In the late 1970s, when Trevor Horn and Geoff Downes were trying to get a record deal as the Buggles, a lot of people in the music business were confused. What kind of band has only a singing bassist and a keyboard player?
“We were like, ‘We don’t want a guitar player, and we use a drum machine,’” Horn recalled recently during a video interview from his Los Angeles home. “There was a lot of suspicion about that. We were a bit ahead of our time.”
Horn, 73, was being a bit modest; he’s routinely described as “the man who invented the ’80s.” The Buggles’ “Video Killed the Radio Star” was a global hit and ushered in a new era of opulent electronic pop. The video was the first ever played on MTV when it launched in 1981, and featured Horn and Downes in outrageous silver suits and deadpan looks.
By then, they’d already moved on from the Buggles by joining Yes, briefly. Downes went on to play with the pomp-rock group Asia, and Horn entombed himself in a recording studio, waging war on boring music.
As a producer and head of his own record label, ZTT, Horn worked on some of the most audacious albums of an over-excited decade: ABC’s “The Lexicon of Love,” Malcolm McLaren’s “Duck Rock,” Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Welcome to the Pleasuredome.” If you hate the ’80s, he’s your villain.
A Trevor Horn production has clever lyrics, fortified hooks, an episodic structure and a dramatic fire-walling of frequencies that makes the music pop out of speakers. He also worked with Spandau Ballet, Grace Jones (“Slave to the Rhythm”), Seal (“Crazy”), the Pet Shop Boys, t.A.T.u., John Legend, Paul McCartney and Rod Stewart.
The Buggles never toured, apart from a 2010 reunion gig for charity, but they’re the opening act on the British singer Seal’s upcoming tour, which starts Friday in Phoenix. Horn will be playing without Downes, whose obligations to Yes got in the way.
“My daughter, who is a music business lawyer, keeps saying, ‘You’ve got to change the name, because there’s only one of you. It should be called the Buggle,’” Horn explained with a laugh. His daughter also insisted Horn wear a certain iconic garment. “She said, ‘If I was a paying customer and the Buggle didn’t have his silver jacket on, I’d want my money back.’”
These are edited excerpts from the conversation.
You worked as a producer for five years before you had your first hit, “Video Killed the Radio Star.” After such a long wait, why did you walk away from pop stardom?
My first experience of being a pop star was pretty grim. I was miming to “Video Killed the Radio Star” on every TV show known to man. When you’ve made a living as a musician, miming is the most boring thing you could possibly do. I knew that in order to come from nowhere and have a hit record, we’d need to have a pretty catchy track. But that doesn’t necessarily make for a career.
“Video Killed the Radio Star” isn’t just catchy, it’s annoyingly, almost obnoxiously catchy. Was that part of the plan?
[Laughs] I know what you’re referring to. Bruce Woolley [who helped write the song] and Tina Charles, a well-known singer in England, were singing the chorus, and it sounded bland. I said, “Why don’t you sing it in American and exaggerate it?” That was effective. I was aware that it might be a bit annoying, but I thought it was the kind of thing you wouldn’t forget.
One of your early jobs was a progress chaser in a plastic bag factory. What does a progress chaser do?
People would call and say, “This is the British Sugar Corporation. We ordered 20,000 plastic bags that were meant to arrive last week. Could you tell us where they are?” I’d go down to the factory to see the head of production, and ask where the bags were. And he would say, “[Expletive] off!” Then I’d go back to the British Sugar Corporation and say, “I’m assured the bags will be there on Wednesday.”
Did that job influence your idea that we were living in “The Age of Plastic,” which is the name of the Buggles’ 1980 album?
To some degree, but that was mostly me being irritated by people saying, “Eh, your music sounds a bit plastic.” After a while, I thought, “[Expletive] them! It’s the plastic age!”
When a couple of my friends heard “Video Killed the Radio Star,” they said, “It’s got absolutely no integrity.” I suppose I was thumbing my nose a bit at the ’70s idea of integrity.
Aside from the musical and technical aspects of being a producer, how important is the psychological aspect — knowing when to cajole or when to flatter?
All of that is very important. Even though you think you can say whatever you want, because you’re in charge, you can’t. The only way that works is patience and kindness. Most people that are successful have well-developed instincts for what suits them, and if you’re going to take them out of their comfort zone, you’ve got to be careful.
Paul McCartney certainly has well-developed instincts. Did you find him amenable to your suggestions when you worked with him on “Figure of Eight” in 1989?
Paul is very charming. The first time I met him, I was playing Space Invaders and he came up behind me and said, “Do you want me to show you how to cheat the machine, Trev?” You think, “Jeez, Paul McCartney knows my name!” Even I got a bit excited by that. But when it comes down to it, he’s still only a songwriter and a bass player. It’s not like he’s the dictator of a country and he can get you locked up.
When you started working with Frankie Goes to Hollywood, they said they wanted to sound like a cross between Kiss and Donna Summer. How important is it to get direction from the artist?
Oh, it’s vital. ABC wanted to be like Chic, a big dance act, but with better lyrics. With Frankie Goes to Hollywood, I was intrigued by the idea of a rock-dance record. I was playing bass for a living in 1977 when Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love” came out, so I heard it every night. It was the first mechanical record that I heard, and I was fascinated by it.
And when I heard Kraftwerk’s “Man-Machine,” it was a revelation — the idea that you could make a record without having a group there, with all their problems. I felt like that was the way forward. You could make music all by yourself, because of the new technology.
“Owner of a Lonely Heart,” Yes’s big hit off “90125,” was its first No. 1 pop hit. How did you get the band to record a song it hated?
I had to go down on my knees and beg. I said, “I’m a really hot producer at the moment, probably the hottest producer in the world, and if you don’t do this song, you’ll make me a failure. You promised me you’d do this song, so you’ve got to do it.” I was being funny, but not funny, if you know what I mean. I was desperate.
Some people who’ve worked with you describe you as “obsessive.” Was it obsessive to spend three months working on Seal’s hit “Crazy”?
It was obsessive. I’d never heard a song quite like “Crazy” before, so it took a while to figure out how to do it properly. I’m not trying to get a record perfect, I just want it to have an emotional impact. That’s what takes time.
You didn’t have a hit until you were 30 years old, which is unusual. Were you thinking for years that any day now, you’d be a star?
People would tell me, “You think that’s going to happen? Look at you! You’re not even that great-looking!” My parents kept trying to get me to go to teacher’s training college. It didn’t look very promising, put it that way.
I remember a girl saying to me, “You’re 28. You’re driving around in a beaten-up old car, living hand-to-mouth. What are you doing with your life?” And I said, “I’m pulling the handle of a big slot machine, and I’m going to keep pulling it, because it’s going to pay the jackpot out soon. That’s why I’ve got a rubbish car.”
