The Thursday after AXPONA, I planned to go to a listening party, sponsored by our town's library and held at a local art gallery. I thought that for once I would expand my horizons and spend time with others who love music instead of sitting alone in front of my hi-fi. I tempered my audiophile expectations, knowing it was more about music and togetherness than audiophilia. The library's monthly newsletter read, "Bring your favorite vinyl," so I packed up my third copy of Boston's debut album. Not my first or second copy, both Double Wallys (footnote 1), but the third, non–Double Wally, in case it was not handled properly.
Approaching the gallery, I noticed windows on two walls, a third with a mural and the fourth with a refrigerator. There was a kitchen island with a countertop behind it. Not a great room for music listening. "Hi," said Greg. "Welcome. Here is your ticket for playing your song."
"Thank you," I said as I looked around. "Can I ask ... where is the stereo?"
"Oh, it's back there," Greg said, pointing to the counter behind the island. I walked over and spotted a turntable. Nothing else. I looked around again.
"And where are the speakers?"
"The speakers? I think they are up there," Greg said, pointing at the ceiling. I was in for a treat.
I sat down and surveyed the room. I saw about 20 people: a few couples at tables, two bigger groups sitting in circles, most with beverages and bags, presumably with records in them. Apparently, the event was BYOB as well as BYOV.
Greg introduced himself and welcomed visitors. The first ticket number was picked and called. A 40-something woman got up and took an LP of Nirvana's Nevermind out of her bag. She told a story of why the song she chose meant so much to her during her teenage years.
I don't recall what she said, because I was so distracted by what she did. She reached into the album cover and took out the inner sleeve. Then she reached into the inner sleeve and took out the record, thumb and four fingers in the middle of the grooves. In a listening room at AXPONA, there would have been a collective gasp.
Then, having pulled the LP all the way out, the woman put down the inner sleeve and grabbed the other side of the record in the same way, with her other hand. Not finding the song she wanted to play, she flipped the record over and grabbed it again, all 10 fingers on the grooves.
We were now up to 20 fingerprints, 10 on each side, traceable evidence of an audiophile crime. I sat in mute horror, slack-jawed.
Greg got the record on the turntable, fingerprints and all, but he couldn't figure out how to get sound out. Ten minutes went by before sound blared suddenly from the ceiling speakers, causing everyone to jump. The volume was lowered.
I must admit that the speakers sounded good for ceiling speakers—until two minutes in, when the sound cut out. Fifteen minutes passed as four people tried to get the dongle working.
Wait—dongle?
"Dongle" and "turntable" should not appear in a sentence together. Just as records should not be called "vinyls." Maybe I am getting advanced in age. Maybe I am just a Luddite. Either way, get off my lawn.
The sound came on again. Greg attempted to move the stylus back to where the sound had cut out. He reached for the headshell's finger lift and ... "rrrip."
By now, a civic-minded audiophile would have stormed the turntable with a sharp stick shouting, "Step ... slowly ... away ... from ... the ... turntable." Instead, I reached down and shoved the album I'd brought behind my chair. My mind went to that Progressive commercial (footnote 2) in which three guys and a moderator stand around a fire pit as guy number four tries to build a fire. They critique his methods and offer help. After witnessing many fire-building missteps, one of guy walks away, saying, "Can't watch this."
I remained seated, surveying the scene, mapping out the shortest path to the exit. When the moment seemed right, I grabbed my record, cradled it behind my back, and scurried to the door, leaving my song-play ticket on the seat next to me.
Was it a fun party? Maybe it became one; I didn't stay long enough to find out. What I know is, it was the scene of an audiophile crime. Evidence: 20 fingerprints and one scratch.
Still, I learned something from the experience: that I am an old audiophile snob, or maybe just Average Joe Audiophile, with expectations that can't be tempered.
Upon arriving home, I put away my third Boston copy and pulled out a Double Wally, touching the edge gently with the web of skin between thumb and pointer finger. With my middle finger on the label, I shifted the album so that both palms touched the record's edge. I placed it gently on the turntable (connected, by actual wires to an actual phono preamp), brushed off the surface, and slowly lowered the stylus onto the band that leads in to the second track: "Peace of Mind."
I sat and listened, alone and happy. The party could go on without me.—Joe Lynn
Footnote 1: Wally Traugott was born in Kitchener, Ontario. At a very young age, it became apparent that he had perfect pitch and the ability to retain any tune he heard. He trained on violin and was eventually considered the finest fiddler ever to come out of Canada. In 1953, he joined Main Street Jamboree, a TV show in Hamilton. He later became a regular on Country Hoedown on the CBC. In the 1950s, he cut several records including "Boil Them Cabbage Down" and "Snowflake Breakdown." Then in the late 1960s, he gave up the fiddle, moved to California, and had a distinguished second career as a vinyl mastering/lacquer-cutting engineer at Capitol Studios. He cut lacquers for the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Bob Seger, The Beach Boys, and many, many others—including Boston's debut album. Versions of this (and other) albums with "Wly" in the runout or the dead wax on both sides are called "Double Wallys" and considered sonically superior to other versions of the album. Joe Lynn owns double Wallys, single Wallys, and no-Wallys of the first Boston album. Footnote 2: See ispot.tv/ad/fvmK/progressive-dr-rick-firepit.
Footnote 1: Wally Traugott was born in Kitchener, Ontario. At a very young age, it became apparent that he had perfect pitch and the ability to retain any tune he heard. He trained on violin and was eventually considered the finest fiddler ever to come out of Canada. In 1953, he joined Main Street Jamboree, a TV show in Hamilton. He later became a regular on Country Hoedown on the CBC. In the 1950s, he cut several records including "Boil Them Cabbage Down" and "Snowflake Breakdown." Then in the late 1960s, he gave up the fiddle, moved to California, and had a distinguished second career as a vinyl mastering/lacquer-cutting engineer at Capitol Studios. He cut lacquers for the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Bob Seger, The Beach Boys, and many, many others—including Boston's debut album. Versions of this (and other) albums with "Wly" in the runout or the dead wax on both sides are called "Double Wallys" and considered sonically superior to other versions of the album. Joe Lynn owns double Wallys, single Wallys, and no-Wallys of the first Boston album. Footnote 2: See ispot.tv/ad/fvmK/progressive-dr-rick-firepit.
