So, you’ve assembled this great high-end system—components, speakers, cabling, isolation devices, various tweaks, and so on—and you’re experiencing what you believe is the highest fidelity your system is capable of. But have you considered power conditioning? The subject is not nearly as controversial as it once was. Most major audio magazines, this publication included, have extolled the virtues of cleaning up the power that runs from the wall to your stereo.
I’m an old-school kind of guy when it comes to audio. I like the physical medium, be it analog or digital. I want to see and handle the disc, read the liner notes, and appreciate the artwork or pictures that come with a recording. Luxman is old school, too—literally. Founded in 1925, this Japanese company has been making high-quality audio products ever since.
It’s not imperative for me that an audio component be visually flashy or fancy. I still love the clean, classic simplicity of, say, the basic burnished metal faceplate of a vintage Conrad-Johnson or Audio Research model—no knobs or buttons other than a power switch. That said, there’s something about watching the myriad meters of my reference system of McIntosh Laboratory amplification components dancing in a blue glow—my experience of the sound is enhanced by the system’s visual appeal.
We audiophiles are a compulsive, persnickety bunch. We fuss, fiddle, tweak, adjust, calibrate, measure, tinker, and toil — all to achieve the highest quality of sound reproduction possible. A generation ago, this obsession with getting everything just right was pretty much limited to the equipment itself. Most components came with captive or detachable power cords, the sufficiency of which was seldom questioned. Interconnects and speaker cables were also fairly basic affairs — rarely did audiophiles feel the need to experiment with replacements. Then something happened: Early makers of cables — e.g., Monster Cable, Cobra, Vampire Wire — set out to convince us that wires could alter the sound of an audio system.
My chronic addiction to Audiophilia nervosa has lasted more than 30 years now, and in that time I’ve owned countless components. Family and friends often joke that I should install a loading dock outside my listening room, to ease the swapping of gear in and out. At one time or another I’ve owned products from almost every major maker of high-end audio equipment, and in some cases — Conrad-Johnson, Magnepan, Mark Levinson, McIntosh Laboratory, etc. — several of their current and past offerings.
What most non-audiophiles say when they see my system for the first time — after “Wow, those speakers are huge!” — is this: “You still listen to records?” By which they mean vinyl LPs, their implication being digital playback formats are of course superior to analog, and that I should get with the times. As politely and non-condescendingly as I can, I try to explain that, in my opinion, the very best analog rigs reproduce recorded music with higher fidelity than the very best digital rigs. Their response is usually skeptical — until I prove my point with a demonstration. Most doubters then become converts — or at least feign agreement.
McIntosh Laboratory was founded in 1949, when vinyl was a growing source for music reproduction. But it wasn’t until nearly 60 years later that the venerable company, based in Binghamton, New York, introduced its first turntable model. The debut of the MT10 turntable ($11,500 USD) was polarizing: Those who first saw it loved it or hated it. I remember some of the comments: “A turntable with a meter? Why?!” or “I don’t care how it sounds, it just looks too odd.” But most of the people who panned it had yet to hear it.