July 1955 Popular Electronics Table of Contents Wax nostalgic about and learn from the history of early electronics. See articles from Popular Electronics, published October 1954 - April 1985. All copyrights are hereby acknowledged.

Carl Kohler's "Hi-Fi Scheme and Variations" article from the July 1955 issue of Popular Electronics magazine is typical of his masterful blend of technical enthusiasm and wry humor, this time chronicling his quest to bring hi-fi audio into his home while navigating the bemused skepticism of his wife. Kohler's self-aware passion for electronics shines through as he humorously likens explaining hi-fi to his wife to lecturing howler monkeys on sonar, a nod to both his technological zeal and her endearing indifference. His playful interactions with her - peppered with exaggerated sales pitches and theatrical flourishes - reveal a domestic dynamic where his geeky exuberance meets her practical incredulity, as seen in her horror at the towering stack of equipment and her quip about their existing record player. Kohler's wit shines in his mock-dramatic defense of hi-fi's sonic purity, only to pivot to tongue-in-cheek album titles like "Incidental Music from a Dynamo Factory," capturing his ability to poke fun at himself and the niche audiophile world.

Scheme and Variations - Bringing hi-fi into the home can have interesting results

By Carl Kohler

As it must to all men whose lives are dedicated to filching spare time for electronic exploration, Hi-Fi finally came to my house ... bringing with it a symphony of dissension.

Because explaining even the rudimentary principles of electronics to my wife is something along the order of expounding The Theory of Sonar Impulse to a troop of howler monkeys. I've given up appealing to her sense of logic. She just isn't wired for it. Instead, I usually throw a pitch couched in dulcet tones and calculated to make a shambles of her defenses.

However, all these high-pressure approaches are leaving me shorn of previous ability to express my ideas in simple language. Throwing myself into the part is fast becoming a habit. It's getting so I can't even suggest we have a shot of coffee without making a production of what used to be a casual recommendation.

About six weeks ago, I staggered home from my local radio jobber burdened with cartons and boxes containing enough hi-fi equipment to rig every room in the house for faithfully reproduced sound. I had become the victim of my own long-thwarted desires ... plus the seductive verbal gyrations of a salesman who played upon my obvious wish-to-be-sold appearance.

I managed to get the stuff out of the car and into the den via the side entrance. Once I had it neatly stacked in an inconspicuous corner - where it towered to the ceiling - I sat down and began figuring how I might set up two separate books on the family budget. While I was juggling this bit of financial perfidy, the co-engineer stalked into the room ... gave a shrinking look at the looming stack of supplies ... put a lily-white mitt against the desk for support, and turned horror-filled eyes upon me.

"Oh, no! No, no, no!" she chirruped dismally.

I leaped up with shining face ... enthusiasm popping out all over me under a slight veneer of cold sweat.

"Ain't it the greatest, kid!" I vowed, slapping her a good one across the shoulder blades to knock the shock out of her and put her gathering defenses off balance. "Boy, are we going to have a wonderful time! Once I get this hi-fi all installed, will we ever have a ball listening to music reproduced exactly as it was recorded!"

"You m- mean -" her face was a study in accumulated disgust and fright, " - all this junk is strictly for listening to m -music? What's wrong with the record player we already have ?" She was turning nasty.

"Hah!" I snorted with just the right amount of bitter contempt. "If you'd ever heard music played through hi-fi, you'd understand. Why, that ancient distorter of sound makes Beethoven's Fifth come out more like The Monkey Chased The Weasel. We lose all the delicate tones ... the soft, intricate responses ... the clarity ... the sharp, clean beauty of blended brasses and strings mingling with soul- touching deftness through passages and phrases guaranteed to waft one off to auditory bliss."

"We do ?" She was getting off balance.

"Sure, we do," I said darkly, lowering my voice to a hoarse whisper. "Most people never realize that they are missing the greater part of recorded music because -" and I brought her ear close to my lips, " - because they never hear ALL the music on the platter! Think that over, kid."

"Gee!" she whimpered. "I never realized ..."

"Just a child . a sweet, innocent child," I crooned, stroking her head. "These harsh realities have to be faced, my dear. Never fear - I'll guide you through the pitfalls ... the chasms."

Awed beyond argument, she left me to my tinkering for a whole week without interruption. I got the first unit installed by the time she shook off her daze. Now I would combat reluctance with Sound Proof.

Over the lilting measures of Dance of the Hours, I winked knowingly. "See what I mean!" I gloated. "Hear those subtle overtones ... those tenuous strains."

"I don't hear a darn thing different," she said, pinning me with a gimlet eye. "I think you're just turning it up louder."

"You aren't trying," I complained.

"Ahhhhhh, I never cared for this longhair beat anyway," she snorted. "I like something bouncey! You got anything but that drag-stuff ?"

I peered accommodatingly through the albums.

"How about Incidental Music From A Dynamo Factory?"

"Pure corn," she scoffed.

"Well, we have an excellent recording here of Waves Lapping A Chorale Reef. The restless effect of the voices is something that will never leave your -"

It looked like a round disc to me, but I was losing ground and this was no time for pedantic discussion. I grubbed deeper into our library of waxed-delights.

"Chamber Music for a Pack of Tone-Deaf Cowhands ?"

"Now you're getting on beat, Jack!" she yelped. "Keep it up ... keep digging!"

"Tonal Studies For Three Simmering Trumpets? ... Hot Tea Bags For Ten Lonely Sidemen: A Jazz Joust Transposed In Flatted Progressives And Diminished Ninths? ... Licorice-Stick Leap ... The Syncopated Harp ... Clef Hanging By Seven Frantic Fiddlers ..."

"Go, man, go!" she screamed ecstatically, pounding out a double-beat with clenched fists.

"... The Dixieland Theremin ... Pastoral For Cool Cello And Tenor Fife ... Toccata And Up-Beat: Tin Horn O'Toole And His Sheet Metal Six ..."

"Oh, you're so with - it, Dad!" she moaned. "Now spin all this real-gone stuff! "

I spun it. While the wild patterns of dissonance and butchered harmony jarred the glassware and rattled the pictures on the walls - hi-fi was earning itself another fan. I just sat there, silently praying it wouldn't scar my eustachian canal.

"Boy! This is the greatest!"

"Uh ... yes."

"Doesn't it just send you!"

"It will," I admitted, "in time."

And a few nightmarish measures later, it sent me right out of this world ... or out to the restful solitude of the backyard, anyway, where I offered up silent apologies to Messrs. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, et al.

After that, I had no difficulty in spreading an extensive hi-fi system all over the place. The wife was even excited when I began planning several brick baffles and insisted upon mixing the mortar for me. Her enthusiasm for hi-fi was superseded only by her fetish for playing a twenty-four hour charivari of Bop, Modern Jazz and Experimental Music.

Well, that was all weeks ago. While I enjoy the hi-fi setup, I'm becoming restless again and my interest is turning to other, more complicated projects. Like my very own ham station with my very own call-letters, for instance. A dream of longstanding ... being able to lounge in the comfort of my home and exchange chitchat with amateurs all over the world. In preparation for that glorious day when I've finally gotten the license neatly framed over the finished transmitter, I've been secretly dabbling around with various oscillators - some of which occasionally give out with shrill and raucous sounds from my workshack.

Awhile back, the wife raced out of the house and was headed for the workshack just as I calmly stepped out -locking the door behind me. The patio hi-fi unit was making the welkin ring with Persian Marketplace: Nifty McSqueal And His Nebraska Nudniks. I assumed an air of nonchalance ... whistling contrapuntally between my front teeth.

"Was that you - that voice I just heard ?" demanded the wife. "It sounded exactly like a broadcast coming out of this workshack! What's been going on out here, Buster ?"

I broke beat and lifted an eyebrow at her.

"You're hearing things again," I cooed sympathetically. "Why don't you start playing something of a more soothing nature on the Hi-Fi ?"

I've got her off balance again, I'm happy to say.