THE MOVE FROM ANALOGUE

and its unforeseen consequences

By Nick Dunkerley, Founder

Ever found yourself pulling your hair out over an audio production?
Feeling like something's just not right, but you can't quite put your finger on it?
Trust me, I’ve been there. It got so frustrating that I eventually quit my job.

Here’s why.

BEFORE THE DIGITAL DAWN

inside the world of analog audio editing

Back in the nineties, I was working for the Danish National Broadcasting Company.
As I walked through the revolving doors, I could sense the buzz behind the scenes.
In the hallways, people were sitting together, brainstorming new ideas for shows or creating content that would soon be On Air.
You could feel the creativity in the air.
I felt like a small brick in a huge jigsaw puzzle—I felt immensely proud.

As I wandered down the studio halls, I could step into radio studios purely designed for audio storytelling.
In a typical control room, you'd find a slew of reel-to-reel tape recorders, a sound desk with all the radio-specific inputs you could dream of, including the newsroom.
You were surrounded by record players, Studer A80 tape recorders, and CD players.
In the floating broadcast studio, Neumann U87 microphones were lined up, ready for the host and guests. Everything had a purpose. Everything had its place.

As I started up the equipment, the journalist would enter the control room with a freshly printed manuscript in one hand and coffee in the other.
Together, we would go over the script and begin editing the pre-recorded interviews.
She would focus on the story; I would focus on the sound and rhythm.
Together we would shape the story.
It was a sum of our creativity. Radio was something we did together.

During breaks, I loved to wander the broadcast house halls.
I would pop into studios and see what my colleagues were doing and how they did it. It was inspiring.
Sometimes, I’d sneak into the music studios just to have a look around.
It always gave me a sense of awe.
The music studio control room was a place of wonder.
The setup there was entirely different from the radio studio.
There was a massive sound console with endless faders, a single reel-to-reel tape recorder for multitrack recording, and racks upon racks of effects—delays, compressors, you name it.
It was enough to make anyone not in the know feel a little lost.
I was somewhat in the know... and I was still lost.

Both radio and music studios demanded professionals: Engineers, Journalists, and Producers.
This was a field for the few—for the elite.
I won’t lie. It was great.

From tape to bytes

the shift to digital audio editing

In the late nineties, the digital revolution came.
Computers began to seep into everyday life, reshaping industries by replicating the analog world.
The typewriter morphed into WordPerfect and Microsoft Word. Pencils and brushes were replaced by a mouse, thanks to Adobe.
Video cassettes became a thing of the past, and the same happened with audio.

My first encounter with the digital audio world was with an early digital audio workstation (DAW) called TimeLine DAW-80. It had eight tracks and not much else, but I adored it.
Its simplicity made it perfect for radio. But its simplicity had, admittedly, more to do with it being an early DAW than a design feature.
More advanced DAWs were right around the corner.

Pro Tools, Cubase, and later Logic entered the scene.
Each had its strengths: Pro Tools for recording music, Cubase for music creation, and later Logic for both recording and composing.
These tools were designed to mimic the complexity of the music studio I visited before.
The huge sound consoles were replicated on screen. Aux sends and effect racks filled the screen. The multitrack tape deck was at your fingertips.
Anyone who could afford a computer now had access to the full music studio control room.
This was, as you might imagine, a lot cheaper than a physical music studio.

Having a recording studio on a computer opened up new ways of producing radio.
Radio journalists were handed computers with audio software and encouraged to edit their own segments.
They had creative freedom. And at the same time, costs could be cut. It was a win-win.
During this period, a lot of sound engineers and studio managers were laid off. Their skills were no longer needed. Right?

As it turned out, the journalists and producers did need them.
For them, sitting with a DAW felt like being thrown into a music studio and having the door slammed shut.
If not for the soundproofing, their cries of frustration would have echoed through the halls of the Broadcast building.

The Radio Journalists missed the spark that came from collaborating with sound engineers.
The collaboration was gone. The “first ears,” as the sound engineers often were, were no longer there.
The creative feedback about sound design was a whisper from the past.
On top of that, the engineering skills were now left to the journalists.
They were left alone, grappling with equipment they didn’t understand.
And the quality suffered—both sound and story.

I know because I was there, as both an audio engineer and a radio journalist.
I got so fed up with the decline in quality and creativity that I walked out of the revolving door and never came back. I was heartbroken.

So, I wandered off and had a long, hard think. What now?
Radio production had been such a huge part of my life that I had no idea what to replace it with or how to replace the people I loved working with.
Not getting any wiser, I kept wandering and ended up in Africa. That’s a story for another day.

On this journey, I questioned why no one had ever made a DAW for audio storytellers.
As mentioned before, there are plenty of DAWs for musicians.
What’s wrong with us storytellers?

Apparently, what’s wrong with us is that we are limited in numbers and not exactly driving around in Lamborghinis. Not what you would call “a viable market.”
But still, someone needed to take a chance on us audio enthusiasts with faces for radio and wardrobes unfit for Vogue.
If only someone would take the risk and develop a DAW made for the smallest possible audience—a DAW for storytellers.
Anyone?

TECh to tales

audio editing the Hindenburg way

Sometimes, you just need to do it yourself.
So we did.
Two men in a living room with coffee and a lot of ideas.
This is how we started Hindenburg.

The intention was simple: anyone who had a story at heart should be able to tell it.
Our users would not be audio engineers.
They might not even have that much flair for audio production.
But they would have an audio vision, an inkling of how the story should sound.
They would be able to imagine waves hitting the beach and seagulls high above. The music slowly fading in. The wording of the first narration... “Standing on the shores of Dover, I can just see Cap Gris-Nez on the French coast. A country we once…” and the first soundbite with an EU skeptic from the town center."
All this would be crystal clear in the mind of the journalist. And Hindenburg should be there to help—subtle and unobtrusive. Patiently doing some of the audio engineer's job, making sure that the content is at broadcast standards.

Hindenburg should allow the storyteller to dream and do what they do best - Tell stories.

Journalists can now tell their own audio stories. So the transition from analogue to digital worked out in the end. Right?
Well, nearly.
The collaboration part is missing.The part where the story became something larger than the sum of individuals.
It’s not something you can put in a spreadsheet. It’s barely something you can describe.
It’s the buzz of energy I felt in the Broadcast building as I stepped in through the revolving doors.
It’s something magical.