Tom Fine

Every first love leaves a strong impression. Hopefully it's a good one. Those of us who are phonography-positive fondly remember our first good record playing system, the first turntable-cartridge combo that let the music turn us on. Maybe it was simple, maybe it was fussy, maybe it was unreliable—no matter, it had that special ability to bring the excitement, beauty, and humanity out of the vinyl grooves, through our audio systems, and into our souls.

Big loudspeakers are where diligent hi-fi reviewers really earn their pay. Not only are they heavy and difficult to move, but they also require attention and patience to set up so that they sound their best in our listening spaces. They take time to understand and study. And they all sound quite different from each other.

For a lot of bands, the second album is intimidating. There are numerous examples of sophomore slumps, which sometimes lead to a band's quick end. Talking Heads didn't just avoid a sophomore slump; they scored their first top-40 hit and put their career on solid, sky-is-the-limit footing.

When it comes to phonography, I'm not terribly picky, but I do have preferences. I maintain my records well because I prefer to play clean records, with minimal pops, clicks, and crackle to distract me. I like a phono cartridge that tracks average platters perfectly and difficult sides at least very well.

In the context of a modern hi-fi system, phono cartridges are most akin to loudspeakers in that both are electromechanical transducers. Cartridges convert the mechanical movements of a stylus tracing a record groove to an electrical current.

As much as I love my stereo system and listening to music through two speakers, some recordings just can't be bound by the limits of stereophony. For instance, Carl Orff's epic cantata Carmina Burana. Sure, I've heard successful stereo versions, but listen to the four-channel Quadraphonic mix of the classic 1974 recording by the Cleveland Orchestra, Chorus and Boys Choir, conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas, then decide whether stereo still does it for you.

My oldest aural memory is my mother singing nursery rhymes to send me off to sleep. After that, it's vinyl records. Being the third child, I benefited from a constant stream of audio-related hand-me-downs, starting with a 1960s kiddie phonograph and a pile of well-worn records from my older brothers.