LATEST ADDITIONS

Jeff Tweedy is an artist who transcends time. Wait—let me clarify that. Tweedy, the multi-hyphenate singer, songwriter, guitarist, and co-producer for the midwestern-bred alt-rocking Americana band Wilco, has spent the bulk of his career creating music that crosses the divides between past, present, and future.

CH Precision's P1 phono preamplifier, which I wrote about in the April 2017 issue, is not going back to its manufacturer. The longer I used it, the more obvious it became that I couldn't part with it, even though I said I couldn't afford it. The cost was stiff even at the accommodation price (at retail, the CH Precision P1 and its optional X1 power supply are $31,000 and $17,000, respectively, footnote 1), but I decided I could afford it, and bought it for myself as a 70th-birthday present. No, I can't hear as well as I did 30 years ago, but my listening is better than ever.

Checking in exclusively with the producers behind the massive new box set for Queen's stunning May 1989 album The Miracle, to learn why you'll want it all—and you'll want it now.

This morning, I received an email from John, my DIY friend in Europe, saying how happy he was. He had just finished building a new power amplifier using two UcD250LP class-D amplifier modules. He described the results as "quiet, clear, clean, effortless class-D power," adding, "What more could I ask for?"

The year 1965 was turbulent, pivotal, and consequential. LBJ sent soldiers to the Dominican Republic, stepped into Vietnam with both feet, and signed laws expanding voting rights and creating Medicare and Medicaid. Antiwar protests gathered steam, Bob Dylan went electric, the Beatles played Shea Stadium, Sandy Koufax pitched a perfect game, and pioneering DJ Alan Freed died.

Summer 1959. The concert under the stars in the Wellfleet, Massachusetts, town parking lot was over. Pete Seeger was packing up his banjo as I approached him gingerly—I was 6 years old. I stuck out the notepad I'd been careful to bring. "Can I have your autograph?"

Towering over me, six-three to my three-eight, Seeger said in exasperation, if not outright coldness, "I don't give autographs. I'm not some goddamned star."

Terrified, I stood my ground.