A Note of Condolences
I just heard about the passing of Art Dudley, who quickly succumbed to cancer. This news really caught me off guard, and I feel terribly saddened. What a loss for everyone. Art was one of Stereophile's most distinctive voices, one that will surely be missed by readers. The magazine will not be the same without his outlook, his sense of humor, and his crazy take on esoteric audio. Over the last 20 years, Art and I passionately discussed music as well as all things analog. Our deep love of flat pickers was always a point of discussion. When, in my late 20s, I was first coming up in the audio industry, Art spent many hours on the phone with me, helping me navigate the ins and outs of the high end. He was a friend – a friend with a truly unique voice and an even more unique perspective. Those who have been reading Art's columns, in either Stereophile or his Listener magazine, spin an LP in his honor tonight. I know I will. Rest in peace, Art.

Today's Special Guest Contribution: Elton John Elton John, Bob Dylan Nashville Skyline, and More
By Roy Hall, Founder and Designer, Music Hall/Scotch Drinker/Curmudgeon

(A quick note about Roy Hall: Many of you know Roy from audio shows, renowned Music Hall analog products, and caustic manufacturer responses in the high-end press – or you just know him from his big, bold, opinionated voice. Roy is much more than the loudest kvetch in the room, although I know he would be proud of that description. And while he will hate to read this, there's a kind, caring soul buried deep beneath the veneer of intense sarcasm and Scottish wit. Those who have been lucky enough to sit with Roy over a glass of Scotch or pint can tell you what I know: He has the underbelly of an adorable little puppy. – Josh Bizar)

From Scotland to Binghamton
My first impression of America was Binghamton, New York. With the exception of a few hours layover in JFK ("Green Acres" was playing on the TV and I seriously considered returning home), this town in western New York was to become my home – not for the originally planned three weeks, but for the next year. My bride to be, Rita, was waiting at the Greater Binghamton Airport for the delayed arrival of my plane. We had met a few months prior in Scotland where we fell in love. I had come to visit her in mid-September 1970.

Our first home was a railroad-style apartment, shared with two roommates, Miriam and Suzy. To me, starry-eyed and besotted, this slum was paradise. The neighborhood consisted of cheap wooden houses with various types of siding. The streets were unkempt and the population looked poor.

The day following my arrival, Rita had to go to school, so I explored downtown Binghamton. I found a bar and had my first American beer, Genesee Cream Ale. I recall the name because coming from Scotland, where beer has flavor, this beer tasted like watered-down cat piss. As I wandered the streets that day, I realized downtown was rundown.

We were evicted from our first apartment. Mr. Tesla, our Ukrainian landlord, seemingly disapproved of a man sharing the apartment with a girlfriend (apparently, the walls were thin and the sound of our lovemaking distressed him). He soon gave us our marching orders. We hired a U-Haul and moved to Conklin Avenue to a house overlooking the Susquehanna river. In contrast to Mr. Tesla, Mrs. Pagano, our new, heavily accented Italian landlady, would bring us a tray of homemade lasagna every Sunday afternoon. Sometimes it was ziti, but it always tasted the same.

The house had a record player and listening to music was a constant activity. Crosby, Stills and Nash had recently released their first album. James Taylor had just come out with Sweet Baby James. Elton John's self-titled second album appeared in stores. Judy Collins' Whales & Nightingales was very popular. We played Nashville Skyline from Bob Dylan (remember "Lay Lady Lay"?). I was introduced to Laura Nyro (what a songwriter and that fabulous voice) and Joni Mitchell. Livingston Taylor, James' brother, performed at the college and we bought his first album. Two songs come to mind: "Lost in the Love of You" and "Thank You Song." I also grew fond of Biff Rose, an oddball songwriter/performer whose songs are difficult to describe. But one resonates with me: "Just Like a Man," a poignant, bittersweet lullaby from his first album.

There was music everywhere. And what music. This period, the late sixties and early seventies, was, in my opinion, music's most fertile since the Great American Songbook era of the 1920-1940s. I reveled in it, and it became the soundtrack of my new life.

Life in Binghamton was bliss. I was in love, attending classes at Harpur College, and had a locker in the gym. I was, for all intents and purposes, a student, albeit unofficially. Security was lax in those days and the guards were probably as stoned as the students. My favorite subjects were "An Appreciation of Classical Music" and a history class with a fabulous professor named Norman Cantor. He was a teacher of medieval history, and his eloquent portrayal of those times made the period come alive.

In March of the following year, we traipsed through the snow to the courthouse for our wedding. A local judge presided and our two roommates were witnesses. That evening, I spent $40 of my $48 on a lobster dinner to celebrate our marriage that has lasted 49 years.

The other day, due to the Coronavirus lockdown, I started to play "Binghamton Music." I had recently set up one of my best turntables, the MMF-9.3 in walnut, and it sounded so good I was inspired to play album after album. Out came Laura and Joni and James and Livingston. But when the needle touched the groove, and Elton's "Your Song" started playing, I was transported back to Conklin Avenue where I sat with my arms around Rita watching the swollen waters of the Susquehanna river flow by.