Reverb is one of those phenomena in sound design that feels like alchemy. It’s not just about simulating a room’s acoustics; it’s about creating spaces where emotions live. I’ve spent years tinkering with reverb in all its forms—chambers, plates, springs, and now digital algorithms. It’s become an essential part of my sound experiments, adding depth, context, and, sometimes, pure surrealism to my projects.

But why do we even need artificial reverb? In the simplest terms, it’s because dry, unprocessed recordings can feel unnatural. In reality, we’re always hearing sound in context—bouncing off walls, ceilings, or other objects. Reverb brings that sense of reality back into recordings, but it can also transport us to entirely imagined spaces: a cavern, a cathedral, or even the metallic echo of a steel plate.

Artificial reverb owes much to the experimental minds of mid-20th-century audio engineering. Before the age of digital processors, engineers used physical spaces and objects to create reverb. One of the earliest approaches was the echo chamber, where sound was physically sent into a room with reflective surfaces, picked up by microphones, and mixed back into the recording. Studios like Abbey Road and Capitol Records had dedicated echo chambers—literal rooms where timeless records got their lush, atmospheric sound.

The plate reverb, introduced in 1957 by EMT (Elektro-Mess-Technik) in Germany, was another groundbreaking innovation. The EMT 140, in particular, became a studio staple. It worked by sending sound vibrations through a suspended metal plate, with contact pickups translating those vibrations back into an audio signal. Plate reverb offered something entirely new: a dense, smooth tail that could be dialed in with precision. For me, working with plates—either vintage hardware or emulations—has always been about creating warmth and richness, especially for vocals or snare drums.

Then came the spring reverb, which might lack the polish of plates or chambers but makes up for it with its character. Invented in the late 1930s and popularized in the '60s and '70s, especially in guitar amps, spring reverb uses actual metal springs to create those twangy, boing-like echoes. It’s imperfect, sometimes unpredictable, but perfect for when I want a sound to feel raw and gritty.

The Why: Atmosphere, Texture, and Storytelling

Every reverb has a story to tell. Echo chambers give recordings an authentic sense of space and grandeur. Plate reverbs add cinematic gloss, while spring reverbs evoke something earthy, even a little strange. As a sound designer, I use reverb not just to make things sound "bigger" but to place sounds in emotional and narrative spaces. A touch of spring can make an acoustic guitar feel like it’s in a smoky dive bar. A cavernous digital reverb can make a vocal sound like it’s calling out from the void.

I think about reverb as an artist thinks about light and shadow—it defines shape, distance, and mood. Sometimes it’s subtle, a barely-there shimmer. Other times, it becomes the star, washing over everything like an ethereal tide.