Posted on November 15, 2024

Studio Go! 1994-1996

My “big break” in comics came in the summer of 1989 with both original and adapted stories. Five years later, I had a pretty good list of anime-related titles on my resume: Lensman, Emeraldas, Captain Harlock, Robotech, and Project A-ko had all cycled through my hands. By the time I walked out of Malibu Comics in the summer of ’94, I’d drawn well over 100 individual comics and contributed to many more. I had chops. It was time to level up.

From the time when I was a kid living on a farm in western Michigan, I fondly dreamed of having a team around me to make comics with. I got a taste of that in different ways, ultimately by joining the staff of Malibu and running the art department. But that still didn’t quite scratch the itch. I wanted to be part of a team that would do everything from start to finish rather than just one phase or another. Studio Go! finally brought that dream to reality.

Three vital elements had to come together from different directions over several years to make it feasible. The desktop publishing revolution was the first and most important, since it brought the mechanical means of comic book production (especially coloring) into reach. The other two were teammates and clients. I’ll start with the teammates.

Back in the 80s when I entered anime fandom, I networked with others across the country for tape trading and research. The most effective way to do that in the pre-social media world was through club newsletters, fanzines, and APAs. It was the APA (Amateur Press Activity) that offered the best signal to noise ratio. They were message boards on paper, a giant group conversation that arrived in your mailbox 4-6 times a year. The first one I joined was called APA Hasshin, populated by general anime fans. When one of the members split off to form his own with a focus on writing and drawing, that seemed like a better place to be.

I signed up right away and suggested a title that stuck: Animanga. It started in 1985 and went all the way through the birth of my comics career in ’89 and my TV animation career in ’96. I hit it off with several members of the group and even collaborated with some; when Lensman and BROID needed inkers, they came from the ranks of Animanga.

I also hit it off with two members named Bruce Lewis and John Ott, who liked a lot of the same things I liked. Eventually, I got Malibu to hire Bruce as a staff member (in the graphics department), and John was my family’s first friend on the ground when we moved to L.A. in December ’92. The three of us had many shared interests and our families spent time together. When the moment arrived, we were ready to become business partners.

The third element we needed was the clients. We had the means to make comics, but who would we make them for?

Client #1 was already an associate of mine from before I got to L.A. His name was John O’Donnell, and he was the head of Central Park Media, one of the premiere anime import companies of the 90s. In early 1992, I reached out to them about creating some cross promotion for my Cybersuit Arkadyne comic book series. That didn’t really go anywhere, but the more I talked with them about the business of comics and anime, the more they thought I could help them. They needed someone who was anime-literate and knew how to pitch things, so in short order I was writing text for VHS boxes and helping punch up translation scripts.

That same year, I threw my hat into the effort to create a Project A-ko comic book series licensed by Central Park Media. This led to me actually working on A-ko from inside Malibu. When I got outside Malibu, John O’Donnell was ready to work with me some more.

Client #2 emerged during my time at Malibu. On an otherwise average day, I was called over to visit the guy in charge of licensing. He handed me a letter he’d gotten from a company called Voyager Entertainment, based in New Jersey. In this letter, they introduced themselves as the English-language rights holder for a famous anime series. The licensing guy didn’t know much about it and wanted to get my input. I stared at the title on the letter. My mouth hung open as my eyes locked on those letters.

Star Blazers.

Holy freakin’ moly. Star Blazers was knocking on the door.

I told him absolutely YES Malibu should pick this up, and Bruce and I would draw it. When I told Bruce afterward, he practically hit the ceiling. This was our reward for putting up with all the stupidity. Our dream project had literally been delivered to our doorstep. But Malibu was too preoccupied with their super hero thing to listen to us, so they passed.

At that moment I realized I wanted to draw Star Blazers far more than I wanted to work for Malibu. And we didn’t have to let it slip through our fingers. Between Bruce, John, and I, we could produce the comic FOR Voyager Entertainment. They could become their own publisher. We could do the same thing for John O’Donnell. We could actually go into business for ourselves making anime-based comics.

I wrote to the Voyager CEO, Barry Winston, and made him that very offer. Intrigued, he flew out to L.A. to meet us and make the deal. John O’Donnell was on board, too. They were both based in the New York zone and were both in the same business, and they were aware of each other. They didn’t know at first that they had both become our clients, but when they found out it actually worked in our favor. Barry complimented us on our confidentiality and we gained an extra level of respect. So that was lucky.

My home office (electronic section) in 1994

Setting up our internal business agreement and home studios was a whirlwind of decisions and education, some of it handled by our very capable wives. We upgraded our home computers to the latest Power Macs (with peripherals) and each got a FAX machine (1994, remember?). I started my Photoshop education with version 3, which turned me into a PS user for life. We all lived in Los Angeles within half an hour of each other, so in-person meetups were frequent. John had a house, but Bruce and I were renters.

We had to decide early on who was going to do what. Bruce and I both had the most experience actually writing and drawing, so we would take the lead positions. John’s expertise was in printing, which made him our technical guru and finisher. He would handle lettering, coloring, and “prepress,” the process of getting all the materials ready for a printer. Each of us brought our respective skillsets to the table (with significant overlap) and together we had 100% of what we needed to function as a full-service packaging company.

Our booth at the 1995 Wonder Con (I think)

I’m making it sound easy, but really the easy part ended right there. Actual production was a rollercoaster ride at any given moment. Budgets were as slim as they could possibly be. We had to keep to a very tight schedule in order to get paid when we needed to. There was more than one occasion when paying the rent relied on getting a check on time. Last-minute Fedex shipments were frequent. The work was relentless and there were more close calls than I care to remember. But the dream had come true. This was the ship I wanted to be on.

Studio Go! was in business for a little over two years, during which time we produced no less than 40 comic books for our dual clients. Right now you might be asking, if it all went so well, why did it stop? The simple answer is that a massive industry upheaval made it stop. Something no one saw coming. Over the next few installments, I’ll cover each of our projects in production order (except Gall Force, since that was a Bruce/John joint) and when the upheaval strikes its blow, I’ll cover that too.

See ya next round!