Hear Me Out: ‘Berberian Sound Studio’ by Broadcast is the most underrated horror soundtrack ever made
There came a point in the horror genre when all originality was lost. During the 1980s and ’90s, studios cottoned on to what made money, and as a result, countless scary movies were churned out, almost in a cookie-cutter format. These films were like an act of betrayal, imitating successful horror movies in the hopes of turning a quick profit, but naturally, they failed to live up to the standards set by horror pioneers. Thus, look back to any of these films, and you’ll find cliches and dated choices, especially in their soundtracks.
These movies didn’t have considered scores, and there even came a time when horror movies were oversaturated with nu-metal soundtracks or overly dramatic Hollywood-esque scores rather than original, compelling pieces of music. But then there came Peter Strickland’s 2012 horror Berberian Sound Studio, a mesmerising film soundtracked by Broadcast.
The band, who dealt in the hauntology realm – making retro-inspired and synth-infused psychedelic songs – might have been a fairly niche choice to soundtrack Strickland’s film, but they couldn’t have been more perfect. Listen to any Broadcast album, and you’ll find incredibly atmospheric sounds, with Trish Keenan’s voice often taking on an ethereal quality that haunts you long after you listen.
Moreover, the influence of BBC Radiophonic Workshops and early electronica, which helped to shape Broadcast’s distinctive style, made them experts in evoking themes of nostalgia and, at times, unease. Their first single, ‘Accidentals’, for example, features a murky sense of mystery, as though we’re being submerged in water as we listen, while their second single, ‘The Book Lovers’, opens with keys that have a vintage horror movie quality to them. Thus, it’s not hard to see why Strickland approached the band to make a soundtrack for his unusual take on the horror genre.
The filmmaker is well known for using retro-influenced imagery, and Berberian Sound Studio is no different, taking place in the 1970s. Here, Toby Jones’ character, Gilderoy, heads to an Italian recording studio to work on a film production, accidentally getting himself involved in the production of a giallo horror movie. As the production progresses, with Gilderoy having to make sound effects for gruesome on-screen murders, he loses his grasp on reality and gets lost in his nightmares.
Broadcast were initially meant to provide the soundtrack for the film within the film, Il Vortice Equestre, but Strickland inevitably asked them to provide the entire score. Moving between atmospheric and haunting soundscapes, like ‘Teresa’s Song (Sorrow)’, beautiful pieces using flutes and autoharp, and bizarre moments such as ‘A Goblin’, the soundtrack encapsulates a world caught between beauty and terror, dreams and reality.
Broadcast members James Cargill and Keenan were in charge of the soundtrack, although Keenan sadly passed away before the record was completed, leading Cargill to finish it alone. Still, Keenan’s presence is still strongly felt, with her otherworldly melodies, absent of lyrics, providing a sense of disquiet. You can tell that the band took influence from outside of the mainstream, with Cargill telling Fact Magazine, “I’m not sure it qualifies as a giallo, but we were listening to Nicola Piovani’s Le Orme soundtrack and its sparse use of organ and flute. And also a little from Valerie [and] Her Week Of Wonders and Czech New Wave film-making.”
You can certainly hear the influence of these soundtracks, although Broadcast’s score still feels so distinctively tied to their own individual style – a timeless blend of past, present, and future that mirrors Strickland’s filmmaking approach. The score is a stylish and captivating set of songs, echoing with a spectral resonance. The sounds of tape recorders and reels, screams, Italian lines of dialogue, and birdsong all come together to create a cohesive world of confusion, where quaint moments of calm are soon contrasted with mournful organs, harrowing screeches, and distant reverberations of sound – as though they’re coming from down a well or under a bridge.
A central motif runs through the score that cleverly transforms depending on the mood of a scene, taking on a tender and peaceful sensibility or an ominous and terrifying tone. From the intrigue of ‘The Equestrian Vortex’ to the captivating ‘The Sacred Marriage’, which feels like a daze of confusion, Broadcast carves out a world of mystery that feels rich with both longing for a time that now ceases to exist and apprehension.
It’s a cohesive and unforgettable score that simply deserves more praise. Broadcast refused to conform to Hollywood’s idea of a dramatic horror soundtrack, which typically involves predictable highs and lows, a conventional build and release system to create tension and huge swells of strings and other classical instruments. As a result, the score is genuinely fascinating as a stand-alone body of work, attesting to Broadcast’s musical genius – a band that is far too often overlooked despite being one of the most original acts Britain has ever produced.
