How we made Ultravox's Vienna

Midge Ure, singer

First and foremost, we weren’t trying to create a hit song, just an interesting piece of music. Ultravox had been dropped by their label, our management had disappeared and we had to scrape around for money just to get into a rehearsal studio. It was cold and miserable, as all these studios are, with sticky carpets and a smell. And that’s where we wrote Vienna.

The song had the feel of a haunting mid-European classic, thanks to our keyboard player Billy Currie’s classical training. The cinematic aspect was high on our agenda: every track was for a movie that didn’t exist. I remember going into the studio with just a line in my head: “The feeling is gone, this means nothing to me – oh Vienna!” That was all I had.

A lot of what Ultravox did back in the day was soundbites. Vienna was a love song to an imaginary girl. You’ve gone to this beautiful place, met someone and vowed it is going to continue – and, of course, it doesn’t. Why Vienna? There was a decaying elegance about it. In such a crumbling environment, you could easily fall in love. Then you go back to your cold, grey, miserable life in Chiswick.

We were absolutely skint. Everything I wore in the video was from thrift shops. The only thing that cost money was the Burberry raincoat, because I’d always wanted one. It was about £300, which was a substantial amount of money for someone who normally only bought stuff from Save the Children.

The label didn’t want to put Vienna out. It was too slow, too long and there was a violin solo – the antithesis of a commercial single. Then, the moment it became huge, the pressure on us to surpass it with a follow-up was incredible. Everyone wanted us to write a track called Berlin or Paris.

Billy Currie, keyboards

Vienna came together in January 1980. Ultravox had just hooked up with Midge Ure, who’d replaced John Foxx, and I wanted to use my classical training. I said to the guys I was keen to do something that sounded like the late-19th-century romantics, like Grieg and Elgar. We were extremely arrogant back then and probably too prog-rocky. We did do some fairly long tracks. Midge stood at the mic and came up with the lyrics almost straightaway: “Walked in the cold air, freezing breath on the window pane …”

We’d been listening to music by this old German composer called Max Reger. He’d tried too hard to be successful and deliberately overdid it. That was why I did a violin solo that was overly vibrato and romantic. Midge felt a little uncomfortable, because he’d only just joined and thought we were being arty-farty. “This means nothing to me,” he said. And Conny Plank, our producer, replied: “Well, sing that then.”

Even though there was no middle section at that point, we performed it at the Electric Ballroom in Camden. The crowd thought we were on to something new. This was the start of a new decade and people were receptive – though, obviously, there were a few punks shouting at us. But when we heard the final mix, we didn’t think we had a hit. It was just a track. Others seemed just as likely to chart, such as Mr X.

But I wanted to release it. I was proud of it and couldn’t bear the thought of it being passed over. I was surprised it was a hit because it was long – when we went on Top of the Pops, we had to cut it. It went straight from the chorus to the violin solo. I hated that. Sadly, Vienna didn’t get to No 1. We were denied the top spot by the novelty hit Shaddap You Face.