Brilliant Corners

I have a day job at a museum. One of my favorite things about working there is taking the elevator from my office down to one of the floors open to the public; I walk into the galleries through a discreet panel in the wall. This makes me feel like I'm in one of those horror-movie manors with a tunnel concealed behind a bookshelf. Sometimes I startle people, which I kind of enjoy.

Mostly I like spending time looking at art, especially in the early mornings when the galleries are empty. Lately, I've been watching art handlers hanging a roughly 100'-long tapestry depicting some manner of planetary jetsam—or maybe they are aquatic plants—by Nigerian artist Otobong Nkanga. And I make regular trips to a small theater to watch mesmerizing footage of Orchard Street in working-class lower Manhattan, shot in 1955 by veteran filmmaker Ken Jacobs. Captured on warm, saturated 16mm film, the long-gone people on the screen appear as vividly alive as the museumgoers around me.

My favorite-ever thing at the museum, though, is a life-sized kitchen. Austrian architect Grete Lihotzky designed it for a Frankfurt housing complex in 1927, and it became the prototype for the purpose-built, appliance-filled cooking spaces we know today. Aside from its novelty, what set the Frankfurt Kitchen apart is its stated aim: to improve the lives of women working in the home through the application of attention and, in the broadest sense, love.

Lihotzky came by her love through rational means. She used time-motion studies and interviews with housewives and women's groups to create a marvel of efficiency. Just over 6' by 11', her kitchen contains a revolving stool, a gas stove, a foldaway ironing board, an adjustable ceiling light, and a removable garbage drawer, as well as built-in labeled containers for everything from rice to potato starch, each with a spout for easy pouring. The beauty of the design lay in the details: Lihotzky used oak for the flour containers (to repel mealworms) and beech for cutting surfaces (to resist knife gouges and stains). In Weimar Germany, a woman architect was still a rarity, but it is difficult to imagine a man designing a kitchen with such empathy and care. I have often imagined myself preparing food in that little space, with real delight.

Grete Lihotzky lived to be 103. On her 100th birthday, she confessed that she had never learned to cook.

Her famous kitchen came to mind while I was thinking about, and listening to, the Leben amplifier I'm writing about here (footnote 1). More than any audio component I've touched, the CS-600x embodies a designer's deep concern for the listener—not just in the way it looks and functions but because it makes me feel considered (footnote 2). The Leben is an example of human-centered design, in the sense that it prioritizes the user's experience above the usual form-follows-function credo, which can result in the kind of sleek and rather cold objects that populate museum gift shops and much of high-end audio. Another way of saying this is that it's designed to make people happy.

I first laid eyes on the Leben in my friend Michael Lavorgna's barn; he uses it in his primary system. I liked the idea of it so much that I almost didn't care how it sounded. Almost. And as the envy worked its way around my heart and brain, I resolved to live with it. Emails ensued, and soon a box from Japan was sitting on my rug, daring me to open it.

The humanism that makes the Leben special becomes apparent as soon as you unbox it. Refreshingly, it isn't too large (17.7" × 14.1" × 5.6") nor too heavy (49lb), and its price ($8995), while certainly not low, puts it within the reach of more people than a great many components we write about in these pages.

The CS-600x is clearly inspired by mid–20th century American integrated amplifiers from the likes of Fisher and H.H. Scott. These modestly powered and priced components hid their tube innards in wooden cases and offered every kind of feature one could wish for, from a rumble filter and tone controls to loudness and stereo/mono switches. Though these full-function tube amplifiers disappeared from the US market long ago, replaced by higher-tech, more minimal descendants, they found a forever home in Japan. For other contemporary examples, check out the lovely Luxman LX-380.

In the 21st century, the Leben's features are both surprising and, at least for me, welcome. On the front panel alone, the amplifier features an input selector knob, a tape monitor, a stereo-reverse control, a 40-position stepped potentiometer, a balance knob (yes!), a bass boost control, a ¼" headphone jack, and switches that allow the user to mute the amp, use it as a power amp, and choose between speakers and headphones. On the back are the usual speaker terminals, five sets of unbalanced line inputs, two more for a tape monitor and a preamp, an IEC input, a ground lug, and a knob that allows a choice of four output transformer taps: 4, 6, 8, and 16 ohms.

This versatility characterizes much about the Leben. Rather unusually, for example, the power amp switch disables the input selector, tape monitor, and reverse stereo control but keeps the potentiometer and other features in the circuit. This means that you can use a line stage to control volume and the Leben's potentiometer to adjust the total amount of gain, an option that turned out to be useful with the very sensitive Klipsch La Scala speakers. Or, for a more minimal signal chain, you can connect a phono stage or DAC to the pre-in inputs and control the volume with the Leben. Feature-wise, my only unfulfilled wish is a mono switch.

The CS-600x comes with four New Sensor EL34 output tubes, which are run conservatively at 28Wpc, but the user can swap in whichever output tube they prefer or have on hand, including the 5881, 6L6GC, KT66, KT77, KT88, 350B, and 6550. Two switches inside the unit set the plate voltage and cathode resistor value.

Some will complain that all these features are unnecessary and only serve to gum up the sound. There's a priggish puritanism at work among self-styled experts who insist, for example, that you shouldn't need a balance control in a properly set-up system. I disagree. If you listen in a functioning living room, or abhor the look of acoustic treatments, or use vintage tubes, you know what I'm talking about. For those of us who listen in real-world homes and not dedicated sonic chambers, more features means more better.

Everything inside the Leben exudes care. It's assembled and wired by hand without circuit boards, the transformers and chokes are wound in-house, and the delightfully retro wooden side panels are made of Canadian white ash, a hardwood more commonly used for baseball bats and boat oars. Turning the beautifully machined metal selectors and knobs on the classy gold-and-green anodized fascia feels luxurious and reassuring. Even the company's oval logo and kooky Japanglish motto—"A Motion Sound"—make me smile.

The amp's history suggests just as much forethought. Though it can be difficult to come by this information on Leben's rather spare website, the CS-600 has remained in the company's product line since 2005 and has been updated once, in 2019, to the CS-600x. As far as I can tell, the changes involved new input tubes and possibly a new set of vibration-reducing feet.

I happen to think the Leben looks and, more importantly, feels beautiful in a timeless, grown-up way, but there is a design choice that, for me, keeps it from being a perfect object: When it's turned on, the four LEDs on the front panel glow yellow, blue, and green or red (depending on the output tubes), respectively. That's at least two colors too many. Why, Leben, why?

Listening to the Leben
My audition of the CS-600x began with gratitude for its remarkable versatility. Driving the La Scalas from its 8 ohm tap, it sounded just a bit bass-heavy and slow. Switching to the 6 ohm tap—a feature I've seen on only one other amp—tightened the bass, improved the speed, and otherwise dialed everything in.

Saying that the CS-600x sounds the way it looks would be reductive but not altogether false: the amp's gold and dark-wood detailing offers more than a hint about its sweet, generous, and ever-so-slightly-warm voicing. Leben's designer, Taku Hyodo, has said that in the CS-600x he was after "total musical balance." Formerly an electronics designer at Luxman and a professional guitarist, Hyodo tends to avoid audiophile parts and instead aims for what he calls "a natural sound."

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Footnote 1: Leben Hi-Fi Stereo Company, 2-36-29, Nishi-Koya, Amagasaki City, Hyougo 661-0047, Japan. Email: muson@leto.eonet.ne.jp. Web: lebenhifi.com/. US distributor: Tone Imports. Email: info@toneimports.com. Web: toneimports.com/

Footnote 2: John Marks wrote about the original Leben CS600 in 2010; Art Dudley reviewed the smaller CS300 the following year.