The Shipshank Redemption
By Thad Baden-Church
9 July 2012
9 July 2012
Walking into London's Brown Starfish Studios, one is nearly overcome by the sense of history permeating the aged walls, upon which reside the gold and platinum albums that serve as testament to the studio's legend. A climb up the creaking steps to the fabled Studio C offers a glimpse back in time through beautiful black & white photographs hung in the stairwell. They're all here: Jerry Stevens & the Quiet Hummers, the Rat Bastards, the Johnny Shank & Lou Experience. All candid shots of some of the greatest British artists hard at work.
But it's the portraits of the Little Blue Men that really catch the eye. There's Burt MacInnis tuning his twelve-string. Benny Plympton looking quite proud of himself after busting a kick drum head. Digby Lassiter and Narge Silvers taking a break to read "A Tale of Two Cities" and "Cracked" magazine, respectively.
In the background of each of these little blue moments in time, one can make out the familiar visage of Puppy Shipshank. Yes, THE Puppy Shipshank, the legendary sound engineer responsible for that indefinable LBM sound. The man who brought such a nuanced soundscape to such classic albums as "Knicker Basket," "An Evening with Narge," and "The Shite Bright Tellyglow Goodtime Popper."
And the really brilliant part of a visit to Brown Starfish is that, on any given day, he's still there. In person, and hard at work -- a living connection to the history made within the hallowed halls. And so he was, last week, when I ventured to the old studio. And while the master made it clear that he was not to be distracted from his travail, he was gracious enough to chat a bit between tasks.
I first laid eyes on him as he sat hunched over a colossal mixing board. The endless rows of faders made my head swim with intimidation. But Shipshank's fingers flew back and forth around the board with absolute ease, the confidence of a man who has spent his life creating some of the world's most treasured albums.
"Have a listen, love," he said, turning up the volume on a track that could only be described as a woman suffering from dry heaves. "You hear that, do you? That's me Aunt Ginny. Gave 'er some ipecac last night, I did. She's got just the right pitch to her wretches, see."
A bit perplexed, I asked him why he felt the need to record such an offensive sound to begin with. "Need it for Chubby's new one, love. It's a waltz, three-four time. Very soft and pretty. Gonna put Aunt Ginny back in the mix. Way back, left channel, methinks. Give it all a bit of texture, y'know."
Clearly envisioning a result that I couldn't begin to imagine, Puppy fiddled a few minutes more with the track before suddenly exclaiming, "Toppa the poppa, yeah?! By Flip an' Lizzie, I'll wager that's the balls!"
He led me back down the stairs and round a corner to Studio A, where I was surprised and thrilled to see Benny Plympton, "Three Legs" himself, tweaking the mics on his rack toms. "That's Benny," remarked Shipshank. "He's a drummer, love." I assured the pair that I was well aware of the Little Blue Men, their catalog serving as a soundtrack to my coming of age. "Why that's a pump in the ol' widget, innit," announced Puppy. "Twonkin' on a billups, that one, innee?"
Shipshank laughed heartily as he walked down the hall, back to the lounge. I followed, anxious to learn more from the master. He opened a can of lager, took a long swig, handed it to me and said, "Too right, lad. Don't proper drink, meself. Just skim a little now an' then, see." I asked Puppy what he thought of the new deluxe reissue of "Terrycloth Dreams." The newly remastered Blue Men classic features a documentary that focuses on Shipshank's genius.
"Twixby's on a bit of a drizzle, that one," he answered. "D'yer know what I mean, love? It's like that on 'em all, innit? Randy. On the headphones. Randy. Tim. You tell me. I can't possibly get on with it all, each an' every day, now can I, love? What I really love are the sounds."
I asked if he had any advice to young people interested in pursuing a career like his. "Yeah, mate, what's a good one, then? Round a bobby? Nah. Pull a flim flam? Not a chance, love. No, what you must remember, above all, is never, ever let the animals."
Puppy offered me a cassette of some Little Blue Men demos, a priceless gift, if only I had a way to play it, then shooed me away so he could finish his work. I left with more questions than answers, the downside of only having a brief time to chat with a legend of Shipshank's stature. But as I walked away from Brown Starfish Studios, I felt a little more connected to its living history.
But it's the portraits of the Little Blue Men that really catch the eye. There's Burt MacInnis tuning his twelve-string. Benny Plympton looking quite proud of himself after busting a kick drum head. Digby Lassiter and Narge Silvers taking a break to read "A Tale of Two Cities" and "Cracked" magazine, respectively.
In the background of each of these little blue moments in time, one can make out the familiar visage of Puppy Shipshank. Yes, THE Puppy Shipshank, the legendary sound engineer responsible for that indefinable LBM sound. The man who brought such a nuanced soundscape to such classic albums as "Knicker Basket," "An Evening with Narge," and "The Shite Bright Tellyglow Goodtime Popper."
And the really brilliant part of a visit to Brown Starfish is that, on any given day, he's still there. In person, and hard at work -- a living connection to the history made within the hallowed halls. And so he was, last week, when I ventured to the old studio. And while the master made it clear that he was not to be distracted from his travail, he was gracious enough to chat a bit between tasks.
I first laid eyes on him as he sat hunched over a colossal mixing board. The endless rows of faders made my head swim with intimidation. But Shipshank's fingers flew back and forth around the board with absolute ease, the confidence of a man who has spent his life creating some of the world's most treasured albums.
"Have a listen, love," he said, turning up the volume on a track that could only be described as a woman suffering from dry heaves. "You hear that, do you? That's me Aunt Ginny. Gave 'er some ipecac last night, I did. She's got just the right pitch to her wretches, see."
A bit perplexed, I asked him why he felt the need to record such an offensive sound to begin with. "Need it for Chubby's new one, love. It's a waltz, three-four time. Very soft and pretty. Gonna put Aunt Ginny back in the mix. Way back, left channel, methinks. Give it all a bit of texture, y'know."
Clearly envisioning a result that I couldn't begin to imagine, Puppy fiddled a few minutes more with the track before suddenly exclaiming, "Toppa the poppa, yeah?! By Flip an' Lizzie, I'll wager that's the balls!"
He led me back down the stairs and round a corner to Studio A, where I was surprised and thrilled to see Benny Plympton, "Three Legs" himself, tweaking the mics on his rack toms. "That's Benny," remarked Shipshank. "He's a drummer, love." I assured the pair that I was well aware of the Little Blue Men, their catalog serving as a soundtrack to my coming of age. "Why that's a pump in the ol' widget, innit," announced Puppy. "Twonkin' on a billups, that one, innee?"
Shipshank laughed heartily as he walked down the hall, back to the lounge. I followed, anxious to learn more from the master. He opened a can of lager, took a long swig, handed it to me and said, "Too right, lad. Don't proper drink, meself. Just skim a little now an' then, see." I asked Puppy what he thought of the new deluxe reissue of "Terrycloth Dreams." The newly remastered Blue Men classic features a documentary that focuses on Shipshank's genius.
"Twixby's on a bit of a drizzle, that one," he answered. "D'yer know what I mean, love? It's like that on 'em all, innit? Randy. On the headphones. Randy. Tim. You tell me. I can't possibly get on with it all, each an' every day, now can I, love? What I really love are the sounds."
I asked if he had any advice to young people interested in pursuing a career like his. "Yeah, mate, what's a good one, then? Round a bobby? Nah. Pull a flim flam? Not a chance, love. No, what you must remember, above all, is never, ever let the animals."
Puppy offered me a cassette of some Little Blue Men demos, a priceless gift, if only I had a way to play it, then shooed me away so he could finish his work. I left with more questions than answers, the downside of only having a brief time to chat with a legend of Shipshank's stature. But as I walked away from Brown Starfish Studios, I felt a little more connected to its living history.
Copyright 2012, The Newcastle Times