So Harry’s giving me a tour of Barnes.  His hood, as the homies would say.

It’s just west of where Richard lives.  Across Putney Bridge.  There’s a main drag, or as they call it here, a HIGH Street, with an endless row off non-chain shops.  Even an electrical shop, where Harry had his Dyson fixed.  It’s kind of like Connecticut, or Westchester, but without any changes in topography, and more shops.

And, in the middle of the ongoing commentary, Harry says Barnes is where OLYMPIC is!

Check your albums.  You know you read the credits.  You’ve got them in your memory bank somewhere.

So, we pull up right in front.  Olympic Studios is DIGNIFIED, not a San Fernando Valley concrete building bunker but a mini-temple, with the date of its erection, 1906, engraved in the facade.

Parking alongside to get some "take away" from the Indian restaurant across the street, Harry suddenly got that gleam in his eye and asked me, did I want to go in?

It’s almost 11 p.m., but there’s a receptionist inside the smoked doors.  At first I think it’s an illusion, but then I see him moving.

Harry hits the buzzer, we’re let in, and then Harry asks if SPIKE is there.

To his amazement, he is.

And then an assistant engineer retrieves us.  And takes us downstairs.  To where many of the world’s most famous records are mixed.  By one Mark "Spike" Stent.

Oh, there are endless Apple Cinema Displays.  A board with enough inputs for an orchestra.  Massive speakers in the wall.  And two sets of reference monitors atop the console.  This is where Spike works.  It’s his room.  This is where he mixes the likes of Madonna and Black Eyed Peas and Gwen Stefani.  RIGHT HERE!

Oh, in the talk of MP3s, of a dying business, we’ve lost track of the pulse.  But in this dark room, near midnight, I was reminded of what got me into this business.  THE MUSIC!

All the gear.  All the effects.  Raw creativity at one’s fingertips.  Adrenaline coursed through my body.

As for Spike…  He had none of the attitude of a star, none of the airs of the successful, he behaved like the guy who lives next door, who you converse with over a beer.

And once he found out I was a believer he wondered, did I want to go UPSTAIRS?

And then he took us into Olympic 1.  Oh, they’ve redone it.  The mixing console is no longer on the second floor, the cheap linoleum tile is gone.  But this is where they cut those Rolling Stones and Who records.  RIGHT HERE!

I’m wandering around the room.  Looking at all the GEAR!  The raw materials of music.

All the bluster about a shrinking business, theft of the music, it all fell away.  After all, you don’t focus on b.s. in the temple, you just soak up the religion.

Right here, in this upscale bedroom community, was the birthplace of some of the greatest records in the history of rock and roll.

It’s still standing.

Just like those records.