Eurorack modular synthesis

Eurorack is a modular synthesis format that has expanded enormously in the last five years or so. I started playing around with some modules about 18 months ago, initially as a way to get some more analogue filters into my home studio set up. Since then, I’ve become fascinated by Eurorack as a phenomenon comprising not only a set of technical standards and practices, but also a worldwide community of module producers and users, with its own terminology and cultural norms. Below is a recent production that makes extensive use of my own Eurorack set up.

With the straight to video disaster movie of the UK’s pre-Brexit meltdown consuming so much airspace, there is comfort to be had in a system that originated in continental Europe, which is profoundly internationalist, and which enables radically different elements to happily coexist and interact. The rise of Eurorack is also a good example of how technological change can move in surprising directions; a case study of how dead media can come back to life.

In the 1960s, when the first electronic voltage controlled sound synthesizers were developed by companies such as Moog, Buchla and EMS, most of these systems were modular. In a modular system, different audio generating and processing functions are performed by separate modules mounted in a rack. The user manually links these together into the desired order using patch cables. This type of design is extremely flexible, allowing for experimentation with non-standard signal routings and bespoke systems.

Back in the 1960s, the market for these unwieldy, complex, expensive systems was limited however. As synthesizer manufacturers sought commercial viability, they began to produce simpler, more portable and affordable instruments, designed around the needs of musicians. These machines hardwired synthesis elements into a fixed order, dispensing with the need for patch cables, and reducing the level of technical knowledge required to programme them. The Minimoog was the archetype of this shift, as documented in painstaking detail by Pinch and Rocco in their 2004 book Analog Days. A small, portable, all-in-one instrument, the Minimoog prioritised ease of use over the flexibility of Moog’s earlier modular systems. With its stable tuning and built-in keyboard, it fitted into Western musical conventions, and had wide appeal to musicians. Thousands of units were sold, and its basic design became the dominant form of the synthesizer from the 1970s onwards. Most classic machines follow its template: the Arp Odyssey, Sequential Prophet 5 and Pro 1, Roland’s SH series, Jupiters and Junos, and later classic digital synths such as the Yamaha DX7, Roland D50 and Korg M1 all have a keyboard attached to a more-or-less fixed sequence of sound generating and shaping elements. As Pinch and Rocco (1998, p.27) observe:

“The story of the analogue synthesizer is like that of many technologies. One meaning stabilises, and the other meanings slowly vanish or play a smaller role within niche markets.”

Thus by the mid 1980s, modular had been pushed to the margins of music technology. As the first generation of digital FM and PCM-based synths gave way to virtual analogue technologies in the 1990s, the dominance of keyboard-based synthesizers continued. Even with the introduction of Synthesis Technology’s ‘Mother Of The Modulars’ (MOTM) system in the mid 1990s, and the invention of Eurorack around the same time in the form of Doepfer’s A100 range, these systems were initially niche products aimed at a minority of devoted synthesis enthusiasts.

So why, against the grain of the stabilised form of the synthesizer, has Eurorack modular become so popular?

One factor appears to be how the format makes modular synthesis more accessible due to its efficiencies of size and cost. As a 2014 press release from NAMM (the US National Association of Music Manufacturers) puts it:

“Boutique Eurorack modular synthesizers were until recently considered ‘fringe’ but are now gaining traction in the mainstream as a relatively inexpensive way to pack a lot of functionality into a small space.” (NAMM, 2014)

It is worth noting that Eurorack is not the highest quality format available for modular synthesis. Its advantages are more prosaic: modest size, portability, and relatively low cost. Compared to full size modular systems, Eurorack enables even quite small systems to function as complex instruments. The techno producer Surgeon, for example, has recently been performing live sets using a Eurorack rig specifically designed to be small enough to fit into the dimensions of aircraft carry-on luggage.

The compact size of Eurorack seems key to its success. Shown here is an Intellijel uVCA module, which fits two voltage controlled amplifiers with bias and exponential-linear shape controls into a panel that is only 30mm wide. Note the use of mini-jack sockets for patching, and the tiny surface mount components just visible on the circuit board.

In this respect, Eurorack has an uncanny echo of the Minimoog’s emphasis on portability and convenience. Modules are often rated in terms of size: valued for offering a lot of functionality in a small space, or criticised for being too bulky. Erica synths’ Pico range and the company 2hp make a virtue out of slimline dimensions, squeezing maximum synthesis out of minimum space. The small size and low cost of Eurorack has been aided by surface mount circuit production technology and automated production. The video below, of Mutable Instruments modules being assembled at a factory in France, is revealing.

Eurorack has also risen to prominence in the context of networked computation – somewhat ironically for a format in which analogue signals are so crucial. With consumption increasingly shifting online, Eurorack has the perfect form factor. Small modules are easy to send via postal services, as compared to bulky and heavy keyboard synths. Many retailers operate primarily or solely by mail order, reducing the costs of premises and staffing. A thriving second hand market makes use of online forums, trading sites and payment systems. As vintage analogue synthesizers have become increasingly rare, costly and fragile, Eurorack provides a much simpler, cheaper and less troublesome alternative.

So there seems to be a kind of double shift driving Eurorack: on one side, an infrastructure of networked computing, online forums, web stores and computer controlled manufacturing; and on the other, a resurgence of interest in analogue, hands-on and experimental designs for electronic instruments. To quote Pinch and Rocco again:

“The synthesizer’s stabilisation as a keyboard instrument, while an attempt to increase its versatility, and a major step in allowing wide distribution and maintaining its commercial viability, may have begun the process of delimiting its creative freedom.” (ibid.)

Creative freedom is where modular really comes into its own. Its resurgence, in the form of Eurorack, can be understood as a kind of rebellion against the dominant paradigm in music technology. With modular, the stabilised form of the synthesizer is pulled apart and folded  inside out – literally, with patch points pushing signals from the inside to the outside of the box – opening up more space for experimentation. The media theorist Wolfgang Ernst (2012, p.184) suggests that all media technologies have this kind of experimental potential:

“All such mass media as the phonograph, kinematograph, radio, and electronic television were first developed for experimental research. Media are measuring devices, and as such they are scientific, analytical apparatuses…The public-use “synthetic” mass media represent a step from such measuring devices to worlds of mass media, as we often approach them, but we are able to also analytically approach the reverse experience: to go back to the experimentality of such machines.”

The modular renaissance can be understood as precisely this: a return to the experimentality of synthesizers. Indeed, some of the most popular Eurorack modules have high levels of indeterminacy built into their design, such as the Make Noise Maths module, which can generate and process control voltages, mix and slew signals, act as a level comparator, an envelope follower, a complex LFO, perform logic operations, and serve as a makeshift oscillator. With these kinds of designs, a degree of experimentation is required to operate them.

Indeed, the whole format of Eurorack can be seen as a form of experimentation that is proliferating difference. The number of module producers and the range of available modules has grown to dizzying proportions. There are numerous DIY kits and open source designs. Some of the larger and more established music tech companies have released semi-modular gear and equipment that can be patched into Eurorack systems, such as Moog’s Mother 32 and DFAM, and the Arturia Brute series. As a result, anyone building a Eurorack system can integrate elements from radically different electronic music traditions, approaches and design principles: mixing analogue and digital, west coast and east coast synthesis, modules from US, UK and European producers, classic and more experimental designs, factory produced and home made modules, and every conceivable mode of synthesis.

A DIY kit from Thonk for building the Pulses expander for the Music Thing Turing Machine. This was my first experience of surface mount soldering.

A few months ago I had the pleasure of discussing some of these issues with Matt Preston, who runs the Matttech modular online store. He drew my attention to another important dimension of difference, amongst modular users. Eurorack appeals to a range of different groups. Matt mentioned:

  • maths-and-science nerds who are interested in analogue computing and signal processing;
  • collectors;
  • professional musicians and composers whose paid work involves finding new ways to generate and process sound;
  • live performers who want to build portable, configurable and highly interactive self-contained instruments;
  • creative artists who see modular as an open-ended means of experimentation;
  • dance music producers looking for something beyond the standard sample packs and preset sounds.

The coexistence of these overlapping ‘tribes’, as Matt put it, is part of what has enabled the scene to thrive.

That said, all of these groups are notably dominated by one identity type: male, white, typically heterosexual, reflecting male dominance in music technology as a whole. An informal online self-complete survey of modular users carried out in 2018 (n = 249) had 90% of respondents identifying as male and 85% as not LGBTQ. The sample was not representative, but these percentages are big enough to make the overall picture fairly clear. At the same time, there are notable contemporary female artists using modular, such as Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith and Lady Starlight, and important historical figures such as Daphne Oram, Eliane Radigue, Pauline Oliveros and Wendy Carlos. The contribution to electronic music of various black and multi-racial cultures is also hard to overstate: through funk, disco, hip hop, electro, techno, house, dub, dancehall, jungle, drum and bass, dubstep, grime, footwork and so on. Some of these subcultures have also been overtly LGBTQ, such as disco and house, while one of techno’s most well known hotspots, Berghain in Berlin, evolved from a gay fetish club.

This issue of diversity in electronic music is often debated at length, usually with trenchant views expressed on all sides. In Eurorack, the fact that the main forum for modular synth discussion is called Muff Wiggler can either be construed as a light hearted joke or as blatant sexism, depending on your perspective – see for example this article and the comments attached to it , and this article from FACT mag in which some of the artists featured discuss issues of diversity.

My own observation is that the Eurorack community is characterised primarily by non-dominant forms of masculinity. The tech-nerd aspect attracts men whose maleness is more aligned with stereotypes of tinkering DIY boffins than with misogynism and chauvenism. These non-dominant masculinities can still exclude people who don’t fit into them, but in ways that might be subtle; I’ve seen some people referring to modules using female pronouns for example.  Explicit sexism, whilst occasionally apparent, is increasingly being challenged, and is less of a widespread issue than more implicitly masculinist and heteronormative tendencies.

Emile Gillet, who runs Mutable Instruments, one of the most popular Eurorack producers, recently transitioned from male to female. As such, she has an interesting take on gender and sexuality in relation to the modular community:

“I have nightmares about being part of a “women in synthesis” panel, the growth of my company having benefited from the very male privilege that felt increasingly icky to me (and I could write reams about how uncomfortable I have been with some events, attitudes, MW posts, aesthetic decisions from other brands…).” (via Reddit)

The Eurorack community’s response to Emile’s transition appears to have been overwhelmingly positive, however (e.g. the Reddit thread quoted above), showing that the scene is capable of welcoming social difference, despite being majority male. When it comes to the technical and creative side of things, modular is strongly non-conformist, open-ended, exploratory and radically pluralistic, so one would hope that this attitude could be extended into other aspects of life. If there is such a thing as a queer or trans approach to synthesis, Eurorack is surely the place to find it.

Further information

There are a number of online modular synth enthusiast sites:

https://www.muffwiggler.com

https://www.modulargrid.net

https://www.reddit.com/r/modular/

The number of Eurorack module producers is vast. Some of the more well-known ones include:

http://www.doepfer.de/

http://www.makenoisemusic.com/

http://busycircuits.com/

https://mutable-instruments.net/

http://www.synthtech.com/

https://www.studioelectronics.com/products/synths/boomstar-modular/

http://tiptopaudio.com/

https://intellijel.com/

Some UK Eurorack retailers include:

https://matttechmodular.co.uk/

https://www.rubadub.co.uk/

https://postmodular.co.uk/

https://elevatorsound.com/

https://cymrubeats.com/

https://www.signalsounds.com/

https://londonmodular.co.uk/

One of the coolest places I have been for modular is CTRL in New York, a small shop packed with modular gear. The staff there were extremely knowledgeable and helpful:

https://www.ctrl-mod.com/

Worldwide, other notable outlets include:

Germany: https://www.schneidersladen.de/en/

France: https://www.modularsquare.com/

Norway: https://www.pyramidsounds.com/

USA: http://www.analoguehaven.com/

USA: https://www.controlvoltage.net/

Australia: https://www.patchcable.com.au/

Japan: http://www.clockfacemodular.com/

For DIY stuff, there are lots of sites. I recently built a Music Thing Turing Machine from a kit from Thonk, and based on that experience I would recommend their kits:

https://www.thonk.co.uk/

https://musicthing.co.uk/index.html

I’m also a big fan of DIY site Kassutronics: https://kassu2000.blogspot.com/

Finally, Oakley deserves a mention here – they don’t do many Eurorack modules, but they are highly regarded. Tony Allgood, who runs the company, is a super helpful synth expert:

http://www.oakleysound.com/index.htm

The failure of voice

I’ve been writing a paper about the sounds of the voice. Thinking about the topic reminded me of a brilliant gaffe from BBC Radio 4 presenter Jim Naughtie a few years ago. I’m not sure if this will make it into the final paper, but here’s a bit lifted from my current draft, with a YouTube clip of the memorable moment.

Voices are machinic from the very beginning. They arise from vibrational systems, as lungs, vocal cords, throats, tongues and ears get hooked up to architectural spaces, bodies of air, microphones and amplifiers, telephones and answerphones, audio and video recording, headsets, headphones and loudspeakers, scripts and autocues. From the first moment that Bell spoke to Watson on the telephone, from the earliest etchings of Edison’s words into phonograph foil, sound machines have pulled apart the humanist subject, reminding the voice of its humble origins amongst vibrating body parts. Not only does listening to the technologized voice tell us as much about contemporary existence as the classic interpersonal interview encounter, but that encounter itself must be rethought to recognize the voice recorder as a key actant.

In its restless movements through multiple machines, voice can never completely express the self as a conscious, contained, definable identity. It may present an illusion of rational self-possession and self-presence; it may be eloquent, articulate and clipped, with received pronunciation; the machines may black box its body out of sight and out of mind; and yet still the voice fails.

Take the Scottish radio presenter Jim Naughtie. For over two decades his voice was a regular feature of the Today programme, BBC Radio 4’s flagship morning news and current affairs show. Naughtie’s voice, like most official BBC voices, produces a sense of effortless rationality. It’s male Scottish accent achieves perfect clarity of enunciation, authoritative without ever being overbearing. Vocal apparatus combines with large diaphragm condenser microphones, pre-prepared scripts, acoustically treated studios and carefully optimised dynamic range compression to produce the most articulate and comprehensible of utterances. Phonemes roll out fully formed. Cadences rise and fall properly. And yet on one memorable occasion in 2010, when introducing Conservative minister Jeremy Hunt the Culture Secretary, Naughtie’s voice accidentally swapped the ‘H’ of Hunt and the ‘C’ of Culture to shocking and hilarious effect.

Whether this incident was simple Spoonerism or Freudian slip was of less interest to me than how Naughtie’s voice broke down in the immediate aftermath, like a tower block crumbling following the dynamite blast of demolition. Valiantly continuing to read out the headlines, the voice starts choking on its words, beset by dry coughs and awkward pauses. Utterances are spat out, forced through hoarseness, vocal cords seizing up. In this thickened, viscous tone, veering between laughter and tears, mundane lines about high speed broadband networks and Egyptian shark attacks take on a strangely gasping, almost morbid quality. The rational voice-from-the-ether suddenly acquires a body, which intrudes noisily, all-too-human in its frailty and fallibility. “Excuse me,” Naughtie eventually splutters, “coughing fit” – an excuse whose obvious inadequacy compounds matters. Such is the desperation of a man struggling with his own mouth, or words struggling to be voiced.

Such incidents, where the body trips up the voice, are not uncommon. Broadcasters, presenters, actors and singers routinely experience voices misfiring, script lines being forgotten, communication lines going dead, bouts of laryngitis, guests who say too much or not enough. There is a whole programme genre based on outtakes and bloopers, exploiting the humour that bubbles out when gaffes and fluffed lines puncture the performance of voice. If vocal breakdown can happen to trained, experienced, rehearsed voices surrounded by sophisticated technologies, it can happen to anyone.

Power, surveillance and digital media

Yesterday I was teaching some of my students about Foucault, power and surveillance. These themes have never been more relevant to everyday life. The expansion of digital communications has created innumerable opportunities for the exercise of power through monitoring human activity, creating new kinds of vulnerabilities. This is especially the case for children and young people, whose lives are increasingly being played out online, warts and all.

Take Paris Brown, a 17 year old appointed in 2013 as the UK’s first youth crime commissioner. Her remit was to represent young people’s views to the police in Kent, and she invited them to use social media to do so. But social media came back to bite her. The tabloid press dredged up offensive posts from her Twitter account, including ill-advised racist, homophobic and violent comments, probably written whilst drunk. Her reputation was trashed, and a few days later she resigned.

Taken literally, the Tweets are lewd and unpleasant. Thinking about the context, however, it looks like this was just an adolescent seeking attention, perhaps showing off to her friends, expressing anger and confusion in a clumsy and foolish way, and pushing social boundaries to see what would happen. So – normal teenager stuff. For my generation growing up, you could say and do stupid stuff to get a reaction, cause a bit of outrage, and it was rarely recorded. That has all changed.

I also talked to my students about the UK government’s monitoring of communications through GCHQ. Afterwards, the question came up: is this sort of surveillance really such a bad thing? One student pointed out that GCHQ came out of Alan Turing’s work at Bletchley Park, including cracking the Enigma code during World War II, which helped defeat the Nazis. GCHQ’s current work involves foiling terrorist plots, saving lives. What’s wrong with that?

Clearly it is too simplistic to suggest that surveillance systems are driven by malice, like a bunch of Bond villains trawling people’s emails in a secret underground lair. Surveillance is more rational than that: the state is threatened by actions such as terrorism, and the production of knowledge is a crucial way of exercising of power to regulate these threatening actions.

But in any kind of rationality, there is always an irrationality. The power exercised by GCHQ doesn’t just block terrorism. It helps to produce terrorism as a definable thing – a set of ideas and subjectivities that can be monitored, documented and regulated.

Mass surveillance also has unintended consequences, like the unpleasant side effects of a medical treatment. Storing all electronic communication in the name of counter terrorism compromises the privacy of entire populations. That changes the nature of social life, in ways that may be hard to perceive but which are nonetheless pervasive. Autonomy is inevitably curtailed. An email, for instance, might look like communication between two people, but it isn’t. Other people can examine it, log it, store it. It could be used in a court of law at a later date in some way that is impossible to foresee.

We don’t have to look hard to find examples of such powers being used abusively. I imagine many of those who helped gather information for the East German Stasi believed that they were doing good, protecting their state from dangerous ideologies. The power they exercised no doubt enabled certain things, protected certain values – but it also crushed people and ideas that didn’t fit with the dominant view. It is all too easy for power to slip into violence.

Foucault poses the question of how to let power flow whilst avoiding it solidifying into authoritarian forms of domination. There are no easy answers. But we have to at least keep asking the question. It may well be that many of those working in surveillance wrestle with this on a daily basis. However, if you believe Edward Snowden’s description of America’s National Security Agency, the employees there were definitely not questioning what they were doing enough, or even at all – and that is when power becomes dangerous.

Alan Turing’s groundbreaking role in surveillance may have helped to win WWII, but look what happened to him: suicide, following persecution for his sexuality. The state monitored his private activities, criminalised him and subjected him to enforced medical castration. Government interference in the most intimate of matters caused him irreparable harm. It is an unfortunate irony that the machines he dreamt up are now being used to insert surveillance ever deeper into people’s lives.

Concrete modernism: architecture about us

I love post-war modernist buildings, particularly the hulking grey concrete ones. I like their repetitive patterns and the textures of their weathered surfaces. Many people find them horrible, but for me there is inspiration in their scale, their boldness and civic, socialist values. It is also fascinating – if sometimes depressing – to observe what happens to them over time, as historical remains in an age of voracious capitalism.

Over the last few years I’ve been researching the ruins of St. Peter’s College, a contested 1960s modernist site near Cardross in Scotland (see this website and this journal paper). This year I’m part of a project about Modern Futures, which has given me the chance to think more broadly about what post-war modernism is, what it does, and why, against all the odds, I like it so much.

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The most common attitude to these buildings has become a popular cliché: “concrete monstrosities, knock them down!” Demolitions attract crowds of spectators, in a late capitalist mutation of the public hanging. In some cases charity raffles have been held, with the lucky winner appointed to press the button to trigger the dynamite. It’s as if society has decided that this kind of architecture is unarguably worthless, that it must automatically be complained about, like traffic, wet weather or Simon Cowell. But this view is increasingly being challenged. As well as blistering pro-Brutalist polemics from commentators such as Jonathan Meades, and architectural experts insisting on the historical value of post-war modernism, there have also been surprising levels of public support for campaigns to prevent the demolition of controversial modernist relics such as Preston bus station and the Apollo Pavilion.

It is important that any celebration of concrete heroics doesn’t airbrush out the trickier details of post-war modernism. Many modernist buildings were experimental, failing to function as was hoped. Some quickly became grim places, usually due to a complex mix of factors. The uncompromising aesthetics of this type of architecture can be intimidating, particularly in the UK, where damp climate and overcast skies turn concrete into a drab mass of rainy grey. There is also an undeniable white male arrogance in Le Corbusier’s ideas about rectilinear rationality triumphing over nature, as expressed in Towards A New Architecture. That arrogance has been mercilessly exposed by the premature ruination of many modernist buildings, either through neglect or deliberate destruction.

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Yet the remains of modernism have much to offer. Aesthetically, they are uncompromising landmarks that stand out against the increasing blandness of contemporary cities. Culturally, they are material remnants of 20th Century social history. Politically, they provide a connection to a socialist worldview, in which architecture was seen as a way to engineer better lives for people, rather than as a way of wringing profit from space. These things are all important, but most of all I love modernism for its anti-romanticism. I find it honest – refreshingly, shockingly, brutally honest – about the nature of modern life.

Take the St. James Centre, a shopping centre, hotel and ex-council office block in central Edinburgh, shown in all the photos in this post. A grainy charcoal slab looming over the genteel Georgian new town, it is widely hated. For the majority of Edinburgh residents, its imminent demolition, making way for a more upmarket retail and hotel development, will be an occasion for cheers not tears.

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I’m one of the very few people who like this building. For me, there is a mischievous joy in how the St. James Centre punctures the cosy heritage theme-park feel of the city. Its presence is audacious, disrespectful to the point of being outright rude. Scraping against the veneer of its picturesque surroundings, it blocks scenic views from all directions. The building is so offensive that in recent years a giant redevelopment banner has been hoisted across one of its most visible façades. The effect is like a loincloth failing to cover up an embarrassing erection – a desperate attempt to preserve modesty until the wrecking balls swing into action.

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Scottish arts promoter Richard Demarco apparently claimed that “no argument can defend the overscaled, heartless and meaningless modernism of the St. James Centre development.” (source: here) Well, here’s my argument.

The building functions as an insitu critique, showing the city for what it really is: a utilitarian, functional, impersonal space, where goods are traded and services provided. The St. James Centre affronts the bourgeois sensibilities of Edinburgh like the Greek cynic philosopher Diogenes defecating in public in Athens. His behaviour was neither dirty protest nor exhibitionism, but rather an attempt to cut through the bullshit of Athenian manners by living in a way that exposed the basic nature of human existence.

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Buildings like the St. James Centre are unavoidably modern, unmistakeably urban, unashamedly rational. They don’t pretend to be anything else. Their direct, upfront qualities are the result of an optimistic post-war mood. Modern life was seen as something to celebrate, to display with pride, not something to be ashamed of or hide away. Brutalist architecture openly expresses the incessantly repetitious, mass-mechanised character of late industrial societies, just as a thatched cottage in a rural village reflects the agrarian culture within which it was built.

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There is a serious incongruity when people aspire to live in country manors or mock tudor houses, but spend their lives eating food produced by industrial farming, operating mass-produced machines, immersed in a haze of electromagnetic signals, all powered by fossil fuels extracted through heavy engineering. We can denigrate this way of life as escapism, distraction, pretense, denial, or we can enjoy it as bricolage, mash up, a post-modern merging of past and present. But either way, the fact is that a lot of architecture conceals rather than reveals the structures and processes on which contemporary society is built. Dispirited by the violence of modernity, by its ravaging of life, we try to cover it up, or knock it down.

This is why we need modernist architecture, in its successes and failures, in its rationality and madness, in renovation and in ruins: to help remind us of who, what, when and where we are.

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Thanks to Hannah Neate, Ruth Craggs and the AHRC-funded Modern Futures network for providing space in which to think about these ideas.

Common wealth? Glasgow’s games, urban regeneration and modernist housing

In 2014 Glasgow hosted the Commonwealth Games. At the time, I was working in the city, so the games were unavoidable. Like other major international sporting events, they were also revealing of the processes of global capitalism. This post presents some reflections on these issues.

Photo: Steve Spiers Photography, Creative Commons

The games commenced in July, after months of anticipatory hype, daily non-news coverage of a baton being shipped and helicoptered around the planet, and a run of gaffes and cock-ups of the sort that now come as standard with sporting mega-events. The mainstream media were keen to focus on the competition rather than the surrounding controversies, but I found myself pulled in the opposite direction. The games themselves proved less interesting than the apparatus of event management, urban change and media coverage that surrounded them.

We would like to thank customers for their patience and understanding

Take the ticketing fiasco. Official vendor Ticketmaster previously presided over an 11-day website shutdown when handling ticket sales for the 2012 London Olympics. So with the Glasgow games, the firm had a second chance, an opportunity to learn from mistakes made. But if you’re the sole provider of an in-demand commodity, it doesn’t matter how poor your delivery systems are. People have no option but to sit there clicking themselves into carpal tunnel syndrome until the computer finally says yes. One person reportedly spent 31 hours in an online queue, a feat of endurance that surely deserves some sort of medal.

Screen grabs from the ticketmaster website. Source: BBC

Ticketmaster’s performance was thrown into sharp relief by the figure of the athlete, striving for excellence in a fiercely competitive field. By contrast, here was a company whose supposed mastery of tickets involved it being serially incapable of selling them.

Regeneration and displacement

Meanwhile, on the ground in Glasgow, away from podiums and pundits, grim realities were unfolding. To recognise this is not to dismiss the achievements of the athletes, or to devalue sport as a form of popular culture. Nor is it to suggest that there were no benefits to the city and to Scotland from hosting the games. Rather it is to question the manner in which sporting events are increasingly being harnessed as drivers of unjust urban change.

The Jaconelli family had been in their Dalmarnock home for over 30 years when the Glasgow 2014 organisers decided to knock it down to clear space for the athletes’ village. The family were served with a compulsory purchase order, offered compensation worth a third of the value of their property, and, when they refused, forcibly evicted in the middle of the night by the police. Such flagrant disregard for the lives of ordinary people is directly at odds with the principles of the Commonwealth Charter, such as human rights and respect for human dignity.

As Jack Jaconelli was overheard to say during the eviction: “All this so arseholes can run about in shorts for two weeks” (source: here). Sports events should not require the reckless destruction of people’s homes. Architect Malcolm Fraser points out that the Jaconelli’s tenement block could easily have been incorporated into the new development were there a will to do so. The problem is that, despite the rhetoric of community engagement and legacy, the real priorities lie elsewhere.

As my colleague Neil Gray has argued, sporting mega-events have become an opportunity for a small number of corporations, property developers and land owners to make vast amounts of money under the guise of regeneration. Local benefits are often marginal by comparison. Neil writes that

“The most controversial deal was with Charles Price, the Mayfair developer, who bought property on the projected Games Village site for around £8 million in 2005-06, then sold it to the City Council for £17 million in 2008”.

In another eyewatering deal, £5.1million was paid to former Rangers owner David Murray’s company, for land the company bought a few years before for £375,000 (reported in this BBC news article). Set against these transfers of public finance into private hands, the modest provision of so-called affordable housing in the games redevelopment looked tokenistic.

Add to all of this the demolition of a disabled people’s day care centre to make way for a Commonwealth Games bus park, and the erection of an 8-foot security fence lined with CCTV cameras segregating the athletes’ village from surrounding homes, and it is hardly surprising that local people felt excluded, “that the games are not for ordinary people in the east end to be part of or enjoy” (source: here).

The tearing down of modernist buildings

This mix of aspirational urban cleansing, wrecking-ball regeneration and local disenfranchisement came to a head in an astonishing plan put forward by the games organisers: to demolish Glasgow’s iconic Red Road flats as part of the opening ceremony.

Glasgow’s Red Road flats. Photo by Nick Hogg.

Red Road was a cluster of high-rise tower blocks built as social housing in the 1960s. It became a local landmark, with some of the tallest buildings in the city. At the time of the Games, the flats were due to be demolished anyway; but turning their toppling into a live spectacle would, the organisers insisted, make for

“a bold and dramatic statement of intent from a city focused on regeneration and a positive future for its people…An estimated television audience of 1.5 billion people around the world will also bear witness as the 30-storey blocks fall spectacularly to the ground, transforming the city’s skyline forever. And, while this will serve as an unforgettable statement of how Glasgow is confidently embracing the future and changing for the better, it is also intended to serve as a respectful recognition and celebration of the role the Red Road flats have played in shaping the lives of thousands of city families for whom these flats have simply been home over five decades.” (Glasgow 2014 press release)

The idea that a global live feed of social housing being detonated might acts as a ‘respectful recognition and celebration’ frankly beggars belief. It is beyond satire. Who exactly hatched this plan? And more to the point, what drugs were they on at the time?

Objections swiftly surged in from all angles. Glasgow residents pointed out that the flats had been people’s homes, and that making entertainment out of their destruction was crass and insensitive. Claims that the event would be managed “in a sensitive manner” were laughable given the obvious brutality of dynamiting five enormous skyscrapers. For some, an act of mass destruction seemed an overly negative way to start the event. Serious concerns about the wellbeing of nearby residents were raised. That one block housing asylum seekers was to be left standing also provoked heated debate about social exclusion.

A petition gathered over 17,000 signatures, local politicians and architectural groups queued up to voice their opposition, and before long the organisers abandoned the whole idea, with a carefully-worded statement from the Chief Executive citing security and safety concerns as the deciding factor. In retrospect, we can only speculate about where a live video feed of collapsing monoliths would have fitted into the opening ceremony’s kitschy mix of tartan tat, national cliches, gay kissing, imperialist pomp and celebrity-fronted charity appeal.

Legacy?

Some commentators have suggested that the Red Road episode was simply one expression of deeper, longer political currents: the relentless privatisation of housing in the UK, as part of wider efforts to break with an unglamorous industrial past, re-branding cities as aspirational places for leisure and culture. Neil Gray argues that the demolition of Red Road is just one of many “attempts to erase all traces of progressive modernist social housing through disinvestment and demolition in order to maintain the ideology of private home ownership” (see his incisive article here). Likewise, Fraser MacDonald argues that this impulse “to detonate our towering achievements” is not only about destroying buildings, but about destroying the very ideals that they express – the notion of housing as public good rather than private property, as social service rather than investment opportunity. Demolition as spectacle, writes Gerry Mooney, “somehow manages to cue to a wide audience that it is waste of time and money to try and provide council housing for working-class people. It always ends up in failure.”

But there was also something else going on around the Red Road opening ceremony plan. Whilst breathtakingly ill-conceived, it flushed out strongly-held sentiments about social housing and urban renewal. The proposal acted as a catalyst for public discussion, albeit brief, about the legacies of post-war modernism, and the question of what to do with the imposing physical structures it has left behind. Some of the online debates, in comments on the BBC’s news pages for example, were witty and revealing.

BBC red road comments

It is often said that tower blocks and brutalist architecture are hated by the general public, who see them as concrete monstrosities. What the Red Road episode showed was that in fact they are highly contested. These buildings elicit passionate feelings, of loathing and love and everything in between. There is something about modernist architecture that continues to fascinate, to activate imaginations, to exert a magnetic pull, or to repulse, annoy and disgust. These forces are as evident in the pro-modernist polemics of commentators such as Owen Hatherley and Jonathan Meades as they are in the nostalgic anti-modernism of figures such as Prince Charles.

Perhaps the strength of feeling is a reaction to the boldness of tower blocks, their sheer intensity and monumental presence. These buildings project confidence, against all the odds, and embody lost ideologies from more optimistic times. Their shameless masculinism and muscularity is shocking. Seen in this light, the desire to blow up modernist buildings as a spectator sport could be seen as a backhanded compliment; a tacit admission of the intrinsic power of this type of architecture. As a comparison, it seems unlikely that, in fifty years time, anyone will want to dynamite the bland low-rise housing of the Glasgow athletes’ village as part of a public spectacle.

Passionate attachments to modernist architecture can be seen elsewhere too: in the campaigns to save Preston bus station from demolition by the local council; in the refurbishment of the Apollo Pavillion in Peterlee; in the skaters resisting their removal from the concrete undercrofts of London’s Royal Festival Hall; in community opposition to the demolition of the Heygate estate in London; and in the work I’ve been involved with helping arts organisation NVA to reinvent the ruins of St. Peter’s College in Cardross.

In such sites, local residents often get actively involved – not necessarily in large numbers, not always in agreement, and not always achieving their aims, but certainly with a lot of emotional investment. These contested sites also have a tendency to attract artists and creative projects – sometimes working with conflicts, sometimes intensifying them or provoking resistances, but either way usually inciting lively responses. Red Road itself has inspired a remarkable array of arts and cultural works over the years, such as the drawings, photographs, videos and writings collected on the Red Road Flats website.

To sum up, modernist architecture seems to have a capacity for concentrating and intensifying energies, generating sparks of enthusiasm. That enthusiasm is powerful. It has the potential to help to galvanise resistance to the profiteering cycle of demolition and gentrification, of which the Glasgow games was just one example. Modernist enthusiasm might also help in developing alternative and more equitable forms of urban renewal, involving maintenance and repair rather than demolition, the provision of amenities for local people, and the creation of spaces to support inventive cultural activities. These would be forms of common wealth that could be genuinely transformative.