Issue 92

Rickie Lee Jones – Kicks

I have loved Rickie Lee Jones from day one; though the truth be known, early on probably more for the fact that she was the hot blond laid across Tom Waits’ hood on the cover of his album Blue Valentines. That love affair continued into her work as an artist, especially with her second album, Pirates, where I felt she had really found her voice. I must have played “Woody and Dutch on the Slow Train to Peking” a thousand times, frequently to the accompaniment of my darling, doting wife’s proclamation of “JESUS, COULD YOU PLEASE TURN THAT FUCKING RACKET DOWN!” Nevertheless, the love continued through Girl At Her Volcano and The Magazine, but she started losing me with Flying Cowboys. The magic seemed over for me, but a couple of unexpected changes in my listening habits started altering my conception. First, I changed jobs, where my radio would only pick up the local college jazz station, so I started listening to a shit-ton of classic jazz. And my wife forced me to attend a baby shower (of all things) where nothing but late-period Billie Holiday played non-stop—and I totally dug it!

A couple of years later, I’m in Tower Records, and pull a copy of RLJ’s new CD, Pop Pop, from the rack, and in a WTF! moment checked out the song list. A covers album? WTF! Rickie Lee’s really lost it—but I bought it anyway. My newfound love of classic jazz and quirky jazz singing had perfectly prepped me for this record. From Robben Ford’s beautiful acoustic guitar intro, to Charlie Haden’s magically lyrical bass line, and then Rickie Lee’s gorgeous voice singing “My One and Only Love”—she had me from hello! Sitting there stunned through that magical first song, as it faded to black, again came the shout from upstairs—“Dad. Dad! DAD!! Who was that?” “Uh…Rickie Lee Jones…” “Can I borrow that CD?” “Uh…sure!” (my wife is still not a convert.) So RLJ’s career has continued, with periods of original material albums mixed in with the occasional cover album; I found 2000’s cover album It’s Like This particularly compelling—“Show Biz Kids making movies of themselves, you know they don’t give a fuck about anybody else!” Needless to say, I have found the cover albums infinitely more interesting than her recent original output.

Unfortunately, the magic seems to be lost in her latest release, Kicks, which again has her singing her takes on another diverse group of tunes, from the likes of Bad Company, “Bad Company” (I’m not making this up!) to America’s “Lonely People”—which are both just plain awful. The heartfelt, soulful singing and quirky, spare arrangements that made her previous efforts so charming and immediate—are sadly MIA, from any point on this album. When she breaks into “Don’t Say No, It’s the End of the World”, it was definitely the end of the album for  me. WTF? Seriously, I had to keep checking that the correct album was playing, because at very few points in the proceedings did the voice even sound like Rickie Lee Jones. RLJ at her best is irresistible; at her worst, highly forgettable. Seriously, unless you’re an absolute, die-hard completist, I’d pass on this one.

[I’ll echo Tom’s take on this one. I’m an occasional and occasionally-ardent fan of Rickie Lee, but this is dreadful. She’s made previous missteps with covers—her “Sympathy For the Devil” was bafflingly laughable, sounding like a dilaudid-drenched Shirley Temple doing “On the Good Ship Lollipop”.  Her try at “The Weight” was, well, lightweight; her version of “Reason to Believe”—a song I’ve loved and sung for over forty years—made me lose belief…and so on. I’d say, “make your own jokes,” but in most of these cases, the jokes are already there. Yeesh. —Ed.]

The Other Side of Desire Records, CD/LP (download/streaming from Amazon, Tidal, Qobuz, Pandora, YouTube, Spotify, iTunes)

Nérija – Blume 

 The London jazz scene from across the pond has always garnered rather pale comparisons to anything going on here in the states; I’d be hard pressed to name more than a handful of English jazz musicians. And I actually have a fairly extensive jazz collection that spans the fifties through recent years. I could easily grab discs by Claire Martin (excellent English jazz singer on the Linn label), as well as discs from singer Stacey Kent—she’s American, but lives and records in England. Her husband, arranger and sax player Jim Tomlinson, is English, as well as the entire backing band on all of her albums, and they are absolutely lights out good! I also have many albums from John McLaughlin and Allan Holdsworth, although the latter two technically fall into more of the jazz fusion category. Aside from that—pretty much nada.

Nérija is a septet that’s been performing together now for about three years; they grew out of the individual players’ involvement in London’s Tomorrow’s Warriors. Which is a really innovative jazz music education and artist development organization; they’re currently helping to fuel the burgeoning jazz scene that’s suddenly become terrifically popular among young and hip London audiences. Blume has an incredibly swinging and cool vibe; at first listen, you could easily mistake this music for any of a number of offerings from the classic Blue Note catalog of the sixties. Oh, and did I mention that Nérija is—with the exception of bass player Rio Kai—an all-female ensemble? Or jazz collective, as they prefer to call themselves.

Nérija consists of Nubya Garcia (tenor sax), Sheila Maurice-Gray (trumpet), Cassie Kinoshi (alto sax), Rosie Turton (trombone), Shirley Tetteh (guitar), Lizy Exell (drums), and the aforementioned lone male Rio Kai (bass). The absence of a piano player is about the only thing that separates them from the makeup of more traditional jazz ensembles of yore. Most of the players slum in various other London bands on a nightly basis. Blume is an album of dizzyingly virtuosic straight-ahead jazz, with all of the sprawling, atmospheric extended-set pieces composed by various members of the band. While this is undeniably a big-time blowing session, the absence of the traditional piano role easily makes guitarist Shirley Tetteh’s exciting runs and fills the glue that cements this excellent album. Highlights: “Riverfest”, “Partner Lover Girlfriend”, “EU (Emotionally Unavailable)”. Recommended.

Domino Recording Company, 2-LP set on clear vinyl (download/streaming from Bandcamp, Tidal, Qobuz, Spotify)

Creedence Clearwater Revival – Live At Woodstock

It’s unbelievable that this year marks the 50th anniversary of Woodstock. And even more unbelievable that Creedence Clearwater Revival—until this year—were essentially considered as non-existent at Woodstock, unless, of course, you were there! Creedence was one of only a handful of acts on the bill to have already achieved substantial airplay and commercial sales by 1969. They didn’t appear in the movie or on the official soundtrack recording, because John Fogerty heard the tapes of their hour-long performance and felt they were substandard. Therefore, no CCR in the movie, no CCR on the record (actually, when they released Woodstock Volumes 2 and 3 a few years later, one Creedence song made it on the multi-LP sets, but too little, too late). It’s actually stunning, the number of groups who played at Woodstock, yet don’t appear in the film, and aren’t part of the legend and lore of the “Three Days of Peace and Music”. Like Janis Joplin, or the Grateful Dead. Speaking of the Dead, John Fogerty still blames them for the fact that Creedence ended up with a midnight slot on the night of August 17, 1969—the Dead set ran way longer than its allotted time—CCR getting on stage so late is part of the reason he felt fifty years ago that their performance was so forgettable.

If you’re a true Creedence fan, these tapes are legendary, and in this—their first official release—they’re given the kind of remastering treatment that you could only have dreamed of. The sound isn’t perfect, but it’s absolutely on par with the very best captured performances at Woodstock (hey, at least the tape didn’t run out midway through the set!). And the performances are incendiary to say the least—this is the live CCR album that true fans have all been waiting for! Originally slated to only be part of the massive Rhino Back To The Garden collection, it was eventually later decided to license the tapes to Craft Recordings to release it as a single disc CD and double LP. Making it much more attractive and affordable for most of us—not that ten CDs of live Woodstock is a bad thing, though!

I have a co-worker who’s a Creedence completist, and he pre-ordered this the moment it was available. He tells me that the two official CCR live discs—The Concert and Live in Europe—are dull and virtually lifeless compared to the Woodstock tapes. And Creedence plays all the hits (up to 1969, of course) here, burning through the one-hour set like men on a mission. Highly recommended.

Craft Recordings, CD/2-LP set (download/streaming from Amazon, Qobuz, Spotify)

Clairo – Immunity

Music is almost my religion, and I approach it with a great deal of seriousness. Which would make it very easy for me to simply out-of-hand dismiss a seemingly frivolous internet and YouTube sensation like Clairo and her debut album, Immunity. Without a judge and jury. Her YouTube videos have had tens of millions of views, and the music is generally described as “Bedroom Pop” (a label that Clairo dismisses). Bedroom Pop, according to the Urban Dictionary, is “characterized by its lo-fi quality and contemplative themes, sharing elements of other indie-pop genres such as shoegaze, dream pop, jangle pop, and emo”. Her songs do seem to have a very dreamy and contemplative quality to them, for sure. I pride myself on generally being reasonably up to date with current musical trends, but I have to be brutally honest here: I had to look those genres up, although “dream pop” and “jangle pop” almost seem self-explanatory.

Clairo’s (her given name is Claire Cottrill) dad had a number of music industry connections through his business dealings. And even though Clairo was actively being courted by a number of major labels after her internet success, she eventually signed with the Fader label her dad had serious connections with. She’s been openly accused by other indie artists of benefiting from nepotism, and of being an “industry plant”. In other words, they’re accusing her of being a mainstream industry-backed artist marketed and presented as an indie artist—solely for the feel-good vibe and to sell more records. Getting a break in the music industry is extremely tough sledding; my daughter has  been trying to break through for years with only a modicum of success. Naturally, I fully understand the deep level of dedication it takes and the difficulty of ever truly making it. Check out Clairo’s website; she’s in the midst of a national tour that’s taking her to some impressive venues in most major cities—so let the nepotism theories roll on!

All of that said, I find the music here a totally mixed bag, though some of it is actually surprisingly cerebral and enjoyable. The record was produced by Rostam Batmanglij (Vampire Weekend), and has a much higher level of production than seen in any of her previous work—though not so overproduced as to take it into the realm of adult contemporary music. Immunity is basically a synth-pop affair with guitars, keys and a drum machine on most songs, and Clairo plays some of the instruments herself—it’s definitely lo-fi, but not nearly so much as the YouTube stuff. It’s a love-hate situation, though, for me—while I do find some of the songs emotionally engaging, there are aspects that are less gripping. Like when she uses a vocoder to alter the sound of her actually pleasant voice to something not at all dissimilar to say, Britney Spears. Blechh! Clairo would probably have an aneurysm if she found herself compared to Queen Britney in a review, and her very passable voice doesn’t need augmented in a way that makes it downright unpleasant to listen to. YMMV—if for no other reason, at least you’ll know whether to encourage your kid who’s making music videos in her bedroom.

Fader Records, CD/LP (download/streaming from Amazon, Tidal, Qobuz, Spotify)

Susanna Mälkki/Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra – Bartók: The Wooden Prince/ The Miraculous Mandarin Suite

This new disc of Béla Bartók’s early symphonic works is notable for two reasons: Firstly, both The Wooden Prince and The Miraculous Mandarin (along with the early opera Bluebeard’s Castle) are stylistically unlike anything else in Bartók’s canon of works. These works are presented in a compositional style more closely related to the late Romantic period than any of the more angular and abstract works of Bartók’s later period. Where his works took on many of the Hungarian folk influences he was so strongly attracted to. Secondly, Finnish conductor Susanna Mälkki makes her debut with the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra on the BIS label; she’s undeniably one of the brightest stars currently in the classical world. She presently serves as the Chief conductor of the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra, who perform at the acclaimed (and brand new!) Helsinki Music Centre, where this outstanding set of performances was recorded. In her spare time, Susanna Mälkki slums as the principal guest conductor for the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Those urban Angelinos sure seem to love their Finnish conductors!

And if I may be so bold as to proffer Thirdly, it’s because this is such an incredibly dynamic and well-recorded performance of these infrequently programmed works. If you can get your hands on the excellent BIS SACD disc, that’s definitely the route to go for the very highest level of aural satisfaction. Through my Yamaha BDA-1060 universal player, the opening crescendo in the first movement of The Wooden Prince is staggeringly dynamic, and offers an incredibly realistic acoustic representation of the Helsinki Music Centre in my listening room. That said, if you’ve abandoned spinning discs and are more into high-res streaming, both Qobuz and Tidal offer this performance at 24/96 PCM sound, which isn’t too shabby either. The CD layer of the SACD disc (or 44.1 FLAC or WAV) is actually quite good, as well, but you’ll want high-res sound to get the most satisfying sound quality, which this title delivers in spades!

Susanna Mälkki’s readings of these works is very lyrical here; if you’re looking for a more muscular interpretation, try Boulez on DG. If this disc is indicative of what we can expect from this outstanding orchestra and conductor, their future efforts on BIS should not disappoint. Very highly recommended!

BIS Records, CD/SACD (download/streaming from Amazon, Tidal, Qobuz, Spotify)

“I’m listening to WDRC BIG D in Hartford!”

In 1967 WDRC, a Hartford pop station (What’s Doing Round Conn.) 1360 on your AM dial, was running a promotional radio contest. Every hour the DJ would call a random phone number and if you answered “I’m listening to WDRC, BIG D in Hartford!” exactly, no substitutes, exclamation point assumed, and knew how much money was in the jackpot, you won the jackpot. If the caller that hour failed to answer correctly or didn’t know the jackpot, the jackpot increased by $13.60. The worst that could happen is you’d win in the first hour. The effect of course was anyone who participated had to listen to that damn station all day to keep track of the jackpot. And know how to add. $13.60 is a tough number. Pre-calculators dude.

My mom was an amateur sociopath and like most of her persuasion when she got stuck on something it would not come loose. She believed absolutely we were going to win this contest. We were all assigned times we had to listen and keep track of the jackpot. If you were home sick from school the transistor radio was installed next to your bed and your torture was to have to listen to “Winchester Cathedral” by the New Vaudeville Band (look dat POS up, No 1 with a bullet) or the Herman’s Hermits “I’m Henry the VIII, I Am” (second verse, just like the first) played incessantly and keep track of that flippin jackpot.

Yes, you know the end of this one. One night the phone rang. My brother went to answer it, but suddenly Mom was pounding up the stairs from the basement yelling “Stop! Don’t answer that!” Apparently she had forgotten to add the last hours’ jackpot to the tally kept right by the phone (only phone in the house) so the total was wrong. She wrenched the phone from Ed’s hand, causing possible future nerve damage and answered “I’m listening to WDRC, Big D in Hartford!” Pause. Then “Yes! It’s $1210.40!” Everyone in the kitchen froze because we knew what had just happened.

After the general pandemonium subsided it was decided that despite this new found vast wealth we all had to go to school the next day. I remember not sleeping. I felt as though everything had changed. Would the kids at school treat me differently because of our fortune? Would we move to a new home? Was I too young to buy a car? How much do girls cost? Being all of 12 years old I wasn’t sure of the laws about such things, but I did know $1200 was a vast sum to a family that was known to re-wrap Hot Wheels cars for Christmas. The fact that $1200 was all that separated a family between middle class worry and enormous wealth boggled my fevered brain.

My Dad had just started his own business and wanted to use the money to buy equipment and materials and get a jump ahead on cash flow. Mom wanted a pool. Three weeks later when the pool arrived our fame had spread far and wide, at least up and down Ash Drive.

A byproduct of all that listening to WDRC was a new band had emerged and had a hit. The band was the Wildweeds and the song “No Good To Cry”.

We all thought this a black Motown band but found out we lived near these guys. I grew up in Windsor Locks, CT, and her sister town next door was Windsor. All the ‘Weeds were Windsor boys, and one would become well known. Big Al Anderson was the guitar player, songwriter for the band and vocalist on this cut and would go on to be the guitarist for NRBQ for 22 years. The others in the Weeds were Andy Lepak on drums, Ray Zeiner keyboards, Bob Dudek bass and Martin “Skip” Yakaitis on percussion. Andy’s dad Alex was a professional musician and teacher who first recognized the talent these guys had and would be their first manager. He helped them get recorded, paid them salaries and instilled in them a professional respect for the business. Our friends from Windsor remember hearing the band practice at the Lepak’s house, and not because Mr. Lepak was managing them. The fact is bands always practice at the drummer’s house for obvious reasons. This is a cautionary tale for anyone out there who has a kid that wants to play drums. You will be subjected to all manner of repeated mayhem.

By the beginning of 1967 the Weeds had tightened into a rocking soul outfit and soon we were hearing them playing in the local halls like the K of C in Windsor Locks and at festivals all over New England. Their focus was soul and R&B and they could rock it. Surely bands like the Beatles and Stones had used blues and R&B to crossover with rock but these guys’ heroes were people like Ray Charles, the Impressions, and Otis Redding. The Wildweeds’ music reflected this and wowed audiences all over New England.

The first releases in 1967 include the next three selections and showcase both Anderson’s song writing ability and their roots in soul. This first, “It Was Fun (While It Lasted)”:

And “Someday Morning” 1967:

There was, and still is, a hot dog and fried clam shack called Bart’s down by the river just before you cross under the railroad bridge going into Windsor. Guys who grew up there remember Big Al showing up in a new Corvette that Summer of Love. From that summer, “Can’t You See That I’m Lonely”:

The band had gotten the attention of Chess records and they were recorded on a subsidiary Cadet Records. But as much of a rabid regional following the band had, the record company didn’t know what to do with these guys so nothing was happening nationally. The band experimented with changes in musical direction and as early as 1968 we heard more of a rock sound. Here’s “I’m Dreaming” with Dudek on vocals. Nice bass player by the way.

Eeep. That scared my cat.

By 1970/72 the band was changing people and direction so much they eventually just lost the way. From 1972 “C’mon If You’re Comin'”.

In 1970 Skip Yakaitis talked Big Al into seeing this band called NRBQ that was touring from the south. In 1972 NRBQ booked the Wildweeds to play a gig in Clinton Corners, NY in what was essentially an audition for Big Al. NRBQ’s guitar player, Steve Ferguson was leaving the group and they needed some fresh meat. Thus started a 22 year relationship that will be lovingly covered in my next column.

Here’s a vid of a Wildweeds reunion in Windsor Locks. My wife of 45 years and I are from there so..wow.

Here’s a taste of what NRBQ were like live. Johnny Cash’s “Get Rhythm”. Ironically on Carlene Carter’s TV show.

Shiver me Timbers.

Journey didn’t start out as a stadium band roaring out power ballads. It germinated in the progressive rock scene, an outgrowth of the bands Santana and Frumious Bandersnatch. The new group, brought together in 1973 by Santana manager Herbie Herbert, was originally called the Golden Gate Rhythm Section, and their goal was to provide backup onstage and in the studio for other San Francisco artists. But their destiny was much bigger.

The original line-up included lead vocalist and keyboard player Gregg Rolie and lead guitarist Neal Schon, both of Santana, along with Bandersnatch’s bassist Ross Valory and rhythm guitarist George Tickner. After a brief stint with drummer Prairie Prince, they settled in with Aynsley Dunbar, formerly with Frank Zappa, at the kit. Rumor has it that a roadie suggested they call themselves Journey when they couldn’t think of a decent band name.

Thanks to the players’ impressive pedigrees, they snagged a contract with Columbia Records, which released their debut album, Journey, in 1975. The prog-rock influence in this collection of songs is obvious even before the first listen: All seven of the songs are longer than three minutes, several more than twice that!

“In the Morning Day” is written by Gregg Rolie and Ross Valory. The contemplative, bluesy guitar style is maybe the element most in contrast with the later, pop-icon Journey. The organ track, set against piano, provides a comforting soul feel. But things change at about 1:58, and Dunbar takes the reins and ups the tempo and energy. There’s a hint of the stadium-filling Journey here.

Look into the Future (1976) had the same lineup, except that Tickner had left. Like the debut, this record didn’t make much of an impression on the market.

Although stylistically less random and progressive, there are ever longer tracks on Look into the Future, particularly the 7+-minute title song with music by Schon and lyrics credited to all of them. One appealing aspect of the song “Look into the Future” is its simple but effective melody, almost prayer-like in its repetition. This time the organ intensifies the emotions, and Schon’s guitar has powerful grit in its low register.

Schon, Valory, and Dunbar focused on learning to do harmony vocals in hopes of getting the 1977 album Next into the charts. Their plan worked, to a degree: Next broke the U.S. top 100 at number 85. But this was to be the last time Rolie acted as lead singer.

Because Next turned out to be the end of an era for Journey, they later shelved most of its songs. “Spaceman,” for example, has never been performed live, which is remarkable for a band that has toured so much. The pattern in the guitar, repeatedly moving down a halfstep to a dissonant note, gives this song a distinctive sound, a bit reminiscent of David Gilmore.

After Next, it was clear that Journey was a band that had almost made it, but not quite. They needed a little something to push them over the top and into full-blown stardom. They briefly worked with a singer named Robert Fleischman, but that didn’t work out. Enter Steve Perry, with his high cheekbones and skyrocketing voice. Infinity (1978) hit no. 21.

Besides Perry, another important factor in changing the band’s sound was the hiring of producer Roy Thomas Baker, nowadays best known for helping to put Queen on the map. In “Winds of March,” Baker’s famously complex multitracking makes the band sound like an orchestra.

Although Baker stayed to work on Evolution (1979), Dunbar departed, leaving the band to find a new drummer. Steve Smith took the job, and was to leave and rejoin several times over the decades. Evolution produced Journey’s first U.S. top-20 single, “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’.”

Rolie is using synths more and more, as you can hear on “Daydream.” Perry’s melody, with help from Baker’s keen ear at the sound board, is perfectly blended into the instrumental environment. It’s really an ensemble piece, with a better balance of voice and instruments than becomes normal for Journey as they increase in popularity and fans clamor for Perry’s sound to be front and center.

Whatever you think of Perry-era Journey, you have to hand it to them: They wanted to rise on the charts, and rise they did. Each album sold better than the previous one, and Departure (1980) got them into the top 10 for the first time.

The acoustics and musical interactions of this project are interesting because it was recorded “live in studio,” with everyone playing and singing his part at once rather than capturing individual tracks at separate times and places. As producer, Journey used Geoff Workman, who’d engineered for Baker in the past, including on Queen records.

“Natural Thing” from this session was added only in 2006 when the Departure CD was remastered. The synth-piano part moving downward and the ascending bassline as a pickup to each phrase gives the song a sound reminiscent of classic R&B. Neal Schon cranks up the rock value during his solo starting at 2:15.

Because Escape (1981) and Frontiers (1983) were such huge sellers, with so many hit singles, we’ll jump over them here and proceed to the 1986 record Raised on Radio. This is the only album without Valory on bass; it took both Randy Jackson and Bob Glaub to take his place. Perry, itching for a solo career, left after this album.

That could have been it for Journey. But time does funny things to rock bands. Ten years later, the gang – including Perry and Valory — got back together to make Trial by Fire (1996). This turned out to be Perry’s true swansong with the band. Maybe the market had passed them by: The only hit was “When You Love a Woman,” which also got a Grammy nomination.

Columbia Records and Journey parted ways in 2000, after recording Arrival with their new drummer, Deen Castronovo, and short-lived lead singer, Steve Augeri. For Generations (2005), the band signed with Sanctuary Records, which was at the time the U.K.’s largest independent label.

This is the only album where every member of the band sings lead on at least one song. Castronovo demonstrates his grainy, pleasingly sentimental voice on “A Better Life.”

For 2008’s Revelation, Filipino singer Arnel Pineda joined Journey as frontman. He stayed with them for Eclipse (2011), in which the band seemed to be trying for a harder rock sound. Not everyone thought they succeeded: in a comment that brings the band full circle to its origins, the review in Rolling Stone complains the album sounds “distractingly proggy.”

Most of the album is written by Schon and Cain, but Pineda gets co-writing credit on “To Whom It May Concern,” featuring some leapy, “proggy” synth riffs along with harder power chords. It’s certainly a prog-rock topic, basically taking on all of humanity’s inconsistencies and internal conflicts.

So Journey keeps journeying on. Steve Smith rejoined in 2015. They’re currently touring. And if you can make it out to Las Vegas, they’re planning a residency at Caesar’s Palace for most of October, 2019.

Vintage Whine has previously looked at the micro-mechanics of record playback in the 9-part series, 50 Ways to Read a Record, which appeared in Copper issues #65-74 (and sorry, I’m not linking to all nine parts!). That series focused on the interfaces of arm/cartridge/record and how the record groove is traced, but didn’t really look at the mechanics of the record-spinning part of the turntable. All a turntable has to do is rotate, at a reasonably-consistent speed, right? Easy-peasey….

Unfortunately, the laws of physics have a nasty way of messing with things that, on the surface, look simple. And that is assuredly the case when it comes to spinning records.

If we go back to the beginning of cylinder and disc playback, the drive mechanism was generally some sort of clockwork contraption. A hand-turned ratcheting crank would wind up a flat, spiral spring like those used in clocks or—on a smaller scale—watches. The energy stored in the spring would gradually be released, providing motive force to the turntable platter, or the mandrel which held the cylinder.

Then as now, the means by which that motive force was transmitted to the platter or mandrel varied. Edison cylinder players used a flexible leather belt to tun the mandrel, similar to the way industrial machinery was often powered during that period. When they said “belt” in those days, it really was similar to a hold-your-pants-up belt—not a rubber band, like today’s belts. Those cylinder recorders and players were essentially lathes: the belt would rotate the mandrel holding the cylinder, while simultaneously driving a feed screw which moved the reproducer along the rotating cylinder at a theoretically-constant speed.

Here’s an odd, little-known fact: Edison initially disdained the idea of recorded cylinders as entertainment, thinking the main use of his phonograph—the term created by Edison— should be for business dictation. Cylinder recorders were made for dictation for many years after cylinders were overtaken by discs as media for music playback.

Odd, little-known fact #2: Edison was initially unable to develop a reliable clockwork motor, and early (1880s-early ’90s) cylinder recorders/players were powered by wet-cell batteries, before electric current became commonplace in homes or businesses. Those battery-powered players were hugely expensive, and were rarely found in homes: they succeeded as coin-operated music-playing devices in penny arcades.

But enough about cylinders. Berliner-style disc players—call them gramophones, or whatever—seem to have bypassed the wet-cell battery stage. Every player I’ve seen from the early years had a hand-cranked clockwork motor. Better, more expensive players utilized multiple flat, spiral-wound springs in the clockwork motor, providing a more consistent output. Speed regulation was usually by means of a flyball governor, that rotating thing you’ll see atop old-time steam engines.

When we think of “modern” turntables—and by that, I mean post-WWII—there are a limited number of variations of drive mechanisms. Undoubtedly, as soon as this article is published, I’ll think of a half dozen more, or faithful readers will remind me of ones I’ve missed. So it goes.

Basically there are:

Idler drive (or idler wheel drive)

Combination idler/belt

Belt drive

Direct drive

And a few oddball exceptions that I’ll mention, just because they’re interesting.

Most record players of the ’40s through the late ’60s were idler drive: the motor shaft drives against an intermediate idler wheel which in turn drives the platter. Idlers are so named because they are passive, not directly connected to a motor or power source. Think of the serpentine belt arrangement that drives the alternator and other accessories on your car; that belt is routed and kept in tension by at least one idler pulley which is not driven by the engine’s crankshaft.

Turntable idlers traditionally have been made of a fairly hard rubber on top of a metal form and bearing, providing a bit of decoupling between the motor and platter. The idea is that the decoupling is sufficient to isolate motor noise from the platter, and thus the cartridge; in practice, idlers harden with age and become noisier as they transmit more vibration and become off-round. In most cases, the motor output shaft will be stepped; combined with the diameter of the idler, the resulting output provides speed reduction at the platter. Most turntable motors turn at 300 rpm or higher, so driving the platter directly is not an option.

The most highly-regarded idler tables were originally designed for broadcast use: the Garrard 301/401 and EMT 930 are the best known, but there are dozens of others. Amongst consumer turntables, the very popular Duals were idler-driven, until they were replaced in the mid-’70s by belt-drive and direct-drive models. The Thorens TD-124 is generally thought of as idler-drive, and it is—but the drive mechanism is actually a combination of belt and idler drive, supposedly to more effectively isolate motor noise from playback. As the tables age—and most are now at least 50 years old—the complex mechanical linkage wears, and increases friction and noise.

The 301/401 and TD-124, along with a few other tables from Lenco and EMT, have become iconic enough to justify the reproduction of almost every part—as you see from the three pics above. The irony is that the replacement parts are generally produced by small, high-precision machine shops to a much higher standard than the original parts. Those tables were produced by the thousands, and some of the componentry was of decent but not spectacular quality. A fully-restored or modified 301 or TD-124 can easily run $10-15,000, or even more. There are also a variety of replacement bases crafted from solid hardwood, laminated sheets of plywood, Panzerholz (an extremely-dense compressed wood product), granite, and slate—as the original box-type bases tended to magnify rumble.The market is such that the revered arm/turntable maker SME purchased the rights to the name Garrard, and is either reproducing or restoring 301s. As I noted in my Munich High End report, SME’s intentions are not at all clear.

Exactly how and where the idler drives the platter varies from design to design, resulting in cliques of enthusiasts who feel one solution is superior to another. The performance characteristic cited by most fans of idler tables is a relentless rhythmic drive, particularly when compared to belt-driven tables. Most tables drive the idler against the inside of a lip on the outer edge of the platter, or against a cast or machined lip halfway between the center bearing and the outer edge. A few broadcast turntables form Gates and Gray drive the idler against the outside edge of the platter, as does the obscure consumer table from the ’50s, made in California by D&R. Fans of such “rim drive” tables cite an even stronger rhythmic sense than regular idlers. In recent years, VPI has offered a rim drive option for several turntable models.

A partly-disassembled D&R with rim drive. Idler assembly and motor were separated for shipping. From Editor Leebs’ audio-hoarder days.

VPI Avenger with rim drive. The drive-wheel is belt-driven by two motors: think of it as a cross between the TD-124 and the D&R.

What about Lencos? Often sold in the US under the Bogen brand name, Lencos are an unusual type of idler-wheel table: rather than the idler laying flat, parallel to and driving the platter, on many Lencos the idler is perpendicular to the platter and is driven by a horizontal shaft of varying diameter. Lenco enthusiasts worldwide have developed higher-quality replacement parts for the idler, the turntable top plate (lightweight, resonates), the base, and often replace the factory arms with better modern arms. The situation is like that of the 301/401 and TD-124…after you replace everything, can it be said to be authentic? Or is it a clone?

Whether they’re unrestored or resto-modded, using a vintage turntables is analogous to driving a vintage car: it’s at least as much about the character, as it is the performance. Sure, a modern Honda Civic may well be quicker and have higher cornering limits than an Alfa Romeo GTV—but will it feel the same? I think not, so there, QED, etc., etc.

In the next issue of Copper, we’ll move on to belt-drive turntables.

The entirety of the field of Philosophy arises from two fundamental questions – the Adam and Eve of Philosophy if you like. Adam asks “What is real?”, while Eve asks “What do we do about it?” Adam’s question appears to be fundamentally concerned with rationality, and seems to demand clear, black and white answers. On the other hand, Eve’s question is far more nuanced, and leads one down a much more difficult and tortuous path. Adam’s descendants split off, to a large degree, and became the sciences. And to this day, doctoral degrees awarded in the sciences are styled Doctor of Philosophy (PhD).

The boundary between scientific and philosophical questions is a tenuous and evolving one. To the ancient Greeks the movements of the sun, moon, planets and stars were fundamentally philosophical questions (even though evidence is strong that Greek philosophers had a surprisingly strong grasp of what we would today call celestial mechanics). But even so, your average ancient Greek looking up at the night sky would have found himself pondering the mysterious machinations of the Gods. Today, your average 21^st Century human looks up at the night sky and understands to some degree the concepts of planets, stars, and galaxies. After all, most of us have seen Star Trek and are comfortable with its fundamental premises. (We know, for example, that the galaxy is populated by strange humanoid races, each with different wrinkles on their noses, and all with a remarkable command of American-accented English). The sky at night has evolved from being a philosophical matter to a scientific one.

We can perhaps consider that as being analogous to the way humanity today views consciousness. Is consciousness real? Is it a physical thing or a spiritual thing? Who or what possesses it? Is it possible to create it? These would all be considered purely philosophical questions rather than scientific ones. However, science is now beginning to scratch at the surface of a true understanding of human consciousness, and while we are still a long way from being able to answer any of those questions, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility (or even probability) that a detailed scientific description may one day arise that will provide clear answers to each of them. Today we are like the ancient Greeks staring at the heavens, treating our great unknowns as philosophical issues. But many of those philosophical discussions will evolve to become scientific discussions as our understanding matures.

Other things, though, remain – and must surely forever remain – purely in the realm of philosophy, and these are mostly the descendants of Eve’s original question, “What do we do about it?”, for which there are, arguably, no fundamental or universally applicable answers. This is perhaps best illustrated by the classic “trolley car” problem, now over 50 years old. A trolley car in San Francisco breaks free from its cable and hurtles uncontrollably down the hill, where it must crash at the bottom. Near the bottom is a junction, where the trolley car must go either left or right, and you are in control of the switch. You have to decide whether to send the trolley car down one track or the other, but at the end of each track is a person or persons (or maybe even a sad faced puppy) who will be killed by the trolley car. You are given different scenarios of who or what is at each of the track ends, and you have to decide which way you will switch the points. The problem is wonderful, because no matter who you are, and how well developed your rationale for responding to the dilemma, a skilled inquisitor will always be able to find endless scenarios that put you in a bind, or even force you to re-think some of the choices you may have previously made.

What is interesting about the trolley car problem is that, while it was conceived as a purely theoretical teaching exercise with no practical counterpart, it has now turned up as a fundamental implementation issue when it comes to programming driverless cars. People programming these vehicles are, effectively, having to build into their programs specific trolley car type choices in order to determine how the vehicle will behave in different circumstances. These decisions surely cannot in any practical scenario be left to the vagaries of a programmer…but on the other hand who should be making these calls? The trolley car problem, a hypothetical teaching construct to which no fundamental solution exists, is on the brink of becoming a real-world practical problem whose solution, in all probability, may end up being determined by public policy. What a scary thought that is.

That’s a lot of rambling about philosophy, and you may be wondering where all this is going. It’s because the subject I want to write about – the relationship between Sound and Music – seems to me to be a philosophical point, and all too often when you introduce philosophical issues, it is often too convenient to dismiss that key aspect as being a pompous 13-letter word meaning “just a matter of opinion”. But really, I see it as quite a fundamental issue, one which touches on all aspects of our relationship with it. So I thought it might help if we started off by getting ourselves into the right frame of mind to consider the philosophical aspects of the matter.

For example, let me frame the issue this way. Beethoven sits down to write a symphony. He’s gone deaf, and won’t even be able to hear the finished product when he’s done. He writes a complicated set of individual parts to be played together in an orchestra, under the direction of a conductor. When it’s all written down his job is done. The music is written. In other circumstances he might have got to hear it performed, and maybe as a result he’d have chosen to revise it. But for many composers – never mind our deaf Beethoven – that was not a luxury afforded them (see, for example, Havergal Brian, who I wrote about in Copper #77). So, has our Beethoven written music? He’s never heard it, and, for the sake of our argument, it’s never even been performed.

And what of the performance, when it finally comes around? By convention, the conductor chooses the tempi, the phrasing, and the dynamics. He aims for a particular tone color. He’s made choices that the composer may have indicated, but not specified to the level of fine detail accessible to the conductor. A performance of the piece is the only way in which it can actually be heard by anyone. So a convenient hypothesis might be that the written score is the actual music itself, whereas the performance is the sound of the music. Yet the performance by one orchestra, under the direction of its conductor, will result in a different sound than that of a different – yet nominally identical – performance of the same piece by a different ensemble. And neither may correspond to the mental image of the sound that the composer had in mind when he wrote it. Therefore, there is no such definitive thing as the sound. Instead there are infinitely many possible sounds. This is the philosophical conundrum – the chicken-and-egg-ness of the problem. What is the essence of the relationship between the sound and the music?

Further complications arise when we consider the possible contributions of the conductor. What if, in order to get what he thinks is the musically correct sound he elects to consciously modify the directions of the composer? The composer writes a tempo indication of “Andante”, but the conductor has other ideas and instead plays the piece at a tempo more akin to “Allegretto”. What are we to make of that? Let’s take the idea further – the conductor wants more bass heft to the sound, so he takes the cello line and asks a double-bass to double up on it. Just how many liberties should the conductor be free to take? Suppose he fancies taking the first recapitulation in the second movement and re-scoring it into the minor key? Aha!, you’re saying, now he’s going too far!

As a real example, no less a luminary than Otto Klemperer, preparing for a performance of Shostakovich’s notoriously difficult 4^th Symphony (see, for example, Copper 39), famously inquired of the composer whether he would consent to Klemperer reducing the number of flutes called for in the score from six to four. He was told in no uncertain terms “What has been written with the pen cannot be scratched out with the axe!”. There are no hard and fast rules, but in general, messing in any way with the score is usually held to be a step too far.

OK, so classical music with its staid formalities perhaps occupies one extreme position. At the other end lies a lot of modern popular music, where in many cases the creator of the music never actually writes the music down in the first place. So there isn’t a formal written entity which can be held to define what the music actually is. If it’s a song, then the music is often held to be the words and the melody (the melody, in fact, holds special significance when one thinks of some of the famous lawsuits that have been filed alleging plagiarism). Instead, the primary expression of such music is usually the first recording of it…one could even be somewhat cynical and say the first commercially successful recording of it. In other words, the sound rather than the music attains a preeminent aspect.

But just as the conductor has a lot of influence on how the sound of a piece of classical music comes across, in the popular music world this responsibility is normally laid at the feet of the producer. It may be a surprise to many who have never stopped to think about it, but for much of modern music the artist surrenders a surprising degree of control to the producer when it comes to how their song will end up sounding in a recording. Oftentimes, the producer will have totally different ideas to the artist, and the producer will typically prevail. This is why, for example, George Martin was held in such elevated esteem, and revered as the “Fifth Beatle”. It’s why people like Cookie Marenco are universally admired. Not only does she, wearing her recording engineer hat, capture recorded sounds with exquisite delicacy and clarity, but wearing her producer hat she ensures that those sounds are well worth listening to in the first place.

This decoupling of the relationship between the music and the sound has allowed the genres of modern popular music to evolve to a point where “cover versions” of a piece of music – in which the resultant sound can comprise rather drastic alterations to what you might call the inherent music – are actually celebrated as attributes attesting to the value and status of the music itself. Such things just don’t happen with classical music (well, let’s just say that they don’t happen often).

I have discussed these separate concepts of the music and the sound, and I want to finish by addressing their relationship to the listening experience. Because, as audiophiles, the listening experience is central to our interaction with the musical world. When we listen to music we are actually interacting with the combination of the music and the sound. We may love the sonic textures, the rhythms, the dynamic contrasts, the melodic qualities, and other attributes of what we’re listening to. But if they don’t all gel in some meaningful way we find ourselves unsatisfied. Likewise, the most wonderfully constructed musical composition performed in a listless, half-hearted, or just plainly incompetent manner will as often as not disappoint. We strive for that killer combination, where the music and the sound come together at their finest.

As audiophiles, we may also be music lovers, but what sets us apart is our desire to improve the sound part of the experience. No matter how great our equipment, we can’t make the music any better. And no matter how bad the equipment we can’t make it any worse. All we can hope to achieve is to get closer to the sound, and in the process, hope to feel closer to the music.

How fast can the summer go?

It seems like it lasts all of 2 weeks.

So here I am, having returned to my renovated NYC apartment finally listening to my audio system (sort of) after a nearly 6 month hiatus which I wrote about awhile back.

My new listening room was a concession to my wife because of the redesign. My “new” room is actually my old bedroom that I grew up in but whose walls were realigned (actually made smaller!). The views out of my window are really nice, and as my desk abuts the windows it makes for a more pleasant writing experience.

As we live on the sixth floor, I actually look out my new office/listening room window and see the trees that line the street.

And oh…If these walls could talk…but that’s another story.

Approaching it as a listening room, the great challenge was/is what to do for speakers in my new space. The room is a rectangle 14’ x 12’; the walls were redone with Quiet Rock insulation. There is also a carpet and a sofa rendering the room a kind of insulated studio quiet atmosphere.

All kidding aside regarding the 24-hour “The City that never sleeps” experience, where I live on the Upper West Side, on a side street, it really is very quiet. Especially at night.

One of the many advantages of the renovation was that the building itself was completely re-wired during the building wide conversion to condos 5 years ago.

The sponsor increased the power into each apartment: originally we each had 100 amps per apartment and that number was doubled. This was done to acknowledge all of the new high end appliances that now are standard in this kind of building-wide renovation of pre-war NYC apartment buildings and consequently those of us using any kind of media also benefit greatly— as you can imagine.

Add to that, when our apartment was renovated, all new wiring was also installed with 4 dedicated 20 amp lines running into my studio.

This is about as good as it gets in an apartment building.

My former listening room was a converted dining room–a much longer space that allowed me to position the Wilson Sabrinas so as to move air around and behind the speaker. Although the room wasn’t ideal on paper, those who visited always remarked about how well the system imaged. It just plain works— because I know, through 40 years of stereo acquisitions, what it takes to get the room to sound good.

My concern now, however, was to find speakers that would work in my new room.

All the gear that was in storage finally came in May:

Pass 250.8 Power Amp
PS Audio BHK Preamp
Moon 810LP Phono stage
VPI HW-40 DD turntable
Ortofon A-95 cartridge
Marantz SA-10 SACD player
PS Audio P20 Power Regenerator

I just knew that the Sabrinas wouldn’t work, because there was no space behind the speakers in the new room. Consequently, I sold them to a friend just before the move.

Knowing that a decision needed to be made, I attended both the Las Vegas CES show in January and the Munich High End show in May, with an agenda to listen to as many speakers as I could. Maybe, just maybe, I would find something that could work.

The CES show in Vegas was primarily notable for its almost total disdain for the high-end audio world, the manufactures relegated and clustered into 2 floors of the Venetian hotel off the strip as an afterthought.

Most of the reviewers told me that this was the last CES they would ever attend, as it was obvious that the people attending were way more interested in self-driving car technology & smart kitchen and home appliances than audio— except where audio products like Sonos, could be switched on by a remote control.

Just as I thought that the trip was a waste of time I walked into the ELAC room and was introduced to their Senior Electronics Engineer, Peter Madnick. Peter was about to demonstrate some of their new speaker line and invited me to sit and listen.

Having attended many of these demos, it never ceases to amaze me that when a manufacturer wants to impress you and has a variety of gear set up they challenge you to pick out what you are listening to. It invariably results in the unit (speaker, amp, player) being the least expensive. This is to show what kind of a great value you would be buying.

So here I was, facing 4 pairs of speakers, in a room with Michael Fremer and Ken Kessler, and an ELAC rep plays music and says:

“Which speaker do you think you are listening to?”

The smallest one on display was the bookshelf size UB5. While that was the one playing (no surprise there) had he not said that, I would not have guessed from the back of the room. The sound was big, tonally balanced, expansive, articulate.

Then he says: “And this speaker retails for $500.00.”

OK, I walked out thinking that may be the best deal in audio, and went on my merry way.

Fast forward to Munich, where I heard many amazing relatively small speakers that could work in my room…most with exotic veneers, and costing a whole lot more.

Now I’m back in NYC in my new listening room and I excitedly set up all the gear, look at the way the room is now furnished and think…Whoa, here is 75K of front end gear and I need to bring out the best in it— but what will work, and how much will it cost?

At that moment I thought about the ELACs. I contacted Peter, who sent me a pair of UB5’s and hooked em up.

I hope as you read my articles, you can see that I write from the heart. No manufacturer has ever asked me to promote or write about their products.

It is important to say this because of my observations here, and not just about the speaker. It’s about how a speaker, which is the window into the downstream products you buy, actually sound.

Of all audio products, speakers vary the most dollar for dollar in comparison— meaning that if you spend x amount for an amp, a turntable, an audio player, the relative cost delivers pretty close results across similarly priced products. This is not the case for speakers. Speakers are the most artistically designed products, and have the most variables to contend with.

Room design and placement come into play, and the manufacturer can’t guarantee repeatedly satisfactory results, as the interplay of environment is the great unknown element.

What you need to do is hear a speaker in your home. That’s just the start.

If the speaker has great resolving power than everything you feed it will also be exposed.

I’m not presenting a white paper here. I will tell you that, feeding the ELAC UB5’s with my current electronics, in my room, positioned on a pair of ELAC stands, are flat out amazing and have me questioning where I really need to go.

These may be the best bargain in high-end audio. A $500.00 speaker connected to $75,000.00 of electronics!

The compact 3-way design is by the legendary Andrew Jones (KEF, Pioneer, TAD), and does everything right.

The only thing it doesn’t do is give the scale of a larger performance. A scale that a floor stander would probably achieve. What it does do is reveal everything downstream.

The quality you feed into it comes out of it.

For the present time, I am happy listening to my albums again….

It’s about f*ckin time!!

Enjoy Labor Day….