience in the way sound systems may affect their tracks.

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to isolate and utilize the fruits of their experiments. For instance when I asked Avalon about

her workflow she said:

Most of the time I finish a track in one sitting, and then the week after I’ll be tweaking the small stuff, making sure the EQ are bussed and carved around each other, the EQ, the spiritual but scientific aspect. And referencing other people, like what is so dope about energy flash by Joey Beltram hi-hats, and slowing it down, what is it, looking at wave form and EQing and slowing it down and trying to actually define what is affecting you emotionally. Because it’s something, it’s not just magical. People are really quick to give credit to magical drum machine or boxes, like the 909 sounds dope. True, but what about it? Is it the tiny distorted 10000 hertz nodes that fluctuate once in a while because it’s analog? Because you can do this on here [pointing at the computer]. 80% of my production is this scientific deconstruction of this, where the other part is dumping all I can in [the software].63

Deepchild also discussed the desire to become more structured about his workflow. For him,

the ability to have some stages of writing locked in place allowed him the freedom to

experiment on different fronts. The notion of setting limits is a common practice found in

house and techno production, and the restrictions either in terms of genre (rhythm and metre)

or technology is a strong point of departure for more ambitious experimentation. This was

expressed when I asked Deepchild about his workflow:

EW: How do you begin your producing? Do you just jam or wake up with an idea?

DC: I generally set up a template that maybe I’ll change every six months to a year. And [this template] tries to recreate the hardware set up I once had. No more than two F/X sends with reverb and delay on the other. I tried to recreate the sampler I had with 16 channels and 2 effect buses. It’s a metaphor or paradigm that emulates a relatively restrictive, hardware based conventions. For me it’s very nuts and bolts and cut and paste. I’m still reticent to use software synths. I prefer hardware, or a select use of tools. I have thousands of samples and ensembles but I stick with a handful of them and make a bunch of loops only using those sounds. […]

63 Avalon Emerson, Interview with producer June 25 2015.

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For as long as I remember, I go to the studio whether I want to produce or not. I look down and I make sounds. And my process is very rigorous and regular. If I am faced with blank canvas I am intimidated so I try to sample someone’s work and bash it until it is mine. So I spend hours just making loops with no context in mind. I have a folder called 2011 because I haven’t updated. It’s a digital sandbox where it’s largely without context, [where I can] make loops without judgement.64

The concept that a larger experimental process—a process in which technical sound

experiments precedes musical composition—was echoed by Gingy when I asked him about

his process.

EW: Do you have a concept before composition?

G: All of these things happen in the back of my brain. For a month I’ll be working on techniques, studying techniques, and then eventually I’ll feel like I understand the technique and I’m like fuck it I’ll just make another track with this. But over time you’re experimenting trying to learn that. So like saturation on a kick, or saturation in general, or creative filtering, or the use of echo in dub techno. What do these do psycho acoustically or musically and what are the core elements acoustically of how they work? So like Donato Dozzy [a widely celebrated producer] is just making really advanced dub techno, like Basic Channel [the German duo known for originating dub techno], but just much more complicated. It is 4/4 but it is so different.65

As these responses detail, the majority of in-studio time is spent experimenting,

altering sound on a minute level to change its timbre and character. In production sound

design is writing. As a result, the workflow of producers is an exercise that conflates the

notions of writing and editing, generating and manipulating.66 I am not alone in making these

64 Deepchild, Interview with producer, June 18 2015. 65 Gingy, Interview with producer, August 24 2014. 66 This differs from the initial studies of producers and recording practice that relegated what we now

understand as sound design to technical or procedural tasks. This is evident in Tobler and Grundy’s initial history of the record producer. In The Record Producers, Tobler and Grundy detail how throughout the early history of popular music “the ‘creative’ process revolved around the artist, musical arranger and the A & R man (who would later be a label manager also).” In contrast, those individuals tasked with what they perceived as the more technical aspects of recording were more like “ciphers” for which “creativity played a minor part.” Tobler and Grundy, The Record Producers, (London: British Broadcasting Corporation, 1982), 7.

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claims. As recent scholarship on recording practice and production have so powerfully and

consistently stated, acts once considered post-production must be recognized as the

fundamental acts of production and in turn, contemporary composition.67 While some

producers told me that they see writing music and editing music as two different tasks, most

said they do not really see a difference. For Bwana, process, editing and writing are never

divided. Adjustments to melody, timbre, and rhythm may continue up until the track is sent

to a label. Although some producers may have more clear divisions, even these demonstrate

that the workflow is a constant interplay between generating horizontal musical material (that

is sound that happens over time) and editing or altering the sonic quality of these ideas. In a

way it is almost closer to writing prose or poetry where the process of editing may beget

writing. But even that is a limited comparison because it does not capture how fruitful the

close editing is to electronic sound design; it would be as if editing the grammar and spelling

of a piece of prose could not only create new words and phrases, but new letters and

punctuation.

Production conflates the concept of editing and writing, as the generation of new

musical material is often the result of experiments in sound editing. As such, musical criteria

that are usually ripe for analysis, like harmonic change or formal development or rhythmic

ambiguity are only generated after the initial timbre construction and sound design is

complete. While issues of large-scale form (and even rhythm) are essential to house and

techno, they are often, secondary concerns of producers, the welcomed results of

experimentation in sound design.

67 Moorefield, The Producer as Composer; Hodgson, Understanding Records; Zagorski-Thomas, The

Musicology of Record Production.

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Performing Experiments In her text Listening Through the Noise, Joanna Demers confronts the role discourse should

play in shaping our experience of experimental music.68 While her book is primarily

concerned with the listening experience, and thus less interested in both the creators of these

works and the processes they undertake, her summation of the term “experimentalist” does

provide a clearer understanding of what it may mean to be an experimental composer or

producer in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

Experimentalist discourse rides on two assumptions: that experimental music is distinct from and superior to a mainstream-culture industry and that culture and history determine aesthetic experience.69

For Demers experimentalism hinges on a tenuous dichotomy between high art and the

mainstream.

Experimentalism at once clings to notions of aesthetic superiority and autonomy from market forces even as it regards aesthetic experience as inseparable from culture.70

It is this paradox that remains most relevant for house and techno producers, one that finds

them negotiating competing notions of why (and for whom) they make music. Yet, for

producers the divisions between the two worlds (of autonomous and commercial art) are

even further blurred—if not constantly intertwined. The producer’s reliance on DJ culture, a

commercial relationship that they encounter each weekend when they are booked in

nightclubs, pushes this potential paradox to the forefront. As a result, experimentalism in

house and techno become a more private expression, one that exists in the shadows and the

laboratories to which all but a few scene members are privy. In house and techno music, 68 Demers, Listening Through the Noise. 69 Ibid., 139. 70 Ibid.

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experimentalism is performed for a host of reasons but none of them include the public

consumption of the experiment itself. Experimentalism is understood as a means of process,

one that only the well versed in processes of sound design and audio technology are able to

converse in. To be an experimentalist requires a type of technical fluency, which, in a sense,

engages notions of artistry and professionalism that are grounded in both the afro-futurist and

German modernist tradition.

When I pushed producers to speak more specifically about what experimentalism

might mean for them they referred more generally to their relationship with technology and

production practice. They saw experimentation as a method for which they can advance their

own artistic goals and also one that gives them great satisfaction. For many producers,

experimentation was a practice they mastered over time, becoming more clinical in their

approaches as they tried to perfect different techniques and processes. This was most clearly

seen in my discussion with Avalon Emerson, who addressed how her training as a computer

programmer seemed to shape her understanding of skill development.

EW: Does the division blur between the science and the creative?

AE: I just labeled it as such, but it’s more about curiosity and once you uncover a little piece there is a little mild distortion and swing pattern in the hi hats that’s super cool and its really snappy in the 7K hertz, and I thought it was a snare but it’s a clap too, and when you discover that you can deploy those tricks on a current project. They’re really close together.

EW: So deconstructive listening is a big part.

AE: Totally, and there are some producers I constantly listen to who I’m like, “how in the hell do they do that? That’s so cool!”

EW: So these worlds combine? How does your work as a programmer enter into [production]?

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AE: Software is controlling complexity to do crazy things because if you had to know all of the things, the binary code, you couldn’t do anything, but we build systems to control things in a high level abstract way to let the machine work. It’s cool.

EW: And this is similar? Does this understanding come from trial and error?

AE: I’m always trying...even if you come across a happy accident… I’m like “cool but what about it do I like, what can I filter out.” And then I dissect it so the next time I can use it.” Not everyone works like that. People are 100% jammy, and if they lose stuff or forget to save it, it sucks.

EW: So it is inquisitive, your method? How does this compare to your other work as a software engineer and your coding?

AE: Same deconstructive process. When you learn how to code there are things where you say “my code doesn’t work or I don’t know why it works.” But then you do. So you get a book of spells that you know fix things but as you do it more and more you can deconstruct what works, to understand the source code. So my outlook is the same.

Elegance in software means not [being] tied to other parts. It’s modular, and that’s what I’m saying maybe. I’m learning about how to combine EQ and compressor and that is one modular element and I’m not relying on some happy accident or collection of other things. I want my good work to be repeatable.71

Of particular note in Avalon’s response is her discussion of producing, coding, and agency.

For her, to become an effective producer means mastering her tools and clinically evaluating

the results of her experiments. Experiments are not as one may think, open-ended forays into

music making. Instead, they are purposeful endeavours that go beyond simply seeking a new

sonic result. Like other producers I spoke to, her practice is designed to build a toolbox of

repeatable techniques that can be utilized to recreate and modify the experiment once it is

deemed fruitful.

71 Avalon Emerson, Interview with producer, June 25 2015.

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In a slightly different manner, Benjamin Damage articulated how he had a pretty

clear idea of how things worked through experimentation but the variables that went into

each task kept the results and processes fairly open-ended.

EW: Do you know how all the technology works?

BD: You get a clearer idea but you still don’t know exactly why something works, why it sounds interesting. Like if you’re playing five notes at the same time to make a stab, you wouldn’t be able to explain a sound and say if it’s interesting or not. There are just so many variables that change the character, the notes, the filters, the reverb, the distortion. The same sound can be very clean or boring or it could be good or it could be a mess or a mush depending on all these different factors working together. So you get an idea of how to change things. So if it is sounding mushy you can know what to change to tighten it up without losing it. You still rely on your ears and your own taste.

EW: Over time have you become better at diagnosing?

BD: You get a good sound and you can make it better because you know what to do

EW: Like how? Be specific.

BD: It’s never exactly the same. But maybe [it is] the attack of a sound. There are different filters working and getting them to interact. Where you have a slow attack on one and a fast on another. There are lots of things you can try but it’s all about the room for experiment. There is no panacea, a fix that will solve the problem 100%, just more things to experiment with. EW: So this is all about experimentation: knowing and not knowing what to do?

BD: Exactly.72

Benjamin’s response highlights the variety of approaches producers have to

experimentation. For him, it is less about isolating particular techniques or re-creating

experiments, but rather about his own satisfaction. Experiments are utilized time and again

so he can develop a greater instinct for what works—a type of knowing that he has trouble

72 Benjamin Damage, Interview with producer, June 17 2015.

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articulating but nonetheless is one that he is sure to possess. While when pushed he can refer

to specific techniques that may be effective (the attack), it was clear to me that this was not a

topic he had routinely verbalized, or even thought about with much detail. Rather, production

via experimenting was about training oneself how to trouble-shoot in the moment—not

through clinical study but embodied knowledge.

This understanding of experimentation is one that engages numerous notions of what

it means to be a producer, a professional, and an artist. It blends composers, professors,

writers, software developers, and futurists. Thus the process of experimentation is one in

which producers are able to effectively aestheticize that which is destined to be functional; it

is a process which does not just imbue artistry into tracks, but also leverages the utility of

experimentalism to such tracks. This is not a new concept, and rearticulates theories of art

found throughout German modernism and Afrofuturism, from Walter Gropious, to Alvin

Toffler, to Jeff Mills. In short, producers utilize experimentation to achieve goals beyond

generating experimental art.

Performing experiments is how producers generate content, yet it is also how they

demonstrate professionalism and interact with a larger history of experimental music. By

engaging with technologies and processes that engage the history of experimentalism and

experimental music these artists are able to attach themselves to autonomous notions of art

(and the artist). Every producer I spoke to employs an experimentalist approach to

production. For them, these types of technical and musical inquiries are what engender

inspiration. They are necessary steps in the processes of musical composition. Thus in house

and techno production there is a utility to experimentalism.

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Producers believe that even if they reject experimentation as a method, they cannot

escape it—almost as if their talent, their ability to produce functional music performed by

other DJs is dependent on a production practice that centered on experimentation. Every

producer I spoke to suggested that to produce a purely functional commercial track—one that

did not begin and rely upon his or her own experimental method— was a fools’ errand.

When asked if they could just irreverently put together a track, just skip the experimentation

and build a generic track, they all responded that they could, but that it would never work; it

would be doomed from the start, producing a lesser work that lacked the aesthetic integrity

they thought was directly tied to their ability as a producer.

Thus far I have argued for the importance of sound design and experimentation in

techno and house production. Yet, the question remains as to how producers perform these

experiments. What exactly does an experiment entail? Where specifically are these

connections between history and professionalism formed and what technologies are required

to forge them? In the following chapter I tackle this question. In doing so I consider how

sound design informs groove construction, and how the individual experiments that

constitute sound design are used to articulate what it means to be a professional producer of

house and techno.

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Chapter 5

Experimentation and Sound Design in Practice

What types of experiments are producers conducting? In this chapter I answer this question,

exploring the different technologies and processes that are enabled by experimentation.

While compartmentalizing these technologies and tasks into separate sections will facilitate

my description, the reader should not lose sight of the fact that these processes are often used

in combination with one another, and fit broadly into the processes of sound design. Thus,

such a categorical division is strictly a means of assisting understanding and does not mirror

the way most producers approach technology. Like many artists and craftspeople, producers

master specific techniques in order to deploy them in combinations and permutations that can

best facilitate their goals. Following my earlier claim regarding rhythm as a by-product of

sound design, I give specific examples of how the creation of distinct rhythmic idioms are

facilitated through these experimentalist processes. The techniques and practices discussed

bellow demonstrate the way producers utilize particular practices to interact with the

contextual issues outlined in earlier chapters. It is through these production practices that

producers are able to situate their artistic labour inside a complicated nexus of what it means

to be an artist, a professional, and a creator of functional tracks.

Sound design occurs in numerous steps that may not occur in a fixed order. There is

no one way to go about sound design, but all the variable ways I observed share similar

techniques and offer similar opportunities to manipulate and sculpt a given sound. On the

most basic level this entails a continual process of generating source material and editing it in

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such a way that invariably leads to more musical material. In the most uncomplicated cases,

generating music material equates to selecting a preset inside a DAW and recording a

musical idea either through a MIDI keyboard or by entering each note (via mouse click) on a

piano roll interface (figure 5.1). While this is the most direct way of generating musical

material, I rarely observed this process in my research. Instead, the process of constructing a

sound is one that often combines five distinct activities: synthesis, sampling, sequencing,

signal processing, mixing, and automation.

Figure 5.1 The piano roll interface in Ableton Live.

Synthesis Synthesis is the fundamental act of electronic music production. In the most straightforward

sense it consists of generating sonic material from electrical impulses. While synthesis was

once reserved for stand-alone devices powered by individual oscillators, today many

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producers use digital synthesizers that rely on digital audio samples and software (“soft”)

synths that emulate the processes of synthesis on a computer (figure 5.2).

Figure 5.2. The “soft” synth “Bazille” by U-He works within DAWs to emulate the design of a modular analog synthesizer.

Despite the differences in how they generate sound, from an electrical current to binary code,

synthesisers generally work in a similar manner. Synthesizers transform an electrical signal

into sound, running a particular wave shape through a series of other devices (such as voltage

controllers, filters and envelope generators). Synthesizers are built on patches that send

electrical impulses (or digital versions of such impulses) through a chain of modular

functions, which generate and shape the features and quality of a sound.

The earliest examples of synthesis can be traced to the late 19th and early 20th

centuries. As Mark Jenkins notes, the Tellaharmonium, invented in 1896 by Thaddeus Cahill

laid the groundwork for a musical telegraph, a device that created sound using an electronic

mechanical system of “cogged wheels that closed electrical contacts at a variable rate, and

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was capable of combining simple sound waves to create more musical tones.”1 Similarly,

instruments like the Trautonium were developed in Germany in 1929. Initially designed by

Freidrich Trautwein, the Trautonium was improved by Oskar Sala during the 1950s (Figure

5.3). These instruments were of an era that saw the production of experimental prototypes,

instruments not designed for larger markets but rather constructed only for a select few

individuals.2

Figure 5.3. Oskar Sala’s 1955 Mixtur-Tautonium. Currently located at the Berlin Museum of Musical Instruments.

1 Mark Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers: Understanding, Performing, Buying, (Burlington MA: Taylor and Francis

2007): 45. 2 As detailed on the website of the electronic instrument company Doepfer Musikeletronik GMB, the

Trautonium’s design was foundational for numerous synthesizer inventors during the late 20th and early 21st century. See: “The Trautonium Project,” Doepfer Musikelektronik, accessed January 2017, http://www.doepfer.de/traut/traut_e.htm.

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Although the early 20th century saw many excursions into creating sound through

electricity, the modern synthesizer is often associated with the work of instrument inventor

and researcher Robert Moog.3 For Jenkins and other synthesis historians, commercial and

modern electronic music starts with Moog’s paper on “Voltage Controlled Modules for

Electronic Music” given in 1964 at a conference held by the Audio Engineering Society of

America.4 This historic paper discussed the very basis of synthesis, outlining the use of

oscillators, voltage controlled amplifiers and voltage control filters. Moog’s paper was

significant because it provided a solution for creating tones that were “steady, predictable

and controllable.”5 Moreover, in subdividing synthesis into three steps (oscillators,

amplifiers, and filters), Moog set the stage for future synthesis endeavours that were

predicated on compartmentalizing aspects of sound design. This would lay the groundwork

for more modular designs that would characterize early synthesizers, designs that were

essential because they allowed the practitioner to alter the numerous parameters of a given

sound in real time.

Throughout his life Moog collaborated with many composers and inventors. Most

notable was the American composer Herbert A. Deutsch, who helped design Moog’s initial

modular synthesizer and played a vital role in designing its piano-keyboard interface.6

Indeed, Moog’s initial work was one that stood on the shoulders of electro-acoustic

experimenters and composers, drawing from the likes of Harold Bode and Don Buchla; the

latter was hired by Morton Subotnick and Ramon Sender at the San Francisco Tape Music

3 Other earlier synthesis projects include Hugh Le Caine’s pioneering Electronic Sackbut created in 1948. 4 Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers, 49. 5 Ibid. 6 Mark Vail, The Synthesizer: A Comprehensive Guide to Understanding, Programming, playing, and Recording the Ultimate Electronic Music Instrument, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014): 17.

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Centre to design electronic music devices in the early 1960s.7 Despite Buchla’s important

advancements in designing modular synthesizers, it was Moog who would become the most

well-known figure with his 1965 Synthesizer 1C. Moog’s name would become synonymous

with synthesizers some two years later with the release of Wendy Carlos’s best-selling album

Switched on Bach.8

As Vail and Jenkins both note, many of the advancements in synthesis that Moog

would popularize were initially discovered in academic and research institutions.9

Undeniably, his use of an envelope generator, a device that can manipulate the attack, decay,

sustain and release of a given sound, was informed by the work of Vladmir Ussachevesky.10

In addition, Moog’s work in developing a low pass filter, a device that helped define the

distinct timbre of his early synthesizers, was inspired by advancements made by Gustav

Ciamaga at the University of Toronto’s electro-acoustic studio.11 Similarly, in Europe,

composers were experimenting with synthesis technology in institutional contexts, such as

Karlheinz Stockhausen’s work at the WDR studio. These excursions, beginning first in

abstraction and then bespoke prototypes, would eventually make their way into commercial

units, especially as synthesis and synthesizers became further integrated into European and

North American popular music.12 The 1960s saw a handful of American companies join

Moog in his quest to make advanced but accessible synthesizers. The most notable

7 Vail, The Synthesizer, 17. 8 Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers, 51. 9 Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers, 50—53; Vail, The Synthesizer, 17—21. 10 Vail, The Synthesizer, 20. 11 Ibid. 12 As Jenkins notes modulate units “instantly found favor with musicians” including George Harrison and Mick

Jagger. Over the following decade it would become further popularized by the band Tangerine Dream and Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers, 50–53.

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companies, many of which still exist in some form or another to this day, include: ARP,

Oberheim, and Sequential Circuits.

Synthesis research was not limited to the United States, and during the 1960s and

1970s it became an international and multinational endeavour.13 In an effort to move towards

a more commercial market, these companies would follow the work of Oberheim and Moog,

moving away from modular units and towards all-in-one devices. These units limited the

amount of physical patching that users were required to perform and made them more

accessible to amateurs. In Japan, Yamaha, which had been creating electrical instruments

since the late 1950s, also ventured into the synthesizer market. They gained prominence

during the 1970s when many musicians like Stevie Wonder, Richard Wright of Pink Floyd

and John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin began using their instruments.14 Similarly Korg, a

company that was initially responsible for making rhythm-generating units for Yamaha

organs, began releasing commercial synthesizers in the early 1970s.15 Their initial product, a

monophonic synthesizer known as the MiniKorg, was popular for its portability, marking a

larger trend in the synthesis market to move towards greater accessibility.

13 Similarly, in the United Kingdom the commercial synthesis market was initially developed by Electronic

Music Studios (EMS) who in in 1969 had released a portable synthesizer, the EMS VCS3. Influenced by the work of avant-garde composer Peter Zinovieff, EMS attempted to raise money for more advanced endeavours into computer music by selling a more portable unit to rock bands like Pink Floyd and The Who. In Germany, however, synthesis companies were not as concerned with designing entirely new machines but rather modifying existing instruments. Matten GMH for instance developed their own line of synthesizers (used by Kraftwerk amongst others) by combining parts taken from Oberheim and Sequential Circuits devices. As a result, German companies during the 1970s and 80s became known for their unique customizations, as groups like Kraftwerk and Tangerine Dream commissioned bespoke units from German synthesizer makers. Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers, 110—127.

14 Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers, 76. 15 Ibid,. 81.

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Another iconic Japanese synthesizer company is Roland. Initially known as Ace

Electronics, they introduced their first synthesizer in 1973.16 Roland attempted to reach both

the amateur and professional markets, releasing commercial monophonic synthesizers and

more experimental modular units, like their massive System 700.17 A major breakthrough for

Roland was the Jupiter 4 in 1978, a polyphonic and programmable synthesizer. This was

followed by the Jupiter 8 in 1981, which was popularized by musicians like Michael Jackson

and Tangerine Dream.18 While Roland’s polyphonic synthesizers remain well regarded and

expensive on the secondary market, their synthesizers are primarily celebrated for what were

initially considered failures: namely the TR808 and TR909 drum machine and the TB303

bass synthesizer. Released in 1980 the TR808 was a programmable analog drum machine

originally designed for the professional studio market. However, as the sounds generated

from the machine do not resemble the sounds of an acoustic drum kit it initially did not find

success in the professional studio market. Instead, like many devices, it took on a second life

after Roland drastically dropped its price and eventually became (along with the TR909) one

of the most important devices in early electro, techno and house music.19 The TB-303 bass

synthesizer (figure 5.4) faced a similar path. Initially designed to simulate the sound of a bass

guitar, the instrument’s squelching and robotic sound made it a failure in the professional

market. However, like the TR808, electronic musicians eventually adopted the instrument as

their own, and its signature timbre became so widespread that it spawned an entire sub-genre

16 Ibid. 17 Vail, The Synthesizer, 54. 18 Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers, 91. 19 Simon Reynolds, Energy Flash, (London: Picador, 1998), 24–25.

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of house music called acid house.20

Figure 5.4 The Roland TB-303 Bass Synthesizer

As Paul Thérbege notes, “the relationship between musicians and engineers was

especially important during this period, because through their various collaborations not only

were individual devices invented but the design and operational characteristics of an entire

genre of musical instruments gradually evolved.”21 In other words, the development of

synthesizers was always an informal dialog between musicians and instrument makers,

which in turn led to a balance between sophistication and accessibility. Throughout the 1970s

and 1980s synthesizer makers desired to make their devices both technologically advanced

and more accessible, fusing synthesis power and possibility with hands-on ease and access.22

20 Return to chapter 1 for a more comprehensive definition of acid house. 21 Paul Théberge, Any Sound You Can Imagine: Making Music/Consuming Technology, (Hanover, Wesleyan

University Press, 1997): 52. 22 The collective desire of synthesizer companies to appease the demand for greater accessibility is most clearly

seen in the development and adoption of Musical Instrument Digital Interface (MIDI). Prior to adopting MIDI, musicians struggled to combine and integrate different instruments, as each unit had its individual internal clock that proved difficult to synchronize with other instruments. In order to address this problem Tom Oberheim, Dave Smith (from Sequential Circuits) Ikutaro Kakehashi (from Roland) and representatives from Yamaha, Korg and Kawai met in 1981 to design a unified standard input setting to facilitate collaboration between individual instruments.

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By the 1980s companies began to move increasingly towards digital synthesis as it

was thought to produce equally powerful and diverse sounds with significantly more

affordable hardware.23 However, by the 1990s it was clear that artists in hip-hop and EDM

genres desired analog machines, especially with the growing popularity of acid house and the

rising demand for drum machines like the TR808 and TR909. The desire for analog devices

continues to this day and over the course of my research I observed a continuous

appreciation for analog devices and modular systems. In Toronto and Berlin I observed

modular study groups develop and a steady increase in the modular hardware sold by

electronic instrument retailers.24 As I learned from a representative from the appropriately-

named Moog Electronics—a Canadian retail chain specializing in electronic music

instruments—sales in modular synthesizers have been growing steadily since 2012. As a

result, many companies like Roland and Korg have begun releasing analog synthesizers at

lower price points (under $500). In many ways, this trend corresponds to and enables the

ubiquity of bedroom producers and/or home studios mentioned in chapters 3 and 4. More

affordable hardware reduces the demand for separate studio spaces, as individuals are able to

construct their own professional-grade studios in their homes. Roland in particular, has

released a new line of synthesizers (under the moniker AIRA) that attempt to re-create and

modernize their initial classic instruments, appealing to those who want affordable access to

their iconic machines that can also be integrated into digital workstations. As detailed on

their product website, Roland shares the desire of many synthesizer manufacturers to appeal

23 Jenkins provides a detailed account of the decline and revival of analog synthesizers between 1980 and 1990.

Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers, 194—207. 24 For instance Moog Audio in Toronto continues to run a weekly Modular Workshop series and study group,

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to those interested in both historic analog hardware and digital sound production. Consider

Roland’s description of their line found on their website.

AIRA combines the organic sound and behavior of ACB [Analog Circuit Behavior] with modern effects like Scatter and thoughtful USB integration with computers and DAWs. Through inspiring, highly playable designs, AIRA products deliver a seamless creative experience that shatters the boundaries between production and performance.25

Figure 5.5 A comparison done by video-reviewer Dawid Dabroski of the Roland TR808 from 1980 and the Roland TR8 from 2014.

Despite the many changes in synthesizer technology over the years the analog

synthesizer (and its digital emulation) is built on a relatively unchanged workflow. This may

involve many steps but on the simplest level it can be described as generating a wave,

amplifying the frequency, altering the envelope and sculpting the frequencies with a filter.

Oscillators, the fundamental signal-generating machine, create the electrical current that will 25 “Aira,” Roland.com, accessed November 2016, http://www.roland.com/global/aira/whatsaira.html.

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become a wave. Oscillator circuits produce a constant signal at a specified frequency

determined by the user. As Peter Elsea notes, a change of one volt can change the pitch by an

octave.26 The standard oscillator circuit produces sawtooth wave forms, but many

synthesizers have the option to switch to three other types: triangle, sine, and pulse.

Producers often associate wave-shapes with different instruments, textures, and timbre. For

instance, the sine wave is often used to create bass sounds, as these waves only consist of the

sounded pitch’s fundamental, which in turn can lead to greater clarity when the sound is

amplified. In other cases, wave shapes are used to achieve a generative effect. For instance,

the pulse wave changes its timbre over time, as the ratios between the cycles alter and

remove particular harmonics from its sound.27

Signals are processed through a voltage control amplifier that allows one to turn the

signal on and off. Voltage control also allows the producer to affect the cutoff frequency, that

is the frequency in which the sound no longer is allowed to sound, and the “Q,”a parameter

that affects the resonance, which in turn alters the emphasis of the signal as it approaches the

cut off frequency. These modules are used to determine the initial volume and define how the

sound will change over time. In most cases this is facilitated by an envelope generator, which

is used to manipulate the four parameters (attack, decay, sustain, and release) that determine

a sound’s envelope. The attack of the sound controls the amount of time it takes for the

sound to reach its peak volume. The decay is how long the sound remains at that peak.

Sustain refers to how long the sound will last after it has completed its peak. The release

26 Low frequency oscillators are used to add vibrato effects to sounds. Elsea, The Art and Technique of

Electroacoustic Music, 212. 27 Once producers chose the wave shape and oscillator they may run the signal through a noise generator, and

other generators like a low frequency oscillator to slightly alter the wave. Noise generators produce white noise. This technique is especially used in techno to create grittier sounds that evoke lo-fi practices.

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controls how long the sustain lasts—the time it takes to reach silence. Throughout the

process of synthesis (both digital and analog), producers painstakingly alter these four

parameters, which combined with the use of voltage controllers, allow the them great

specificity in shaping not just their sounds but the manner in which they are sounded.

The act of synthesis always entails some form of filtering. This is the process in

which the wave is sculpted. Filtering determines which frequencies of a given signal are to

be heard and which are to be blocked. On the most basic level the filter cuts out particular

frequencies and particular overtones that may define the precise pitch, its range, and its

harmonic definition. The most common filters are high pass, low pass, and band filtering that

all work relatively the same way allowing particular frequencies, and in turn harmonics, to be

sounded or filtered out. In a sense, filtering is a holistic type of equalization (EQing) in

which particular ranges of frequencies are amplified or diminished.

The producers I worked with spent a great deal of time minutely adjusting filters. In

many cases the filter of a particular synthesizers is seen as one of its defining features, and

the producers I observed often specifically credited an analog filter with giving an instrument

its unique timbre. The way filters are combined and used with each another is how a sound is

given its bespoke timbre—the sound’s unique shading that differentiates it from other

models.28 Beyond giving an instrument a particular essence, filters are used to alter the

timbre of a given sound, as the cutting and boosting of particular frequencies can radically

transform a sound. Consider audio examples 5.1-5.2, which demonstrate how different types

28 When describing the essence of particular synthesizers producers and enthusiasts are often drawn to the filter.

Similarly, I have observed that a great deal of time spent during the online review of a synthesizer (either in print or video) is on the filter.

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of filtering alter the character of the sound.29 The first example stems from a “lead preset”

found in Operator, a synthesizer emulator inside Ableton Live. In this example one can hear

how the slowly opening and closing of the low pass filter alters the sound. The second

example performs the sample process with a digital preset found in Live. In this example I

am applying different band pass filters to drop out and extenuate (that is, boost) particular

ranges of frequencies located between the bass and the treble (the mid). In these examples

one can hear how the filtering does not just alter pitch or harmony, but also timbre. This is

especially evident in example 5.1, where the cutting off of the higher frequencies leaves only

the lowest fundamentals, which in turn removes many of the harsher overtones that could

characterize the initial sound.30 Precise filtering lies at the heart of production practice. If a

filter can give a sound its unique timbre than it can also grant the producer a unique voice.

As timbre is such an important aspect of electronic music, situating one’s own sound

amongst a larger history of distinct and defining timbres becomes an exercise in defining a

producer’s voice. Timbre creation orients a producer inside the network of influences and

legacies that shape their understanding of what it means do be an artist, and their mastery of

particular techniques becomes an extension of their professional identity. As a result,

filtering, a seemingly technical process, is practiced with great care.

29 All audio examples can be found on the dissertation’s Soundcloud page. The corresponding playlist for this

chapter can be found at: https://soundcloud.com/user-131686918/sets/chapter-5-examples-1. 30 Synthesis often goes beyond these initial steps and there are different permutations (and technologies) that

have led to expansive variations on this model. From subtractive synthesis to FM (frequency modulating) synthesis to granular synthesis, the tools and technologies that producers use to design sound is seemingly endless While many of the producers sought to learn more about these technologies through self-instructed online learning, their basic understanding came through a hands-on approach to synthesis that saw them generate and shape control and shape output and signal. And the different forms simply add more expansive possibilities for producers.

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For producers, synthesis may not always start with selecting a wave shape from an

oscillator but rather with a preset patch built into the software or hardware. These patches

and presets, as described earlier, create characteristic, referential, and well-known sounds.

For the producers I worked with, presets are only considered the basis for creating new

sounds—a model for them to significantly alter and make their own new sounds. The desire

to create novel sounds from older presets is considered an important way to inscribe

authorship, especially when relying on a particular preset that is well known.31 Producers

must decide how much they will change in order to feel that they have asserted their own

voice upon the track. Although there are cases where the overt use of a preset that is only

slightly altered goes unnoticed (this is especially more likely if the preset is generated

through an analog synthesizer), the general aesthetic evaluation (from the perspective of the

producer) still prioritizes practices that seek a high level of sonic manipulation. That is,

despite house and techno’s fascination with particular sounds and presets —for instance,

those taken from historically influential instruments like the Prophet 12—there remains a

commitment to more conservative and historic concepts of authorship that situate producers

inside the legacy of modernist electronic music. Such a commitment may not be overtly

expressed in the creation of melody or rhythm, but it is very present in the creation of timbre.

This idea was made clear in my discussion with Gingy, who made specific reference to the

concept of his own artistic voice.

EW: How do you use presets?

G: A preset is somebody else’s voice. If we think traditionally in terms of instrumentation, there are only so many parameters on say a violin or clarinet that

31 Théberge has written extensively on how presets were initially understood by popular music producers and

studio musicians. Paul Théberge, Any Sound You Can Imagine: Making Music/Consuming Technology, (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press, 1997).

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you can play. So that’s a preset. Whereas with a synthesizer it’s quite different. You have entire worlds of sound that you can negotiate. So the playing of a synth is less about traditional tone or timbre. It is way more spectral. There are so many axes in which you can explore. So modular synthesis has really exploded because you can really dissect the sound. Or create new axis, as each module is its own axis where you can explore sound. Even a rhythmic divider that introduces a pulse just playing with the different parameters on that device completely alters where you can go with it.32

While many producers I worked with were confident in their ability to generate

interesting and powerful sounds entirely with software (what producers call “in-the-box”),

there were many who integrated external hardware, especially older/vintage analog

hardware. As Mark Butler and Robert Fink note in their respective articles on the 303 and the

Prophet 12, electronic music has a long history of celebrating hardware.33 From the Roland

808 and 909 drum machines, to the Jupiter 12, to Space Echo boxes from the 1970s, analog

hardware is valued; its presence in a home studio can be a marker of connoisseurship and

professional success. Many of the producers I spoke to said this was the result of facilitating

their experiments. Not only did they find hardware more intuitive and tactile, but they also

found that the initial sounds made by analog machines to be higher quality than digital

emulators. Whereas a producer only using software might have to manipulate a digital preset

for hours to reach the type of fidelity they desire, a producer using hardware knows that their

initial signal strength is sufficient.34 As a result, integrating some form of hardware is

seemingly always preferred.35 Not only is it much easier to manipulate the tactile knobs than

32 Gingy, Interview with producer, August 24 2014. 33 Fink, Repeating Ourselves: American Minimal Music as Cultural Practice; Butler, Unlocking The Groove. 34 I have yet to test the veracity of this feeling. Producers I spoke to were adamant that hardware produced

“stronger sounds.” However, discussions with software engineers have conveyed that this is not inherently true and more of a matter of the specific devices (digital and analog) that they are comparing.

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use the mouse, but also the output quality of the analog devices requires less processing in

order to reach the type of signal strength and fidelity described earlier.

Yet this is not the only reason that I believe hardware is so valued. By performing

experiments in sound design through hardware producers are interacting with the past and a

broader history of German modernist, disco, and Afrofuturist experimental practice. There

are certain sonic references, especially with regards to specific synthesizers and their

presence on seminal recordings, which become part of a larger canon of electronic dance

music. These references connect the producer to the initial experiments of house and techno,

experiments with particular synthesizers and drum machines that articulated a notion of

authorship and artistry that was bolstered, not diminished, by an engagement with

technology. From the TR909’s kick drum to the Prophet 12’s synth-pads to the MS20’s

filtered bass sounds, the integration of particular sounds allow producers to reach beyond the

context of a single track, providing an avenue to engage with the past and continue in the

larger aesthetic legacies of house and techno. This was made clear to me during an interview

with Gingy in his home studio in 2013. At the time, artists like Function and Marcel Dettman

were receiving widespread acclaim for tracks that were strikingly similar in to the heavy

industrial sounds of mid 1990s techno.36 I asked Gingy if he thought this was a nostalgic

exercise. His response surprized me. He said that the reason they sound like that is because

“they were just using the same machines and techniques that they used in the 90s.” It was not

that they were looking backwards but simply never changing. Similarly, in the documentary

Pioneers of Electronic Music, Richie Hawtin discussed a similar realization when recalling

the first day he went into the studio with the more experienced John Aquaviva. 36 The label Ostgut Ton, which as discussed earlier is affiliated with the world famous club Berghain, helped

popularize this resurgence.

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The main thing I remember about that first day is John had a TR909 drum machine…and as soon as I turned this thing on it was really like hearing all my favourite records at once, because it was the main machine that everyone was using back then.37

Thus, analog synthesizers are valued for the ease with which they can connect a producer to

both production practice history, and more directly, the aesthetic and iconic sounds of their

genre. The latter desire has not only been recognized by critics, as seen in Resident Advisor’s

“Machine Love” series that examines the hardware and software that have shaped production

practice, but also by music technology companies, as the first half of the 2010s has seen a

increase in affordable reissues of celebrated synthesizers mentioned earlier.38 The desire to

interact with a broader of history of sound design and experimentalism through modular

synthesis and analog hardware is significant. Valuing hardware in this way creates another

defining characteristic of professionalism, and establishes the house and techno producer, for

their self-assuredness, as a skilled and well-versed experimental practitioner. This does not

only put financial barriers in the way of competition, as hardware is quite expensive, but also

raises experiential barriers. In believing that house and techno require a mastery of

technology and science, from electronics to acoustics to psychoacoustics, producers

articulate their craft as one that is both serious and hard-won. Indeed, the way in which

technology is both acquired and used becomes like a trade secret, information that the

producer holds dearly, which is entirely tied to their livelihood and professional identity. For

this reason experimentation is important, as it is not only a way to achieve immediate results,

37 Richie Hawtin: Slices-Pioneers of Electronic Music Vol 1, directed by Maren Sextro and Holger Wick (2011,

Berlin, Telekom Electronic Beats) DVD. 38 The Roland Aira series (2014-2015) is the clearest example of this. Each model in the series references an

earlier synthesizer or sequencer from the 1980s and early 1990s.

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but is also as a means of participating in these secretive alchemic exercises. This became

evident to me when I asked the producer Mike Shannon about his modular rig (Figure 5.6).

EW: Can you show me your modular rig? Can I take a picture for my dissertation?

MS: Back in the day it was a big faux pas to take pictures and some guys would never let you do that [because] their secrets are revealed. I went to [a producers] studio and he was fine he just didn’t want pictures. Back in the day, I went to Kenny Glasgow’s [a well known Toronto producer] studio and they wouldn’t let anyone take pictures of what they were doing.39

39 Mike Shannon, Interview with producer, June 12 2015.

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Figure 5.6. Mike Shannon’s modular rig. Placing everything into a single box was important to him. As he told me, “I scaled down my studio. [Now] basically every sound is generated through this (points at the modular).” Note that the patch cords are all removed. He told me he did this because he enjoyed starting from scratch each time. In forging a new patch each time he knew his sound would not get stale. 40

In Shannon’s response we see the connection technology and synthesis have to a producer’s

identity and reputation. This is especially clear with regards to the use of modular

synthesisers, as the piecemeal construction of these large instruments maps onto the gradual

development of an artistic voice. For this reason, an understanding of synthesis and the

performance of synthesis, either through a modular or an emulator, is an important part of the

process and one that is used not only to achieve the sounds of the past, to recreate those that

came before, but also to re-articulate the producer’s own identity in the present. Synthesis

connects producers to history and the aesthetic ideologies of experimentalism, Afrofuturism,

and the tinkering that preceded them. In short, synthesis put them into a larger continuum of

shared historical practice. As Felix K told me, synthesis is more than facilitating production;

it is a process of asserting one’s artistry through contributing to a cultural practice.

To find an interesting sound when playing around with analog oscillators can be quite demanding. But in the end it is even more rewarding, because you can add something new to the culture and other people can sample you.41

Sampling Sampling is another means for producers of house and techno articulate their nuanced

professional identity and sense of artistry through production practice. Utilizing different

forms of sampling, often in conjunction with other aspects of sound design, producers are

able to interact with their history and legacy. This ranges from direct engagements with

40 Ibid. 41 Felix K, Email correspondence with producer, August 5 2015.

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seminal recordings to completely hidden acts of borrowing that amount to constructing new

tracks from the smallest sonic materials taken from the tracks of another. Sampling connects

producers to the legacy of European experimental music and afro-diasporic practice. In

addition, the act of sampling is a constant reminder to producers that their tracks will

inevitably become the raw materials for other musicians.

Sampling in popular music is a well-studied practice.42 While a significant amount of

the research on sampling is concerned with its use in hip-hop, the practice has also been

addressed in EDM research. Most notably, Ratcliffe’s typology of sampled material within

EDM has done admirable work in categorizing and describing the different types of sampling

done in the many genres that are popularly grouped as EDM.43 Drawing from earlier

categorizations of sampling (Goodwin, Porcello, and Cutler) Ratcliffe proposes a model that

splits sampling into four distinct categories, each containing its own subset of definitions.44

Ratcliffe’s typology primarily considers the length of the sample, that is, how much musical

material in time is being presented, the referential context in which it is presented, and the

aesthetic or functional use it plays inside the new track. As his chart details (figure 5.7) each

branch has its collection of specific subsections.

42 Andrew Goodwin, “Sample and Hold: Pop Music in the Digital Age of Reproduction,” Critical Quarterly 30,

no. 3 (1988): 34–49; Thomas Porcello, “The Ethics of Digital Audio-Sampling: Engineers’ Discourse,” Popular Music, vol. 10, no. 1 (1991): 69–84; Chris Cutler, “Plunderphonia,” Musicworks 60 (1994): 6–9; Joseph G. Schloss, Making Beats: The Art of Sample Based Hip-Hop Music, (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 2004); Mark Katz, Capturing Sounds How Technology Has Changed Music, (Berkley: University of California Press, 2010).

43 Robert Ratcliffe, “A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material Within Electronic Dance Music,” Dancecult 6, no. 1(2014): 97—122.

44 Ibid., 98.

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5.7. Ratciliffe’s Typology of Sampled Material within EDM45

Although Ratcliffe’s model categorizes all forms of sampling in EDM, sampling

nonetheless remains difficult to discuss comprehensively because it is so ubiquitous. From

analog synthesizers that integrate digital samples into their hardware, to software presets,

some aspects of sampling are found throughout production practice and it is practically

impossible to discern between a sample and synthesized sound. Indeed, determining where

sampling begins and ends in electronic music inevitably leads to a larger and evermore

45 Ibid, 99.

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complicated discussion of authenticity and the ontology of recordings.46 Instead, I prefer to

detail some of the ways sampling is used and how it functions as an important technique for

producers. Throughout this section I will return to Ratcliffe’s typologies, demonstrating how

occasionally the different types of sampling I witnessed could be placed in multiple

categories. These typologies connect to specific practices which producers rely upon to

articulate their professional identity.

The most straightforward definition of sampling is the acquisition and integration of

sonic information from a pre-existing recording—musical material from recording A is used

to create recording B. This act can be traced back to the earliest days of experimental

electronic music, and producers and critics have drawn connections between this practice

(both in hip-hop and dance music) and musique concrete.47 In production, some form of

audio manipulation always accompanies the integration of the sampled material, where the

sonic features of the sample are edited. The level of manipulation and the context in which it

is presented determines how likely stylistically competent listeners will recognize the sample

as being referential.

The producers I worked with obtained samples in a variety of ways. The way in

which a sample is acquired however, does not necessarily prescribe how the sample will be

used. Specifically, the categorization or function of a sample is rarely predetermined and the

utility of a sample to a given production is only realized at a later stage—usually once the

46 With the exception of championing modular synthesis, the producers I worked with did not prioritize modes

of recording. A sample taken from a vintage synthesizer was seen as just as effective as a sample taken from a recent recording. It invariably boiled down to how creative they were in its eventual application. In that sense, what separates a sample taken from a vintage vinyl record and a sample taken from a contemporary modular synthesizer has nothing do with the practice but rather how the sample is used, and the context and discourse surroundings its dissemination.

47 Davies, “A History of Sampling;” Katz, Capturing Sound; Jenkins, Analog Synthesizers; Ratcliffe, “A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material Typology of Samples.”

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sample is integrated into the DAW and manipulated amidst the context of the larger track.

The most popular sampling method is taking an already digitized audio file and integrating it

into a software sampler such as Live’s Simpler [sic]. As figure 5.8 demonstrates, at this stage

the artist can change the duration of the sample, the frequency at which it is sounded, and

alter it as if it were a synthesized sound. For others, while the Simpler was the tool used to

process and sculpt their samples, these samples would come not from pre-existing

commercial recordings but their own recordings of analog instruments and vintage

synthesizers that they acquired over their career.48 This type of sampling is similar to

sampling practices in hip-hop and other afro-diasporic music, one in which the producer does

not just lift a sample from a recording, but also works to manipulate it in such a manner that

determines how likely it will be recognized as a reference, if at all.

Figure 5.8. Abelton Live’s Simpler [sic], a digital sampling tool that allows the manipulation of audio material. Here it is loaded with a kick drum sample taken from a Roland TR-909. Simpler, like most samplers, allows the user to change many aspects of the sound.

Another sampling method, one that requires significantly more time, is the collecting

of field recordings. This involves producers using digital recorders (or analog tape devices)

to record sounds both inside and outside their studios. For Primo, a producer I interviewed in

48 For instance, Avalon Emerson told me that she has banks of samples from vintage synthesizer that she

organized into virtual drum racks to facilitate writing.

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Berlin, this involves recording acoustic instruments like snare drums and xylophones. In

other cases, I was told of individuals recording the sounds of day-to-day life, such as the

rumbling of a subway train moving through a station. Integrating and repurposing found

sound or archival sound into productions is a popular technique in techno and house, and

these novel samples are often celebrated in promotional materials leading up to the release of

these tracks.49 Field recordings connect the producer to a tradition of musique concrete and

early experiments in the integration of found sound into production practices.

Over the course of a producer’s career they build an extensive sample library

generated from other recordings, downloadable sample packs, and their own experiments

with synthesizers and other hardware.50 DAW software suites also include large sample

libraries that younger artists especially rely on, as they have yet to develop their own

collection.51 These samples are the building blocks, the unbaked clay that they will

eventually turn into the bricks that are used to make their tracks. Amongst the producers I

worked with, the purchasing of sample packs through online retailers like Beatport, Juno, and

Waves, is considered below their station. To rely on material generated from sample packs,

samples that often fit into Ratcliffe’s Category B “Loops and Phrases,” is considered by

producers as a lesser form of production, especially if the entire groove (that is, not just a

loop but many loops layered together) was sampled. To use an entire groove would not just

be considered a short-cut, but more importantly, would remove the producers from some of

49 An example of this is the work of English producer Matthew Herbert, who has gained recognition for

releasing works entirely built from novel samples. For instance, his 2005 album Plat du Jour relied on samples taken recordings he took of food preparation and consumption.

50 This has led to larger market for digital samples, as websites like Beatport sell individual packs and more recently the website Splice offer massive libraries on a subscription basis.

51 In almost all cases these samples are not licensed; however, the way in which these producers will utilize the sounds means that their eventual use will render them unrecognizable.

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the central creative processes that they rely upon to assert their authorship. That being said,

the large software-suites that most producers use contain extensive sample libraries, and the

hardware they often integrate contains its own collection of presets and samples. An example

that fits nicely into Ratcliffe’s Category B was Bwana, who described for me how he

“grabbed a hi-hat loop” from a particularly well-known techno track. This type of borrowing

is considered acceptable because it is just a single loop of a single instrument. More

significantly to Bwana, he had manipulated and masked the sample in such a way (through

mixing and other audio editing) that he felt that he had adequately appropriated authorship

from the original producer. In cases like these, sampling is used to create the functional

building blocks of a track, and is in no way designed to overtly reference another work. For

Ratcliffe, Bwana’s sample would be categorized as a “self-referential loop,” an instance

when “source recognition is irrelevant, with the material selected purely for its musical

content.”52 The ability to create new music from the deconstruction of another’s productions

imparts notions of professionalism and technical mastery onto the producer’s identity.

However, it also reminds them that their own productions may play a similar role for another

producer.

52 Ratcliffe, “A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material,” 104.

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Figure 5.9. The Akai MPC2000XL a popular digital sampler once used by techno and house producers. While it has since become a staple of hip-hop production, it is still found in some house and techno studios.

Figure 5.10. The E-Mu System SP1200. One of the first digital samplers.

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At times, sampling can be overtly referential. In these cases the sonic material

integrated from an earlier recording is designed to be recognized, drawing attention to the

producer’s re-purposing of pre-existing material. In Ratcliffe’s terms these sounds are placed

in Category C, which includes larger elements such as a capella tracks, extended excerpts,

and extensive referential non-musical material.53 Yet in other cases these referential samples

can be smaller units (Category B) or even short and/or isolated fragments (Category A). That

is, some samples, despite being quite short, unassuming, and not easily recognizable to a

casual listener can also function as clear sonic markers of genres, people, or places. For

instance, the low-tube kick drum and cowbell sound from the TR808 drum machine are so

iconic that a single hit used throughout a piece can be referential (examples 3 and 4).

Similarly, a particularly quirky sample, “a springy sort of trilling noise” known as the “loon

sound” became an inside joke for producers and DJs during 2014 (example 5).54 This sound,

which Phillip Sherburne traced back to a preset on the E-Mus Emulator II, an early sampling

keyboard from the 1980s, took on its own referential history despite lasting just under one

second.55 In these samples we can see how even a single drum hit or brief sound becomes not

only referential to a machine in which it was produced, but to a larger intertextual

conversation between producers from different eras and genres.56

According to Ratcliffe, the most overt cases (category C) of sampling are when the

sample is (seemingly) not overly altered, as such editing would inevitably distract from the

53 Ibid., 106. 54 Phillip Sherburne, “”Anacandoa,” “Pacific State,” “Sueńo Latino,” and the Story of a Sample That Keeps on

Coming Back,” Pitchfork Magazine, September 8 2014, accessed November 2016: http://pitchfork.com/thepitch/474-anaconda-pacific-state-sueno-latino-and-the-story-of-a-sample-that-keeps-coming-back/.

55 Ibid.

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sample’s source of reference. Yet, even in these cases the sound is greatly manipulated, as

producers almost always add some form of reverb, equalization or pitch shifting. Examples

of these overtly referential sounds are found throughout techno and house history, and indeed

some of the most celebrated tracks of early house music feature overt references to disco

songs. With the exception of Bwana, all the producers I interviewed avoided overtly

referential sampling, and any type of sampling that would fit into Category C and D was

broken down in such a way that its referential function was rendered hidden.57 As Ratcliffe

confirms, this desire is in many respects the result of producers enacting some form of

authorship through practice.58 Samples were always used as building blocks for other

functions; they were the basis for a new instrument, the core parts of the track, and a thus the

majority of the sampling fits clearly into what Ratcliffe would call short isolated fragments,

and loops and phrases.59 These in turn, fit into the larger experimental prerogative producers

have, as they work to not only present pre-recorded music in new contexts, but to

painstakingly experiment in order to give these samples a new function. Such an endeavour

lies at the heart of experimentation, a process that seeks to repurpose and redefine what

constitutes functionality.

Ratcliffe’s “short isolated phrases” category includes five sub categories. The most

significant of these being the sampling of “drum and percussion sounds.” For Ratcliffe, and

indeed, for much of EDM history, these were samples acquired from previous recordings,

57 As detailed later on in this section, Bwana’s only use of an overtly referential sample is associated with his

album Capsule’s Pride, in which he utilized samples from the film Akira. As a type of sound track based concept album it was important for Bwana to integrate referential samples that informed listeners from where in the film he was gathering samples from.

58 Ratcliffe confirms when he mentions how the use of “larger, unmodified extracts is often viewed as uncreative and unoriginal.” Ratcliffe, “A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material,” 102.

59 Ibid., 102.

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taken through isolating individual drum hits in full tracks and then re-using the isolated hits

to form new percussion ensembles. While this practice was observed on occasion, the

majority of the producers I studied did not use this technique. Rather, most percussion

samples were taken from hardware and software that had already isolated these hits, namely,

drum machines.60 In these cases the producer either took their own recordings from particular

drum machines, or more likely, acquired these samples through digital libraries available

online and in particular software suites. In particular, software such as Reaktor by Native

Instruments contains thousands of drum samples which can all be altered in such a way that

their initial point of reference (the software-suite) is all but hidden. Furthermore, as

producers build their own percussion sample libraries over time, they forget where they first

acquired their samples, and all reference to a particular sources becomes lost. Indeed, there

were numerous times throughout my research where I would ask, “where did you get this

sample?” and the answer was “I’m not sure, I’ve had it for years.” Drum samples are also

taken from non-percussion instruments, in what Ratcliffe terms “recontextualized to function

as drum and percussions sounds.”61 In these cases producers process samples into percussive

hits, removing definitive harmonic or pitch content and replacing them with other

characteristics that make them more likely to function as a percussive sound. This works

hand-in-hand with his other category “pitched elements as a basis for new musical material”

in a larger effort to create their own orchestras and sound banks. 62

60 It can be challenging at times to isolate individual drum hits from completed tracks. While some producers I

worked with were able to accomplish this, it was considered quite time intensive. The most popular percussion sound extracted from completed tracks is the kick drum. This is mostly likely the result of many tracks beginning with a sparse percussion loop that is more accessible to sampling as there are fewer unwanted frequencies to remove.

61 Ratcliffe, “A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material,” 100. 62 Ibid., 101.

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In many cases samples are not simply used individually but layered with other

samples to create a new composite sound. An example of this is the kick-drum, which in

most cases is the result of many kick drum samples layered upon one another. Each kick-

drum sample is sculpted and tuned in such a way that when combined with others it gives the

sound greater strength and definition. As audio example 5.6 demonstrates, a kick-drum’s

sound quality changes as it is layered. In this example I have layered four different kicks,

each offering a different sonic profile. As you will hear, each layer offers a different quality

that is altered by the source and the mixing. Each layer is focused on a different aspect of the

sound. For instance one focuses on strengthening the attack, another on defining the kick-

drum’s sustain, and another on shaping its reverb. I have observed producers layer upwards

of half a dozen different individual kick drum sounds in order to construct a sound that is

uniquely theirs. In a sense, this blends aspects of sampling, synthesis, and signal processing,

as the layering of a kick drum combines a sense of musical borrowing and composing from

scratch. Thus, the layering of samples is a critical part of sound design, one in which the

producer does not just sculpt their own sounds but combine their fragments to create new

purposeful instruments. Sampling is an act that has its roots both in afro-diasproic concepts

of borrowing and sampling, as well as the modernist tradition of manipulating technology to

create new sounds through the re-combination of the old. Sampling allows producers to

interact with the different aesthetic legacies that inform their notion of what it means to be a

professional artist.

Most of the producers I worked with care deeply about discovering and deconstructing pre-

existing recordings and repurposing them into new multi-layered instruments. For instance,

Alland Byallo, an American techno producer from Berlin told me that he often began with

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what one may consider referential samples, audio taken from sources outside of electronic

music, such as a famous speech or a verse from a popular song. Once he settles on a sample

he then edits it down slowly over time, transforming it into something unrecognisable. For

Byallo, and I imagine my other participants, this type of sampling becomes a practice of

musical scavenging and salvaging. Like a carpenter searching through an old building for

reclaimed wood, producers like Byallo forage through forgotten tracks searching for

materials they can repurpose. And yet, their search is not limited to the forgotten. They also

demonstrated a desire to find materials in the most celebrated and well-known sources, such

as Bwana transforming a Taylor Swift sample into an unrecognisable virtual instrument. In

essence, this amounts to the carpenter looking not for reclaimed wood amongst the

wreckage, but stealing functional materials of value from a heritage building.63 The desire to

repurpose material in a way that renders them unrecognizable was further articulated by

Deepchild when we discussed his newfound love for archival sounds.

EW: How do you approach sampling?

DC: In recent years I’ve been drawn to archival sounds. I love the idea of hearing sounds using these recordings because you have an imagined context and I love the idea of transposing this idea that you only know about then you hear it at Berghain and you hear this macro dialogue happening. There is a moment, in Berghain; you’re playing a track, something sticks out in the sound—and that was the sound of the dude dropping a piece of wood in an Alan Lomax archive and it beautifully messes with your understanding of time and context. And that to me is more important than the sound quality that I've somehow attached a reference to it.

My approach to sound design is history and finding a place in it. And that sound that I can’t touch and contrive a story isn’t so exciting. I know a lot of people just buy sample packs but for me everything from DJ to production is an ongoing dialogue [between history and present] in your life.

63 In these cases not only does repurposing function as a creative task, but also as one that is necessary to avoid

persecution and legal ramifications. Sampling was not about making overt allusions to known texts but more about a subversive and personal aesthetic practice.

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EW: Is this the same for creating your drum sounds?

DC : For most drums I start with micro layering, I have a bunch of tracks from garage and disco that I went through and hacked out the percussive hits, which become the tone color of what I’m making, and then I layer and the initial sounds becomes this small smudgy fingerprint. And I use soft synths to provide a dynamic power, because the samples aren’t compressed then these will go into a folder and folder sounds will go into a drum machine and then I’ll render a loop from there. And what gives a lot of the sounds the “Deepchild” quality is that the samples I've been using for years and years that seem very fun to me and I bastardize them […] I don’t feel comfortable using percussive hits that I haven’t altered.64

For an artist like Deepchild, sampling is a process of deconstruction and reconstruction—

turning a referential sample into something that is isolated and at times entirely self-

referential; samples are personal mementos, deeply woven markers of history and practice

that only he can fully understand. The fact that they also double as the constitutive parts of a

given techno track further enhances his conception of authorship, as he is able to inscribe

meaning into what most listeners would simply take for granted. As Ratcliffe notes, the

reason “musicians dissect and recombine samples is because the use of larger, unmodified

extracts is often viewed as uncreative or unoriginal.”65 This reading resonated with the

practices I observed, as it is clear that the manipulation of the sample and the modifying and

transformation of the sample is an important site where authorship is enacted. Returning to

Gingy’s earlier assessment of presets, this is the moment when the instrument started to

become an extension of their own voice.

The aesthetics and performance of sampling are similar to the relationship between

presets and synthesis. To overly sample is to “bite” another artist’s style, or to diminish a

sense of artistic originality. Sampling is respected when it is melded into the larger aesthetic,

64 Deepchild, Interview with producer, June 18 2015. 65 Ratcliffe, 102.

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when it is tactical, and when its utility is not taken for granted. While sampling can be used

to evoke nostalgia, especially in house music, there is a cycle, like any nostalgic enterprise of

embrace, celebration, and then rejection. The artists I spoke to all said they never felt that

they cynically engaged in nostalgia; however, their own attachments to earlier genres of

electronic music invariably led them to try to re-create the sounds of bygone eras.

In between the overtly referential sampling and the complete deconstructive practices

that I found so often used, is the semi-referential sample. This is the act of sampling in which

the actual recording sampled may not be recognizable, but the sonic characteristics, notably

the timbre, are recognizable as something iconic and broadly referential to either a genre or

period in dance music history.66 This practice fits in Ratcliffe’s Category A as well; however,

his terminology of “ornamental sounds” distracts from the functional role they play in

defining affect. As Ratcliffe writes, “these sounds still have a mimetic quality in that they

evoke a certain genre or historical production style.”67 While this is true, these are not always

the “sonic embellishments” that Ratcliffe labels them. In addition, such references can be

located in even the most seemingly functional and constituent synthesizer timbres, drum

machine hits, or even audio effects. In these cases the sampling references particular

instruments and sounds that have defined these sub-genres over their history.68

66 The clearest example of this is the aforementioned timbre of the TB-303 associated with acid house. Other

examples are the TR-909 drum machine’s open hi-hats with 90s vocal house, the lush polyphonic strings that are associated with disco, the abrasive hi-hats associated with techno, and the Hammond organ in deep house tracks.

67 Ratcliffe, “A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material,” 103. 68 A good example is the way in which 90s style house music was being revitalized during 2010-2014. As

critics in Resident Advisor and XLR8R noted these types of sounds were becoming ever popular, especially in the United Kingdom. Here, sampling was less about taking a particular vocal hook than it was about utilizing particular percussion sounds that were popular in vocal house music from the mid 1990s. These samples were mostly taken from the Roland TR909, which combined with particular rhythmic idioms, have led it to be associated with this particular period of house music production.

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An example that demonstrates the different layers of sampling and the different roles

it plays in production can be is found in the long form album Capsule’s Pride released by

Bwana in 2015. This album is made of samples taken from the Japanese anime film Akira

(1988). Over the course of this album Bwana demonstrates the different types of sampling

that take place, bouncing between Ratcliffe’s categories and often implementing them

simultaneously.69 Bwana’s album was well received, with Andrew Ryce from Resident

Advisor writing,

The concept of remixing an OST might seem like a gimmick, but Micay is a versatile producer, who can pivot from making post-dubstep anthems to uncanny trance throwbacks. Capsule’s Pride highlights his multiple talents, as Micay expertly translates Yamashiro's mix of wonderment and anxiety into a record of alternately wounded and energetic electronic.70

Although his album was widely praised for its aesthetic quality, the fact that such a

large percentage of the musical material came from the film’s soundtrack was not initially

known. That is, while the press agents promoting the album included this fact in their press

releases, it was mostly assumed that the sampling was reserved to the overt referential

moments (for instance, the use of dialog from the film). And yet for Bwana, having his

audience recognize this specific labour was less of a concern, and he admitted to me that his

technical accomplishment would be all for naught had the tracks not worked outside of this

context. This was evident when I asked him about how he initially approached record labels.

69 Throughout the album Bwana integrates diegetic sounds and dialogue that situate his music inside the larger

narrative of the film. This is combined with the transformation of diegetic sounds into new instruments, rendering a gunshot or a car engine into a percussion sound that is unrecognizable to the listener.

70 Andrew Ryce, “Review: Bwana Capsule’s Pride,” Resident Advisor, February 15 April 2016, accessed September 2016, https://www.residentadvisor.net/reviews/18967.

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B: I told Luckyme [the label that released it] that about 75% of the album was from Akira. We spoke about it. At first they said they were listening to it in the office for about two months and it grew on them and then when one of them asked what it was and learned about the story behind its creation then they realized it was marketing gold

EW: So first and foremost it needed to stand on its own, but then once it was considered worthwhile the story behind it made it easy to market

B: Yes. There are so many Akira tribute things already. And they knew that what made this one unique, and forgive me for saying so, is that it was good music

EW: As someone who knows they can make good music, what motivated you to sample it at all? Was it more because you are an anime fan? Or was it about the challenge /novelty/craft of doing something like that?

B: The challenge. I wanted to see if I could follow through on an album and I think an album is daunting so to have both a theme and source of sounds in place made it an easier task to approach it.71

For Bwana, to build an album from the deconstructed scraps of a previously recorded

and celebrated soundtrack was an opportunity to display his production chops and his own

skill within the medium. It was a performance of both his mastery of technical skills and of

the genre, while also placing him in the larger history of electro-acoustic found sound,

musique concrete, hip-hop, and plunderphonics. This demonstrated a type of resourcefulness

and aesthetic ingenuity. It also represented a type of engagement with a medium, anime, that

he was passionate about, and a way of integrating admired cultural texts into his own

production devoid of irony. Such an engagement did not only satisfy a desire to create that

which is novel, but also connected him to other genres, mediums, and fan cultures.

To return to Mike Shannon’s statement about synthesis, many of these practices are

done solely for the producer’s own sense of accomplishment and identity. It is personal

71 Bwana, Facebook Messenger correspondence, January 25 2017.

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performance of professionalism and authorship. These types of practices exercises elevate

their labour to other well-regarded artistic projects that put a premium on formal unity,

craftsmanship, and intertextual conversations. It becomes both a technical and aesthetic

victory, and cements their position as artists that can aptly juggle the market-specific

requirements of their genre, and the larger, broader, aesthetic legacies they seek to continue.

This mindset illuminates why the producers I worked with were so at peace with the fact that

their productions were destined to be deconstructed by other musicians. Their lives and

practices centre on the fact that creation requires consumption. For this reason, producers are

quite sympathetic to the destruction and alteration of their own tracks. While they believe

their tracks have autonomy and deserve reverence they also know that they are the future

materials for musicians, as their sampling procedures rely on the same manoeuvres and acts

of displacing authorship.

Step Sequencing and Programming

The act of designing sound, either through synthesis or sampling, rarely occurs in isolation

from other musical procedures. Synthesis and sampling are often designed with respect to

groove formation through the layering of loops—repeated rhythmic and melodic patterns that

continuously play-back as they are being edited. Beyond the aesthetic function of loops, the

constant repetition available through loops are essential to sound design as they allow

repeated playback, which in turn facilitates the close listening that is necessary to execute the

required fine tuning. Although it may be easy to see which individual rhythms and pitches

are combined to form a given loop in a track, the processes of generating these pitches and

rhythms differ greatly from a traditional understanding of musical composition and run much

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closer to formulations found in electro-acoustic music.72 As such, a transcription model that

describes the rhythm of a given loop may differ radically from one that prescribes the types

of mechanisms that generate such rhythms.

In electronic music the act of putting pitches and rhythms in order is called

sequencing. This name comes from the analog devices, known as sequencers, which were

initially used to orchestrate and organize multi-track arrangements. While sequencing in the

past was understood in terms of the large-scale construction of a track—the way in which

individual recordings of different instruments were layered together in a similar manner to

how we understand multi-tracking in conventional recording practice—it also refers to the

process of generating rhythm and musical material from means other than directly

transcribing rhythm and melody. Sequencing and sequencers are used to generate new and

innovative musical ideas, especially rhythmic patterns that often seem difficult to access

through traditional notation and compositional practice.

In musicology and music theory we often imagine that the musical material that ends

up in a score (or on a recording) is the transcription (or recording) of a preconceived musical

idea. For example, a composer sits at a piano, and through a combination of inspiration,

improvisation, and experimentation they settle on a musical idea. While they may tease this

material out, they eventually write this idea down, in an act of transcription that seeks to

capture how the sound could be recreated for future performance. While the transcription

process is not the final step, as they may return back and forth from transcription to piano,

the composer eventually arrives at a moment when they complete their composition through

72 Kurtz, “Stockhausen: A Biography;” Peter Manning, Electronic and Computer Music, (Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 2013); Demers, Listening Through the Noise; Elsea, The Art and Technique of Electroacoustic Music.

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a final transcription. Despite the potential back and forth between transcription and

composition, in this model there is an implied division between conception and transcription.

An idea is realized and then it is written down or recorded—a two-step process in which an

idea is created and inscribed (either in a recording or on a page). In house and techno this too

occurs. Producers often sit at keyboards and as they improvise or realize a musical idea they

enter it note-by-note into the software. While this is not done through traditional notation

(piano-roll notation is most commonly used) it nonetheless relies on a similar process: a

musical idea, an order of notes and pitches is input into software, which in this case can

function as both a score and recording.73 While the immediate interaction with sound differs

in some sense to more traditional notions of composition (one involving a composer removed

from the instrument sketching out melodies, harmonies, and motives on a page), it remains

similar in that there remains a division between processes of composing and processes of

transcribing and/or recording.

When producing with percussion instruments the act of inscription is called

programming. Programming is the way in which producers enter drum hits into a step-

sequencer, often built into a drum machine. Historically, the most popular sequencer used in

contemporary house and techno is the step sequencer. These devices let individuals program

discrete drum hits that will sound at specific steps in a given loop. For instance a single bar

loop (in 4/4) often has 16 steps, allowing a producer to trigger sounds on any of the 16th notes

(see figure 5.12). Programming a step sequencer resembles transcription in the sense that it

notates individual parts for individual instruments—a producer enters a collection of patterns

73 Producers utilizing this method are not often formally trained at the instruments they are experimenting in.

Rather, many of the producers I worked with had only rudimentary instrumental musical training and instead, were reliant on memorized patterns and shapes, both virtually and physically that led to particularly fruitful results.

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into a machine and then when they press play the machine performs them, much in the same

way a composer may hand a collection of sheet music to an ensemble of performers—the

main difference is that the composition and playback here are often occurring in real time. In

that sense, much of analog drum programming (the creation of rhythmic idioms layered into

grooves) maps easily onto other understandings of what it means to compose music.

Programming grooves puts the producer in direct contact with afro-diasporic

practices of loop-based based music. Often listening to the groove as it constantly plays-

back, the process of writing grooves is one in which the producer experiments with sound

over time. In focusing on these smaller changes and the inter-relationships between rhythmic

units, producers experiment with syncopation, rhythmic ambiguity and slight changes in

timbre to form repetitive but ever changing loops. While these grooves are often the product

of more abstract experiments in sound design, they are also generated through experiments

with analog drum machines, many of which are identical to the machines used by house and

techno’s earliest practitioners.

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Figure 5.11 The Roland TR808 Drum Machine. The coloured numbers that run across the bottom represent the 16 steps in a 4 beat bar.

In these cases, what we see is simply a continuation of inscribing music in the most

traditional sense. Producers use a technology to transcribe or record a musical idea, and then

edit it. Editing can be understood in this case as what the producer instructs the performers to

do after they receive the material. These are instructions that are often subjective and

obfuscate the relationship between input and output. For instance, the swing function on a

drum machine, which allows the machine to put accents on particular hits and slightly

displace the rhythm, is not programmed precisely but set with a knob that determines to what

degree the notes in question will be off-set and displaced. This differs from directly entering

a rhythm but still does not differ too wildly from earlier practice—consider how a composer

writes in the word “rubato” or “swing” in the score, terms that infer a change a performance

but do not precisely outline what such a change will sound like.

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While the use of swing functions offers rhythmic disruptions from the most direct of

input instructions, there are more obvious examples of production practice that challenge

traditional understandings of compositional processes and relate more closely to modern

forms of algorithmic composition practice. Specifically, producers routinely use devices like

randomizers, beat repeaters, and trackers, to generate ideas. These devices provide additional

steps between the conception of an idea and the output of sound, and are used to perform

computations, which in turn generate sounds that did not exist prior to transcription.

Electronic music history has long been characterized by the use of devices that

automate rhythm and pitch, generating patterns and sequences through programmable

algorithms. These devices like CV/Gates and Turing machines play an important role in

modular synthesis, and are becoming increasingly common among practitioners seeking to

leave behind software-based composition. There are also many ways in which digital devices

are used to generate new musical content. The most sophisticated generators used by

producers I interviewed were trackers. Trackers are a form of sequencing software in which

all parameters of a given track are digitized. As each aspect of a sound (its pitch, volume,

duration, etc.) is assigned digital numbers they can be easily manipulated. Once musical

content is digitized it can be run through particular algorithms and patterns that generate new

and unexpected sequences and results. Explained by the Tracker’s Handbook, a digital

source for beginner and advanced techniques with trackers:

A tracker is a piece of software that allows music to be made using only a computer and some sound samples. These sound samples are then played back at varying pitches and with various effects so as to produce music. The musical data used to describe how to play each note is arranged in a list like form, as shown below.

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Note Instrument Volume Effect command Effect parameters C#5 1 40 1 01

C#5 1 40 101 F-6 2 38 330 G-3 3 20 F05 --- -- 000 --- -- 102 --- -- 300 D-2 3 24 A0F C-4 4 -- 472 C#5 5 -- E93 --- -- 300 --- 3 P0 A0F --- -- 400 74

Trackers are used as a way to generate and enhance musical ideas (figure 5.12). They

are appendages adopted by the producer to find permutations and possibilities that lay

beyond their own conceptual non-machine based thinking. This idea returns to issues laid out

in Chapter 1, where I outlined the types of unions formed between producer and technology.

Trackers facilitate the process in which producers access their post-human potential. They

are mechanisms that allow them to generate material that may lay outside of their

imagination and/or physical ability to hear or perform such music. Furthermore, the real time

adjustments they can make while the tracker generates its own content can only result in

more diverse results, creating a never-ending chain of output generators.

74 Matthew Coulson, The Trackers Handbook, accessed November 2016,

http://resources.openmpt.org/tracker_handbook/handbook.htm.

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Figure 5.12. The Impulse Tracker by Jeffrey Lin

Trackers and sequencers are able to automate more than just pitch and rhythm.

Indeed, they can also be used to sequence and manipulate other musical parameters. More

broadly, trackers can trigger and operate each one of many parameters that are adjustable

inside the larger and smaller processes of both synthesis and sampling. In being able to

design a program that can slightly alter and randomize so many parameters simultaneously,

producers are able to access possibilities well beyond their non-mechanically enhanced

imagination. Not only can they design instruments that have no parallel in the physical or

acoustic world but they can also create an idealized performer that can accomplish tasks and

ways of performing that no human could likely ever create.

But why is this useful for producers? Or why do producers feel that they need to use

machines to generate new music? The most obvious answer is that they use these devices

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because they need to: because attempting to input all these changes in real time with a piano

or other MIDI instrument is not practical and drastically limits the amount of real-time

manipulation of other parameters. The human body can only physically manipulate a finite

number of parameters and functions at once—often restricted to the use of their two hands.

As such, it remains useful to have some form of automation to facilitate the creation of

dynamic content that extends beyond their physical limitations. In using machines they are

able to access new frontiers of sound manipulation that extend their imagination well beyond

their physical limitations. Just as a constant playback function allows for the fine-tuning of a

sound’s timbre, so too does a step sequencer and tracker allow for more advanced excursions

in experimental sound design.

In terms of assisting the track writing process, trackers, along with other devices that

generate rhythm and pitch, are even more significant. As discussed in chapter one producers

of house and especially techno try to create music that despite relying on loops remains ever

changing. The subtle changes one can access with a tracker facilitates this aesthetic goal, and

allows for the creation of music that is always dynamic despite relying on seemingly little

melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic source material. Trackers and sequencers can also regulate

the degree of randomness and/or slight changes in texture, timbre, and rhythm that prevent

single loops or shorter musical ideas from remaining static.

There is a fine line between sounding repetitive and boring and sounding hypnotic

and loopy, and in my experience the factor that most affects this distinction are the minute

changes that occur over the course of a given loop or track. While a producer could do this

without a tracker, devices like these make his practice much easier and more effective, as

programming a machine to perform erratically or randomly within a closed system is at times

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easier than trying to replicate it oneself. It would take too long, and be very labour intensive,

to have to slightly de-tune or alter the attack or sustain on each note.

Tracking and sequencing is a site for negotiating professional identity. Using

sequencers and trackers requires a great deal of time and skill. To utilize them effectively

requires an understanding of challenging software, and the ability to conceptualize more

abstract notions of sound creation. As such, I believe producers use devices like trackers to

cement their professionalism and interact with a legacy of experimental composition. To use

a tracker does not just achieve sonic results that are likely inaccessible through other means,

but also marks professional competency and skill; moreover, it ingrains a sense of

originality, as the individual often designs the algorithms and tracking programing. They are

hearing their machines work on their own, a moment of sonic alchemy that connects them to

a larger history of highly skilled professionals and artisans. This is precisely what Gingy

addressed when I asked him why he was becoming more interested in utilizing trackers.

EW: So lately you’ve been using trackers. What do they offer?

G: Digital music is just numbers on a time frame. So if digital audio is quantized numbers, why not fully embrace that and use a tool that embraces numerical thinking?

Trackers are great because they are agnostic towards the dimensions. With a DAW you have all these things in place (time length, loop size, quantization) but with trackers you explore through engineering. Any idea can be an axis. You are free from [using any specific] time or any scale or pitch. You can reduce it to anything you can imagine.

Trackers drive a lot of early electronic music. It helps with complexity and approaching to new methods of composition. In electro-acoustic music with things like Max and other languages they look at how abstract forms can lead to different things. It becomes a recursive living and breathing organism, an automatized machine.

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EW: But you use it to make dance floor focused techno?

G: Yeah. And I guess the results are that you can’t tell you did it with that? So is it relevant? It helps you explore new sonic possibilities and you can create meaning by exploring these things and using it. Riding the wave of chaos.75

Trackers were not used by many of my participants; however, every producer has

used some form of device that obfuscated the relationship between input and output. From

relying on digital tools called randomizers and beat repeaters, to other devices like

arperggiators, delay, reverb, and auto-pan, it is evident that producers rely upon devices that

generate musical material that differs radically from the direct inputting of pitches, rhythms,

and timbres. Disrupting input or transforming input has been a common thread in these

processes. It is in part why I believe understanding sound design is so important to studying

EDM, as so much of the musical material is generated through complex forms of production

that differ from what we commonly recognize as acts of composition.

Production entails designing tools that design tools. This in many ways relates back

to other experimental music in the second half of the twentieth century. And yet, unlike

American experimental music it differs in its purpose and performance. In house and techno,

the devices once used to celebrate the experiment are instead used to create the functional

tools that are paramount to forging a career as a DJ. In this case the use of trackers and

similar devices are not only a means to demonstrate the producer’s mastery but also to

facilitate a material goal. The result is experimentalism becoming folded into a functionalist

aesthetic, and music that is recognized as material and commercial and viable is also music

that contains the markers of an experimentalist production practice. Trackers then

75 Gingy, Interview with producer, February 7 2017.

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accomplish the initial goals of house music, that is the creation of new materials for DJs via

recording technology, and the goals of techno, which seek to fuse afro-diasporic musical

practice with German modernist aesthetics.

Mixing, Processing, Space, Automation From patching a modular synth to editing a sample, mixing and signal processing are

integrated activities throughout each stage of sound design. As such it is often difficult to

distinguish where these techniques begin and end, as the different actions that may qualify as

a form of mixing or processing are often built into the practices of synthesis, sampling, and

sequencing. Differing slightly from how the term is defined in earlier studies, the term

mixing amongst the producers I worked with also included aspects of signal processing,

automation and stereo field management.76 These include tasks that have often been relegated

to some form of recording or post-production practice, a practice that was distinctly separate

from songwriting and composition.77 The ubiquity of these practices has meant that

techniques that qualify as mixing and signal processing take up the lion’s share of a

producer’s time spent in the studio. In this section I will refer to some of the most prevalent

practices I observed: compression and amplification, equalizing and filtering, delay, stereo

field management (panning and reverb), and automation.

76 For instance, in comprehensive guides such as Hodgson’s Understanding Records, mixing is treated as its

own separate task from signal processing. It is indeed a separate task, but the producers I worked with simply used “mixing” at times to refer more generally to all of these activities often associated closely altering and shaping a sound.

77 Virgil Moorefield, The Producer as Composer (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2005).

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Compression and Amplification Compressors are devices that compress the distance between the waveform’s peak and

valley.78 As Hodgson details, compression is divided into five steps 1) threshold, 2) ratio, 3)

attack, 4) release and 5) knee.79 For producers these functions are manipulated through

different knobs either in their digital workstation (figure 5.13) or external hardware racks

(figure 5.14). In the most basic sense compressors are often used to increase the volume of a

given sound, to give it greater perceived sonic force and purpose. Compressors can be also

used to limit a sound from reaching a particular peak and adjust the amount of time a given

sound is played at particular volumes. Some producers that I worked with were wary of using

compressors inside their digital workstations, as the heavy-handed application of

compression was a marker of poor studio practice. Other producers such as Gingy ran almost

all their material through analog compressors, racked devices that they only used with great

nuance to give their sound what they described as greater analog warmth.80

Figure 5.13. The Black Lion Audio AGB Compressor.

78 Hodgson, Understanding Records, 79. 79 Ibid., 80. 80 Compressors, like all hardware, were not just used to execute a functional task, but also to instill a type of

studio-specific essence. A producer’s use of a specific compressor was seen as giving their work some of its character—the defining and potentially imagined qualities that separated their work from their peers. In the case of Gingy, he ran every track he created through his analog compressor, even if only to alter the sound in the slightest manner.

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Figure 5.14. The compressor in Ableton Live.

Producers often use more complicated or intricate forms of compression that work to

generate and accentuate particular grooves. The most famous example of this is the pumping

effect created by side chaining. Side chaining is the result of a producer using the dynamic

profile or amplitude envelope of one track as a trigger for a compressor on another. This

creates a sonic phenomenon in which the kick drum will be clearly heard but quickly

followed up by the bass sound that according to the software, was actually sounding on the

same beat. The result is a pumping sound created by the kick and the bass, one which allows

the kick to be sounded clearly within the overall mix and facilitates the creation of a groove

with the offset bass.81 This effect is demonstrated in musical examples 5.7 and 5.8. While

most producers I observed precisely side chained frequencies that are close together, the

most popular use of the technique being applied to the bass and the kick drum, side chaining

was also used in more sophisticated fashions—in many cases as a means to generate different

rhythms from a relatively benign initial input. Indeed, producers I observed often dedicated

81 Hodgson, Understanding Records, 83.

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hours to experimenting with how different side-chained relationships could trigger new and

unexpected rhythmic patterns.

In my experience, compression was often combined with overdrive and distortion,

techniques that alter the waveform to send a signal that it is too powerful for the system to

sound. Machines do not just sharply cut these over-driven signals but also often create a

curve that allows some of the distorted sound to be heard while also preventing the speaker

system from being blown. This process does not just increase the gain of a signal but more

importantly alters the timbre, often giving the sound a much harsher and abrasive colour.

Distortion in house and techno is not used as heavily as in popular subgenres of rock music

like grunge and punk, but still plays an important role in transforming sounds. Instead of

distortion being used to sound like distortion, as would be the case in other popular music

(rock, metal, punk) distortion is used with greater nuance to slightly alter sounds, giving

them a rougher and more abrasive edge than their initial waveform or sample contains. For

instance, Bwana often added a great deal of distortion to a sound only to use equalizers and

filters to pare down the sounds profile. In doing so, he attempted to create sound that had a

distinct and abrasive timbre but that did not sound out as abrasive, a type of close shading

and colouring that created sounds that were both delicate yet textured. This process relied on

distortion to give a sound a new timbre but not to overpower or define his track.

To assist with compression and amplification, producers often use third party plugins,

devices that emulate sending a sound through analog (physical) amplifiers. These are often

used to re-create the characteristic sounds and timbres that particular amplifiers generate. In

many cases this process requires a great deal of computational power, and as such many of

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these devices are facilitated by particular hardware. A popular model I observed was the

Apollo line of interfaces by Universal Audio (figure 5.15).

Figure 5.15. The “Apollo Twin” audio interface from Universal Audio.

These devices not only function as audio interfaces (devices often used to transform

audio information into digital information) but more importantly, as advanced sound cards

that contained the external computing power needed to run the memory-draining plug-ins the

company released. Both in an effort to avoid piracy and ensure that the quality of their plug-

ins were not undermined by poor laptop sound cards, Universal Audio designed a piece of

hardware that the producers I worked with believed could adequately simulate the effect of

running their sounds through analog amplifiers, compressors, and other external hardware.

Compression, like the other techniques that I will describe, works with other

processes to forge new and purposeful sounds. In particular, it is often used with equalization

and other signal processing activities. The most popular process of experimentation I

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observed involved increasing the perceived volume of a track through compression or

overdrive and then decreasing the frequencies being sounded through equalization. This was

especially used for lower bass sounds and drum kicks resulting in a sound that was both

powerful and clear. Compression is a task, like editing and managing samples, in which the

noticeable output is not particularly recognized, as one rarely identifies “good compression.”

However, it is a tool that is heavily used to ensure sounds and arrangements work in the

manner in which the producer demands, especially with regards to making sure particular

instruments sound clearly and complimentarily. Compression is often used to achieve the

strong signal strength recordings demand in order to be played out on large and powerful

nightclub speakers. As Jono Buchanan confirms in his article on compression for the online

magazine Resident Advisor, successful producers rely on “bespoke settings” in which each of

the percussive elements of a track is compressed with respect to the others.82

Equalizing and Filtering Of the different techniques presented, equalizing and filtering were some of the most

common activities I observed producers employing at every step of the production practice.

According to Hodgson, “[e]qualizers (EQ) adjust the amplitude of audio signals at particular

frequencies. They are, in other words, frequency-specific volume knobs.”83 Drawing on the

work of Roey Izhaki, Hodgson discusses how recordings “use equalizers to manipulate

component frequencies within the input spectrum.”84 The producers I worked with

82 Jono Buchanan, “Understanding Compression,” Resident Advisor, May 7th 2012, accessed September 2016:

https://www.residentadvisor.net/features/1595. 83 Hodgson, Understanding Records, 73. 84 Ibid.

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approached equalization from different angles. In most cases however, they used an eight-

band equalizer that allowed them to adjust the frequencies at eight different points (figure

5.16).

Figure 5.16. Abelton Live’s 8 Band Equalizer. Each number allows for the boosting or suppressing of frequencies in that range. Often a producer will only manipulate three or four bands. A low pass or high pass filter only requires one point of manipulation.

Although it consists of eight manipulative bands, equalization inside this device was often

used in the form of a filter (indeed a filter is just a selected group of equalizer parameters)

cutting out a range of lower, middle or high frequencies. These producers were less likely to

use the terminology that Hodgson’s and others’ texts on recording practice deploy and

instead more generally discussed equalization as the process of cutting out or boosting

frequencies in different areas including: low, low-mid, mid, mid-high, and high. Among

other functions, EQ is used to create depth or give a sound greater fullness. In boosting

particular frequencies and lowering others, producers can bring out qualities of their initial

signal that they wish to highlight—in some sense trying to access the essence of the sound

they are working on. In practice this results in producers slowly adjusting the parameters of

their EQ, slightly raising and lowering the band inside the device until they are satisfied with

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the sonic profile. This practice can take quite a bit of time, as producers utilize filters and

equalizers to precisely sculpt and refine their source material.

Equalization is also important for ensuring that particular sounds do not bleed into

one another. As discussed in the previous chapter, having clarity between individual sounds,

especially percussion, is an important marker of professionalism. This clarity is often

achieved through the close equalization of a track, often a tedious practice that requires the

producer to slightly adjust and block out frequencies in order to ensure that they do not

interfere with the frequencies on another track. This is especially clear in the way

equalization is used to create a gap between the bass and the kick drum—an area of

particular concern for many of the producers I worked with. Equalization and filtering do not

just play a role in shaping the character of an individual sound on its own; rather they work

together with tracks within a given arrangement to ensure clarity. Equalization is performed

on individual instruments, smaller collections of instruments, and on entire tracks; it is

applied countless times during the production of a track.

Equalization (like most signal processing techniques) is not a fixed process but one

that may gradually change over the course of a track. Producers alter the equalization applied

to a given instrument (or even the entire track) over the course of a track to facilitate the

creation of particular musical expressions. In some cases this may only mean increasing the

higher or lower frequencies at particular moments to highlight an instrument’s presence.

However, in other cases the use of equalization and filtering can be quite pronounced. The

most popular use of this effect is found during the build section of a typical EDM track, and

can be clearly heard in example 5.9. During the build the producer will often cut out the

lower frequencies of a track. In doing so they remove the four to the floor kick drum, the

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driving force of the track, and remove the other lower frequencies that contribute to the

tracks overall texture. In making the track sound less full (in essence cutting out all the bass

instruments) the producer sets the stage for their eventual return. This often occurs at the

beginning of the drop in which the lower frequencies are immediately brought back in and

the texture becomes full once again. In other cases, the inverse can be achieved, what

producers may call a “reverse build,” in which the high frequencies are removed and the

build features only the lower two thirds of the track.85 In both these cases the goal is to use

equalization (filtering) to intensify the arrival of a new formal section.

While producers do indeed spend their time considering how EQing can assist their

transitions between formal sections (and even on a smaller level, how it can facilitate turning

the beat around) it is primarily used to shape specific sounds.86 Producers painstakingly alter

the composition of their sounds, using small changes in equalization to best shape their

sounds. In these moments, they are able to minutely inscribe their own authorial voice—a

process that can transform a preset or sample into their own sound.

Delay Along with reverb, delay was another important effects technique used by producers to not

just enhance their sounds but to also generate new rhythmic content. The producers I worked

with often had a “delay send” built into their DAW templates, a module already attached to

their default workstation that allowed them to send any sound or loop to that device. Delay, 85 This technique is more popular in techno, where producers and DJs are hesitant to remove the kick drum for

an extended period of time. 86 As Butler notes, removing the bass at the end of smaller subsections (16 bar or 32 bar cycles) is typical in

EDM production and performance. When this occurs during DJ sets it is often the result of the DJ using a filter to cut out the lower frequencies while boosting high frequencies, creating an intensification in the upper register that climaxes when the lower frequencies return. Butler, Unlocking The Groove.

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in the most direct sense, splits a sound into two signals, one that proceeds at one speed, and

another that follows slightly slower, creating an effect that there are now two sounds or that

the initial sound is being delayed and then recombined. Hodgson describes this process in

great detail.

Recordists feed an audio signal into a delay line. That delay line then shunts the input signal directly to output, and in turn splits a copy of the signal, stores it somewhere for a certain period of time and then sends it to the output as well. Recordists then fine-tune the delay line by adjusting its: (i) “delay time” setting, that is, the amount of time which elapses between the arrival of the shunted input signal and its delayed copy at output; (ii) “mix” setting, that is, the amount of input signal and delayed signal which the delay line outputs; and, finally, (iii) “feedback,” that is, the amount of the output signal which gets routed back to input for another round, and hence the length of time that the delayed signal will remain active.87

The most popular delay tool I saw used was the simple digital delay in Live (figure

5.17). This delay tool is often used to create new rhythms that can be at times difficult to

enter in a note-by-note fashion. Beyond the simple delay found in all DAWs, many

producers also used more complicated and specific types of delay devices ranging from

external digital delay pedals (figure 5.18) and entire hardware units like the space echo delay

box that was made popular in dub music (figure 5.19).

87 Hodgson, Understanding Records, 124.

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Figure 5.17. The simple delay module in Ableton Live.

Figure 5.18. A digital delay pedal. Popularly used by guitarists but also found in numerous house and techno studios.

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Figure 5.19. The famous Space Echo box Re-201 by Roland.

While these devices differ in their construction, they are used to achieve similar results. For

instance, consider example 10, which contains a hi-hat pattern that sounds as if there are hits

on each 8th note of the bar. Yet this was designed not through writing in each note but

through writing in an 8th note pattern with delay. Figure 5.20 shows the piano roll input that

was used to generate this pattern.

Figure 5.20. The inputted rhythm used to generate audio example 5.10.

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This technique is often used to create much more elaborate rhythms. For instance, listen to

example 5.11. This example begins with hits on each quarter note of a one bar loop. Over the

course of example 5.11 I utilize the delay function to create an interlocking rhythm—a

rhythmic idiom that could be the foundation of a groove. As displayed in figures 5.21.1-

5.21.3 the relationship between the inputted pattern and outputted groove is significantly

different. Note that the input from 5.21.1 remained the same throughout, while a

transcription of what was heard substantially differs (see figures 5.21.2 and 5.21.3).

Figure 5.22.1. The initial pattern entered for the hi-hat in audio example 5.11.1.

Figure 5.21.2. A transcription of the pattern that is heard at the beginning of audio example 5.11.1. It is created using the 2/2 delay.

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Figure 5.21.3. A transcription of the interlocking pattern that is heard midway through example 5.11.1. It is created using a 3/2 delay

In this example it is clear how delay is used to generate new rhythmic patterns, patterns that

do not just create individual rhythms, but also create interlocking groove patterns.

Furthermore, as the audio example details, the delay pattern also leads to changes in the hi-

hat’s volume and envelope, giving the pattern a slight swing and a greater sense of

dynamism. Indeed, consider musical example 5.11.2 that contains this same pattern but

entered note-by-note and not assisted by the delay effect. As you will hear, it lacks the fine-

tuning and slight changes that the previous delay effect in musical example 5.11.1

demonstrated. It does not feel like an interlocking groove, but rather like a single rhythm

played monotonously on a single instrument.

The use of delay to generate rhythmic idioms is not constrained to complimentary

percussion parts, like the hi-hat example provided. Rather, it is also used to generate the main

thematic material of a given track. Consider audio example 5.11.3 taken from Paul

Woodford’s 2014 track “Erotic Discourse.” As you will hear, the main thematic idea, an

overdriven and harsh sounding bass theme, is a single pattern that is slightly altered through

the creative use of both filtering and delay. Here, the delay is used to create both variation

and interest, as the heavy handed application of delay intensifies and deconstructs the main

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theme only to pull it back together again. Just as Robert Hood’s “Ride” was a track centred

on the use of filtering, so too is Woodford’s track centred on the use of delay and how it can

lead to exceptionally interesting results. Delay facilitates the design rhythmic idioms that

sound as if they are constantly in flux, loops that like those formed with a tracker have the

potential to remain both similar and ever-changing.88 As such, delay is one of the many tools

used throughout techno and house to create the difference and variation needed to design

looped-based music that is constantly in flux.

Delay can also be used to create a gradual intensification of rhythmic energy; the type

of intensification that, as discussed in chapter 1, often marks the end of a formal section.

Consider audio example 5.12.1 taken from the British producer Boddika’s 2011 track “Beats

Me,” which uses delay to smooth the transition into the build. As you can hear, the tom-drum

pattern is given delay that allows it to slowly fade out into the build. This effect creates a

slow clearing of texture and volume, which in turn sets the stage for the eventual return of

the main groove. Audio example 5.12.2 also demonstrates this effect, in this case showing

how the gradual intensification of delay can create a crescendo that intensifies the arrival of

the drop. In this example, taken from Pirupa’s 2013 track “Bad Ass,” we hear how the Italian

producer combines delay with a crescendo in order to enhance the climatic experience of the

drop. In both cases we see how delay is used to move between formal sections of a track, and

how it can facilitate the intensification and dispersion of volume, texture, and rhythm, that is

so important to the overall form of a given track.

88 More advanced forms of delay include beat repeaters, devices that can randomly select sections of upwards of

four bars or as small as 32nd notes to repeat at given moments. There are also other functions of delay that can be used not only to transform a rhythm or timbre but the pitch as well.

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Stereo field Management, Panning, and Reverb A great deal of time is spent not only altering the frequencies which are heard and the

rhythms that they generate, but also on the way sounds will be perceived in the stereo field

and proximity field. Hodgson’s study of recording practice refers to this as the plane of the

mix, a three dimensional conceptualization of sound in space that includes the proximity

field (depth), the horizontal plane (width) and the vertical plane (height).89 Producers

conceptualize sound as moving across these different dimensions and use a variety of

techniques to position their sounds inside of them. Most of the producers that I worked with

during my fieldwork did not discuss the height or vertical plane of their mixes, but rather

exclusively focused on positioning their sound on the horizontal plane—what they refereed

to as the stereo field—and the proximity field—what they would describe as the relationship

between foreground and background and/or the sound’s depth. Stereo field and depth

management are major concerns for the producers I worked with and they spent countless

hours experimenting with how they could position their sounds. They did this in a few ways.

On the most basic level they used panning, a technique in which they send a sound from

right to left or left to right, and reverb, a technique used to give the sound greater depth.

Panning is a technique that determines where along the stereo field sounds are heard.

On the most basic level this can be achieved by sending an individual instrument or sound to

the left or right side. In other cases a single track can utilize a type of automated panning that

allows the instrument to bounce from side to side. Panning and the creation of incredibly

“wide” stereo field experiences was a topic Bwana often returned to. Throughout our time

residing together he spent a great deal of his energy slightly panning and adjusting different

89 Hodgson, Understanding Records, 156.

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sounds, multi-tracking individual instruments with especially complicated and automated

panning techniques, to ensure his mix was perceived as being immensely wide. For him, this

was a professional calling card, a trait that differentiated his mixes and his tracks from his

peers. Indeed, whenever I sent him my own study tracks to examine his responses almost

entirely focused on my use (and lack of use) of panning and stereo field management. From a

technical standpoint this required spending more time adjusting the different types of

panning that were being used. In some cases this meant doubling up tracks and sending them

to different channels, in others cases it meant using devices like auto-pan that send the track

from side to side, which at its extreme can simulate the effect of a helicopter spinning

overhead (figure 5.22). Thus, panning is one of the most important ways producers I worked

with sought to create horizontal width and movement, features that they believed made their

tracks more sophisticated and artful. While panning is used in all popular music, its use in

house and techno is unique, as it becomes a significant point of focus and a site for the

localized change that occurs during the repetition of loops.

Figure 5.22. The “chopper” auto-pan preset in Ableton Live.

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Bwana also mentioned his affinity for the Haas effect, a technique that combines

delay and panning to make it seem as if a sound is moving through space. Hodgson discusses

the Haas technique in some detail. Drawing from Izhaki (2008) he describes how the Hass

effect works by sending a sound first to one side and then very quickly, after only 20-30

milliseconds, panning a second doubled signal of identical sound to the opposite side. This

also works by using two mono tracks and having one on a slight delay that increases the

“stereo separation” or as Bwana told me it “increased the depth and the width of the track.”90

This technique is combined with other slight adjustments in panning, including the use of

auto-pan devices, which along with automation are used to create a sense of gradual

movement. While these techniques are found in all other genres of popular music, their

importance to loop-based music is not surprising. Like trackers, which can at times control

the amount of panning taking place, these types of micro-expressions are designed to

continually let a piece of seemingly repetitive music sound continually fresh—a process that

relies on creating small adjustments in the positioning of sound to make the music sound less

monotonous despite the fact that the melody, harmony, and rhythm may remain unchanged

for long periods of time.

Beyond the panning options found in DAWs, producers also use the utility function

to give their mixes greater width (figure 5.23). This function determines how much of the

sound is being spread over the speaker and simulates where in the mix the sound comes

from. As Buchanan and others have noted, a kick drum is almost always given 0% width.

Confirming my observations in the field he writes

90 Bwana, Facebook Messenger correspondence, March 9 2017.

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It’s generally agreed upon that as sounds appear most rooted or ground in a central position, this is probably the place for the most important components of your mix—lead vocal, synth lead, kick, snare and bass. 91

Figure 5.23. The Utility function in Ableton Live. It allows the user to send the sound to the left or right side of the mix, as well as control the sounds “width.” It can also adjust the gain.

Consider example 5.13, which demonstrates the width of a synth-pad preset slowly

expanding. Notice how the sound begins to sound thinner as the example reaches its

completion. While it may be difficult to discern this change on headphones, on a larger

sound system among a host of other instruments in an arrangement, such positioning can

make a significant difference in defining a track. In essence the utility function allows

producers to change the relationship between background and foreground, between those

aspects of a track that sound most immediate and which those sound most atmospheric. This

utility function is often combined with the processes of doubling tracks, a technique that can

be found through popular music recording practice.92

91 Jono Buchanan, “Understanding Panning,” Resident Advisor, April 19, 2013, accessed October 2016,

https://www.residentadvisor.net/features/1838. 92 Hodgson, Understanding Records, 156–157.

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In addition to exploring the horizontal plane, the proximity field or the perception of

sonic depth is another concern for producers. Depth, or the perception of a sound existing in

the foreground or background in relation to the listener is mainly created through adjusting

the reverb. Reverb primarily affects “the proximity plane,” which runs from the front and

center to the auditory horizon at the very back of a mix.93 For the producers I spoke to, this

refers to depth and space. They did not use the term “auditory horizon” which Hodgson

adopts, but instead spoke more generally about sonic positioning and stereofield

management.

Along with delay, reverb is the most prominent processing effect I observed. Indeed,

reverb has such a ubiquitous place in production practice that DAWs often include dozens of

reverb presets. These presets with names like “concert hall” or “drum room” attempt to

capture the reverberations of particular spaces and places (see figure 5.2). While producers

almost always alter and adjust the parameters of these prests, their presence demonstrates

how nuanced and yet distinctive reverb can be.

93 Ibid.

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Figure 5.24. Reverb presets included in Abelton Live

A majority of reverb functions (either in the form of a DAW preset, digital emulator,

or analog pedal or rack) allow the user to alter numerous parameters that shape the reverb

effect (figure 5.26). As Hodgson notes these are grouped into three sections: “(i) pre-delay

times; (ii) early-reflection and late-reflection levels; and (iii) decay and diffusion rates.”94

Pre-delay is the time between the initial sound and its reflection. In altering pre-delay

94 Ibid., 173. Here Hodgson is drawing from Roey Izhaki, Mixing Audio: Concepts, Practices and Tools,

(Boston” Focal Press, 2008): 421.

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producers can alter the perceived distance that the sound travels. Early and late reflections

refer to the type of reflections of sound that come immediately after the sound has been

initialized and near the end of its sounding. In house and techno, early reflections are used

quite often to infuse a sound with its own reflection, in essence giving the sound an

immediate sense of greater depth. Decay and diffusion describe how long the reverberation

lasts before silence. In my experience, decay is often utilized to give a sound even greater

duration, a type of technique to almost transform the sound’s initial envelope. These

parameters (among others) allow the user to shape the type of reverb expression applied to a

given sound, greatly altering the size of the imagined space in which the instrument is being

sounded. Reverb has the potential to drastically transform both the timbre and duration of a

given sound. Consider example 5.14 in which the slow application of reverb to a snare hit

transforms a sound’s envelop (attack, decay, sustain, and release) as well as its timbre. When

reverb is applied the sound is seemingly stretched out and the constitutive frequencies that

defined its initial timbre are greatly altered, transforming its crisp and harsh colour into a

more smoothly washed white noise-like sound.

Figure 5.25. A reverb module in Ableton Live.

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Reverb is also a tool for grouping together ensembles. “Bussing” or sending all the

percussion to a single reverb unit, creates the impression that the sounds are part of a single

ensemble, working with one another and not just sounding out individually. For the

producers I observed this was often done with particular collections of synthesizers like

“synth pads” or “synth leads”—groupings that brought together instruments that played a

similar role in each track. For example, grouping together with reverb the different synth

pads used to create a background atmosphere in a track could help create a more cohesive

and lush sound than simply having them each sound with their own individual reverb. In

grouping sounds together and having an ensemble share a single reverb the producer is able

to create a more cohesive sound, one that can subtly blend numerous instruments together.

When I saw this technique being performed it was done with great delicacy, especially with

regards to percussion, as the muddling of particular instruments was always a result

producers sought to avoid. Instead, they used reverb in very small doses to help bring

together their ensembles, a type of production practice used to give their tracks a sense of

cohesion.

Reverb is also famously used in a dramatic fashion to signify the end or beginning of

a formal section, either by creating a slow fade out when the texture is abruptly cut, or as a

means to signify the oncoming arrival of a new formal section of a given track.95 This effect

is often paired with the intensification of delay that occurs at the end of formal sections,

especially in preparation for the drop at the end of the build. As example 5.15 demonstrates,

the combination of reverb with the increased rhythmic energy caused by the delay creates a

sense of intensification and forward momentum. Taken from the track “Black on Black” by 95 These effects are used in DJ sets as well. As detailed in Chapter 1, gestures in production often mirror

techniques used in DJ performance.

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the British producer Scuba, the use of reverb with delay creates both a crescendo and an

intensification of rhythm, driving the track towards the groove’s eventual return. This a

technique is not only popularly used in production, but also in DJ sets, in which the

performer will use the delay and reverb effects on their mixer to create a similar

intensification of energy. Another way reverb is used to create a sense of formal change or

growth is evident in audio example 5.16, taken from Gingy and Bordello’s remix of the

Deepchild track “Suffering Ones.” In this example we can hear how reverb is used to ease

the listener into the track, while its gradual deployment functions as an overarching

crescendo, in terms of both volume, and widening the texture. In a sense, the producer is

expanding the sonic world, stretching out proximity field in order to create space for the

eventual arrival of the main percussion theme.

While audio examples 5.15 and 5.16 are overt examples of reverb, this process is

also used in small doses to help create smaller, more localized, crescendos. As Bwana told

me, these techniques are used in almost every track.

EW: What’s that trick you showed me where you apply reverb and delay near the end of sections?

B: It’s not really a trick to be honest. I just ramp it up towards a 'drop' or some climax so as to create a crescendo of noise or space. Then, I turn the reverb or delay from wet to dry at the right moment [in essence removing it]

EW: How often do you do this?

B: Every track.96

Thus reverb is combined with panning and other techniques to position sound in the

imagined and perceived space of a given mix. This act is not just one that is designed to

96 Bwana, Facebook Messenger correspondence, March 9 2017.

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create a desirable balance that accentuates the arrangement and previous steps in the sound

design process (synthesis and sampling) but also as a means of developing small variation

within a track, and in a more pronounced manner, to facilitate the opening and closing of

formal units. Understanding how to best utilize stereo space and the proximity field is a

skillset that producers slowly develop throughout their careers, experimenting in each

production session with what works best and what types of psychoacoustic and affective

experiences can be accessed.

Automation Central to all these practices is not just their individual use on a given sound but the gradual

changes in their application over time. Just as a synthesizer operator can physically alter the

timbre of their instrument over a recording session so too can a producer automate through

software changes in parameters over the course of a given track. From slowly altering the

panning and changing the rate of delay, to opening and closing a filter, producers rely on

automation. Just like trackers, such an endeavour expands the possibilities of human

production, allowing the producer to give multiple instructions to multiple instruments that

will then be performed over time. To return to an earlier analogy, if sound design entails

creating an instrument and its performer, then automation entails the very specific

performance instructions that define the way in which sound is realized.

Automation has long been a part of electronic music making. Earlier synthesisers

were able to not just record the notes of a performer but the parameters they adjusted. Once

recorded, producers save these adjustments and move on to manipulating other parameters—

in essence freeing the producer up to alter countless parameters that they would be unable to

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adjust all at once in real-time. Automation is primarily utilized inside DAWs.97 This is often

done through the producer “writing in” the automation line in the software, a task that

requires them to adjust a single line with mouse-clicks. An example of what this may look

like can be seen when we re-consider the earlier example from the previous section. Example

5.16 was not the result of a person turning multiple parameters in real-time and then

recording, but rather through automating numerous devices in the workstation to gradually

adjust particular parameters. Although automating the gradual intensification or application

of the aforementioned techniques is found throughout production practice, such a manoeuvre

is the most basic function of this tool and automation is often stacked and integrated with

multiple functions, creating ever more complicated permutations of effect chains.

Let us return to audio example 5.9, taken from the 2015 track “Cosmonaut” by

Benjamin Damage. Beginning immediately before what would amount to the build of the

track, Damage automates panning, reverb, and most obviously his filters to create a gradual

intensifying crescendo that pushes towards a climax (when the kick drum and percussion

groove established earlier in the track returns). By combining all of these effects, and having

them each automated to gradually change over the course of this section, Damage is able to

accomplish many goals at once. First, he is able to broaden the stereo-field, using panning to

slowly draw his listener from left to right and back again. Second the use of reverb in the

synth stabs give these attacks greater depth, which is further enhanced as the wetness of the

reverb is slowly increased over the build. This creates the experience of stretching out the

sound, creating more and more depth that is to be eventually filled by the direct and forceful

percussion groove that returns. Third, the use of a filter moving across the frequency 97 Automation can also be done on analog devices as many have small memory banks that can record the

change and application of parameters.

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spectrum and back contributes to our sense of movement as the sounds that are being

allowed through the filter create this hissing wind-like sound that strengthens our experience

of space stretching out, both left to right and front to back. Thus, although this build only

lasts less than 30 seconds, Damage is able to automate a host of effects and techniques to

intensify the return of his main groove.

Figure 5.26. Ableton Live uses adjustable lines to facilitate automation. The X-axis marks the passage of time, the Y-axis controls intensity of the parameter. Producers can automate functions at the millisecond level.

I believe that the ubiquity of automation is one of the most important distinctions that

differentiate producers in house and techno from other fields, as their music is not just

informed through particular input of notes but the input of performance instructions. While

other forms of popular music use automation, it is not as directly responsible for such drastic

transformations of musical material, transformations that are so significant to the

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construction and consumption of house and techno tracks. In that sense, automation in house

and techno is musical material, and its production is an act of composition, one that

establishes the producer’s identity as a professional creator of music. For many producers,

automation is what gives a track its unique sense of momentum and allows them to access

the desired balance between repetition and constant change. Indeed, Deepchild shared with

me in an email correspondence how he relied on automation to combine the many different

types of mixing and signal processing effects he was so interested in:

I used to (and still do sometimes) PRINT [emphasis his] my effects parts, for real control and 'sculptability'.... doing stuff like hard-edits and reverses to reverb-trails, really fucking with what might be expected in the general malaise of production conventions. Another 'typical' Deepchild trick I employ from time to time is to automate compression threshold ratios over reverb/delay sends. For example, I generally always side-chain and EQ my sends pretty radically.... and a fun way of creating tension/release (as might be similar with employing a filter) is to gradually 'open up' a compressor by increasing the trigger threshold leading up to a 'peak moment'.... if you do stuff like this subtly, and then SLAM back the side-chain with a low-threshold, it can create some fun, classy elasticity.98

For Deepchild, automation was one of the many ways to break through into more

creative terrain, a new dimension that enhanced his experimentalist perspective, and one that

demonstrates how producers always consider individual practices as techniques that should

be combined with each other. In automating different parameters and synchronizing changes

he was able to find a new site to stimulate creativity, combining ensembles of techniques that

work together to provide new possibilities. In short, automation gives the practice of sound

design another dimension—time. In doing so it facilitates the creation of the ever-important

non-repetitive loops I addressed earlier in Chapters 1 and 2. Without automation the use of

98 Deepchild, Email correspondence with producer, October 21 2015.

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these aforementioned techniques are robbed of their dynamism, and the experimentalist

process is greatly constrained.

Machines are used to make others machines sound less mechanical. And yet, this

should not be confused with sounding human. Automation is not utilized to create a sense of

the organic, nor is it used like the “swing” function, to make a loop sound as if a human was

performing it. In contrast, automation is used to create a type of dynamism and generative

change that a human could never access independent of a machine. It allows for the ever-

precise control over parameters that lie outside our physical capabilities. Like so much of

production practice in techno and house, automation is about the producer exploring their

own relationship with technology, experimenting with what machine-based expressions and

techniques can be best utilized to generate musical material and articulate their own voice.

The prominence of automation in production reveals the aesthetic legacies that

inform practice, as well as the subservient relationship production has with respect to

performance. Automation allows producers to explore different approaches to teleology and

form, where in which localized moments of change and development are prized over large-

scale narrative. While automation is indeed used to demarcate large scale change, a use that

again reveals the ever present influence of DJ performance practice, it is primarily used to

create slight changes in timbre and texture—changes that are used to articulate technological

fine tuning inside digestible and repeatable grooves. In a sense, this relates back to the initial

ideology of the German modernist, who like Kraftwerk sought to make music that was

experimental but accessible, the high popular art that can be traced from The Belleville 3

through to Kraftwerk and the Bauhaus. Such a legacy realized that popular art forms, in this

case the techno track and groove, could also be sites for advanced experimental techniques

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and, in turn, expressions of professionalism. Thus, automation is used to hide and inscribe

authorship. It is the small production techniques that are not only hidden inside of grooves,

but are utilized to generate new grooves. Thus the mastery of technology through an

experimental process facilitates the creation of artistic and functional tracks.

Conclusion

In this chapter I examined the numerous practices and technologies producers use to perform

sound design. In doing so I did not just want to illuminate these practices but rather explore

how producers spent their time: what were the practices and techniques they dedicated to

their lives to, and where in their practice were they interacting with the histories and aesthetic

legacies that I outlined in earlier chapters. And yet, I also must stress how each of these

categories, even each of these sub-headings could be expanded in their own right.99 However,

in presenting them all together, I believe I have also imparted an idea of the range of

practices a producer of techno and house must come to understand. I have provided a

glimpse into the sites where producers navigate aesthetic choice, how the slight equalization

of a given track, a task that might not be recognized by many listeners, is an act of artistic

experimentation that producers rely upon to perform and assert their professional and

authorial identity. These choices are informed by the historical, ideological, and material

context in which these producers operate. In concerning themselves so thoroughly with these

practices they are negotiating the dual histories of house and techno, the aesthetic legacies of

99 For instance, it would be worthwhile to look exclusively at reverb in sub-genres like dub techno, addressing

what role imagined space and place play in shaping the seminal tracks of Basic Channel. One could continue to build on the work of Ratcliffe, looking only at sampling and the use of virtual studio technology. Moreover, the role of trackers and sequencers remains a fruitful subject of inquiry, especially with regards to notions of transcription and algorithm-based composition.

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Afrofuturism, disco, and German modernism, and their social role as both a creator of tracks

and of musical works. Thus, the process of experimenting, from synthesis to signal

processing, is the medium in which they articulate what it means for them to be a producer, a

professional, and an artist.

Finally, I wish to stress how an understanding of this music is enriched by the study

of how producers transform seemingly rudimentary input into detailed and dynamic output.

Such an approach pushes the field to reconsider what we categorize as musical material and

examine more closely content that is generated through more mediated forms of

composition. From the automation of countless parameters to the focused construction of

modular units that transform a sound from a single pulse into a complicated and referential

musical moment, an understanding of tracks invariably becomes an understanding of

process. Moving forward these last two chapters on sound design and its practice act only as

stepping-stones for more detailed analysis. As more scholars take interest in this field and

seek to integrate ethnographic methods into analyses of professional musicians they will

hopefully continue this research, focusing specifically on each of these categories and

probing deeply into the producer’s relationship with technology, experimentation,

professional identity, and history.

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Conclusion

The practices detailed in the previous two chapters are informed by the historical context of

house and techno examined in Chapter 1. Yet, as argued in Chapter 2, production practice is

informed by interwoven transatlantic histories and through the numerous aesthetic legacies

that shape what it means to be a creator of house and techno music, a producer of tracks. To

discuss the historical practices enacted through sound design is not only to reference a

history of house and techno music, but also to recognize the overarching aesthetic legacies of

German modernism, disco and Afrofuturism. As detailed in Chapter 3, notions of

professionalism and artistry are also determined by the material concerns and scene-

economies producers rely upon to secure income and recognition. In articulating the

producer’s reliance on DJing as a means of earning income, and not on the direct sales of

their productions, I established a fundamental premise of this dissertation; producers rely on

other professional musicians (DJs) to gain the popularity and recognition required to earn a

living. In their subservience to DJs, producers are always making both tracks and tools. It is

with this premise in place that we can understand why sound design is so important to

producers. Production practice is an exercise in asserting the producer’s professional identity

and sense of artistry. It is through the painstaking and time intensive practices of sound

design: synthesis, sampling, sequencing, mixing, and automating, that producers are able to

engage with what it means to be a professional producer of house and techno music. It is the

foremost site for where the producer’s professional and artistic identity is articulated through

music making.

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Before addressing the more pointed questions that have arisen from my dissertation, I

want to ruminate a bit further on the connection between these chapters. I will then turn to

some of the central conclusions of my dissertation that address how a study of producers will

invariably inform the study of the related topics in this field, namely, the study of musical

works and scenes. Finally, I end with a brief discussion of future areas of inquiry, making the

case for the unique situation of electronic producers and hypothesizing about how their

success and processes may be prescient with regard to larger issues affecting contemporary

music with regards to automation, authenticity, and authorship.

With that in mind I return to the quotation found in the title of this dissertation:

“making hammers with art.” This is an inversion of a Brechtian phrase, one in which the

epochal poet is attributed to have said “art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer

with which to shape it.”1 When I first encountered this phrase it appealed to me for both its

passion and focus. It was enthralling, energizing, and captured a moment in time in which

art’s efficacy was without doubt. It suggested that art, a practice that lacked the functionality

or utility of a tool, should appropriate these assertive characteristics. It argued that art was a

tool to shape the world: to define ethics, practice, and politics. Like Brecht’s epic theatre

projects, and unlike the reflective mirror, art did not simply observe, but it actively, and even

violently, worked to enable change. It also meant that art in some way should look to the

functional tool for inspiration. If artists looked to the tools made by craftspeople and not

artists, they could find the materials they would need to create great works of art and form

deeper connections with the people their art was trying to empower. By making art with a

1 While this phrase has been historically attributed to Brecht, there is some contention about its initial

authorship. The phrase’s earliest citation can be found in a 1925 essay on futurism by Leon Trotsky. He wrote “Art, it is said, is not a mirror, but a hammer: it does not reflect, it shapes.” Leon Trotsky, Literature and Revolution, edited by William Keach, translated by Rose Strunsky, (Chicago: Haymarket Books 2005): 4.9.

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hammer the artist is making works that resonate with those who rely on tools and attempting

to enable meaningful political change.

In my inversion of the term I wish to play off this double meaning; art should both be

forceful and direct while incorporating the tools of the everyday to facilitate its creation.

When I suggest that producers make hammers with art I am referring to the manner in which

their tracks are invariably utilitarian. Like hammers they are often only one of the many tools

used in constructing a larger aesthetic and formal goal, as a track is simply one of the many

tools used throughout a DJ set. What makes the producer unique is that in order to make

these tools, to make these tracks, the producer does not look to other utilitarian best practices

but rather to experimentalism—a project that its very conception that implies a lack of

immediate functionality. In essence, the creation of hammers can only be emboldened by

processes that are historically esoteric. Moreover, the need to create functionality, a need that

in a sense could be constricting, is often perceived as liberating. In relying on function,

producers are given structure, structure that despite its restrictions provides new avenues and

spaces for exploration. Recall the responses of numerous producers who spoke of how they

preferred restriction, and how it pushed them to creative heights.2 That is to say, not is that

functionality improved through experimentation, but that experimentation is improved by the

constraints of functionality. As I observed throughout my research, producers are convinced

that they can always be constructing both, and that the pathway to function necessitates

diversions into the experimental. Such diversions do not just enact professional legacy and

authorship, but contribute to the eventual material value and function of their works.

2 The most obvious example being my conversations with Deepchild.

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Such a combination invariably pushes us to question the nature of both functionality

and experimentalism, and at the very least begins to bridge these concepts. Fittingly, it

invariably connects different artistic legacies and histories, forming a union between

seemingly commercial popular cultures (disco, Anglo-American dance music) and esoteric

experimentalism.3 Indeed, the recognition of this union extends beyond my own observations

and aesthetic practice. As discussed in Chapters 1 and 2, there are increasing efforts by

traditional art institutions to fold the larger aesthetic goals and accomplishments of electronic

dance music into their own programs. Collaborations between historic art institutions and

house and techno producers are frequent, with second wave techno artists such as Jeff Mills

and Carl Craig collaborating respectively with Montpellier Philharmonic Orchestra and

François-Xavier Roth’s ensemble Les Siècles.4 Other projects, like those between producer

Pantha du Prince and The Bell Laboratory (an avant-garde percussion ensemble), or between

the club Berghain and the Berlin State ballet, are increasingly exploring the crossover

potential between contemporary art institutions and club cultures.5

To observe the London Symphony Orchestra performing music that was once

reserved for Detroit youths is indeed unexpected. Yet, this is not simply the result of house

3 As discussed in chapter 1, the earliest pioneers of what is recognized as EDM (techno and house) were

drawing directly from a tradition, both in the USA and in Western Europe, of popular artists looking to experimental music for inspiration. The most commonly cited influence is Kraftwerk, which as addressed in chapter 2, was highly influenced by the music of Stockhausen and African American popular music.

4 Ashley Zlatopolsky, “Jeff Mills: These visions aren’t supposed to come from black guys from Detroit,” The Guardian, September 22 2015, accessed April 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/music/2015/sep/22/jeff-mills-these-visions-arent-supposed-to-come-from-black-guys-from-detroit; “Carl Craig Presents Versus,” XLR8R, December 8 2016, accessed April 2017, https://www.xlr8r.com/news/2016/12/carl-craig-presents-versus. Also see: Paul Clarke, “Dance Music Goes Classical,” DJ Mag, October 26 2015, accessed March 2017, https://djmag.com/features/orchestral-manoeuvres-dark.

5 Nick Neyland, “Pantha du Prince & The Bell Laboratory: Elements of Light,” Pitchfork, January 9 2013, accessed May 2017, http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/17511-elements-of-light; Aaron Coulatat, “Berghain Announced Ballet Project: Masse,” Resident Advisor, April 12 2013, accessed May 2017, https://www.residentadvisor.net/news.aspx?id=19465. Other examples of these crossovers include the “Warm Up Series” hosted by the Museum of Modern Arts’ PS1 Gallery in Queens New York.

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and techno producers opportunistically reverting to historic notions of authorship and

artistry. Techno’s origin story, for example, begins with a confluence of aesthetic legacies

that already includes many of these notions, as The Belleville Three looked to combine the

experimentalism in European electronic pop with their black dance music genres. Combining

these two idioms, like others in Europe and America had done earlier (Kraftwerk, Afrika

Bambaataa), they created music that was both experimental and accessible.

The desire to design bespoke modular synthesizers, the desire to transform a sample

into something so jammed full of referential meaning despite the fact that it is

unrecognizable—the desire to use trackers and sequencers to generate patterns that would be

difficult if not physically impossible, to produce without technological assistance—are

rooted in the shared history of house and techno. Such a history––of being a child of both an

Afrofuturism and a German experimentalism––comes together around a dual-pronged

notion: that technology can be used to access a new frontier of affective expression, and that

the machine will enhance, not replace, the professional creator of music. To overcome the

host of challenges presented by technology in different generations (from automating

physical labour in the twentieth-century to now automating white collar labour in the twenty-

first-century) one must not become a luddite but rather look to the machines of the past for

solutions, to fuse with the machine and become the machine in order to hold onto one’s

humanity and not be passively immersed in processes of automation. This is likely why the

customization and individualization of technology plays such an important role in

personalizing a producer’s sounds: in designing sounds from scratch, one is able to articulate

a post human identity that differentiates one from the experiences of those who are simply

swept up in the tide of technological change. To return to Toffler’s assessment of the future,

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the shared legacy of producers orients them towards becoming techno rebels, with a mastery

of automation and circuitry that is best suited to resist technology’s most dehumanizing

consequences. As Gingy told me, “techno can be viewed as plumbing the depths of the

automatic, the potential of the automatic, to find new ways to feel.”6 Or as Deepchild said

more bluntly in an earlier chapter, “anomalies [in machines] make me feel happy.”7

This is all to say that the reliance on and proximity to automation and technology has

led producers to continuously negotiate their role as professional producers and artists.

Indeed, their production practice is one that asserts their own voice as artists through

techniques and technologies often used to destabilize, and even undermine, their role as

professional artists. Through their production practice they not only assert authorship through

typical expressions of novelty and originality, but also through a defined and focused

interaction with technology. As discussed throughout Chapters 4 and 5, it is through this

technological engagement that producers are put in contact with discourses of German

modernism, Afrofuturism, disso, and experimentalism. It is through experimentation with

modular synthesis that a producer like Mike Shannon can see himself connected to the legacy

of Stockhausen. It is through experimentations with tape delay that Gingy can form a

connection with the dub techno artists of the early 1990s. It is through experimentations with

sampling that Deepchild can construct private sonic mementos that place him in dialogue

with a host of afro-diasporic traditions. The utility of experimentation is one that does not

just lead to the type of sonic results producers rely upon, but it also plays a social and

performative role. Its utility lies also in its ability to re-inscribe professionalism and to

articulate authorship, a manoeuvre in which producers are able to connect day after day with 6 Gingy, Interview with producer, February 7 2017. 7 Deephchild, Interview with producer, June 18 2015.

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a larger practice of techno ideology, professionalism, experimenting, tinkering and a host of

other traditions through which they work to fulfill their goals as artists.

Practice, Text, Scene Beyond understanding the inner workings of a group of professional musicians, and beyond

my larger readings of what the role of the producer may reveal about the position of working

artists, I believe my dissertation has ramifications for those studying EDM works. As

discussed in my introduction, I did not set out to study EDM tracks as works, yet the study of

production practice invariably reveals much about the formal characteristics of the music. To

understand what motivates and dictates aesthetic decisions can allow us to better understand

a track. In becoming fluent in production practice one can work to become fluent in

understanding the way meaning is created and expressed. If the goal of a future analyst to

understand musical meaning in a given EDM work, to attempt to do so without a

comprehensive knowledge of production practice would be misguided.

How does studying production affect our ability to understand works? In the most

direct sense it makes us familiar with the musical language, a musical language that is not

entirely determined by a collection of works, but rather through a network of shared practice.

In deriving meaning from a work, we often seek to understand gesture and idioms. This

understanding is predicated on our ability to first determine what even constitutes a particular

expression, which in the case of house and techno is illuminated when we study production

practice.

Consider the way one approaches a trill or a turn in classical music. When a

stylistically competent person hears a trill, do they imagine a score in which a composer has

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written alternating 32nd notes, or do they simply recognize it as single ornament? While both

are true, a stylistically competent listener would understand both performance and

compositional practices of the time in which the piece was composed, and most likely hear

not only a series of shorter notes but also an idiomatic expression that signifies

ornamentation. Although this is a small example, to understand the turn as a single ornament,

and not an alteration of 32nd notes, is to consider the function of the idiom. Does it really

matter how many individual notes are being alternated during the turn? Or do we simply

recognize this moment as a turn, a single idiomatic expression that represents more than the

individual notes being played? In recognizing this occurrence as the latter we are able to

identify what role it plays in both performance and in deriving meaning. To recognize a

moment as a characteristic idiom, or as a gesture, or simply as an expression—and not to

simply break down what is happening in the most overt sense—is to understand its meaning

inside a larger network of history and practice. Moreover it is a search that is predicated on

our understanding of historical performance and composition practice. Similarly, in house

and techno if we are to understand how rhythm is created, do we consider the gradual

intensification of rhythmic energy from one bar to another as the transformation of 8th notes

into 16th notes? Or would it be more effective to understand this as the application of a 2:1

delay being increasingly applied? As in the previous example, both are objectively correct.

But if the goal is to understand what is happening in a track, and if understanding is derived

from those with the highest stylistic competencies, then should we not hear and discuss this

change as a gesture or function of delay and not simply as a subdivision of rhythm? To

derive understanding only from a textual representation, one that presents transcription on

staff paper but is not informed by digital audio workstations or sequencers, is an inherently

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limited exercise as it is removed from the gesture. Returning to my example given in Chapter

1: does Robert Hood’s “Ride” contain a kick drum on each quarter note for 250 bars? Or

does it have a kick drum on loop throughout its duration? While the answer (again) is of

course both, understanding the piece as five interlocked loops provides greater insight into

the way in which the track is produced, performed, and consumed by stylistically competent

listeners.

I do not have the precise answer for how a study of production will transform the

study of EDM tracks, only to say that if we wish to derive meaning from productions as texts

such analysis must be performed with the stylistic competency of those who make this

music, a competency that is informed not only by close listening but by understanding the

mechanisms of production practice. To perform analysis of these tracks without becoming

immersed in the manner in which they were created robs the analyst of perspective and

closes off the central avenues available to derive meaning. When we hear the gradual

intensification of upper frequencies, or when we hear the gradual cutting of low frequencies,

are we hearing changes in dynamics or are we hearing the use of a filter? If we are looking to

locate and understand the gestures I hinted at in Chapter 1 and idioms, and in turn meaning,

then we must identify what we hear not as a crescendo but also as the application of a

particular technique that is directed by a the application of a specific technology.

My desire to integrate production practice into readings of tracks is also informed by

my fieldwork in EDM scenes. Not only did I interview producers during my research, but

also I had countless conversations with dedicated listeners and scene participants. Amongst

other topics, we conversed about musical taste, debating the quality of new releases and

stylistic trends. A striking realization from these interactions was how many listeners were

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amateur producers and DJs. The barriers of entry to production are so low that some form of

musical experimentation and sound design is open to many. The general DIY aspect of

techno and house scenes, combined with the easy access to DAWs and other production

software, has made these genres attractive to amateurs. While such an infusion of producers

has indeed led to questioning the skill level and professionalism of established producers, it

has undoubtedly also created a greater percentage of listeners who are fluent in the type of

practices producers rely upon to construct meaning. I return to this point in part because it

highlights the fact that many of the listeners of electronic music are not simply listeners but

informed practitioners. Thus, their experience of this music is one that is shaped by their own

practices and listening; their ability to derive meaning is dependent on this knowledge. If

everyone is a producer then everyone (to at least some degree) understands the gestures

derived from production and performance practice. If they are hearing an intensification of

rhythm as delay, or if they are hearing a decrescendo in bass frequencies as the application of

a filter, then it serves us to discuss (and transcribe) this music through this language with

explicit references to the processes that enable them. This is not to fall too deep into an attack

on a formalist straw man, only to stress that an understanding of how the music is made

should inform the way scholars approach the study of tracks. In short, I suggest a reading that

is first and foremost directed by the expectations of the producers who make this music.

Becoming Techno Rebels Moving beyond what this study may reveal about how we understand house and techno

tracks, the study of producers illuminates how professional creators of music earn a living.

Most notably it reveals the type of flexibility and ingenuity required by contemporary artists.

314

In studying their behaviour we see the type of endeavours they need not only to make a

living, but also to articulate a professional identity that is essential to both their professional

and personal life. In understanding their work we see the types of exercises and manoeuvres

that they rely upon. These tasks do not merely assert their professionalism, or work

increasingly to cement the barriers of entry to the field which in turn protects their livelihood.

They also place them in a lineage or history of practice, which in turn allows them to feel

grounded as individuals who are sincerely dedicated to spending their life making works of

art. This premise positions them in a uniquely precarious position, and yet it is one they are

able to articulate only through practice. How does one make commercial club tracks that are

often destined to be quickly consumed and disposed while calling oneself the heir to

Stockhausen? The only plausible answer is practice.

As discussed in Chapters 1 and 3, the producers of house and techno have long faced

criticisms that question their professional qualifications and authorship. As such, producers

have long been familiar with nuanced, and at times, conflicting, understandings of what it

means to be an artist. This, in turn, has made them uniquely qualified to address the

challenges in authorship that happen ever more frequently in popular music and art music. In

particular, there are challenges that I believe popular music and contemporary culture are

facing that house and techno producers have already in some sense dealt with, especially

with regard to the increasing role automation and algorithms play in the consumption of

music.

In recent years there has been a growing interest in software designed to transform

personal information and data into bespoke mixes. The ubiquity of streaming services such

as Spotify has demonstrated the appeal of software that can automate the creation of highly

315

personalized playlists based on mood, time, temperature, or occasion. In a sense, these

projects not only erode the position of the DJ, a professional curator, but they also work to

undermine the role of the producer. Indeed, consider start-ups like Mhoto that have designed

software to create new music through an analysis of images.8 Another example is the

company Jukedeck, who has created software designed to compose music for jingles,

soundtracks, and promotional video entirely through AI.9 As automation begins to take over

the labour of creative professionals (as it has done already in the realm of blue collar and

white collar labour), artists will be forced to find not only new revenue streams, but also new

ways to assert authorship —new relationships with technology that still allow them to

articulate their professional identity.

At some point we may learn from the producers who have already faced the

challenges of authorship engendered by technologies of automation. As the use of software

and other automating algorithms becomes folded more broadly into mainstream popular

music, questions will arise concerning originality and professional identity, which are issues

that have long been popular criticisms of EDM producers, performers and fans. Indeed,

producers of techno and house have already provided a model for embracing this new

professional identity, one that looks to technology for its post human possibilities while

resisting its potential to diminish and undermine their labour.

8 For more information see: http://www.digital.nyc/startups/mhoto-inc. 9 Alex Marshall, “From Jingles to Pop Hits, A.I. is Music to Some Ears,” The New York Times, Jan 22 2017,

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/22/arts/music/jukedeck-artificial-intelligence-songwriting.html.

316

Moving Forward The most direct, if mundane, finding of this dissertation is that studies of music producers,

and professional musicians at-large, must continue to examine practice. My dissertation

covered a particular cross-section of producers. While I believe many of my observations

would hold up across the board, a study involving a different cast of musicians, in different

places and scenes, would invariably lead to a richer data set. Would including participants

from genres like trance, which has much closer ties to mainstream North American popular

music, change my hypotheses with respect to production practice being the primary site for

negotiating authorship, professionalism, and artistry? Or, would focusing on a genre like

drum and bass, which is tied more closely to UK genres like hip-hop and grime, direct me

towards how producers collaborate with other types of musicians and performers? While I

suspect many of my observations regarding particular practices would remain the same, I

believe there remains a great deal to learn about how different production practices are

deployed to negotiate authorship and professional identity. More work is needed to fill out

the mosaic of practice and authorship, to add tiles one by one until we have a comprehensive

understanding of what producers do, how they do it, and what it means to be a professional

artist.

A continued focus on the individuals who make this music will lead to more nuanced

and sophisticated results. Moreover, few musicologists are privileged enough to interact with

living subjects. To observe composition and production in real time places us at a unique

juncture in history and is one we should not take for granted. Documenting and archiving

what producers do in their day-to-day practice will not just lead to more astute observations

about musical texts but will leave a paper trail for future generations hoping to understand

317

the type of concerns and practices that have shaped these lives and works. Studies of popular

music cannot lose sight of the individuals who provide the clearest window into

understanding the social role of the professional musician and composer. Despite meaningful

inquiries into this area, the professional creator of music, as both an artist and professional,

remains understudied. If we wish to understand how authorship is determined then we need

to continually study those who are striving so hard to articulate it. A study of practice

invariably becomes a study in what it means to author, what it means to compose, and what

type of professional artistic identities societies engender.

On another front, how will the study of practice continually transform the way we

study texts? Can we change the way we perform analysis? The implicit next step is to

implement these practices into analyses of tracks, using the observations both to address

gesture and meaning and to enhance transcriptions to address these automated and timbral

changes that electronic music so relies upon. If studying production becomes more popular it

will invariably lead to a more clear-cut analysis of musical works as researchers become

more familiar with the compositional processes and tactics composers employ. This can lead

to more instructive musical examples and transcriptions, which, as discussed earlier, may

facilitate a richer understanding of textual interpretation and social practice. As detailed the

making of a recording often includes the making of a score, as the input in the DAW is often

MIDI or instructional or automated, it seems that we have a rich resource to draw upon. To

not integrate workstation pictures and mock-up automation graphs does a disservice to the

practices in question.

Throughout the dissertation I have provided detailed commentary from the producers

I worked with, individuals who were generous with their time and thoughtful in their

318

responses to my questions. While I used these conversations to better understand production

practice, I think they would also work as a point of departure for a host of different inquiries

and studies. How did the introspection of Deepchild inform the producer’s precarious

relationship to different cultural worlds? How did Bwana’s position on navigating the

occasionally opaque world of international bookings inform an understanding of the lives of

young working producers? What did Cindy’s challenges as a female promoter and DJ reveal

about the prejudicial gender dynamics that still exist throughout these scenes? These are all

questions worth exploring further and future scholars might look to these primary documents

to enrich their own field research.

The potential to build upon this work revolves around the same question: how will

the study of practice inform our understanding of professional artists and their labour? As

musicologists look to contemporary subjects that formerly lay outside our historic purview,

the question of how technology is negotiated by creative professionals is increasingly

relevant.10 How do creators of other types of tools and devices rely on artistic practices, and

at what point do the divisions between art and craft, work and tool, end? To ask such

questions does not only celebrate those who are executing such practices, but also reminds us

that a study of practice can reveal how seemingly functional and technical practices contain

articulations of professionalism, artistry, and authorship.

10 This could be adapted for other creative professionals. How do software designer and graphic artists negotiate

their functional and creative goals? How do they negotiate automation? How do they juggle the different challenges and opportunities presented by technology and the industries they rely upon?

319

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Discography

Boddika. Beats Me. NonPlus CD004. 2014. Digital Download. Bwana. Capsules Pride. Lucky Me LM006. 2016. Digital Download. Deepchild. Suffering Ones (Gingy and Bordello Remix). Thoughtless Music TLM057. 2011.

Digital Download. Fengler, Marcel. Sphinx. Index Marcel Fengler IMF01. 2011. Vinyl. Knuckles, Frankie. Your Love. Trax Records 150B. 1987. Vinyl. Mills, Jeff. The Exhibitionist 2. Axis Records AXDV004, 2015. Compact Disc. Mr. Fingers. Can You Feel It?. Trax Records 127A. 1986. Vinyl. Pirupa. “Bad Ass.” Released on Defected In The House Miami 2013. ITH Records

ITH50CD. 2013. Compact Disc. Robert Hood, Robert. Minimal Nation. Axis Records AX007. 1994. Vinyl. Scuba. Claustrophobia. Hotflush Recordings HFLP010. 2015. Vinyl. Woolford, Paul. Erotic Discourse/Heart. 20/20 Vision VIS128. 2006. Vinyl.

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Cited Interviews Bwana. Facebook Messenger correspondence with producer. March 21 2016. ———. Facebook Messenger correspondence with producer. March 9 2017. ———. Facebook Messenger correspondence with producer. January 25 2017. Byallo, Alland. Interview with producer. July 4 2015. Chen, Nancy. Facebook Messenger correspondence with promoter. March 28 2016. Damage, Benjamin. Interview with producer. June 17 2015. Deepchild. Interview with producer. June 18 2015 ———. Email correspondence with producer. October 21 2015. Emerson, Avalon. Interview with producer. June 25 2015. Felix K. Email correspondence with producer. August 5 2015. Gingy. Interview with producer. August 24 2014. ———.Interview with producer. February 7 2017. Li, Cindy. Interview with promoter. March 30 2016. Palm Trax. Email correspondence with producer. September 7 2015. Shannon, Mike. Interview with producer. June 12 2015.

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Cited Participants

Bwana A Canadian producer living Berlin, Bwana has released on labels such as Luckyme and Aus. I first interviewed Bwana in 2013. In 2015 we shared a flat together in Berlin. We converse regularly on Facebook Messenger. Alland Byallo An American producer living in Berlin, I interviewed Alland (in Berlin) in 2015. Before moving to Berlin, he gained recognition for a series of techno parties he threw in San Francisco called Kontrol. He has released records on over a dozen labels including Thoughtless Music and Recode Music. He runs the label and management company Bad Animal. Nancy Chen Nancy is a former promoter in Toronto. Working for the promotion company Mansion, she has booked hundreds of DJs and curated the successful Foundry festival. She is currently employed at a prominent creative services firm. Benjamin Damage Benjamin is A British producer and DJ who gained recognition for his releases on the German label 50 Weapons. I interviewed him in Berlin in 2015. He has been profiled in numerous online publications including Resident Advisor and Fact Magazine. Deepchild Deepchild is an Australian producer who divides his time between Berlin and Sidney. A prolific producer, he has released numerous tracks on prominent labels like Thoughtless Music and Future Classics. I met Deepchild in 2015 and have since continued to correspond with him via email. His new project Acharné is focused on ambient music and “explores notions of silence, memory, and amnesia.” Avalon Emerson Avalon is an American producer living in Berlin. She has gained widespread recognition for her releases on labels like Whities (sic) and her performances across Europe, North American and Asia. I interviewed her in 2015 and have corresponded with her numerous times over email. Felix K A German producer and DJ, Felix K has released on labels such as Dystopian, Blackest Ever Black, and his own label, Hidden Hawaii. I corresponded with Felix over email in 2015.

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Gingy A Canadian producer, DJ, promoter, and community organizer, Gingy has released on labels such as Turbo and Clone and toured numerous times across Europe. He currently runs the Toronto collective It’s Not U It’s Me. INUIM seeks to connect the fragmented house and techno scenes in Toronto and empower local producers and performers. I first met Gingy in 2014. I have since interviewed him three times. We frequently corresponded over email and Facebook Messenger. Hrdvision. Hrdvision is a Canadian producer living in Berlin. He has released records for labels such as Wagon Repair and Hypercolour. I interviewed him in 2013 and again in 2015. He has collaborated with the software company Ableton on interactive software for their MIDI controllers. Cindy Li DJing under the moniker CL, Cindy is a promoter, performer, and producer in Toronto. She is the founder and programmer for Work In Progress, a promotional company and radio series dedicated to showcasing female producers. I interviewed Cindy in 2016 and have spoken to her numerous times over Facebook Messenger. Palm Trax Palm Trax is a British producer living in Berlin. He achieved recognition for his releases on the label Lobster Theremin. I corresponded with Palm Trax over email in 2015. Mike Shannon Mike is a Canadian house and techno producer living in Berlin. For over fifteen years Mike has been releasing widely celebrated albums and tracks for labels like Plus 8 Wagon Repair, and Force Inc. He runs the label Cynosure.