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About AudioEnz |
There is a light and it never goes out
Fast cars, fast women and hi-fi journalism.
By Darren Knight
October 2000
And so it continued. Me, employing logic, reason, and blubbing like a
sissy, to convince the Editor that I should be let loose on an unsuspecting
piece of expensive hi-fi equipment, and Mike being utterly irrational
and unreasonable, as if I didn't know what I was doing.
Yes I did, once, poke a screwdriver into the back of a cassette deck
when it wasn't playing at the correct speed.
And, yes, I did electrocute myself.
But if qualified technicians are required for everything, why do they
sell screwdrivers and soldering irons to the public? Answer me that one,
Mr. Clever Trousers.
The life of the hi-fi journalist is surely one made in heaven.
Here's several billion dollars' worth of stereo equipment. Play a few
stinky albums capable of forcing the aged and infirm indoors and giving
small children the screaming heebies, write a few savage words to establish
credibility, make a little love, get down tonight, mix another martini.
Can I have some more free stuff?
Still, the way I see it, you don't have to be a patronising half-wit
with spiked toaster stands to appreciate that Luscious Jackson becomes
even more luscious, or that Chick-nobody-actually-likes-me-but-that-doesn't-stop-them-pretending-they-do-Corea
sounds even more mind-numbingly boring, if the hi-fi wasn't purchased
from "Honest Bob's Bric-a-brac, and Motorcycle Repair Centre".
But, hell, the Playboy collection, stacked neatly, still makes
a brilliant pair of speaker stands.
Alright then, let us surmise that Mike has been "given a talking
to" by my friends, Crusher and Knuckles, and I now have in the back
of the Nissan Violet, a smashing new, super-duper, extra good, sounds
better than everything in the whole world, compact disc player.
All that remains is to get it home in one piece, and give it a jolly
good listen.
However! As professionals, we are expected to return all the great stuff
kindly loaned to us for scathing analysis in brand new condition, and
everybody knows that is just not possible to remove anything from its
box without getting something stuck up your bottom or losing a loved one.
No, I do not know how the remote control came to be glued to the side
of the box. Any more pointless questions?
Yes, it's all fun and games until somebody puts an eye out.
Luckily, once the box is wrested free of its contents, it becomes a nifty
fort or pirate ship to sail in when all your little friends come over.
Oh no, the high seas are never safe when there's product reviewing to
be done. Don't suppose I could easily explain the skull and crossbones
crayoned on the side on the box.
Moving right along, we have the ubiquitous, oddly shaped, bits of polystyrene
packing that give off dangerous fumes when set alight.
Better than fizzy drink and crisps.
I once made the most fabulous scale model of the Star Wars "Death
Star" from the polystyrene around a TV set. It had laser guns and
everything. Including my plastic Darth Vader, which I used to sellotape
to the side of the Death Star, (he was nearly as big as it was, and couldn't
fit inside) and hurl at my younger brothers, who quickly became disillusioned
with being rebel troops.
Of course it had to end in tears when the whole thing melted under enemy
fire on top of the heater one terrible night.
The wonderful part about the polystyrene is that when the time comes
to re-pack the box, what was once intricately formed to fit the Marvo
Really Quite Good CD Player, has been cleverly re-designed to hold some
sort of heat-seeking missile and a small pocket radio. Invariably, this
turns to tragedy, and there is always one piece left over, with the label:
"Incredibly Important Piece of Foam – Must Be Packed First".
Now that the offending appliance is exposed to my critical gaze, it has
to be put through its paces. Now, I've read about this, and feel I have
a pretty solid grasp of what's required.
It is important to connect the appliance to anything you can lay your
hands on, and to listen to it in every possible geographic location in
order to narrow down its applications to a point where, unless you move
to Tibet, roger the Dalai Lama, and use gold plated Sherpas as interconnects,
your entire system will sound like llama poo.
Equally vital, is the selection of torturous, bad, bad, bad, music which
raises your existential angst to levels you could just die for.
Obviously, most good hi-fi manufacturers will hunt you down and kill
you if you attempt to play anything a bit "rough and tumble",
so my advice here is to make up some fictitious jazz musician, and rot
on, ad nauseam, about the joyous kaleidoscope your sad existence has become.
No one will think to doubt the jazz musician's authenticity, lest they
appear ignorant. "Philistines!" we shall cry, and have them
put to death. Oh it's all so perfect I could pop.
And never lose sight of the fact that the purpose of the average hi-fi
article is not to be informative or provocative, but to make yourself
look great. How's my hair?
And there you have it. Earn no cash in the comfort or your own home by
becoming a hi-fi journalist. Must have own Captain Marvo secret decoder
ring.
Next issue, look out for my review of CD players over three million dollars. The results will surprise you.
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