Photo: Sasha Matson
I met Art Dudley twice, and in both instances, he was exceedingly humble and gracious with his time. The first time, I thanked him for hosting the Virtues of Vintage panel at DC’s Capital Audiofest, just moments after he was verbally accosted by an unwell man seated in front of mesomething about audio-journalism lingo and abstract phrases like “midrange bloom.”
Art wrote about this experience for Stereophile several times, in a show report and also, anecdotally, in Listening. Recently, actually.
After the panel, I waited for the adoring throng to subside then adoringly thanked Art for his presence, for simply being.
Sometime before, Art had written about restoring his vintage Altec Lansing speakers, the second set, the Flamencos. That article had helped me understand that this hobbyour shared passionwas not exclusive to modern, expensive products: The best among us had found something magical not in gear long forgotten but in gear long ignored by the asymptomatic passing of today’s bottom line.
I had seen Art wandering the music room halls the day before and stood starstruck when I recognized him. There was so much I wanted to ask him. I stood frozen, watching him grab pamphlets, make notes, then take a seat in the dark room, briefly, before hastily retreating at the sound of a tired Stevie Ray Vaughan audiophile track. Audiophile kryptonite or kitten spray bottle, I don’t know, but the man bolted for another room.
That’s when another realization struck me: I was there for enjoyment, curiosity, to wander and explore sights and sounds and mysteries. I wanted to share that we had once worked for the same parent company, that I, too (once), was a writer and shared similar passions. But Art was working. And, quite seriously! I could no more bring myself to disrupt his work than I could an air-traffic controller willing pilots to safe landings.
But Art would’ve taken the time. I know that now. Even if I was a jerk or an unwell man. He would’ve taken the time if I stopped him, if I grabbed him by the arm and asked him the hundred obnoxious questions swirling in my globe-brain noggin. That was Art, and I saw thateven while working, even while dedicated to his craft, to the seriousness of his missionhe gave. He gave himself to those who asked.
I didn’t ask my questions, and now I’ve never asked.
After the vintage panel that morning, Art gave me his Stereophile business card and asked me to email him. I didn’t. I haven’t. I don’t know the man like you, Stereophile‘s editors, or those of you who worked with him over the years or next to him in the industry. I revere his will, his words, his opinionswhether or not I agreed with themand how he morphed those words into simple, coherent thought, sentence by sentence, understanding to shared understanding.
Earlier last month, I pondered the idea that audiophile equipmentthe entire basis of Stereophile‘s existenceis just transcription equipment that produces an actual, visceral metaphor to the real live thing, for people who love music and spend their leisure time listening to it. I’m an Army Operation Iraqi Freedom combat Veteran, and spending my leisure time listening to music is healing; why couldn’t it be for anyone? If even just meditation? Maybe, in this sense and others, recorded sound, the way it is played in my room, is worth more than a live experience.
That’s a loaded question, but I wanted to hear his answer. I wanted to know what Art thought about music reproduction as merely a copy of a real, live thing. I wanted to know whether he thought written language could aspire to perceived sound.
Metaphor is the most important technique in a writer’s toolbox. When used successfully, a great metaphor illustrates the specific for the general. Art, more than any audio writer, merged writing with music.
That’s literary writing. It’s what people mean but don’t know it when they say that “Art was a great writer”: He was a master with syntax; his anecdotes made the specific more familiar; his mastery of figure of speech gave actual words to soundhis perceived sound. These are the things that writers know and say about writers who write well; this is what musicians know and say about musicians who write and record our favorite music. There’s a difference between hearing the language and speaking the language. Art wrote my favorite words. Art was my favorite writer.
After the Virtues of Vintage panel that November Sunday morning, Art said that anyone could do what he did, that it didn’t take any special talent or skill to be who and what he was to so many of us. I believe Art really meant it, humbly so, but I disagree.
In all his columns and reports and reviews and thoughts and musings, Art was saying that we’re searching for some musical truthnot necessarily the reproduction of live music but a musical experience that moves us. Perhaps the most rewarding part of reading an audio writer’s thoughts over time is experiencing his/her words as he/she experiences products that move sound differently. Stereophile allowed Art to capture t/his transformation. Art left us with the equipment and experiences that moved him.
His words allowed us to experience them, too. It moved us, too.
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