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For the past few months I have been restless: I will circle the kitchen and peer in every pot on the stove, pull faces at what my wife is watching on Netflix, irritate the dogs, circle the garden and swear at what the gardener at done and end up making disparaging remarks at some Rom Com or emotional crap on Netflix.
“What is wrong?” My wife said, “System sounding bad?” To any Audiophile that would curl your toes in delight as one would put on his saddest face and sigh “Yes”, an almost surefire way of spending disproportionate money on some black box that may or may not improve the sound. Instead, I sighed:” No, digital sounds phenomenal. The tonality is great, the bass unbelievable, so quiet and I can see the corners of the soundstage. No, it is just...” I stutter “There is nothing to listen to” Like my wife, I almost snigger at the absurdity. There are millions of albums on Tidal and even more on Apple High Res and nothing to listen to? Well, yes you see. It is like I was a very small boy and my mother took me to the library. She would leave me in the children's department and disappear, to return an hour later with an armful of books. And I shall have? Nothing. There is nothing to read!
So she will patiently take me up in the rickety open lift and pull from the gallery Paul Berna, Nils Olof Franzen and those stories about the train driver. As I grew older Simenon and others and as my English got better other magical books that I only realise 40 years later were Greene, le Carre, Deighton, Hall and other magical books I could drown in. Stories I could become part of, Now she is dead and I still read that same stories over and over again. They become like friends or old clothes or music.
But eventually, you tire of those and making new friends or buying new clothes or new music? Never. What a horrible experience!
So I have nothing to listen to. Maybe go back to Analog and the 5000 or so albums in gaudily painted shelves that line the breakfast room or store room or what you want to call it. There used to be more than double that but I culled them. It was like shooting something but it had to be done.
Screwball. I am stupid. It now changes colour and I am not emphasizing or swearing. I swear!
Still, I start with simple late 60s rock and the 1970 Ortofon SPU in the FR 64 S arm and the custom phono. Simple. It plows through noise and scratches and somehow simplifies the sound to basic music. But it hisses. It used to be quiet “Ha Ha” cackled Reeman “ you blew the 1.2 Meg resistors again!” So off to Garth, its builder and 3 days later. “Your phono is ready. I replaced the blown resistors. Two 1.2 meg jobs” Sod Reeman, dammit. Anyway, in the meantime, the Whisper does its thing but phono stays reluctant, noisy and veiled.
And then, just as the other phono returns it blooms. Like a neglected child or plant or dog. Give it attention and after a few days, it starts giving back. And it does.
The single album on the coffee table grows to a pile. Old friends, just like bookends. By Sunday evening the lounge may look like chaos. But it is not. 3 piles for the 3 carts. Then each pile is divided into 3 sub piles. Records listened to, records to be listened to and an ever-growing pile of listened records to be listened to again. Old friends.
By Monday morning the domestic will sweep in. She’ll open the blinds, let the sunshine stream in and unceremoniously stack all the friends one on top of the other in a precarious tower. All my careful work to nothing. In a silent war, I have for almost 30 years tried to get the uncensored LP cover of Abraxis on top to shock the nosy women who will file in in an hour for a laughter and coffee session called “Bible Study’ but I keep losing that battle.
I need a crate. I can use it for albums in heavy rotation. And when it is full those albums can go back and a new pile grows. But a milk crate in the lounge? Then Louis advertises a blowout on Le Cubes. A light goes up: Of course! One of those, just one. And when the crate is full. Reshelve the records. Of course!
Slow Joe. By that time all the Le Cubes on special are gone but I‘ll buy one at full price! Jeez I am clever
“What is wrong?” My wife said, “System sounding bad?” To any Audiophile that would curl your toes in delight as one would put on his saddest face and sigh “Yes”, an almost surefire way of spending disproportionate money on some black box that may or may not improve the sound. Instead, I sighed:” No, digital sounds phenomenal. The tonality is great, the bass unbelievable, so quiet and I can see the corners of the soundstage. No, it is just...” I stutter “There is nothing to listen to” Like my wife, I almost snigger at the absurdity. There are millions of albums on Tidal and even more on Apple High Res and nothing to listen to? Well, yes you see. It is like I was a very small boy and my mother took me to the library. She would leave me in the children's department and disappear, to return an hour later with an armful of books. And I shall have? Nothing. There is nothing to read!
So she will patiently take me up in the rickety open lift and pull from the gallery Paul Berna, Nils Olof Franzen and those stories about the train driver. As I grew older Simenon and others and as my English got better other magical books that I only realise 40 years later were Greene, le Carre, Deighton, Hall and other magical books I could drown in. Stories I could become part of, Now she is dead and I still read that same stories over and over again. They become like friends or old clothes or music.
But eventually, you tire of those and making new friends or buying new clothes or new music? Never. What a horrible experience!
So I have nothing to listen to. Maybe go back to Analog and the 5000 or so albums in gaudily painted shelves that line the breakfast room or store room or what you want to call it. There used to be more than double that but I culled them. It was like shooting something but it had to be done.
Screwball. I am stupid. It now changes colour and I am not emphasizing or swearing. I swear!
Still, I start with simple late 60s rock and the 1970 Ortofon SPU in the FR 64 S arm and the custom phono. Simple. It plows through noise and scratches and somehow simplifies the sound to basic music. But it hisses. It used to be quiet “Ha Ha” cackled Reeman “ you blew the 1.2 Meg resistors again!” So off to Garth, its builder and 3 days later. “Your phono is ready. I replaced the blown resistors. Two 1.2 meg jobs” Sod Reeman, dammit. Anyway, in the meantime, the Whisper does its thing but phono stays reluctant, noisy and veiled.
And then, just as the other phono returns it blooms. Like a neglected child or plant or dog. Give it attention and after a few days, it starts giving back. And it does.
The single album on the coffee table grows to a pile. Old friends, just like bookends. By Sunday evening the lounge may look like chaos. But it is not. 3 piles for the 3 carts. Then each pile is divided into 3 sub piles. Records listened to, records to be listened to and an ever-growing pile of listened records to be listened to again. Old friends.
By Monday morning the domestic will sweep in. She’ll open the blinds, let the sunshine stream in and unceremoniously stack all the friends one on top of the other in a precarious tower. All my careful work to nothing. In a silent war, I have for almost 30 years tried to get the uncensored LP cover of Abraxis on top to shock the nosy women who will file in in an hour for a laughter and coffee session called “Bible Study’ but I keep losing that battle.
I need a crate. I can use it for albums in heavy rotation. And when it is full those albums can go back and a new pile grows. But a milk crate in the lounge? Then Louis advertises a blowout on Le Cubes. A light goes up: Of course! One of those, just one. And when the crate is full. Reshelve the records. Of course!
Slow Joe. By that time all the Le Cubes on special are gone but I‘ll buy one at full price! Jeez I am clever
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