In Memoriam: Atsushi Miura

Today, May 27, 2022, I learned from Art Manzano of AXISS Audio that my dear friend (and his) Atsushi Miura, past general manager of the Lux Corporation (Luxman electronics) and president of Lux Audio of America, and subsequently founder of A & M Ltd. (Air-Tight electronics and phono cartridges), passed away at the age of 88.

I could go on at length about Mr. Miura’s many accomplishments—he is, after all, a charter member of TAS’ High-End Audio Hall of Fame and earned a chapter of his own in the The Absolute Sound’s Illustrated History of High-End Audio, Volume Two: Electronics—but rather than make a list of his many notable accomplishments, I’d rather talk about how he and I became friends.

When I first went to Japan, better than a decade-and-a-half ago, I was warned, in a polite way, that the Japanese aren’t like Americans. They don’t show their feelings as readily or as openly as we do; their relationships are more formal and business-like, especially with strangers but even among friends. I was told to bow rather than to offer a handshake, never to touch (as with a friendly pat on the arm), and, in general, to “keep a distance” in speech and action as a matter of custom and etiquette.

Now, as anyone who knows me can tell you, this is not my usual mode of behavior. I’m an emotional man (too emotional, at times, and quite the opposite of my cool-headed friend and colleague Robert Harley, which may be why we have fit together so well as counterparts for the past 25 years). Holding things in or back just isn’t part of my makeup. If I like someone, I let him or her know it without reserve. If I don’t, well, I can be confrontational when pushed too hard.

On the first evening that I met Mr. Miura, he took us (my wife Kathy, Julie Mullins, and me) and his Air-Tight team to a restaurant for sushi and sake. Mr. Miura did not speak English (or only a word or two), but as we drank (beer first, then sake) we both got a little tipsy—it was at this meal than I learned to say the word “Kanpai” (“bottoms up”) as a toast, and, through Mr. Miura’s gestural instruction, the custom of tapping your glass on the table when you finished drinking (to show satisfaction and encourage another pour), as well as offering to pour for your host and other guests. Between the booze and the delicious food, a near-palpable feeling of fellowship developed between us. By the end of the evening, I was too drunk to follow the rules, and I gave him a friendly pat on the arm as we parted.

Later in the trip, we visited a famous temple in Kyoto. By then, our friendship—remember we hadn’t spoken a word to one another in a common tongue—had developed to the point where I’d stopped obeying the rules and started treating Mr. Miura as I would any new friend. I may not have been being very “Japanese,” but my physical and verbal demonstrativeness seemed to please him.

At the temple we sat on a bench, enjoying the beautiful grounds and the lovely fall weather. An ice cream vendor happened by, and I went over and bought two green-tea-flavored cones, bringing one of them back for Mr. Miura. For whatever unspoken reason, this delighted him. As we ate our ice cream, we smiled at one another and started to laugh. No joke had been told—we couldn’t converse in words; it was just delight in each other’s company.

By the time the trip ended, it was obvious that Mr. Miura and I had become friends. Why he liked me so well, I’m not sure. Maybe because I was such a scofflaw when it came to etiquette. Maybe because he enjoyed the fact that I was being me. Why I liked him was a result of his sheer generosity, elfin charm, and unspoken but unmistakable empathy. As we parted, unprompted Mr. Miura gave me a goodbye hug. It was a very un-Japanese gesture of friendship, but I will never forget it.

I visited Mr. Miura several times after our first meeting, and on each occasion the friendship between us deepened. On my last visit, it was obvious that Mr. Miura’s health was failing. He had trouble walking because of an injury to his hip, but he never complained.

I had hoped to visit him again, but, alas, circumstances and then COVID kept me from traveling abroad. In the years since we last met in Japan, I saw Mr. Miura once or twice at shows, but never again in Osaka. I asked Art about him often, but the news was increasingly dismal. He became so debilitated that he was moved to a nursing facility; though he still traveled to work once a week his son Jack had taken over running the business on a daily basis. Art tells me that about four months ago, Mr. Miura took another fall and broke his hip. After that, it was a progressive decline until he passed away.

To say that I will miss him isn’t enough. He had a long, extremely successful, and noteworthy life in high-end audio. But it is as a sweet, convivial, downright lovable man, who though we never really exchanged a word became my friend, that I will miss him most. Farewell, Miura-san.

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