Free Business Stripped Bare by Richard Branson Page B

tone of gentle irreverence. Even in the early days we were promoting convenience and customer choice – only in a different dimension.

Back in 1971, someone had a bright idea. We should open a recording studio, too. Tom Newman, one of the original crew at Virgin Records, originally suggested we set up a four-track recording studio in the crypt. Meanwhile, I'd met George Martin, the legendary producer of the Beatles albums, to do an interview for a new edition of Student . When I told him of my plans, he said that four-track was out of date and that modern recording now needed at least eight-track equipment. I told Tom to flog the four-track we'd already bought and look for an eight-track. We'd spent £1,350. I was learning an expensive business lesson about getting the best equipment you could possibly afford.

By the time of my twenty-first birthday I had a magazine, a mail-order business and now I was contemplating setting up a recording studio. We were £11,000 in debt after the first year from the record business and I was struck down by an ulcer. The doctor advised me to take some time out. Tom Newman and I thought moving our studio to the country might be an option. It would be better for my health at least. I bought a copy of Country Life and saw an advert for an old English manor house at Shipton on Cherwell. It looked ideal. I was bowled over the minute I clapped eyes on the place. I desperately wanted to buy it and hatched plans for a 16-track studio. The bank agreed to give me a loan and I bought the Manor on 25 March 1971.

In October 1971, as we advertised waterbeds for sale in our shops, there was an extra little note on our ads: ' We have a quiet studio in the country now, so if you're going to make a sound and you want to relax when you do it, ring us .' The studio was ready to rock. And it did.

The recording studio began to attract the kind of musicians we liked to hear. The decision to make it a 16-track studio was imperative, as bands were becoming more sophisticated. Instead of simple bass, drums, guitar and vocals there was now more dubbing and overlaying of different sounds and textures. We soon realised we would need to have a 32-track, 20-channel sound desk to meet the increasing demand, as recording technology and the evolution of keyboard synthesisers allowed new forms of musical expression and way-out sounds. We brought in leading sound specialists Westlake Audio from Los Angeles to design the studio – with Dolby sound – and bought only the latest kit. The magic of the Manor was that it was a place where the artists could be relaxed and hang out after coming out of a studio session. It was a stimulating place to stay and we kept the wine cellar stocked up and always went with the flow. If a band wanted a wild party or a blowout, then it was fine with us. That's what helped the juices flow. Since then, throughout our businesses, I have always insisted that Virgin try to create these special places or rooms where people can become inspired and create their best work.

Almost all of the biggest names in rock and pop music carved their reputations in that studio. The Manor taught me how to run a business and handle creative people. I also learned that not everyone gets what they truly deserve in life. I listened to some musicians with a modicum of talent who got a few lucky breaks; others with talent seeping out from every pore who simply didn't make it. I've sat drinking with people who have abused their gifts – and others who have made absolutely the most of some pretty dubious talent.

It is well documented that Mike Oldfield's debut album, Tubular Bells , was a breakthrough into the big time for the burgeoning Virgin empire. Mike was (and still is) a genius. But he was also an incredibly hard and fastidious worker – and that's something that takes you a long way in life. I remember first hearing an early tape of his material on our houseboat and being captivated by its haunting beauty and