In preparing to review affordable loudspeakers, I typically put together a list of potential candidates I've discovered at audio shows, or that have been recommended to me by other Stereophile writers. I add to that list products I've learned about from press promotions, usually from companies whose products have impressed me in the past. I boil this down to a short list, then run it by Stephen Mejias to make sure I'm not tripping over The Kid's own quest for budget sonic nirvana. The result is then discussed with John Atkinson, who recommends an order for my next three or four review, to maximize the diversity of products in a given issue and, thus, our readers' enjoyment as well.

Given how long it takes for a pair of review samples to be requested, shipped, slotted into the queue, and evaluated, by the time I'm ready to compare them to similar speakers in their price range, I may have forgotten the review candidates' precise retail price. I always check with the manufacturer or distributor to be sure I have the current price before I select the comparison speakers—and particularly with speakers subject to the fluctuations of foreign currencies, it's not unusual for that price to have changed since I originally requested the samples.

When I'd completed most of my listening to the Zensor 1, made by Danish Audiophile Loudspeaker Industries (DALI), I looked at this diminutive bookshelf speaker and tried to remember its price. Based on its sound quality compared to other speakers I've heard, I guessed it to be somewhere between $1000 and $1200/pair. When I contacted DALI's US distributor, The Sound Organisation, I was shocked to learn that the US retail price of the Zensor 1 is only $475/pair. As with all of my equipment reviews, my comments in the "Listening" section, below, are made without consideration of the speaker's retail price.

Design
The Zensor series is an attempt by DALI to provide an entry-level speaker series that, they say, meets "the highest standard at any price point"—something that DALI has striven to do in all its lines over the years. The Zensor 1 bookshelf is smallest of the three Zensors, all of which share several design parameters. First, every Zensor has a smooth, linear impedance designed to present a stable load to any amplifier. The drive-units have been chosen to achieve a wide dispersion. The Zensor 1's woofer has a 5.25" cone of fine-grained paper pulp reinforced with wood fibers, for a blend of stiffness and lightness. The 25mm soft-dome tweeter has a low moving mass and a strong motor, to make possible very short excursions at high acceleration. The cabinet is built of machined MDF dressed in laminate, with the front baffle finished in high-gloss black or white lacquer. The speakers are available in light walnut and black ash vinyl; I found the black ash to be subtle and attractive. With the grilles, off, the sound was slightly more transparent, and the top end had a bit more sparkle, which is how I listened to them.

Listening
I was immediately struck by the Zensor 1's ability to render subtle low-level dynamic articulations in well-recorded jazz. In "One in Four," from The Paul Bley Quartet (CD, ECM 1365), John Surman's soprano sax floated delicately over Paul Motian's minimal cymbal and snare work, glued together by Bley's linear, dynamic piano. Similarly, I was captivated by the minimalist acoustic-piano trio arrangement of "Hey Joe," from Medeski, Martin &Wood's Tonic (CD, Blue Note 0946356942), in which Chris Wood's snare and cymbal textures emerged as the piece's focal point. But I was completely blown away by the interaction of Dino Saluzzi's bandoneón with the acoustic guitar of his son, José Maria, on Dino's Cité de la Musique (CD, ECM 1616). Bassist Marc Johnson sets up the foundation for this recording, in which the dynamic envelope of the Saluzzis' instruments provides a breathing, organic life form with clear linear delineation in the range from pppp to mf.

I know very well what the bandoneón and its cousin, the accordion, sound like. In 1987, as the warm-up act for a composer friend's vanity concert, I performed one of my own works on accordion at Carnegie Recital Hall. Now I found myself staring at the right Zensor 1—Saluzzi's bandoneón is panned hard right for much of the recording—saying to myself, "Damn. There's a bandoneón in the room."

Female voices are an excellent test for midrange timbral verisimilitude, and Joni Mitchell's in "Urge for Going," from her Hits (CD, Reprise 46326-2), was silky, warm, and round, with significant body and decay, and no trace of coloration. The DALI's extended, detailed, refined high frequencies were also evident in the reproduction of the harmonics of Mitchell's Martin flattop guitar on this track. From the same album, as Mitchell's guitar was subjected to more aggressive strumming in "Big Yellow Taxi" and "Chelsea Morning," the axe became appropriately biting and jangly.

The DALI's abilities in the resolution of high frequencies made it an excellent companion for reproducing well-recorded trumpet. Miles Davis's horn in his Filles de Kilimanjaro (CD, Columbia EK 86555) was biting and metallic, with a long, silky decay and plenty of air. John Zorn's chamber work Orphée, from his Mysterium (CD, Tzadik 8018), is a torture test for high-frequency resolution, and the upper register of Tara Helen O'Connor's flute was extended and airy, with just the proper amount of metallic bite. The rapid-fire percussive interplay of Stephen Gosling's celeste, David Shively's percussion, and Ikue Mori's electronic percussion was crinkly clean, extended, and airy, without a trace of smearing. And the explosive percussion solo (by Arthur Tripp?) in Frank Zappa's "Naval Aviation in Art," from Läther (CD, Rykodisc RCD 10574/76), was splattered across the soundstage with every dynamic nuance intact.

In addition, Polk boasts that the RTi A3's drive-units—a 1" silk-dome tweeter and a 6.5" polymer-composite woofer—are Klippel Optimized and Dynamically Balanced. According to Polk, the former means that the speaker should perform well at both high and low levels, while the latter means that the drive-units have been designed to avoid deleterious colorations. Finally, the RTi A3 uses Polk's Power Port, a system in which two ports—one at the front and one at the rear—work together to reduce noise and distortion for clean, powerful bass (footnote 1).

But would all this fancy-sounding stuff make sense in my room? I was beginning to worry. I knew the Polks were big—wheeling them along Newark Avenue and carrying them up the two flights of stairs to my apartment had been more of a challenge than I'm used to—but I didn't fully appreciate their size until I placed them in my listening room. The Polks completely dwarfed my reference PSB Alpha B1s ($299.99/pair). Would they overwhelm my little (13' by 10' by 8') room? More important, would they look ridiculous? What would girls think?

I shouldn't have worried. Once I'd set the Polk RTi A3s on my speaker stands, they looked surprisingly good. In fact, they seemed right at home, blending in perfectly with my furnishings and lending the entire room a mature, sophisticated look. But what about the sound?

Listening
Over the first few days of listening, everything I played—from Pantha du Prince's wonderful Black Noise (LP, Rough Trade RTRAD LP544) to Ricardo Villalobos and Max Loderbauer's Re: ECM (CD, ECM 2211/12) to Tenniscoats' enchanting Papa's Ear (CD, HÑpna H.48)—sounded unusually lively and present, with fast transients, lots of detail, and well-extended highs. While this sound was exhilarating, it could also be a bit too much to handle. Recordings that are already bold and forward, such as "Ni See Ay Ga Done," from Sidi Touré's excellent Koïma (CD, Thrill Jockey 301), sounded unnaturally fast and detailed—the Malian guitarist's bluesy riffs were granted extra measures of pluck and shine, but were stripped of all their soul. I could soften things up a bit by putting the speakers' grilles in place, but only at the expense of that beguiling presence. Just when I thought hope was lost, I saw the answer right in front of me, neatly coiled on my listening-room floor: AudioQuest's Rocket 33 speaker cable ($299/10' pair). Swapping Kimber's 8VS for the Rocket 33 finally resulted in the best balance of detail and body. I used the Rocket 33 for the rest of my listening.

From the very start, I had expected more bass from Polk's RTi A3, and it certainly gave it to me—but I noticed that increased bass only in direct comparisons with the smaller PSB Alpha B1. The Polk's overall sound was just as tonally correct and well balanced as the PSB's, with clean, clear mids and vibrant highs. What most impressed me about the Polk, however, was its presence and physicality. The larger speaker offered a muscularity, weight, and solidity that made listening to well-recorded rock an absolute, fist-pumping joy. "Road Dog," the second track of Dope Body's outstanding new album, Natural History (CD, Drag City DC513), opens with gently brushed chimes, some well-placed snare hits, and a slowly building tom-tom beat. As that beat grows in speed and intensity, two electric guitars, panned hard left and right, enter with quick raking sounds. The Polks presented each of these elements with startling jump factor and precision, easily turning my small listening room into a hot, crowded basement in the suburbs, with 50 or so sweaty teenagers jostling for a space in the mosh pit. The effect was extremely physical and compelling. The PSB Alpha B1 lacked the Polk's oomph and scale, and just couldn't infuse "Road Dog" with the same frightening presence and power—a shame.

Summing Up
For years, I'd thought that a good minimonitor speaker with a 5.25" woofer was all I'd ever need to fully enjoy music in my small listening room. But after hearing the Polk RTi A3, with its 6.5" woofer and Power Port Plus and all that other stuff, I'm not sure I can go back.

It is therefore good engineering practice to place the timing circuit, for obvious reasons referred to as a "clock," as close as possible to the D/A circuit. But a PC clock several feet away, at the other end of a USB cable, is clearly not "as close as possible." Worse, a computer must attend to other tasks, so its clock is inherently less stable than the crystal oscillator found in a DAC. The optimal solution is to allow the DAC to control the flow of USB data from the computer; this is what is meant by asynchronous.

Not all USB receiver chips can be operated in asynchronous mode, an exception being the Texas Instruments TAS1020B. This USB 1.1 device includes an onboard microcontroller that can be programmed to run the interface in asynchronous mode. Gordon Rankin of Wavelength wrote proprietary code for the TAS1020B's microcontroller; as well as using it in his own USB products, he licenses this Streamlength code to hardware manufacturers. One such is Halide Design, who used Streamlength in their S/PDIF Bridge converter ($395), which I reviewed in December 2010. The Bridge comprises a USB cable with a tubular housing at one end, terminated in either an RCA or a BNC jack. The Bridge operates in asynchronous mode to convert USB-streamed audio data to the S/PDIF serial format required by traditional D/A processors. Because there is no jitter-inducing S/PDIF cable—the Bridge connects directly to the processor's input jack—the Bridge became my preferred means of connecting a computer to DACs that lacked an asynchronous USB port.

It seemed an obvious development for Halide to marry the Bridge's asynchronous USB receiver to a DAC chip, to create a complete USB/analog converter (footnote 1). This they have done with the subject of this review, the DAC HD. Initially priced at $550, the DAC HD will be available for $495 by the time you read this review.

Asynchronous Conversion
Like the Bridge, the DAC HD includes captive cables, in this case a black version of Wireworld's Starlight USB cable, which features silver-clad conductors and a unique geometry said to allow use in lengths up to 7m. (A 2m cable is standard; 7m and other lengths are available as options when ordering.) Analog output is via two 6" lengths of silver-conductored cable terminated in Eichmann silver Bullet RCA plugs. (These RCAs are favorites of mine because they make the ground before the signal connection—a commendable feature.)

The circuitry, all surface-mount, is contained in a small (1.875 cubic inches), black-anodized, machined-aluminum enclosure, and is carried on a small double-sided printed circuit board. Power is taken from the 5V USB bus and first filtered (two-pole passive), then regulated; there are eight regulators and separate power rails for the digital circuitry, the master clock, and the output stage. The TAS1020B is mounted behind the USB port and feeds a Wolfson WM8716 DAC chip—a two-channel, multi-bit, sigma-delta, 24-bit type. Although the WM8716 can operate at sample rates up to 192kHz, the TAS1020B handles sample rates only up to 96kHz, including the important 88.2kHz rate. The Wolfson DAC includes fast- and slow-rolloff digital reconstruction filters, but also can be used with an external filter. The output stage uses high-performance op-amps.

No driver programs are required with either Macs or PCs. The user simply plugs the DAC HD into one of the computer's USB ports and selects it as the preferred audio output device.

Sonics
As I was about to start this review, I retired my 2006-vintage G4 Mac mini and replaced it with a 2.7GHz, i7-powered Mac mini with 8GB of RAM. Both the Mac mini and the Pure Music program recognized the Halide when I plugged it in, and I set it as the default playback device. Pure Music was set to upsample CD-sourced files to 88.2kHz with its Maximum Fidelity sample-rate converter.

Halide Design states that the DAC HD is cryogenically treated to give a "smoother, more resolved sound." Whether or not that was the reason, my first impression was indeed of a very smooth sound. There wasn't quite the wealth of recorded fine detail that I'm used to hearing with the megabucks D/A converters that usually grace my system, nor was there quite as expansive a soundstage. In my recording of Carol Wincenc performing Mozart's Flute Quartet in D, K.285, at the Santa Fe Chamber Music Festival (ALAC file sourced from CD: Serenade, Stereophile STPH009-2), while the flute was unambiguously placed in front of the string trio, the acoustic of St. Francis Auditorium sounded a little smaller and drier than it should. But that was a minor criticism, considering that when I rose from the listening chair to find my notebook, I realized I had listened to all three movements of the quartet. There was something very seductive about the sound of the DAC HD.

I subsequently met Barton at the 1988 Audio Engineering Society Convention in Los Angeles, and, in the first of many, many conversations we were to have, learned more about loudspeaker design than I had realized there was to learn. (My interview with Barton was published in our October 1997 issue.)

I have reviewed several PSB speakers over the years, but the two that most stick in my memory are the Synchrony One (April 2008 and the Alpha B1 (May 2007). The Synchrony One cost $4500/pair, the Alpha B1 $279/pair, and while I was very impressed with what Barton had achieved with the expensive speaker, I was even more impressed with what he'd managed on what must have been an almost nonexistent build budget. The Alpha B1 had not been out of place hung on the end of very expensive amplification and source components—while it lacked deep bass and loudness capability and ultimate transparency, it communicated the music in an effective manner out of all proportion to its price. Yet when paired with inexpensive components, the B1 was forgiving of any sonic ills committed upstream—as Stephen Mejias can testify, having used the B1s as his "Entry Level" reference ever since we published my review.

Then Came the Mini
PSB's Imagine series represented an attempt to bring the benefits of the Synchrony technology to more affordable speakers. Both Sam Tellig and Kal Rubinson favorably reviewed the Imagine T tower ($2000/pair) in June 2009, while John Marks liked what he heard from the Imagine B bookshelf ($1000/pair) in no fewer than three installments of his column, "The Fifth Element," for that year. Then, at the 2011 Consumer Electronics Show, PSB previewed the smallest, least expensive model in the Imagine series, the Mini. Costing $760/pair in satin-finish wood veneer, or $830/pair in high-gloss black or white, the Mini was one of the hits of CES 2011. Stephen Mejias commented that "the sound of acoustic guitars was enchanting and commanding, with fine detail, impact, and emotion"; Robert Deutsch felt the launch of the Minis to be one the show's highlights.

Measuring just 9.25" high by 5.75" wide by 8.3" deep and weighing 6.5 lbs, the Mini marries the titanium-dome tweeter used in the other Imagine models to a 4" woofer that has a 3" polypropylene cone filled with clay/ceramic materials and a rubber surround. As well as the main ceramic magnet, this drive-unit's motor uses a second, neodymium magnet resting atop the pole piece to multiply the magnetic force factor. The crossover is set at 2.2kHz, with fourth-order Linkwitz-Riley slopes. The woofer is reflex-loaded with a flared 1" port on the cabinet's rear, and electrical connection is via a recessed pair of binding posts on the speaker's base, which is made of hard rubber. Two circular cutouts at the rear allow slim (4mm) plugs to be inserted from behind to reach the downward-pointing binding posts.

The tiny cabinet features curved sidewalls and top panel, and the baffle is finished in matte black. The matching PFS-27 stands cost $300/pair; an extruded aluminum pillar bolts on to a heavy base, while the aluminum top plate is bolted to the Mini's base and locks to the stand. Cutouts in the top and bottom plates allow the speaker cable to be threaded up through the rear section of the single pillar; an internal partition allows the front section of the pillar to be filled with damping material.

Sound Quality
For logistical reasons, I began my auditioning of the Imagine Minis with them sitting on 24" Celestion Si stands, spiked to the wooden floor beneath the carpet and with each stand's central pillar filled with a mixture of dry sand and lead shot. I raised the speakers with upturned Mod Squad Tiptoes so that my ears were level with the tweeter axes, and put Shelby Lynne's Just a Little Lovin' (CD, Lost Highway B0009789-2) in the Ayre CX-5 player's tray.

Well, this was definitely a small speaker. While the upper bass was reproduced in full measure, with tidy control and good definition, the low and midbass were missing in action. Midrange and treble sounded natural and neutral, with good high-frequency extension, though pink noise sounded hollow if I listened with my ears much above the tweeter axes. The soundstage was wide, deep, and stable. However, Lynne's voice in the title track had a slightly "hooty" coloration.

Not so for rural audiophiles, and that's where companies such as Emotiva come in. Dan Laufman was fed up with the rising prices of audio gear, exacerbated by the extra costs inherent in the traditional model of dealer distribution. So he founded Emotiva Audio, which manufactures and direct-ships affordable audio gear, with 30-day return privileges and free shipping within the continental US. Emotiva is unusual in not focusing on any particular link in the sound-reproduction chain, instead manufacturing a variety of digital source components (Stephen Mejias was impressed with their ERC-2 CD player, which he reviewed in December 2011), electronics, speakers, and interconnect and speaker cables. Of the four Emotiva speakers designed for two-channel use, I chose the smaller of the two floorstanding models, the X-Ref XRT 5.2, which, at the time of the review, cost $799/pair. (The price has since been reduced to $559/pair).

Though the XRT-5.2 is designed in the USA, it is manufactured in China. A slim tower, toward the top of its front baffle are mounted two 5.25" blended-cone woofers with butyl surrounds, copper-clad pole-pieces, aluminum shorting rings, and cast frames. Between them, laterally off center, is a 1" silk-dome tweeter. The front-ported cabinet is bolted to a base to which metal spikes or rubber feet can be attached (I chose the spikes). For stability, this base widens the speaker's narrow footprint from 6.5" to 8.5". The crossover include air-core inductors, precision metalized film capacitors, and oxygen-free wire. That offset tweeter means that the speakers are mirror-imaged; they can be placed so that the tweeters are more toward the inner or the outer edges of the front baffles.

At first I assumed that Emotiva had intended that the tweeters be placed toward the outer edges, to maximize soundstage width. (I thought the red dot on one speaker designated "right," which would put the tweeters in those positions.) I was therefore confused when, in the owner's manual, I saw a diagram that showed the tweeters on the inside. A call to Emotiva indicated that I should try both configurations—the resulting sounds would be a matter of personal preference. I did, and sure enough, the XRT-5.2s did throw a wider soundstage with the tweeters on the outside—but produced more convincing image focus with the tweeters on the inside. So I left the tweeters on the inner edges, but with the speakers far apart. Though the grilles made very little difference to the sound, I mostly left them off; that way, I heard a hair more detail.

Listening
Older readers may recall that, in the 1970s, two schools of speaker design reigned in the US. The West Coast was known for "rock" speakers: those that had a forward perspective and a punchy, dynamic bottom end (eg, JBL). The East Coast school was known for a more polite, reserved sound more suitable for classical and small-group jazz (eg, AR).

The first thing I noticed when I fired up the Emotiva XRT-5.2s was their forward perspective and punchy, lively, dynamic sound, especially on the bottom end—I wondered if this was a return to the "rock speaker" sound. I cued up a recently acquired reissue of the Good Rats'Rat City in Blue (CD, Good Rats GRBTA0008). During this Long Island–based band's heyday, in the 1970s, I was obsessed with them. There were several clubs on the Island where you could see this tight, creative outfit pack them in several times a month, but on the mainland they were virtually unknown, despite releasing six albums during this period, most on major labels. (Rolling Stone called the Rats "the most famous unknown band.")

At 100dB in my large listening room, the Emotivas re-created the vibe of a live Good Rats concert. Although I'd originally planned to just play a few tracks as background music while doing some work, I found myself jumping across the room, acting out on air guitar every solo of dual guitarists John Gatto and Mickey Marchello as the album played all the way to the end. I was taken by the kickass bottom end, the sense of high dynamic slam with no compression, the in-your-face presence of those electric guitars. Good Rats' leader and songwriter, Peppi Marchello, has shown himself fond of excessive equalization and digital processing in his recent remixes of his band's original albums, in an attempt to simulate the PA mix of a live rock show. However, these deviations from neutrality dovetailed perfectly with the Emotiva's persona.

That said, I knew it would take a more natural recording to reveal the true nature of the XRT-5.2's reproduction of timbres. Madeline Peyroux's voice in "Hey Sweet Man," from her Dreamland (CD, Atlantic 82946-2), was natural, silky, and involving, though it seemed a touch veiled compared with what I've heard from this track through other speakers—and Marc Ribot's resonator-guitar riffs seemed less noticeable than I'm used to hearing. The chorus of "Our Prayer," from Brian Wilson's Smile (CD, Nonesuch 79846-2), was natural but a bit forward, as was John Coltrane's tenor sax in the title track of his Stardust (CD, Prestige 7268). However, the perspective of Frank Sinatra's voice in the title track of Only the Lonely (LP, Capitol W 1053) was more midstage, with Old Blue Eyes' natural-sounding voice bathed in an excess of silky reverberation. However, the Emotivas weren't lacking in detail with well-recorded jazz. On every track of Paul Motian's Selected Recordings (CD, :rarumECM 8016), I could identify the drummer's signature delicate snare and cymbal textures as easily as I could whenever I heard the late master perform live.

"I bet the girls back in Jersey City can smell the testosterone," wheezed JA.

"Yes, I'm sure they can," I wheezed in response. "I better get back there and calm them down."

When we'd caught our breath and bandaged our wounds, John dropped me off at a nearby subway station so I could make my way back home. The trip from Bay Ridge to Jersey City takes a little over an hour, and though I normally use that time to read or simply let my mind wander, on this occasion I'd made sure to pack Thinksound's ms01 in-ear headphones, the first product in the company's Monitor Series. The list price is $119.99, but I've never seen them offered for more than $99.99—an attractive price point at which the Thinksounds have big-time competition from such popular brands as Monster, Beats, Skullcandy, and many others.

Thinksound ms01 Monitor Series in-ear headphones
The handsome, understated ms01 has a body of pear wood and aluminum, each material selected for both its looks and its unique sound. Thinksound's CEO and lead engineer, Aaron Fournier, explained that the wooden section influences the headphone's lower frequencies, while precise construction of the aluminum section contributes to high-frequency accuracy. The ms01's single 8mm driver is also carefully voiced by Fournier. The ms01 comes neatly packed with a few accessories: "active lifestyle" earhooks (usually unnecessary for asthmatic audiophiles), a cord clip, four sizes of silicone eartips, and an attractive cotton carrying pouch.

I found the silicone eartips extremely comfortable. They rested lightly and easily in my ears, creating a good seal and providing effective isolation from outside noise. The ms01's thin, PVC-free cable is said to be tangle-free, but I can't imagine anything more tangle-prone. This cable resists tangles as I resist Natalie and Nicole, Dale's Pale Ale, and new LPs—not very well at all.

Why couldn't I travel without headphones? I'd recently downloaded Kendrick Lamar's acclaimed 2011 album, Section.80 (256kbps MP3, Top Dawg Entertainment, no catalog number), and I couldn't stop listening. You might wonder why I'd bother with MP3s at all. Simple: Section.80, currently available only as a low-bit-rate download, is awesome, and while I'd love to own it in some other, higher-resolution format, I need it now, any way I can get it. Yes, I have a problem. No, I don't care. And anyway, the MP3s, stored on my little blue 8GB iPod Nano, presented the perfect reason to spend more time with Thinksound's ms01s, for which I am thankful.

Unlike the many rap albums that are little more than long collections of unrelated singles about sex, drugs, and money—often impressive for their nimble wordplay, but painfully lacking in content and depth—Section.80 is a thoughtful concept album filled with tales of deep adversity and inspiration to overcome that adversity. The musical production, excellent throughout, is informed by jazz, funk, soul, and down-tempo electronica.

Through the Thinksound ms01s, the album's penultimate track, "Ab-Soul's Outro," was a joy. The quick, agile cymbal work sizzled and splashed but never became distorted; the kick drum sounded wonderfully powerful without muddying the mix; the fluttering tenor sax bleated and blared with great force and extension, but never sounded too bright or harsh; the electric piano was soothingly clear, warm, and hypnotic; vocal sibilants were pronounced, but not etched or exaggerated; backing vocals and other subsidiary elements of the mix, such as echo and reverb, were plainly evident but never interfered with the musical whole.

This was great! I was back in Jersey City before I knew it, walking up Newark Avenue with an extra bounce in my step, fully recovered from my tough morning workout. Other affordable in-ears are compromised in ways I can't easily forgive—some, such as SOL Republic's Amps ($59.99), favor bass weight over overall clarity, while others, such as Klipsch's S4i ($99.99), favor top-end extension over body—but Thinksound's ms01s were remarkably compelling from top to bottom, providing a sound that was as clear and true as the early spring sun.

Strangely, though, I could find no evidence of weak-kneed women anywhere in Jersey City. Natalie and Nicole, where are you?

No matter. Back at home, I had more loudspeaker lifting to do, albeit of a much less strenuous sort.

A strange question
I've received a few letters from readers asking if I'm satisfied with reviewing "lower-end" gear—a strange question any way I look at it. The tone of the letters suggests that I must be dying to get my hands on some more expensive hi-fi equipment—the real "high-end" stuff—as if someone were forcing me to listen to affordable gear. The truth, as crazy as it may seem, is that I love reviewing affordable gear. (In general, I consider myself to be one very fortunate dude. When not manhandling 200-lb speakers, I enjoy a soft, easy life, surrounded by friends, family, and seemingly endless opportunities for fun. My biggest problem: my blessings are too many to count. Most mornings feel like Christmas, or at least my birthday: I wake up, walk into my sunny listening room, shake my head at all the records, and wonder what cool stuff will happen later in the day.)

First of all, I don't believe that audio components can be easily lumped into categories such as "low-end,""mid-fi," and "high-end" by considering only their retail prices. In other words, "high-end" doesn't have to mean "high-priced." John Atkinson said it best in his November 1994 "As We See It": "Components primarily designed to meet the needs of audiophiles and music-lovers are worthy of the appellation 'high-end,' no matter what they cost. The much wider range of products whose genesis lies purely in the need of their manufacturer to fill a gap in their product line or attack a previously unoccupied niche in the market, or even just to flesh out their business plan, are 'mid-fi' by definition. It's as simple as that."

Second, despite the great amount of time I spend dreaming of something better, I'm much more interested in things I can actually afford. I just can't get very excited about loudspeakers that cost $40,000/pair: No matter how great they sound, they simply don't fit into my life, much less my small home. I can, however, get wildly excited about high-quality loudspeakers that cost just $400/pair. When it comes to hi-fi, I find that reality almost always trumps some invisible ideal. From time to time I've found myself wondering how a certain album might sound through some other component—I probably miss the Wharfedale Diamond 10.1 and Boston Acoustics A 25 speakers more than any others that have come through my listening room—but those occasions are exceedingly brief: I'm too busy hunting for new music.

Finally, the cheap stuff is usually small and light, and therefore much easier to handle—an important consideration for any reviewer, I would think, and absolutely great news for me and my lower back.

Which brings me to Definitive Technology's StudioMonitor 45, a two-way, rear-ported, minimonitor loudspeaker that lists for $398/pair.

Definitive Technology StudioMonitor 45 loudspeaker
The DefTech StudioMonitor 45 measures a very room- and back-friendly 11 11/16" (297mm) high by 6¾" (172mm) wide by 11 11/16" (297mm) deep, but these dimensions are attractive for reasons other than simple, efficient transport and placement. I noticed right away that something about the speaker just looked right. Paul DiComo, DefTech's senior vice president of marketing and product development, explained that while the number and size of drivers used in any DefTech design will largely dictate that speaker's height and width, the company nevertheless aims for Fibonacci, or golden-ratio, dimensions. According to DiComo, these efforts help minimize standing-wave and "organ-pipe" resonances inside the speaker's cabinet.

I don't care. I have never paid to download or stream anything, and I probably never will. My priority is to get the most from the several thousand CDs I already own. As cheaply as possible, without "adopting" anything, early or late. Yet I love computer audio when it's fast, fun, and free.

That's why I love inexpensive digital-to-analog converters. Buy one, use it for a few years, and replace it when something better comes along. The Musical Fidelity V-DAC II has come along ($379).

The original V-DAC sold for $299, and I reviewed it in the May 2009 Stereophile (Vol.32 No.5). It was small—3.75" (95mm) wide by 1.7" (40mm) high by 6.7" (170mm) deep—and powered by a wall wart. It accepted RCA and TosLink optical S/PDIF inputs that upsampled to 24-bit/192kHz, and a USB input that was limited to 16/48: still good enough for Internet radio, I think.

The V-DAC II is the same size and uses the same DSD1792 chip and SRC4392 upsampler, both from Burr-Brown. Unlike the V-DAC, the II incorporates the same asynchronous USB-to-S/PDIF converter found in Musical Fidelity's V-Link ($169), which the V-DAC II renders redundant.

The machined aluminum of the II's front and rear panels replaces the V-DAC's drab black and garish lettering, which reminded me of the jumping beans I used to play with as a kid. A toggle switch selects between the S/PDIF and USB inputs.

I no longer have the original V-DAC—my son got it last Christmas. (Now he's going to want the V-DAC II.) Even so, I could tell that the new version's sound surpassed the original's, even though I didn't use its USB input—I want nothing to do with paid downloads.

I heard more resolution, especially space. (Sam loves space.) A sweeter, less fatiguing treble—just the thing to show off the Dynaudio Focus 160 speakers. Better . . . well, focus. I could more precisely pinpoint images. In other words, I heard more where there, as well as more there there. And this is compared not only to my feeble memory of the original V-DAC's sound, but also to the sound of my present M1DAC. The new V-DAC is quicker, smoother, more agile. Who should know better than Quicksilver Audio?

For the most part, I used the Conrad-Johnson ET3 line stage and Quicksilver Silver 88 mono tube amps. I also used the LFD Mk.IV LE integrated. I mostly listened through the Dynaudio Focus 160s.

I was going to give Musical Fidelity's Antony Michaelson a bell, as they say in Britain, but he beat me to it. (I used to give my late friend Lars a yingle.) "The V-DAC II reclocks and upsamples to 24-bit/192kHz, whether you use S/PDIF or USB," Antony told me. (It's so easy to interview Antony. Like a good politician or general, he interviews himself.) "There's a profound question hidden here, which people sidestep. How can you turn 16 bits into 24 bits because it never was 24 bits? [But when you upsample] you're actually moving all the noise, all the crap, way out of the audioband, so it no longer interferes with the musical signal.

"This is simplistic," Antony continued, "but you can think of it like Dolby noise reduction. They boosted the midrange signal. The noise underneath remained the same, but the signal was bigger relative to the noise.

"The other interesting thing the V-DAC II does is reclocking. Every input has the same jitter. You don't lose the actual packet of data. It's still there, but you might not be sure of the starting point, and that's what causes jitter. The data packet is thrown off track. Reclocking lets you get the data back."

Antony told me that the V-DAC II's total harmonic distortion (THD) is less than half that of the V-DAC. "The crosstalk is dramatically improved, to 105dB, vs 94 or 95dB with the original V-DAC. This is what gives the superior stereo separation."

That pinpoint focus, if you will. This is very much audible, especially with Dynaudio Focus 160 loudspeakers!

While admitting the sonic superiority of genuine 24/96, Antony was no more eager to kill off the CD than I am: "Really good 16-bit/44.1kHz upsampled like this is really fantastic, but most people haven't heard it."

I have. For $379, you can, too.

John Atkinson, August 2012 (Vol.35 No.8)

The budget-priced Musical Fidelity V-DAC II is powered by a small wall wart. It has two digital inputs, S/PDIF and USB, selected with a small toggle switch. The S/PDIF input is offered on both TosLink and coaxial jacks, but only one can be used at a time. There is one set of analog outputs, single-ended on RCA jacks. The original V-DAC was reviewed by Sam Tellig in November 2009 and cost $299. Originally priced at $349, the V-DAC II now costs $379 but incorporates the asynchronous USB data receiver of Musical Fidelity's V-Link ($169), which allows the V-DAC II to handle data with a 24-bit word length and sample rates of up to 96kHz rather than be limited by the original's 16 bits and 48kHz. It still uses Burr-Brown's DSD1792 D/A chip and SRC4392 upsampler chip, however. Although the V-DAC II is $100 less expensive than the Halide DAC HD, the cost of cables brings its price closer to that of the Halide.

As with the Halide, setting up the V-DAC II is no more complicated than plugging it into a USB port on the host computer. Neither converter sounded harsh, which is what you might expect from inexpensive DACs. I agree with Sam that the Musical Fidelity had a sweet, nonfatiguing sound, though the Halide was, if anything, even sweeter. The V-DAC II had somewhat more extended low frequencies than the Halide. I had recently ripped to Apple Lossless files the Gary Burton Quartet's groundbreaking 1969 album Lofty Fake Anagram (CD, One Way). The Halide kept a little better control of the lows of, for example, Steve Swallow's double-bass solo in "Good Citizen Swallow," while not having as much weight. However, the Musical Fidelity's extra low-frequency energy is not as well controlled as it might be. The admittedly overwarm double bass in "Killing the Blues," from Alison Kraus and Robert Plant's Raising Sand (ALAC file transcoded from FLAC download with Max, Rounder/HDtracks 11661), was a bit too fat with the Musical Fidelity compared with the Halide.

More significant, the Musical Fidelity sounded drier than the Halide DAC HD, there being a little less of the St. Francis Auditorium's ambience audible with the Mozart Flute Quartet from my Serenade recording (Apple Lossless file, ripped from CD, Stereophile STPH009-2): the violin, viola, and cello were presented as being more in the same plane as the flute. Overall, this aspect of the Halide's sound pushed it ahead of the V-DAC II for me, for whom "more space" is always more better. However, it's fair to point out that the Musical Fidelity is more versatile than the Halide, having both coaxial and TosLink S/PDIF inputs as well as USB.—John Atkinson

I approached this latest half-grander with little enthusiasm, despite Siefert's persuasive literature, I have, after all, been reading such self-congratulatory hype abiout new products for longer than most Stereophile readers have been counting birthdays. This, I must admit, was ho-humsville.

But several things in Siefert's promo caught my attention. This tiny little box with the two round bass-reflex ports was claimed to have a system resonance of 36Hz, which is, of course, absurd for a system this size. How much of that energy could possibly be radiated into the listening room? Phooey! The reference to the "special relationship 4:5:6 which minimizes internal nodal reflections" meant nothing to me until I recalled that these are the dimensional ratios for an ideal listening room, no dimension of which is an integer multiple of any other dimension.

And the speakers are rated as being safe for use with amplifiers of up to 250 watts power capability (although far more loudspeakers are damaged by 25W amplifiers than by 250 watters; amplifier clipping can feed much more energy to a tweeter than will a clean 250W signal). Still, I didn't expect much. After all, these are tiny boxes and the system costs little more than one tenth the price of most of the speakers I have realy liked.

Boy, was I wrong!

Sound Quality
The sound of the Maxims came as a complete surprise! The system is beautifully balanced and almost perfectly neutral, being only very slightly on the warmish side, which is much easier to take than the steeliness of most similarly priced speakers. The Maxims reproduce massed violin osund superbly—with not a trace of steeliness, yet with all the resinois sheen of the real thing. At "polite" levels, they sound a little extreme top; at natural levels, the extreme high end is about as perfectly in balance as that of any speaker I know of.

Siefert's literature describes the Maxim IIIs as being "digital ready," which has become one of the most hackneyed phrases in contemporary audio. What they mean, of course, is that the speaker's power capability will allow it to cope with digital's potential dynamic range capabilities. But there's another respect in which these are "digital ready." They are among the only loudspeakers I have heard that make good Compact Disc sources sound musically flat at the top rather than tipped-up. Despite a very slight (and to me relatively inoffensive) sizzle that sounds like a mild frequency-response discontinuity at around 11kHz (and was subsequently confirmed by my frequency response tests), the upper ranges are seductively smooth and and rich. I have never heard strings on good CDs sound more natural than they do through these diminutive little speakers.

Yet the Maxims sacrifice little in terms of HF detail, definition, and openness. Te high end sounds as it goes out almost indefinitely, and while it does not have quite the delicacy or airiness of a good electrostatic top, the Maxim III has one of the best extreme top ranges I have heard from a dynamic system. I would gladly take this high end in preference to that of most over-$2000 speaker systems I have auditioned in recent years.

The low end from these speakers is just amazing. Although they don't go all that low (no small speaker does), the fact that they are almost flat down to the lowermost note of the doub;e bass (and the fundamental of most bass drums) gives symphonic music and most of the organ repertoire a solidity and foundation that one simply does not expect to hear form speakers this size.

All this is impressive enough, but to me the most gratifying aspect of the Maxims' sound is their middle-range naturalness.

I have been bitching for years that "high-end" loudspeakers have become gutless wonders, incapable of properly reproducing the lower-midrange instruments (trombones, cellos) that give symphonic music the feeling of power during fortissimos. The Siefert speskers, by contrast, exemplify what I have been driving at. They have the most accurate middle range I have heard from any speaker since high-end audio cast the horn-loaded tweeter into outer darkness. Yet the Maxims manage to accomplish the (remarkable) feat without the "awww" coloration of the typical horn. How do they do this? They don't depress the range between 300Hz and 1kHz, that's how.

The benefits of this midrange authenticity are not limited to symphonic music, either, The twang of a guitar, the grunt of a synthesizer, and the power of a belt-it-out singer's voice are all similarly improved in impact and effectiveness. All music seems somehow to become more exciting and involving.

But that's not all. These little speakers will play loud! Unlike most small systems, which become increasingly steely hard and veiled at listening levels above moderate (about 85dB), the Maxims remain clean and well-defined at levels to over a very loud (for most people) 100dB, though see below for what they tend to do over 95dB. To hear "Amuseum" from Sheffield's Track Record coming out of these tiny boxes with the ease and power af a big system is almost laughable.

As is usual with small speakers, the imaging and soundstage presentation from the Maxims are excellent. They do not sound small. The sonic presentation seems to arch over the tops of the speakers to create a full-height stage even when the speakers are no more than a foot above the floor. (Incidentally, that was the optimum distance between the bottoms of the speakers and the floor—at least in my listening room. Lower, and the bass became a little too heavy. Higher, and the low end became a little weak. The best placement will vary from room to room and according to the source material and power amplifier used.)

The Maxims sound by far their best with an amplifier that is both sweet at the high end and a little withdrawn through the presence range ("laidback"). Tubed amps do lovely things for the extreme highs but make the speakers sound almost penetratingly bright. Neutral solid-state amps like the two Electron Kinetics Eagles (the 7A and the 2) stiull sound a little bright; the best amps for these speakers are typical high-quality transistor amplifiers lek the BEL 1001 or 2002 and the extraordinary (and cheap) B&K ST-140.

Inner detailing on the Maxims is very good, but not state of the art. Yes the high end on the Maxims has that rare quality—particularly from dome tweeters—of sounding almost as if it has no upper limit. Delicate transients, as from brushed cymbals and triangles, cut effortlessly through the fabric of an orchestral fortissimo.

Summing Up
All in all, there is much to like about the Siefert Maxim IIIs.

But don't run right out and trade in your Infinity IRSes untiul you read the rest of this report. Though you might not think so from the report as it reads thus far, the Siefert Maxims are not perfect. Their high end sounds (and measures) somewhat tipped-up above about 9kHz, imbuing a slight zzz quality quality to massed strings and a subtle but definite tss to vocal sibilants. There is an equally slight tendency toward steely hardness, and both of these things are exacerbated both by high listening levels (over 95dB) and by many amplifiers.

There are very few loudspeaker sustems of any price that don't make a critical listener acurtely unhappy when he or she returns from a live concert to put on a recording. The Maxim is, amazingly, one that doesn't. In fact, of all the speakers in this price class that I have heard. I would say that Siefert's Maxim III is probably the most successful design of all. Mated with a suitable power amplifier, and not pushed too high a listening level, it is one of a small handful of moderately priced speker systems that can make most audiophiles (and practically all music lovers) quite happy for an indefinite period of time. Recommended.—J. Gordon Holt

The SM 45 has a 1" aluminum-dome tweeter and a 5.25" mid/woofer, the latter utilizing DefTech's patented Balanced Double Surround System (BDSS), in which the driver's cone is supported at both its inner and outer edges, for longer excursion. The large, unusual-looking knob at the center of the mid/woofer is DefTech's new Linear Response Waveguide. This is designed to create wide dispersion and a smooth frequency response off axis, so that you don't have to be strapped into a narrow "sweet spot" to enjoy good sound—great for listening (and dance) parties.

I was also immediately impressed by the SM 45's solid feel. Knocking on a side panel resulted in a hollow tone that was slight and well controlled—not quite the dull thud you expect from more expensive speakers, but satisfying nonetheless. The SM 45's contoured, high-gloss baffle and tapered side panels are said to minimize diffraction, while internal MDF cross-bracing increases rigidity. (For more on diffraction and how the shape of a speaker's cabinet can influence its frequency response, check out Keith Howard's excellent essay "Cutting Corners.") While unpacking the SM 45s was indeed painless, each speaker weighs a surprisingly hefty 12 lbs—significantly more than my 8.8-lb PSB Alpha B1s, but still 155 lbs lighter than some other speakers around here.

The SM 45's overall fit and finish were outstanding. My review samples seemed to have been roughed up during shipment—the outer box was dented and punctured—but there were no signs of damage to the speakers themselves. I was even more impressed by the fact that I could find no signs of manufacturing defects. Though the SM 45 was designed by a team of DefTech engineers in the US and Canada, it's made in China. Paul DiComo explained that careful steps are taken to ensure reliable, high-quality manufacture: DefTech's handpicked vendors are subjected to a lengthy validation process that includes factory inspections, financial vetting, and reference checks. According to DiComo, the vendors selected are given detailed mechanical drawings for every part of a design, and are required to execute those designs precisely as specified. An extensive quality-assurance program follows every step of production, first abroad and later at home, to ensure that the specifications have been met and the speakers are ready to ship to dealers.

The rear of the SM 45 is dominated by a large, flared bass vent and, in a recess, a single pair of five-way binding posts of a high quality typically found in much more expensive designs. Somewhat unfortunately, the speaker is available in only one finish: a modest wood-grain black matte. But, really, the SM 45's high-gloss black baffle would look garish against any other finish. As it is, the speaker seems to quietly and gracefully disappear into itself. The SM 45's frequency range is listed as 35Hz–30kHz, its nominal impedance as 8 ohms, and its sensitivity as a relatively high 90dB.

Listening to music
It took some time to get a handle on the SM 45's sound. After a couple weeks of casual listening I found its performance still uninspiring, but soon grew to appreciate its gentle, subtle touch. Far from being a "flavor bomb," the SM 45 didn't stand out in any way at all, but simply sat there, making music. Indeed, the SM 45 was very easy to take for granted, easy to ignore. It was, in a sense, the quietest loudspeaker I've ever heard, and "disappeared" in my room as has no other speaker, allowing music to simply bloom throughout my room, to surround and surprise me. It's impossible to say whether the SM 45's sound changed significantly over time or if I grew better accustomed to what it was doing, but everything snapped into focus—literally and figuratively—during direct comparisons with the Polk RTi A3 ($399.95/pair; reviewed last month).

Neneh Cherry and Norwegian free-jazz trio, The Thing, offer a languid version of Ornette Coleman's wonderful "What Reason Could I Give" on their surprising collaboration, The Cherry Thing (CD, Smalltown Supersound STS229). While the DefTechs couldn't match the Polks' weighty bass and more powerful kick-drum blasts, the smaller speakers produced a more tightly rendered overall picture, with sharply focused, three-dimensional images set within an impressively wide soundstage. At 3:40 into the song, Cherry, saxophonist Mats Gustafsson, and drummer Paal Nilssen-Love make way for Ingebrigt Hüker Flaten's lengthy bass solo. Through the Polks, this solo was something of a mess—loose, incoherent, lacking purpose. The DefTechs presented the same minute of music with greater articulation, clarity, and precision, allowing the notes to cohere and the melody to prevail—an absolutely lovely thing.

I'd been most impressed by the Polks' way with rock music, so I returned to "Road Dog," from Dope Body's excellent Natural History (CD, Drag City DC513). Again I was surprised: While the Polks produced the bigger, more aggressive overall sound, they couldn't match the DefTechs' transient articulation, inner detail, and delicate touch. Through the SM 45s, the guitar rakes of the song's opening moments sounded more nuanced and natural: I could more easily hear—in fact, more easily see—a guitar pick hitting individual guitar strings. While the Polks threw those rakes into my room with impressive force, they also made them sound more like simple white noise.

But don't get the wrong idea: The little DefTechs' touch may have been subtle and delicate, but they weren't wusses. They could rock. Compared to my PSB Alpha B1s ($299/pair), the SM 45s offered a similarly well-balanced overall sound, but with more precise imaging, a wider soundstage, and cleaner, deeper bass. Most important to me was the DefTech's ability to reproduce louder, more complex passages of music with no hint of strain or compression. When I turned up the volume during "Road Dog," the PSBs tended to sound slightly stressed out and overmatched—they wheezed a bit. (Not really.)

Special Music
It's funny how even the smallest, seemingly accidental events can alter our ideas and shape the way we view our worlds. One night toward the end of the review period, I casually selected one of the many neglected discs that litter my orange couch: Mouse on Mars' recently released Parastrophics (CD, Monkeytown MTR 022CD), an album that hadn't impressed me at all the first few times I'd heard it. There's nothing special about this music, I'd thought. Well, about three seconds into listening to Parastrophics through the Definitive Technology StudioMonitor 45s, my jaw dropped, my eyes went wide, and I was forced to give myself three slaps in the face: What the hell was wrong with me? The SM 45s' well-controlled lows, impressive dynamics, and stable stereo imaging worked together to reveal intoxicating levels of detail and texture I'd previously missed—another reminder to spend more time enjoying the things closest to me. My apologies to Mouse on Mars. My thanks to Definitive Technology.

Thus spoke AudioQuest's Steve Silberman, VP of development, of their brand-new USB D/A converter, the DragonFly. "There are a lot of very good DACs out there," he continued. "There are even a lot of very good affordable DACs. But the problem is, people outside of audio don't want them: They don't want old-style components like that.

"I know a lot of people who have started and sold companies, who could have anything they want. People who love music. And they don't want what our industry makes. For so long, our industry has dictated to the customer: 'You want to play CDs? You need a CD player, and this is how it has to be.' Same thing with DVDs and lots of other things: The manufacturers and the retailers dictate to the customers. I wanted to make a really high-quality audio product that meets people on their own terms."

The product that Silberman and AudioQuest had in mind was an outboard D/A converter that would sell for the same price as an Apple iPod Classic: a mere $249. The AudioQuest DragonFly measures 2.5" long, weighs three-quarters of an ounce, streams up to 24 bits and 96kHz, and plugs directly into the user's laptop or desktop computer. And it's a heck of a thing.

Description
Ideas in mind, Steve Silberman approached Gordon Rankin, the man who created what many of us regard as high-end audio's first USB D/A converter: the Wavelength Audio Crimson. The Crimson, which went on sale in 2004, wasn't Rankin's only computer-audio first. He also invented the first cross-platform asynchronous USB protocol, which allows the clock in an outboard DAC to override the clock in the datastream coming from the computer—the native frequencies of which are mathematically unrelated to audio sampling rates, to near-catastrophic effect in terms of timing errors, or jitter. Rankin has since licensed that code, given the trade name Streamlength, to a number of well-known manufacturers, and it now resides in the ROMs of many computer-audio components that have received glowing reviews in Stereophile.

The Streamlength software resides on the Texas Instruments TAS1020 controller board inside the DragonFly: one of three chips at the heart of the new converter. Rankin, who designed every aspect of the DragonFly except its connectors and cosmetics, says that AudioQuest expressed admiration for the Wavelength Proton D/A converter ($900; see my review in the October 2011 issue). Thus he began by basing a prototype on the Proton's Wolfson D/A chip. "I got it working," Rankin says, "but, for me, there was something lacking. I asked [AudioQuest] to let me do whatever I wanted, and so I ended up using the 24-bit ESS Sabre DAC." A Burr-Brown headphone amp/line amp, incorporating a 64-step analog volume control, completes the picture.

Rankin seems almost surprised at how well the finished DragonFly turned out—but he adds, with a laugh, "You don't know how much of a pain in the ass it was to get it that small! There are 107 parts inside, including five regulated power supplies." The scale of the thing's innards are typified, Rankin says, by the 1mm microdot LEDs that enable the dragonfly emblem on the DAC's zinc-alloy case to change color in accordance with the sampling rate of the file being played: green for 44.1kHz, blue for 48kHz, amber for 88.2kHz, and magneta for 96kHz. Yet for all that, the DragonFly is made in the USA.

Last but not least, the DragonFly's connectors are the sorts of things one might expect from a maker of perfectionist-quality cables: Its 3.5mm jack and USB plug feature silver-plated contacts. is machined from a compound of copper and beryllium (the latter said to add strength and elasticity), while the USB pins are copper. Both connectors undergo AudioQuest's direct-silver plating.

Installation and Setup
Installing the AudioQuest DragonFly, which is designed to work with the latest versions of Microsoft Windows and Apple OS X, took a little less than 15 minutes. Physical installation consisted simply of plugging the unit's integral USB plug into an available jack on the back of my Apple iMac and fitting the 3.5mm jack at the DragonFly's other end with an appropriate audio cable (about which I'll say more in a moment). Finishing the job was a simple matter of clicking on the Mac's Systems Preferences window (footnote 1), clicking the Sound icon, and then, under the Output tab, selecting "AudioQuest DragonFly," which appeared there as if by magic. (Under the Sound Effects tab I selected Internal Speakers, thus denying myself the pleasure of using a five-figure music system to alert me to every new kitten photo on Facebook.)

I mentioned the DragonFly's 3.5mm output jack, which might pose a challenge to The Unprepared. I still have a mini-plug-to-phono-jack adapter left over from my days as a Sony Walkman Pro owner, but I didn't press it into service. Rather, I accepted the loan, also from AudioQuest, of one of their new single-run Bridges & Falls interconnects. The interconnect cable I borrowed is a 5m run of AudioQuest Yosemite, with a 3.5mm plug of silver-plated "red" copper at one end, a pair of RCA plugs of the same composition at the other end, perfect-surface copper+ conductors, fluoropolymer air-tube dielectrics, and AudioQuest's 72V dielectric bias system: a sophisticated cable by anyone's definition. The retail value of this 5m Yosemite cable—the second-most-expensive in the Bridges & Falls line—is $1395. (I'm cheered by the existence, at the other end of the range, of the Evergreen single-run cable, which would sell for $53 for this configuration and length. I look forward to trying it.)

I've used a few different Mac-based music players in recent months, with still more on my to-do list. My reference remains Decibel v.1.0.2, by Stephen F. Booth Software, but rest assured—there are more than just one or two very good players out there. If you're still using iTunes, you're not getting the performance of which your system is capable, plain and simple.

Still, I resisted. Because I'm lazy, and can be painfully stubborn even against my own desires, I tried to force the idea from my mind. I'm done with the Tannoy review. I'm supposed to be getting to know the Parasound Zcd CD player. It's going to be a pain in the ass to unpack the speakers. It's hot!

But resistance was futile. There was only one way to bring this struggle to an end. I knew it, the speakers knew it, the CD player knew it. Most of all, the music knew it. It was probably "Nightfall Pieces I" that finally sent me over the edge. George Marge's tender alto flute spun gray-blue ribbons round Bill Dixon's troubled, disconsolate trumpet, and it was just too much to take. Was this classical? Jazz? Noise? Pop? The blues? Goddammit.

I got up and unpacked the box I'd just packed up, moved the PSBs aside, and set up the Tannoys. I cleared a spot on my cluttered orange couch, started Intents and Purposes from the beginning, and listened again. I guess I wasn't ready to move on, after all.

A few points
Just after I'd submitted my review of the Mercury V1, Tannoy's marketing manager, Jen Kavanagh, sent me some interesting information about the speaker's development and design. A few points are worth mentioning here.

The V1 is the fifth iteration of the Mercury, which was originally released in the 1980s. As I've said before, I really like it when things stick around for a while. I like constancy and consistency. Especially in these unsettled days, when technological advances relentlessly alter the ways in which we interact with one another, and how we experience art, music, food, clothing—everything—I think it's important to celebrate things that last, whether they be horseshoe crabs, paisleys, friendships, or loudspeakers. (See Art Dudley's "List of the Month" in this issue's "Listening.")

In hi-fi, as in music and other forms of great art, the most distinct and memorable pieces of work are often those born from a single, determined vision. I like that, too. It means that when you're listening to a CD player or an amplifier or a pair of speakers, you're also listening to a point of view—you're listening to a person. As I mentioned last month, the person behind the PSB sound is Paul Barton. In the case of Tannoy, that person is Paul Mills, the company's director of research and engineering. Mills joined Tannoy in 1987 as a senior engineer. Today, he's responsible for the acoustic design of all Tannoy residential loudspeakers, from the modest Mercury V1 to the stately Westminster Royal SE. It's fun to think that something of the $12,000/pair Westminster can be heard and enjoyed in the $320/pair Mercury V1. I love the fact that there are talented engineers who are willing to produce truly affordable, high-quality designs as well as cost-no-object flagship models. And while I understand and appreciate that some designers can't or won't make certain compromises (moving production to China, for instance) to reach a lower price point, I can't help wondering what the Magicos, MBLs, Wilsons, Vivids, and YGs of the hi-fi world might come up with if they chose to design a speaker that would retail for $300/pair.

Every design, even the most expensive and ambitious, is made with compromises. Last month I noted the Tannoy Mercury V1's old-fashioned appearance, all straight lines and right angles. Many other speakers have contoured baffles, tapered edges, and/or rounded sidewalls, to reduce vibrations and cabinet resonances. How does the boxy Mercury V1 overcome those obstacles? Jen Kavanagh passed my question along to Jim Stewart, Tannoy's director of operations, who explained that the speaker's overall appearance was compromised in order to achieve the best possible sound quality. I guess it's ironic, then, that I find the Mercury V1 to be so physically uncompromised—beautiful, in fact. But that's me. I like it when speakers look like speakers, rather than seashells, aliens, eyeballs, or vulvas.

According to Stewart, a square, rigid cabinet will offer significantly better performance than a curved, thin-walled cabinet with plastic trim pieces. For the Mercury V1, Tannoy concentrated on building a substantial, thick-walled cabinet with an internal volume that would deliver well-controlled bass. The cabinet was kept as narrow as possible, to reduce any harmful effects of its sharp edges; the desired internal volume was attained by making the cabinet deeper. Furthermore, limiting the Mercury V1 to just two vinyl finishes (Dark Walnut and Sugar Maple, both lovely) enabled Tannoy to produce large quantities of those two variants, thereby keeping the speaker's price low and offering greater value to the customer.

But as I listened again to Bill Dixon's Intents and Purposes, none of this entered my mind.

With the relevant amount of fidelity
Intents and Purposes was originally released by RCA Victor in 1967, and, with the exception of marginal reissues in Japan (1972) and France (1976), was soon out of print—and stayed that way until last year. We have to thank International Phonograph's Jonathan Horwich for making it readily available to a new generation of music lovers. I bought my copy at Other Music, in New York City, but I've seen the album available, at criminally low prices, from Amazon and eBay.

Housed in a glossy, heavy-stock, mini-gatefold sleeve that beautifully replicates the original LP's art, this is a Compact Disc that even I can love. As Horwich's liner notes make clear, Dixon had strong feelings regarding a potential reissue. He quotes Dixon from June 1999: "I worked like the devil on [Intents and Purposes] and, as a consequence, I'm incredibly sensitive about it being displayed for listeners in any format other than the one I conceived. I have wanted to purchase the masters myself, but that has come to naught. I would rather it never be reissued if it can't be done with the relevant amount of fidelity to the philosophy of its initiation."

Horwich's reissue was accomplished with Dixon's blessing, so you know it's good. The original two-track masters were provided by Sony Entertainment and converted to 24-bit/96kHz digital by Mark Wilder (Battery Studios, New York) and Horwich. Steve Marlow handled the final mixing and mastering. Horwich's International Phonograph label has also reissued Julius Hemphill's Dogon A.D. and the Clare Fischer Orchestra's Extension (see our reviews in May and September, respectively). Upcoming Phonograph International titles will include other neglected treasures: Jeremy Steig's Flute Fever and John Carter's Flight for Four and Self-Determination Music. While Horwich is currently dedicated to releasing CDs of long-out-of-print recordings, he says he'd be happy to release them on LP as well, but only if the demand exists. I'm crossing my fingers for a big, beautiful vinyl version of Intents and Purposes. For now, I'm delighted to have the CD.

The album comprises four pieces—two long, two short—developed by Dixon and his creative partner, dancer-choreographer Judith Dunn. Much like John Cage, who had a long and productive relationship with choreographer Merce Cunningham, Dixon was interested in and inspired by dance; while the four pieces on Intents and Purposes certainly live on their own, it's fun (and enriching, I think) to consider them as being inextricably tied to the work of the Cunningham-trained Dunn. So, as I listened again, I saw the drama unfold: nightfall, rainfall, whisper, weep, and wail. Many-voiced, mercurial—sometimes furious, sometimes languid, by turns romantic, soft, sorrowful, sexy—the music leapt into my listening room, danced into my life, and made me feel happy to be who I am, happy to have undeniable urges. And it was that quality—the graceful, weightless dance of it all—that the Tannoy Mercury V1s captured best.

Parasound Zcd CD player
If you're going to listen to great CDs, you'll need a worthwhile CD player, and Parasound's new Zcd ($400) is an interesting option. Like all of Parasound's Z products, the basic-black Zcd measures 9.5" wide by 2" high by 10" deep, and has front-panel rack-mounting holes. I've also seen a stylish, silver option that forgoes the holes for an appearance more at home in the listening room than in the recording studio. Difficult as I am, I'd prefer black without holes. For more on the Z products' physical design, see my review of the Zphono•USB phono preamplifier in our March issue.

The Mercury V1's fit and finish were excellent, with no visible blemishes of any kind. Designed in the UK and made in China, this speaker feels like quality. Knocking on a side panel resulted in just the slightest resonance—very fine performance for a model in this price class. Whereas many other speakers have contoured baffles, tapered edges, and/or rounded side panels to reduce vibrations and cabinet reflections, the Mercury V1 is all straight lines and right angles—not a curve in sight. Its overall look, then, is somewhat old-fashioned, but the front baffle's aluminum accents lend a touch of modern elegance. The speaker has a 1" soft-dome tweeter and a 5.1" pulped paper-cone mid/woofer, and its published specs include a frequency range of 45Hz–25kHz, a sensitivity of 86dB, and a nominal impedance of 8 ohms. Around back is a single set of sturdy, five-way binding posts.

Sound Quality
Unlike the Definitive Technology StudioMonitor 45, which I reviewed last month and which took some time to distinguish itself as an outstanding performer, the Tannoy Mercury V1 sounded compelling right out of the box. In college, I listened endlessly to Indeterminacy: New Aspect of Form in Instrumental and Electronic Music, a collection of 90 one-minute stories spoken by John Cage, accompanied by David Tudor on piano and electronics (2 CDs, Smithsonian Folkways 40804). Though I no longer own that set, I've recently been enjoying a fine reissue on high-quality, 180gm virgin vinyl (2 LPs, Doxy DOZ406). Through the Tannoys, Cage's voice sounded uncommonly smooth and round, and was clearly focused in the center of a wide, stable soundstage. Piano and percussive elements flashed into my listening room with impressive speed and force. Interestingly, the Tannoys brought to the fore a persistent tape hiss I'd never before noticed. Through my PSB Alpha B1s ($299/pair), Cage's voice was just as clear and present, but with significantly more edge and hardness. On the other hand, the PSBs paid less attention to the tape hiss, but added a bit of size and weight to the entire performance.

To test the limits of the Mercury V1's bass, I first turned to "Limit to Your Love," from James Blake's self-titled debut (LP, Polydor B0015443-01). Again, piano and voice sounded softer, rounder, gentler than I'm used to, but pleasantly so; and while the song's incredible blasts of low-end energy lacked ultimate weight and authority, they were nevertheless extremely well defined and remarkably controlled. However, with more rhythmically complex music, such as Nicolas Jaar's reinterpretation of Mike James Kirkland's "What My Last Girl Put Me Through" (12" single, Ubiquity UR12298), the Tannoys' taut, lean bass couldn't make sense of the groove. Here the PSBs were more accomplished, sounding altogether funkier and nastier, and creating a more involving listening experience. The Tannoys were more polite and reserved.

It was while listening to the mps—the first album by my band, the Multi-Purpose Solution (CD, Mint 400 M4R00 18)—that I really noticed the Tannoy's magic: Even though our distorted guitars lacked some body and heft, our clean guitars were incredibly easy to follow and sounded wonderfully vibrant and true, and cymbals sounded sweeter and more fully expressed than I could recall.

That led me to Bérangère Maximin's gorgeous No One Is an Island (CD, Sub Rosa SR 337). So intoxicating was the sound of Frederick D. Oberland's electric guitar, so thrilling the sounds of Maximin's laptop effects, that I was compelled to listen to the album from beginning to end and over again. Though no other aspect of its frequency response seemed unduly sacrificed, the Tannoy's highs were especially delicate, clean, and lovely. Surprisingly, my emotional response to this music depended greatly on the speaker I used: The PSB Alpha B1 made it sound consistently bolder and more physical, creating a more dramatic and unsettling listening experience; the Tannoy offered a sense of ease and grace that transformed the music into a decidedly more intimate and peaceful affair—two distinct sounds, equally valid.

While I feel certain that I'd be able to successfully identify these speakers in a blind listening test, I'm not nearly as comfortable choosing a favorite. They both made beautiful music. In general, I'd give the PSBs the advantage for rock and large-scale orchestral music; the Tannoys would get my vote for jazz and smaller-scale music. But really, both speakers sounded fine with everything I played. If Floyd E. Toole were to blindfold me and put a gun to my head, I guess I'd pick the PSBs, simply because I listen to more rock and I like big bass. But I'd miss the Tannoys' delicacy and grace.

Conclusion
I think I'll have a hard time forgetting the Tannoy Mercury V1. But for now, good fortune smiles again: Kal Rubinson has just offered me some of his Echo Busters acoustic treatments, and I plan to pick them up later this month. While they won't exactly turn my listening room into an anechoic chamber, they'll provide a small step in that direction.

When someone finally answered my call, I was surprised—partly because I'd grown so accustomed to hearing that busy signal, but mostly because the person on the other end of the line sounded so familiar. She was kind, candid, and her tone almost immediately took on the warm, concerned, slightly overbearing touch of a mom—my favorite kind of person. This was Sheila Weisfeld—cofounder, with her husband, Harry, of VPI Industries. We talked and talked. After a while, I wondered if Sheila was more interested in sharing stories about her sons than in selling me a record-cleaning machine.

Turned out that her first, Jonathan, had been killed in a car accident 13 years earlier. Jonathan and I would have been about the same age; like me, he'd wanted to be a musician. After Jonathan's death, VPI shut its doors for a month. Sheila dedicated herself to promoting safety-awareness programs and to helping her younger son, Mathew, find his way through the family's loss. Harry holed up in the basement for two years, perfecting a design that he and Jonathan had started together: a tonearm that, in honor of Jonathan, would be named the JMW Memorial. In our January 1997 issue, Michael Fremer called the tonearm "a triumph of industrial design" with a sound that was "intoxicating, almost magical."

Loss had inspired beauty.

Sheila, I figured, had taken a liking to me. (I'm great with moms.) But before we said goodbye, she expressed her displeasure with my choice of turntable. She was gentle, diplomatic, and unambiguous. "Perhaps you'd like me to loan you a turntable? Your call!"

My call? I was reminded of my own mom, always offering more of my favorite meal: I was too full to accept, but couldn't bear insulting her. I explained to Sheila, as tactfully as I could, that while I'd always been fascinated by and attracted to VPI's turntables, they were out of my price range. Plus, I had no idea how to set up a turntable. The Rega made setup relatively easy, but a 'table like VPI's entry-level Scout ($1800, with JMW-9T tonearm) was too intimidating.

"Can I take you up on the offer in a few months? By this fall, I might be able to give a VPI the attention it deserves."

"Whatever makes you happy."

Whatever makes me happy? I could almost see her smile.

When my conversation with Sheila was over, I immediately missed her. After speaking with her for just a few minutes, I felt I'd known her all my life. This was Sheila's effect on people. It's no surprise that her line was so often busy.

Days passed, spring turned to fall, one winter blurred into another, and I never again called Sheila. I figured we'd renew our discussion in person, at a Consumer Electronics Show or some other event.

In June 2011, when Sheila Weisfeld was diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer, the doctors told her she had three months to live. She responded by going on long trips to Australia and to Texas; travel made her happy. Having surpassed the doctors' expectations, Sheila next planned to attend the January 2012 CES, where she would say goodbye to friends and colleagues and accept Stereophile's award for Analog Source Component of 2011, for VPI's Classic 3 turntable. She didn't make it. On December 16, 2011, Sheila Weisfeld passed away. I never got to meet her.

At CES, I handed our award to Mathew Weisfeld, who mentioned that he'd be taking on more responsibility at VPI. In April, at the New York Audio & AV Show, Mathew handed me a business card, explained that he was leaving his teaching job to work full-time with his dad, and introduced VPI's newest turntable, the Traveler. Dedicated to Sheila Weisfeld and meant to appeal to a younger generation of music lovers, the Traveler was designed for easy setup, would be available in a range of fun colors, and would cost $1299 without phono cartridge—almost exactly the price of my Rega P3-24 without phono cartridge.

The VPI Traveler
On the flight home from the 2012 CES, 27-year-old Mathew Weisfeld reached into the pocket on the seat back in front of him, pulled out a paper bag, and sketched a design for an attractive, user-friendly turntable that even his friends could afford. The 'table's size and shape would be very important. It would have to be sleek, small enough to fit on a standard equipment rack, and at least somewhat portable.

With a footprint of about 16.5" wide by 12" deep, the Traveler easily fit on the top shelf of my Polycrystal equipment rack, and left room for my VPI Crosscheck turntable level and Hunt EDA record-cleaning brush. Mathew Weisfeld boasts that he carried an early-production sample of the Traveler to the recent Newport Beach Show in his luggage. But at a hefty 24 lbs and standing about 5" tall, the Traveler is significantly heavier and bulkier than my Rega. While I wouldn't think twice about schlepping the Rega over to Uncle Omar's house for a listening session, I doubt I'd be able to tuck the Traveler under one arm and go.

The Traveler's chassis is made of 3/16"-thick aluminum and ½"-thick Delrin, the latter a commercial name for polyoxymethylene (POM), a thermoplastic attractive for its high rigidity, low friction, and outstanding dimensional stability. Harry Weisfeld explained that, in the Traveler, this combination of aluminum and Delrin creates a very quiet, self-damping structure while allowing all parts of the turntable to be perfectly aligned for smooth, controlled operation. The 'table's aluminum top plate extends just beyond the Delrin foundation, and comes standard in a range of colors that includes red, white, blue, and silver. (Other options may be available in the future; photos on VPI's website show Travelers in pink and gold.) My sample came in VPI's standard black finish and exhibited some cosmetic imperfections on the chassis' underside—due perhaps to being hauled around in luggage, or to the usual strains of shipping. The instruction manual recommends using the Panel Magic or Stainless Steel Magic cleaning products to eliminate any odd markings from the Traveler's surface.

The Traveler's machined aluminum platter is damped with a stainless-steel disc and has an integral cloth mat. As in the VPI Classic, the Traveler's motor is built into the chassis. While it might seem counterintuitive to place a vibration-inducing motor in direct contact with a vibration-sensitive chassis, VPI believes that a properly integrated motor provides steadier and more efficient speed control. Unlike my Rega and many low-cost turntables driven by DC motors, the Traveler's AC synchronous motor runs on the stable 60Hz line frequency, and is said to be immune to voltage variances. I asked Harry Weisfeld to explain.

"An AC motor knows where it is. A DC motor knows where it was."

I asked Harry Weisfeld to explain.

"An AC synchronous motor reads the line frequency coming from the wall, which, in the US, will always be 60Hz. The motor's rotational speed (600rpm, in the case of the Traveler) is set by the line frequency. You can vary the voltage from 70 to 140V, and the speed will still be 600rpm. If you slow the platter down with your finger, the motor will fight you to get back to the correct speed of 600rpm—it's a known, fixed item."

Using a record brush on a spinning LP, I noticed that the Traveler paid little attention to the downward pressure exerted on its platter, but continued to run smoothly, unperturbed. This is not at all the case with my Rega, which can be slowed to a near stop with the slightest touch. According to Weisfeld, AC motors are more sensitive to music's timing and, therefore, sound more dynamic and compelling.

And DC motors?

"A DC motor is very quiet, very easy to integrate into a turntable, passes CE and UL regulations with no problem, and is cost-effective. But what speed does it run at? [A DC motor] needs a feedback loop to maintain speed accuracy, and that causes a time delay when the [rotational] speed is changed by groove velocity."

The Traveler's main platter bearing comprises a high-tolerance Thomson shaft, a chrome-hardened steel ball, and a thrust plate of polyetheretherketone (PEEK), an extremely durable thermoplastic with outstanding creep resistance—perfect for high-stress applications. Hinting at a potential upgrade, Weisfeld claims that the Traveler's motor and bearing assembly can easily handle the Classic 3's substantial 20-lb platter.

Of the 25 two-channel loudspeakers Definitive Technology designs (in the US) and manufactures (in China), ranging in price from $290 to $3998 per pair, I chose the StudioMonitor 55 ($598/pair). (You can read Stephen Mejias's thoughts on the SM55's little brother, the StudioMonitor 45, in his "The Entry Level" in the August 2012 issue, with a "Follow-Up" from John Atkinson in October 2012.) This two-way, biwirable bookshelf model has two drivers and a passive bass radiator. Its 1" aluminum-dome tweeter has been heat-treated to relax the crystal structure of the metal, then coated with ceramic to extend its high-frequency response. The 6.5" mid/woofer has a cast aluminum basket and incorporates DefTech's patented Balance Double Surround System (BDSS), which supports the cone at its inner and outer edges for longer, more linear excursions.

Having reviewed several dozen reflex-loaded bookshelf speakers that achieve low-frequency extension via a front- or rear-firing port, I was intrigued by DefTech's unique solution: Instead of a port, the SM55 has a top-firing passive radiator measuring 6" by 10". As DefTech's Paul DiComo explained to me, the company prefers bass radiators over ports because: 1) they effectively block midrange frequencies, which can create midrange smearing; and 2) they produce less distortion and avoiding "chuffing" noises. The bass radiator has a basket and spider but no magnet or voice-coil; its cone is of MDF with a vinyl laminate. DefTech claims that using a passive radiator provides greater control, definition, and speed.

The SM55 has two grilles: one each for the front and top panels. I listened to the speakers with all grilles on, all grilles off, and with the front grilles off but top grilles on. In all three arrangements, the sound was identical—hats off to DefTech for designing a couple of transparent grilles. However, I preferred the SM55's looks with its front grille off and its top grille on. Removing the front grille reveals the sexy, gloss-black baffle while leaving all grilles on gives the black wood-grain SM55 a drab, boxy appearance. Removing only the top grille gives the speaker a ridiculous scalped-cowboy look. I biwired the SM55s and placed them on my Celestion Si stands, which are loaded with sand and lead shot. (DefTech doesn't make a dedicated stand for the SM55.)

Listening
To test a speaker's midrange integrity, I begin most listening sessions with well-recorded voices. With all recordings I sampled, the Definitive Technology StudioMonitor 55 passed with flying colors. In "You Are but a Dream," from the Frank Sinatra singles compilation This Is Sinatra Vol.2 (LP, Capitol W982), the voice of Ol' Blue Eyes was bathed in a reverberant and silkily mellifluous glow. Bob Dylan's voice in "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands," from a pristine reissue of his Blonde on Blonde (LP, Columbia/Simply Vinyl 0162), was as natural as I've heard through any speakers, regardless of price. Higher in the audioband, Carole King's "You've Got a Friend," from her Tapestry LP (Ode SP 77009), floated in natural holographic splendor throughout her vocal range; and the harmonies in "Twelve-Thirty (Young Girls Are Coming to the Canyon)," from the Mamas and the Papas'Farewell to the First Golden Era (LP, Dunhill 50025), assumed angelic qualities. Finally, the SM55 enabled Louis Armstrong and Velma Middleton's voices in "Honeysuckle Rose," from Satch Plays Fats (LP, Columbia CL708), to seamlessly blend while retaining each artist's unique phrasing.

The SM55's midrange created an open and natural window for jazz recordings. Anat Fort's piano in her A Long Story (CD, ECM 1994) emerged as warm and inviting in its lower register, with perfectly linear low-level dynamics. And John Coltrane's tenor saxophone in Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane (LP, Jazzland 946), and Roland Kirk's tenor in "Oh, Lord, Don't Let Them Drop That Atomic Bomb on Me," from Charles Mingus's Oh, Yeah (LP, Atlantic 1377), generated identical responses for my notes: "forward, natural, and silky."

Jazz recordings also brought out the SM55's greatest strength: its midbass definition. Mingus's double bass in the title track of his Pithecanthropus Erectus (CD, Atlantic AMCY-1036), and in "Theme for Lester (Goodbye Pork Pie Hat)," from Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus (LP, Impulse! AS-51), was rich, woody, open, and airy, with perfect definition.

Satch Plays Fats showcased the DefTech's ability to reproduce natural, extended highs. In his solo in "Ain't Misbehavin'," Armstrong's trumpet was biting and extended but without a trace of harshness. The SM55's high-frequency resolution also showcased its ability to render fast transients with abundant detail and no hint of smearing. It revealed all the subtle details of Monk's piano phrasing in "Epistrophy," from the aforementioned Coltrane-Monk record. Similarly, the SM55 revealed all the subtle nuances of pianist Jesse Stacken's phrasing in his lyrical, fleeting solo in the title track of trumpeter Liam Sillery's Phenomenology (CD, OA2 Records 22061). And I was able to individually follow each of the six percussionists on Tito Puente's Top Percussion (LP, RCA 1617).

However, all the jazz recordings mentioned above also revealed the SM55's single shortcoming. Although its high frequencies were natural, extended, and completely devoid of coloration or smearing, over them was layered a subtle powdery texture, and particularly over the drum kits. This created a slight lack of liquidity and continuousness in the highs that was not a problem in the midrange and bass. This was a minor problem, and I didn't notice it with most recordings.

I found myself unusually engaged and focused when listening to rock music on the SM55s—and my feet wouldn't keep still. Speaking of moving feet, the notes I took—when I could stop moving long enough to write—for "Let a Man Come In and Do the Popcorn," from James Brown's Soul Classics Vol.2 (LP, Polydor SVLP 127) read, "Churning! Coherent!" I then cued up a recent acquisition, The Complete Animals (LP, EMI EM1367), to discover that the compilers of this 40-track set had misled me. I looked for my favorite Animals tune, "Don't Bring Me Down," and found it missing (a royalties problem with songwriter Carole King, perhaps, or perhaps because it had not been produced by Mickie Most. (The collection's subtitle is The Complete Mickie Most Productions for EMI.) So I went to my second choice, "We Gotta Get Out of This Place," which moved me more than when I saw this Newcastle band perform the piece live at a reunion concert in the 1980s.

With other rock recordings, the SM55 favored electric guitars. Jack White's axe in the White Stripes'White Blood Cells (CD, V2 63881-27124-2) was buzzy, raspy, and forward—as it should be. And the interaction of the Ventures' two guitars in "Out of Limits," from The Very Best of the Ventures (LP, Liberty LN-10122), was clearly delineated; it was very easy to follow individual lines and phrasings.

I've saved the best news for last. The StudioMonitor 55 proved to be an awesome classical-music speaker. Louis Andriessen's orchestral blockbuster De Stijl is a combination of subtle delicate orchestral textures and a bombastic sense of drama. When I listened to a recording of this remarkable work by the Schoenberg and ASKO Ensembles conducted by Reinbert de Leeuw (CD, Nonesuch 79342 2), the DefTechs revealed its full dynamic range, from ppp to fff, on a wide, deep stage with gobs of ambience. And Marcel Dupré's solo organ performance of his own Prelude and Fugue in G Minor, from his Organ Recital (LP, Mercury Living Presence SR 90169), revealed delicate, airy highs along with a big, bloomy organ sound and a sense of a real instrument playing in a real space. And for a bookshelf speaker, the SM55's reproduction of the pedal notes in this recording were startlingly realistic.

Comparisons
I compared the Definitive Technology StudioMonitor 55 ($598) with the Epos ELS3 ($350 when last offered), the Epos M5i ($899), and the Wharfedale Diamond 10.1 ($350). (All prices per pair.)

The Epos ELS3 had a silkier midrange, with longer decays and more ambience, than the DefTech SM55. Its highs were also more sophisticated, detailed, and delicate. The ELS3's upper bass was cleaner and its midbass leaner than the SM55's, and the Epos was far inferior in high-level dynamics.

The Wharfedale Diamond 10.1 had a warmer midbass than the DefTech SM55, and more delicate and detailed highs, but its high-level dynamics were slightly inferior.

The Epos M5i had the richest, most detailed midrange of all four speakers, the best low-level dynamics, and the most delicate and sophisticated highs. The M5i's bass went as deep as the DefTech's, but more cleanly. The M5i's and SM55's high-level dynamics were equivalent.

Summing Up
Definitive Technology has produced a detailed and uncolored bookshelf speaker that provides superb value for the money. And in terms of its midbass definition and high-level dynamic drama with orchestral works, you'd probably have to spend more than $1000/pair to exceed its performance. I'm sorry I waited so long to review a Definitive Technology speaker. Next time, I won't wait.

We can dance until we die.—Katy Perry

I'd always figured I'd wind up with a girl who loved the Mets, hated cats, and had grown up on Sonic Youth and the Pixies—a female version of me, more or less. What could be better?

Was my vision misguided? Maybe. Narcissistic? Probably. A symptom of low self-esteem?

Hmm . . .

But over the last few hours I've grown smarter, less self-centered, more forgiving of myself and others. I've made an important discovery: I can choose my friends and I can even choose my lover, but no matter how hard I hope and squeeze and pray, I can not choose the things my lover loves. What's up with that? The universe is cruel.

I must be paying for crimes committed in a previous life. I've fallen for a proud Yankees fan. She has two crazy cats (Avon, the sweetheart, and Stringer, the jerk—tuxedos both) and, before she met me, she'd never even heard of Sonic Youth. Daydream Nation, inarguably the greatest record of all time, means absolutely nothing to her. In fact, when it comes to music, Ms. Little and I have nothing in common.

That's a lie. The truth is, we have much more in common than I'd like to admit. She openly indulges in all the crap I try to avoid but secretly adore. I like to say there's no such thing as a guilty pleasure, but really, all of my pleasures are guilty. I come from a large family of Puerto Rican Catholics. We're not allowed to have fun unless drunk to the point of blindness. That way, we can't be held responsible for our actions. I was bombed when I wrote about Drake a few months ago. I blame Ms. Little for my recent affairs with pop stars and rappers.

How did this R. Kelly CD get on my orange couch? Who put these Usher tracks in my iPod? Did I really buy this Nicki Minaj record?

What the—? Who am I?

Perhaps that last question is the most important. When I'm with Ms. Little, I feel most like myself—which, for me, is unusual. I can root for the obnoxious Yankees, pet a stinking cat, or listen to mainstream pop, and still hold my head high. Ms. Little won't judge. This isn't to say that I'll be trading my Keith Hernandez jersey for pinstripes—hell no—and I certainly won't be selling my limited-edition Kevin Drumm records. I'm bigger and more complicated than that. It takes a special kind of romantic disposition to cheer for a perennial loser, and only the most dedicated listener can withstand the impenetrable noise that is Sheer Hellish Miasma. You have to be willing to endure some pain, knowing that, when it's all over, there will be . . .

Tremendous, ungodly pleasure
I had just finished torturing myself with the Dynavector DV 10X5 moving-coil cartridge (see last month's column), and had decided to visit Ms. Little for some peace, quiet, and company. But as I approached her building, I heard a strange, blaring, buzzy sound—something like the fitful siren of summer cicadas, but far more alien and terrifying, and interrupted every now and then by weird rattling noises. As I neared the building, the sound grew louder. When I reached Ms. Little's door, I realized, with horror, that the sound was coming from her apartment.

I knocked loudly.

Ms. Little opened the door. "Hi, honey!"

"What the hell is going on in here?" I yelled.

"Nothing. I was just having a private dance party. Wanna join me?"

"What is that noise?"

"Excuse me?"

"Excuse me." I walked passed Ms. Little and took a look around the apartment. Avon and Stringer, in what I suspect was a mischievous attempt to knock me to the floor, spun themselves around my ankles. Everywhere I moved, they moved. I was covered in cat hair before I discovered the source of the noise: Ms. Little's Macbook and a pair of cheap plastic computer speakers—little, silver, bullet-shaped things with folded, accordion-like centers that sort of bobbed up and down in time with the music.

I could hardly articulate my disbelief. "I mean— How—? Wha—?"

"What?"

"What is this?"

"What?"

"This. This!"

"Excuse me?"

I tried a different approach. "Sorry. Um, hi. I meant to ask— I was just wondering—"

"Yes?"

"What is this music you're listening to, sweetheart?"

"Oh. This is Katy Perry. 'Teenage Dream.'"

"Oh. My. God. Darling, I'm so sorry. I'll never leave you alone again."

"Shut up!"

"Really, why do you like this crap?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry. May I turn the volume down for a moment?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Let me rephrase: What do you look for in music?"

"What do I look for in music?"

"Yes. What do you want from your music?"

Ms. Little sighed, crossed her arms, turned her head to one side. She was thinking about it.

"I guess I want to dance, sing, and laugh."

"Dance, sing, and laugh?"

"Yes."

"In that order?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Hmm."

Well. I really couldn't argue with her, could I?

Ms. Little's relationship with music is pure, simple, and admirable—much more so than my own, which tends to be more intellectual than physical. Ms. Little wants to dance; I want to think. More precisely: I, too, want to dance, but I'm paralyzed by thought. When I'm not listening to the same five minutes of music over and over and over again, trying, in pain, to solve the universe's riddles or, worse, hear differences between components, I'm at the record shop—usually Iris Records in Jersey City or Other Music in Manhattan—buying more records than I could ever possibly enjoy. There I am, already with a stack of 15 LPs beside me, pondering the gorgeous LP in my hands—it's probably something I've never heard of, by an artist whose name (Ghédalia Tazartès) I can't pronounce—wishing, desperately, to be the kind of person who actually wants to listen to this sort of thing. Whatever it is.

Available from Parts Express (catalog #300-652), the Dayton B652 is a simple two-way, sealed-cabinet design with a 6.5" polypropylene mid/woofer and a ferrofluid-cooled, 5/8" polycarbonate tweeter. The cabinet is clad in black vinyl and has a removable grille of black cloth. The B652s sounded pretty much the same regardless of whether the grilles were in place, but I preferred their looks with the grilles off, so that's how I listened. Better looks often equal better sound—at least in my home.

And as far as looks go, the Dayton's not so bad—neither excessively flashy nor terribly chintzy, but simple, modest, and fine. I would never feel embarrassed to have the Daytons in my listening room, which is much more than I can say about some of the overbuilt, honky components I saw at RMAF. The B652's rear panel is as clean and tidy as its front baffle: There's a discreet key-hole hanger near the top, and a pair of plastic spring-clip speaker terminals in the center.

The B652 measures 11 13/16" (300mm) high by 7 1/16" (180mm) wide by 6 7/16" (165mm) deep and weighs only 5.8 lbs (2.6kg). Knocking on a side panel produced a clearly audible resonance. Dayton specifies the speaker's impedance as 4 ohms, its frequency range as 70Hz–20kHz, and its sensitivity as 87dB/W/m.

Listening
Believe it or not, music through the little Dayton B652s was always very enjoyable. Unlike the Klipsch Synergy B-20s ($279/pair; reviewed June 2011), which had an unnaturally bright and unforgiving top end, and the Energy Connoisseur CB-10 ($269.99/pair; reviewed November 2011), which had an upper-bass boost that I simply couldn't forgive, the Dayton B652 never got in the way of the music. Its sins were of omission: Though it could sound big and dramatic enough to fill my listening room, the Dayton lacked deep bass, high-frequency extension, and ultimate control, sounding a bit hard and bothered during the most complex passages of music and when pushed to high volumes.

Listening to "The Nightcaller," from Flying Lotus's excellent new Until the Quiet Comes (LP, Warp WARP230), I heard an impressively large soundstage, good image separation, and a very fine sense of momentum and flow, the up-tempo track moving steadily along with no hint of temporal distortions. High frequencies, however, sounded etched, instrumental colors muted, textures thin.

I noticed some hardness in the highs, some softness in the lows, and the overall picture wasn't as big or as clean as I'd heard it before. But those flaws were easy enough to forgive and forget. The music remained intact.

By comparison, my PSB Alpha B1 speakers ($299/pair) produced an even wider and especially deeper soundstage, with greater overall clarity, openness, and detail. High frequencies were far smoother and better controlled, bass was more forceful, and there was a greater overall ease to the sound—when the music grew in complexity, scale, or volume, the PSBs didn't break a sweat.

Summing Up
But still. You could buy seven pairs of Dayton B652s for the price of the Alpha B1s. Keep a pair in your dorm room, a pair on your desktop, a pair in your office. As long as your expectations are realistic and you're willing to have fun, the Daytons are sure to please.

Design
The Verus Grand Bookshelf is a stand-mounted descendent of Aperion's flagship model, the Verus Grand Tower ($1798/pair). The two-way, bass-reflex Bookshelf features Aperion's Axially Stabilized Radiator (ASR) silk-dome tweeter (patent pending), which has a small plate in front of the dome that appears to support a secondary suspension at the apex of the dome. The woofer uses a black, woven-Kevlar cone. The Grand Bookshelf also shares with the Tower its curved sidewalls and internal bracing. The gloss piano-black finish of the review samples was gorgeous and suggested a much higher price (a gloss cherrywood veneer is also available).

I was quite taken with the ease of installation of the magnetically secured cloth grille with metal frame. I listened to the Verus Grands with the grilles on and off, and heard little difference in the sound, though I ultimately preferred to leave the grilles on: the presentation was then slightly more coherent, and the highs and midrange were better integrated with each other; the only downside was a very slight loss of detail. I placed the speakers on Celestion Si stands with their center pillars loaded with sand and lead shot.

Though there's no substitute for a knowledgeable, trustworthy, full-service audio retailer, you can't beat the terms of Aperion's direct-sale offer: a 30-day, money-back guarantee with free shipping both ways; a 10-year warranty; and trade-in at the full purchase price should you decide within a year to upgrade to one of their more expensive models.

Sound
The Verus Grand Bookshelf's open, vibrant, uncolored midrange gave me a sense of real musicians playing in real spaces with such well-recorded jazz as the title track of Charles Mingus's Pithecanthropus Erectus (CD, Atlantic AMCY-1036). As the Aperions let loose the full, boisterous bloom of Jackie McLean's alto sax and J.R. Montrose's tenor, they sounded like much larger speakers. However, although the Verus quite naturally reproduced the midrange timbres of all the male and female voices I listened to, it also ruthlessly revealed the subtle textures of recording techniques. For example, Col. Bruce Hampton's prominent tenor voice in "Hendon," from the Hampton Grease Band's Music to Eat (LP, Columbia 30581), has a forward, in-your-face quality through a good system. The Aperion revealed that Hampton's voice was a bit too high in the mix, somewhat out of balance with the instruments.

I particularly liked female voices through this speaker: Soprano Elizabeth Suderburg sounded angelic and pure in George Crumb's Madrigals (LP, Turnabout TV-1 34523), and her upper register had an airy, haunting quality. This was largely due to the speaker's clean, extended, uncolored highs, which worked as well with Fender Stratocasters as with classical sopranos. For many years, Jeff Beck has been my favorite rock guitarist, and my favorite of his guitar solos is the tersely concise one in the title track of Stanley Clarke's Journey to Love (LP, Nemperor NE 43). Beck uses a lot of delicately chiming upper-register harmonics, articulated with some tremolo-bar embellishments, before bursting forth with soaring, bending licks throughout the instrument's entire register, Ö la keyboardist Jan Hammer. The Aperion gave every note an airy shimmer that captivated me. A similar quality was evident in Roger Woodward's performance on prepared piano of Toru Takemitsu's Corona (UK LP, Decca Head 4). The upper registers sparkled—every minute transient was intact, with a sweeping and natural decay. However, I did note that, in the highly modulated passages of Chick Corea's solo in Wayne Shorter's "Nefertiti," from Corea, Barry Altschul, and Dave Holland's A.R.C. (LP, ECM 1009), the upper register of his piano did seem a bit forward.

The Verus Grand's articulation of transients made it a natural match for recordings of acoustic guitar. Larry Coryell and John McLaughlin's burning, rapid-fire duels in the Django Reinhardt–influenced "Rene's Theme," from Coryell's Spaces (LP, Vanguard VSD 79435), were reproduced with speed, clarity, and nary a touch of smearing. Not only did both guitars sound natural and resonant throughout their range, whether during solos or comping, but with Coryell in one channel and McLaughlin in the other, the Aperions made it very easy to distinguish each virtuoso's unique picking technique.

One of my favorite Kraftwerk recordings is the early Kraftwerk 2, from 1971 (German LP, Philips 8305117), which predated founders Ralf Hütter and Florian Schneider's use of synthesizers. The introduction of "KlingKlang" features a panoply of delicate percussion instruments played by Hütter and Schneider. Through the Verus Grand, the percussion was delicate and detailed, airy and shimmering. All transients were appropriately fast, with no trace of unnatural sharpness, and each percussion thwack had a long decay with a sense of spaciousness.

At the lower end of the audioband, midbass timbres were especially natural, with an amazing amount of weight for a modest bookshelf speaker, but with no sense of overhang or loss of definition. I listened to many jazz recordings that spotlit the double bass. After focusing on Mingus's opening bass figure in "Jump, Monk," from Mingus at the Bohemian (LP, Debut 123), I scribbled these notes: "woody, earthy, clean, and clear."

The song was "Lunacy," the opening track of Swans' latest masterpiece, The Seer (3 LPs, Young God YG45), a brutal and uncompromising epic of an album—and my very favorite album of the year (see sidebar).

The stuttering, fragmented electric-guitar chords emerged from somewhere far behind the plane of the loudspeakers, deep in the corner of my listening room, and grew slowly but steadily in volume and size. The electric guitar was joined by tight, tinkling sounds, made perhaps by striking a dulcimer or by carefully plucking the strings of an acoustic guitar above the nut. Strummed acoustic guitar entered the fold, it, too, growing slowly and steadily in volume and size, churning and churning, seeming almost to move closer to where I sat with each stroke of thick, nylon pick across worn brass strings.

Then the voices came in—at first soft and slow, easy to mistake for whispers, but in fact approaching from some great distance, heavy with the promise of something more. Neither moaning nor humming but wordlessly chanting, the voices gave way to a rapid, military-style snare pattern, which in turn gave way to a rush of brilliantly controlled guitar feedback. Again, the dulcimer sounds. The electric guitars. The voices.

The song, whole now, grew larger and larger and larger still, expanding like a balloon into my listening room, and as it did, I became at once rapt and discomfited. I felt a tension bordering on fear—Swans' intended effect, I imagine. Unable to withdraw, I accepted it, reveled in it, felt a part of it.

All this and then, at 2:09, a voice came from nowhere—"Wah!"—like a signal to release the pressure, to prevent the balloon, and the illusion, from bursting. The music withdrew, settled down, made room for more voices—each one distinct, true, clearly focused in the space between the speakers: I recognized Michael Gira of Swans, Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker of Low, their special timbres and textures easily identifiable.

In the mind / of no one
Forming sun / forming love
Break the chain / hide within
Innocence / not innocent

The voices grew slightly, almost imperceptibly louder, their tone more urgent and intense.

Innocent / in no sense
Eat the beast / keep him in
Take the blame / speak the name
Lunacy! Lunacy! Lunacy!

And here I heard thin and graceful ribbons of sound, flute-like in tone and motion, loosely but distinctly drawn and emerging from the left channel—a beautiful flourish, a slender finger beckoning me to follow, the mark of intelligent composition. It was almost too much to take.

Lunacy! Lunacy! Lunacy!

Turning my focus from music to sound, I noticed some hardness in the highs, some softness in the lows, and the overall picture wasn't as big or as clean as I'd heard it before. But those flaws were easy enough to forgive and forget. The music remained intact.

I felt troubled, disoriented. It was almost time to go. The song ended, the stylus followed the groove into the space between songs, and I heard a soft, shuffling tick. With a rush, I pulled myself from the orange couch, walked to the turntable, lifted stylus from groove, and shut down the system. The words spun over and over in my mind.

Lunacy! Lunacy! Lunacy!

How could this be? How could I have been so moved? Did it have something to do with the system?

I was using my four-year-old Rega Research P3-24 turntable and tonearm, and a Rega Elys 2 moving-magnet cartridge with about 35,000 hours on it. (I exaggerate, but yes, the thing is well worn.) These were augmented by Rega's drive-belt upgrade and outboard TT-PSU power supply, and a Boston Audio Design Mat 1 carbon-fiber platter mat. The entire rig would have cost around $1500 when last available. The signal from the turntable went into Parasound's Zphono•USB phono preamplifier ($349) via Kimber Kable's PBJ interconnect ($110/1m). A second run of PBJ delivered the signal to my NAD C316 BEE integrated amplifier ($380). Finally, the amp was connected, via 8' runs of RadioShack's 14AWG, braided Flat Megacable speaker wire (catalog #278-1273, $24.99/50' spool), to the plastic spring clips of Dayton Audio's marvelous little B652 loudspeaker ($39.80/pair, footnote 1).

In case you didn't catch that: The Dayton B652 costs $39.80/pair. That's the price of Chinese takeout for two, a pair of back-to-school-sale Levi's 501 jeans, or 20 classical LPs at Iris Records. Where does Dayton come up with that odd 80õ? Who cares? I've got a couple of dimes in my pocket. Call it an even $40/pair, and let's say I used about $8 worth of my 50' spool of cable. That would bring the total system cost to around $2497. And it's only that high because I splurged on the turntable. I imagine I could have found similar success with Pro-Ject's Debut Carbon ($399) or Rega's RP1 ($445) 'table, dropping the total system cost to under $1500.

By audiophile standards, my system is undeniably, unambiguously, freaking totally . . .

Inexpensive!
With such an inexpensive system, how can I be so powerfully moved and, even crazier, still have so much good, old-fashioned fun? The mind boggles.

I'm being silly now, but the question has been raised—seriously, unfacetiously—time and time again. In a recent post to the popular Audio Asylum Internet forum, "Bill the K" commented, "It's amazing that Stephen Mejias . . . seems so happy with his budget system. . . . I get the feeling that as a music lover, he can immerse [himself] in the musicality in spite of such [a] low-priced start-up system. Perhaps . . . we all tend to upgrade in search of the musicality that we do not hear."

Forum member "tmsorosk" chimed in: "What your [sic] saying is likely true, but lets [sic] not forget he's being paid to listen to, evaluate and write about lo-fi gear. One day he may be qualified to evaluate hi-end gear. . . ."

In digital audio, time waits for no one—and so it goes here. The iDecco, which sold for $999, is no longer in the company's lineup, and while Peachtree continues to put iPod docks in various of their amps and preamps, today they're betting on a simpler yet more highly evolved addition to their stable: the decco65 ($999), in which a 65Wpc amplifier and a hybrid tube/solid-state preamp share space with a 24-bit/192kHz D/A converter.

Description
Much as they've succeeded in setting the right categories and price points for their products, so has Peachtree Audio found a winning formula for the decco65's industrial design: an attractive wood wrap—too curvy to be called a box—surrounding a chassis that's just big enough to contain its working parts and a bit of cooling space. The wrap, which comes in a choice of high-gloss black paint or, for $100 more, a veneer of cherry or rosewood, fits snugly around an elegant satin-finish panel, the latter including a soft-touch standby switch, a row of smaller buttons for source selection, a large volume knob, a headphone jack, and a clear plastic window for the decco65's single vacuum tube: a 6N1P dual-triode, used not for voltage gain but as an interstage preamplifier buffer. A button on the remote control allows the user to switch between tubed and solid-state buffering, the former indicated by a blue light at the center of the tube's socket; thus the window offers visual confirmation of an audible function that some may consider subtle.

Inside, much of the decco65's size and weight are accounted for by a large toroidal power transformer, with the remaining power-supply components located on the rear half of the main preamplifier printed circuit board. A class-D power amplifier, built around a Texas Instruments (née Toccata) Equibit chipset, occupies a 5.5" by 3.2" board of its own, approximately 30% of which is taken up by a single chunky heatsink. The amp board sits near the center of the decco65 chassis, itself formed from a single piece of thin-gauge steel and finished in textured black paint.

Alongside three other Peachtree products introduced at the same time—including the more powerful nova125 that Sam Tellig reviewed in January—the decco65 is the company's first product to offer a USB digital input capable of handling 24-bit/192kHz data, and operating in the preferred asynchronous mode. In the decco65 and nova125, the iDecco's ESS Sabre 9006 DAC chip has been replaced by ESS's 9023 chip. According to Peachtree Audio's David Solomon, the asynchronous USB datastream is clocked right at the DAC.

Installation and setup
During its time in my home, the Peachtree decco65 replaced the electronics in two different systems: For the first few weeks it sat atop a nothing-special bookshelf in my living room and drove my restored Quad ESL loudspeakers; for the serious listening that was the basis of the observations below, the decco65 drove my Audio Note AN-E SPe/HE loudspeakers and the review samples of DeVore Fidelity's Orangutan O/96 speakers, both in my 12' by 19' listening room. In the latter setting, the Peachtree occupied two different spaces: When playing CDs and LPs—the latter by means of a borrowed Leben RS 30EQ phono preamplifier—the decco65 sat on the middle shelf of a Box Furniture rack; when playing music files streamed through its USB input, it sat on a short pinewood table near my Apple iMac, to keep USB cable length to no more than 1m. Hookup was easy and logical; my only serious criticism of the decco65 from that perspective is its lack of more than one pair of line-level inputs. The hobbyist who wishes to use a phono preamplifier and a CD player—not to mention a tuner or a tape deck—will have to look elsewhere.

The decco65 became only mildly warm to the touch during use, no doubt aided in that regard by the metal cooling vents built into the top and bottom surfaces of its wooden wrap. Unfussy in its cabling requirements, it seemed perfectly happy with the fabric-sheathed, copper-conductor speaker cables from Auditorium 23 that have become my favorites over the past five-plus years. The decco65 didn't appear to invert absolute signal polarity when driven with line-level sources—my Sony SCD-777ES SACD/CD player, my AudioQuest DragonFly USB D/A converter, and the aforementioned Leben phono preamp—but I was slightly less sure when listening to its S/PDIF and USB digital inputs. I found myself very slightly preferring the sound with the polarity inverted at both pairs of output terminals, although those differences seemed smaller than usual, and did not, for whatever reason, call to mind to the sonic indicators I usually associate with correct and incorrect signal polarity. Go figure.

Need a DAC with three S/PDIF inputs (two coax, one optical)? An asynchronous USB DAC? A line stage? A tubed output buffer? A power amp that should be able to drive even difficult speaker loads? Remote control? You've got them all for $1499. Just add speakers. (I assume you have a laptop computer and several disc spinners.) You may want a separate phono stage, because there is none onboard.

While well furnished with digital inputs, the nova125 has only one pair of RCA line-level analog inputs. Thus, if you connect an outboard phono stage, you'll have no extra inputs for an SACD player, an FM tuner, etc. (What's an FM tuner?)

By the way, there is only one pair of speaker outputs—very high-quality binding posts, not the cheap crap often found on budget gear—and, accordingly, no speaker-selector switch. There is a pair of RCA preamp outputs, good for a subwoofer or two, or maybe another amp. The nova125's single pair of RCA line-level inputs could be a major inconvenience for some, like me. There is no mono switch. There are no tone controls. The result is a refreshing lack of clutter.

The nova125 is resolutely two-channel. You know how you look at the back of a home-theater amplifier and see 52 pair of inputs? There's none of that here. Money is not spent and sound is not spoiled by crappy connectors, too much circuitry, etc. The Peachtree nova125 is not a pile of consumer shit.

The nova125's ESS Sabre 903 DAC chip is sometimes found in far more expensive models. The USB DAC is asynchronous up to 24-bit/192kHz, if you're into high-resolution downloads, or might be in the near future.

Setup and System
Alas, I was not able to use the nova125's USB input. It would not recognize the original Mac mini in my office, which runs OS 10.3.9. I should have a more up-to-date computer, but I really can't decide whether to get another Mini or a laptop or an iPad, or all three, or even whether to stay with Apple. My original Mini works fine. So does my 1958 Underwood office typewriter, which I still use at least once a day. Every day I keep my Mini, I have outfoxed Apple. My wife more than makes up for it, with all the newest 'pods, 'phones, and 'pads.

I plugged my Sony XA-777ES SACD/CD player into one of the nova125's coaxial S/PDIF inputs, so that I could use the Sony as a disc transport. For SACDs, I ran the player's two-channel output into the pair of RCA analog inputs. This put me in a fix for my EAR 834 phono stage, not to mention my XDR-F1HD digital FM tuner, a product so good that Sony stopped making it.

I would have welcomed a convenient way to connect my iPhone 4, which Marina bought for me when I wouldn't. Some kind of dock would have been nice. But maybe Peachtree Audio is prescient: The new iPhone 5 dock is different from earlier docks and requires an adapter. For me, the only way to listen to the BBC through my iPhone was to use the phone's headphone output into the nova125's single pair of analog inputs. Of course, I had to disconnect my phono stage, SACD player, or FM tuner.

Speakers were my Harbeth 30.1 monitors. They made a peach of a pair with the nova125, especially in terms of dynamic drive. Resolution and transparency were other matters, but what do you expect for $1499? Everything? Compare the nova125 with some of your dealer's more expensive integrated amplifiers—the ones that don't have an asynchronous USB DAC, a tubed output buffer, etc.

Speaking of which: The nova125's line stage is followed by that buffer—a single Russian 6N1P dual-triode tube—which the user can switch in or out from the remote control, though not from the front panel. The tube looks hard to access, and the manual doesn't tell you how. When the buffer stage is engaged, a blue LED illuminates the tube to let you (and everyone else) know it's on. Showmanship!

The headphone output is a proper ¼" jack that takes its signal directly from the line stage, with the tubed buffer in or out of circuit, depending on the user's preference. You decide. The remote is a great convenience with headphones—I needn't jump up and spill my glass of Bas Armagnac. Plugging in a set of headphones mutes the power-amp section.

The cabinet is beautiful: real-wood veneer over MDF. When the cabinet is made, a machine squashes the MDF and wraps the veneer at the same time. This results in rounded sides—no edges. A "tool" inside the cabinet prevents it from getting crushed in the process, which I think involves steam. Sexual innuendos invited . . .

For all of its up-to-date features, I find something retro about the look of nova125—and about its sound. With its silver faceplate, it reminds me of classic Yamaha gear from the early 1970s. The nova125 does not look primitive, excessively macho, or gaudy. It is tasteful, not tacky.

Class-D isn't digital, even if it sometimes sounds that way
The D in class-D does not stand for digital, although early class-D amplifiers made me think that it did.

With a class-D amplifier, almost all the electricity you draw from the mains is turned into power that actually drives your speakers. I was once told that 45W from the mains would produce something like 42W of amplifier output. At idle, a class-D amplifier uses practically no power at all. Some day, the Green Police may decree that all amplifiers be class-D—just as they're trying to ban old-fashioned light bulbs, and take away real Christmas-tree lights.

Class-D amps are sometimes called switching amplifiers because the output devices are either completely on or completely off. A class-D amp delivers either all the current available from its power supply or none at all. Its voltage output doesn't vary, except for the few microseconds it takes to switch from on to off. This is called pulse-width modulation (PWM). The longer the pulse, the louder the sound. In quiet passages, the pulses barely peep. The pulses are produced by modulating a carrier frequency way above the audioband. The carrier frequency is filtered out. AM radio works much the same way, but its carrier frequency is much lower. The first switching-amplifier designs date back to the early 1930s. So, no, class-D does not mean digital.

With class-D modules, an amplifier designer can reduce the size of the power supply, cutting the amplifier's size and cost. I'm told that the modules are almost plug-and-play for a designer. There's another advantage for manufacturers: There seem to be fewer ways an amplifier manufacturer can muck up a product because so much of each amplifier has already been made, in the form of those modules.

Alas, there have been some problems with class-D amplification that have tended to outweigh its advantages for serious audio listening.

Ah, yes, noise: the PWM process generates high-frequency noise akin to digital audio quantization noise. (Maybe this is why some listeners have found that class-D amplifiers sound "digital" even when they're not.) And that pesky carrier frequency, which requires a sharp-slope brick-wall filter, can in turn mess with phase and cause high-frequency ripple in the audioband: the so-called "in-band artifacts." This is probably why one British critic (I can't recall who) likened the sound of class-D amps to the sound of shattering glass.

Manufacturers of class-D amplifiers have tended not to talk about these things, just as manufacturers of traditional class-A/B designs would rather not mention notch distortion: that moment when the waveform passes from positive to negative or back again, push and pull. Push/pull is always audible. That's the joy of single-ended triodes.

Did I mention that many audiophiles and most hi-fi critics hear what they want to hear and disregard the rest? The problem is, we are not born with notch filters.

In home-theater amplifiers and car audio, where class-D has long ruled, these niceties need not matter.

The Dead Zone: The truth comes out
In class-D there is a form of notch distortion, too: what engineers secretly call "dead time." That's the interval, however short, when neither the positive nor the negative stage is conducting current. In other words, switching amplifiers don't just turn on and off; there's a dead zone between: silent gaps in the audio output. How does that show up in the sound? Maybe as timing errors that mess with the music's harmonic structure. For me, class-D amplifiers have tended to sound threadbare—like my worn, thin trousers from Walmart.

Why not solve the dead-zone problem by allowing both devices, positive and negative, to be simultaneously on—but ever so briefly? That, unfortunately, can blow up the amp, either immediately or over time. In other words, if a switching amp doesn't switch quickly enough, it can fail. Ever had a powered subwoofer blow up? I have. Boom, then bust.

Now the good news.

Manufacturers of class-D modules and amplifiers have not been standing still. There is too much riding on making class-D work: labor savings, reliability, customer acceptance (smaller size, less heat), and, just maybe, the Green Police. If you wake up tomorrow morning and find that Australia or New Zealand has mandated class-D amplifiers, don't be surprised.