Master of Sound: Alan Parsons on the Digital Age
In a quiet hotel, far from the hustle and bustle of the music industry, Alan Parsons shares grilled prawns with his wife. It’s an ordinary Tuesday afternoon; no fuss, no rock star behaviour, just a man enjoying a quiet moment. ‘Sit down, have some prawns,’ he says with a smile. That spontaneous hospitality immediately sets the tone. This won’t be a standard interview about hits and highlights. This will be a conversation about craftsmanship.
Parsons, the man behind the sound of “The Dark Side of the Moon” and “Abbey Road”, has witnessed music history from close quarters. But he doesn’t romanticise that time. ‘The engineers at Abbey Road were always happier when we kept to fixed times,’ he recalls. ‘From ten to one, then lunch break, then carry on from two to five, and then dinner break.’ Yet the reality was different. ‘You acknowledge that creative people can’t necessarily work to a fixed schedule. The engineers and producers then went with the flow too. We simply said: we’re doing well, why should we stop just because it’s break time?’
That approach, quality over clock, characterised his generation. Albums were forged, not assembled. ‘I’ve always recorded with a flow in the music,’ Parsons explains. ‘You lose that when songs are listened to separately on Spotify and made separately.’ His curiosity about technology remains undiminished. On “The Secret” he experimented with the Schumann frequency, 7.83 hertz, allegedly the resonance frequency of the universe. ‘We have good contacts at NASA and ESO,’ he says enthusiastically. ‘It’s very difficult to reproduce. You can’t just record it.’ That technical challenge fits his philosophy. He quotes Arthur C. Clarke: ‘Sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ For Parsons this isn’t an empty phrase, but a working method that has lasted five decades.
But then his tone becomes darker. The current state of the music industry frustrates him deeply. ‘The problem is that consumers expect music to be free, almost free. Every stream played earns the artist 0.00001 cent.’ Those figures don’t lie. ‘An established artist used to sell a million copies, I’m already happy if I now sell 50,000 copies of an album worldwide.’ He refers to Peter Frampton, who earned about seven dollars from millions of Spotify streams. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ he says with a smile.
This economic reality touches the core of his frustration. ‘It can’t continue like this. As long as music costs money and artists have to survive, people won’t record music if they don’t get paid.’ What bothers Parsons most is the playlist culture. ‘It’s depressing when you’re considered part of a playlist. One song of yours, then one by someone else, then another one.’
This goes deeper than nostalgia. The album as a musical art form, the carefully constructed journey from track to track, is under pressure. For a craftsman like Parsons, who spends months on the perfect balance between songs, this feels like artistic vandalism. ‘I’ve always recorded so that there’s a flow in the music,’ he emphasises again. That flow, that careful construction, the way one song introduces the next, all of that requires time, patience and yes, money.
His passion for perfection shows itself in unexpected corners. Parsons collects magic tricks and has ‘a huge collection of tricks and books at home, many of which are unread.’ Asked about his skills, he grins: ‘I’m working on it. A euro coin, can you make two of them? Yes, but not right now.’ That precision, the dedication to the art, even as a hobby, typifies his entire approach. Making music is more than putting songs together. It’s a craft that demands time and respect.
After almost twenty years in America, Englishman Parsons has found his rhythm. Working from his own studio, he surrounds himself with trusted collaborators. ‘It’s almost a family business now,’ he says. That familial approach fits his philosophy. Quality doesn’t arise from haste or pressure, but from trust, time and the space to experiment. The avocados in his garden serve as a metaphor: ‘We just watch how it happens.’
Despite all the frustrations, Parsons remains optimistic. The revival of vinyl gives him hope. ‘If vinyl continues to get attention, people might say: I like holding tangible products in my hand. Then I put on an album and play the whole record.’ He acknowledges his misses, a failed experiment with electronic dance music (the last Alan Parsons Project album “The Sicilian Defense”), but without regret. ‘I’m glad I did it, glad I acknowledged my great passion in life.’
While our conversation is interrupted by phone calls about tour logistics, the core of Parsons’ message becomes clear. In an era of algorithms and playlist culture, he continues to hold onto a simple principle: quality requires time, dedication and respect for the craft. ‘There’s nothing I haven’t said yet,’ he reflects. It’s the calm of someone who has experienced multiple revolutions in music and emerged from them with his integrity intact.
The secret, not only the title of his album but his life motto, is perhaps this: true quality doesn’t arise in haste. It grows, like the avocados in his garden, when you take the time to do it properly.
