BBC Radiophonic Workshop

Six composers, too shy to make claims for themselves, go to make it up. But Brian Hodgson, who's worked with the BBC Radiophonic Workshop since the early 60s, and headed it since the mid-80s, is less reserved. You think about it, and you begin to wonder if this pioneering institution's secret effect on Britain's ears might not be huge. "It's likely," he says when asked, "that the first Electronic Music that most of today's composers heard they heard when they were listeningto Listen With Mother. Composers will say, 'I wanted to get into electronic music because of Dr Who.' We've changed the way that people listen to things ..."

Dr Who you knew about: everyone knows they did that. But also Life On Earth, The Body In Question, dozens of documentaries - Horizons, Everymans, whatever - hard and soft science, fiction; animals, plants, galaxies and minds; international prize-winning programmes for Radios 1 to 4; countless jingles, signatures and weird subliminal whispers, every week across 35 years. Turning out music for 150 programmes a year, to be half-heard at most twice, and then put away in their own vast, almost unused archive. Worldwide the only institution of its kind: product of its times (a nation happier with the past for once looking to the future): a labour-intensive music factory with a necessarily ephemeral output ranging from hardcore psychodrama to bridge-passages in politically sensitive documentaries, from the alien monster-noises for radio thrillers, all the way to the little songs on Schools TV that help kids remember how to spell.

In a long-ago pulped official history of the first 25 years of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, the fairly legendary Radiophonic Worker Delia Derbyshire tells how she created the Dr Who theme tune with a series of 'carefully timed handswoops' over oscillators - tomorrow's sounds yesterday, unforgettably.

The even more legendary Daphne Oram had created the Workshop - the UK's unobtrusive answer to Stockhausen's Cologne sound-labs and Pierre Schaeffer's concrete studios in Paris - out of little more than hand-swoops and vision, and the backing of the BBC's Drama Department (the Music Department then not remotely interested). Built up by Oram and later Desmond Briscoe, the Workshop's Heroic Phase consisted in the wrestling of sound - for frontline drama, then-startling productions of Beckett, Ionesco, Capek and Cocteau, and of course for science fiction, always greedy for new noises - from laughably primitive equipment: "They basically had, in 1958, 2000, of which they spent 600 on a third octave filter - half of one, in fact, they couldn't afford the whole thing," says Hodgson. "2000, one room, a packet of razor blades and lot of nerve ... There were 12 oscillators turned on and off by pressing keys, tuning each note separately - wobbulators - and an echo device you had to turn on the day before you wanted to use it."

Oram, Derbyshire and Briscoe are long gone, retired or moved on. Hodgson left for a while, exhausted either by the world's inattention (and 11 years of Dr Who), but returned in the late 70s. No less than three of the present six were BBC hands - with expertise in studio management and recording and audio technology - from those wing-and-prayer 60s days: Dick Mills (who joined the Workshop in 1958), Malcolm Clarke (1969), Roger Limb (1972). Peter Howell joined in 1975, Elizabeth Parker in 1978, Richard Attree, the most recent recruit, in 1985. Only Limb, Parker and Attree had previous academic music training.

You can tell an 'engineer' from a 'musician' on paper: their histories give them away. But in practice, all of them are expected to keep abreast of the technology to hand, from the dawn of tape to the computer, and all of them are expected - give or take pet skills - to take on whatever's come up. At the last possible minute, the fine cut - sometimes just a rough cut - arrives, and they sit down and watch it, with a director's possibly unhelpful brief in hand, and think about what they can do to make it more of what it already is, without being noticed. "Heightening the representation without actually telling lies," is Mills's description of one of his jobs.

Mills is in fact a genius with sound effects, tape loops and the rest: his first brush with Radiophonics, Plot On The Moon, was about two scientists (male) going to the moon (one falls for a Moon Maiden and comes back pregnant) - but he's also worked on a Prom performance of the Spanish-English composer Roberto Gerhard's Collages. Clarke blames his A-levels - Physics, Art and Music - for his ending here, where among other things he's provided sound-colour for radio programmes about the work of Picasso, Klee, Dali and others.

Limb plays piano in jazz-bands almost every night: "There's a lot of ignorance," he tells me cheerfully, "even within the BBC. We still get letters from people who expect us to mend Radiophones, go round in white coats with soldering irons." Howell has put as much work into sound search-and-retrieval computer programmes and the Workshop's pioneering computer-studio design as his radio interpretations of Dante's Inferno and the Book of Revelations. Even as a child, Parker's only wish was to write the music for television programmes. Attree, the youngest, the pop kid, sees the avant garde electronic sector they orbit - Planet Darmstadt and satellites - less as over-fiercely 'modern' than simply a bit old, a bit grey: "If I'm doing a Radio 1 piece", he says, "I approach it exactly as if someone had asked me to write a symphony for The BBC Symphony Orchestra."

And Hodgson - the boffin turned administrator - has quietly transformed this backwater department of a supposedly aging and sluggish State Broadcasting monolith into a buoyant, trend-setting unit, with Music and Technology magazines beating a monthly path to its door. My poor little Sony is overwhelmed, and somehow forgets to record two of the seven interviews: Parker and Clarke lose out.