Marta Salogni - Happiness Is a Tape Machine

From the stages of Magazzino 47 in Brescia to London's recording studios, with no way back. This is the journey that led Marta Salogni to become, in little more than a decade, one of the most sought-after producers and sound engineers in the world. Björk, Depeche Mode, Sampha, M.I.A, Bon Iver, Black Midi, bar Italy, Philip Selway, Porridge Radio, Animal Collective, Holly Herndon, Subsonica are just some of the artists who have benefited from her work behind the mixing desk (not counting the projects alongside David Wrench for Frank Ocean, The xx, Goldfrapp, FKA Twigs, David Byrne). Alongside her behind-the-scenes work in service of others, Marta Salogni has also pursued a compositional path born of her passion for tape machines, which has led her to perform with the collective Melos Kalpa, alongside leading figures such as Francesco Messina, Erland Cooper, Tom Relleen (her partner, who passed away in 2020), and with a true institution like Suzanne Ciani. We caught up with her at her brand-new Studio Zona in London to hear about her past and how she's experiencing this important professional moment.

You've been based in London for over ten years now, and today you're one of the most in-demand sound engineers and producers around, but what were the early days of your career like, as a young woman, a foreigner, in a city where competition in the industry is fierce?

Obviously tough, but from the very first moment I moved I was aware of all that competition. In Brescia I'd been working as a live sound tech at Magazzino 47 since high school, but right after graduating I left, because I wanted to find every possible opportunity to build a career in music, in recording studios. There weren't many in Brescia, and after talking it over with the person who was my mentor at the time, Carlo Dall'Asta, who taught me the most about live sound engineering, I decided to move to London. There, the first thing I did was learn the language, because it's very different from what you study in textbooks. Then I took a nine-month course where they taught me the terminology, technology and theory needed to work in a studio, which again was very different from what I'd learned doing live sound. So different microphones, different compressors, the physics of sound, everything. The course gave me the theoretical foundation, but I knew it wouldn't be enough to find work, because this is an industry where you learn most of it on the job. I knew I'd have to start from the bottom anyway, going around studios to drop off my CV. Since emails rarely get you anywhere, I'd call or show up in person with a printed CV to ask if I could leave it with the studio manager, waiting outside the door. Nine times out of ten the answer was no, because there weren't many openings, while there were more than enough people looking for work. And I knew you never start as an engineer, you always start by making tea and coffee.

Here in Italy people often say "carrying the pizzas"

Exactly, and that's fine too, you know, because the responsibility of having a record in your hands is huge, and first you have to prove you can make a good tea and coffee. I didn't have the arrogance to think I'd start right away putting my hands on the mixing desk or running a session. I was twenty.

As a woman, did you feel differences in this respect compared to a male colleague your own age?

In this industry I've always been the only woman I knew, right from the start. I never met any other women working as sound engineers in Brescia, so to me that was simply my reality. In London, of course, it's very easy to see this disparity, because worldwide only 5% of producers are women. Then, little by little, I came to know other women who were on the same path as me. The wonderful thing in these cases is that, being women and a huge minority, there's no competition. Competition comes much later than sisterhood, that is, the desire to help each other out. The priority is always mutual support, among women in the same field, because we know we're facing the same problems, the same obstacles, the same glass ceilings. So it's a lovely community that forms, and as we recognize each other the circle widens. It took me a while to meet other women in the music industry, partly because on my course I was obviously the only one. Then I was lucky enough to finally meet Manon Grandjean, an engineer, on one of the first sessions I did at State of the Ark studios, in south London. A beautiful studio, with the EMI desk, which before I'd only seen in photos in Tape Op magazine, thinking "wow, one day I'd love to work in a studio like that." I called the studio manager and told him, "I'd love to come in and drop off my CV, I'm not expecting work, but I'd really like to come and introduce myself in person," and he told me, "Look, we don't have any jobs for you, if you want bring your CV, but don't expect anything, really." I brought the CV, introduced myself and told him I'd be happy to come in and help out even without expecting to touch the desk, just to show my ability, my willingness to work. He hadn't promised me anything, but after a couple of weeks the call came: "We need an assistant, would you like to come make tea, coffee, set up microphones?" In a situation like that, you have to understand it's a first door being opened just a crack for you, and then it's up to you to see it as open, because it's all in your hands. Little by little you have to show that you always want to go the extra mile, arrive early, stay late, take on every job, even the ones that aren't yours, always trying to do your best, but also behaving as if you were already doing the next job up, meaning when you're an assistant, work as if you were the engineer, and when you're the engineer, work as if you were the producer, knowing that in the end it takes time and patience to prove you're up to the task. That was the first session, then came another, and another, a gradual but very solid progression. From the Richmond studio, State of the Ark, I moved on to a Soho studio, Dean Street Studios, then Strongroom Studios, basically all the studios in central London. Thanks to these experiences, once a job was finished, producers, artists and engineers would talk to the label or the production company, and little by little my name started to get around. Basically, all the proof of your abilities is right there in what you do, in the record you make, in the mix you make. It's all very tangible.

A question with a probably obvious answer: before deciding on London, did you ever think about trying to do the same thing in Milan, where there's no shortage of studios either? They're two very different scenes, but Milan is still Italy's main hub, isn't it?

Well, back then I went to Milan a couple of times, I had actually thought about it. But look, if I hadn't come to London I would have gone to Bologna to study musicology, a much more academic path. Then I realized I was still more drawn to getting hands-on with things. Milan is certainly very important for the music scene, but London is where so many different worlds converge.

Where it all happens, so to speak

Yes, because so many people pass through London, including a lot of Italian artists, so it remains the place where you get the chance to deal with everyone, like New York and Los Angeles.

And what about your passion for tape machines, how did that come about?

It was love at first sight with tape machines. Having had to work in studios back when tape machines were a choice – rather than a necessity – I tried to apply myself and study them properly right from the start, because they're part of the history of sound engineering, and in some way I felt responsible for holding onto that knowledge. It was something I wanted in my toolkit. So I started setting aside the little money I earned to buy my first Revox, a quarter-inch reel-to-reel tape machine, and I began teaching myself how it worked. I tried using it in all sorts of different ways, because usually people just think of tape machines for recording or pre-mastering.

You used it as an instrument instead

Yes, because it was the only piece of equipment I had (laughs, ed.), and I thought, “I can definitely record onto it and layer mixes on top, but I can also use varispeed to create delays and build polyrhythms, I can shift the pitch, I can create harmonies, I can use it as a distortion unit, a compressor, or to add saturation...”. Then I saved up to buy a second tape machine, thinking that with two I could take on broader possibilities, thanks to sharing the same tape, and from there a whole world opened up, one that never really ends. Now I have twelve.

That's quite a number. In your studio (Studio Zona), do analogue and digital coexist happily, or does the former take precedence?

The coexistence of analogue and digital is something I've always cared about deeply, because I don't want to be limited by either one. With the very first thing I bought for the studio, I fulfilled a dream I'd had ever since I first saw a mixing desk at 15 years old: owning a 22-channel Studer console. It was a 1974 prototype, one of a kind, fully analogue, with eight outputs feeding into a tape machine with just as many channels. But not wanting to limit myself to 22 channels and 8 outputs, I got in touch with an engineer who helped me modify it to add individual outputs, obviously without losing sight of the sonic character of the desk, which is the whole reason I bought it in the first place. So, if you pay proper attention to how you modernize equipment, it really is possible to make analogue and digital coexist. Now in the studio I can mix entirely in analogue using just the desk, or entirely in digital with Pro Tools, or I can work with a combination of the two, because all the Pro Tools outputs feed directly into the desk.

Obviously in one case you have automation, and in the other you do everything by hand.

Yes, and of course to do a recall on the desk you have to write everything down.

Or take photos

Exactly, photographs, or you take a sheet of paper, write it out, and make your own diagrams.

Obviously your name had already been well known among industry insiders for some time, but this year you also started to become known to the wider public thanks to the Depeche Mode album. Beyond your work as mixing engineer, on “Memento Mori” you're also credited as co-writer on one of the tracks, “Speak To Me”, which doesn't happen to just anyone. Can you tell us how that came about?

“Speak To Me” was one of the songs that evolved the most from demo to final result, and that's what earned me the writing credit. If I remember correctly, I think it started out with some piano chords, in a different key, but we changed it so that Dave's voice could expand naturally. It was just me and James Ford (the producer, ed.) in the studio, and he sat down at the piano to try out different keys, until we found exactly the one that showed off Dave's voice best. Then we re-recorded the vocals, stripped away everything else, and started again from scratch, without Martin and Dave, so that the vocals could be the foundation around which we'd build the instrumental part. We added drones, synths, we worked with tape machines even in Santa Barbara (in Martin Gore's studio, ed.) thanks to some friends in Los Angeles who helped me find, or lent me, the tape machines I needed to replicate my London setup. We used a lot of very free, very long delays, which almost disintegrate and distort as they come back around. We stitched together this tapestry of reverbs, delays, drones and distortion, bit by bit.

I find the result beautiful.

Thank you! It was meant to be something that supports Dave's voice as best as possible, and that's why I think it works so well. It doesn't happen very often that you start from the vocals and build everything else around them, it's a genuinely different sonic architecture, and that's why Dave gave us the writing credit, which was a really, really touching thing for me. Something I'm very grateful for.

That's a real mark of esteem

Yes, and of trust, too. Dave, Martin, James, their manager, they're all wonderful people. The team was small, just four of us in the studio, without Andy, who was supposed to be there, but unfortunately reality had other plans.

On that note, I wanted to ask you what it was like getting into the mood of such an important record, one that marks a first chapter after the death of Andy Fletcher. I know you also had to deal with a loss not long ago, when your partner Tom Relleen passed away (already known for his work in Oscillation and Tomaga, ed.).

Yes, as you know I'm no stranger to loss, and I know what that experience feels like, those emotions, especially when it comes to making music, because Tom was also my partner in music.

In Melos Kalpa, right?

Yes, in Melos Kalpa, but also on the record we made together, “Music For Open Spaces“. When he passed away, I helped many of his and our friends finish albums he'd started with them, trying to think not only with my own head but also with his, reflecting on the decisions he would have made. It was a way to still feel him alive. And that happened during the session with Depeche too, because even though I'd never met Andy, it felt like I had, through Martin and Dave, and it was very moving to witness that process. It's as if grief brought about a genuine closeness — we were all more honest, closer, more open and willing, both in sharing and in listening.

Those are the situations where everyone knows you've been through the same experience, so maybe there's less need for words

Yes, in the end we settled into that special kind of harmony, which when it happens is truly magical. I've done so many sessions, and I understand when things are already being said through a look or a smile. Sometimes all you need is to read the expressions on the face of whoever is listening to an idea or a sound.

Your involvement in major projects led by women, namely those of Bjork and Holly Herndon, but also your role as curator at the Transmission festival 2022, which featured Kali Malone, Valentina Magaletti, Silvia Tarozzi, show just how much both the role and the perception of women artists working in experimental/electronic music have finally changed over time. And it's especially clear compared to the era of the pioneers in this field, portrayed in the documentary “Sisters with Transistors”, artists like Daphne Oram, Delia Derbyshire or Suzanne Ciani — with whom you've also worked — just to name a few. What's your perception of this change?

Both Delia Derbyshire and Daphne Oram, for instance, grew through their experiences partly because making electronic music was, for them, a far freer artistic path than the conventions of traditional music at the time. But it was also freer as a professional path, since the classic route meant getting into a studio and being an assistant or engineer. There was a lot of sexism back then, and for a woman, getting into a recording studio meant being confined to a minor role, where you could never actually put your hands on the console. It was very rare to see a woman behind the equipment, so those two women were a hugely important example for me. The more these examples are put in the spotlight, the more sources of inspiration grow for other women, other girls. These are the things that make you say "I'm not alone" — it's a huge inspiration. The change I see is, first and foremost, shaped by my own optimism about the new generations, and I say that because I work with a lot of pretty young acts, let's say eighteen and up. I see their approach to music, to experimentation, to inclusivity, and that's how I hope the world will be in ten years. I think experimentation has now become part of everyday life for musicians, not just on the fringes of more "angular" music, but in pop too, where there's a lot of experimentation — much more than there used to be, at least in the kind of pop music I consider important. Today pop can reach a huge audience, all kinds of different people, and it manages to bring innovation, to reinvent paradigms, to bring about change. I believe it's necessary for each of us to become a spokesperson for this change. As people working in music, we have to remember that the content and the way we approach our art touch a lot of people. We should always try to be a model of positive change within the music world.

Let me ask you a question I also asked Simon Reynolds, in an interview also here on OndaRock. Holger Czukay of Can used to say that "limitation is the mother of creativity", but the excess of technology of our era seems to be heading in the opposite direction, with hundreds of plug-ins, outboard gear and parameters. Do you personally find that disorienting, or does it still enrich your palette of colors?

Look, I think I use at most 20 plug-ins in total, and I'm happy with that. When I feel something's missing, when I want another color, I tend to combine the ones I already have rather than add a new one. Sometimes I might say "I need something different" and go looking for something new, but unless it's a truly different plug-in — rather than just a slight shade of blue, my favorite color — I'm happy using what I already know, because I know how to use it and what shades it gives me. I don't want to close the door on what's new — you should never get lazy, otherwise you risk becoming boring — but it's enough for me to try to discover at least one new piece of technology every year, one new way of working, and integrate it. I enjoy working in new ways, but limitation, not having a library of a thousand plug-ins, is much better. Otherwise, when you go to choose an equalizer, anxiety and panic take over.

And besides, there's never time to try everything that comes out on the market

Exactly. For me, limitation was my love for my first tape machine, because I didn't have the money to buy another one. Let's remember that plenty of bands were born out of the limitation of London's and Manchester's grey skies.

Among all the records you've worked on, whether as mix engineer, recording engineer or producer, is there one you consider particularly important in your professional journey? One that marked a real turning point?

Wow, I can't name just one, because they all mark a turning point. When I think about the albums I've worked on, I never think in terms of years — I'm much more likely to remember whether I recorded that album out in the Welsh countryside. To remember what year it was, I have to go look up the date somewhere. My life is measured out in records recorded and records released. There might even have been long gaps between recording and release, but they all mark a turning point.

You put the need to empathize with artists and tune into what matters to them first. But as a producer, does it happen that you're explicitly asked to bring something of your own to the project? A sound, a production choice?

Yes, much more often now, in the sense that as I produce more records, more bands and artists come to me asking for a direct imprint, they ask me to compose or to play tape machines, to be another member of the band or to work together with them, in depth. And that makes me very happy, because it's a sign of trust, of respect and of a willingness to get our hands dirty together. I love working with artists and bands, because there's already a spark that's been struck, and I like to then light that fire together. When that spark is there, I feel very comfortable responding to that input, I think I'm someone who, you know, resonates.

The Beatles' new single came out recently, the one made possible thanks to AI's ability to separate (on the famous demo tape) Lennon's voice from the piano. But beyond that track, the project also involved remixing the songs on the two singles compilations, the red album and the blue album. Using the original tracks, mixed with today's technology, allowed for a decisive leap in sound quality, while still remaining very respectful of the original. Do you think records from that era should be left as they are (remastered at most), or do you think it makes sense to be able to refresh an album's sound this way? It's quite a challenge, isn't it?

It's a truly multifaceted challenge. I haven't listened to the remix yet, I've heard the single, but all of this raises a lot of questions, including ethical ones. They're new questions, since we didn't have the technology to do this ten years ago: does it make sense to remix? Is that what the band actually wants? How do you decide when some band members are still alive and others aren't? Is it a matter of marketing and publicity? Where does this choice lead us? These are songs and records that were conceived with the taste and technologies of their time, so the decision should never be taken lightly. I, for example, experienced this firsthand with a record — actually a whole discography — by Pauline Anna Strom, a San Francisco composer who released some wonderfully expansive electronic music compositions in the Eighties. Brooklyn's Rvng Intl. label contacted me to ask, "we've discovered the original reels of these records, not just one, but three, plus another album that was never released. Would you like to remix them?" I explained to them that I loved her records and that I'd love to remix them, but that I wanted to talk to her first. Once I got the go-ahead, we spoke, and I immediately told her, "let's talk about how you'd like these records to sound," also because at the time they had been mixed with the taste and technology of the Eighties. Okay, it's true that I also mixed them in analog on my 1974 console, but I mixed them with the ears of someone from 2020, who chose to bring out the low and high frequencies much more prominently. So we're talking about modern mixes, which brought out elements that hadn't had much space back then. But every change was a decision made together with the artist, I felt authorized, I had her blessing. Sadly, she died at 70 right while we were mixing, and that made me want even more to finish the work and bring her vision out into the open.

The vision that maybe even she hadn't managed to bring out back in the Eighties...

Exactly. It happens that artists change their minds and want to change the sound of the record, so it's important that they're the first ones to say, "I'd like to remix, because now I feel like I could give it new life." Technologically we can do it, because the technologies used to extract instruments from a mono or stereo mix are now available. For example, you can isolate the drums from the bass, from the guitar, from the vocals — these are technologies within everyone's reach, but you have to be careful how you use them. When I made the record ("Proto") with Holly Herndon, whom you mentioned earlier, she programmed this AI called Spawn and used it to compose the album by reworking her own voice, but when the record came out, Holly made it clear that these technologies are very important because they expand our potential, but it depends on who uses them and how they use them. It's a subject not to be taken lightly, but if there's an artistic issue at stake, it's worth discussing. I imagine that in the Beatles' case there must have been some kind of discussion before releasing the remix. I was deeply moved by "Now And Then", the first demo, because I thought, "this holds so many emotional layers." I won't say whether I like it or not, because that's a matter of taste, but they really did an excellent job.

You mixed Subsonica's new album, just out, but you'd already worked on the previous one too. Are there other Italian projects you're working on and, in general, would you like to work on more Italian projects?

Yes, I recently produced Silvia Tarozzi's new record, in Bologna, which we're currently mixing. It was the first record I recorded entirely in Italy, since, living in London all year round, I'd never had the chance to work in an Italian recording studio. We went to Fonoprint studios in Bologna, and it was really lovely to finally be able to record in my home country.

Fonoprint is a historic studio, by the way, one with a very distinctive sound that made an era in the '70s/'80s.

Yes, so it was all the more important for me to work there, not to mention the fact that I was able to communicate in Italian, which isn't something to take for granted, since I speak English 99.9% of the time. Then I don't know if I can say this or not, but there's another artist I'm working with, an Italian, we worked in Brescia for a couple of days, and there too it was lovely to come back "home" and work in an Italian recording studio. It's something I'd obviously like to do more of... and I'll add that for about two years now I've been thinking about building a recording studio right here in Italy. I've started looking into old abandoned farmhouses, with the idea of building a studio where I could invite international artists, maybe somewhere close to where I grew up. It's a project for the future, one I'll dedicate myself to in my free time. I don't have much of that right now, but the project is still alive.

I imagine if you tell a foreign artist to come record in a farmhouse in Italy, they'd come running...

In fact, they've already said yes! When I tell the artists I work with about this dream in progress, they all say "count me in!" And you know what makes me smile? The fact that over all these years I've worked in recording studios in London, outside London, in Scotland, in France, in Iceland, in America, in Greece, but it was only this summer that I finally got the chance to work in Italy. It makes me smile because Stefano Pilia told me the same thing: you're never a prophet in your own land.

It's a bit like the "big in Japan" idea for English-speaking artists, doing well abroad but needing more time to break through at home. You've got everything it takes to do well at home too

I hope so, obviously. You know, I came to London, but my love for music started in Italy, thanks to Magazzino 47, to Carlo, to Radio Onda d'Urto, and to all the artists I worked with there.

The seed was planted there, then it grew

Then it grew, yes. I don't believe in borders, so for me, especially when I'm working in music, it's natural to think that in the end we all more or less know each other and feel at home pretty much anywhere. I don't know if the same holds true for journalism or any other art form, but a studio, whether it's here, in Italy, in Greece or in America, is still a studio. Maybe you look out the window and see the Alps, and you know you're in northern Italy, or you see the sea, and you know you might be in Sicily. But if you don't look out the window, you could be anywhere.

It's a microcosm you always find again

And that's the beauty of it, because you feel at home even on the other side of the world. When you're in a studio, in the end everyone speaks the same language.

I'll close with an inevitable question: is there any particular advice you'd give to someone who wants to pursue your career?

I'd say every path is different for each of us. The route I took might not work for everyone. Someone else could reach the same result as me by taking a completely different path, because it's obviously a chain of decisions, opportunities, things that are specific to each person. What I will say, and what I think is a really strong point, is that it's truly important to collaborate, because by collaborating and putting yourself forward to a band or an artist, you put yourself on the line. And putting yourself on the line is, for me, the only way you grow inwardly as well as outwardly. So never be afraid to collaborate, to build a community. With a community you become stronger, and you can lean on it in a moment when you need, say, a compressor, or a piece of advice. If you have a community behind you, you're protected. It's important to always put community above competition. Let's never forget that if you live in an environment where people help each other, it's also much easier to rise above the competitiveness of the record industry. And you should never be afraid to experiment. Never let yourself be held back by not having the £10,000 microphone or the £100,000 mixing desk. That's not the issue. What matters is how you use it and the content of what you produce, of what you make. Obviously it takes dedication, there's no other way, you have to commit and follow your instinct, because if you work on music that doesn't move you instinctively, you won't be able to put your soul or your heart into it. You have to have the courage to say "this is my dream" and have no plan B. I never had a plan B, I too worked in restaurants, in factories, in countless places, but I never had a plan B, because I was always convinced, and happy, that this is what I want to do. I feel it will give me new emotions every day. You never stop learning. In the end, you know, I'm lucky.

Ride the wave of great music

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