Friday Audio Notes for Mid-March
My listening session today had another eclectic playlist, ranging from experimental atmospheric soundtracks to ninety’s pop. The Cronus was set to ultralinear mode through the whole session, and while none of the music sounded bad, there were obvious sonic stand-outs, both meh[1] and yeah. I mention this, because my last system, I tended to avoid certain types of music since they sounded flawed. In this system, while it certainly illuminates lower-quality production, nothing is unlistenable. That’s a step up.
The jazz standout songs this week were Aretha Franklin, Lee Morgan, and Miles Davis. The former was recommended by Steve Guttenberg, off of the 1962 The Tender, the Moving, the Swinging of Franklin’s that neither of us had heard. “The Wanderer” had that ’60’s leanness about it, the soundstage was big, and her vocals were strong and present. A trombone clearly emanated from stage-left, recessed a bit. Morgan’s “Totem Pole” from The Sidewinder (1963) sounded as great as the title track. I swear that Morgan was in the room with me, standing stage-right while the rest of the ensemble occupied the large soundstage to his left. The clarity and crispness of his trumpet were nothing less than thrilling—clear, expressive, there. Miles Davis’ “Stella by Starlight” (1958) had the same ensemble arrangement as Morgan,[2] but while Davis’ Harmon-muted trumpet sounded great, the whole recording was not quite as clear as Morgan’s, especially in the lower end. Still, beautiful—something I would likely consider on vinyl. In fact, all three of these would surely bring some vinyl lusciousness.
Another great-sounding song was Supertramp’s “Take the Long Way Home”—a long-time favorite of mine off of Breakfast in America (1979). A melancholy, introspective piece, “Long Way” blends existential dread with smooth, jazz-tinged progressive rock. From the opening harmonica riff—wistful and solitary—the song sets a reflective tone, pulling the listener into a narrative of disillusionment. Roger Hodgson’s plaintive vocals carry a sense of quiet desperation, as if he's singing from the backseat of his own life, watching everything slip away through the rearview mirror. Musically, Supertramp’s signature blend of piano, harmonica, and layered instrumentation creates a dynamic tension between light and dark, and a pretty impressive soundstage. The arrangement has an airy, almost whimsical feel at times, contrasting with the weight of the lyrics. This paradox—hope laced with resignation—mirrors the song’s thematic core: life may be disappointing, but the journey still holds a kind of beauty, however fleeting. Lyrically, it’s a song about driving that captures a midlife reckoning: the realization that the dreams of youth have quietly eroded into routine, disappointment, and a creeping sense of insignificance. The repeated phrase “Take the long way home” suggests both avoidance and a search for meaning—stalling the return to an unsatisfying reality, or perhaps prolonging a journey in hopes of rediscovering purpose. This idea even resonated with me as a teenager.
Similarly, Peter Gabriel’s “Digging in the Dirt” also sounded great. The music itself is tense and propulsive, driven by a hypnotic, churning rhythm that feels like the very act of digging—clawing at the soil, unearthing buried pain. Gabriel’s voice oscillates between hushed, menacing restraint and bursts of anger, particularly in the chorus, where his repeated cries of “Don't talk back! Just drive the car!” (oh, look, another driving song) evoke frustration, control, and inner conflict. The tension between organic and synthetic sounds mirrors the struggle between instinct and introspection. The song isn’t just about looking inward—it’s about the battle of confronting what you find.
“The Book of Love” was the other Gabriel track: a haunting, reverent meditation on love’s paradoxical nature—both profound and mundane, cosmic and ordinary. I first heard this song in the finale of the show Scrubs and immediately knew it was PG: the song is carried by his aged, world-weary voice, full of quiet reverence, as if reading aloud from some ancient, sacred text. The orchestral arrangement is lush yet restrained, swelling with melancholic strings that never overwhelm but instead underscore the song’s emotional weight. I’m pretty sure I’ve sobbed to this tune once or twice.
I played two blues tracks: “Bring it on Home” from Doug MacLeod (1993) and “Stormy Monday Blues” from Roy Gaines (1975). What is it about blues going hand-in-hand with superior engineering? Especially, Gaines’ track from 1975 which has no business sounding so good. Roy Gaines’ “Stormy Monday Blues” covers one of the most enduring blues standards. Originally written by Aaron “T-Bone” Walker in 1947 as “Call It Stormy Monday (But Tuesday’s Just as Bad),” the song became a staple of electric blues and jazz-inflected R&B. Gaines, a Texas-born guitarist with a fiery, fluid playing style, injects his rendition with an almost orchestral richness, thanks to his jazz and swing roots. Gaines gives his version a sharper, more propulsive edge, pushing the song toward an electrified, big-band blues feel; it carries the spirit of the original but adds his own Texas blues fire.
MacLeod’s “Bring It on Home” draws from the deep well of traditional blues motifs—longing, travel, and homecoming—while showcasing MacLeod’s skill as both a guitarist and a raconteur. His blues isn’t just about technique; it’s about feel, and in “Bring It on Home,” every note bends with a weary kind of hope. The song’s structure nods to the classic blues progression, but MacLeod’s acoustic approach, with its understated percussive strumming, makes it feel both intimate and timeless. If you’re looking for a Led Zeppelin-like treatment, go elsewhere: MacLeod stays within the acoustic blues framework, prioritizing feel and authenticity, while Zeppelin, though paying tribute to the blues, ultimately uses it as a launching pad for their rock treatment. One is an introspective journey, the other a sonic onslaught. Both are steeped in blues tradition, but where MacLeod carefully preserves its quiet power, Zeppelin amplifies and reshapes it into something much louder, heavier, and, ultimately, far removed from its Delta roots.
David Byrne’s “Crash” (1994) is a jittery, anxious fever dream of a song, pulsing with nervous energy and a barely restrained sense of impending catastrophe. The track showcases Byrne’s signature mix of art-rock quirkiness and worldbeat-infused rhythms, but with an undercurrent of Lynchian paranoia that makes it feel both urgent and surreal. I first discovered Byrne’s song when I was dissertating: I was writing on J. G. Ballard’s Crash (1972)[3] and happened upon Byrne’s song. “Crash” operates on multiple levels—it can be taken as a literal description of a car accident, but, in classic Byrne fashion, it also feels metaphorical, a meditation on the chaos of modern life, personal recklessness, or even societal collapse.
Byrne’s “Crash” captures a sense of escalating chaos, inevitability, and loss of control—themes central to Ballard’s novel. The song’s frenzied rhythm and Byrne’s jittery delivery mirror the sense of disorientation and submission to forces beyond one’s control, much like Ballard’s characters surrender to the seductive pull of vehicular destruction. Both works can be seen as critiques of modernity’s alienation, the way technology distances us from our own emotions while simultaneously feeding new, strange obsessions.
Lyrically, “Crash” doesn’t explicitly tell a narrative about a car accident, but instead plays with the idea of impact, collision, and sudden change—both literal and metaphorical. Byrne often uses repetition and fragmented phrases to create a sense of inevitability, and here, the word “crash” feels less like an external event and more like an internal state of mind—perhaps a breakdown, an emotional or psychological reckoning, or a moment of unexpected transformation. Musically, the song is tightly wound, with a jerky, syncopated rhythm that mirrors the sensation of swerving out of control. Was that a hubcap being used percussively? The instrumentation is an eclectic mix of electronic textures, punchy drums, and jittery guitar stabs, reinforcing the feeling of instability. There’s a danceable quality to it, but one that feels more like a frantic, desperate movement rather than something celebratory—like someone trying to shake off an invisible force pulling them toward disaster. Great song.
I played two prog-rock songs: “Anesthetize” from Porcupine Tree and “Firth of Fifth” from PG-era Genesis. Influenced by classical, jazz, and avant-garde composition, prog rock sought to elevate rock beyond its three-minute, verse-chorus structure into something more complex, conceptual, and often theatrical, and, boy, do both of these very different songs accomplish this. Porcupine Tree’s “Anesthetize,” clocking in at over 17 minutes, comes from their 2007 album Fear of a Blank Planet, a conceptual work that explores themes of modern alienation, technology’s numbing effect on youth, and existential dread. It blends progressive rock’s intricate structures with the heavier, atmospheric elements of modern prog-metal. And while it showcases the musical chops of the band, it’s not something I’d listen to very often.
Genesis’ “Firth of Fifth” is one of the defining tracks of the classic progressive rock era, appearing on Selling England by the Pound (1973). This was during Peter Gabriel’s tenure as the band’s theatrical, surrealist frontman—an era marked by intricate, symphonic compositions and lyrical storytelling that blended mythology, English folklore, and social commentary. “Firth of Fifth” is one of Genesis’ most accomplished compositions. It opens with Tony Banks’ classically inspired piano introduction, which the band originally rejected for Foxtrot (1972) but resurrected here. Steve Hackett’s legendary guitar solo—soaring, melodic, and emotionally charged—became one of the most celebrated solos in prog history. The song’s shifting time signatures, flute passages, and poetic lyrics reflect Genesis at their most symphonic. Lyrically, it evokes themes of nature, time, and loss, fitting in with Gabriel’s often surrealist and melancholic style. But what really stood out to me was Phil Collin’s drums: they sounded distinct and clear on the soundstage, just a bit right-of-center. Again, the sound quality seems ahead of its time.
The worst-sounding song of the day is Chicago’s “Questions 67 & 68.” The soundstage was muddied, and it was hard to place the instruments, particularly the brass. It’s a great sound, but sonically a bit of a mess, unfortunately. I wonder if it would be more palatable on vinyl?
| Reference Audio System (02/2025) |
|---|
| Rogue Audio Cronus Magnum III Stereo Tube Integrated Amplifier • Gold Note DS-10 Plus DAC • Gold Note PSU-10 EVO Power Supply • DeVore Fidelity O/96 Speakers • REL T/9x 10" SE Powered Subwoofer (Racing Red) • PS Audio Duet Power Center • Morrow MA3 Interconnects • Tellurium Q Black II Speaker Cable |
notes
- ↑ These were songs that didn’t sound bad, but had soundstage issues, like my opening song The Smiths’ “This Charming Man” sounded like the instruments were all piled center stage. Recorded for a Walkman, maybe? I remember thinking something similar when listening to “How Soon Is Now?” a couple of weeks ago. In contrast, Toad the Wet Sprocket’s acoustic “Nanci” was stunning: a huge soundstage with lots of separation between instruments.
- ↑ Moving right from the left speaker: trumpet, piano (Bill Evans, recessed, mid-stage), tenor sax (John Coltrane), bass (right behind the sax), and drums, back-right. Maybe the producers at this time set up hard-bop quintets the same way?
- ↑ Both share thematic DNA, particularly in their explorations of technology, destruction, and the uneasy relationship between humans and machines. While there’s no direct evidence that Byrne was consciously referencing Ballard’s novel, the parallels in tone and subject matter are hard to ignore. Still, Bryne’s opening line, “I met my love at a funeral,” seems like it might just have been pinched from Ballard’s novel.
Ballard’s Crash is a disturbing, transgressive meditation on the eroticization of car crashes and the way modern technology warps human desires. It follows characters who fetishize automobile accidents, seeing them as moments of transformation and transcendence. The novel is cold, clinical, and relentless in its depiction of how human psychology is reshaped by mechanized violence. It suggests that in an age dominated by cars, highways, and mass media, people’s sense of identity is increasingly defined by collisions—both literal and metaphorical.
While Ballard’s work is explicitly about the fetishization of car crashes, his deeper themes—modern alienation, the merging of human and machine, and the unsettling beauty of destruction—resonate with Byrne’s artistic sensibilities. David Byrne (the album) leans heavily into organic, world-music-inspired rhythms, but Byrne has always been drawn to themes of urban anxiety, technological unease, and the absurdity of modern life. The feeling of “Crash”—its relentless motion, its nervous energy—certainly aligns with Ballard’s vision of collisions as both terrifying and mesmerizing.