On the cusp of my departure by plane to attend my snuffed father's wake, I rush to the post office to check off certain last minute details. There, I find my HF-1 have emerged at last from the maze of bitter workers' inattention: #192, cups ringed with plastic tinged with white. Redolent of queasy-new paint and rubber, they provide odiferous counterpoint to my later listening session.
These headphones will prove fun at work, with their auditorium-sonorous bass; less so for studio performance and arranging than the MS-2, with their metallic clarity. Still, I intend to use the HF-1 while tracking a requested cover for a comp album in memory of a murdered Goth musician, since that music, like the HF-1, is dominated by body-resonating thumps, soothing drones, and the hiss of spars on stone floors. (I got the call to contribute in the midst of booking my flight.)
Strange, to hear your father's voice in your head post mortem: once powerful and inhibiting, it now rasps like an ill-treated instrument with strings on the verge of snapping -- its age-frail vibrato summoning empathy where high harmonics once pierced the ego.
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I'll try to post a better (temporary) good-bye in the members' prattle section. However: should duty call and crawl like a misdirected aphid on the wall, then I bid you warm listening amid this ice floe of passing ancestry. I'll be dealing with death, hence the hiatus. Farewell where fell.
