I love, without reservation, my children. I love their spouses and partners. I love my grandchildren so much I choke on my emotion. I love my friends. You’re all wonderful, loving and kind and my life would be a cesspit of loneliness and decrepitude without you. You know who you are and I’m not calling anyone out or ignoring anybody or saying one is better than another or anything. Y’all know.
This story isn’t, however, about my feelings for any of you, strong and vital as they are.
This is a love story about a machine.
I'm kind of a music freak, you see. Appreciative as I am of today's accessibility to everything from Caruso to Kanye via Amazon, I tend to be a purist. I'm perfectly happy streaming all kinds of music while I'm doing dishes, but I'm a snob when it comes to really listening to great music by Miles, Sinatra, Bernstein, Hogwood and the blessed Beatles (to name just a few). I want music to float in front me like a cloud as I become one with the universal harmonic vibrations of eternity.
Might be asking a lot.
And when I graduated college in 1975, such a concept was beyond ethereal. But I had hopes. I loved music as much then as I do now. So when my parents generously asked me what I wanted as a graduation gift, my response was instantaneous: a Marantz stereo receiver, model 2250B.
Here's the deal: My generation listened to the best music ever on underpowered, unbalanced, tinny junk. My crummy one-piece stereo unit with a flip turntable and dual attached speakers came from a local discount store called Sterling’s and wheezed with all the sonic grace of a vacuum cleaner. But frankly, that was the norm.
Music magazines extolled the virtues of innovative component hi-fi setups just coming to market at semi-affordable prices. The merits of various speakers, turntables and cassette decks were hotly debated. But the most insightful reviews dealt with the range of increasingly powerful amplifiers from Kenwood, Pioneer, Sony and other high-end manufacturers – the beating hearts of sonic beauty.
My personal fantasy? New York-based Marantz created the Marantz 2250B perched well outside the outer range of my personal debt-to-equity ratio (I labored as a drug store cashier and part-time radio station engineer). But it was kind of doable, as long as I was willing to survive for a month or so on tomato soup made with ketchup packets and hot water.
Willing I was, because I loved the rich Marantz tone, the dial’s spaceship-blue glow and the gliding thoonk of those solid-metal push-button controls. Even better, it harbored 50-watts of power, thus the “50” nomenclature. Massive. The theory back then was that a great amplifier would make even crappy components sound better. I bought into that idea fully.
I also really liked the company’s matching servo-control direct drive turntable (with auto shut-off), euphoniously named “Model 6350.” But the combination of the two was entirely out of reach, an impossibility akin to flapping my ears and flying to the moon.
I was an unbound Odysseus to the 2250B’s siren song. She was the “if-I-get-this-I’ll-be-happy-for-the-rest-of-my-life” material acquisition. To that point in my life, I never wanted anything as much as I wanted, desired, craved, that Marantz. (A Porsche was on the “one day” list too, but that's another story.)
At this juncture, let’s level-set with transparency (hate that BS word but whatever). Our family was comfortable, perhaps even verging on fairly well-off. But we lived in a cracker-box suburban ranch-style house on a super-busy street in a strictly middle-class North Dallas neighborhood.
Nearly every Tuesday, we’d pile into dad’s old Cadillac Coupe DeVille for the 99-cent enchilada dinner special at El Chico’s. Thursday nights usually found us at Luby’s Cafeteria for the ultra-cheap LouAnn Special.
Now and then, mom went to Neiman’s and indulged in a few Pucci scarves and a couple of fancy ties for dad. But these luxury items mixed with middling fashions from Sanger’s department store and dad’s Hong Kong suits (he knew a guy who knew a guy).
In short, we didn’t hobnob with the Murchison’s but certain niceties and extras were fairly within reach.
So when mom and dad asked what I wanted as a gift, I immediately seized on their discretionary spending power as the easy answer to my longing. In my mind, a gift of under $300 in return for a 3.75 grade point average at SMU (which, admittedly, they also paid for) seemed like a not-unreasonable request.
I patiently explained the virtues of the Marantz 2250B Stereophonic Receiver much like a kid today would explain an indecipherable electronic game system to his puzzled parents. To their credit, I got several positive head nods.
But then came the dreaded “we’ll see.” (This timeless response originated with the Neanderthals, when a teenage knuckle-dragger asked for the keys to the Flintstone-mobile. This is a well-documented fact.)
In any era, it means “no.”
Several days later, I received my parental gift, in a box that looked like it held garments. Momentary disappointment then hey, new clothes, yaay!
Inside the box – a powder-blue leisure suit.
For the uninitiated, I’ll wait while you Google it. The rest of you know exactly what I mean.
It goes without saying that, other than a few obligatory wearings to please my mother (after which I'd change clothes in my crappy car), that particular sartorial excrescence never saw the light of day again.
So I embarked on my crusade. I wangled extra hours, nights and weekends, at both the radio station and drug store. My then-girlfriend complained about my unavailability and finally dumped me, which I welcomed, because I didn't like her that much anyway and I could bank that movie-ticket-and-Mateus-wine money for my truly beloved.
At the radio station, I knew a guy who knew a guy (apple doesn’t fall far) and finagled a deal on locally-built (and killer) Frazier speakers and a super-cheap, open-box Technics turntable. RadioShack’s completely awful but cheap Realistic-brand cassette player joined the combo. Hey, I’m on a budget here. For my young age and economic status, the pieces were coming together just fine.
But the crown jewel, the rapturously entrancing 2250B which would make all this crap sound great, remained enticingly out of reach.
Many servings of ketchup-soup later, the day finally arrived. As long as I didn’t need brake pads anytime soon, my checking account balance was sufficient and the dream was about to become reality.
My heart fairly danced. Happiness flowed through every capillary. Tingling with excitement, I presented myself at the local hi-fi emporium, pointed to my love and peeled off the banknotes to a sales person who had the good grace to pretend to be as enthusiastic as me.
And I brought her home. Gollum-voice -- “My precious.”
My hands fairly shook as I wired her up to the other components. I felt like I was creating a family. And when I got everything connected, I slapped on Sgt. Peppers, poured myself a beer and prepared for ecstasy.
Admittedly, I secretly harbored fears of disappointment. You know how it is. BUT IT KNOCKED ME OUT.
Everything came together wondrously. Paul's bass thumped clearly and his vocals were crystal clear. John's dreamy voice on "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" wafted over me like a cloud. George and Ringo knocked it out.
My new Marantz delivered and then some. I'd looked forward to this day for so long. The vague sense that I'd be disappointed after all this waiting vanished in the booming chorus of their glorious harmonies. My expectations were far exceeded by the power of this fabulous piece of machinery.
My love was, in a word, requited. I loved her and she loved me.
From day one, she served reliably and with distinction, opening up hitherto unheard sonic dimensions of Sgt. Peppers, Let It Bleed, Who’s Next, Physical Graffiti and so, so many other classic killer albums. There’s a reason we still hear all this stuff 50 years later on the airwaves and online musical services – it’s GREAT.
And the 2250B delivered. She traveled my life’s path well into the 1990s, welcoming a wife and kids, continuing to kick out the jams. There wasn't a moment that I didn't feel affection and joy when I'd fire her up and see that fabulous blue face.
Time, of course, takes its toll. One day, a staggeringly awesome Bang & Olufsen system took over primary musical responsibilities.
But if my dear Marantz was jealous, she hid it well. She remained steady, undaunted, as she soldiered on in my converted garage/man-cave as a solid secondary system. I placed her carefully, dearly, reverently and she never failed to delight.
And as the years went by, digital systems shrank the required footprint for quality musical accessibility, rendering both my beloved Marantz and the fabulous B&O irrelevant. Both were eventually and regretfully unplugged and retired. I carefully wrapped Miss Marantz in plastic and boxed her up so she stayed dustless and clean because I owed her that at the very least. But even if she wasn’t part of the scene, I would never, ever, abandon her.
The then-spousal unit blasphemously suggested giving her to the Salvation Army.
“We’ll see,” I replied, knuckles dragging.
And so she remained for about a decade. Silent but never forgotten. Waiting, hopeful, faithful, confident that one day, she’d return to active duty.
Her patience has been rewarded. The day is here. She’s back.
Now I’m the one who’s retired. One of the very first things I did when I unpacked at my new home was open that old box, plug her in and welcome her home.
I let her warm up, connected an older but still serviceable NAD CD player, then hit “Play.” That rich, warm sound – Paul’s thumping bass on the opening of Sgt. Peppers – filled the room, and my heart, with the same joy she’d given me nearly 45 years before.
Oh sure, she needed a little work. The wood cabinet was a bit more scuffed than I remembered, but a little wax fixed that right up. More concerning, the spaceship-blue lights were dim and needed replacing.
Fortunately, I talked to a guy who knew a guy about 20 miles away who’s as peculiar as I am and has a sort of dream job – running a shop that fixes and sells vintage gear. His craggy faced broke into a fond smile when he saw her. He said reassuringly that he’d get her all sorted out, adding that these are great machines, bringing good money if I was interested.
“She’s with me,” I said kindly yet firmly.
Two weeks later, I retrieved her. The store owner plugged her in and showed me the lights, now back to full intensity. He added that he’d cleaned out some dust and replaced some capacitors and the radio tuning belt but overall, the old girl looked and performed admirably.
Then he said, “Take a look at what I just got in yesterday.”
He guided me to a display rack and waved nonchalantly to an astonishingly pristine find – a Marantz servo-control direct drive turntable (with auto shut-off), euphoniously named “Model 6350.”
It’s common to say that one’s jaw will drop. Mine really did. Audibly. Which, in a vintage audio store, is sort of appropriate.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like this.”
“You have no idea.”
Two minutes later, it was mine. Two hours later, the 2250B and the 6350 were mated in the electrical equivalent of conjugal bliss, powered on and warming up.
Slapping on the 50th anniversary, digitally remastered, 180-gram vinyl LP version of the Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” I took a celebratory sip of 10-year old Laphroaig and ceremoniously dropped the needle into the groove.
The oh-so-familiar crowd noise filled my room. Anticipation filled my soul. George’s guitar, then John on rhythm and Paul on bass, Ringo’s thundering drums – it all sounded entirely new and fresh.
And then – “It was 20 years ago” – click – “It was 20 years ago” – click – “It was 20 years ago” – click – “It was 20 years ago” – click – “It was 20 years ago” – click – and so on.
Anybody remember how needles would skip? I’d totally forgotten.
I was stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing. I laughed so hard and so uncontrollably that I literally – LITERALLY – doubled over.
Paul kept on singing, “It was 20 years ago” – click – “It was 20 years ago” – click – “It was 20 years ago” – click – and so forth.
Honestly, my entirely spontaneous, all-consuming laughter at this unexpected yet brilliantly-timed vintage glitch was so deep and rich that I actually had to catch my breath. I hadn’t laughed that hard since my three-year-old grandson woke me up early one Sunday morning, jumping up and down beside my bed yelling, “I pooped, Pawpaw, I pooped!”
Still chuckling, I coolly evaluated the situation. Vintage turntables have things called tonearms that hold the stylus, or needle, in a vinyl record’s grooves. On really cheap systems like the one I had so long ago, taping a penny onto the tonearm usually did the trick.
On more sensitive equipment such as the 6350, however, the manufacturer included an adjustable counter-balance weight on the tonearm’s mast to set the stylus pressure on the vinyl record. I’d completely forgotten. Me, a one-time radio station engineer!
I quickly found the knob, rebalanced the tonearm, dropped the needle again and, after making sure all was well, sat back and enjoyed my trip back in time (and my Scotch, too).
“You played this little trick on me, didn’t you?” I asked her, regarding her glowing blue face with affection. “You’ve been in a dark, lonely box, sad and forlorn, for ten years. And now here you are, free again, pretty, energized and in cahoots with your new partner in crime, the 6350. I get it. I really do.”
I’m alone and talking to a machine. I took another sip of Laphroaig.
“So you told the turntable to skip, didn’t you? On my expensive fancy-pants album, where skips are impossible. I know you did. It’s payback. Good-natured and funny, but payback nonetheless. Point taken. Will you forgive me?”
Sgt. Pepper’s ended with that unforgettable, world-ending piano crescendo. I pulled out my audiophile vinyl version of “Kind of Blue.” Needle drop. Miles Davis’ trumpet wafted over me, watery and weightless, with precise mastery.
“Well played, my dear, well played. In every sense of the word. And I promise you’ll be played well, as well, for many years to come.”
She glowed cheerfully. I took another sip, gratefully and gracefully absolved.
Everybody’s concerned about machines taking over the world. I got news for ya – they already have. And we can totally get along.
Just ask my darling 2250B.
