Yamaha

I’ve owned a lot of stereo equipment over the years. A lot. When I actually sat down and attempted to make a list it was embarrassing. I also missed out on–or consciously passed over—several pieces of gear I’d love to get my hands on today, as ridiculous as that sounds. Whole brands I casually dismissed because I didn’t care for the aesthetics now hold unbridled fascination.

But what would I do with this gear? I already have a full system in use and a receiver that’s sitting In the closet. And yet, I’d like to at least hear some of this stuff (not that my ears are anywhere near as discerning as they were in my teens and 20s).

I only bring this up because occasionally a piece of equipment shows up on Instagram that elicits an, “Awww…” reaction.

In my opinion, Yamaha’s designs were almost always innovative and exemplary. The objects were stunning, the controls silky. The sound was awesome. But you paid the price. Among the big Japanese firms of the day, Yamaha was definitely considered a high-end, luxury brand—and it was priced accordingly. While price wasn’t always an issue (I could justify pretty much anything if I wanted it badly enough), my Yamaha love was sidetracked by the arrival of Sony’s equally high-end V-FET line of amplifiers. While I probably couldn’t hear any difference between a V-FET amp and a regular transistor amp now, back in the late 70s, it was obvious and it the sound was so good it soured me to what were otherwise great pieces of equipment. As I’m sure I’ve written about before, I got my Sony V-FET, and then over the next decade, the amp proceeded to self-destruct on a regular basis, requiring an expensive repair each time to get it up and running again. I tried replacing it more than once during those ten years, first with a set of Technics Micro Series components that fired my imagination, but in comparison were ultimately disappointing sound-wise, and again with a different Sony amp whose sound was less engaging but at least reliable.

The time came to replace that amp after helping a friend buy a new Yamaha system. I decided it was time to revisit my dormant, but unfulfilled Yamaha yearning.

Unlike many of the Japanese audio manufacturers who had abandoned the “big iron” philosophy of the late 70s and started building what I not-so-affectionately refer to as “black plastic crap,” Yamaha remained true to its roots, continuing to build high-end, metal-encased gear of heft. Yes, it was still expensive, but at least you felt like you were getting your money’s worth.

I settled on a 100 watt per channel Yamaha A-700 integrated amp and the matching T-700 tuner. At the time I also decided it was also time to retire the aging Infinity loudspeakers I’d had since high school and replaced them with a pair of Phase Tech PC60s. The sound was…incredible. It easily rivaled the V-FETs and in many ways surpassed them. Coupled with the separate subwoofer I added a year later, the combination was capable of shaking the house to the foundation.

Sadly, I sold the amp and tuner a decade later, after having discovered the wonders of eBay, allowing me to pick up some of the gear I’d lusted over twenty years earlier for cheap. I replaced them with a Technics SA-800 receiver, a model only one step down from the all time monster SA-1000, the reigning title-holder of the receiver wars of the late 70s.

While I loved the look of the receiver, after only a couple months I was dissatisfied with the sound the Technics produced. When a set of the 700 series Yammies came up for auction on eBay I lept on it. After winning the auction, I drove down to Los Angeles to pick them up.

Getting them back to my apartment, I was honestly surprised how much better they sounded than the Technics. The bass was tight; the treble and mid-tones were distinct and well defined. I swore I’d hold onto these components forever.

Of course the Universe had other plans in mind and they were sold out of necessity in 2003.

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Not just coddled; but normalized and legitimized by calling this stupidity and ignorance “alternative viewpoints.”

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Chapter 2, a 3-Line Review

Saw it tonight. Thought it was thoughtful and very well made. Most of the VFX were good. It wrapped up the story in a matter befitting the source material. HOWEVER, it was too damn long.

And that increasingly infamous first scene?

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Stories – The College Years (Part 5)

Previously on Battlestar Galactica…

The Summer of High Strangeness

While my dad had arranged for he and my mom to be out of the house for the duration of my birthday party, they did stick around long enough to meet everyone who had accepted my invitation and made the drive up from Tucson.

My crew at my 19th birthday party, May 1977. (L-R) Don Hines, Phil Oliver, Chas Dooley, Kent Kelly, James Uhrig, Eduardo Robins

I remember very little of the party itself. There was food. There was cake. There was dancing. I recall someone shoving a bottle of poppers under my nose at one point. But mostly it was simply the jumping off point for my first steps into gay life in Phoenix.  Phoenix was a very different place from Tucson and I’d been reluctant to go out on my own for two reasons: I was, until that night, still underage in the eyes of the law (and I’d been warned that the Phoenix clubs—unlike Jekyll’s in Tucson—carded religiously), and frankly I was still more than a little apprehensive about throwing myself into the environment unaccompanied.

I shouldn’t have been worried. Our destination that evening was a newly-opened/renovated club called Moon’s Truck and it was 3-F: fierce, fabulous and friendly.

The club was located in a nondescript concrete block building on the east side of 16th Street just south of Indian School Road, and despite its recent rechristening, the actual name was unimportant because I soon learned that regardless of what was on the sign over the entrance, everyone simply referred to it as Maggie’s. It changed names again about a year later to HisCo Disco before finally being forced to close by the neighbors’ continual complaints about noise and other goings-on in the area.

It was a cavernous, magical place, and at the time was known for playing the some of the best music in Phoenix. It had a slightly raised lighted dance floor and a sound system that would leave your ears ringing for hours. The clientele was as interesting as Jeckyll’s.

While outwardly an all-inclusive club (gays, straights, men, women, and people of indeterminate gender) were always welcome at Maggie’s, the one thing I remember most was Hubert, one of the DJs (who did not want women in the club) was how he’d always yell “Uterus!” when women arrived. I found it amusing at the time, even if it embarrasses the fuck out of me now.

I also have no real memories remaining of the club that night. I must’ve suffered sensory overload. All I know is that soon thereafter I began to call it home on Friday and Saturday nights.

At the time, Phoenix probably had a dozen or so gay bars, the vast majority of which I would never be caught dead in. The names that spring to mind beyond Maggies are The Forum (which became my second favorite hang-out, a place I would automatically head to if Maggies seemed too dull on any given night), The RamrodThe 307The Connection, and several more whose names completely elude me (I will amend this later if/when they pop into memory). Since I didn’t drink, I only went for the dancing—and the possibility of meeting someone for the evening, the non-dance establishments barely registered on my radar.

My other concern that summer was obviously finding a job. That arrived by way of my dad, who needed architectural drafting assistance at the office where he worked. Other than income it provided, our summer working together prompted the tag line for this post.

I don’t recall the exact moment Dad acknowledged that I played for the other team; whether he outright asked or I volunteered, but I do remember a conversation that followed shortly thereafter. We had obviously been discussing something regarding my lifestyle and he blurted out, “Yeah, when you and your mom and sister were back east during the summer, I’d head down to The Ramrod with Oscar from down the street…”

Oh. My. Fucking. God. The Ramrod?!? My dad had just come out to me and had outed our equally-married-to-a-woman neighbor two houses down!

Well, this certainly explained how he got the article he’d sent me the previous spring from the gay paper.

And the flood gates opened. I provided the open and appreciative listener he so desperately needed after a lifetime being forced to lead a double life; how he joined the Navy at 17 to escape an abusive relationship with his father, his long-term love affairs with several of the”friends” who’d come around the house while I was growing up, how my parents met and why he got married, and how he worried that he’d somehow failed me as a father after watching my budding gayness develop from an early age. I learned more about my dad that summer that I’d ever thought possible, and our relationship—best described as loving but distant until that summer—improved to such a degree that Dad became more than just my father; he became a trusted friend.

While Mom obviously knew a lot of his history, she didn’t know all of it, nor did she know the reasons or the underlying stories behind that history. Suddenly so much of why my dad did the things he did while I was growing up became clear to me.

I respected his desire for all this to remain solely between the two of us—at least for many, many years after their divorce. Dad’s closet became mine.

So I had a gay dad. I famously knew about his brother Edward thanks to my mom. This led me to wonder who else in the family tree was sprouting lavender leaves, because in some families it ran; in ours it apparently galloped.

Next time on Battlestar Galactica

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As I’ve Said Before…

As I’ve said before, I will vote for whoever ends up on the ballot with a (D) after their name in order to remove the orange shit stain from office, but at this point in the game, I’m really not feeling Joe Biden. Initially a fan, when it was the “Barack and Joe Show,” I’m just not liking a lot of what I’m hearing, especially considering the incredible field of contenders. The way he was so easily riled during last week’s debate has left me doubting his viability even more—despite his poll numbers. And frankly, as an old white guy, I’m fucking tired of old white guys running the country. It’s time for the lot of them to step aside and let new blood take over.

That being said, if he receives the nomination I will vote for him, but I’d much rather see Warren or Harris or Buttigieg sitting behind that desk.

This seems to perfectly sum up a lot of what I’m feeling:

Despite Biden’s swelling poll numbers with black voters, we don’t have to trust him. In fact, the former vice president should do the honorable thing after that disgrace of a debate and remove himself from contention for the nomination. Yes, even with him leading most polls. It isn’t about him winning. It’s about the party winning, then having a successful presidency undoing Trump’s racist policies.

Democrats will need an antiracist candidate to defeat Trump because Trump is a white nationalist with white-nationlist policies. Good poll numbers with the black electorate do not make one antiracist. A moderate, milquetoast criminal-justice plan that largely seeks to repair some of the damage he did with the 1994 crime bill does not make one antiracist. Biden not only isn’t picking up what it means to fit the definition, but his debate remarks provide evidence that he is actively rejecting it. As such, he should leave the race to contenders who have the party’s most loyal constituency, black voters, in mind.

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