Meet Alexander Wright | Mastering Engineer

We had the good fortune of connecting with Alexander Wright and we’ve shared our conversation below.
Hi Alexander, we’d love for you to start things off by telling us something about your industry that we and others not in the industry might be unaware of?
One thing most people don’t realize about mastering is how much of it has nothing to do with plugins, meters, or volume. At its core, mastering is about perspective. It’s the only part of the process where you’re not deep in the emotional weeds of writing or mixing, but you’re still responsible for how the finished piece feels when it reaches someone else’s ears. That’s a fine line to thread.
I there’s a myth that mastering is just about loudness or polish. But most of the time, I’m doing less than people think, just with more intention. The job isn’t to show off what I can do. It’s to make the artist’s vision hold up everywhere—on headphones, in cars, on playlists—without losing the soul of what they made. Sometimes that means a full rebuild of tone and dynamics. Other times, it means doing almost nothing except knowing when to stop.
A lot of what shaped my approach came from lived experience. I’ve dealt with anxiety and obsessive thinking my whole life, and mastering happily gave me a place to channel that energy in a healthy way. It’s a role that rewards focus, patience, nuance. I built my own philosophy around that—something I call The Wright Balance Method. It’s less about techniques and more about values: emotional fidelity, translation without compromise, and knowing when to step out of the way.
What people miss is that mastering isn’t just a technical step. It’s a creative responsibility. You’re the last person who touches the song before it’s shared. You have to be careful with that. You have to care as though each song were your own.
Alright, so let’s move onto what keeps you busy professionally?
I never set out to be a businessman. I was a musician with obsessive ears; a kid who found clarity in frequencies and textures when the rest of life felt pretty chaotic. But turning that into a viable career took a different skill set entirely. One I had to build from scratch.
When I first started mastering, I thought the work would speak for itself. I poured everything into improving my craft: learning from mentors, studying reference tracks, developing a process that balanced intuition with precision. What I didn’t realize was that none of it would matter if no one knew I existed. That’s when I had to shift gears and learn how to run a business.
Learning to be an entrepreneur was like learning a second language. Marketing, client communication, pricing, branding, web design, SEO—none of it came naturally. I had to figure out how to talk about what I do in a way people could connect with. I had to build systems that made it easy for artists to trust me with their work. And I had to do all of it without losing the heart of why I started in the first place.
What sets my work apart, I think, is the level of care and personality I bring to it. I designed my logo with my dad. I don’t run a high-volume studio with assistants or a receptionist. I’m not chasing major labels or viral moments. I work closely with independent artists, mixers, and producers who want the final 5% of their music handled by someone who truly values it. I developed my own philosophy (The Wright Balance Method) to describe how I approach this work: emotional fidelity, clear translation across playback systems, and restraint over ego. I’ve mastered over 1,600 releases now, and I still treat each one as its own unique world.
It hasn’t been easy. I’ve worked through burnout, depression, imposter syndrome, economic downturns, inflation—plus the constant anxiety that comes with freelance life. I built this business while supporting my wife through chronic illness, while living far from home, and while managing my own mental health. But I’m proud of what I’ve built. Not just because it’s successful, but because it’s real. It reflects who I am, and I think that matters.
What I want people to know is this: mastering isn’t just the final step in a song’s journey, it’s our last chance to do right by the music. Ideally, it should be done once, and done right. My job is to make sure that when an artist lets go of their work, it sounds like it was always meant to sound. That’s not something I take lightly. And I’m not unaware of how lucky I am to do what I love. It’s the privilege of my life.
Let’s say your best friend was visiting the area and you wanted to show them the best time ever. Where would you take them? Give us a little itinerary – say it was a week long trip, where would you eat, drink, visit, hang out, etc.
Alright, let’s say I’m with a friend in LA and we’ve got a full week to do it right. I’m not an LA native, but I’ve spent enough time in the city to know it’s a place of contrasts—grit and beauty, chaos and calm, sunshine and existential dread. So I’d try to balance it.
I’d keep it pretty relaxed. We’d hit Amoeba Records, maybe catch a show at The Echo or Hollywood Forever. One day would be all about the coast, taking a drive out to El Matador so you can pretend you’re in a film. Then cruise Mulholland at night, like something out of a David Lynch dream sequence—surreal, quiet, slightly unreal.
Tacos from a truck, for sure. Maybe a studio tour if they’re into that (EastWest or Sunset Sound if we’re feeling reverent). And late-night food at Barney’s Beanery, where Jim Morrison used to haunt the booths and got kicked out for being too much himself.
At some point, we’re getting in a good car, rolling the windows down, and driving around to L.A. Woman, Californication, The Chronic—one of those records that just feels like the city itself. That’s how I first got to know and love LA.
Shoutout is all about shouting out others who you feel deserve additional recognition and exposure. Who would you like to shoutout?
There’s no way I could name just one person, but if I had to trace this career path back to its roots, it would start with my wife, Maya. Her love and belief in me have been the constant through every phase of this journey. She’s lived through health challenges most people can’t imagine and still carries herself with more strength and grace than I thought possible. Being alongside her has shaped how I work, how I listen, and how I care.
I also owe a great deal to my parents, who I love dearly and who never pressured me to follow a conventional route, even when I dropped out of school, was struggling, or chasing a dream that didn’t make much sense on paper. It probably seemed unlikely for a deeply withdrawn, anxious, bald, Australian guy at 23. But their love and their teaching gave me the space to build something real and genuine in my own time—and to develop an understanding of myself, which I think is one of the most important things you can do in life.
Professionally, I’ve been incredibly lucky to learn from brilliant mentors, especially at Berklee. Jonathan Wyner’s perspective helped me understand that mastering isn’t just technical, it’s interpretive. He’s the one who lit the spark for this particular field, and it’s been burning brightly ever since I left college. I’m very grateful.
And finally, I honestly owe my life to books, records, and late-night walks. During the ups and downs, they were my anchors. When everything felt uncertain, they reminded me that meaning doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. Most of the time, it’s built slowly, through quiet effort, deep care, and the simple work of doing your best.
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