Herb Reichert

It is really funny how a simple thing like what hat I am wearing can affect everything I see and hear. When I used to wear my audio show "visitor" hat—only a few rooms had good sound and the equipment all seemed overpriced. When I wore my "exhibitor" hat my room always had the best music and the best sound. Now, I am wearing my "reporter" hat and a little tag that says Stereophile at the Capital Audio Fest, which runs Friday through Sunday at the Silver Spring, Maryland, Sheraton and the first three rooms I visit have amazing sound. How can this be?

Playing recorded music in the home is a complex, coded, cultural experience: We sit, we listen, we think and dream—and, when it feels just right, we admire. We admire who we are and how we arrived at this beautiful moment. This simple act of admiration is usually a happy sort of self-congratulatory expression of our basic desire to have meaningful as well as enjoyable experiences. We are proud of our good taste and love of music. But this type of listening can also provoke anxiety and self-recrimination. We ask ourselves why we like this music and not some other kind. What would my friends think if they knew I was listening to "truckin' wit' th' doo-dah man"—or Deodato?

Way back when, I met this maenad woman at Caffe Reggio in Greenwich Village and told her I was an artist. She told me she was an art collector and invited me to her loft to see her collection. While she was showing me an impressive assortment of African and contemporary art, she was dropping names: William Burroughs, Bob Marley, John Cage, etc. Hmmm . . . really? I spoke up. "Oh, I love John Cage. What was he like?"