Art Dudley Listening

Of course, that was only one of many highlights of my stay. I played Irving Berlin's upright Steinway. I read from some of his books. (He evidently enjoyed history, political biographies, and early sci-fi.) I sat in his easy chair and gazed out the enormous picture window at the cascading waters of the Beaver Kill tributary that runs through the Berlin estate.

The Beaver Kill—a 44-mile-long river that cuts a swath from one side of the Catskills to the other—was the ostensible main attraction of our visit last summer. It is to fly-fishing enthusiasts in the Northeastern states as St. Andrews and Pebble Beach are to golfers, and though I'd fished it before, never before had I gone after trout so close to the river's source, where its banks wind through mostly private property. This time I had a pass.

The outing was memorable for pleasantly warm temperatures, perfectly clear skies, and gorgeous scenery, if not for full creels. Still, I did bag one handsome if less-than-mighty brook trout on a Royal Wulff dry fly (a pattern created in the Catskills by the late Lee Wulff) tied on a No.20 hook (footnote 1). It was an amazing day.

Sasha and I made a good dinner of soup and bread purchased from a local deli, and as a chill descended on the heavily wooded estate, we built a fire in the den of the main Lodge, using some maple that had been aging for God knows how long. Then came the evening's highlight: Sasha uncovered Irving Berlin's personal gramophone—a portable acoustical player that had apparently been made specially for him—and listened to some 78s from his collection. We followed that by listening to some mono LPs of Sasha's, played on an electric portable he'd presciently brought with him.

It was one of the two or three most transcendent listening experiences I've ever had.

It's not enough to say that the listening was enhanced by the setting. Without the setting, the experience I found so memorable simply didn't exist. Without the roomful of books and paintings and well-worn furniture, the experience would not have been the same. Without the fire, it would not have been the same. Without the company of my friend Sasha, it would not have been the same. The experience was a composite of sensory information; as with a good poem, in which the sounds of the words convey at least as much meaning as the words themselves, the ultimate playback experience depends on infinitely more than just the quality of the gear and the acoustical rightness or wrongness of the room.

As people who hope to re-create art every time we drop needle into groove, we forget that at our peril.

After my column in the October issue, in which I described my preference for the idea of keeping my playback system in a comfortable, sunlit part of the house, accessible and enjoyable by all, I received a number of letters from readers who agree with my point of view, and who expressed relief at seeing in our pages so logical yet apparently heretical an idea. But criticizing the manner in which someone else enjoys recorded music goes against everything I stand for, so if you prefer the solitude and freedom from tidiness that come with a person cave, then that's what you should shoot for—and to hell with what I or anyone else thinks.

Socializing with the Elks
Years ago, soon after my wife and I moved to Cherry Valley, New York, one of her coworkers invited us to join her and her husband at a social function in nearby Esperance, an even smaller village on the road between our home and the city of Albany. When it was time to get ready for our evening out, I asked Janet what sort of place we were going to, in order to dress for the occasion. She told me we were going to the Elks Club.

Founded in 1868 as a New York City–based private social club, the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks is associated in the minds of many with conformist ideals and center-right political beliefs—or at least that's the impression I gained as a youngster whose father and stepfather were both Elks, and who was sometimes dragged to the reliably boozy functions at our local Elks Lodge, the front lawn of which featured a life-size bronze elk that local fraternities persisted in decorating with fanciful combinations of jockstraps, football helmets, and lipstick.

But as recently as 1976—well into the Presidency of Gerald Ford, himself a loyal Elk—the BPOE was a whites-only organization, and as recently as 1995, ownership of a penis was also a membership requirement. Those toxic, anti-American rules didn't apply only to Elks membership: Before 1976, if you were black and you wanted to rent the ballroom of your local Elks Lodge for a private event, you were shit out of luck—and before 1995, if you were a woman and you wanted to drink at the bar of your local Elks Lodge, you had to be accompanied by a male, presumably so he could tell you what you wanted.

Now my wife and I were headed not just to an Elks Lodge but to an Elks Lodge in rural upstate New York. I imagined a parking lot full of pickup trucks and empty Skoal tins, and a bar crammed with people with such finely tuned leftie radar that the whole place would go silent the minute I walked in the door. (That's another thing: Until late in the last century, you could not join the BPOE without repudiating communism.) Obviously, the dress code would be camo.

It was still light outside when we got to the place—set way back from Route 20, the Lodge looked as if it might once have been a roadhouse—and I did indeed spot an empty smokeless-tobacco tin in the big graveled parking lot. But that was the only thing I had right: With the possible exception of a Catholic mass I once attended at St. Patrick's Church in Long Island City, New York, I don't think I've ever had a building full of strangers treat me more nicely. My fellow attendees were angels, the bartenders were saints, and the guy who replenished the snack buffet, and who described himself as the head Elk of this particular Lodge, was kind, solicitous, and obviously interested in attracting new members, regardless of political affiliation. I know that because, when I responded to his membership pitch by telling him that I was a registered member of the Green Party, he skipped not a beat, but smiled and assured me that I would not be the only member so affiliated.

On the way home from that unfailingly pleasant time, Janet and I agreed that one thing was clear: In 2005, it was change or die for the BPOE, and someone in the organization, whether local or national, had not only accepted the notion of change but had sincerely and passionately embraced it.

And there's another lesson: Perfectionist audio can survive, perhaps thrive, even at a time when our core members are all being fitted with stents and pacemakers and artificial joints—and hearing aids. But to survive, we must face some tough decisions and make some difficult changes. Perhaps, with luck, the time is finally upon us when the thick faceplates, outsize cables, and absurd prices that make our pastime so repulsive to the young will start to show up in our collective rear-view mirror. I can but hope.

I never joined the Elks Club—just as, after reading Umberto Ecco's Foucault's Pendulum, I never joined the Masons, and after listening to the first three Leonard Cohen albums, I never joined the Rosicrucians. But before writing this, I poked around the Internet in an effort to learn more about the BPOE. And there, among the list of famous Elks—next to FDR, JFK, Ben Affleck, Gail Edwards, Zelma Wyche, and Lawrence Welk—was none other than Irving Berlin, an immigrant turned artist turned philanthropist from whose cup I have figuratively and literally drunk. So I guess I haven't given up on the idea altogether.

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Footnote 1: Another musico-angling aside: In 1995, after I first interviewed him for Listener magazine, I gave Procol Harum's Gary Brooker, himself a champion fly-caster, a packet of Royal Wulffs, which he reported enjoying: "I gave them a thrashing!"