In Inside the Studio, musicologist Matthias Pasdzierny and photographer Gero Cacciatore dive deep into the rooms where electronic music takes shape. From Berlin’s chaotic analog caves to Cairo’s improvise, dust-filled corners. We caught up to talk about gear, identity, politics, and what these spaces really say about the artists behind the knobs.
Electronic music studios are key spaces, but they rarely get the spotlight they deserve. Private, intimate, and often fetishized, they’re the most fertile ground where this art blooms before it gets people moving on the dancefloor.
There was a time—before music was all about feeding algorithms—when having a proper studio was essential: acoustically treated rooms, monitors worth a few salaries, analog synths, spaceship-looking interfaces. Being a pro meant having a pro studio, at least in the Western world, although the needle is slowly moving.
Today, the basic requirements to produce music have been (almost) completely democratized. A decent pair of headphones, a cracked copy of Ableton, and a couple of VSTs might do the trick. As technology advances, the rules evolve, and studios aren’t an exception.
Some producers are just getting into production thanks to its accessibility, some have simplified their creative spaces and others, more resistant to change, still prefer the hands-on approach of analog machines. The places where studios are found have become more fluid: garages, basements, even airports if your flight to Ibiza is delayed. Nothing is off-limits.
But what about places where access to tech, gear or even free time is way more limited, although today’s facilities? Throughout history, scarcity has often been the fuel for the most creative and authentic forms of artistic expression.
In Inside the Studio, Matthias Pasdzierny dives into two very different worlds. On one hand Berlin, with its expensive professionalism, acoustically treated rooms, and high-end gear; and Cairo, where improvisation and community reign. All seen through the lens of Gero Cacciatore, photographer and co-creator of the book.
In Cairo, it’s about making music with whatever’s at hand, far from gear fetishism. Studios blend into everyday life: where people sleep, eat, and live. The intimate and the creative are often one and the same. Here, music-making is a political act, a form of resistance and pure expression. At least a bit more than in cozy first-world Germany.
However, at the end of the day, there’s something that connects Berlin and Cairo’s studios, and it’s exactly the hypothesis posed by the author of Inside the Studio: the way spaces speak about the people who inhabit them. They’re not just places to make music; they’re time capsules, emotional reflections, and diaries of life with a soundtrack created by their own protagonists. Real spaces, lived-in and sweat-soaked, which the authors managed to capture with precision.
Inside the Studio gives a glimpse into these places where the music that moves us is born, offering an intimate vision of this rich landscape and creating a story where the space and the people who inhabit it steal the spotlight.
But to understand the author’s perspective, you also have to understand who’s behind the book. Matthias Pasdzierny doesn’t come from the world of electronic music as a producer or DJ but from research. His background as a musicologist and his interest in the intersections of art, technology, and politics led him to observe electronic culture with a curious and critical eye.
Over time, that analytical distance got shorter. The alluring nightlife of Berlin—in the late 2000s—ended up pulling him right into the heart of the experience. What was once the subject of study became part of his life. Thus, observation turned into immersion, and his connection with various artists started to form naturally, through sharing together, trust, and long conversations.
It was in that crossroads between academia and lived experience that Inside the Studio was born. The idea of entering the intimate space of the producer and documenting not only the objects or technology, but also the atmosphere, the energy, the chaos or order—what’s hinted at but not always seen.
With the trust built over the years, Matthias gained access to studios that are rarely shown to the public. He entered with a camera but also with an attentive ear and a desire to understand how the space affects music creation.
Although initially, the research was only planned for Berlin, the difficulty of funding a photo-book led him to seek financing elsewhere. That’s when the German Arab Young Academy of Science and Humanities (AGYA) funded Matthias and Gero’s project with the condition of including the Arab world.
Seeking a less Eurocentric perspective, Beirut was their first option, with good reasons behind it: a city rich in cultural diversity, a history full of crises, reinventions, violence, and despite it all, a vibrant, creative, and resilient art scene.
But as plans were set, October 7, 2023 came and everything changed. After the Hamas attack and Israel’s disproportionate response across the region, traveling to Beirut didn’t just feel unsafe, but wrong. Showing up with a camera to document creative spaces while the region was going through such immense violence didn’t feel like the right call. So they redirected their focus to Cairo, where the project could move forward with the care it required.
And that’s how they ended up in Cairo. While it started as a plan B, Matthias saw a great opportunity to dive into a different scene with its own codes, limitations, and strengths. There was something about Egypt’s capital: a different approach, maybe a bit rougher, loaded with contrasts, but also filled with community and resilience.
What Cairo might lack in top-notch analog gear, acoustically perfect rooms, or high-end monitors is more than made up for with creative resistance, energy, perseverance, and ingenuity. The result of this equation is an honest and human sound. Creativity blooms when there’s passion and love for what you do, and that doesn’t necessarily come from studios with the most expensive modular walls or synthesizers.
The desert heat in Cairo is part of the sonic landscape, and it shows in the studios. Rusty fans spinning in slow motion try to battle the high temperatures and desert dust, but the climate conditions are stronger. While the heat is merely a seasonal nuisance in Berlin, something similar happens in one of the studios Matthias likes to remember most: Ricardo Villalobos’s. Located literally beneath Berghain, the space with all the machines running could reach temperatures of up to 60 degrees in the summer, so seeing the master of minimalism working in his underwear was a common sight for those who visited.
Before the official launch, Matthias took some time to chat with us about his new book, his relationship with the scene and the artists, and what’s next after Inside the Studio.
Frequencies with Matthias Pasdzierny
C: What do you see for the future of electronic music studios, considering how expensive space is getting in cities like Berlin?
M: It’s moving towards a mix of mobile production and home studios. That’s going to be the most affordable option. The industry is already adapting with equipment designed for that context. On the other hand, artists like Moderat can still afford big ones. In Berlin, many have had their studios for 20 years, paying low rent. But that won’t last
C: And in Cairo?
M: It’s a whole different world. Almost no one has a real studio. Many artists, especially women, can’t even rent a space because of social pressure. It’s assumed the worst if a woman rents alone. That’s why many live with their families. Hassan Abu Alam, for example, lives on the outskirts with his sister, in a very basic apartment. He’s in his room all day, between video games and production. And his music reflects that: jumbled, noisy sounds, like something from a weird video game. But it’s brilliant. I love it.
C: Why do you think, in this age of mobile production and laptops, there are still artists who need a “real” studio?
M: That was one of the questions we asked ourselves. And the cool thing about the book is that we have 44 artists or collectives featured, so there are 44 different answers to that question. It’s super revealing.
C: So, did this project change the way you understand how space affects music?
M: Yes, the clearest thing for me is that the gear—the machines, the synths—are just the surface. The most important thing is the psychological value of the space. Having a studio is a way of reaffirming your identity as a producer. Like one of the artists said: “This is proof that what I do makes sense, that it’s working.” There’s also a strong symbolic dimension: how you organize the space reflects your creative process. Ricardo’s is beautiful chaos; Paul, on the other hand, has everything perfectly structured, almost architectural.
C: I imagine that with Ricardo’s presence, other doors for research opened…
M: Totally. But I also wanted the book to not just be about superstars, or about 50-year-old white German producers. I was interested in showing variety: collectives, bands, women, alternative scenes. The only condition was that they had to be production studios, not recording or mastering ones. And that took time: we spent like four years taking the photos. The project really took off with the pandemic, because most people were at home and happy to have visitors. Ricardo, for example, was in his studio all the time, producing, surrounded by people, with his rituals… we always ended up at a party. It was chaotic but amazing.
C: Did you get to see artists working in their studios? Or were the dynamics different?
M: No, it wasn’t ethnographic observation per se. Usually, it was one or two-hour sessions for the photos and conversation. With Ricardo, of course, it stretched out. But if we’re talking about observing creative processes in depth, that would be another kind of research. My idea was to create a visual and documentary source for the future. Because in 20 years, many of those studios won’t exist anymore. In fact, about 30–40% of the ones in the book are already closed.
C: It’s really interesting how the space kind of says a lot without needing to explain much.
M: And also of the social and economic context. It’s not the same to set up a studio in Berlin with subsidies and cheap rent as it is in Buenos Aires or Cairo. There’s a super strong class dimension. Most of the studios in the book are by white men from middle or upper class backgrounds, with access to resources. We acknowledge that and talk about it in the introduction. There are other scenes that are still very invisible, so we tried to be as transparent as possible with our limitations and include different voices. And for me, the most important thing is that the book doesn’t try to say “this is how you make electronic music.” It’s more like a portrait of a moment, of a variety of practices, with all their contradictions and everything. A starting point to keep exploring.
Buy the book here: https://www.hatjecantz.de/products/78956-inside-the-studio
