Past Episodes.
S1E2.
“We saw ourselves as part of the machinery of the modern world.”
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Stephen Mallinder: the journey of the beat.
Published: Nov 1, 2024.
“I like that idea of communities—labels being one of them, Factory Records, Industrial Records, the TG thing—the idea of being able to work within communities. I still do it and make music that way because it’s all I know. It’s the thing that still resonates.”
INTRODUCTION: A cultural revolution had been brewing in England long before the Sex Pistols and Malcolm McClaren put pen to paper
In many ways, it began with bands like Roxy Music and Kraftwerk, David Bowie, and his Spiders from Mars. These gender-fluid, sexual agent provocateurs blew shockwaves through the country flaunting with the boundaries of creative expression and musical experimentation.
They were icons plastered on every wanna-be punk’s bedroom wall.
At the same time, in Sheffield, a group of school friends were adding to the noise. Messing about with tape recorders and industrial soundscapes, they were looking to change the definition of music, long before anyone in London even thought about starting a band.
I’m Richard Smith and I’m your host. In episode two we meet the cofounder of Cabaret Voltaire, one of the most influential underground groups to emerge during those revolutionary times. We get to hear what motivated him then and what still motivates him now.
“I never really left Sheffield because my roots were always there, and it’s always been a permanent touchstone in my life. So even though I did subsequently move around and was based in different places, I’ve always really been part of Sheffield.”
RICHARD SMITH: My guest today is a doctor, a sound inventor, a music maker, as well as a writer and an artist. In the early 70s, he co-founded the massively influential experimental music group Cabaret Voltaire.
Please welcome to the show, Stephen Mallinder. Mal, welcome to the show.
STEPHEN MALLINDER: That was brilliant. Thank you. You captured that very nicely. I’m very pleased to have been described as that.
RS: Thanks for taking the time, I appreciate it.
SM: Thank you. Thanks, Richard. Thanks for, thanks for having me on.
RS: So, you grew up in Sheffield, you lived in London for a little bit, you moved to Perth, and now you’re living on the English South Coast. Summarize a little bit for me, that journey for you.
SM: I suppose the key to it is, I never really left Sheffield because my roots were always there, and it’s always been a permanent touchstone in my life. So even though I did subsequently move around and was based in different places, I’ve always really been part of Sheffield.
I was there two weeks ago as well, so it’s somewhere I go back to because my family and friends and people who I work with are still deeply rooted there, and I have strong connections. So, I’ve never really left Sheffield.
Originally, I was going to go and study history and politics at the University of Manchester when I left school, but I had just started making music at that moment in time. Decided not to go to Manchester but to stay, and I did work in steelworks for a year because I didn’t take my place at Manchester.
Eventually, I was persuaded by my fellow workers in the rolling mills and lugging stuff around: “You shouldn’t be doing this, you’re smart, you should go to university, you should do that, you’ve got the chances, we haven’t,” and they were brilliant people and I loved them to bits for it.
So, I did a degree in Sheffield, in politics and philosophy and history, which allowed me to carry on doing music and doing experiments and messing around, and it was just fun. Then we did our first gig, and so we took the name on. I stayed there and that was it.
The formative years were based in Sheffield, recording there, and the London connection is something that came probably… we’d been making music in various forms for about 10 years, and then we were doing our first album for the Some Bizarre label. We recorded the Crackdown album in London—it was the first album we did outside Sheffield.
We used to go backward and forward to London quite a bit, and I had strong connections. I’d been signed to the Fetish label; my solo stuff was on the Fetish label. I was friends with people like 23 Skidoo and Throbbing Gristle.
“The early 90s were a difficult time for us, and I decided just to give it a break and try to do something else. It was also because Richard Kirk and I, by this time, had been working together for over 20 years. We’d been doing stuff non-stop. We were in contact with each other every day, sorting things out. I think I felt like it would be nice to have a breather. So, I decided to go and spend a bit of time in Australia.”
I had a strong connection and network of friends and everything in London. We kept the studio in Sheffield, but I also had a flat in London, and I commuted between Sheffield and London. I’d go to the studio most weeks, or maybe two weeks of every month I moved backward and forwards between London and Sheffield. That went on for over 10 years.
Then Australia came a while after we left EMI, so that was the early 90s. We spent a couple of years—Richard (Kirk) and myself—running the Plastex label, self-releasing, and doing our own stuff, and I was still commuting between Sheffield and London, but I had two children by that time.
It was financially quite difficult, to be quite honest with you. I’m sure you and other listeners hearing this will know the pressures of trying to keep body and soul together when you have children and the costs of it and everything. It was quite difficult.
We didn’t have a deal, and we were living hand to mouth a bit, not literally, but figuratively speaking. During that period, it was difficult for us, and I decided just to give it a break and try, just do something else. It was also because Richard and I, by this time, had been working together for over 20 years. We’d been doing stuff non-stop. We were in contact with each other every day, sorting things out, in the studio together, gigging, touring, whatever.
I think it felt like it was nice to have a breather. I’d done some solo stuff, so had Richard. And I decided to go and spend a bit of time in Australia with my two young children and my wife, just give it a break because it was hard to survive. I needed to think of something else.
“I think sometimes when you’re in a band, you see nothing other than the band, but I’ve always liked the idea of doing something that helps other people—giving other people the opportunity to bring music out.”
RS: You were in Perth, though, which is not the first place I think of moving to in Australia…
SM: Much as being an artist and all this, I’m a human being, and we also know when you have children, sometimes it’s good to be near family networks, and we did have a family network. My wife, although she lived in London, did have family in Perth in Australia. So, we needed a little bit of network support with our children. We decided rather than go to Sheffield, we would spend a bit of time in Australia, and that’s where they were.
RS: So, you really cleared your head, got your focus somewhere else for a moment, and then continued?
SM: Yeah. In part, it was also when you’ve been doing music, doing stuff for over 25… I needed to stop and draw a breath. What else did I want to do? I started teaching. I was teaching over there. I started lecturing. But I was always doing music.
I was still connected with music, and I set up a label, Offworld Sounds. I worked closely with a good friend, who is still a great friend of mine, a guy called Peter Carroll, who at that time was one of the people who ran Sony in Australia.
“When you’ve been doing music, doing stuff for over 25… sometimes you need to stop and draw a breath. So, I started teaching. I started lecturing. But I was always doing music.”
So, we brought out maybe 10, 12 albums and lots of 12-inches. I was busy doing stuff. I had an Offworld production wing of that, and we were putting gigs on, and I was running festivals. Pete and I both ended up running an arts radio station together. I was releasing my own music as well, so it was quite an active period.
And Pete is part of a big Manchester collective. He’s from the UK originally himself. He traveled the world and, like me, washed up in Australia, but he’s the cousin of Shaun Ryder and the late Paul Ryder, and his brothers are the famous artists who do Central Station. Matt and Pat Carroll.
It was great, because we had a strong connection, and we were active. We also had this great thing whereby all the artwork for our Offworld Sounds label was done by Matt and Pat, so we had this incredible look for all the releases we brought out. We had our in-house design team. So, I was quite busy doing stuff in Australia, doing my music, and all those things.
RS: What drove you to start your label? I get a little bit from what you said, but I know it wasn’t the first time. Perhaps what drove you to do that and put all your time and effort into that?
SM: There was a personal thing, which was, I liked the idea of working with other people. I liked the idea of putting something back. It was like, as well as being an artist, and a musician, and I wanted to make music, I was more interested in working very collaboratively. So, it allowed me to work with other people.
The label brought out stuff from Europe and America, and it was an idea of using my network and the connections that both Pete and I had to do something more than the sum of its parts.
I think sometimes when you’re in a band, you see nothing other than the band, but I quite like the idea of doing something that helped other people, and I quite enjoyed that—giving other people, particularly people in Australia, local artists in Perth, the opportunity to bring music out, which they hadn’t had the chance to do.
Also, that moment in time—label culture was a bigger thing. There’d been Factory Records and everything, but you were getting labels like Wall of Sound or Network or whatever—labels had a certain amount of cachet and kudos, and we wanted to do something that was overarching, to not feel restricted to just being a band with one name.
So, we were able to do that, and we did brand it. We had in-house designers, and it was lovely because the idea was, as we always had, that the packaging, design, overarching look of something was important. It wasn’t purely about what was on the record—the music was vastly important—but it was how it was presented and how people perceived it.
The idea of a label and of a production company that went alongside it suited the philosophy that we were doing. It was at a time when vinyl was still strong, and that’s why we did the label.
“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean it makes it great. What makes it interesting and great is it’s your take on it. That experimental gene is there, and it connects what I do now with Wrangler… that’s a connective thread through to working in Chris Watson’s loft in 1972 or ’73 when we first started.”
RS: You have consistently been an ardent collaborator. You’ve worked with people helping them create their music, you’ve worked with so many different bands, you have so many of your projects, and your solo work beyond Cabaret Voltaire—Creep Show, the Ku-Ling Brothers, Wrangler, Wonky Plonky, Electronk.
To me, you seem to have this dedication to experimental music particularly, and I’m curious what’s so important to you about that?
SM: I just think it’s… I suppose it’s part of my identity, really. And it’s also a way of relating to people, and there’s a community around it, and I like that idea of communities—labels being one of them, Factory Records, Industrial Records, the TG thing—the idea of being able to work within communities and spread across different groupings made sense. I still do it and make music that way because it’s all I know. It’s the thing that still resonates.
RS: I know you’re talking about collaboration, but you started out experimenting and you’re still experimenting, and I’m curious why.
SM: I understand what you mean, and I think in some ways it’s almost like the answer is contained in the question, in the sense that we started off making experiments because we were interested in that. We couldn’t replicate or mimic people very well; we had to make something and create it our way.
So, the idea of calling it experimental—it’s just a way of exploring things and juxtaposing things and taking things and putting them in different contexts. That’s the experimentation part of it.
But I think the other thing is the reason I still do it is because it feels like that’s the continual thread in my life. I don’t want to lose that inquiring spirit or that inquiring mind. Also, there’s another simple answer: I’m not a particularly great musician, I’m not a particularly great singer, but I love the idea of trying and seeing what happens.
“The root of experimentation is play and enjoyment and fun, and challenges as well—to challenge yourself and other people, to push things and see what you’re doing. There is always an element of I’m not frightened to fail, because I think that’s the key to it.”
That’s what we’re all great at. It doesn’t necessarily have to be around proficiency—just because you can do something doesn’t mean it makes it great. What makes it interesting and great is it’s your take on it. That experimental gene is there, and it connects what I do now with Wrangler… that’s a connective thread through to working in Chris Watson’s loft in 1972 or ’73 when we first started.
The reason I do it is because it connects me. It’s the common narrative throughout everything I do, so it just makes sense to me. I couldn’t suddenly become a different person; it’s just a way of working.
RS: I think, to a certain extent, it’s that questioning… You said you’re not a good singer, you’re not a good musician, but depending on the definition of good, I guess what I’m trying to get at is you were driven by experimentation, but it’s interesting to me that you keep doing that, and there’s a connection even to what you’re doing now with Brighton and the students. It’s never sitting still.
SM: I think it stops life being boring, really, and it also allows me a wide scope—there’s a lot of width in there for me to try and do whatever I want, and it still fits in with who I am. It’s just the pathway I’ve always been on, and it adapts to whatever situation I’m in, whether it’s writing, talking to people, in the studio, or whatever. It’s the root of art and creativity, but those things are hard to define.
The root of it is play and enjoyment and fun, and challenges as well—to challenge yourself and other people, to push things and see what you’re doing. There is always an element of I’m not frightened to fail, because I think that’s the key to it, perhaps because my benchmark for my side doesn’t matter to me.
RS: You mentioned before, the packaging—how something is presented, how it’s put together. Why is that important? How does that tie in with the music, your approach, your collaboration, etc.? I think you mean it maybe differently than this idea of creating an identity, but that it works on the same level as the music in terms of giving a visual representation of that questioning.
SM: I think so. It’s weird, but it is subjective. It’s purely—like I say—it’s like talking about saying I can’t play, I can’t sing; all of this is subjective. I think, and this is the interesting bit, it’s always about what feels right in that subjective sense, so it’s about something that sounds right to me. Whatever that sound is and whatever that record is, it’s also important that it’s presented in a way that looks right as well, so it can reach people on different levels.
“We’ve lost the object that’s attached to the sound because the sound is ephemeral. It disappears; it has no materiality. The important thing is, if you do sound, you must attach materiality and context to it. That’s why the artwork and the visuals and the videos and everything about it and the photographs must be right because when you’re dealing with something ephemeral.”
This is where there’s a sadness to me in some ways about this world now, which is taken over by streaming, as we’ve lost the object that’s attached to the sound because the sound is ephemeral. It disappears; it has no materiality.
The important thing is, if you do sound, you must attach materiality and context to it. That’s why the artwork and the visuals and the videos and everything about it and the photographs must be right because when you’re dealing with something ephemeral, that context for it is, for me, vitally important.
That’s why it’s important I can work with designers that I love and appreciate and photographers and all that. You make it the best you can because otherwise, sound is… It’s hard now, and it is nice in some ways in the sense that sound has been reduced to its purest immaterial form—being streamed—but I think what’s a bit sad is that we’ve lost a lot of that visual context that makes the music people make very interesting and seductive and challenging, giving it its visceral nature and vitality as well. That’s why all those things are important to me.
RS: I listened to an interview with Malcolm Garrett, the designer, and he talked about how he doesn’t define himself as an artist, but he says his work is a visual representation of the music—what does that music look like? It’s interesting; it’s something I know for myself, the packaging sometimes was almost more important than the music, and then it all came together between Cocteau Twins, Joy Division, you name the bands, even Simple Minds… anyway, bring me back to Brighton. Why Brighton?
SM: Brighton… the connection with Brighton was quite a simple one. I was lecturing, and I’d written my PhD, which is called Movement: The Journey of the Beat. It’s about rhythm and the movement of rhythm through analog and digital. I was finishing it off and got invited over to Brighton to do some research, which also allowed Brighton to use some of my research for its REF submission.
My supervisor was the wonderful Tara Brabazon, and I came over to finish the PhD close by her and to do some research and bits of teaching in Brighton. I was intentionally going to be here for about maybe a year, 18 months, and I’ve been here ever since because I started working with and meeting some brilliant people.
It’s funny you’re talking about 4AD, but I work with Chris Bigg, who was one of 23 Envelope, along with Vaughan (Oliver). I worked with a great designer called Paul Burgess, who was here at the university—an illustrator. I work with amazing people here, and there are some cool people.
I got sucked in a bit to that, and I also started making music again because I hooked up with Benge (Ben Edwards) and Phil Winter, who are my best friends. We do Wrangler and Creep Show together. I still work with Benge. I’ve just spoken to him a few minutes ago—we’ve been working together now for 12 years, longer, probably about 15.
I became inculcated into both Brighton and Britain, and it just became something that’s part of my life. It was a nice place to be, so I was less enticed to pull up sticks again and go somewhere else. I stayed here, and that’s brought everything up to date where I am now.
“I became inculcated into both Brighton and Britain, and it just became something that’s part of my life. It was a nice place to be, so I was less enticed to pull up sticks again and go somewhere else. So, I stayed here.”
RS: You said you’re teaching, but when I was going through what you’ve been doing, it seems like you’re one of the most prolific people I know—from music to teaching to writing to events to everything.
It seems that you just can’t stop creating. It’s amazing. Tell me about the events that you’re doing, because those have emerging musicians, people performing, making films. Is that coming out of what you’re doing at Brighton?
SM: I suppose there’s an arty parameter to what I do, so it does feed into some of those things. But I’m still very much a musician in that sense—the stuff I do is still based around releasing music.
RS: What’s the goal of what you’re teaching at Brighton?
SM: The goal is about the different nature of how sound adapts to every aspect of our environment. So, it is about field recordings, it’s about multi-channel immersive pieces, it’s about how sound works with VR, it’s about AI, it’s also about people making records they love, and it’s about people performing records they love.
“We encourage students to find their own context in which they fit sound, and we work with them on their chosen pathway. That’s the interesting thing. I certainly believe that is the future of AI, in the sense that it’s about understanding how different mediums work in creative subjects.”
Also, our students do AI stuff. We had an amazing final degree project with a student doing a wonderful AI piece. He worked with an AI platform, created an album, and made a film.
We’re not prescriptive. Students can choose their own pathway. Sound is a medium that requires context, so it’s about applying context to sound—be it using film, three-dimensional spaces in installation art, or field recordings and immersive stuff.
We encourage students to find their own context in which they fit sound, and we work with them on their chosen pathway. That’s the interesting thing. I certainly believe that is the future of it, in the sense that it’s about understanding how different mediums work in creative subjects.
But students don’t come in and we teach them how to make an album or make a hit record or whatever; we just get to play with sound as a medium, as a sculptural thing. It’s also about how sound works within the world. Some students will do research into sonic warfare or whatever it might be.
If sound is at the center of what they do, they can do whatever they want—that’s it. It’s as simple as that. So, it’s quite experimental, in that we allow people to play with stuff. We encourage failure and experimentation as much as anything else. They can freak out a little bit, but they eventually get their heads around it, and they do amazing things.
RS: Do you know somebody who is called Alex McDowell, by any chance?
SM: Alex McDowell? Al McDowell. He was… yes, he was Rocking Russian. He won the Oscar for that Spielberg film. Yeah, I know Al well. He worked on some of our videos.
RS: He now teaches at USC, the University of Southern California. He’s teaching these programs about futurism—imagine the world 300 years from now, and there’s been a massive disaster. How would you rebuild that world?
You reminded me of something he said: the students freak out because they have nothing and must re-imagine how you reconstruct civilization.
The thing that interests me a lot about you and your career is the interconnectedness of it all. That’s probably true of a lot of musicians, but how you went from meeting at school, becoming the Cabs, and then everything else that came after that—working with people in New York, etc.
That’s the premise of this show. I’m fascinated by the longevity of people’s careers and the impact they had on multiple different generations, but I’m curious: for you, where did that begin?
SM: It began with a passion for and loving music. I was listening to blues and the Beatles and all those things—Black American music, Jamaican music, early reggae, and soul music. The other catalyst was early glam rock and very early David Bowie, from Space Oddity and “Laughing Gnome.” Then the big catalyst, I think, for all of us, and what drew us together as the Cabs, was Roxy Music and the fact that Roxy changed the whole idea of what music potentially could do and how you could work with sound—particularly Eno, who was then using tape recorders and synthesizers.
That was fascinating because neither Chris, myself, nor Richard were actual musicians, but we were interested in music, and that gave us this sort of lightbulb moment: “Oh wow, this is interesting, people making sound, contributing to stuff, and doing it within a pop culture framework, but it wasn’t music as such.” So it was that way of being able to build it.
“I was listening to blues and the Beatles and all those things—Black American music, Jamaican music, early reggae, and soul music. Early glam rock and very early David Bowie, from Space Oddity and “The Laughing Gnome.” But the big catalyst for all of us, and what drew us together as the Cabs, was Roxy Music and the fact that Roxy changed the whole idea of what music potentially could do and how you could work with sound—particularly Eno.”
We were never a punk band, but that period was a moment in time—it was a paradigm shift where there was a generation of people who wanted to be heard, for political reasons or just to be seen and heard, or youthful exuberance. A whole generation came together. I think that was the embryonic thing.
Punk was important in the sense that it opened doors and gave opportunities for you to slip in through the open-door punk created. As you say, that then inspired people like us and The Fall—a different type of music, a different sound.
Mark E. Smith was a very different type of person. But I think both the Cabs and The Fall were very influential because we were both opposite ends of the scale or different sides of the coin, but we represented a potential for people who normally wouldn’t be able to make music.
“The idea of the design, the look, the sound of something, and the look of something and how it’s presented was important to us. So how it worked for us was how it worked for other people, like Tony Wilson, Rough Trade, Neville Brody. We were all a bit liberated into doing it our way because all of a sudden, the rule book had been thrown away. So, it allowed us to do it that way.”
RS: Definitely, that time opened the door for people to be able to say, “I can do this. I don’t have to be a trained musician. I don’t have to follow a traditional path to being in a band.” I think that was the impetus that drove me to want to make music and then actually get into design as well.
The two kind-of related—like I realized that design was a way for me to express myself, because being a shy kid growing up, it was always hard for me to have a voice, but design was my way of getting recognition for what I was saying, even though it wasn’t necessarily in words or music.
SM: It was important to us—maybe more so for us—the idea of the design, the look, the sound of something, and the look of something and how it’s presented was important. So how it worked for us was how it worked for other people, like Tony Wilson, Rough Trade, Neville Brody. We were all a bit liberated into doing it our way because all of a sudden, the rule book had been thrown away. So, it allowed us to do it that way.
RS: I remember seeing a documentary a while back—it was about the birth of electronic music in northern England. It was interesting to me that bands like the Sex Pistols and The Clash, and so on, were very much more guitar-driven, more traditional instrumentation, but bands like Clock DVA and yourselves and The Human League and OMD—so many northern bands, even Joy Division—there was this electronic facet to what you all were doing. I’m curious where that came from.
SM: I think the reason for anything is always complex rather than singular. I think some of the elements at play in a lot of the northern cities… the distractions were probably less; we tended to make our entertainment. Certainly, for us, the reason we were in a band, and The Human League and DVA that followed, was we had to create our world because there wasn’t as much going on.
We weren’t London—bands came through, but it didn’t have the distraction. If you were of that generation, you made your fun. You didn’t fit in with the more traditional club life and pub life and all that. So, if you’re a little bit odd and out on the edge, you made your entertainment. As a result, that’s what happened in those places.
“We were influenced as much by film and television as anything else—Tomorrow’s World, Doctor Who, Star Trek. It very much explains bands like The Human League and their fetishization of technology in those early days. So, it was things overlapping, and it was the zeitgeist at that moment in time. Technology became the accelerator, and so we absorbed it into what we were doing.”
I also think the other part is technology itself. The electronic stuff had developed, particularly for The Human League, OMD, Gary Numan, or whoever. Suddenly there was cheaper, more available technology, and it reflected that feeling we all had, that we saw ourselves as modernists, as people looking to the future.
Rock and punk still had more than one foot in the past. But also, there was that generation who wanted to see themselves as part of the machinery of the modern world, the post-world space age, so that fed into it.
We were perhaps influenced as much by film and television as anything else—Tomorrow’s World, Doctor Who, Star Trek. It very much explains bands like The Human League and their fetishization of technology in those early days. So, it was things overlapping, and it was the zeitgeist at that moment in time. Technology became the accelerator, and so we absorbed it into what we were doing.
RS: You reminded me of one thing I wanted to ask you about: you worked with Neville Brody, correct? I read that he came to a gig, and he said, “I want to do a cover for you,” and you said, “Will he do it for free?” and he said, “Yes.”
SM: We were doing a gig in London, and Neville was at the London College of Communication. He was just into the music, and it was an opportunity. He said could he do it, and we were like, “Great, we’ve got a designer,” which was very rude of us. In fairness, that relationship was built on that initial sort of thing.
It was mainly because we were bringing out an EP, just a one-off EP, and Neville did the brilliant artwork. It was like, oh wow, this is amazing. In the end, we did God knows how many album sleeves with Neville.
RS: I mean, he saw it probably as an investment. He was passionate about what you were doing, and similarly, looking to do things that were a little different from what was going on at that time.
The other thing you mentioned was how technology drove the development of the way music evolved. You made me think of the Roland TR-808 and how that became a big thing with house music and that genre, and then how you were caught up in that scene too.
“We looked at what was happening with electro in New York and America, and we thought that was not the same aesthetically, but in terms of energy and meaning, that was punk to us, in the sense that it was kids from the street messing around with technology, without rules.”
You went from being this industrial music band from northern England to suddenly, you’re in New York working with all these New York DJs, being sampled, and then it becomes part of house music. It’s fascinating.
SM: Even though there’s not a direct question in there, the relevance and sense of continuity is probably the important bit. Even though we weren’t a punk band, we appreciated what was going on with that explosion.
But for us, it was also, a few years later, we looked at what was happening with Electro in New York and America, and we thought that was not the same aesthetically, but in terms of energy and meaning, that was punk to us, in the sense that it was kids from the street messing around with technology, without rules.
That was important to us because we were never really into guitars, so the punk thing didn’t mean that much to us. We were more into the electronic side. When you’ve got people like Arthur Baker, John Robie, all the electro scene—going back to D Train and the Peech Boys—that was happening in the very early 80s after punk.
It was melding soul music, black music, and technology, using technology without rules. Chris had left by that point, but Richard and I, grew up on soul music and American black music.
It resonated because we got the roots of it and loved that it was people like us misusing technology. All good culture does come from beneath, and that was a culture coming from beneath in early electro and hip-hop, so that made sense to us.
“People talk about the influence of European electronic music on house and techno, and the Detroit guys might talk about Tubeway Army or Gary Numan or Depeche Mode; they may not talk directly about us, but we’re aware that the people they talk about were influenced by us. Because we started a bit earlier, we might be the source of those things that influenced them.”
RS: This might be an overstatement, but do you think you and what you were doing, maybe in addition to others, were responsible for the birth of techno and then acid house? There’s an interesting full circle, to some extent—Kanye West, Chicago House, and also the Happy Mondays and Factory. How do you think you played a big role in that, or where do you think your role was?
SM: I’m not great at self-awareness. I’m never quite sure how we fit in, and it might be arrogant for me to think I know what people’s perception of me is. But sometimes I think we’re the band’s band.
People talk about the influence of European electronic music on house and techno, and the Detroit guys might talk about Tubeway Army or Gary Numan or Depeche Mode; they may not talk directly about us, but we’re aware that the people they talk about were influenced by us. Because we started a bit earlier, we might be the source of those things that influenced them.
I think the thing about us with the Cabs is we were very influential, but we were never successful enough for that to anchor us to something. We were always at liberty to move on and do something else. That was nice because there was never “We only liked that thing you did,” and now if you don’t do it, we’ve forgotten about you. We were always able to move on and on, and people still connected with us. We were never famous enough to limit what we were doing, so we’ve always worked under the radar.
“In some ways, I’m very lucky. I enjoy working with people; there’s a collaborative nature to what I do. I’m lucky I get a real buzz out of working with people as well. I’ve had a couple of solo albums in the last couple of years, which is nice, but I always love working with people and doing stuff.”
RS: You haven’t sat still. You’ve continued to evolve even your musical projects. I was listening to some of the side projects—collaborations you’ve done—and they’re all so different. It’s wonderful to see how, as a musician, as a band, you’re not relying on that history.
You’re still trying to make a mark, or trying to question what music is. I find that creativity meaningful.
SM: In some ways, I’m very lucky. I enjoy working with people; there’s a collaborative nature to what I do. I’m lucky I get a real buzz out of working with people as well. I’ve had a couple of solo albums in the last couple of years, which is nice, but I always love working with people and doing stuff.
There’s a social component to music for me. I’ve done a lot of crazy things over the years in music, but it’s very much about enjoyment from doing it. I work with people I love working with—people who run labels, people I’m in the studio with, and other artists.
I’ve been doing collaboration things with Wrangler and John Grant as well, doing Creep Show. I enjoy connecting with other artists and people, and that’s the fun bit. I think the world in which we live is very networked and collaborative. It’s more effective and more successful if you can work collaboratively. People have great ideas. I have my take, but I’m always fascinated by others, and that keeps me going as much as my own thing.
RS: Yeah, it seems like there’s real curiosity. Just talking to you, I can sense you’re still so passionate about the business you’re in, even though you’re doing it more from a personal standpoint. I’m curious: how do you find that momentum? From what you said, it’s the collaboration that keeps you going, or is it something else?
“Orson Welles said: ‘Don’t say you’re a professional to me.’ He liked the person who goes, ‘I do this because I love it. I do it for love, not because it’s a profession.’ It’s that idea that there’s a job, it’s a profession, but you can’t have that without having the amateur soul about you, doing things for love”
SM: Yeah, it is, and it’s the fun of it. There’s a part of it—I can’t explain or even understand it. We all say to each other, why do you do stuff, and you go, I don’t know, it’s just what I do. Because it’s part of who I am. It’s my way of expressing stuff, connecting, understanding, and translating the madness of the world I live in.
I read a funny thing Orson Welles said: “Don’t say you’re a professional to me.” He liked the person who goes, “I do this because I love it. I do it for love, not because it’s a profession.” It’s that idea that there’s a job, it’s a profession, but you can’t have that without having the amateur soul about you, doing things for love, because you get enjoyment, or you get something out of it that you don’t even know.
I suppose I’m successful and I make a living, but not to the extent where I feel I can’t do something next because the last thing defined me. Nothing particularly defines me—everything defines me, not one single thing.
RS: I wanted to ask how you define success. You’ve achieved a lot, done a lot, and been influential, but maybe success isn’t about success in the traditional sense. How do you define that for yourself?
SM: I think success for me is a sense of satisfaction from what I do. It’s a matter of satisfaction. Particularly nowadays, making music or anything creative, making art, is difficult to assess by putting a monetary value on it.
It’s the added value you can get from what you do that I find interesting. If somebody messages me or says they love what I did, it still means a lot. It’s not about ego; it makes it feel purposeful. Chart success or Spotify hits, I’m not getting into that. It’s a competitive thing, and I’d lose. It’s not interesting. If you touch someone else’s life, that’s success for me.
RS: It seems like being able to continue to generate, create, and collaborate is a success. Some bands reach a plateau, then struggle to feel good again about what they’re doing. I’m not a musician, but I sense that from some people I’ve worked with.
SM: This is a tangent, but the American gymnast Simone Biles, took a step back, and people gave her a hard time. She said, “I’m 19, I’ve achieved so much. I need to draw breath and decide how to move forward.” It’s so mature. The question is how you deal with the fact you’ve peaked. You need something that’s not quantifiable success. It’s a sense of satisfaction.
RS: It’s funny you say that because I’m going through an inflection point. I came to America 20 years ago and didn’t understand why I was here. I wasn’t happy. Around 35, I realized I’d achieved a lot, so I should be grateful, and then I went on a tangent.
Now I’m saying I want to get back to that place. I’m thinking about reinvention, going back to what started me off—music in the 70s. That was the impetus for me. I wanted to ask you about the future. You’re working a lot with students, collaborating with different musicians. Where do you see the future of music-making and creativity? Do you see a future?
SM: It’s difficult, because technology from 30, 40 years ago that we embraced is now overwhelming us a bit—thinking specifically about AI. We need to adapt to these new tools. We also must adapt to the fact that monetary value isn’t how we judge things, because it’s pulled the rug out from under music—Spotify, everything.
I’m not knocking it. I’m not an old man shouting at fast-moving trains. But it means the world of creating stuff and making money from it is different now. Musicians and artists are struggling. People want to make music as expression, but surviving is hard. I’m not saying it’s all over, just that it’s difficult.
“Technology from 30, 40 years ago that we embraced is now overwhelming us a bit—thinking specifically about AI. But we need to adapt to these new tools. We also must adapt to the fact that monetary value isn’t how we judge things, because it’s pulled the rug out from under music—Spotify, everything.”
That’s not only for music but for everything. It’s going to be difficult for future generations. Selling music or anything shouldn’t define why we make something. But we’ve reached a point of AI, which is fascinating. It’s the beginning of a real AI revolution, after the industrial, technological, and digital revolutions. It’s a whole new ballgame. I’m not sure what it means. People will embrace it, but I’d like to see new ways of engaging with it. I’m intrigued by it.
RS: I kept you a long time. One last question: going back to that time in 1976, society and music were in turmoil. You’d already started, but how did it impact you personally, if it was inspirational or not?
SM: I think what it did was show the lesson that’s still important. Creatively working today requires collaboration and connecting with other people, building networks. That’s what that period did for us because we started in ’73—three of us making weird music, feeling isolated.
Then Throbbing Gristle popped up, a few others, and by ’76, ’77, the punk thing happened, and it felt like they’d appeared out of bunkers. There was a connection—people who wanted to promote, do design, run labels, do fanzines. A community was created, and that meant a lot to me.
“Creatively working today requires collaboration and connecting with other people, building networks. That’s what that period did for us because we started in ’73—three of us making weird music, feeling isolated. Then Throbbing Gristle popped up, a few others, and by ’76, ’77, the punk thing happened, and it felt like they’d appeared out of bunkers.”
We were empowered by that, and it continues now. If people say my work means something to them, that’s what I get out of it. It’s not about record sales. It’s the connection. That spirit from ’76 is something I still live with. Working with kids and students is the same. You find connections. Music and sound give you that capacity to connect. That’s what I get out of it.
RS: That’s amazing. I’m not going to keep you any longer. We’ve spoken for a good while.
SM: Oh no, it’s been great. I’ve enjoyed it. Thank you.
RS: I’m very grateful you told me to record this.
SM: For the last two years, I’m supposed to be writing a book—I have a title and I’m working with a designer, but I keep doing bits and putting it aside because I’m busy doing other stuff. I’ll eventually stop teaching as much and write the book. I like talking to people, and talking to you helps my research.
RS: It’s funny you mention writing a book. This podcast came from wanting to do a book, and I found it so hard because it’s not complicated but has so many tentacles. I made progress and then hit a dead end. It’s easier to talk about it than write it.
SM: I’ve decided I’m going to do it with AI—just talk and put it in audio, then get AI to structure it. Once it’s written down, it might make more sense. Even though I do write, I’ve written loads, sitting down at a laptop… I can’t finish it. So, I’ll use AI so I can talk.
RS: It could be your editor. It’s embracing change instead of saying we can’t ever work again or it’s taking away jobs. It’s the opposite. It opens the door to possibility versus closing it.
SM: We need to stand back and look at the bigger picture. We all relate it to how it impacts us, but we should consider how it’ll accelerate society in a way that might cure cancer or do tasks scientists would need decades for. It’s fascinating. There’s still inequality, but we might pose questions to help fix things. For now, we live with Elon Musk’s version.
RS: Great. It’s been thrilling to talk to you. You’ve inspired me. I’ve been listening to your music next to Run-DMC and NWA. There’s this weird synergy. I wanted to mention it—inspired me. Again, I appreciate your time. It’s been wonderful. Thank you.
SM: No worries. Enjoy your evening. Enjoy the rest of your day, Richard.
RS: Good to speak to you.
SM: You too. Take care.