I’d met George Martin, the legendary producer of the Beatles albums, to do an interview for a new edition of
By the time of my twenty-first birthday I had a magazine, a mail-order business and now I was contemplating setting up a recording studio. We were ?11,000 in debt after the first year from the record business and I was struck down by an ulcer. The doctor advised me to take some time out. Tom Newman and I thought moving our studio to the country might be an option. It would be better for my health at least. I bought a copy of
In October 1971, as we advertised waterbeds for sale in our shops, there was an extra little note on our ads: ‘
The recording studio began to attract the kind of musicians we liked to hear. The decision to make it a 16- track studio was imperative, as bands were becoming more sophisticated. Instead of simple bass, drums, guitar and vocals there was now more dubbing and overlaying of different sounds and textures. We soon realised we would need to have a 32-track, 20-channel sound desk to meet the increasing demand, as recording technology and the evolution of keyboard synthesisers allowed new forms of musical expression and way-out sounds. We brought in leading sound specialists Westlake Audio from Los Angeles to design the studio — with Dolby sound — and bought only the latest kit. The magic of the Manor was that it was a place where the artists could be relaxed and hang out after coming out of a studio session. It was a stimulating place to stay and we kept the wine cellar stocked up and always went with the flow. If a band wanted a wild party or a blowout, then it was fine with us. That’s what helped the juices flow. Since then, throughout our businesses, I have always insisted that Virgin try to create these special places or rooms where people can become inspired and create their best work.
Almost all of the biggest names in rock and pop music carved their reputations in that studio. The Manor taught me how to run a business and handle creative people. I also learned that not everyone gets what they truly deserve in life. I listened to some musicians with a modicum of talent who got a few lucky breaks; others with talent seeping out from every pore who simply didn’t make it. I’ve sat drinking with people who have abused their gifts — and others who have made absolutely the most of some pretty dubious talent.
It is well documented that Mike Oldfield’s debut album,
So one afternoon in the pub, I said to our team: ‘Let’s do it ourselves. Let’s set up our own record company and release Mike as one of our first LPs on our own Virgin Record label.’
Everyone thought I’d had one glass too many. We were still primarily a mail-order business, not a record company. But I persevered. I asked Mike for a list of the instruments he needed and went off to Charing Cross Road and rented them all: drums, synthesisers, guitars and tubular bells. We arranged for Mike to have time in the recording studio, between bookings, in the spring of 1973. He worked night and day, playing all the instruments himself, then sat at the mixing desk with Tom Newman to fine-tune the recording. I had never witnessed someone who listened and concentrated so hard or with such acute attention to acoustic detail.
Our decision to distribute the record ourselves was shrewd. But it was by no means certain at the time that the gamble would pay off. Virgin Records was a tiny business and it lacked the clout and the distribution of other major players.
Simultaneously, we were releasing Gong’s
It was tempting but we decided to do it all ourselves. It was a game-changing decision and it was incredibly bold. I’m always apt to take the greater risk:
In June 1973, John Peel played the record on his late-night Radio 1 show,
The next morning the phone rang off the hook with people wanting to lay their hands on the album. It never stopped ringing.
John Peel was hugely influential — and so too were the music press. The power of the print medium has always played a major part in building the Virgin brand. But I began to understand and appreciate this fully only during the summer of 1973. While the Gong and Faust reviews were lukewarm, Mike Oldfield’s were sizzlingly hot.
The album remained in the charts for five years, selling two million copies in the UK alone. Worldwide this figure was nearer 10 million.
In November 1972, aged twenty-two, I was speaking to my girlfriend when I penned one of my first lists.
But despite these ambitions it was obvious we were still a small company thrashing around. Most of us were still in our early twenties. We needed professional help, and I began a search for a proper accountant in 1973. I penned the advert myself:
Virgin Records have, within three years, built up seventeen shops, two recording studios, a large export company, an import company, a publishing company, an agency, a management company, licences in every country in the world, a successful record company and a friendly staff of 150 people. Virgin Records don’t have a shit-hot accounts department.
Virgin Records grew to become the largest independent record label in the world. And, in 1992, after our abortive time on the stock market in 1987, we sold it to EMI for a billion dollars.
We sailed pretty close to the wind on several occasions in the early days. We just about delivered on our promises, but it was a struggle. Given my time again, though, I’m not sure I would make any changes to the major decisions we took. We were feeling our way into what the brand could deliver. We were waking up to the idea that Virgin’s interests lay less in our own enthusiasm for any one business, and more in giving our customers a reason to be enthusiastic about the various things that we did. This, I believe, is why the Virgin model is so devilishly hard for start-ups to copy. Unless you’re working in a magical industry to start with — and music in the 1970s was certainly magical — it’s hard to see how you can win such loyalty and fellow feeling from your customers as you develop and expand.
