Brilliant Corners

The more I listen—to gear I'm reviewing as well as other people's hi-fis—the more I believe in intangibles. One of these intangibles is the art of system building.

Aidas Svazas is an artisan residing in Lithuania's second largest city, Kaunas. Svazas started out as a cartridge repairman, and our first encounter took place when, on a friend's recommendation, I sent him a Fairchild 225-A, a mono cartridge from the 1950s, to be restored.

I find myself appreciating more and more the way perfectionist audio—a peculiar mix of art, craft, and engineering—tends to attract idealists. Temperamentally, hi-fi people tend to be unlike people involved in the manufacture of ring-joint gaskets or digital kitchen timers—activities that, without a doubt, have their own scales of excellence.

In audio as in life, there are moments when you find your people and, if you're lucky, discover something about yourself. For me, one of these happy junctures took place in the mid-1990s when I came across an issue of Sound Practices.

Most of us, most of the time, live in the world of good enough. On a Saturday, we might drive our Ford Fiesta to pick up a polo shirt at Banana Republic, then dine at Outback Steakhouse, and later get ready for bed with a mug of Celestial Seasonings Caramel Apple Dream tea while watching an episode of Hoarder House Flippers.

About a decade ago, The Wall Street Journal posted a short video about Itsushi Hamasaki, a diffident and rather nondescript man living in Tokyo. To free up money for his loudspeakers—a pair of hulking horns costing north of $100,000—Hamasaki lives in a 250 ft² apartment and hasn't bought a stitch of clothing in 15 years.

"New York is an ugly city, a dirty city," John Steinbeck wrote in 1953. "But there is one thing about it—once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough." Decades later, the novelist's insight about this appalling, incomparable city still feels true. New Yorkers love to complain about the summers, with their wafting miasma of hot garbage and urine; about the superannuated subway system, which only sometimes resembles a psilocybin trip gone really wrong; about the purgatorial agony of finding an apartment; about the affronts of existing shoulder-to-shoulder with the stupendously rich. . .

What I'm getting around to saying is that easily the best part of living here is the people. One of them is Jeffrey Catalano, who has been a drummer, painter, DJ, and construction worker and today runs a hi-fi business, High Water Sound, from a loft in a former sail-making factory on Water Street in Manhattan's financial district.