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One August night in 1965, I parked in the driveway of my best friend Derf Marko's house and let myself in the back door. As I entered, I could see to the bottom of the basement stairs, where I observed a loud pulsing darkness with plumes of agreeably acrid smoke floating up through the stairwell. Back in the darkness, I heard Derf/Fred and another person making declarative statements in loud unintelligible bursts. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, Marko's basement rec room looked like a trashed-out tiki bar illuminated by a single red Christmas light hanging just above a Dual turntable. The room was dark to a point where it was impossible to walk without stepping on records or to make out who was there and what was going on. I slouched on a couch, closed my eyes, and let my mind follow the sounds of rock drummers wailing like angry cats.

Soon it was obvious: Marko was frantically playing one drum solo after another while some crazy old dude kept hollering for the next solo before the last one finished. The revved-up stranger kept slapping his knees, muttering, and drumming along with each different drummer. Stacks of unsleeved LPs littered the linoleum floor and pink wool couch I was slumping on. But unbelievably, Marko adeptly—without cursing, fumbling, or hesitation—located every solo he wanted.

I found out later that the crazed "old guy" was Ginger Baker!

Forty years ago, as I was starting out on my audio journey, I railed against the flashy mainstream audio gear of the day. To me less was more, and I tried to convince my friends that my small, austere British-made audio rig, including what my friends jokingly called my Lynn Swanndek turntable (after the Steelers wide receiver), really did sound much better than their big silvery Japanese stacks loaded up with shiny knobs, switches, and meters. Audio was all about the sound after all, and I wasn't interested in some dazzling visual display that had nothing to do with what I was hearing. I gravitated toward gear that wasn't flashy or fancy looking, feeling that meant that the effort and expense to create it went where it counted most, to the parts that made it sound great.

This paragraph from Linear Tube Audio's website description of their new Aero DAC sets the tone for the story I'm about to tell. "After trying various options, we chose the Analog Devices AD1865 R2R DAC chip, which is sometimes called the 'vinyl DAC,' for its organic sound. It is a non-oversampling DAC, with no digital filters. The AD1865 is much-loved by audiophiles and is used by at least one hi-fi company in a flagship DAC costing over $150,000."

Check the forums and you find that the AD1865 chip is also a heavy DIY favorite. Home brewers are attracted to this discontinued, "obsolete" 18-bit chip for its easy implementation and unprocessed, music-friendly sound.

Recording music is complicated, and without the crucial assistance of producers and engineers, a lot of great records—not to mention successful musical careers—would not happen. Producers Steve Albini and Michael Cuscuna, two key figures from the music world who departed in recent months, richly deserve to be celebrated.

Though they worked in widely disparate genres—Cuscuna primarily in jazz, Albini in punk and noise rock—they are connected by their extraordinary efforts and unfailing taste. Both were exacting, dedicated, and supremely talented. Without the passion and obsessive nature of this one-of-a-kind pair, such records as Nirvana's In Utero and Mosaic Records' boxed sets, including The Blue Note Hank Mobley Fifties Sessions, to name just two examples, would not exist. Cuscuna and Albini were guides and molders, shaping music and our perceptions of it.

Some 30 years ago, vinyl records seemed to be heading in the direction of the 8-track tape, toward becoming an obsolete format. As everyone knows, vinyl rebounded and has so far avoided that fate (but see this month's As We See It about the status of the Compact Disc). An international association aims to keep it that way.

The Vinyl Alliance was formed in 2019 "to strengthen awareness and the image of vinyl records worldwide," according to the organization's website. The VA is a membership organization with some 40 institutional members including vinyl producers, record companies (including all three major labels), music resellers, record-press makers, pressing plants, and turntable and cartridge manufacturers.

As founder and chief designer of Sonus Faber, Franco Serblin designed and manufactured many loudspeakers of acclaimed high quality, mainly in box form. Nevertheless, he remained painfully aware that such conventional rectangular parallelepiped constructions inevitably possessed an inherent and hard-to-suppress resonant signature characteristic of box-form cabinetry, significantly differing from that for a musical instrument. Franco had long obsessed over the sound and construction of classical string instruments, violins, violas, and cellos made by grand masters over centuries. He valued highly those richly resonant, expressive, complex sonic signatures.

Danny Elfman: Percussion Concerto, Wunderkammer
Colin Currie, percussion; Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, JoAnn Falletta, cond.
Sony Classical 906443 (reviewed as 24/96 WAV). 2024. Danny Elfman, prod.; Peter Cobbin, Kirsty Whalley, Dennis Sands, Patricia Sullivan, engs.
Performance ****½
Sonics ****

It's time to go out on a limb. Are Danny Elfman's Percussion Concerto and the other works on his new album "great music"? Should this classical music, from the former lead singer and songwriter of new wave band Oingo Boingo—who composed film scores for Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, Beetlejuice, and Spider-Man, and whose music introduces Desperate Housewives and The Simpsons—be in the same conversation with Albéniz, Scriabin, Ligeti, Glass, Gluck, Brahms, and Beethoven, whose work appears on our other Recording of the Month candidate, Yuja Wang's Vienna Recital?