Is having a physical studio really worthwhile, or is it too much work?

Inspired by reflections from Robert Henke’s blog post

 Lately, I’ve been pondering a question that Robert Henke—one of the founders of Ableton—recently discussed in a blog post: Is having a physical studio really worthwhile, or is it too much work? It’s an interesting reflection that goes straight to the heart of music production: the balance between technical complexity and creative flow, between investing in lots of gear and simply working in-the-box.

 I’d like to share a personal story from my own studio and an early work as a photographer that illustrates just how intricate (and rewarding) hardware setups can be—even for tasks that, in the digital world, seem almost too simple.

I’ve been using Ableton Live since its very first version, and over the years, I’ve tried countless ways to get the most accurate recordings possible from my external synths. Good timing is essential for a strong groove, so I made zero-latency monitoring a priority. Early on, I used RME’s TotalMix to achieve this; it gave me instant monitoring, but also meant I had to manually adjust my recorded loops. That constant tweaking often disrupted the groove.

 Eventually, I discovered that monitoring directly through Ableton Live was more consistent, particularly when multiple plugins or tracks introduced varying latencies. The trick, however, is to use Ableton’s “External Effect” device on every channel that routes audio in or out of your system.

The Quest for Flawless Sync

A specific example is my Eurorack modular setup. I rely on an Expert Sleepers ES-3 module to send CV and Gate signals from Ableton. Unlike MIDI—often prone to jitter—CV/Gate is astonishingly precise. I also use an ERM Multiclock (sadly, ERM no longer exists) to keep MIDI timing in check, but it’s the ES-3’s CV/Gate control that really shines.

My routing in Live typically looks like this:

1. Channel One – A Silent Way Voice Controller plugin, sending audio to outputs 1 and 2 of the ES-3 (ADAT 25 and 26 in my case).  

2. Channel Two – A playback channel containing only an External Effect plugin. The plugin’s input is set to the ADC channel receiving the Eurorack’s audio output.  

3. Channel Three – The recording channel, which takes its input from the playback channel.

Sometimes I add a fourth channel, a “dummy” MIDI clip with a Silent Way utility plugin, for modulating parameters like harmonic width on my Verbos Harmonic Oscillator. It’s not a straightforward setup, but once dialed in, it feels both futuristic and surprisingly hands-on.

Reflecting on Gear vs. Software

Robert Henke’s post really resonated with me. He noted that while a hardware compressor helped him understand compression at a deeper level, he ultimately returned to Ableton Live’s built-in compressor for day-to-day work. This brings to mind Erich Fromm’s To Have or To Be? —a question we inevitably face when surrounded by vintage synths, outboard gear, or, really, any technology.

From a purely sonic standpoint, some might argue there’s little difference between hardware and software results these days. Yet the process differs drastically: hardware forces you to slow down, physically engage with knobs, absorb the scent of warm circuits, and shape sounds in a tactile way. That experience alone can be immensely rewarding—like playing a grand piano versus a digital one.

On the flip side, a fully in-the-box approach can be cheaper, faster, and more flexible. But then again, look at Jeff Mills’ “Exhibitionist” performances: the immediacy of his hardware approach is impossible to replicate on a laptop alone. So, do we ultimately want to possess a finished piece of music, or do we simply love making it?

Against that backdrop, one might ask: Is having a physical studio really too much work? True, it can be overwhelming to maintain racks of gear, manage cables, and troubleshoot outdated hardware. But if those instruments and spaces inspire learning, push us to understand sound more deeply, and invite others to join in—even for a single jam session—then the effort often feels worthwhile. There’s a tangible weight to turning a knob on a classic synth, or patching cables on a modular rig, that can’t quite be replicated by a mouse click or a touchscreen gesture. Sometimes, that extra tactile step can unite a group in the wonder of how the sound is being shaped, rather than simply what the sound is.

Ultimately, the process of making music—and the community that can blossom around it—often counts for far more than any final recording. The best performances I’ve witnessed are the ones where people lose themselves in the act of playing, forgetting about the end result altogether. The synergy in the room becomes palpable, and everyone walks away moved or inspired in some way. Whether the performance ends up on an album or just becomes a cherished memory rarely matters. What sticks is that feeling—the kind of feeling that makes us human, reminds us we belong, and compels us to keep creating.

The Photomontage Lesson: Embracing Analog Complexity

When I think about why analog processes can be so satisfying, I’m reminded of a formative experience from my teenage years. My father owned a Leica R3 camera, which I was lucky enough to borrow. At that time, (around 1987) I was teaching myself the entire photographic workflow: loading film, shooting carefully composed frames, developing negatives in a darkroom, and finally making prints by hand. Every step was physical and deliberate, and mistakes were not easily reversed with a quick click of “undo.”

One afternoon, a friend and I decided to attempt a photomontage. Our idea was to place an image of another friend on a Carambole (billiards) board, making it look as if she were perched atop one of the game pieces. Sounds simple by today’s standards—just open Photoshop on your phone, layer two images, and voila!—but back then, it was a monumental challenge.

1. Planning the Shot
   We asked our friend to pose on a flat surface in a specific position, so the perspective would match the Carambole board. We only had one camera and one roll of film, so we had to get it right without any real-time preview.

2. Developing the Film
   After shooting both the Carambole board and our friend’s pose, we headed to the darkroom to develop the negatives. This alone was a delicate process—temperatures, chemicals, and timing all had to be precise, or the entire roll could be ruined.

3. Creating the Montage
   Next came the real test: printing the images, painstakingly cutting around her silhouette with a craft knife, and physically placing this cut-out on the photograph of the board. We rigged a little stand so the image of our friend would remain upright at the right angle. Then we had to light the scene just enough to re-photograph the montage without glare or shadows.

4. A Day’s Work
   What modern editing software can accomplish in seconds took us an entire day—shooting, developing, cutting, positioning, shooting again, redeveloping. Every error meant redoing an entire step or accepting a flaw in the final piece.

The end result wasn’t as convincing as we’d hoped. The lighting looked off, and the scale wasn’t quite right. But the process taught us so much: planning ahead, dealing with disappointment, improvising solutions. We were excited to try something new, and that excitement fueled our patience and creativity. The hands-on nature of analog photography made each step feel important, even if the final image was flawed.

Fast-forward to today, and I can snip a subject from a photo with a single tap on my phone. It’s convenient, sure—but it also means I skip the intricate, messy, and transformative journey that defined our little photomontage adventure. Every time I see an auto-cutout feature on my phone or computer, I think back to those hours in the darkroom and the thrill of pulling a freshly developed print from the tray.

The “Missing Link”: Physical Meets Digital

This photomontage memory reminds me a lot of my studio work now—particularly when syncing Ableton Live with my Eurorack system. There’s an elegant simplicity in the digital domain, but I remain enchanted by the physical, messy complexity of patch cables, hardware modules, and the comforting hum of gear powering up.

Just like in my old darkroom, everything here requires careful attention. Perfect sync isn’t just handed to you. The payoff, however, can be magical: once the connections are set up correctly, your hands-on tweaking produces results that feel organic and alive.

Finding Your Balance

In his post, Robert Henke states that he’d rather devote his limited time to exploring musical ideas—rhythm, timbre, tone, and form—than continually wrangling a roomful of hardware. I understand that perspective completely. If wrestling with old-school setups kills your momentum, then a streamlined software workflow may serve you better. Or you might discover that using a Push3 (Standalone) or even Move as an extended version of your DAW offers the best of both worlds—letting you twist real knobs and press tangible buttons while staying firmly connected to the software’s deeper functionalities.

Yet for some of us, the tactile nature of sound machines with real knobs, cables, and circuits keeps us grounded. It can be more time-consuming. It might even be a bit frustrating. But it reminds us that creation isn’t just about the final artifact; it’s about the journey. Letting go of analog entirely might mean missing out on that deeper connection. Another point Henke raises is that owning a studio often comes with a constant urge to acquire more gear—each new piece promising to outperform what you already have. Resisting that impulse, often called GAS (Gear Acquisition Syndrome), can be tough. If you’ve ever stepped into my studio, you’d see what I mean. Luckily, I’ve reached a stage where I barely feel the need to buy anything new. I believe I’ve found a healthier balance.

Moving Forward: The Balance of Passion and Result

Technology has never been more accessible or powerful. It’s easier than ever to translate a musical idea into a polished track—or to seamlessly blend real-world instruments with digital tools. The potential can feel limitless, but it also adds pressure: if it’s so easy to record, why not record everything? Then you find yourself, as I often do, spending hours on a patch only to forget what it was for in the first place.

Sometimes, like my teenage self in the darkroom, I get lost in the process—tweaking an oscillator, fine-tuning a filter, or layering a synth until it sounds just right. I might not capture every detail or post it on social media, and that’s okay. The practice, the moment of discovery, is its own reward.

I do dream of grand “sound collages,” layering modular quirks with my Prophet-5, Waldorf M, or Jomox AirBase. Often, I just end up with scribbles rather than masterpieces. But there’s something noble in putting your heart into a creation, even if it doesn’t end up being the next big thing.

As Henke himself points out, we shouldn’t let nostalgia imprison us—but we also shouldn’t dismiss the slower, more painstaking methods if they bring us deeper joy. The tension between old-school and high-tech might actually be where the richest creativity lies.

Here’s to welcoming a little messiness, embracing trial and error, and remembering that the journey is half the art. To be—and to have less—might just be the sweet spot.