Phonograph Monthly Review, Vol. 1, No. 11 (1927-08)

456 The Phonograph Monthly Review HGV By JEAN-LOUIS I IMAGINE that nobody interested in the talk- ing-machine as a musical instrument—which I, like many listeners, prefer to call it, rather than a machine—will ever forget the im- pression made upon them by their hearing for the first time records made by the new. so- called “orthophonic,” microphonic, or electrical, process. The sensation was so different from that evoked by the hearing of the old-style acoustic- ally recorded ones that it seemed like the open- ing of a gateway into a newer, and emphatically, a better world. The superior volume, the much greater sonority, the vividness, vitality and vi- brancy, produced something akin to an electric shock. And, as a matter of fact, it was such a sensation that was experienced. Instead of hold- ing the ends of two cords charged with an elec- tric current and allowing it to enter our bodies through our finger-tips, we exposed the drums of our ears to the impact of sound-waves upon which an electric current was projected. The startling character of the physical reaction was similar in kind in each case, the difference being only of degree. One great French poet once wrote another, af- ter reading a volume of his verses just published which had aroused an immense sensation: “You have created a new shudder”—meaning, of course, one of aesthetic delight. It was a shiver resembling this that the new records set chasing down the spines of the devotees of the phon- ograph. Which, combined with the immensely persuasive publicity that these products received, had the effect of seeming to make those produced by the former process at once and forever ob- solete. That was, it seems entirely probable, the sentiment at first entertained by all the hearers. But since that day time has passed sufficient to enable many of us to form what that very psychological writer, Henry James, termed “cor- rected impressions.” The sense of novelty, of something unprecedented, rich and strange, has given way to the critical, instead of the purely enthusiastic attitude; and those of us to whom musical quality is paramount, are beginning to make some reservations. And some of us are beginning to go back to some of our old records, from time to time, instead of devoting ourselves wholly to the new, and finding in them qualities which the new, in many instances, do not possess. The writer has been collecting records now for something like sixteen years and during that per- iod has tried out thousands, from which some- thing near a thousand, perhaps, have been per- manently retained. These include makes of all kinds, American and foreign, which are of any musical value. The great proportion classify as “classical” in genre, with a good many so-called “standard” and “popular” and a sprinkling of jazz and the like for contrast and comparison and the entertainment of those members of the fam- ily, and their friends, whose attitude toward music is specifically low-brow. The phonograph is a near neighbor of the radio in our music- room. And I find this to be the case: Before the day of the electric record, listeners in the next room never confused the voices of the two. But since then, such confusions are common. And I am wondering just what this really means, and whether it represents a gain, and if so, how much? Because the voice of the radio, as everybody with a sensitive ear is aware, seldom conveys an exact reproduction of the tones which the micro- phone conveys to it. There are times when the reproduction is apparently perfect, but even with the best apparatus and most skilful manipulation one can never be at all certain of such a result. Moreover, the passage into the microphone, thence through the air, and finally along the wires Of the receiving set, changes something in the na- ture of the tones conveyed. Personally it is my idea that this change is due to the electric cur- rent with which the microphone is charged. The resulting quality is indescribable, but it is there. And it is also there in many of the new electric- ally-recorded discs. In time this effect, at first so startling, so vivid and sparkling, can become slightly monotonous. At last the banqueter upon sound may almost experience the same feeling as the banqueter upon more substantial viands all served with the same sauce piquante. That the new records are much more “thrill- ing” than the old cannot be disputed, and as- suredly this is the day when everybody is wait- ing, hoping, longing to be thrilled. But how much more beautiful are they? Here is an equa- tion in which the X representing the “unknown quality” is still to be given an exact valuation.. Emerging from the concert hall one evening last winter, after listening to a program given by the Philadelphia Symphony, conducted by Leopold Stokowski, I paused to compare notes with a musical friend whom I encountered. The organization referred to visits our own city in- frequently and whenever it comes it gives most of those who attend one of those “new shudders” —a frisson nouveau resembling that spoken of above. I found my friend still shivering with delight. “But,” he confided to me, “I don’t think I might care for just that kind of thing as a regular diet. The conductor, all the members of the orchestra, and everybody in the audience were on their toes all the while. There wasn’t a minute when the tensity relaxed. One can’t— at least I can’t—enjoy being strung up to such a pitch for a whole evening without feeling when it’s all over a good deal like a man who has been on a debauch. It’s a wonderful feeling—but for a steady diet I’m not so sure something less excit- ing might not be as good or better. That Bach Tassacaglia’ as Stokowski plays it is simply a knock-out. But I wonder what Father Bach him- self would say if he could hear it? Perhaps I am getting antiquated and unwilling to be dis-