Opinion

Listening sessions with a pristine original pressing of an early Stones LP have Barry Willis reconsidering his opinion of their ‘grungy sound’ and maybe even his position in the ‘digital camp’

My brother Bryan and I shared a bedroom the entire time we were growing up. Our pride and joy – and our musical lifeline – was a six-disc record changer in a grey suitcase, with a pair of little fold-out speakers that could be detached for better separation.

We didn’t know anything about audio, of course, but we loved music. That record player was probably little better than a meat grinder with a phono cartridge attached, but its limitations didn’t diminish our enthusiasm. We spent our money on 45rpm singles and, when we could afford them, LPs. I remember hot-selling albums retailing for under $2 – not expensive but still an extravagance for kids making 50 cents per hour pulling weeds and mowing lawns.

The anti hi-fi band?

We had scads of records spanning the spectrum: pop and rock, some jazz, a snippet of classical, and plenty of folkies and protest singers. We acquired as much as we could get of what Americans called the ‘British Invasion’ – groups such as Gerry And The Pacemakers, The Dave Clark Five, The Beatles, and The Rolling Stones.

We didn’t take very good care of our records and paid no attention to accumulated wear and grunge. Noise was all part of the listening experience as far as we knew. We simply put them on the spindle and had at it. Two discs I remember getting a disproportionate amount of play – in addition to everything by Bob Dylan and Donovan – were The Stones’ Aftermath and their earlier set, 12 x 5.

That experience formed my early association about The Stones and grungy sound. In fact, even later, as a fully credentialed audio geek, I always heard their grunginess as intentional, part of their carefully contrived bad-boys-of-rock persona. Live recordings especially reinforced this perception.

I liked The Stones but wasn’t a rabid fan – I’m not embarrassed to say that I’ve been to only one Stones concert, and that was because I was offered a free ticket. Another friend is so Stones-crazy that he’s been to dozens of their concerts and won’t hesitate to fly cross-country or across the world to attend one. He belongs to a network of rabid fans who trade bootlegs, unauthorised copies, low-res videos, photos, and everything else.

Shimmer me timbers!

When I visit him, he’s always eager to share his latest bootleg recordings – usually made decades earlier on portable cassette decks by fans at the back of the crowd. You can hear The Stones’ high-distortion performance off in the distance, but what’s most prominent is the crowd jostling the recordists. Hearing these bootlegs always reinforced my take on The Stones as an anti-hi-fi band.

But now I have changed my tune. A couple of listening sessions at the homes of audiophile friends made me completely reconsider the sonic quality of Aftermath, the 1966 album featuring ‘Mother’s Little Helper’ and ‘Lady Jane’. In the space of a few days we listened to a pristine original British pressing – not a reissue or remaster – on two quite different but equally revealing systems.

I was astounded at what a shimmering, transparent recording it is: the exemplary care behind the writing and performance, and the degree of expertise capturing it on tape and transferring the results to vinyl. Decades after its release it proves to be a sonic masterpiece! Who knew?

To the mild annoyance of some HFN readers, I’ve repeatedly disparaged vinyl – I’m firmly in the digital camp – but I now understand why people chase after rare high-quality pressings. It’s not simply that they are rare and valuable, but in the right circumstances can be revelations.

Aftermath was a wonderful re-introduction. It’s got me itching to rediscover the many recordings I long ago abandoned. Now I need to find that mint-condition copy of 12 x 5.