For its early-'60s moment, that slide projector is high-techand "technology is a glittering lure," Draper tells the assembled group of cigarette-smoking suits around a conference room table. Draper mentions Teddy, a Greek former colleague Draper says taught him the ropes years ago. Teddy says that "new" is the most important idea in advertising, but he also talks about a deeper bond that can sometimes be established with a product. "Nostalgia. It's delicate, but potent."
Focal and Naim Audio CEO Cedrick Boutonet and group marketing manager Réjean Bedel were on hand to introduce the Diva Utopia at Manhattan’s Par Excellence store located in NYC’s fashionable East Village and the Bowery, where the city’s derelict community once held sway, now replaced by hip cafés and bars.
Yet, it's not all about performance. Many new 'tables are adorned with outlandish, purely cosmetic flourishes that cause me to chuckle. Some super-bling record players, with their jutting angles and industrial menace, evoke the chrome carcass of the Battlestar Galactica, a testament to mechanical might. Others are even more menacing, channeling the mirror-finish abyss of Darth Vader's helmet, gleaming with a promise of sonic dominationbut is that an invitation or a threat?
Setting aside those cosmetic affectations, it's a war, and the enemywell, the main enemy anywayis vibrations, which may seem strange considering that vibrations are the whole point of the endeavor.
Still, I have long remained skeptical. I am, I confess, a certain kind of audiophile, a blend of purist and traditionalist. I favor older technologies and simpler circuits. Amplifiersincluding integrated amplifiersshould be tubed, input to output. Rectification? Tubes of course. I've even entertained OTL designsthe idea of them at least, though my experiences have been mixed.
The years melted awayGeorge Lawrence Stone's sticking variations, Benjamin Podemski's concert drum solos, dog-eared "Real Book" charts, college big band concerts, smoky jam sessions, a basement practice routine that nearly deafened Mom. Once I was in NYC, there were classes at Drummer's Collective.
With intense application, playing became rote. But in rare moments of surrender, it wasn't me playing the music anymore. The music played meideas transmitted effortlessly, without thought, guided by some unseen force: maybe the woman in the third row, maybe the ghost of Tony Williams. In such moments, when fatigue stilled the mind, instrument and music intertwined, a single entity responding not to conscious thought but to some unknown, unknowable force. What ensued was beyond my mental reach.