Thirty-five thousand spectators. That is the capacity the authors of a new study attribute to the Roman amphitheatre of Itálica, in Santiponce, near Seville in southern Spain. It is roughly the crowd of a mid-sized modern football stadium, and there was not a single loudspeaker in those stands. Whatever happened on the sand had to […]
Audiophiles are sometimes described in terms reserved for cults; a 1956 New Yorker story, referenced in Colin Vanderburg’s exceptional tour of extreme listening, refers to “a remarkably articulate group of zealots” and “an almost mystical reverence for sound.” Vanderburg travels among the believers, tracing the decades-long promise of “consumer audio innovations” to their technological apex: the New York International Audio Show, where audiophiles sample six-figure sound systems in pursuit of a signal as pure as the world they already inhabit.
More than anything, I have spent long passages of this earthly life sitting on my ass, listening. I listen to music, but what I hear is sound. Texture, timbre, and tone; clarity and detail; space and depth. And I hear, even more acutely, what thwarts sound. Shrill treble, muddled bass — for me these are worse than peeves. They offend hearing. They diminish the human sensorium. Earbuds repulse me; laptop speakers grate; a tabletop Bluetooth unit is a kind of vandalism.
The word audiophile — etymologically, one who “loves to hear” — has a wine-sipping pretension that I hate, but sometimes an ugly shoe fits. Like similarly suffixed psychopathologies, the term suggests a state of warped dependence, of inbent sublimation. I didn’t set out to be this way, but neither have I ever sought help. My symptoms are apparent, their causes obscure. What, after all, do we love when we love sound?
Two tombs, two very different experiences. Walk into one and the space narrows around you, guiding your eyes along a fixed sequence of images. Walk into the other and the sound itself seems to come apart: voices blur, echoes pile up, and a blue demon painted on the wall seems to lunge straight at you. […]
Login
.jpg)
