Michael Trei

As the Spin Doctor, I tend to lead an analog life. I'm not just talking about my preferred ways of listening to music, but also my approach to other everyday technology. For decades, there has been a push to turn everything we use into a connected, "smart" device. We now have technology that allows us to change the color temperature of the lights in our living room while we sit on the sofa, or to answer our front doorbell from the other side of the world. I prefer an older-school approach.

The largest regularly scheduled choral singing event in the world is the Estonian National Song Festival, or Laulupidu, which comes around about once every five years in Tallinn, Estonia's capital city. The numbers are pretty mind blowing.

Forty years ago, when I was a much younger man, I was a strong dude. I recall one day in 1986, soon after I started working at Sound by Singer, when Krell cofounder Dan D'Agostino drove down from his factory in Connecticut to deliver a load of amplifiers and preamps for us to sell. As the new guy, I was expected to do the grunt work.

It was supposed to be so simple, a well-trod path I've followed almost every May for the last decade: A six-day trip to Munich to attend the final Munich High End Show before it decamps to Vienna next year.

A friend who sells high-end audio gear once pointed out that people who shop for separate tonearms are very different from those interested in phono cartridges or turntables in general. If you think about it, this makes sense. Almost everyone buying a new turntable needs a cartridge to go with it, and most turntables come equipped with a tonearm. Tonearm shoppers are more avid enthusiasts than general consumers.

It wasn't always that way. In earlier days of high fidelity, 60 or more years ago, people putting together a cutting-edge phono playback system would typically buy what was known as a motor unit: a Thorens TD 124, Garrard 301, or a few years later the Garrard 401 or Technics SP-10. They would match it up with a tonearm from a company like SME or Ortofon.

They say that with age comes wisdom, and judging by some of my younger self's misguided choices, that adage could be true, at least for me. In 1984, after graduating from college with a degree in audio production, I moved back to England, where I had spent most of my teen years as a boarding school inmate. I had friends and connections there, and despite being a US citizen, I had some kind of sketchy work authorization that allowed me to work legally in the UK for up to six months. I connected with my old school friend Morris Gould, and we found a flat in South London to share as I looked for work.

Morris had been the de facto leader of my high school punk band, The Ripchords. Six years later, he was getting started with a career as ambient chill-out deejay Mixmaster Morris, releasing records as The Irresistible Force. Our apartment became a kind of hub in the South London music scene, with musicians and industry people circling through. Eventually, I found a job working at Music and Video Exchange, the gear-focused branch of the popular Record and Tape Exchange chain of secondhand record shops. At M&VE, the staff had first dibs on any cool gear that came in, and I remember being intensely envious when colleague Andy snagged a rare EMS VCS 3 synthesizer for almost nothing.

It doesn't happen very often, but every once in a while a new turntable comes to my attention that I have no prior knowledge of. The last new turntable company that was a complete blank slate was J.Sikora, which I first encountered about six years ago courtesy of importer Jeff Fox of Notable Audio.

Now I find myself in that position again, with UK-based Connected-Fidelity and their turntable the TT Hub. Until I read the press release last December, sent to me by Mike Fajen of importer/distributor Sierra Sound, I was completely in the dark about the TT Hub, its manufacturer Connected-Fidelity, and that company's owner and head designer Michael Osborn.

In my March Spin Doctor column, I gave an overview of my experiences cleaning records over the last 50-plus years and the advances in record cleaning technology over that time. My review of the HumminGuru NOVA ultrasonic record cleaner focused on that increasingly popular approach to record cleaning, using ultrasonic cavitation instead of scrubbing the record with a brush. But if there's one thing I've learned in that half-century of playing around with audio gear, it's that it can be a mistake to embrace a new technology just because of its newness, dismissing what came before as obsolete. The vinyl record itself is a good example of a technology discarded as obsolete, then embraced again by new (and old) generations. You can add vacuum-tube amplifiers, analog tape, and much else in our hobby to that list.

The first album I ever bought with my own money—cash earned mowing neighbors' lawns—was a British plum-label pressing of Led Zeppelin II. It was 1971. I rode my prized Raleigh Chopper bike from our home on the coast of Denmark down the road a couple of miles to the local record store in a small town called Hørsholm.

After entering the store and browsing for a few minutes, I mustered up sufficient courage to head to the counter with the second Zeppelin LP and ask to listen to it. All was musical bliss for a few minutes. Then just as I was really getting into it, about halfway through "What Is and What Should Never Be," the clerk decided I'd heard enough and rudely interrupted my listening session with a "get lost kid" look on his face. I surprised him by pulling out my lawn-mowing cash and buying the album. I pedaled home furiously, as fast as I could, and slapped my first LP onto the family Garrard Autoslim, which I wrote about in Spin Doctor #11.

The British audio scene from the late 1970s through the mid-1980s was pretty strange. Audio as a hobby was a big deal, with widespread appeal to a much younger crowd than today. Audiophiles were guided by a flurry of what my friends called "hi-fi pornos," audio magazines that filled the racks at the newsagents.

Far more than you see today, there was a strong nationalist bent, with some writers displaying an open bias against anything that wasn't British. Magazines' editorial departments presented readers with a clear, specific doctrine of how a system should be built and what components readers should acquire.

As a schoolboy with no system of my own, I lapped up these suggestions, and when I returned to the US in 1980 to attend university, I was finally able to start building a system that conformed to the system-building rules that had been drilled into me.