I was invited to a concert in a California city by two friends. Louis Armstrong lives, not a name, but “Sachmo”, personally, the godfather of jazz and trumpet of the century. They took me blindfolded and put a stool under me. It smelled of incense-warm wood, and I couldn’t believe my ears: there he was, dead decades ago, singing “Blueberry Hill” in his unique voice, as beautiful as a rusty Rolls Royce. Was.

Jeff was a carpenter who built houses, Jacob was an all-rounder who grilled rattlesnakes caught in the garden. They were both hi-fi freaks who assembled old tube amps and put together a high-quality stereo system in a barn; From turntable needles costing a few thousand dollars to cables as thick as a water pipe to electrostatic loudspeakers the size of a man. Vinyl records stood on the shelf, the press die of which was cut by the master tape at half speed for the highest possible fidelity.