Here are some of the most beautiful recorded musical sounds that I have
heard in the past few weeks: the matched horns and clarinet, very soft,
in Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo,” recorded in 1950; Buddy Holly, in his
just-hatched-this-morning voice, singing “Everyday,” recorded in 1957;
the London Symphony Orchestra in full cry under André Previn, playing
Shostakovich’s tragic wartime Symphony No. 8, recorded in 1973; and
Willie Watson’s rich-sounding guitar, accompanying him singing “Samson
and Delilah,” recorded last year.
The source of all these sounds was a
vinyl long-playing record.
I tried to quit.
That is, I listened to my O.K.
Hundr of hours of music were
inscribed there: Wagner’s “Parsifal” and John Coltrane’s “Blue Train”
and the Beatles’ “Rubber Soul”—soul music, indeed! The glories of
Western music, if you want to be grand about it, were at my fingertips,
and I was mostly content. For years, I relinquished the enthralling,
debilitating, purse-emptying habit of high-end audio, that feverish
discontent, that adolescent ecstatic longing for more—a better record
player, speakers with more bottom weight, a CD player that completely
filtered out such digital artifacts as ringing tones, brittleness, and
Most people listen to music in the way that’s convenient for them; they
ignore the high-end stuff, if they’ve even heard of it, as an expensive
fetish. But audiophiles are restless; they always have some
sort of dream system in their heads.
They are ready, if they can afford
it, to swap, trade, buy. It’s not enough, for some listeners, to have
a good turntable, CD player, streaming box, pre-amplifier, amplifier,
phono stage, speakers, and top-shelf wires connecting them all together.
No, they also need a power conditioner—to purify the A.C.
Does it matter, each separate thing? The cables, too? Is it all
nonsense? The debates rage on, for those who are interested.
We audiophiles want timbal accuracy.
We want the complex strands of an
orchestral piece disentangled, voice recordings that reveal chest tones
and a clear top, pianos that sound neither tinkly nor dull, with the
decay of each note sustained (not cut off, as it is in most digital
recordings). We want all that, yet the sound of live music is ineffable.
The goal can never be reached. The quest itself is the point.
Recently, I have been slowly but steadily drawn back in. In my heart, I
have lusted after metal and glass boxes; I have gone to audio shows in
New York and Las Vegas—those strange affairs, both depressing and
elating, in which manufacturers and local retailers take over
emptied-out hotel rooms (carpets are necessary; much better for the
sound) and set up their equipment in front of curtained windows.
Technical information flies around the room, some of
Man, that was good. The fellows who set
up the room—Jeff Sigmund, of Luxman, and Jason Tavares, of Adirondack
Audio and Video—promised to re-create the same system a few weeks later
at Adirondack’s salon on East Fifty-seventh Street for a more sustained
There’s recorded music all over the place. How, and where, does high-end
audio fit in? YouTube, for instance, is filled with great music, some of
which sounds decent enough with the right headphones (Sennheiser makes
good ones, like the HD 1, starting at two hundred and fifty dollars).
There’s every variety of pop and jazz on YouTube, much of it drawn from
live performances. In classical, there are such things as the late
Claudio Abbado’s videotaped final concerts with his
handpicked Lucerne Festival Orchestra, including most of the Mahler
symphonies; restored Toscanini Beethoven from 1939 (audio
only), unresonant but crackling with energy; and Furtwangler’s deep-toned, spiritually enthralling Beethoven and Brahms with the Berlin
Philharmonic, from the late forties and early fifties.
You could compare
performing styles on YouTube—matching, say, Karl Richter’s version of the Bach Mass
in B-Minor, from 1961, with the Munich Bach Orchestra and Choir (grave,
eloquent, moderately paced) and John Eliot Gardiner’s period-instrument performance, which employs
a smaller orchestra and drilled chorus (clear textures, dance-like
rhythms, gleaming bright sound), from 2015.
And then there are thousands of tracks available for streaming from
Apple Music, Spotify, and Pandora; or, if it’s classical you want, from
Classical Archives, with its innumerable recordings of, say, Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring,” including versions conducted by Boulez,
Doráti, Haitink, and many other conductors.
Yet there’s a serious
problem with most of the streaming services: the sound is no more than
adequate (exceptions to follow). And therein lies a tale—a tale, from
the high-end audiophile’s point of view, of commercial opportunism,betrayal, and, well, audiophile-led redemption.
A little potted audio
history is now in order.
The first betrayal: in the sixties, Japanese solid-state equipment
(Sony, Panasonic, Yamaha, etc.
) emerged as a low-cost mass-market
phenomenon, driving American quality audio, which had made analog,
vacuum-tube equipment, deep underground. The big American names (like
Marantz and McIntosh) stayed quietly in business while a variety of
engineers and entrepreneurs who loved music started small companies in
garages and toolsh.
It was (and is) a story of romantic
capitalism—entrepreneurship at its most creative. Skip forward twenty
years, to the second betrayal: in 1982, digital sound and the compact
disk were proclaimed by publicists and a gullible press as “perfect
” But any music lover could have told you that early
digital was often dreadful—hard, congealed, harsh, even razory, the
strings sounding like plastic, the trumpets like sharp instruments going
under your scalp. The early transfer of “Rubber Soul,” just to take one
example, was unlistenable.
The small but flourishing high-end industry responded to digital in
three different ways: it produced blistering critiques of digital sound
in the musically and technically literate audiophile magazines The
Absolute Sound and Stereophile; it developed CD players that worked
to filter out some of the digital artifacts; and it produced dozens of
turntables, in every price range, which kept good sound and the
long-playing record alive. Years ago, many refused to believe in the LP,
but, really, anyone with a decent setup could have proved this to you: a
well-recorded LP was warmer, more natural, more musical than a compact
The recording industry woke up, as well: Sony and Phillips, which had
developed the compact disc together, released, in 1999, a technology
Remember them? Some six thousand titles were
produced, and the sound was definitely better than that of a standard
CD. But the Super Audio CD was swamped by another marketing
phenomenon—the creation of the iPod and similar devices, in 2001, which
made vast libraries of music portable.
So much for S.A.
that I wasn’t hearing anything like the best.
Which brings us to betrayal No.
3: music was streamed to iPods and
laptops by squeezing data so that it would fit through the Internet
pipes—the sound, in the jargon, was “lossy.” And that’s the sound—MP3
sound—that a generation of young people grew up with.
The essentials of
any kind of music came through, but nuance, the subtleties of shading
and color, got slighted or lost. High-end types, both manufacturers and
retailers, still lament this development with rage and tears.
Availability was everything for the iPod generation. Well, yes, of
course, says the high end, availability is a great boon.
Except for the few who did.
A growing corpus of young music lovers have,
in recent years, become attached to vinyl—demanding vinyl from their
favorite groups as they issue new albums, flocking to new vinyl stores.
For some, it may be about the sound.
Or maybe it’s about backing away from
corporate culture and salesmanship. Vinyl offers the joys of
possessorship: if you go to a store, talk to other music lovers, and
buy a record, you are committing to your taste, to your favorite group,
to your friends.
In New York, the independent-music scene, and the kinds
of loyalties it creates, are central to vinyl. In any case, the young
people buying vinyl have joined up with two sets of people who never
really gave up on it: the scratchmaster d.
The audiophile reissue market has come
blazingly to life: at such enlightened warehouses as Acoustic Sounds,
MusicDirect, and Elusive Disc, you can buy thick LP reissues of albums,
at twenty-five to thirty-five dollars apiece, of jazz (Sonny Rollins),
classical (Fritz Reiner conducting “Scheherazade”), folk (Muddy
Waters), and pop (“Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” remastered).
A decent “high performance” turntable by VPI or Rega starts at about
eight hundred and fifty dollars.
For twenty-two hundred dollars, you can
get the excellent VPI Prime Scout. For four thousand dollars, the superb
VPI Prime (cartridge extra), with its full-bodied sound.
You can also
get something called the TechDAS Air Force One, made in Japan, which
weighs a hundred and seventy-four pounds and uses a vacuum pump to clamp
the record to the platter. It costs a hundred and five thousand dollars.
I have not heard it. Those who have, including Michael Fremer,
Stereophile’s expert in all things analog, say that it is … very good.
There’s still another way of getting decent sound: listening to music
through headphones, which makes sense in small city apartments or with
warring partners, each preferring his or her own music. Headphones are selling
like crazy at the moment; they’ve become the center of consumer
cults—Web sites and conversation threads bristle with partisans of one
model or another.
Some of the really expensive ones, like the HIFIMAN X
V2 ($1,299) or the Audeze LCD-3 ($1,945—you read me right), sound amazing but are so elaborately constructed for the reproduction of sound that
they put a strain on your neck muscles.
). The simplest
version of this choice is AudioQuest’s Dragonfly Red ($198), which is
no bigger than a thumb drive.
You plug it into your computer or
smartphone, follow the setup instructions, attach your headphones to the
back end, and then play whatever you want. The Dragonfly’s sophisticated
replaces the inadequate D.A.
C. in your computer, and the sound
of your files becomes better.
For more power and greater use, try the
extraordinarily versatile Mytek Brooklyn ($1,995), which combines, in a
single small box, a pre-amp, a phono stage, a headphone amp, and a
I have mixed feelings about listening on headphones.
The goal of
high-end audio is to reproduce the sound of music in the recording
space—a space that you try to re-create in your living room, or study,
or wherever; in any case, in a room with four walls and floor and
furnishings. The system reveals that the winds are there, the brass
there, the bass there, and your room, providing shelter and
resonance, makes music, too.
But headphone listening is an interior
drama, in which mental space replaces physical space, and energy makes a
direct impression on your eardrums—the sound is sometimes overwhelming,
but not as spatially convincing. For me it’s a resource, not a solution.
In my wanderings, I encountered some products by the French company
Devialet, which has caused a mini-sensation recently, with its
extraordinarily chic-looking amplifiers—flat, square boxes, no more than
an inch high, with a top of gleaming brushed steel. You control the
equipment with a square remote that has a large volume knob and four
I have not heard the amplifiers, but the equipment has
been praised by reliable people for the purity of its sound. What I did
hear, in a small, glass-enclosed showroom in the middle of the
Time-Warner Center, were Devialet’s Gold Phantom powered speakers
($2,990), which look like a futuristic white football helmet extended
at the rear.
Frank Sinatra’s voice in “Come Fly with Me” sounded O.K.
, but the
plucked bass notes in the accompaniment spread all over the room,
leading me to believe that the Phantoms could not be a high-end speaker.
The Devialet amplifiers are serious, but the Phantoms are a “life style”
product, which, in the snobbish lexicon of high end, cannot be construed
as a compliment.
Where was greatness? I visited the venerable Lyric HiFi, at
Eighty-second and Lexington, and heard a much better presentation of
voice—the soulful jazz singer Johnny Hartman singing “For All We Know”
from his 1981 album, “Once in Every Life.” Hartman’s voice has an
enormous range—from a growl to an easy, free-floating top, all produced at
moderate volume (he’s the opposite of a belter)—and the system set up at
Lyric matched Hartman’s voice in suavity.
The electronics were by the
ace Canadian solid-state company Simaudio—the product line’s full title
is Moon by Simaudio. (One of the charms of the high end is the poetic
oddity of the names—for example, the excellent DeVore Fidelity Orangutan
) We listened to the Moon 340i integrated amplifier, with
its built-in phono stage and D.A.
The turntable was the
Rega RP8 ($2,995), with the Denon DL-103 cartridge); the CD player was
also by Moon (260 CD, $3,000), and the speakers were the marvellous
Wilson Sabrina ($14,999 a pair)—a much-loved floor-standing design,
about two years old, not too big (thirty-eight inches high), and velvety
The setup’s total cost is about thirty thousand dollars, and one of its
virtues, as Lyric says, is that it was “a New York system”—meaning that
the Moon integrated amp, replacing separate boxes, is compact, and well
suited for apartments.
What I heard was a flow of coherent and beautiful
sound, from top to bottom. The “March to the Scaffold” movement from
Berlioz’s “Symphonie Fantastique,” at its tremendous climax, had weight
and depth, but it wasn’t assaultive or hi-fi-ish in the derogatory
sense; it was music—a big orchestra (the Cincinnati Symphony) in a big
In general, I am suspicious of big systems, with their multiple amps,
their cobra-size cables. They can be cranky and unstable, and they
require too much work to maintain—not to mention a house in the country,
where you can play them at sufficient volume to show off what they can
Yet the big system I heard at Innovative Audio, in its elegant
underground labyrinth at 150 East Fifty-eighth Street, seemed rock
steady, and it sounded great.
The records were played on a Linn Sondek LP12, the original version of
which was created some forty years ago, in Scotland.
An engineer named
Ivor Tiefenbrun licked the technology’s basic problems (speed stability,
freedom from cross signals) and ended the delusion that all turntables sounded alike. It was one of the foundational moments of high end.
Tiefenbrun’s wake, dozens of manufacturers brought out their own
designs. The Linn, many times updated and supported with add-ons, costs
about ten thousand dollars, including a cartridge, in the version I
heard; it was joined as a source by the Linn Uphoric phono stage
($2,990), and then by top-of-the-line Spectral electronics—the Spectral
SDR4000 SV CD Player ($20,000) and the DMC-30 pre-amp ($14,000) and
DMA-400 monoblocks (one amplifier for each channel, at $30,000 a pair),
all of this fed through Spectral/MIT audio cables ($12,000) into the
Avalon Acoustic’s Compás ($37,000) loudspeakers, a bulky floor-standing
model that slopes back at the top in an abruptly beautiful architectural
motif reminiscent of Aztec pyramids.
The price of all this landed
somewhere north of a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.
Spectral is a forty-year-old solid-state company based in Northern
California, and its basic designs were created by the recording engineer
Johnson, whose over-all goal was to produce an abundance of
musical information without exhausting the listener with etched detail.
In the Innovative setup, the orchestral music appeared as a field of
sound, the disentangled strands of violins, winds, and brass precisely
arrayed in space; Keith Jarrett’s piano (in his “Still Live” LP) appears
in lovely dialogue with Jack DeJohnette’s drums and Gary Peacock’s
bass, the sprung notes defined and singing, not spread out and spongy.
In good orchestral recordings, the strings had a touch of feather, the
woodwinds were chunky and easily distinguishable one from another, the
brass soul-stirring. I had landed in a good place.
formerly embedded in S.A.
s can now be sent through the Internet (by
Acoustic Sounds, Tidal, and other services) to a music server equipped
to receive them—with the Mytek Brooklyn, for instance, or with the
deluxe Aurender A10 ($5,500). You can’t, at the moment, listen to
high-res on your iPhone, but help may be on the way, for there’s still
another, recently developed high-resolution digital format that has
possibly revolutionary consequences.
It’s called MQA, which stands for
Master Quality Authenticated. The engineers go back to the master tapes
of a given recording and recode the information digitally in a new way:
the information is compressed (as with MP3s) to get it through the
Internet, but then magically reopened, like a field of flowers after
rain, by a server at the receiving end.
B. and soul, Latin, and everything else, including (surprise) Beyoncé.
At Sound by Singer, at 242 East Twenty-seventh Street, I heard a
relatively modest system ($22,000) delivering the goods by MQA and
other streaming formats, controlled by an iPad and running through the
Aurender A10 and the (Italian) Norma Revo 140 IPA Integrated amp
($8,000), and ending with a hearty and fatigue-free pair of speakers,
the Endeavor E-3 MkII ($8,000), which are the best-sounding speakers
I’ve heard in that price range.
But all of this is possibly just the
beginning of the MQA bounty. The major record labels have agreed to
allow their master tapes to be re-coded.
And the founders of MQA—don’t
ask me to explain this—claim that the new codec could be applied to
old recordings, which could then be streamed or downloaded to portable
devices outfitted to receive MQA. In other words, not just great
availability but extraordinary sound could be lodged in your hand.
A bourgeois Odysseus lured by electronic Sirens, I had made the journey,
and I was now returning home. At Adirondack, over on East Fifty-seventh
Street, the system I had heard two weeks earlier at the New York Audio
Show was up and running.
Present at the occasion was my older son, Max,
thirty-four, who said that he had never heard so much detail in recorded
music, and Michael Fremer, one of Stereophile’s distinguished
equipment reviewers and the man who, as much as anyone, has kept analog
sound alive in the past couple of decades. Fremer is assertive, funny, and
extremely knowledgeable about music, as well as equipment, and his opinions are
eagerly sought after.
I was sitting centrally, in the sweet spot—about
fifteen feet from the speakers, at the apex of an imaginary triangle—and
Fremer positioned himself low, right behind me. It was not a comfortable
way to listen, of course, but, in the quasi-experimental conditions, it
We were listening to separate components made by Luxman, which has been
making quality audio components since 1925—in this case, the PD 171A
turntable ($6,995), with an Ortofon Cadenza Bronze MC cartridge
($2,400); and then the solid state D-08u CD player ($14,995), the
much-lauded tubed EQ 500 phono stage ($6,495), the solid state C-900u
pre-amplifier ($8,995), and the M-900u solid-state amplifier
($14,995). All of this was feeding the Triangle Magellan Quatuor
speakers ($19,000), made in France, a tall, floor-standing model with
no fewer than three woofers (covering the lower octaves).
The sound this
produced could not be described as lush, but it was full, to my ears
very accurate, with tuneful, tight bass and open highs, and the spatial
clarity was extraordinary. In the original-cast album, from 1958, of
Leonard Bernstein’s “West Side Story” (recently reissued on LP by
Columbia), I could hear the violins on the left, the bongos on the
right, the xylophones in between, with a lot of air around each
Staring at the blank space between the speakers, I
thought I could see dancers in groups charging from one side to the
other. The illusion of musical instruments and voices has been completed
by the illusion of motion.
The backgrounds were utterly quiet in Johnny Hartman’s “For Once in
Every Life” album, the trumpet noodling behind Hartman, the sax stealing
in over his left shoulder. What comes through in so many small
jazz-ensemble recordings (Wes Montgomery’s reissued “Full House” LP is
one of the great ones) is how intimately the musicians know one
In the Luxman/Triangle system, large-scale music came out well,
too—in André Previn’s performance of Shostakovich’s ferocious Eighth
Symphony, the London Symphony’s strings had bite without coarseness, and
the brass-and-timpani explosions in the frightening third movement were
enough to stop one’s heart.
“Sweet system,” Fremer muttered behind me.
But then he grew dissatisfied
with the cables running to the speakers—very expensive cables, made by
Nordost—and he asked for a change. Jason Tavares, who runs Adirondack,
plugged in a much less expensive pair, the Kimber Kable 12TC ($360),
and damned if the sound wasn’t better—the bass lines clearer, the air
around the solo instruments cleaner.
“Case closed!” Fremer announced
from behind my ear. “That ends that argument.
Everything matters. The sound was better with different cables.
few minutes later, Jeff and Jason unplugged the C-900u solid-state
amplifier and substituted Luxman’s flagship MQ-300 tube amplifier
($20,995). Immediately, Max sat up and said, “It sounds sweeter,”
which was what I heard, too.
There was greater bloom and warmth. In
“Mood Indigo,” from the superlative Duke Ellington album “Ellington’s
Masterpiece,” recorded (in mono) in 1950, the blending of the horns at
very soft volume produced one of the most beautiful musical sounds I
have ever heard.
The entire system now cost north of eighty thousand dollars. I couldn’t
buy it, but I was happy.
I had heard something; a lot of things,
actually. All this fussing makes a difference.
You may not be able to
afford it, but, if you can hear it, and it matters to you musically, then
it matters emotionally, too. High-end audio is a luxury-class pursuit,
but it’s not a fake, and it has many pleasures, if your ears are open to