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Moog Safari

Or how Bob Moog sparked a revolution in pop music with his eponymous synthesizer.

Much as you can't hold Albert Einstein to account for what happened to Hiroshima, then you can't hold Bob Moog responsible for the horrible misuse of his instrument by the likes of Keith Emerson and Rick Wakeman. I have to admit that for a long time, when I was first getting into music as a spotty teenager, I tended to associate synthesizers with those unearthly atmospheric interludes which punctuated overblown twenty-minute opuses about hobbits and goblins - though even in my post-punk pomp, I had to concede that 'Silver Machine' by Hawkwind was a pretty nifty number. But what did I know; I'd long forgotten the simple bubblegum delight of 'Popcorn' by Hot Butter, was a bit sniffy about seamlessly sequenced Eurodisco records such as Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’ and I hadn't even heard any Kraftwerk whatsoever. Of course, I could say that hearing ‘Warm Leatherette’ by The Normal changed everything for me, but that would be a lie. In fact, it was ‘Cars’ by Gary Numan, which more than any other record, helped open up my ears and subsequently my heart to glorious possibilities of the synthesizer. Since then, I've happily allowed the likes of Cabaret Voltaire, Pierre Henry, Throbbing Gristle, the Human League, Jean Jacques Perrey, Stereolab, Ladytron and Broadcast, to name but a few, to take me to exotic and at times disturbing electronically created sonic terrains mercifully free of annoying little creatures with hairy feet.
As it happens, both Emerson and Wakeman turn up in Moog, a documentary about Bob Moog, inventor of the modern synthesiser. And credit where it's due, though I don't care too much for his music, Wakeman always comes across as an affable sort of geezer and is always good for a chortlesome anecdote or two: in this case how he was given his first Moog by a frustrated actor who just couldn't get the damn thing to work. Turns out the foolish thesp was trying to play chords on it when as everyone knows, the Moog is a monophonic instrument - that is, you can only play one note at a time (well, Bob laughed!). But then, Rick goes on to blot his copybook by engaging in Swiss Tony-style 'playing a Moog is like making love to a beautiful woman' type analogies with jazz-funker Bernie Worrell. Cripes!
Now, despite the fact that the synthesizer and attendant electronic music technologies have had a huge impact on all areas of music making, you could be forgiven for thinking the shy and introverted Bob Moog, to be a less than compelling subject for a feature-length documentary. But you'd be wrong, because for director Hans Fjellestad, Bob Moog embodies nothing less than 'the archetypal American maverick inventor. The independent explorer charting new territory. The mad scientist. The cowboy poet...'
And Fellstadt’s surprisingly engaging documentary serves as just recognition for a great American maverick who comes across as an endearing, eccentric, socially awkward but deeply spiritual man. One who when not developing new types of theramin (an abiding passion), can be seen tending his organic garden; his eyes welling-up as he relates how his free-range chickens were recently maimed by wild dogs.

I Love my Moog by Helen Skinner
It's ‘Nothing’ Hill in the early nineties. I'm a freshly droppped-out young-ster working in a well known chain of second hand record/ clothes/ junk shops (job requirements — a love of Big Star and the ability to be surly to tourists).
In my lunch hour I would frequent the music equipment branch hoping to find something that would help me go from someone in a band (everyone there was in one), to someone in a band with a cool thing. Then one day there was a Moog sitting in the glass cabinet like a work of art. Two hundred and something pounds, I'll take it! Well, I put a deposit down and it was marked as reserved and returned to the case. I had to wait until the next pay day until it was mine. I spent many of my lunch hours during the rest of that month visiting the Moog, just to looking at it and always making sure the reserved sign was still firmly attached.
Once my Moog was safely home with me, I spent hours tinkering. I don't think it's possible to tire of the noises it produces, and you always discover new ones.It became a staple ingredient in my four-track noodlings, even being immortalised in song itself by my friend Jamie and I in ‘I Love My Moog’. Sadly this classic has been lost, although we both remember it included the line ‘it's really good, it's got a filter contour/ Stereolab used one on tour’.
It's hard not to feel a bit smug owning a Moog: many musician types I've chatted to have been blown away when I tell them I own a Moog Prodigy. I've had a number of big cash offers for it, but I really couldn't be parted from it. It's an antique, a thing of beauty, a design classic and the most fun intsrument you'll ever play. There's an equality to it, anyone regardless of musical knowledge can twiddle a few knobs, press a key and… wheep,wheep,squelch,boop! And who wouldn't enjoy that?
One important lesson I've learnt as a Moog owner is never lend it out. I once made a two week trade of Moog for sampler. A fortnight later I duly returned the sampler. ‘When will I get the Moog back?’ I asked.
‘Oh, we just need it for a little longer.’ Hmmm, no less than a year later after repeated calls and hassling, the Moog was finally returned. I had started to worry that I'd never see it again, but like a a kidnap victim's family being reunited with their lost loved one, any anger immediately turned to relief as I held the Moog tightly and promised never to let it out my sight again.
© Nude 2005 Extracted from a longer article which appeared in issue 6 of Nude (Apr/ May 2005).