Vintage

In the vinyl heyday of the 1970s and 1980s, differences between UK-designed turntables, and those arriving from Japan, were stark. The suspended subchassis belt-drive decks, popular among British audiophiles, showcased increasing refinement of a ‘traditional’ technology. Japanese corporations, on the other hand, were making use of large research departments and development budgets to produce decks that could correct for off-centre records, direct-drive motors with almost unmeasurable wow and flutter, and control systems with huge torque that would revolutionise DJ-ing.

If you were to attend a classic car show and make a beeline for the enthusiasts exhibiting vehicles made by mass-market manufacturers, it would be easy to predict the kinds of designs you'd see on display. Most space would be given over to the noteworthy models: the big-engined ones, the sporty or luxury variants, the rare limited editions. And yet the bread-and-butter models that carried sales reps up and down the land and took many of us to school as children are largely forgotten. They were workhorses, used until the end of their lives and then replaced.

The L-30 was the cheapest amplifier in Luxman's 1976 range. Not that it looked anything like a budget model – rather, it had an almost intangible feel of quality and superior finish that in terms of showroom appeal put it above all but the very best offerings from the Japanese big names at the time.

While Compact Disc’s 1982 promise of ‘Perfect Sound Forever’ was largely aimed at the silver discs themselves, hardware engineers were not sitting back and thinking ‘job done’. Disc transport, error-correction, digital audio processing and DAC technology progressed at pace with players becoming bigger and more feature-laden. It was around the middle of the decade that ‘proper’ flagship players arrived, often in multiple enclosures.

No, I don’t know what ‘Meracus’ means, and I stopped playing around with anagrams after I reached ‘rum case’. How about ‘US Cream’? No way: Meracus is so decidedly, unabashedly a German company that it couldn’t possibly apply. If you’ve ever studied a hi-fi magazine from the Fatherland or visited the Frankfurt or Berlin audio shows, you’ll know what I mean: staggering build quality, weird shapes, bold colours, lots of glass, wholly unique operational procedures. And the £4000 Meracus Imago is almost deliberately ‘unexportable’, because the customer has to be on some Teutonic wavelength to get to grips with it. Study the photos. You’ve never seen another CD transport like it, right?