I recently picked up a hardcover copy of The Boombox Project, a mildly hyped and reasonably priced tome that is part photo essay, part nostalgia act, and part social commentary.
I must admit, it is charming.
Shortly after any adolescent male truly discovers music, there is a fleeting period before the women appear in which the next obsession becomes the music player. Seeing as I straddled the era between the boombox heyday and the age of the bloated, obnoxious, and simply fucking awesome component stereo, there has always been a special place in my heart for these forbidden vessels of battery-quaffing urban badassery.
The most delightful aspect of the book is the gallery of lovingly photographed machines, each portrait spanning two full, glossy pages like weathered plastic centerfold models going full-frontal. These "spreads" reveal the sheer effort with which simple functions were glorified; each box was a self-advertised marvel offering new and splendid wonders. The words emblazoned on their casings read like soft-core porn for audiophiles:
"Soft Touch Mechanism."
"Hydraulic Eject."
"Feather Touch Controlled System."
"Personal Disco Component."
"Music Quick Jumping Selector."
"2 Motor Full Logic Control."
These words meant nothing. They described springs and buttons, but nobody wanted to believe that. Each box was a spaceship and a promise rolled into something you could carry: your music will never sound better than it could sound right here. Draperesque.
As far as music sharing was concerned, Apple was merely a fruit in 1983. The big fish were Grundig, Candle, Lasonic, Lloyd's, Prosonic, National. These were the outfits who made your music personal, portable, possible.
Anyway, I'm glad I picked it up.
I must admit, it is charming.
Shortly after any adolescent male truly discovers music, there is a fleeting period before the women appear in which the next obsession becomes the music player. Seeing as I straddled the era between the boombox heyday and the age of the bloated, obnoxious, and simply fucking awesome component stereo, there has always been a special place in my heart for these forbidden vessels of battery-quaffing urban badassery.
The most delightful aspect of the book is the gallery of lovingly photographed machines, each portrait spanning two full, glossy pages like weathered plastic centerfold models going full-frontal. These "spreads" reveal the sheer effort with which simple functions were glorified; each box was a self-advertised marvel offering new and splendid wonders. The words emblazoned on their casings read like soft-core porn for audiophiles:
"Soft Touch Mechanism."
"Hydraulic Eject."
"Feather Touch Controlled System."
"Personal Disco Component."
"Music Quick Jumping Selector."
"2 Motor Full Logic Control."
These words meant nothing. They described springs and buttons, but nobody wanted to believe that. Each box was a spaceship and a promise rolled into something you could carry: your music will never sound better than it could sound right here. Draperesque.
As far as music sharing was concerned, Apple was merely a fruit in 1983. The big fish were Grundig, Candle, Lasonic, Lloyd's, Prosonic, National. These were the outfits who made your music personal, portable, possible.
Anyway, I'm glad I picked it up.