"Schwabing isn't a neighborhood, but a state of being," declared the Countess Fanny zu Reventlow, an early feminist who scandalized German society by parenting out of wedlock, carrying a revolver, and practicing what today tends to be called ethical nonmonogamy. Thomas Mann described the fellow denizens of this northern corner of Munich as "the most singular, the most delicate, the boldest exotic plants." At the turn of the last century, Schwabing was on its way to becoming the artistic epicenter of Europe, a laboratory for the most progressive social ideas, and arguably the birthplace of modernity. Kandinsky made Western art's first abstract painting while living there; local cafes once patronized by Lenin would soon host a young Adolf Hitler. Some called it Schwabylon.

These days, Schwabing's spotless, freshly paved streets are lined with the glass-and-steel facades of Hiltons and Marriotts. Its proximity to MOC, Munich's titanic convention center, has turned the neighborhood into a destination for business travelers from near and far.

It's the late 1980s, and I'm soldering tube amplifiers on a plywood bench. I decide on a whim that it's time to break down and buy a CD player to supplement the Dynaco tuner and Dual cassette deck in my workroom music system.

I was a slow starter with digital because of my early take on CD sound: It was emotionally drained with grumbling distortions in the bass and an off-timbre midrange, crowned by a thin, artificial treble, and penetrated by an eerie, unnatural silence whenever the musicians stopped playing. I thought cassettes had higher fidelity and that CDs would be a passing fad, but I kept browsing CDs at Tower Records, and the itch to buy some was getting pretty strong.

One of my friends said, "Maybe it's not the conversion principle that's to blame but something else, like an imperfect CD player?" That interesting thought had not occurred to me, and it obviously occurred to lots of engineers, because they are still trying to improve the quality of CD playback by adjusting the mechanism.

D'Agostino President Bill McKiegan asked if I might be interested in writing the first US review of the top-line, three-piece, fully balanced D'Agostino Relentless preamplifier ($149,500, plus $19,500 for the optional digital streaming module), which since its 2021 introduction had only received a single review, in Europe.

Me, review a $150,000 preamp? This was not a kid in a candy store–scale event. This was a kid let loose in a big-assed candy factory–scale event.

My glucose levels spiked. Questions whirled. What new virtues might a cost-no-object, presumably state-of-the-art preamplifier bring to my reference system? Would images be more corporeal? Would the soundstage be wider and deeper, tonal colors more intense? Would bass—already fabulous—be even more solid? Would the Relentless preamp move me closer to a premium-seat-in-a-live-concert experience?