REMEMBERING ROGER NICHOLS, A TRIBUTE TO THE ORIGINAL GEAR SLUT

In the pantheon of audio engineering legends, few shine as brightly—or as irreverently—as Roger Nichols. Before Gearspace, before Gearslutz became the online mecca for equipment obsessives, Nichols was penning his wit and wisdom in the back pages of EQ magazine, a now-defunct publication that once served as a lifeline for studio rats and gearheads. His column, Across the Board, which ran from 1989 to 2002, wasn’t just a technical digest; it was a masterclass in curiosity, humor, and an unapologetic love for the tools of the trade. Nichols didn’t just use gear—he lusted after it, proudly dubbing himself a "gear slut" in an era when the term was still fresh and unbranded. Today, we remember him not just as an engineer for Steely Dan or a producer for John Denver, but as a pioneer whose spirit shaped the way we talk about, and tinker with, the machines that make music.

Roger tweaking the mix, click to enlarge

Nichols’ career was a tapestry of innovation woven with threads of mischief. Born in 1944, he brought an unlikely background in nuclear technology to the recording world, a quirk that fueled his relentless pursuit of precision. This wasn’t a man content with analog approximations—he wanted digital perfection. That drive led him to invent Wendel, the world’s first digital drum replacement system, in the late 1970s. Built to satisfy Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen and Walter Becker—who famously demanded drum tracks tighter than a Swiss watch—Wendel was a game-changer. It allowed Nichols to swap out imperfect beats with pristine samples, a trick that helped sculpt the crystalline sound of albums like Aja and Gaucho. He didn’t stop there. His nuclear-honed obsession with accuracy birthed a digital studio clock so precise it could sync early digital recording rigs without a hiccup, a godsend in an era when jitter was the enemy.

His EQ columns were where Nichols’ personality truly sparkled. Take his review of the original Alesis ADAT, the blackface beast that democratized multitrack recording in the early '90s. Nichols marveled at its ability to "pingpong tracks like rabbits reproduce," a nod to its bouncy, multiplicative magic. He noted the conversion was "good"—high praise from a man who’d heard it all—but ever the stickler, he’d likely have asked Alesis to clarify if that first-gen unit was 16-bit or 20-bit. (For the record, those early blackface ADATs were 16-bit, though Nichols’ playful jab hinted at his hunger for more.) His writing danced between technical insight and dry humor, a style that endeared him to readers who saw themselves in his gear-lust confessionals. In a 1997 column, he wrote, “When it comes to being a Gear Slut, cool used gear counts too,” cementing a term that might’ve been his own coinage from the early '90s—a badge of honor for those who’d max out credit cards for a vintage Neve or a shiny new DAT.

Nichols’ work with Steely Dan and John Denver showcased his versatility. For Steely Dan, he was the sonic architect behind their obsessive polish, wrangling endless takes into perfection. With Denver, he brought warmth to hits like “Perhaps Love,” proving he could tame his techie instincts for a softer touch. But it was his inquisitive spirit that defined him. He didn’t just use gear—he dissected it, tweaked it, bent it to his will. That same spirit animated his EQ columns, later compiled into Across the Board: EQ Columns and Reviews by Roger 'The Immortal' Nichols, a posthumous love letter to his craft.

I had the privilege of seeing Nichols speak at AES in 1991, alongside the legendary Bruce Swedien. Nichols was a revelation—funny, sharp, and utterly enlightened. He cracked jokes about fussy preamps and shared stories of Steely Dan’s studio marathons, all with a twinkle that said he’d rather be tweaking a mix than anywhere else. Swedien commanded the room, but Nichols stole it with his everyman charm, a gear slut among gear sluts.

Tragically, Nichols’ story ends like too many from his generation. Diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2010, he fought valiantly, but the disease—and the crushing medical bills—took everything. It bankrupted his family, a bitter coda for a man who’d given so much to music. He passed in April 2011, leaving behind a legacy of innovation, laughter, and a phrase that still echoes in studios and forums.

Roger Nichols was more than an engineer or a writer—he was an inspiration and a pioneer who saw gear not as mere tools, but as objects of desire, worthy of both reverence and a good ribbing. He gave us Wendel, perfect clocks, and pristine mixes, but he also gave us "gear slut," a term that captures the giddy, shameless thrill of the chase. Here’s to the original—the immortal—Roger Nichols. May his spirit keep tweaking faders in the great control room beyond.

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©March 2025 by Mark King, It's not ok to copy or quote without written permission from the author