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Sydney Morning Herald
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
Australia's ‘Abbey Road' produced a generation of musical genius. It'll never happen again
'When we went in there, it was a warehouse for butter … it was just a huge [space with] empty floor after floor,' Savage says. 'With local acousticians, we did our own design and built various studios.' Armstrong Studios cut records including Daddy Cool's Eagle Rock, Cat Stevens' Another Saturday Night, John Farnham's You're The Voice, Little River Band's Help Is on Its Way, Russell Morris' The Real Thing and Turn Up Your Radio by the Masters Apprentices. The studio also produced soundtracks for films, including the first two Mad Max films, The Man From Snowy River and Crocodile Dundee, all of which Savage worked on. Savage, now in his 80s, says Armstrong's early operation was at once homegrown and state-of-the-art. 'We couldn't afford to buy the multitrack equipment from America, [where] most of it was coming from, and so we had it all made locally,' Savage says. In 1974, a couple of years into the operation, Armstrong sold the Bank Street studios to The Age 's then publishers, and it became AAV (Armstrong Audio Video). The sound part of the business operated downstairs, while video operated upstairs. Renowned producer and engineer Ernie Rose, who was instrumental in Armstrong's development, ran the studios under the name Metropolis from the 1980s until financial difficulties shuttered them in 2006. Armstrong's enterprise is behind some of Australia's most defining records and soundtracks, and it also fostered a generation of producers and engineers under Savage's mentorship, John Olson says. The researcher and engineer co-wrote Tony Cohen's memoir Half Deaf, Completely Mad. Cohen was one of Armstrong's most esteemed record producers and sound engineers, and had a celebrated career working with musicians including Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, the Go-Betweens and Paul Kelly. Cohen died in 2017, aged 60. 'Tony talked about watching Roger at work, and how spectacular it was, the sight of Roger's hands gliding instinctively across the mixing desk,' Olson says. 'When he said that, I never saw Roger at work but I knew exactly what he meant, because anyone who witnessed Tony at his best, that's exactly what [he] was like.' Savage, Rose and renowned musician and record producer Mick Harvey were pivotal influences on Cohen's career, Olson says. Cohen spoke about wildly different bands coming together and finding common ground at Armstrong's Cafe Bar – a 1960s instant coffee machine – while recording in each of the building's different studios. The dynamics led to funny moments – Savage recalls fellow music industry legend Molly Meldrum jumping the studios' back fence to avoid the glare of visiting label representatives, who were wondering whether Savage was re-recording Morris' The Real Thing. There were also tense encounters, like when a group of punks descended on a clipboard-holding AAV administrator who tried to cull numbers in a studio, Olson says. But there was a sense of community and, most importantly, collaboration. 'Tony felt that a best recording was capturing people in a moment, which involved everyone being there and playing generally at the same time,' Olson says. 'That would create a magic you can't capture otherwise.' Savage says whether something like Armstrong's could ever exist again is a 'mind-boggling' question, but the killer is in the collaboration. Studios no longer have the space, or desire, to bring so many people together, he suggests. 'Being in the same room, knowing the body language – there's nothing really quite like that. You could be on a Zoom call, but it's not the same,' Savage says. 'You could technically collaborate now … globally if you're sharing the sound files, but having everyone in the one place – I think those days are gone because, financially, it doesn't make sense.' Savage will discuss the studios' legacy at a panel event for Open House Melbourne alongside Olson, Rose and Harvey next Saturday. These days, Savage is tinkering with AI at his nation-leading post-production company Soundfirm in Port Melbourne, and hopes to spend more time 'pulling apart old cars'. 'To be honest, I've been a bit of a workaholic. I haven't really had any hobbies, so I've probably been out on life balance, or life-work balance, whatever you call it,' he says.
The Age
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Age
Australia's ‘Abbey Road' produced a generation of musical genius. It'll never happen again
'When we went in there, it was a warehouse for butter … it was just a huge [space with] empty floor after floor,' Savage says. 'With local acousticians, we did our own design and built various studios.' Armstrong Studios cut records including Daddy Cool's Eagle Rock, Cat Stevens' Another Saturday Night, John Farnham's You're The Voice, Little River Band's Help Is on Its Way, Russell Morris' The Real Thing and Turn Up Your Radio by the Masters Apprentices. The studio also produced soundtracks for films, including the first two Mad Max films, The Man From Snowy River and Crocodile Dundee, all of which Savage worked on. Savage, now in his 80s, says Armstrong's early operation was at once homegrown and state-of-the-art. 'We couldn't afford to buy the multitrack equipment from America, [where] most of it was coming from, and so we had it all made locally,' Savage says. In 1974, a couple of years into the operation, Armstrong sold the Bank Street studios to The Age 's then publishers, and it became AAV (Armstrong Audio Video). The sound part of the business operated downstairs, while video operated upstairs. Renowned producer and engineer Ernie Rose, who was instrumental in Armstrong's development, ran the studios under the name Metropolis from the 1980s until financial difficulties shuttered them in 2006. Armstrong's enterprise is behind some of Australia's most defining records and soundtracks, and it also fostered a generation of producers and engineers under Savage's mentorship, John Olson says. The researcher and engineer co-wrote Tony Cohen's memoir Half Deaf, Completely Mad. Cohen was one of Armstrong's most esteemed record producers and sound engineers, and had a celebrated career working with musicians including Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, the Go-Betweens and Paul Kelly. Cohen died in 2017, aged 60. 'Tony talked about watching Roger at work, and how spectacular it was, the sight of Roger's hands gliding instinctively across the mixing desk,' Olson says. 'When he said that, I never saw Roger at work but I knew exactly what he meant, because anyone who witnessed Tony at his best, that's exactly what [he] was like.' Savage, Rose and renowned musician and record producer Mick Harvey were pivotal influences on Cohen's career, Olson says. Cohen spoke about wildly different bands coming together and finding common ground at Armstrong's Cafe Bar – a 1960s instant coffee machine – while recording in each of the building's different studios. The dynamics led to funny moments – Savage recalls fellow music industry legend Molly Meldrum jumping the studios' back fence to avoid the glare of visiting label representatives, who were wondering whether Savage was re-recording Morris' The Real Thing. There were also tense encounters, like when a group of punks descended on a clipboard-holding AAV administrator who tried to cull numbers in a studio, Olson says. But there was a sense of community and, most importantly, collaboration. 'Tony felt that a best recording was capturing people in a moment, which involved everyone being there and playing generally at the same time,' Olson says. 'That would create a magic you can't capture otherwise.' Savage says whether something like Armstrong's could ever exist again is a 'mind-boggling' question, but the killer is in the collaboration. Studios no longer have the space, or desire, to bring so many people together, he suggests. 'Being in the same room, knowing the body language – there's nothing really quite like that. You could be on a Zoom call, but it's not the same,' Savage says. 'You could technically collaborate now … globally if you're sharing the sound files, but having everyone in the one place – I think those days are gone because, financially, it doesn't make sense.' Savage will discuss the studios' legacy at a panel event for Open House Melbourne alongside Olson, Rose and Harvey next Saturday. These days, Savage is tinkering with AI at his nation-leading post-production company Soundfirm in Port Melbourne, and hopes to spend more time 'pulling apart old cars'. 'To be honest, I've been a bit of a workaholic. I haven't really had any hobbies, so I've probably been out on life balance, or life-work balance, whatever you call it,' he says.
Yahoo
28-01-2025
- Science
- Yahoo
Michigan DNR working to bring back fish ‘lost' since 1930s
GRAND RAPIDS, Mich. (WOOD) — With a little help from the Michigan Department of Natural Resources, a native fish that was once considered 'extinct' from state waters is working to make a comeback. The DNR is continuing its work to reintroduce the back to Michigan waters. The agency is working alongside several local tribes, including the Little River Band of Ottawa Indians, the Little Traverse Bay Bands of Odawa Indians and the Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa and Chippewa Indians. Shipwreck whiskey and a Jurassic Park scientist Eggs are being hatched at the Oden State Fish Hatchery near Petoskey. Approximately 400,000 eggs will be released along three different rivers in northern Michigan . The Michigan Arctic grayling was considered extirpated in the 1930s. Once plentiful in the state's rivers and streams, the Arctic grayling descended from a fish that lived in Michigan waters since the glaciers of the Ice Age receded. According to Dan Kimmel with , several factors played a role in the grayling's doom, including the state's timber industry. Park Twp receives DNR funds for park projects 'The logjams scoured the streams and all but destroyed grayling spawning areas,' . 'Cutting the trees down also caused serious silting problems that literally choked the streams in which the grayling lived. 'Those streams, lacking the canopy shade the bankside trees provided, soon became unsuitably warm for the grayling. The delicate balance of nature tipped and the little grayling, unable to adapt to the large-scale changes facing it, began to disappear.' Overfishing and the introduction of non-native trout, including rainbow trout and the European brown trout, nearly forced the Michigan population of Arctic grayling to disappear. Pickleball courts, playgrounds and more: DNR approves grants for local projects 'The last specimens were taken in the 1930s as part of a last-ditch effort to rescue the fish and keep it swimming our state's waters,' Kimmel wrote. Attempts have been made in the past to bring grayling back to Michigan waters, pulling populations from other areas, including Alaska and western Canada. The DNR started its latest initiative with the local tribes in 2016. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
