Stephen Mejias

Kelli shared with me an interesting article from yesterday's New York Times. It's called "String Theory: New Approaches to Instrument Design." The article lets us know that there are a bunch of scientists and instrument makers out there trying to uncover the mysteries of acoustics. They're going absolutely bananas — tapping on wood, messing around with f-holes, playing with graphite... Some of these guys seem to think that the magic of violin making came to an end with Stradivari because of our reluctance to embrace new technologies and experiment with new materials.

One instrument maker, Joseph Curtin, said:

There's a kind of nervousness that the mystery will go out of it, the bubble will be pricked and it'll all just be ordinary.

It'll be technology.

There's almost a cultural sense that the violin is the last repository of mystery. The fact that we don't understand the violin adds to its allure.

Joseph Curtin should be a poet. I would teach his work in my Honors Literature course, and the students would discuss wildly. They would feed on his words like sharks on bloody chum.

It reminds me of this long-ass thread in our Forum, which is killing me, really killing me. Forty-eight goddamned pages, and no sign of stopping. I'm so tired of it but I can't say anything because why would I want to say anything that might stop it? And now, oh no, I've said something. Don't listen to me. Even though I have to listen to you, please don't listen to me. Hush me up, stop me now, I should be gagged with some T.S. Eliot, bound with a bit of Cesar Millan, and more.

The thing is: There is no point. What is the point?

Shh!

And Dr. George Bissinger is taking measurements and listening. He's comparing legendary instruments to newer, experimental models, and examining data from a group of faulty violins, in order to develop a sort of anatomical guide — a sound map — dissecting the violin bit by bit, bout by bout, scroll by butt, to better understand — nay, to know! — which features inspire which parts of a violin's sound.

Fascinating!

Of his toil, Dr. Bissinger says:

I like the bad ones as much as the good.
How can you know beautiful if you don't know ugly?

And I weep:

How can we be lovers if we can't be friends?
How can we start over if the fighting never ends?
How can we make love if we can't make amends?

Are we all poets here? Knock on wood. Dr. Bissinger, my dear, you are my brother. You should review loudspeakers. Your insight reminds me of my own recent work comparing the confounding Onkyo "guitar speakers," as I like to call them, with the slightly more traditional (at least outwardly) DeVore gibbon 3s. Though the two designs are so radically different, I thought the comparison fair since they do share the retail price of $2000/pair. Two thousand dollars for these little Onkyos?! The Onkyos, I figured, would suck. It only makes sense that they would. They are made of what? I don't know, but they are light and thin and they resonate like maracas. And they look funny. The ladies like them. Girls adore them. I mean, even the ones who never saw them...

The DeVores, on the other hand, are normal and pass the knuckle-rap test. No echoes to be heard.

And, so, I listened.

Let me tell you: Maybe I just don't know ugly, but comparing loudspeakers is for the birds.

At first, listening to some old Portuguese dance music from the 16th century through the Onkyos, I heard what I expected to hear. The music seemed a bit distant (heh heh), veiled, wrapped in a sheet of misty fog. And everything had an echo to it. Was this ugly? Indeed, I thought it was. After awhile, though, it sounded just fine. It sounded good, even. Had I grown accustomed to it? You tell me, Doctor.

I switched speakers. Through the DeVores, Folias antiguas had a more adequate-seeming proportion of slither and roll, moving forward steadily, while still teetering and hissing and sighing. It sounded better. And while enjoying Folias Gallegas, I got the sense that I was hearing more of the music, and less of the speaker. I could more easily imagine the instrument and musician living within the performance space. And I'm just about certain I could even hear some birdies chirping somewhere in the background. Do you hear that? [Seriously, Clifton, do you hear that?] Where'd those birdies come from? The DeVores imparted the movement of the dance, gave the dance sway, and used the strong hand of love to neaten the overall presentation, adding life and intensity to the music. The Onkyos, it seemed, left things just the slightest bit loose and ragged. Just as I expected!

Ah and ha.

Oh, dear Doctor, if I had only stopped there.

But no:
I switched speakers again.

Through the Onkyos, the birdies were louder, and it was time to go to sleep.