mobanmarketAs per our ritual, Karim and Dan arrived at my door in late afternoon, bearing our ritual’s customary offerings: dark beer, wine, cold pork sandwiches, fruit and chocolate tarts, good music on well-recorded CDs, and audio hardware to try out on the host’s hi-fi—on this particular Friday, my hi-fi. It’s what we did: break bread while gabbing like regular folk about regular things, then bolt for the listening room for an evening of hi-fi fun.
It was that evening, during our fun, that I was struck by the specialness of the moment, and of us. We had gotten together no more than a handful of times over a span of six weeks, knew little of each other’s personal lives, yet already our event felt traditional, like we’d been doing it for years. Because of audio, we’d become instant best friends, to the point that I knew in my gut that I could count on either of them to bail me out of a sticky situation.
But . . . why? Our hobby isn’t exactly a social activity—it’s not bowling or line dancing. Most of the action happens in our minds. It’s a selfish business, conducted mainly in isolation, to better immerse ourselves in our music. That’s how we like it, obviously, or else we wouldn’t be audiophiles.
And yet, as antisocial as our hobby fundamentally is, something about it had super-glued Karim, Dan, and me together.
But what? Curious, I replayed our story from the beginning, to that winter day when I received an email from a Karim. I’d never heard of him. Attached was a photo of a man with an enormous smile, possibly explained by the even more enormous Dunlavy SC-V speakers in the background. The thrust of his text: Would I bring my $5000 Audible Illusions L3A preamp so that he could audition it in his home?
“As if!” I thought. “It’s a trick! I’m going to get bonked on the head and be out a decent preamp.” That’s when the audiophile angel who sits on the pinna of my right ear whispered: “He just wants to evaluate the L3A’s sound where it counts most: in his own system.” It was a convincing argument. I related, totally. I wrote back, saying I would grant Karim his wish and might even lend him my preamp for the night if it would help.
As it turned out, Karim was his real name, and I didn’t get bonked on the head for my preamp. But if I did, I would’ve chalked it up to karmic reckoning. That’s because my decision to help out Karim wasn’t entirely selfless. As much as I appreciate the private nature of our hobby, the audiophile in me was lonely and craved contact with other hobbyists.
So, with preamp in hand, I GPSed my way to Karim’s house. There, I was greeted by Karim and his new friend Dan, who I didn’t expect, along with a kitchen table crammed with food and drink, also unexpected. Five minutes into our chat, I saw in them the audiophile that exists in me. It felt almost like a homecoming.
In the days after, I was introduced to music and audio gear I had never come across on my own, and I learned, at age 53, that female vocals appeal to me more than I’d led myself to believe. I was also reminded of basic truths I seem to forget and remember in cycles: that despite personal preferences, every audiophile seeks a variation on the musical truth; that A/B testing is untrustworthy when it comes to deciding what I can live with; that system synergy is what we spend our lives trying to perfect; and that as much as I enjoy the intimate, vibrant presentation served up by my stand-mount speakers, big monitors like the Dunlavy SC-V’s are kings of scale, sweep, and bass tones that seem to shake the very fabric of the space-time continuum. There is a pot of gold at both ends of the rainbow.
At last year’s Montreal Audiofest, Karim called me just as I was preparing to rush home, 20 miles away, to complete my show report—and I discovered that I’d lost my car key. I was panicking. “Don’t worry,” Karim said calmly. “I’ll drive you home to get your second key and bring you back to your car.” That we hardly knew each other made Karim’s offer seem incredible to me.
So . . . how come? I suggest the answer to that question starts with the music: its timelessness, universality, humanity, power to unite—its link to our collective and personal pasts and our refusal to live without it. Then comes our reverence for audio gear that holds the promise of making our favorite music sound new again.
Most important, I think—what makes the superglue super—is what happens when the three of us get together. It is celebratory. Liberating. Suppressed thoughts leap out of our mouths, and we scamper in the half-light placing gear and recordings in their proper place. When the music begins to fill the room, I can feel my gratitude swell to triple its normal level, commensurate with the number of us collectively reveling in life’s most essential pairing: of music and high-fidelity audio.
Or, as Dan put it to me after a particularly memorable listening experience: “Isn’t our hobby the greatest?”
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