“Calling out around the world, are you ready for a brand new beat?” The iconic opening line from Martha Reeves and The Vandellas’ “Dancing In The Street” echoed through Westside Studios in Holland Park. It was 1985, and I was a young, thrilled recording studio engineer perched behind the massive SSL mixing desk. Just ten feet away, Mick Jagger was belting out that legendary line. It marked a year and a day since I’d traded my dad’s cowshed studio in Hampshire for this professional setup. My luck felt surreal. And the buzz was real: David Bowie was up next.
The day had started unusually early at 9 am, a request from David Bowie himself. Forget rock ‘n’ roll clichés; productivity was the morning’s mantra. We’d already laid down the backing track for “Absolute Beginners,” the title song of the movie starring Bowie. The session was buzzing with success. My bosses, producers Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley—renowned for their work with Madness, Dexys Midnight Runners, and Elvis Costello—were crafting the entire soundtrack, and Bowie had become a familiar face at Westside Studios.
Around midday, whispers began circulating: Mick Jagger might be dropping by, something about a Live Aid project with Bowie. By 1 pm, a percussionist confirmed the rumors, announcing his arrival for the “Bowie/Jagger session.” My mind raced. I’d envisioned a radio promo, a simple “David Bowie, Mick Jagger, donate to Live Aid” announcement. Recording a new track? Unthinkable! Bowie, ever the enigma, remained tight-lipped, though I suspected Clive and Alan were in the loop. Soon after, backing singers arrived, adding fuel to the fire: “We’re here for the Bowie, Jagger session!” Excitement crackled through the studio air.
Around 5 or 6 pm, Bowie finally dropped the bombshell. We were pausing “Absolute Beginners.” “Mick Jagger’s coming down in about an hour,” he announced, “and we are recording a song for Live Aid.” He produced a cassette, its label simply reading “Dancing In The Streets,” and handed it to the band with a casual, “Learn this, lads.”
The band—Neil Conti on drums, the late Matthew Seligman on bass, Kevin Armstrong on guitar, and Steve Nieve on piano—vanished into the live room, huddled around the cassette player, dissecting the song, and mapping out their parts. Neil Conti, with natural leadership, steered the musical ship, ensuring everyone was focused.
Suddenly, the studio filled with extra bodies. Producers from “Absolute Beginners” and various movie types, previously absent, now swarmed in, drawn by the Jagger buzz. Word had clearly spread. By Jagger’s arrival, the control room hosted an audience of thirteen, including children. I braced for rockstar indignation, but Jagger, though initially surprised, simply got down to business. He even brought his daughter, Jade, along.
It quickly became clear that music was hardwired into Mick Jagger’s DNA. As the band ran through song sections, discussions erupting and ceasing, Jagger couldn’t stay still. Mid-conversation, music would start, and he’d be dancing, still talking, completely immersed. His infectious energy was undeniable. “I want to be Mick Jagger’s mate,” I remember thinking, captivated by his vibe.
Soon, the band was tight, and Mick, David, and backing vocalists Tessa Niles and Helena Springs were ushered into the communal vocal booth, separated from the instrumentalists.
The first take began. The extended drum intro felt unusual, a deliberate choice by Bowie, it seemed, to build anticipation. On this initial run, neither Mick nor David sang during the intro, perhaps still figuring out vocal duties.
Hearing the entire ensemble perform live was exhilarating, a rarity in the increasingly clinical 80s recording scene. They nailed two takes. The consensus leaned towards the raw energy of the first.
Vocals, however, would be re-recorded. Not for performance reasons, but to avoid “bleed”—sound from each singer’s mic spilling into others—a mixing challenge, even if it was common practice in earlier decades. The backing singers swiftly laid down their parts.
Then came Mick. He treated the vocal booth like Madison Square Garden. Witnessing this legend at point-blank range was electrifying. Alan Winstanley tasked me with recording vocals. There I was, directly in Jagger’s eyeline. Holy crap!
Mick unleashed two takes, a force of nature. The live room was dimly lit, and his signature strutting would occasionally take him out of sight, only to reappear just in time for the next vocal line. No need for “more feeling” with Jagger; he was all in, all the time.
We listened back, knowing both takes were gold. Clive Langer, perhaps emboldened by a few glasses of wine, and the presence of rock royalty, slurred, “I think there was one word on the second take that was a bit better.” All eyes turned to Clive, then to Mick, who simply said, “Oh yeah? Let’s have a listen.” I don’t recall if that single word was actually used from take two, but Clive, looking sheepish, gave me a look that said he probably should have kept quiet.
Finally, with the clock ticking towards their video shoot in London’s Docklands, it was David’s turn.
David was a different artist entirely. His vocal recording approach baffled me. He’d sing powerfully with the band during live tracking, any of those takes easily lead vocal quality. He never delivered a phoned-in performance; always exceptional. Yet, for lead vocals, he’d record line by line, listening back after each, before proceeding. Understandable for a less confident singer, but David? He’d often reference a demo, refreshing his memory before each line.
Near the song’s end, I had a tricky punch-in, punch-out edit. David wanted to re-record a line. I had to drop out of record before the subsequent line played, minimal margin for error. Analog tape in those days offered no ‘undo’ button. I nailed it. Vocals, done.
Time for a rough mix for the video playback. Ever the diligent engineer, I hit record on two cassette players—standard practice. Mick and David might want a listen en route to the set, I reasoned. As the song neared its end, David’s manager, Coco, spotted a recording cassette. “Are you recording a cassette?!” she snapped. “Yes,” I replied, “thought you might need one.” She didn’t mention two. “I’ll take that,” Coco demanded. Cassette handed over. As she turned away, I discreetly pocketed the other, later stashing it under the mixing desk. That’s how I ended up with a copy of that first rough mix.
David generously invited everyone to the video shoot. Exhausted, and frankly, still buzzing with nervous energy, I declined. Plus, a shower was definitely in order after the vocal session heat!
Post-shoot, Mick took the tapes to New York. Brass and additional bass were added. Prog rock legend Rick Wakeman even contributed piano. Bob Clearmountain, a mixing titan, finalized the track. Seeing my engineer credit on the sleeve? Pretty damn satisfying.
