Issue 87

“Please list every single foreign trip you have taken.”

This was just one of numerous ridiculous questions on the Russian Visa application form.

Russia is the most bureaucratic place I have ever been to. To visit, you first need to get an invitation from a hotel. My Russian distributor had suggested that I stay at the hotel Ukraina, which, in those days, was far from a luxury hotel. After receipt of said invitation I filled in this multi-page form with too many questions and sent it off with my passport to the Russian consulate.

On arrival in Sheremetyevo Airport I waited in line for about 90 minutes to get through immigration. After acquiring copious stamps on my passport and hotel invitation, my distributor met me and whisked me off through the deep snow to the hotel. Russians drink an enormous amount of alcohol, so instead of bringing one bottle of Scotch Malt Whisky, I brought two. My distributor was pleased, as apparently bringing two bottles is the Russian way.

I had come to attend a Hi-Fi show in Moscow. It was April and with winter still hovering, Moscow’s snow was falling constantly. It was covered with a dirty brown dust caused by the burning of coal fires, which ultimately melted into brown slush. The town looked miserable. The grey sky and cheap housing reminded me (depressingly) of the Glasgow of my youth. The check-in at the hotel was also extremely long and I finally got to my room, which was long, narrow and overheated. The bed was concave and the furniture tired, but it did have a fabulous view of Moscow’s White House, which was famous for President Boris Yeltsin’s political standoff with the Russian parliament in 1993.

The Hi-Fi show itself was large and I don’t think I have ever seen so many brands in one place. At that time, Russian distributors were acquiring brands like crazy. Everyone was trying to one-up the other guy. I wandered around and joined in a conversation among colleagues who were comparing how much they paid for a taxi from the airport to downtown Moscow. Unsurprisingly, the prices ranged from $25 to $150.

One evening I was invited to a jazz concert in the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall. This hall, which is oval in shape with every row of seats higher than the one in front, has the most unbelievable acoustics. At one point the drummer left his drums and started to play the floor, the walls, the sides of his fellow musician’s instruments and about anything hittable. The sound was crystal clear. I would have loved to hear a classical concert there but it wasn’t to be. After the concert, I asked my host how I was getting back to my hotel. Moscow has a really efficient and fast subway system but there was no stop near my hotel.

“Let’s walk,” she said.

It was minus 20 degrees Celsius and snowing, so we walked. After about ten minutes she spotted a private car with its engine running.

“Let me ask him?”

A few minutes later she returned saying that he would drive us to my hotel for the equivalent of $30.

“Is that OK?”

“Sure,” I said as my nose, already blue, was solidifying.

The next morning I had arranged to meet Mike Creek from Creek Products for breakfast. I had told him where I would be staying and he decided to stay at the same hotel. We met at breakfast, which was massive with an incredible array of smoked fish, eggs, pickles, meats and breads. At the table next to us sat a young man with three really beautiful women hanging on his every word. They were scantily dressed and very drunk.

“Does your room smell?” Mike asked me.

“Smell of what?”

“Sweat, B.O., feet, death?”

“No, mine’s fine.”

“You’re lucky”.

After breakfast I went up to my room, breathed in the air and gagged. It smelled like a slaughterhouse in summer. My nose must have automatically shut down on arrival and Mike’s question woke it up. I wanted to change hotels but in those days your exit visa had to be stamped by the hotel that invited you, so I was stuck.

That day I tried to get some small change for a vending machine and as there was a bank in the hotel I entered, and asked the teller for change.

“Nyet!”

The front desk also refused to change my bills. Disdain for tourists was flourishing in this place.

I did do some tourist stuff. I saw Red Square and the Tsar’s jewels. The onion-domed churches were impressive. I also went to the GUM department store, which during Soviet times was the exclusive haunt of apparatchiks (high communist officials). Now it was an upmarket mall in a magnificent structure featuring brands like Armani and Prada. (Lenin must be gyrating in his glass tomb.)

That evening as I was alone and due to the weather unable to leave the hotel, I decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. After about 45 minutes of trying to get a waiter’s attention, I decided to take matters in hand. As a waiter passed me by, I stood up, blocked his way and shoved the menu in his face while pointing to a dish. I said,

“I want this.”

The startled waiter actually looked frightened and murmured something in Russian. It apparently worked, as I soon was served a very delicious meal of borscht followed by lamb kebabs with potatoes and tomatoes.

Seated at the periphery of the dining room were three or four of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Long-limbed and blond, they seemed to have emerged from Vogue magazine. Every so often, a diner would approach one and after a short discussion, leave with her. She would subsequently return and resume her post. Her client would follow later and go straight to his seat. It took me a few moments to figure out what was transpiring. Security guards ringed the restaurant so I guess they were involved in the transactions. I have encountered prostitutes in many countries but these Russian women were in a league of their own.

I invited my distributor to a nightclub, which had good foods but was really noisy. My guests started to drink vodka as if it was water. I am not a fan of vodka but it did come in many flavors. My favorite was seasoned with pine nuts. Drinking vodka in Moscow with natives definitely enhances the taste but I learned the hard way that it is useless to try to keep up with these guys. I got so drunk I forgot to pay for the meal and they wouldn’t take my money the next day.

The byzantine bureaucracy, the feeling of being powerless and dependent on others to get around generated a surprising unease in me and for the first time in my life as a fearless traveler, I felt helpless.

The next day I left for home. Assuming correctly that it would take a long time, I allowed myself three hours at the airport. At first I could not find any check-in desks but after searching for a while I saw the Delta desk almost lost behind a long security line. Security cleared, I checked in, then proceeded to immigration which involved a 60-minute wait. My exit forms finally stamped and approved, I walked to my gate with about 15 minutes to spare. On arrival at JFK, the immigration officer asked where I had come from and I, the intrepid traveler, told him,

“Moscow; you have no idea how glad I am to be back in the USA.”

He smiled and said, “I hear this all the time.”

[Previous installments on Empire were in Copper #84 and #86—Ed.]

It’s ironic that I’ve ended up writing articles about audio history, as I always found school courses in history incredibly boring. The standard presentation was that of a linear narrative, like a simplistic novel: first A happened, then B, then C. The perspective was such that those chains of events seemed, in retrospect, inevitable; there was never any sense of tension or indications that things might have happened differently. In my experience, real life is full of subplots and tangled skeins of alternate paths, blind alleys, and dead ends.

Having now written dozens of these articles, I have a little more sympathy for those boring history textbooks. Without access to original source materials—diaries, letters, whatever—reliance upon public sources tends to yield a sanitized view of things, lacking in the turmoil and trauma of real life.

That’s a long way around of saying that this piece about Empire—a company that essentially ceased to exist over three decades ago, at least as an audio company— is similar to rote history, but with a few twists. I have at least some fragmentary insights into things that got messy, just the way they do in the stories of businesses like Sears and Gibson and Thiel.

So: I have a few facts, and I have spoken with some folks who were peripherally involved. Sadly, the major players are all long dead, and the printed record is the chipper, PR-glossed gee-whiz-bizspeak of audio mags from the ’50s through the ’70s. I’ll do the best I can at presenting what I know, and what I suspect…and I’ll try to make clear which is which.

In a recent interview, the great bass-player Jack Casady said of his interactions with Jimi Hendrix, “It’s never like writers think, or the way the great tidy eyes of hindsight would have it. As it’s going on, it’s a little more chaotic.” (You can read that full interview here. It’s worth your time.) I imagine that’s true of the retelling of any event, and I’m sure it was true of Empire’s story.

In our last installment, we looked at the Empire Grenadier line of speakers. Starting in 1964, the line ran with very few changes up to at least 1976—the last ads or mentions I could find. There were variants in finishes, and the late 9000 GT streamlined the end-table look a bit with simplified lines and an oh-so-’70s smoked glass top. If oldtime audiophiles recall the Grenadiers from the ’70s at all, it’s probably for a series of sexist 4-channel ads.

In 1971 with the dawn of Quadraphonic sound, both Empire phono cartridges and speakers were featured in ads with the heading, “Going 4channel?” The cartridge ads had innocuous photos of cartridges and their boxes. The Grenadier ads featured a single speaker at the center of the ad, with the sub-caption, “It’s no problem when they look like these…” and the speaker surrounded by 4 different poses of the same comely young brunette. In some magazines, she wore a t-shirt and shorts, barefoot; in other magazines she was nude–but coyly posed so that nothing censorable was exposed.

Different headline, no redaction.

To be fair, Empire was not the only audio company who ran cheesy cheesecake ads during that era, and compared to many ads from the ’50s featuring buxom babes in nighties or evening gowns, these ads were pretty tame. In spite of such ads—or because of them?— the company was better-known for its record-playing gear: the Troubador turntables, arms, and cartridges.

We all know that among all audio products, phono cartridges are probably the least sexy of all—that’s why they’re layered in exotic woods, semi-precious stones, yadda yadda. Compare this ad to the ones above:

1971, same year as ads above.

—Really makes you want to run out and buy one, doesn’t it? Be that as it may, Empire cartridges were highly-regarded during that period, said to have linear response, excellent separation producing a solid stereo (or quad) effect, with trackability that matched the best of the lightweight cartridges of the period. Even now there is demand for NOS Empire cartridges from the period—though the usual concerns apply regarding rubber parts hardening or becoming brittle.

About the same time as the cartridge above, the best-known variant of the Troubador turntable was introduced: model 598. The 598 was supposedly available with chrome-finished metalwork, but is generally seen with the gold-finished metalwork that made it stand apart from other turntables. Whether that finish is gaudy or stunning is a matter of taste; it certainly has a ’70s vibe, and would fit in with gents in plaid sportcoats and open collars and women in bell-bottomed pant suits.

At that time, record changers still dominated the US market, with brands like Garrard, Dual, and BSR dominating. Full manual single-play turntables were represented primarily by AR, Thorens, and the Empire—so it was part of a fairly elite group. The game-changing Technics SP-10 was a contemporary, introduced in 1970; the Linn Sondek didn’t appear until 1973, and was a fairly “underground” player in the US for several years. Between the 3 major manual players—AR, Thorens, and Empire— the AR was the affordable, mainstream model, produced by the hundreds of thousands; the Thorens models were sensible, austere, dripping with Swiss/German practicality; in comparison, the Empire seemed the choice of the Playboy bachelor pad.

The gold finish came off as yellowish in 2-color ads. Yeesh.

This is not to say that it didn’t feature solid engineering and decent manufacturing quality: the quiet and durability of the Papst hysteresis-synchronous motor and precision-ground main bearing and shaft are legendary, and each platter (2-piece in the 598, compared to previous 1-piece platters) was individually balanced. There are those who swear by the dynamic 990 tonarm, which set tracking weight with a spring—others swear at it, citing a certain clunkiness and easily-damaged, almost-irreplaceable headshell inserts. The 598 introduced the distinctive “doghouse” dustcover that would be a part of all subsequent Empire tables; panels of plexiglass were framed by wood.

During the period of 1970 through 1976, the Troubador evolved to the 598 II and 598 III. Most changes were minor, related to the 45 adapter, finish, and logo. The 598 III dropped the 78 rpm speed. Cartridges evolved along with the turntable and arm.

We’ve mentioned Empire President Herb Horowitz more than once in the course of this informal history. In 1970, Horowitz was elected Vice President of the trade organization, the Institute of High Fidelity; in 1972, he was elected President of the organization. Looking back today, IHF is largely remembered for its IPP—instantaneous peak power—power ratings for amplifiers, before RMS ratings became standard. I was once corrected when I characterized IPP ratings as “just before the amp bursts into flames”—the engineer I was chatting with said, “No—it was just as the amp burst into flames.” Sorry. (Yet another aside: I took a mail-order course from the IHF, and received a certificate as a “Certified Audio Consultant”. I think I was 16.)

More significant to our story, in 1975 Horowitz left Empire to become director of special projects for Harman International.

And here is where the history really begins to get fuzzy. I could find no mention in audio mags of the period of Horowitz’s successor at Empire, and folks associated with the company at that time, 44 years ago now—are either dead or untraceable.

The last mention I can find of the Grenadier speaker line was in 1976. That year saw the introduction of a new top model cartridge, the 2000z, still considered an excellent cartridge today. 1976 also saw the introduction of Empire’s last Troubador model, the 698. Its appearance was similar to the 598 series, but there were significant changes: a brand-new arm appeared, lighter in weight than the 990, and better able to maximize the extreme compliance of the new cartridges. A photocell-triggered end-of-play tonearm lift was also added, and through the years has proven to be unreliable and difficult to adjust. The plexiglass panels of the dustcover were replaced by tinted, tempered glass; the added weight of the glass often caused the always-troublesome dustcover hinges to fail even faster than before. Finally, the gold plating of the 698 seemed to be even more fragile than that of the 598—surviving units often show scuffing, wear-through, and corrosion of the underlying metal.

A glitzy 1976 ad for the 2000z cartridge. The gold body went along with the 698 turntable’s finish.

And now, a slight detour as we approach the final chapters of Empire.

Starting in 1965, Ernst Benz manufactured diamond styli and cantilever assemblies for phono cartridges in Switzerland. Over time, his business grew to where was was a supplier to Audio-Technica, Shure, Ortofon, Pickering, ADC, and Empire—basically, all the major cartridge manufacturers of the time. At its peak, the company employed 150, and produced 9 million needle assemblies per year.

In the December, 1990 Stereophile, Markus Sauer tells how Empire changed through increased involvement by Benz: “In 1981-82, he was approached by the owners of Empire….The owners, reaching retirement age, asked Benz, a major supplier, if he wanted to buy the company. Benz did. This, he says, was the worst mistake of his life. The factory he took over was old and not particularly efficient. Quality was mediocre because the worn-out machines could not be coaxed to work to close tolerances.” There are plenty of grisly details which I’ll spare you, but dividing time between Switzerland and the US took a toll on Benz’s business, and his OEM customers were not pleased that he was marketing finished consumer products that competed with them. Major clients, including Ortofon and Audio-Technica, let their contracts with Benz expire.

Back to Sauer: “…Benz had no choice but to close down Empire in the US and trim back his operations in Switzerland. His American adventure turned out to have cost him an awful lot of money. About the only thing that remains is the name, which Benz has kept for his Swiss company: Empire Scientific.”

As I mentioned in Part 1, the company where the hi-fi company Empire began as Audio Empire, Dyna-Empire, still exists as a precision machine shop. By 1961 the hi-fi division was simply called Empire; within the next year it split off from Dyna-Empire and became Empire Scientific. As we’ve seen, that company name ended up with Ernst Benz in Switzerland.

But it didn’t end there. At some point, Benz sold the name Empire Scientific to the English family back in New York. The family had, among other businesses, supplied replacement cartridge needles to record stores— at one time a big business. After the onset of CDs, the market for record-playing gear in general had a major decline, and the English family’s version of Empire Scientific branched out into the booming business of replacement batteries for camcorders and cameras. Over the years, replacement batteries for walkie-talkies and communications radios were added.

These days, Jeff English runs Empire Scientific. He’s the only connection to the Empire we know, and even his connection was peripheral and at the tail end of things. All stock, parts, and machinery from the hi-fi biz were long gone by the time he came along. Jeff mentioned a gentleman named Ken Bush as having been the head of Empire after Herb Horowitz’s departure, and a gentleman named John Agazon as running things after Benz’s purchase. I’ve been unable to find either person; if not dead, they’re no longer young. I wish I could be more certain of details, but it’s not possible.

Jeff English runs today’s version of Empire Scientific from Long Island, where the company once manufactured batteries. Not surprisingly, all manufacturing has gone overseas, and warehousing and shipping are in Tampa. About the only thing left from the hi-fi days is a version of Empire’s late “reversed R” logo.

What about Herb Horowitz? After leaving Empire, he got around. He worked at Harman from 1975 to ’77, and then joined Acoustic Research as an executive Vice President. My friend and colleague Lucette Nicoll worked for him, and designer/Copper contributor Ken Kantor worked at the company at the same time.

From AR, he became President of Rotel of America, then was a consultant to Cerwin-Vega, and then joined Ortofon US as an executive VP. His final jump was to Koss Corporation as VP for special projects. Herb Horowitz died in his sleep December 13, 1985.

The end of Empire the hi-fi company wasn’t pretty. In its day, however, the company produced products of integrity, many of which are still highly-regarded and sought-after today. There are worse fates.

[I want to mention once again the article “Some Empire Turntable History” from the AudioKarma website. It really is an invaluable resource for sorting out the confusing array of Empire models–-Ed.]

If you’ve been interested (and I’m not saying you ought to be…), you’ll have noticed that for the last year, I’ve frequently been missing from these pixels, and Copper has rerun older pieces. I’ve been on—as we tend to call these sorts of things lately— a journey.

It began 16 years ago. I was impervious. I had been through psychedelic therapy several years earlier. I had scaled the mountaintops of my own being. And then, just past mid-2002, my phone rang: my very-hard-to-get-hold-of friend and guitarist Gregg called, asking if I’d heard about our great drummer friend, David. I knew right away that David was dead, his third heroin overdose.

As we talked, Gregg also told me that he’d been diagnosed with cancer. This was extraordinary and very bad news. And the type of cancer, I knew that it wasn’t good — it was exactly the same kind as took down my mother. And in January of 2003, he died. We had been a fantastic trio, Gregg, David, and me. Now I was the only one left.

On July 10 of 2003, for some reason, or no reason, I tried to push in on my abdomen. The left side went in, as normal; the right side was hard as a rock. Unmoving. I knew something was in there and had a very bad feeling about what it was. This would be a great irony: first David, then Gregg, and then me.

The next day was my wife’s birthday, and I kept my mouth shut, but the day after that I was in my doctor’s office. He acted like I was paranoid, saying he couldn’t palpate anything. But we’d get an ultrasound, and if it was at all inconclusive we’d get a CT scan. (Thanks, doc!) That’s when I told my wife.

The following Tuesday, I was laying on a bed getting an ultrasound. I saw the technician’s eyebrows go up. He asked if I had any trouble urinating, or whether I had seen any blood in my urine. I said “Kidney?” He said he wasn’t suppose to do what he was about to do, and turned the monitor so I could see: there was my right kidney, the upper-half looking normal, the bottom half looking like a large globe. It had a 13-cm tumor in it.

We began the process of interviewing doctors and figuring out who took insurance and who didn’t. We settled on the man who everyone told us was THE guy, despite the fact that he wouldn’t take insurance. He made us wait for two hours to see him; he spent 5 minutes with us. But, despite his rudeness, he gave us such confidence in him. He jabbed my abdomen with a pen, saying my scar is going to be like this, indicating an L shape on my gut. The surgery would take four hours, and would take four months to recover from. I would lose 2 units of blood. But he also said, and this might be why I’m writing all this, that a bout of kidney stones 6 or 7 years earlier had likely caused this.

I had known since I was 30 that my blood calcium measured high, and some years later had the theoretical cause confirmed: one of my parathyroid glands had been misbehaving for my entire life. (It would later be discovered to be in my chest, rather than where the other three were, on the thyroid gland in the neck.) The bad parathyroid likely resulted in kidney stones.

All through this time, I only felt fear for one hour: I suppose I might have been naïve, or somehow disconnected. Or maybe I AM that fearless. Who knows? But that hour came as we were waiting for results of a lung scan to see if the cancer had spread there. I can’t explain why, nor do I think it’s necessary, but the morning of July 31^st, the morning of the surgery, I felt very light, optimistic and happy, joking around as I was being prepped. And then I was out.

I started waking up as I was being transferred from a gurney to a bed in the ICU, hearing a very large orderly talking about how much I struggled against him, and tried to tear out my “A” line, the IV tube that for some reason I was dependent on.

The next morning, still in the ICU, I could feel almost instantly when a nurse started mainlining me morphine: I started hallucinating grid patterns. My wife gave the nurse cookies and sweet-talked her into diluting the drug.

I learned after a few days what had happened after the surgery. The surgeon came into the waiting room, where my wife and friends were, in street clothes — two hours in, rather than four. My wife said she was about to launch into berating him for being what she thought was two hours late, when he said, “Well, I don’t know what happened, but I’m finished. I’ve been doing this surgery for 25 years and this was the most flawless one I’ve ever done; this guy has no fat on him. I wish I had cameras in the OR — this would have been the surgery to teach from. He lost less than half-a-cup of blood.”

And, sure enough, two months TO THE DAY (rather than the previously predicted four), I went out on my own to see Bernie Leadon perform.

Next: it gets more complicated.

It was difficult to convince members of the San Diego Music and Audio Guild to attend the THE Show this year. [THE Show is a sorta-acronym, for “The Home Entertainment Show”. The name was devised before SEO was a priority; obviously, it’s a nightmare to Google—Ed.] That’s because the 2018 show was so small, it took only 1/2 day to see it all. Also, the drive through the SoCal morass to Long Beach is much further than Anaheim, site of last year’s show. But a few of us went anyway because Kyle Robertson, the Operations Manager, promised it would be much better than last year. I was still ambivalent, so I booked a cheap hotel room rather than one at THE Show hotel in case I decided to bail after day one.

I needn’t have worried. THE Show was great. I’m told there were over 60 demo rooms. Even after two full days, we didn’t have time to do them all justice.

Our first surprise on arrival was the easy freeway access off the 710. The very first right turn from the Ocean Blvd. exit is into the parking lot of the Long Beach Hilton — no endless drive through stop-and-go city traffic (that can seem longer than the freeway ride itself). THE Show organizers had arranged for an attendee parking discount. It was $18, but that’s better than the regular rate of $32.

The people at THE Show’s registration desk were friendly, accommodating, and sufficient in number to avoid the traditional long line-ups.

The hotel (bottom left in the header image) was clean and attractive, as one would expect at a Hilton, and the staff were pleasant and polite — not always the case in large hotels. The restaurants and bars of the waterfront area are within staggering distance, and the Queen Mary is not much further. Nice location.

Detailed coverage of every demo room might be in the interests of the exhibitors, but it soon gets tiring for readers — so I’ll restrict my coverage to the demos I found most interesting.

Back to the future. These speakers look a lot like the Altec Lansing A7 “Voice of the Theater” models produced over half a century ago. That’s because they are. The drivers were refurbished, the cabinet volume was enlarged to 9 cu. ft., the ports were mirror-imaged, and the cross-overs were re-engineered with modern components and testing procedures. The result: the best of what these vintage speakers have to offer with few of the traditional flaws. The transient response of the horns remains excitingly dynamic, but they no longer tear your ears off above Muzak levels. The bass units offer superior resolution, but without the irritating room modes excited by subwoofer frequencies. Their manufacturer provided no business name, but he’s located in Carlsbad, CA and can be reached at sudz99@yahoo.com ($10,000/pr.)  These Tune Audio speakers ($58,000/pr.) were built in Greece and are distributed by Turks. That in itself impressed me. If these two groups can get along, maybe there’s hope for America. The larger horns are machined from many layers of wood and make a striking visual statement. Their dynamics were stunning and I didn’t hear the traditional honk on the music played with Wavac electronics. The gorgeous cabinets also serve as horns for the down-facing woofers, which are located at the top.

While we’re on the subject of horns, here’s a pair from Peter Noerbaek (shown) from PBN Audio in San Diego. The M!2 (how do you say that?) features twin 15″ JBL pro drivers and JBL’s latest studio waveguide system. It offered a surprisingly smooth top end and midrange with startling dynamics. As dynamics is one of the primary distinctions between live and reproduced sound — evident even in the next room or down the street — it’s great to hear a sound system do it so well. The electronics are all PBN also. I’ve been to the PBN factory and the quality of construction of everything made there is impressive.

In my opinion, directional speakers like horns tend to sound better in small hotel rooms because they don’t splash high and mid frequencies around like a fragment grenade — which results in a shower of (out-of-phase) reflected sound. ($30,000/pr.)

  

This 3-way Monterey horn system from Ocean Way Sound was designed by Alan Sides, a 5 time Grammy award winning music producer who owns 5 recording studios across the country. His California-based company is the hardware offshoot of Ocean Way Studios. For $22,000/pr, the sound was impeccable.

The powered, stand-mount Pro2A monitors impressed me with their dynamics, neutral tonal balance, and unbelievable bass. They were so dramatic, I wasn’t sure which system was playing when I walked in the room. Neither were many of the other attendees. These speakers are readily available from places like the Guitar Center for under $4000/pr. Seems like a great way to get audiophile sound for those under the constraints of room size and budget.

Although the ‘AGD Productions’ amps in this system look like SETs, they are actually MOSFET power amps producing 200 watts (into 4 ohms). Here’s a good look at one of their illuminated Gallium Nitride tubes, which don’t feature a vacuum.

The Sanders Model 10E speakers are the most highly resolving speakers I’ve ever heard. But only in the prime listening position because they are also the most directional. This is a blessing for those whose sound room doubles as a living room because the sound attenuates quickly off axis. This feature makes them less than ideal for multi-seat home theaters as they are not intended to be room fillers.

Uncharacteristically for panels, they produce sparkling dynamics, even at high volumes. The tonal balance is so neutral, they’d make great studio monitors. As a result, they sound wonderful on almost every type of music. Despite their size, they have minimal visual impact due to the see-through nature of the panels. They retail for $17,000 including a Magtech Amplifier and an LMS loudspeaker management system. That includes a digital crossover, room correction, digital signal processor, and real time analyzer. This is a system for uncompromising perfectionists.

Although I haven't heard the numbers, it seemed to me that THE Show was well attended as the displays were frequently packed.

It was nice to see more young people than I usually notice at audio events.

[Part 2 of Jan Montana’s report will appear in Copper #88—Ed.]

[Act 1 of the Django Reinhardt story appeared in Copper #86.]

The Manouche poultices and remedies had kept Django alive but his mother Negros realized he was not recovering. Negros and friends took DJ back to the Hospital Saint-Louis. Reinhardt’s burns began to heal and the doctors saved his leg.

The left hand was partially paralyzed, the skin burned off and the muscles, tendons and nerves were in such deteriorated condition it was believed he would never use the hand again. But the doctor had a private clinic where he thought he could treat Django. This was going to cost. Negros and Pan Mayer, the father of Bella, the wife who would leave Django, hocked everything they owned and on DJ’s 19^th birthday he was admitted to the clinic in hopes of operating on and saving that left hand.

After the surgery Django was transferred back to the Hospital Saint-Louis to convalesce. Negros went to his bedside every day and had to be sent out after visiting hours each night. She tended to DJ and never really trusted the doctors to take care of him. As Django improved she had his brother Joseph, affectionately known as Nin-Nin, purchase a new guitar and bring it to his thoroughly despondent best friend.

Saved his life. Mom.

Django began the excruciating and mind-numbing process of getting his hand to play the guitar again. For months in his hospital bed, he willed his index and middle fingers to work. The ring and pinky fingers were basically useless. The index and middle fingers began to move slowly through scales but DJ had to develop a new fretboard style going up and down the neck compared to traditional guitarists that use the ‘box of notes’ technique where the player stays in one or two positions going through the scales. Django had come up with a method where he played with two fingers up and down the neck. This method is still recommended for guitarists, that they learn in one or two positions in the traditional manner but also work the scales on one or two strings up and down the fretboard. DJ also had to reinvent chord patterns. He used the two fingers to find alternate triads using open notes when he could and sometimes jamming the crippled pinky on the ‘E’ string and the deformed ring finger on the ‘B’ to help him with more complex chords. Really?

There was no one to show him this. He was on his own.

After 6 months of this slavery in the hospital two of his fingers came back to life and old melodies returned. In early 1930 he joined his fellow Manouche, still walking with crutches and his hand wrapped to hide the scarring, back at the caravans for a family festival. Once the traditional meal featuring the Romani delicacy hedgehog (you heard me) was finished, everyone settled around the campfire and the instruments came out. Django went inside Negro’s caravan to retrieve his guitar. He was probably watched with pity but admiration for his guts as he un-wrapped his hand to play and everyone saw the condition of that hand. Surely no one expected much.

He joined in the song, keeping up using his new chord techniques. At one point he took off into a solo that astonished everyone, with flourishes and fretting speed none of them could do with four fingers let alone two, Negros beaming with pride. Everyone present related to their deaths they had witnessed a true miracle that day. The legend of Django Reinhardt was re-born.

As I mentioned in the last column Django’s wife Bella left him within months after the fire and remarried. What I didn’t talk about was Django’s first wife Naguine. Yes, by 18 Django had been married twice. His first love Naguine he married at 15. The traditional marriage rites were different in the Manouche caravan community. When a couple went off on their own and came back after a few weeks they were considered a married couple. No muss, no fuss, just fact. This must have saved a ton on wedding parties. I tried to talk each one of my kids into this but Diana would have none of it. Anyway, later he met the beautiful Bella and he dumped Naguine and ‘married’ Bella. Naguine was hopeless and took to the road to get away from the memories and the families settled in their caravans on the outskirts of Paris.

On a spring day in 1930 Django left the Hospital Saint-Louis for the last time leaning on the arm of Negros. Waiting on the sidewalk was Naguine. She had heard of his tragedy and returned from Tuscany to search for him. She handed Django a bouquet of tulips saying “Here! These are real and won’t start a fire.” Zing. And so a new love affair bloomed, one that would last longer than the first.

Reinhardt could have gotten a job in the bals musette with any accordionist doing the traditional material, but he had become completely blown away by the jazz of the likes of Billy Arnold and Louis Armstrong. He and Nin-Nin once again took to the streets of Paris to play for sous but working on jazz tunes.

In 1931 Django and Naguine walked from Paris to Nice in search of work. A distance of 520 miles today on modern roads. They were broke and without a guitar because he’d lost it in a poker game. The only work that could be gotten were odd jobs along the way. Without that guitar Django couldn’t find any credible work in Nice so they moved on to Cannes where he somehow got an instrument and a job at the nightclub Banco. Headlining at the Banco was an American violinist with his own band. Eddie South.

South was born in Missouri in 1904 and early on studied classical violin. Eddie was a prodigy so his parents moved to Chicago to enroll him in the College of Music. But South was black, and in the 20’s there were no chairs for black musicians in formal orchestras. Like his compatriots in color he switched to jazz. However, Eddie never lost his interest in classical music. A move had to be made.

South resumed his classical studies in 1929 by moving to Paris and then Hungary. It was during these travels he came across the playing of the Manouche Romani violinists and he incorporated the sound in his jazz compositions. Django first heard this sound when alternating sets with Eddie at the Banco. Reinhardt was awestruck and would never forget the sound.

In 1937 these two recorded together and you can hear what Django would have heard in 1931. This is Django and Eddie South doing “Eddie’s Blues”.

 

During 1932 to 1934 Django started playing for Jean Sablon, a French Bing Crosby who had some popularity and his own orchestra.  DJ also alternated with Louis Vola’s band and renewed his old professional relationship with the Italian accordionist Vetese Guerino with whom he’d played before his accident. Django was two steps above the life of a hedgehog, horribly irresponsible with money and gigs, incapable of any personal grooming and basically starving. DJ would eventually cast quite a dashing figure as his ego realized the possibilities of looking good, but in those days he barely bathed.

It was Vola and Sablon who began working with Django to not only force him to get to gigs but teach him how to clean and dress himself. Sablon at one point anointed one of his band members, Andre Ekyan, one of the best French saxmen at that time, to be Django’s minder/driver using Sablon’s car. Django was dropped off where he was staying after the gig and picked up the next day. This story told me how much these successful bandleaders and musicians appreciated and loved Reinhardt’s powerful and expanding skills as a player. There is no way any member of an orchestra was ever granted this kind of treatment. Before rock and roll (a critical distinction) anyone who showed up unwashed in threadbare Gypsy clothing or didn’t show at all and not named Jim Morrison would have gotten the hook. The recordings that survive the period, though the arrangements were forgettable, display a 23-year-old Django playing improvised solos with complex arpeggios and scale patterns with increasingly astonishing power. But he was playing waltzes at tea dances. He needed more.

In the summer of 1934 Django was playing the Hotel Claridge in Paris for Louis Vola. Vola played accordion and led an orchestra with 2 pianos, another guitarist, a horn section of four, drums, bass and two violinists. This was a dignified gig, men in tuxes waltzing with women in jewels, nothing in the way of jazz. But one of the violins was a young man 2 years older than Django. His name was Stephane Grappelli. This meeting and a chance encounter when Stephane broke a string in the middle of a performance would propel these two around the world.

A taste. Recorded in 1937, penned by Reinhardt and Grappelli, “Minor Swing”.

 

Next: Django, Act 3.

“Seeing as ‘objective review’ is an oxymoron, ‘subjective review’ is moronic.”

My contentious friend Michael Lavorgna—late of Stereophile and AudioStream, currently of his own site, Twittering Machines— recently posted that statement on Facebook. Michael often mocks unthinking convention, challenges authority, and incites debate. As the saying goes, you can take the boy out of Joisey, but you can’t take the Joisey out of the boy.

Wait: he still lives in New Jersey. Never mind.

Anyway, I think Michael has a point here. Maybe several of them.

Can a review be objective? If all you have is a collection of data, is that really a review—or just a bunch of numbers? And isn’t deciding what data to gather a subjective act? Likewise, interpreting that data?

I’ll fall back on the laziest trick in the writer’s bag o’ tricks: how does the dictionary define “review”?

First, we’ll have to find an online dictionary that isn’t just a holding page for an available site-name. The online presence of the Oxford English Dictionary gives us this definition: “A critical appraisal of a book, play, film, etc. published in a newspaper or magazine.”

One step removed: can there be a “critical appraisal” without subjectivity? I don’t think so: that’d be like sitting through the credits of a movie without having any knowledge of any of the names rolling past.

From a fast and dirty review (verb form, “examine or assess something formally with the possibility or intention of instituting change if necessary”) of “review” I’d say that Michael is correct.

I’ve been immersed in the world of audiophilia for most of my life, and am still puzzled by the contentious and extremist nature of the camps of objectivists and subjectivists. I see them as complementary parts of the whole: while certain preferences of listeners seem arbitrarily subjective, the more we learn about psychoacoustics, the more we see a rational, objective underpinning to those preferences.

Whenever the question, “nature or nurture?” pops up, my answer is always “yes”. I think it’s impossible to separate the two, and we are all affected by both genetics and environment.

And just as different folk perceive shades of color differently, it’s clear that we hear differently, as well. Just look at forum threads discussing recent audio shows: you’ll hear the same room, the same system, described as “detailed but not overly-analytical” and “lacking in snap and impact”; another room described as having “tremendous bass impact” and “monotonic bloated, boomy bass”.

Is one right, and the other one wrong? Possibly. Different demo material may present a system in radically different ways. Normally, one expects a show exhibitor to present their gear in the best possible light, but things happen. Especially when a showgoer demands to hear Crash Test Dummies. Or whomever.

I think it would be interesting to take a panel of 10 people or so, have them listen to several demo rooms, hear all the same tracks, and write their impressions of each system and each track.

I have a feeling the results would differ so much you wouldn’t believe folks were hearing the same things.

And you know—really, they’re not.

 gives us this definition: "A critical appraisal of a book, play, film, etc. published in a newspaper or magazine." One step removed: can there be a "critical appraisal" without subjectivity? I don't think so: that'd be like sitting through the credits of a movie without having any knowledge of any of the names rolling past. From a fast and dirty review (verb form, "examine or assess something formally with the possibility or intention of instituting change if necessary") of "review" I'd say that Michael is correct. I've been immersed in the world of audiophilia for most of my life, and am still puzzled by the contentious and extremist nature of the camps of objectivists and subjectivists. I see them as complementary parts of the whole: while certain preferences of listeners seem arbitrarily subjective, the more we learn about psychoacoustics, the more we see a rational, objective underpinning to those preferences. Whenever the question, "nature or nurture?" pops up, my answer is always "yes". I think it's impossible to separate the two, and we are all affected by both genetics and environment. And just as different folk perceive shades of color differently, it's clear that we hear differently, as well. Just look at forum threads discussing recent audio shows: you'll hear the same room, the same system, described as "detailed but not overly-analytical" and "lacking in snap and impact"; another room described as having "tremendous bass impact" and "monotonic bloated, boomy bass". Is one right, and the other one wrong? Possibly. Different demo material may present a system in radically different ways. Normally, one expects a show exhibitor to present their gear in the best possible light, but things happen. Especially when a showgoer demands to hear Crash Test Dummies. Or whomever. I think it would be interesting to take a panel of 10 people or so, have them listen to several demo rooms, hear all the same tracks, and write their impressions of each system and each track. I have a feeling the results would differ so much you wouldn't believe folks were hearing the same things. And you know---really, they're not.

[Previous installments from Michael’s book, 363 Days in Vietnam, appeared in Copper #84 , #85, and #86—Ed.]

Day 301

Our mission at Tra Bong was never clear – it seemed like the powers that be were simply keeping us busy.  A couple days after we got there, we folded our cots and returned to LZ Buff. The other half of Delta Battery didn’t return – apparently, their mission hadn’t been completed. So our contingent at Buff was at half strength.

I was, temporarily, the only guy in my bunker/hootch – the others were all part of the second half that hadn’t returned.

It’s another perfect day in Vietnam – crystal clear, deep blue skies and moderate temperatures in early May. I’ve just returned from lunch at the mess tent and was marveling at how nice and peaceful it was with half of us somewhere else when a black rat scurried towards me at full speed in the open, sandy area in front of my bunker.

Before I had the chance to think ‘that was odd’, a six-foot long, thick, black snake came into view close on the heels of the rat. Then, the rat made a hard right turn before he gets to me and . . .

PROCEEDS DOWN THE DIRT RAMP INTO MY BUNKER!

THE SNAKE FOLLOWS HIM!

I’m thinking ‘HOLY SHIT!’ as Corporal Dowdy wanders into view on my right.

Sometimes I’m quick-witted and sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me, but on this occasion I instantly hatched a plan that would have made Tom Sawyer proud.

Corporal Dowdy was a gung-ho, young dude from Texas – only 18 or 19-years old. He had just been promoted to corporal. I don’t like snakes – this was a job for a young Texan with something to prove.

Me: “Did you see that? A big snake just chased a rat into my hootch. Do you want to kill him?”

Dowdy: “You bet!”

Me: “What are you gonna use?”

Dowdy (finds an entrenching tool): “This!”

I let him lead the way down the ramp into the bunker – the only way in or out. As we headed in I told Dowdy:

“Let the snake catch the rat before you kill it.”

Once inside we spotted the rat under my bunk. He was either saying his prayers or had gotten distracted by a crumb of food. The snake slithered up behind the rat, grabbed it with its mouth and wrapped its coils around the rodent in one continuous, rapid-fire movement as we watched.

A few minutes passed and the rat stopped moving. The snake’s mouth opened tall and began ingesting it.

When it all was in, I looked at Dowdy, “NOW!”

Dowdy commenced chopping with extreme prejudice.

He cut the snake’s head off and proudly carried the wriggling carcass out by the tail while I used the shovel to remove the head from my premises.

I’ll bet Dowdy’s told that tale at every bar he’s ever visited since this day – not to mention to his kids and grandkids.

I was pretty pleased with myself, too. I conned him into doing it, but considering the heroic story he got out of the experience, I’d say we were even.

Day 307

A few days after being overrun we had gotten back into our work routines on LZ Buff. This was another hot day of ammo humping for me – I needed a shower. It was close to sunset when I climbed the ladder, poured five gallons of water into the barrel above our open-air stall, removed my towel, lathered up and locked eyes with an attractive, American woman in a light blue outfit as she walked by.

Up to that point, the existence of the ‘Donut Dollies’ was a rumor I’d never confirmed. Her unfazed expression remained cheerful as she and her partner ‘Dolly’ continued towards the 1/52^nd side of the hill. Apparently, the sight of a naked G.I. showering wasn’t all that unusual.

Conversely, she was the first American woman I’d seen in over ten months. If there had been a memo regarding the Dollies’ visit, I didn’t get it. I was completely surprised and more than a little annoyed though outwardly my reaction wasn’t different than hers. I earned that shower and this was my turf. If the sight of me was a problem, it wasn’t my problem. I finished taking my shower.

As I’ve mentioned, there were zero American women in combat in Vietnam. On bases like Buff lacking access via roads, there weren’t Vietnamese women, either. Consequently, privacy was not a consideration for toilets or showers or whatever. Our phone-booth-sized shower was doorless.

The ‘Donut Dollies’ were female, Red Cross volunteers who served in Vietnam. Their mission was to provide emotional support for us troops – a touch of home for the boys, a reminder of the girl next door, the sister and even the mother – cute, friendly and caring, not sexual, but there had to be guys who tried anyway. They traveled in pairs to fire support bases and brought with them games, snacks, soda, juice, donuts and most importantly, smiles.

They were specifically on Buff to perk up the infantry – those guys had lost their commander and twenty-seven of their buddies as a result of the recent attack.

I had a different take – I needed perking up as much as anybody, but I didn’t want to be reminded of someone I couldn’t be with by some surrogate/tease who would be forever gone a few minutes later.

Apparently, there were guys who felt like they benefitted from those visits, but I couldn’t see how it would (benefit me) and (I) made no attempt to visit with them.

Regardless, those two Dollies must have now believed they knew why it was called LZ ‘Buff’.

Day 343

By now I’ve hooked up dozens of loads to both Huey’s and Chinooks, but I haven’t completed the trifecta – I haven’t hooked up The Flying Crane. The ‘Crane’ is Uncle Sam’s biggest, ugliest, baddest chopper, but it’s used sparingly on an ‘as needed’ basis and we hadn’t as yet needed one.

Today, we’re shipping a deuce and a half truck – the only chopper that can lift it is The Crane. Yep, I’m gonna get to cross that bad guy off my list.

I was expecting a bigger wash from its propellers as it approached, but not the hurricane force winds that nearly knocked me down. The down force of those blades was awesome!

When it was overhead, I clamored into the truck bed, stood still and held the noose high like always, but the crane’s shape prevented it from descending to the normal level. It hovered a few feet higher as the hook was lowered by a motorized winch – that made the hook a free-swinging, 20-pound, steel pendulum. I had to adjust my technique on the fly and avoid getting clubbed by that thing.

It wasn’t the first rodeo for the Crane’s crew and they made me look like a pro as I lassoed the hook and dove for cover.

Trifecta complete, Sir!

[You can find Michael’s book, 363 Days in Vietnam, on Amazon here.—Ed.]