Happy Family Day to Canadians, and Happy Presidents Day, Americans!
Some of you have expressed an interest in finding out more about the HH (“Human Honey”), so I’m reaching into the past to share a personal essay that was originally published in HiFi+ Magazine, an audiophile publication out of the UK.
Hope you enjoy the read!
Before I met my husband in the mid-1990s, I lived obliviously (and quite happily, I may add) in a world devoid of Rockport speakers, Cardas wiring or Krell pre-amps.
To my uninitiated mind, a “good” stereo cost somewhere in the vicinity of $1500. I had no trouble blithely bopping to the lyrics of Alanis Morissette, then switching mindlessly to the dulcet tones of the Boston Philharmonic playing Pachelbel’s canon-all within the same hour, at the same volume, and emanating from the same set of speakers which were (as it behooved the listener) positioned according to functional convenience, one behind the couch and one perched on the sideboard, unobtrusively blending into the well-planned decor.
In those days, I felt sorry for those women known as “NFL Widows”. I was blessed to find a man who cared as little for televised sports as I did. Little did I know that before long I’d be referring to myself as an “MBL Widow” instead. I quickly began to understand what it means to be a wife relegated to second place behind a husband’s all-consuming passion for his pastime.
It all started on our first date, when my then-recently separated guy invited me back to the cheap digs he shared with another divorced buddy.The building should have, by all appearances, been condemned--they didn’t even have running water for the first six months--but I entered anyway, propelled by the allure of amorous interaction.
While the house itself looked as if it were slated for next-day demolition, my beau’s two rooms were immaculate. In the “sitting room,” he pulled me over--this even before he kissed me!--to show me his stereo, a 1950s-era tube amp and turntable he’d assembled, to a great extent, by himself, from disparate parts. Immediately, my heart warmed to the guy.
“Why, he’s so impoverished he can’t even afford a stereo!” I thought. “He has to buy old junk from the local Sally Ann and piece it together!”
It never occurred to me that someone might choose to purchase, at exorbitant cost, these parts from second-hand audio dealers and specialty stores.
Even once we lived together and my own, all-in-one “stereo” was immediately put to permanent rest in the basement, I didn’t fully appreciate the gratis music system I’d been afforded.
Twelve thousand dollars on a stereo system? I thought, aghast. Wasn’t his entire annual income barely double that amount?? I was even afraid, at first, to touch it, lest I break something and jeopardize my mortgage payment in order to replace it.
Of course, like many women, I was familiar with car enthusiasts and the inexplicable male penchant for big, complex, mechanical toys of all types. I simply assumed that, to my honey, stereo systems fell into this same category. I was functionally deaf to his entreaties about the “full range frequency response” of good systems, or the need to hear the full spread of instruments across the orchestral sound stage.
To me, music was just music, and to my (albeit highly untrained) ear, it made no difference which system I attended to. I listened solely for the lyrics, the dance beat, a backdrop to baking or sewing or reading, the pleasant pattern of repeated words and sound that eventually spurred memory so I could sing along. It didn’t matter to me whether the wires were the blue or the yellow, whether it was called a needle or a “cartridge.”
I tried, at first, to understand it intellectually. Why were my Amy Grant CDs no longer worth listening to, simply because they were recorded poorly? I’d sit for hours as my sweetie read to me from magazine reviews, describing the incredible output one could glean from a 1250-watt tube system, or related the fantasy life lived by Harry Pearson, the Absolute Sound’s editor and chief reviewer.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes would soon glaze over, and I’d nod perfunctorily as he droned on about the systems of his dreams. It must have felt, I soon realized, as he did when I talked about the benefit of doing the emotional exercises in Harriet Goldhor Lerner’s book, The Dance of Intimacy, or the spectacular period fashions in the film Titanic.
But everything changed cataclysmically one spring day, as we strolled through Toronto’s Yorkville district and entered an upscale audio store there. Not only do they stock the latest in audiophiles’ dreamiest systems, they provide perfectly structured listening rooms in which to sit, languidly, as you take in each and every one of them.
As we browsed, I was more interested in the artists being played than the machines on which they were playing. Then we went back to the very end of the hallway and a room in which was placed only a sofa and a Wilson Watt-Puppy system. Something fantastic--perhaps the Fritz Reiner’s Scheherazade=-was playing. My husband told me to sit on the couch, close my eyes, and listen.
Devotion can be practised over a lifetime, but conversion takes only a nanosecond. Hallelujah! I had my epiphany at that moment.
“But it sounds like the orchestra is here,” I marveled, struck dumb.
There I was, a front-row center seat (only more comfortable and with a quieter audience), all because of this phenomenal audio system. I was blown away. I could actually hear and feel the difference. It was chilling, it was exciting, it was transformative.
These days, when my hubby wants to buy new parts for the stereo, I may still balk at the expense, but I would never suggest to him it’s not worth it. I’ve learned to deal with the fact that even the smallest Christmas or birthday present will cost more than $500.
I’ve accepted the reality that our neighbors will knock regularly on the door asking us to turn down the music. I’ve adapted to the fact that it takes longer to do everything else because music is no longer just the background, but an entire activity in itself.
If my husband reorganizes our living room once every month in an attempt to place the-system in a more felicitous arrangement, I don’t argue. And I’m waiting for the day when we can finally afford the system of his dreams.
At that point, I’ll sit down with him, close my eyes, and just listen.
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I have a tin ear, but hubby loves his sound machines. He can't understand how I can tolerate listening to some old bootleg copied from a tape to a CD. I can appreciate some that his system produces some serious quality sound, but I wouldn't spend that kind of money just for me.
You've probably heard of McIntosh Labs (no, I'm not an audiophile but one of my cousins is. I didn't inherit his ear). They are headquartered just a handful of miles from where I live in New York State and you can buy their equipment in at least two local stores. We once went to one of those stores (called Audio Classics) to buy my son a guitar and was introduced to some of their systems. The price tags were unbelievable. I'm sure the sound was, also. Whatever gives us pleasure/joy, right?