In this series

1. History of the first compact-disc in the USSR — Part 1
2. History of the first compact-disc in the USSR — Part 2

Prev part: Part 1

Back in January 1989, the decision was made to set up compact disc production in the left wing of the main building of MOZG (Melodiya’s Moscow Plant). This section alone was over 2,000 square meters. It was part of a three-story block that housed the repair and mechanical shop, the flexi-disc department, several labs, and more.

Each floor was packed with walls and partitions, but to fit all the necessary equipment, we needed three open halls and reinforced foundations for water- and air-treatment systems, injection molding machines, and mastering equipment. The latter posed a potential issue: vibrations from the nearby metro line. The “Vodny Stadion” station and tunnel were just a few dozen meters away. I reached out to the Kucherenko Central Research Institute of Building Structures (TsNIISK). Their specialists measured vibrations on the first floor and checked the strength of the second and third floors. The Dutch and Swedish engineers said it was safe to install the recording station there, as well as the heavy screen-printing and packaging machines on the second floor—each of which weighed more than two tons.

In Germany and Sweden, I saw a lot of CD plants—almost all of them were in single-story industrial buildings, far from residential areas, which also extended the life of their air filters. Our situation was different. Our air intake faced a busy square that also served as a bus terminal. But at that point, it was pretty clear what our main task was: gut three floors of walls and pour new concrete foundations. With General Director V.V. Sukhorado’s approval, I was assigned to form a crew and get everything done in just two months. Our tools? Sledgehammers, stretchers, and wheelbarrows.

The “shock workers” who made this possible were Vladimir Fedorov, Vladimir Zhigulin, Alexey Koryagin, Grigory Zaks, Vladimir Isakov, Vladimir Mashkov, Yevgeny Volkov, and me. We worked every evening, and on weekends we worked at least 12 hours a day. In hindsight, I think we set the pace for every stage of the project that followed. It was like we were the drummers keeping a steady parade march. I’m very thankful to my “crew-friends” for that. Five of them eventually joined the new production team and became my main support. Vladimir Vladimirovich Fedorov—also known as “The Commissar”—continued to work as the plant’s Chief Mechanic and often helped me even after the line went live. By the evening, our arms and legs were shaking from exhaustion. During the day, I still had to do mental work, but I remember those months fondly.

Björn Reidhaav, the head of ANCLA (more on him later), really wanted to join our crew. He didn’t care about the money; he just wanted to prove himself. He was tall, athletic, and a real “team player.” He was eager to jump in. But the MOZG director, Mr. Mazin, firmly prohibited it: “Are you crazy? What if a wall falls on him?!” If a wall had fallen on one of us, nobody would have cared. We finished the job on time, which made way for the first Russian compact disc.

Left: Björn Reidhaav in the 2000s

Right: NTV filming — Viktor Kuzin on everything CD

When it came to choosing the team that would train and launch the disc production, the selection process was very detailed. At first, the plan was to bring in young specialists “from the outside,” since the existing shop staff had a reputation for not following rules — and, worse, for stealing vinyl records. This kind of culture didn’t fit with the vision for this new, high-tech line.

But then Björn Reidhaav got involved. The president of ANCLA, Mr. Shirsh, had left this Swedish engineer in Moscow as the company’s lead representative. At the time, Björn was forty and had successfully built a team at the CD Plant in Malmö. He had also served for several years as an officer in the Swedish army, which taught him discipline, order, and an instinct for leadership. He was also a skilled psychologist.

At “Melodiya” (like at most Soviet companies), job candidates were usually hired after a short interview and a look at their work history. Hiring based on connections, phone calls, or first impressions was common. It was rare to assess skills or cultural fit. For Björn, that was not okay because of his background. He said that about half the team should be from the factory’s current workers, and the other half should be “sharp minds” — engineers, mostly from the defense industry — who could adapt and bring new skills. His approach was deliberate. It was like a scientist who studies animals putting a stronger animal in a cage with a weaker one, letting them find their balance over time.

At first, we laughed when we saw him rearranging name cards and photos on a big sheet of paper pinned up in his office. During interviews, he’d ask questions we weren’t expecting, like about family, hobbies, sports—things that seemed irrelevant to the job. He filled out his own evaluation tables, sometimes asking me for context. There were so many aspects of Soviet reality that he didn’t understand, and I had to explain them to him. So, I became his informal adviser starting in January 1989, when he first arrived in Moscow and we met at Sheremetyevo. We actually met two weeks earlier in Stockholm. He lived at the Soyuz-2 hotel for about a year and a half, but he’d often fly home to Malmö for a few days at a time to see his family.

Training and Equipment Handover

By May 1989, the team was all set. On May 15, the first five members flew to Munich to train at SICK, where they had ten days to master the quality-control system. The trip was a bit of a surprise—there wasn’t much time to get ready. For me, it was even less; at 3 p.m., Björn and I were still at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs picking up our passports and visas, and that evening our plane took off for Munich. We hadn’t received any foreign currency for expenses, so at the last moment, in the airport, Björn handed me 1,000 Swedish kronor—without explaining the exchange rate. I stashed the note in my boot in case customs wanted to know more.

When we got to the airport in Munich, no one was there to meet us. They didn’t expect the Soviets to show up so quickly. Luckily, we at least knew the name of the hotel. I ended up paying two taxi drivers with that whole note. They were thrilled and thanked me a lot, but later I realized I’d paid three times as much and, even worse, I’d forgotten to take the receipts. I eventually learned that both Soviet accounting and our capitalist hosts demanded expense reports. After that, I saved every receipt, ticket, and bit of paper I could find.

The main group flew via Copenhagen to Malmö, and I joined them later that same day. A total of fifteen people were trained at the plant: four in galvanics, six in the “clean rooms” for molding and lacquering, three in maintenance, one in quality control across all processes, and one translator. After two days of just learning the theory, we went into the clean rooms for some hands-on practice. Everyone else had standard eight-hour shifts, but the maintenance group, which included me, was an exception. The Swedes deliberately “broke” equipment—mechanical failures, electronic faults—and we couldn’t leave the plant until we fixed the problem.

Summer 1989 — Training in Sweden

We stayed in a one-star hotel near the port. Each room was about six square meters, with just enough space for a single bed, a nightstand, a chair, and a wall-mounted wardrobe, along with a 14-inch TV hanging from the ceiling. There was a tiny bathroom too. None of that bothered us; we were just there to sleep at night and grab breakfast in the morning.

The “Swedish” buffet matched the hotel’s modest rating: cheese, cold cuts, toast, and one type each of fruit and vegetables. We made up for the lack of variety with more quantity. The cafeteria staff was stunned at first, but they were able to manage replacing the trays during those first few days. After a couple of mornings, though, they learned to sound the alarm when our group walked in.

Lunch was provided at the plant, but dinner was everyone’s own problem. Our per diem was 134 kronor (about $18 USD). For the Swedes, that was nothing; for us, it was a huge amount. Of course, no one spent it on food. Some of us lived off the canned goods and crackers we brought from Moscow, while others tried to sneak something extra from breakfast.

We spent our evenings roaming Malmö, gazing at shop windows, and calculating what we could afford to buy. If you remember 1989 in the USSR, you know what I’m talking about. People fought over soup bones, scrawny frozen chickens, and pretty much anything else that could be eaten. Most of us had families—a lot of us had young kids. My daughter was born that April, and my son was eleven. I wanted to do something that would surprise and delight them. And, of course, the three women in our group were eager to buy something beautiful for themselves.

At the end of training, we all passed the exams and received certificates from CD Plant confirming our internships. Then a smaller group of us moved on to Stockholm, to the TOOLEX factory, where we got trained on and accepted the galvanics and molding equipment built specifically for our plant.

Around the same time, Global Machinery shipped in the UV-lacquering units from Japan, along with two Japanese engineers. They were supposed to train just two of our operators, but Björn added me to the group. He said these machines had never been used in Europe before. The Swedes and the Germans didn’t have any experience with them. It was a mystery why Mr. Shirsh had chosen them. Björn joked that it was probably because they’d offered a steep discount to get their machines into the European market, especially into a brand-new plant in the USSR.

To help TOOLEX engineers get up to speed with the new equipment, they also assigned Tony Grimaldi, the company president’s son, to our team. I didn’t stress too much about the molding machines, though. The MD100 model was one of the best CD presses out there, and with the TOOLEX office now based at MOZ “Gramzapis,” we had a direct line for consultations and near-instant spare parts deliveries.

For the first production tests, we made 15,000 trial discs: five runs of 3,000 each (one run for each molding machine). They were molded, metalized (we didn’t do this ourselves—we sent them to Germany a month later because our machines weren’t ready), coated with UV lacquer, and then sent to Germany for label printing.

Here are a few things to know about the other three groups training in Germany and the Netherlands. I can’t really comment on the mastering team since I never trained there myself. That group of four was made up of bright, young specialists who, during installation and later operations, mostly kept to themselves. They didn’t need supervision, and they still delivered excellent results. I didn’t interfere. Their section was pretty much off-limits; I rarely went in, and I don’t think the director or chief engineer ever went in at all. The group that trained on the metallization machines did well, too. That trip was straightforward for me.

Training and setting up the three-color Kammann screen-printing machine for label production didn’t go as smoothly as we’d hoped. It became pretty clear once regular production kicked in that we’d overlooked a few things. To be fair, Björn misjudged that team, and I didn’t spot the weak link myself. Even now, I still feel a bit embarrassed. As “captain of the ship,” I was responsible for the quality of the final product, and our labels just weren’t up to par.

The limitations were pretty clear. The machine couldn’t produce full-color images that were up to par, so our designs were pretty basic and lacked variety. The repro center delivered the finished films to us, but we noticed that the labels weren’t vibrant or sharp enough. This became an issue when we started pressing jazz, pop, and folk titles. The fonts were pretty plain, and the print quality wasn’t great. We needed to try out different screens and techniques, but that team either didn’t have the skill or the motivation to do it.

And it’s not like they didn’t have the time. While the replication line ran two full shifts, the printing machine—with its high output—operated only three to four hours a day. There was room to experiment, but no interest in doing so.

By July, our team was still in training, but specialists from the German company Krantz, led by Johan Rath, had started installing the clean rooms on the first and second floors, along with the air and water treatment systems on the third. Our people weren’t involved in the installation itself, but we learned to operate and maintain the systems side by side with Johan.

Johan was the perfect example of German precision and punctuality. He was all about following the rules and staying precise—more important than any religion, even. He was strict and unyielding, but with me he was always fair and even friendly.

There were always visitors and members of the press around. We’d take them to the viewing windows of the clean rooms, where they could watch operators in astronaut-like suits lifting disc spindles, or see robotic arms delicately moving discs to the metallization or lacquering stations. Sometimes we’d even show off the airlock. I’ve personally done dozens of these tours.

But the real heart of the operation wasn’t the robots or the molding machines—it was the air and water purification systems. You wouldn’t be able to maintain laminar flow over the equipment without ultra-clean air. And without purified water, you couldn’t make the master discs or stampers. All that critical infrastructure—700 square meters’ worth of ducts, filters, tanks, and reservoirs—was managed by just three people, led by Vladimir Isakov.

I’ll never forget one thing that happened during the prep phase. To figure out what kind of filters and chemicals we’d need to purify Moscow tap water, we had to send samples to Germany for analysis. But even exporting ten liters of water required official explanations and clearance from the KGB, and we didn’t have time for that bureaucratic dance. So we snuck out one or two bottles at a time in our luggage.

When the results came back, the Swedes and Johan immediately started buying bottled water from the hard-currency “Beryozka” (The Birch) stores for their coffee and tea. We just shook our heads—spending foreign currency on water seemed absurd to us. We were sure that Moscow tap water was perfectly fine and tasted good. In regular shops, the idea of bottled water wasn’t even a thing—apart from mineral water in glass bottles. And, of course, home water filters were unheard of back then.

Installation and Preparation for Replication

By September, the whole team was on board with the installation process. We were mostly there to help out and watch, but we were also taking it all in. The service team got some great toolkits, which was a real treat back then. Even by today’s standards, they’d look impressive. Back then, everyone on the plant floor was green with envy. I eventually handed mine over to the new service engineer, though it was tough to part with it.

The installation went smoothly, even a bit ahead of schedule, with hardly any problems or mistakes. But, as always, there was at least one surprise. The main machines were lifted to the second floor by crane through an opening that had been cut into the wall. I have no idea who calculated the size of that opening, but every piece of equipment fit through with room to spare—except for the printing press.

They tried to move it a few times, but it didn’t work. The crane was putting on a lot of pressure, and there was a real risk of it falling over. The foreign engineers immediately started taking pictures, eager to document the incident—no doubt to show later that it hadn’t been their fault. Vladimir Fedorov, the plant’s Chief Mechanic, took charge at that moment. He waved me upstairs to help receive the machine, and with surgical precision, he guided it through the narrow gap. We grabbed the cables from inside and hauled it in. Both Björn and Johan kept saying, “Crazy!” and “Fantastisch!” for days afterward.

While the installation was going on, we also started testing the production systems. By December 1989, all the big work was finished. Sukhorado, the General Director of Melodiya, called me in and asked, “Can we release a few titles before the end of December?” It’s pretty clear he was looking for something to report—or maybe even hand out as New Year’s gifts. I said yes, especially since the foreign engineers would be leaving soon for their Christmas holidays, and I wanted to give them a reason to celebrate, too.

So, in the first days of December 1989, we mounted four sets of stampers for four titles that headquarters had selected. From the repro center, we got color-separated films for the print shop to make the booklets and inlays. There weren’t any computers at the plant — well, there was one in the secretary’s office, but it was more for show. So, from that day on, a long paper chart appeared on my office wall—a giant timeline showing every step of every order: mastering, replication, printing, packaging, and so on. In hindsight, it seems a bit old-fashioned, but back then, almost every plant, shop, and workshop in the USSR used the same method.

That chart was like our workday calendar for the next year and a half. After a year of nonstop pressure—deadlines, stress, good days and bad days—that daily grind became one of the reasons I eventually left the plant and Melodiya after thirteen fascinating years. The other reason was piracy. But that’s a story that can’t be told in a few words.

The First Soviet Compact Disc

Those early test discs—five runs of 3,000 each—don’t really count as “Russian.” They were produced in June and July of 1989 in Sweden and Germany on equipment that Melodiya hadn’t even officially accepted yet. Their markings and design were different from the standardized catalog layout we adopted later.

Then, the management office, the repro center, and the editorial team caused a bit of chaos. The catalog number SUCD 10-00001 was used for the release of Tchaikovsky’s Suite, while the bold inscription “THE FIRST RUSSIAN COMPACT DISC” appeared instead on the booklet of SUCD 10-00007: Stikhiry (Ivan the Terrible, Rodion Shchedrin).

The truth is, neither of those titles was pressed first in December 1989. The first stampers we installed were for SUCD 10-00012: Rachmaninoff’s Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom and SUCD 10-00003: Mozart’s Symphony No. 28.

But the question of the “firstborn” was settled in a different way. We teamed up with the Swedish team to design a special disc and inlay with church domes and stars on a red background. The inlay had a blank space where everyone on the production crew—plus our colleagues from Sweden and Germany—could sign their names. For the content, we used a Swedish stamper with a track by Roxette, who were super popular at the time. The Swedes took the original matrix signature off carefully, and Björn was rightfully proud of the idea and how we did it. The disc and the inlay both have the same inscription: “THE FIRST RUSSIAN COMPACT DISC.”

The design—church domes and stars on a red background—was created together with the Swedish team, based on an idea by Björn Reidhaav. On the inlay, under the phrase “We made it,” each member of the production team signed their name, along with the Swedish and German colleagues who worked with us on the project’s final stage.

We gave out every copy of that disc as a keepsake to the staff and management. The Swedes took around a hundred, and a little over 200 discs were produced in total. Some publications—and even a note I once wrote for rarity.ru—list the number as 180, but that’s just the count for one production spindle. The truth is, you always need to make more to account for rejects during metallization, inspection, and screen-printing. The true total was somewhere between 200 and 220 copies.

At an informal get-together, Björn Reidhaav, Yevgeny Kichapin, Volodya Zhigulin, Vladimir Mashkov, and I decided that this commemorative edition was the first real Russian CD, and December 10, 1989 was its “birthday.” Up until that day, the foreign specialists were still in the clean rooms helping us out; from December 10 onward, we were on our own. It’d be ridiculous to call that disc “pirated” since it wasn’t sold and there were only a few copies. It’s more of a memento.

To make matters even more confusing, Melodiya’s management managed to muddle the “official” launch date of the plant. By December and into February, newspapers were already writing stories about compact disc production in the USSR. But the Ministry of Culture and Melodiya’s executives held a ceremony to “open” it in March 1990.

By that time, they’d already pressed tens of thousands of discs—across more than thirty titles—and they were on sale. We were working as usual that day, but the bureaucrats still did their ribbon-cutting ceremony. Television didn’t even show up, and no one remembers the exact date.

The first part of CD production in the USSR.

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© 2015, Viktor Yevgenyevich Kuzin

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In this series

1. History of the first compact-disc in the USSR — Part 1
2. History of the first compact-disc in the USSR — Part 2

Prev part: Part 1