White Keys and Black Keys

Among the many possible histories of pop, that of its instruments is one of the least told. Yes, it must be admitted: the appeal of objects is lesser than that of songs and personalities, but some kind of fetishistic fascination must exist for these tools of the trade – enough, at least, to let the Hard Rock Café chain build a worldwide success on it.

Instruments like the guitar, and to a lesser extent the bass and drums, have nonetheless become linked over the decades to well-established iconographies, gestures and roles. Around keyboards no equivalent imagery has taken shape, except in isolated cases tied to trends clearly defined in style and time. Despite being essentially omnipresent across every area of successful pop, no “myth of the keyboardist” has ever formed, nor any standardized image other than that of the near-motionless figure who simply gets on with the job: pressing the right keys at the right time. Partly for this reason, keyboardists and their instruments have often been relegated far from the spotlight, both in live shows and in music videos. Their “tools of the trade”, moreover, have certainly never achieved with the general public an iconic status comparable to the Stratocaster or the Les Paul, save for the odd anomalous variant that today is readily remembered only to be mocked (see: the keytar).

And yet, it is precisely the evolution of keyboards — effectively one and the same as that of the electronic processing of sound — that reveals the rich, branching transformations of musical forms, their relationship with technology and society, and the shifts that the very idea of “making music” has undergone across different contexts and eras.

This article, the first in the White Keys and Black Keys series, aims to launch a series of thematic deep dives into the history of keyboards and electronic instruments in general, placing their role in pop and neighbouring territories at the centre. Drawing on visual and musical references, it will attempt to look at historical aspects as well as technical and design ones, and above all at the artistic and expressive possibilities that opened up alongside each new innovation to hit the market.

We'll begin this journey between art and technology by focusing on the process that paved the way for every other development in this field: the electrification of the main keyboard instruments in the Western musical landscape. From the early twentieth century onward, the spread of electric power and growing demands for compactness, acoustic intensity and (sometimes) cost containment drove the creation of electric emulations of the piano, organ and harpsichord, designed for use in contexts where a purely acoustic instrument would have proven impractical. Introduced mainly from the 1930s onward, these were initially electro-mechanical instruments, equipped with sound-production mechanisms based on moving parts, pickups and loudspeakers. The most iconic electric piano models and tonewheel organs are examples of this technology. Among the latter, the most famous of all is undoubtedly the Hammond organ.

Anatomy of a legend

More than eighty years of history, at least two million units sold, countless clones and imitations. If there's one keyboard among those that shaped the history of rock that can lay claim to legendary status, it's certainly the electromechanical organ devised by American clockmaker Laurens Hammond and John M. Hanert, who patented the invention in 1934 and brought it to market the following year.

Initially marketed at $1,193 (roughly twenty thousand euros today), the Hammond A was first used in churches: steep as it was, its price still made it attractive to communities that couldn't afford a far more expensive and bulky pipe organ. Even before the war, musicians and curious onlookers from various backgrounds began taking an interest in its sonic possibilities: composer George Gershwin was among the first buyers, and several musicians adopted it in settings ranging from jazz (Milt Herth) to silent film accompaniment (Jesse Crawford).

The sound-generating mechanism is a peculiar one, borrowing a trick already found in the bizarre telharmonium, the pioneering instrument built by American inventor Thaddeus Cahill in 1897. The frequency generators are tonewheels: gear-like metal components that, through their rotation, alter the magnetic field sensed by a pickup placed close to them. This induces a current within the pickup, which can then be amplified and sent to a loudspeaker to produce sound. Pressing the keys associated with each note determines which wheels are engaged, but the actual selection of which wheels will emit signal is controlled by a set of sliders called drawbars: these regulate the balance of the various harmonics that shape the timbre, setting their volume. The sound is thus built from a carefully controlled alchemy of frequencies, in which, alongside the fundamental (corresponding to the key pressed), overtones at an octave (above and below), a fifth, a third and so on appear at adjustable intensities. It's a mechanism quite similar to the one that, nearly half a century later, would underpin additive synthesizers, even if at this stage the degree of timbral customization allowed was still fairly crude.

Tonewheels of a Hammond B3 in action

Drawbar configuration on a Hammond organ

From the altar to the stage

As an imitation of a pipe organ, the Hammond's sound isn't exactly convincing. In the postwar years, however, the instrument's acoustic signature grew familiar to listeners, and the range of recordings and musicians adopting it widened considerably, largely freeing it from its initial liturgical, budget-instrument image. From the 1950s onward, the instrument's rise went hand in hand with the ascent of easy listening, earning organist Ethel Smith the nickname "First Lady" of the Hammond. This period saw the debut of the two most successful models, ones that would remain so for decades to come: the Hammond B3 and the Hammond C3. The only difference between them is aesthetic: turned wooden legs for the B3, an enclosed cabinet for the C3. A delightful collection of recordings from this era can be found on the 2008 compilation "Hammond – The Golden Age Of The Hammond Organ 1944-1956".

It's above all the dynamic qualities that make the Hammond's sound so compelling. Jazz musicians and bluesmen were among the first to hit on a brilliant idea: a design flaw that caused key presses to be accompanied by a distinct, unwanted click could be exploited to give the attack of the sound a markedly percussive character. Within these same circles, it became common practice to send the Hammond's output signal to the rotating speakers made by California-based Leslie, which, exploiting the Doppler effect, produced a characteristic vibrato.

The "breathy", tremulous sound generated by the combination with the Leslie became the signature sound of Jimmy Smith's Hammond B3 (still the most celebrated organist in jazz to this day) and, subsequently, of the instrument itself. No Leslie, however, on one of the most famous Hammond performances etched into collective memory: "Green Onions", from '62, recorded on a Hammond M3 by the quartet Booker T. and the M.G.'s for the now-legendary Southern soul label Stax Records. And with the electromechanical seagulls of "Ebb Tide", finally, a trace of the other sonic experiments being carried out in those years.

Ethel Smith — Tico Tico (from the film "Bathing Beauty", 1944)

Earl Grant – Ebb Tide (1961)

Booker T and the MGs – Green Onions (1962)

Jimmy Smith – The Cat (1964)

Conquering pop

As the Sixties progressed, the Hammond organ was adopted first sporadically and then permanently by a growing number of pop and rock acts. As the psychedelic era approached, more and more bands began including a permanent keyboardist, specifically tasked with using the organ to accompany their songs. The instrument's price remained far from affordable, so many turned to alternatives such as transistor organs (protagonists of the next installment of "White Keys and Black Keys"); for established artists, or those with access to well-equipped recording studios, however, recording something with the Hammond became almost a must. Its uses were not always the most conventional: "Time Of The Season" by the Zombies features two overdubbed solos by keyboardist Rod Argent, and in "Paint It, Black" the Hammond (specifically, its bass pedals) is used to play the bass part!

The Beach Boys – Fun, Fun, Fun (1964)

Bob Dylan – Like A Rolling Stone (1965)

The Rolling Stones – Paint It, Black (1966)

The Zombies – Time Of the Season (1968)

Lucio Battisti – Un’avventura (1969)

The fortunes of the Hammond are tied above all to two expressive keys: on one hand, the solemn, dreamlike, churchy tone, perfect for classical-tinged yearning and reinterpretation; on the other, the more energetic, percussive side, fueling impetuous and at times intoxicating passages. Representing the first strand, among the most iconic are the Bach-inspired Procol Harum and the Greek Aphrodite's Child, in whose ranks the young Vangelis and Demis Roussos played. Among the followers of the blazing sound, besides various exponents of the Woodstock Nation, particular mention goes to Britain's Brian Auger, whose torrential blues phrasing began paving the way that would later be explored in depth by the progressive rock of the following years.

Procol Harum – A Whiter Shade Of Pale (1967)

Brian Auger – Red Beans And Rice (1967)

Al Kooper – Stop (1968)

Aphrodite's Child – It's Five O'Clock (1968)

Santana – Soul Sacrifice [live @ Woodstock] (1969)

The new voice of rock

Bridging the two dominant approaches of the late Sixties was the dazzling Keith Emerson, keyboardist first with the Nice and later with Emerson, Lake & Palmer. It was mainly with the former outfit that he refined his fiery approach to the Hammond: overflowing, lightning-fast passages that echoed the boldness of symphonic music while combining it with a typically rock-fueled ferocity — and a relationship with the instrument that bordered on the carnal. His obsessive devotion to the keyboard and his irrepressible taste for grandeur would bear their most thrilling fruit after Emerson's encounter with the synthesizer, at the outset of the Elp adventure. Even back in the days of "America", a feedback-laden, stab-happy reworking of Bernstein and Dvořák, audiences had already found themselves split between the outraged and the enraptured.

Many other artists, straddling hard rock and prog, sought a fusion of classicism and fervor. Among them, Jon Lord of Deep Purple is remembered for his especially aggressive synthesis. Among the paths explored by lesser-known bands, one of the most effective leaned toward dark, heavy, at times horror-tinged atmospheres, today associated above all with the so-called dark-prog exemplified by Atomic Rooster, Black Widow, Monument.

The Nice – America (1968)

Atomic Rooster – Seven Lonely Streets (1970)

Black Widow – In Ancient Days (1970)

Deep Purple – Fireball (1971)

Monument – Dog Man (1971)

Throughout the Seventies, the Hammond retained a central role, though it was gradually eroded by shifts in taste and, above all, by the growing spread of synthesizers. Over these, the organ would still hold a major competitive edge until the middle of the decade: unlike early synths, it was a polyphonic instrument. Being able to sound several notes at once, it lent itself to building sonic carpets better than the various Moogs, Arps and the like, and so it kept a niche of its own for creating particularly enveloping, layered sounds. Be that as it may, over the course of the decade the organ stopped being the keyboard sound of rock and became just one of many possible options, to be layered with others to create especially rich and evocative atmospheres. The accumulation was sonic, but physical too: this was the era of keyboard rigs, stacks of electric and electronic instruments surrounding keyboardists on stage, forcing them into remarkable acrobatics and contortions to play more than one at once, or to switch rapidly from one to another.

The push toward new sonic textures also led to attempts at unconventional sound combinations, filtering the organ's output signal through effects designed for bass or guitar. This is how, in the long closing section of "Winter Wine" and in many other episodes from the Canterbury scene, we find a Hammond sound decidedly transfigured by fuzz. What exactly happens in the solo on Dixie Dregs' "Punk Sandwich", on the other hand, remains a mystery: some fans bet on the use of a wah-wah pedal, but the effect also brings to mind the organ's output being run through a modular synth.

Caravan – Winter Wine (1971)

Todd Rundgren – Tic Tic Tic, It Wears Off (1973)

Premiata Forneria Marconi – Celebrarion [live] (1974)

Tower of Power – What It’s Hip? [live @ Chicago Sunstage] (1977)

Dixie Dregs – Punk Sandwich (1979)

Death and rebirth

In 1975 the Hammond Organ Company discontinued production of tonewheel models to move entirely to transistor technology. The choice was likely driven by growing competition from other instruments: synthesizers, certainly, but also the by-now vast array of low-cost imitations (clonewheel organs) that many up-and-coming artists preferred to the pricey B3s and C3s, for understandable budget reasons. The new models lacked the same sonic grain as the classic ones, and the company went through a good decade of financial troubles until, in 1989, its legacy was picked up by Japan's Suzuki, which acquired the name and patents.

On the other hand, new wave and the genres spawned by disco music didn't quite know what to do with the Hammond's full-bodied sound, which was increasingly set aside in favour of the more versatile and dazzling synthesizers (analogue first, then digital). Yet already in the Eighties, and increasingly in the Nineties and into the new millennium, the Hammond sound was dusted off by artists seeking a retro inflection. In some cases the homage is explicit: this happens for sure in the mainstream continuations of classic rock and in the neo progressive niche, but also in funk-leaning acts like Vulfpeck and Chicano Batman (the latter sometimes coming up with rather creative sonorities). Other times, the references are more subliminal. The Hammond's thick, creamy timbre, together with its inevitably nostalgic connotation, is in fact perfect for chiaroscuro shadings and the most emotionally touching moments. The Hammond sound is still perceived today as "real", capable of conveying radiance and melancholy, elegance and energy all at once.

Its now well-established status as an evergreen has pushed Hammond-Suzuki to release new models, designed to maximise fidelity to the original sound. The first to arrive were digital clones for live use: in the Toploader video you can spot an XB-1 unit, introduced in 1998. In 2003, meanwhile, the B-3 MK2 made its debut, still digital but extremely faithful to the original both in look and sound thanks to "physical modelling" – that is, algorithmic replication – of the tonewheel mechanism. Want one? It'll set you back around twenty thousand dollars…!

Dire Straits – Walk Of Life [live] (1991/92)

Portishead – Numb (1994)

Toploader – Dancing in the Moonlight [live @ Glastonbury] (2000) 

Änglagård – Jordrok [live] (2015)

Chicano Batman – Friendship (Is a Small boat in a Storm) (2016)

Finally, for those more interested in the technical side of things, it's worth checking out a performance by John Medeski, regarded by fans of the instrument as one of its foremost experts. At the 2:30 mark of the video below, you can hear the effect of changing the drawbar configuration, while at 4:50 the Leslie's rotation is switched on, then allowed to slow down starting at 5:06.

John Medeski’s Mad Skillet [live @ New Orleans] (2016)

Ride the wave of great music

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